It's like: ferocious and atrocious, neanderthals and me, this american life

there is a pedophiliac hungrily staring at me as i write this

By dusty (January 5, 2009)

I shaved my beard.

This must be what it’s like to give birth, to bring new life into this world, to push a 7-pound mass of fluid-smeared organs-and-bones encased by a fragile skeletal shell through a vaginal canal roughly six times too small.

It’s a strange feeling, giving birth. My beard has been a part of me for over nine months — a large part of me. I have taken care of it, felt it kick, stroked it, cleaned it after eating, flat-ironed it when it looked ugly, took pictures of it, showed it to my friends, showed it to my mom, put it in pretend ponytails. But now I feel lost, feel without purpose.

True, I now have this amazing 70s porn-stache & almost-connected-to-it Chops™ that bring vintage John Lennon or Andy Kaufman to mind. True, I feel more powerful than Superman, walking around looking this awesome — this retro. And true also that if I owned a ’79 Firebird Trans-Am with a T-Top and a giant-fucking-Firebird-logo on the hood I could go full-circle and probably explode with irony. But, I will never forget that beard, never forget what it felt like those nine long months — those strange hunger cravings, inexplainable mood swings, the kicking, the doctor’s appointments, the clothes shopping, the picking-of-names, the daily progress pictures, the unfounded worries of miscarriage when I found blood in my stool that one time.

But life goes on. And unlike Corky, I still look fucking awesome.

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It's like: ferocious and atrocious, slow cancerous death rattle, this american life

a razorblade of kindness or a decapitated head in a greyhound bus

By dusty (August 1, 2008)

I am dying in this hellhole of hotness over here in Arizona. Like the Venus (or anus, depending on your definition of horrible heat) of America, the air conditioning is never cold enough and the sun’s cancerous deathrays are relentless and even moving at all makes me sweat the fiery sweat of satan.

But perseverance trumps perspiration and I am soldiering on in my own little soldiery way (laying in front of my fan; aka God’s cold wondrous breath) and I am saying to the sun: “I hate you”, but it does no good. Monsoon season is pretending not to exist and the dogs are shitting all over my floor and pissing wherever there isn’t shit.

Also, my house was robbed and my laptop was stolen by a too-tall-to-be-a-Mexican with no front teeth and a tattoo on his chest that says “Gumby” in Old English.

Reader, I have not updated you on my life for what seems like a decade but that is all changing because I am back and I am ready to kick some ass and take some names (seriously, what is your name? Let’s be friends). I am lion, hear me roar. I am man, watch me kill.

Let the past not be any indication of the future, though. I promise, things will be different from now. I will change, I can change. Just please, please don’t leave me.

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It's like: ferocious and atrocious, laminating animals, this american life

probably more than enough ice skates and food for a thanksgiving day feast and hours of family fun

By dusty (May 1, 2008)

Imagine I am on an island with Dawson Leary (dreamy Dawson Leary, who was not dreamy at all when he was being a whiney, lovestricken bitch), and there is a fire behind us. The fire of a thousand suns (just one, though, technically). And I am telling Dawson Leary my deepest, darkest secrets. I am telling him this: That cockroaches are horrible, horrible dwellers of hell sent from Satan himself (or something worse than Satan, if such a creature of evil exists), and also that I am in love with The American Dream.

Neither of those are actually secrets, but nevertheless, I was telling those things to Dawson Leary in my dream this morning, that smug bastard, and now I am telling them to you because:

I FUCKING HATE COCKROACHES. I HATE THEM. I AM WRITHING AND PUKING MY INSIDES JUST THINKING ABOUT THE DEAD COCKROACHES I SAW IN MY KITCHEN AFTER THE EXTERMINATOR FINISHED EXTERMINATING. I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM. (I FUCKING HATE THEM.)

Those vile, hellion bastards-of-life have probably touched the things I have touched (not including my privates, hoping to God), licked things I have licked (the floor?), eaten things I have eaten. I will never watch Joe’s Apartment the same way again. In fact I will never watch Joe’s Apartment again, period.

“In about 10 days, they will all come out to die,” said the exterminator.

“I will be spending that weekend vomiting and pissing and shitting on myself and the floor in terror — likely an invitation for more cockroaches,” said I.

The American Dream does not include cockroaches. It includes mountains and The Wild West and probably drugs and girls and freedom and no-job and trains and ghost towns and tumbleweeds. But not cockroaches. Cockroaches are not in the list of possible things The American Dream is supposed to consist of. Cockroaches are what my ex-girlfriend is, or what Criss Angel and Dustin Diamond are. They are not welcome in my house, just as AIDS or cancer are not welcome in my house. In fact, I would rather share a nice dinner and a glass of wine — preferably Cab-Sauv or Pinot Noir, I’m a bitch — with AIDS, or play a friendly game of golf with cancer, than ever see another cockroach again for as long as I live.

Hey Satan: Hey…um…’sup? Yeah? Cool. Umm…not much, I’m good. I would like to live The American Dream sans-cockroaches, please. No seriously. Okay, thanks for understanding. Also fuck you.

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