V, Me, and Meg...

This has recently come to light in my mind, although the whole terrible mess of memories was buried deep inside with all the scum, torture, and broken glass. This is so bizarre that it has come into reality recently.

I have a BFF. For you lameoids, that means Best Friend Forever. She’s totally the Nicole Ritchie to my Paris Hilton; or probably the other way around since I was the one who became the doped out half black fat/skinny weirdo. Anyway, I still consider her my BFF, even though we currently don’t talk much and she lives very far away. We do continue to do bizarre, sisterly things like getting the same FTW tattoos without knowing about it, and basically Fucking up The World in our own separate cities.

I have always regarded V as a sister. Both of us being only children, we even went through a bizarre sibling rivalry thing when I was the first one to get my hymen broken on something other than a bicycle seat, and lose my Virge. She got all possessive and became my first “jealous boyfriend.” But those days are long gone. She went through and past her whole “I’ve got acne and my breasts are too big” (if that’s even possible) phase soon after my first sexual experience, and started spreading her legs just like me.

She never spread em as often, of course, as I was always the “reckless” one, who was already knocking on death’s door when I was fifteen and taking trains into ghetto areas of the city and staying out all weekend at raves on seventy different drugs, and then coming back and somehow succeeding at school. The bizarre part is that I was the one to finish high school, and then somehow college, and V’s longest job was answering phones for the local pizza parlor.

There is, I think, a reason for this. As terribly twisted and foul as my childhood and growing up experiences were, they were hidden. V’s were perhaps more twisted and terrible, and they simply could not remain a secret.

After V’s dad died of Lou Gehrig’s Disease when we were twelve, we got way closer. She was then forced to live only with her mother – also named Meg – and suffer the circumstances that some terrible twist of fate had put her in. After V’s dad died, Meg (V’s mother) got worse and worse. She started to smoke boatloads of crack, and soon, like any good crack addict, started shooting assloads of heroin in order to come down. The house got worse and worse. The clothes piled up, bugs came, and so did the eviction notices. While I was so busy trying to fake it through my honors classes in High School, while shoving any type of pill, liquid, solid, or gas into my body, V was getting shipped around the city to different relative’s houses, and different high schools. But the good news is we were still BFF through everything.

V’s mother was always close to me, and even though she could not handle raising her own daughter, she took me on as some sort of fucked-up, drug addled, surrogate daughter, and she started paying more attention to me than V.

I remember our lovely trips to the mall, where it would be V’s mom’s turn to drive and she would always swear the wheels were falling off of the car. I especially enjoyed her catch phrase greeting to me: “Meg, How the Fuck are Ya?” which didn’t even stop when I went and visited her in the hospital after one of her many suicide attempts. With tubes dangling in and out of every orifice, she managed to mumble, “Meg, How the Fuck are Ya?” and then passed out into her pool of drool.

This is all fun to think about and I could go on about my wonderful memories of V and Meg, but I must get to the point of my story – the reason why I, today, find myself the victim of a terribly incestuous relationship.

During one of Meg’s many visits to the local mental institution, she managed to finally find her match, penis included, so that the two of them could join forces and have the most fucked-up relationship ever. Just how it started is crazier than any soap opera writer or shock columnist could dream up.

Him: Toothless, brown, just going through a divorce, schizophrenic, insanely religious, often having delusions of talking to God. Committed to the institution for drinking a bottle of Drain-O after being told to do so by the devil. His name was Jim.

Her: Also toothless, daily crack and heroin user, widowed, trying not to get her teenage daughter taken away from her. Never been to church, swore more than a drunk Italian, had no income, and prime meat in the institution.

Yes, Jim and Meg had a whirlwind romance in the mental hospital. Where and when they fucked, I still wonder, but when they were both let out, Jim (now clean of Drain-O), and Megan (temporarily detoxed from crack and heroin) decided to start a twisted fairy tale life together. So, fresh out of the institution, they got married.

V never liked Jim. Whether it was because Meg was trying to replace Dead Dad with him, or the fact that he would often invite V to do sexual things with him was unclear. I think it was a combo of both. V became an emancipated minor at fifteen and moved in with some friends of ours who were drug addled military dropouts who would rob veterinarians for Special K, then sell it and pay the rent. V also dropped out of high school, and when I graduated, we both moved into our first of many – and I mean many – glorious, soon-to-be-destroyed-slum-shit-apartments in the city.

Her contact with her mother and Jim decreased greatly, except sometimes she’d get some love letter from Jim, or have some strange update on their union. Usually the update involved Meg being back on crack and stealing money from Jim or her.

Sixteen apartments, and four years later, V and I found ourselves living in a shithole in some crappy part of town with some crazy landlord. We were informed that we were getting new neighbors downstairs. Imagine our surprise when we realized that our new neighbors were her mother/my surrogate mother Meg and toothless Jim, which also meant crack and God and Satan and theft and the resurrection of all of the terrible memories and emotions V had buried for so long.

Yup, Meg and V were reunited, just like old times. Except now Meg had been off the crack and on some crazy psychotropics for a year or so and was a fucking whale. I couldn’t even recognize her. Her agoraphobia got the best of her and she became attached to the couch and sat at home for a full year and got bigger and bigger. She was pushing 300 pounds. Jim had not changed much, except he was quieter, lost another tooth, and seemed much more defeated and sad. He would often just stare right at me, in a terribly creepy way, half smiling. I was constantly wondering when the Drain-O drinking would recommence, but I of course never asked.

Meg was a changed woman. The days of “Meg, How the Fuck are Ya?” were gone, and she just sat on the couch and would yell at Jim. V and I would sometimes find her walking up and down our busy street, barefoot, in a house dress, often exposing her “bathing suit areas” without knowing it, and we’d have to guide her back into the house.

This new union, of course, became way too much for V, and she HAD to move… far away, to the east coast. This is when we sort of lost touch, but we always end up running into each other from time to time, and we still remain BFF.

Years have passed since I last saw V, and something terribly strange has happened. I’ve found myself hanging around with people way older than me. All artists and writers, mostly alcoholics or ex junkies, all very different and talented, but all broke as hell. A few months ago, one of my close friends started talking about this great guy that she’d met. “He’s really good-looking, smart, and has the brain of some kind of crazy genius,” she explained. “His name is Jim. You might know him from living in the neighborhood.”

It couldn’t be, I told myself. The only Jim I ever knew was the weird, pervy, Drain-O drinkin’, missing tooth, mental, old-as-fuck Jim. It could never be him.

Turns out, that’s exactly the gym I thought it was.

I now feel like two completely different worlds have collided. I have aged about 30 years without even having a single birthday. Jim is not only my BFF’s creepy, schitzo, wanna-be dad. He’s my new friend’s hunky, toothless, genius boyfriend. We’re in the same fucking social circle!

What have I become? Am I now on par with Meg, my surrogate mother? Sure, I sometimes fear the wheels are falling off of my car, but not that often. I did used to do a lot of drugs, but now I take psychotropics. Wait a minute… I like sitting on the couch. I’m a total tard. I’ve been institutionalized. I would totally date a guy who drank a bottle of Drain-O, and actually, I’m pretty sure I already have. I don’t think I wander the streets barefoot, but sometimes my boob pops out of my shirt without me noticing. What the fuck is going on here. I have BECOME her. I have become the other Meg.

I see Jim every now and then, and he still stares at me in the same creepy, eerily quiet way. It’s not quite as strange now. After all, I was a child when this man used to do this to me. But now he’s doing it and my good friend is consensually fucking him. I am now having an identity crisis and think I have turned into Meg. I have even used one of her catch phrases in my writing. “When I die, I want to be buried upside down so the world can kiss my ass”. I got that from her… old crack addict Meg. Is that what I have to look forward to… being fat and homeless and stealing everyone’s money, or am I already there?

Megan and Jim are still going through a divorce. Even though she got all of his money she instantly blew it on crack. She wanders up and sown the street we used to live on, now skinny as a rail, hustling day in and day out to get crack. Everyone knows where she is, but no one can ever find her. Or they just don’t try to. And me… I’m just worried I’m going to be like her someday. Maybe I already am. I can’t tell you how worried I am. In fact, I’m so worried I need to take a break from writing, take a pill, and sit on the couch so I can chill out.

27 Reasons...

Yesterday I turned 27. This age has, for a long time, been the age at which I expected to die. Why? Because 27 is that stupid age that all those wonderful rock stars who grace Tijuana bathrooms with their velvet images died. Jimi Hendrix, Janice Joplin, Kurt Cobain, all of them. Actually, I'm not really the one who said I would die at the age of 27. It was mostly my friends. Personally, I never thought I would live this long. But it seems I have. Whoopee.

To commemorate my 27th year of Meg-style debauchery, I have organized this column into 27 reasons I should hit the back of my throat with a shotgun or overdose and go out rock star style like all the other 27 year old tards. Enjoy!

- Your Lil' Princess


1. I thought if I made it to this age, I would be comatose or in prison or famous and not have to worry about things. I guess I am half comatose, however I am awake enough to realize that I turned twenty seven, which means I'm awake enough to want to blow my brains out.

2. My only semi human interactions are with three men and one lady right now. All different. All insane.

3. The person I talk to the most would be my abusive ex boyfriend who I can't seem to shake. He is ass-clown, faggot, douche.

4. I also frequently talk to a forty five year old Polish immigrant who at one time I dated.

5. The night I met the polish man, his cat died.

6. He is now married, and our interactions are extremely odd and they usually involve me coming over to his house, him getting extremely drunk and then trying to have sex with me while his polish wife is in the room. He usually gets violent with her. It scares me and I leave.

7. The other fellow I talk to is Sam.

8. Sam is a hustler. I met him awhile ago. He is a very black fifty year old man.

9. Our interactions started purely as business interactions (assume what you want from that statement).

10. Our wonderful relationship has blossomed into something almost totally terrible. He comes over and also begs for sex, but tries to do it in a very roundabout way.

11. I like listening to his stories about being a pimp in the seventies and being in prison, and I also just like having him around. I just wish he did not want to have sex with me.

12. The only girl I talk to is a class act I met when we wrote for the same publication. At the ripe age of thirty four, she decided that she was going to become a porno star. This has led her to exotic places like Florida and New Jersey, and now she is Ron Jeremy's personal chauffeur whenever his cheap Jewish ass ever comes to Chicago, and she gets first dibs before all the other stripper toilet trash to ride his knob whenever he comes to town.

13. I have been told Ron Jeremy smells bad. I believe it. I have tried to imagine it once or twice. You should too. I think it would help girls become bulimic.

14. If I ever need to force food from my stomach back out my mouth, I try to picture how Ron Jeremy smells, close up. Anyway, those are my only four social relationships. All of them are, without a doubt, fantastic reasons to OD.

15. I have isolated myself in one of the worst parts of the city.

16. I live alone.

17. I have no job and am quickly forgetting what day is what.

18. I have a daily routine involving pills and prescribed drugs, and then getting drunk and watching DVDs and passing out during them.

19. It took me three days to get through Francis Ford Coppola's Dementia 13. I kept passing out, having to rewind the disk, and then watching two more minutes of it and passing out once again. That is how I get through my days.

20. I have thought of ending it all. But this walking corpse is not ready to die yet. I am trying to think what most other people my age are doing. Since everyone I hang out with is either extremely old, or not of this planet, and I don't really know anymore.

21. My birthday consisted of me cutting a lot of paper up, getting drunk, and watching the last two episodes of Oz and passing out repeatedly until 7 am when I decided to go into my bedroom and sleep.

22. Three days before my birthday, I went down to Social Security to get on disability, and they asked me for a contact who can verify I am nuts. I'm sure I could give anyone's name who reads this website, but unfortunately I don't have a list of names and addresses. When I was asked this question I began to shake and could not think of a single person who could attest to my insanity. I decided I had secrets that I didn't want any of them to know, so I settled on my landlord. I hope nobody calls him.

23. I am the horrible person at the grocery store that I hate. I pay for my food with food stamps, and when they run out I sit there and make them take out items and put items back in until the balance is perfect and piss everyone off in line and cause traffic and problems.

24. I blew a stoplight today and saw an old lady grab her heart because she was nearly killed by my driving.

25. At a recent family gathering, someone in the family inquired if I was pregnant because I was bloated that day. My father then told the entire party that he was sure that the last time I was in Tijuana, I had an abortion, and then laughed. He's one generation closer to the inbreeding than me, plus he's a fucking dinosaur so I have to let comments like that slide off my back.

26. Someone is currently locked in my house.

27. Whenever people read any significant amount of my writing, they decide that I am a man. What the Hell?



Why did I have to put all that information in a list? Because I like lists. They're easier to read and use to make decisions. So I will go over this list and decide if this year is the right time to shove a shotgun barrel into an orifice (I'm sure any orifice will do). But off the top of my head, I don't think it is the right time just yet. I still look forward to certain things, like I was really happy when I saw Jan Michael Vincent talking about how he had cirrhosis of the liver on Extra. He is still sooooo hot. I also still have not gotten through my six season box set of Oz. I mean I have watched the last ones, but I am not done with the middle ones. Those are a couple of things to live for, right?

Plus, to top it all off, I have the ultra-friendly fans of this website. If reading your super-sweet constructive criticism every night isn't reason enough to live, I sure as hell don't know what is.

Shattered Windows, Mended Dreams, And Cops

I sit motionless in this room. My stomach is killing me. I just saw a documentary about Albert Fish (a famous serial killer) last night and it talked about him inserting pins into his abdomen to punish himself. I am wondering if during my sleep I did the same thing or during some drunken episode I decided I needed to do something and hurt myself like that because this pain is terrible. I have always been afraid of living alone. This is why: No one to tell me no; no one to watch me and stop me when I start going insane. At least I mapped this one out right and I am in a building full of people who will check on me and if I perhaps die or make a loud noise, they will inquire about it. Although the last time I had my ex boyfriend over, the first night I was here, he fell into the bathtub and made a REALLY LOUD THUD and they did nothing. I think because they know about him. He later blamed me for pushing him into the bathtub which is a ridiculous accusation, considering he is three times the size of me, but that is how things seem to go in my life. I thought the other day might have been the worst day ever. That was followed by a week of days I might have thought were the worst days ever until the subsequent day happened, and I decided life could not possibly get any worse, and it did. And then I got out of that house, and moved here.

I'll not go into the chain of worst days ever, I will only talk about the final one, where I managed to get 20 cops up to my apartment in the ghetto. Trust me, if you are white and in the ghetto in the city where I live, it is almost IMPOSSIBLE to get a cop or two unless a person of color is the perpetrator. This is just the truth. I'm not trying to make any political statement. I try to stay away from political statements like the plague. But in this case, I’m just speaking the truth.

We were trying to move. I really hate writing about boyfriends or ex boyfriends or that entire label so I will just refer to him as X from now on. Shithead fuckfaceroadkillbuttholetardfatuglystupidcaveman might be more apropos, but it's too long, and I can't keep typing that. X was moving his crap into another house that he was allowed to stay out but was lying to me and telling me that he had no place to go so I would have to put him up. This whole time he was hanging out with his doll-faced, could-be-his-son, 19 year old boyfriend who I caught him photographing the week before. That whole thing continues to baffle me, but his lil’ boyfriend was helping move my stuff, so I didn't object.

After everything was moved into our separate abodes, we decide to stay at our old place until the next morning, when the lard-ass landlord (slum lord?) was going to come to collect the keys. Then we got a call from the fat, disgusting fucker. He told us three people in the building had been robbed, and he was blaming us for it and was going to sue us for everything. It turns out it was X's younger nineteen year old boyfriend's other boyfriend who had robbed and pillaged the neighbor's, and I think the only reason we haven't gotten sued yet is because the landlord is probably an illegal immigration and doesn’t want to appear in court.

I was, of course, not surprised by any of this. I couldn’t be. Before we moved into that place a very white and very old dickhole, shitbag landlord called my job and told them that my place was a mess and tried to get me fired. I got laid off. The layoff was due to a funding cut not the landlord's phone call, but they were eerily close together. So the robbery did not phase me much. I really can't be phased after the last move out. Although this one gets dangerously close to being as bad considering I almost got my freedom (hah "freedom") taken away. I actually wish they would have carted me away to the looney ward in the hospital for what I did that night, but this is what happened.

After the call from the landlord and X's new homosexual lifestyle and stupidity, and the fact that he went blind to everything else because some young, nubile, Mexican nino was carrying boxes for him and letting X photograph him, I got angry. I was very angry that now we might potentially get sued after he was responsible for letting those thieves in the building in the first place. They had already taken about $700 of my own cash. They also took his last dollar and bag of weed, but he still kept inviting them over. He then wanted to invite ANOTHER retard of a friend over, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I said no fucking way. No more of these "friends" are coming here as long as I live here (which was about seven more hours) and he could not honor that.

Now I am a small lady – dainty and petite. But X could bring out an insane, Incredible-Hulk-like rage. I'm an angry person I will admit, but he had the ability to push me way beyond angry. Going over the events of the last week, I was already way past over the edge, and he should have known not to fuck with me. I said no to the friend coming over, and of course there was a huge argument. The argument somehow made its way into the middle bedroom, where we almost never went. He simply would not listen to me and I got very frustrated and just went to the window and kicked it. I was not expecting anything to happen. I was just trying to release some frustration. I have never even been able to punch a hole in the wall or even break a beer bottle. Besides being small, I'm very weak. So It must have been adrenaline – the same kind that allows mothers to lift trucks off their road-kill babies – that helped me shatter the fuck out of the window.

It was amazing. Especially because neither of us were expecting it. The thing fucking exploded all over and glass flew out onto the street and into the room. My leg had shards of glass in it because I was only wearing shorts at the time and I had a bare leg, which made it all the more tough, and it was bleeding everywhere. It freaked the fuck out of X, who suddenly stopped being angry and had this look of terror. It was one of the most therapeutic things I have ever done. Comparable maybe to when some guy paid me $20 to spit in his face for ten minutes. No wait, this was even better. I loved the fact that my leg was covered in blood. I loved the fact that every ten seconds another huge piece of glass would fall down to the street and crash on the ground and potentially gash someone's head open. I was obviously psychotic with rage, and, after dealing with all the shit that had went on in that apartment, it was a really good feeling.

The feeling didn’t last long. I sobered out of my euphoria pretty quickly when, after a couple minutes had passed, X went over to the broken window and said, "Great Meg, now you've done it. There are 20 cops outside".

My first thought was, of course, “Oh shit!” Then it was, “There can't be 20 cops. Not for little me. Not for my petite white ass. I’m in the fucking ghetto!” Then I looked at my bloody leg and heard another large piece of glass crash to the ground below and went and looked down and saw about 20 cops, some plainclothes, some in full uniform, looking up at the window, dumbfounded.

Surprisingly, I have a clean record. I have never been arrested and it is mostly because I have this amazing ability to remain completely calm while in the presence of police. I am always clam and very polite. As soon as I saw them, the psycho in me switched off I went down and opened the door before they even had a chance to knock on it. They looked at me, with my bloody leg, and I spoke before any of them asked a single question. I said, "Yes, this is my apartment come on up." They all came up and separated me and X (which, from watching Cops I notice is the M.O. for domestic situations). I suppose it was to see if both our stories lined up. When they came in, they were immediately very nice to me and asked me if I was alright and if my leg was alright, and then half of them grabbed X and jostled him out into the hallway. I immediately told them that I had kicked out the window.

It was then that I could have done anything to X if I wanted to. I could tell they wanted to put him in jail so badly. All it would have taken would have been one little lie, and it wouldn't have even been a lie. We had physical fights before. This particular one did not escalate to a physical level, but if I wanted to say it did, they would have carted him away in a second. I couldn't figure it out. They kept asking me if he hit me and they would not believe that I kicked the window out, even though I had the blood all over my leg. They all thought I was covering for him. It was amazing. They were so nice to me. I have never had such an experience with the police. Every encounter since I have been 15 has involved sexual harassment, searches, seizures, handcuffs, threats, even having guns drawn. And this was mostly when I did nothing.

This time I had done something. I kicked out a window and could have possibly injured people on the street due to the fact that it was a busy street and the window was still falling apart. I remember at one point I apologized to an officer for the disturbance and he told me, "Oh, you don't have to be sorry". I was fucking AMAZED. I don't know who, why, or where this nice treatment was coming from, but it just didn't feel right. I kept thinking that at any minute I'd have the cuffs slapped on me, they'd plant 40 kilos of cocaine in my crotch, and I'd be jailed for life. All the while, I kept looking over at X, and he was getting the harsh treatment. I was still angry at him so I thought it was extremely funny.

In the end, they made X leave the apartment, and I got to stay there. Even though I did the "bad thing" that made them arrive, he had to leave. It was great. Then as they left I was trying to maybe take some of the larger pieces of glass that might possibly fall down and injure someone off of the window and they shined their light up at me and said "Maam, please don't do anything with the glass, we don't want you to hurt yourself". They really were so sweet. It was fine that glass was falling out the window and crashing down to the ground below and perhaps would crash into someone's head if they weren't careful, but they did not want me with my delicate lady hands handling the glass.

It was great. For the first time in weeks, I was truly happy. I felt like I had a huge rock removed from my back or an aching tooth pulled. Everything was wonderful, and I saw that my life was finally taking a turn for the better.

X ended up coming back and we spent the remainder of our last night in that hellhole sleeping, then we got up super early, left the keys and got the fuck out. All of my stuff was in MY new apartment. Yes, I have my OWN apartment. NO SHITBAGS ALLOWED. If I can help it. The landlord called X right after we left, and he was threatening to sue about the window as well. But I figured it was all in the past, and no one has heard from him since.

Yes, everything is finally looking up for CJ’s Lil’ Princess. X is staying in his own paradise with his new boyfriends and Playstation 3, and all the beer and weed he could ever want. And I have a beautiful little apartment in the heart of the absolute worst part of my city and share a house with Canadians and pitbulls. Things couldn't be better!!! For the first time I have a landlord who likes me. Sure I can't afford this financially, but I'll worry about that later.

As an appendix of sorts to this story, I did make the mistake – just once – of letting X come to my new apartment. During that night he managed to get extremely drunk, fall into the bathtub (as I already mentioned), get really scared that he was "trapped" inside at night, so I let him out and he got caught by the cops, and then I had to physically remove him the following morning. I realized by this it may not be my fault that all these crazy things happen to me, rather the faults of everyone who tends to parasite onto me and claims that I "bring them down". This keeps proving to be more and more true as I spend days alone and shit does not get broken, stolen, raped, hurt, etc.

I will never forget this past exodus from my old apartment. It was another crazy one. I am thinking that something positive came out of the whole thing though, besides making that jagoff landlord angry, getting to watch police badger X, and have some really tough wounds on my leg. It was all very therapeutic… kind of like going to a nice spa. Only if that spa were conveniently in one of the circles of hell…