I Wish I Were A Whore

My boyfriend just told me that if I ever needed to talk to anyone about rape I should go to him first. I'm sorry, maybe I am insensitive, but I really don’t think that he is who I should go to. I think I’d rather go to Montel and have him ask me a billion questions about orifices and objects and broomsticks and bottles than give my boyfriend a dissertation on rape.

The conversation started when we were talking about a previous girlfriend of his – a girl who I thought was very stupid and who had propositioned me for sex many times, but, boo hoo, she had been raped, and I should be able to identify with that. Just because I had worked with people like sex workers and rape victims in the past (not that they're anything alike, but people love to group them together) I suddenly should feel this sisterhood with every hummus-filled vagina who had it stuffed by her daddy or uncle's dick. No sir. This is not the way this bargain basement female works.

Truth is, it could be pretty hard to rape me. I think I’m much more likely to be a prostitute than a rape victim. Lets see...what do i have to offer?

First off, I always like to lie and since I don't like to give blow jobs and have big teeth, I like to say I give toothy blow jobs... even though I have been told they’re still pretty excellent. I don’t know how well a whore who doesn’t give head would go over. On the other hand, I always said if I ever lost my social work job, I would go into escorting. Then again, I don’t know if I’m ever allowed to live out my dream of being a prostitute due to my possessive boyfriend.

The reason I think I might be able to tolerate it so much is that the kinds of guys who go to prostitutes, Johns if you will, are sort of sad to me. And I sort of romanticize it. For example, I once went home with some 53 year old man and puked in his house before fucking him. As I lay under the blankets in his twin sized bed, unable to sleep, but unable to move for fear that he would try to talk to me, I stared at all the creepy photos of his mother that littered his room and realized I was probably the only woman who had ever been in that bed with him… except maybe his mother. And yet, I don’t look back on that as a sad memory. It's been three Thanksgivings since that terribly foul/crazy encounter and he still calls me, fully aware that I have a boyfriend. In fact, I just got a call from him last night and he told me I can take refuge in his house when my boyfriend and I are fighting. If every client was like that... I swear I think I may be able to stand it. I have a certain affection in my heart for this man... Albert.

They say prostitution is one of the oldest professions in the world (it’s also the first line a pimp will ever feed to you). It’s only "degrading" because people in this society think its degrading. I hate getting all political... but it makes me sick. I should have a bite... a taste at it. Money for sex. I need to survive. Other women out there need to survive.

Honestly, I think that my social work experience would really help make me one of the best prostitutes out there. I mean I already like sex, and I already like helping people. These men like sex and sometimes they feel lonely and need to be talked to. I really think I could be some kind of super prostitute. I could have people come to me for sex, then after (or before) we could talk about things – their lives, their jobs, their families.

A girl can dream, can’t she? And I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to at least try it. It’s a free country. Sure, there are laws prohibiting prostitution, but yea they can be loose on that shit if it’s for a good cause, right?

I should also mention I’m getting kind of desperate. No one is hiring me. I've been trying now for six months and was just told last week by my unemployment counselor that I don't make eye contact so I'll never be able to get a job. I don’t think that’s the reason. I think it’s just her. I don't want to look at her ever-judging, scary, ugly, stupid eye. It's ugly. She's gross and fat. Her face looks like a big turd to me and I feel like she is firing out electric turds through her eyes and if I make eye contact with her I'll get shit in my eye. I should just tell her that. Maybe then she'd get rid of me.

On top of it all, there are plenty of other people who are much worse at their jobs making more money than me. I mean, come on… if Megan Mullaly from that horrible show, Will and Grace, got her own talk show, and Lindsay Lohan is running around with a vacuum cleaner for a nose sniffing whatever the fuck is put in front of it while America is still adoring her, and that she-beast-monstrosity, Rosie O’Donnel, still has legions of fans, why the fuck can't I get money for a toothy blow job? And why the fuck do I still have all of my goddamned teeth? Jesus fucking Christ! I've torn apart my body limb from limb for close to 27 years now and I still have teeth? What the fuck is that? I’ve been ravaging my body for a couple decades and I still get carded for cigarettes. Why do I look like this?

I need to accelerate my look. You know... "that" look – the one white women get when they have had hard lives and their skin becomes all ravaged and thick and orange. They look like they are made of leather. Not just regular leather either… they look like old leather bags. They look like someone carried around a purse for 20 years and then stretched it over their faces. And their lips get real thin, but they of course try to compensate for this by making lips on their faces and piling as much makeup on as possible. Their eyes close. Their tits sag down to their knees and they wear spandex or sweat suits. Their hair thins and almost totally disappears. And they are usually accompanied by a black man. They have little to no teeth and their names tend to be something like Cookie or Tweety or Sweet Thang.

I'm fucking 26. Why do I still have teeth?

The way I see it, if I can't become a prostitute then I deserve to be a billionaire. Fuck these unemployment checks, social security for being nuts, food stamps, welfare queen, trying to get famous shit. It’s one or the other. Black or white. Fuck this in between shit. Not knowing where my next Church's Chicken meal is coming from. Having a controlling boyfriend... who is of course broke as hell. Having a shitty house, and a bad mouse problem, but no roaches. My damn toilet still works. I have air conditioning in my room. My skin is not turning to leather, and my hair and teeth are not falling out. I am declared legally and mentally disabled, but where's the black pimp and my prostitution job and social security and everything that comes along with this shit? I don't fucking get it. I have a home. I'm glad I have it. But it sucks. I have my clown paintings and my television and my possessive boyfriend. But they suck. My heavy doses of legal prescriptions, my pints of vodka, and my chicken… they all suck. Where do I go from here? Everything is so average.... so boring.

On the bright side, I do have a good, old hag type of nickname. People do call me "Lil Princess," a name that I took on after I remembered that my father used to call me that as a child and then tell me a really graphic story about a man who called his daughter his "Lil Princess" and then he would rape and torture her. That's pretty close to Tweety. I also have an old black friend named Sam who used to be a pimp. The only thing I have to get over is my reluctance to fuck stupid, ugly guys. I know I’ve gotten over it in the past, but I was also really drunk and I mostly don't remember. Damn… if only my parents would have done the right thing and pushed me into pornography when I was a child, so I'd have more of a knack of fucking douchebags by now. What a bunch of assholes.

Oh well, maybe I'm not destined to be a prostitute. My face isn't leathery. I've met girls who are about 20 who already are far into "the look". They wear their little gold necklaces that say "shorty" and have their tattoos of pimps names on their necks in Old English next to a tattoo of Taz in a motorcycle jacket or a gold chain, depending on the "type." They are well on their way and I’m not. I have a "college degree." A street ho can't have a college degree. Sure, lots of prostitutes say they do what they do to get that college degree and go straight, but who the fuck has ever heard of a girl who already has a college degree and then goes on to become a whore? It's too embarrassing.

I guess if I’m truly dedicated to the idea, I’ll figure it out one day. Until then, I guess I’m stuck with these damn unemployment checks.

Anyone got some coupons for Church’s Chicken?

Live Fast...Die Old

I have just come to a terrible realization about the whole way I’ve been living my life up until now. It occurred to me the other day that I have always entertained the old punk rock adage of "live fast, die young." I recently realized, with the help of a newly found friend, that one of the major flaws of the "live fast, die young" philosophy is that if by some reason you manage miraculously escaping every countless imminent total chaos disaster and become old, you're fucked because all of your real friends who can even fathom anything has taken place are all either literally dead, or dead in some figurative way or another. All my life, I’ve been living fast, way too fast, like super-dynamite, flaming-whore, warp-speed fast. And I am now pushing 27.

I think someone "up there" seems to have forgotten about me... and herein lies the problem. I am getting too fucking old. Where are you, angel of death??? What the hell happens now??? Hello!!! WHOEVER THE FUCK YOU ARE WHO IS IN CHARGE OF THIS SHIT!!!!!???? I AM DONE BEING YOUNG AND LIVING FAST.... IT IS TIME FOR ME TO DIE!!!!

I'm 26 now. I'm starting to lose teeth. The weight that used to fall off of me after I shit it out is starting to stick. I'm pushing close to 10 pounds under the weight that I'm supposed to be. I'm fast losing that heroin chic look that I have cherished since far before I even touched the drug and all of the pediatricians thought I was being abused because I looked like an albino Ethiopian child.

I always just did things. I never thought about them. If a terrible situation presented itself to me, I dove in and gave it everything I could and never gave it a second thought or tried to hide the blood, stink, spew and discharge. I lived my life. I lived 30 people's lives, and now I'm almost 27 and I'm fucking TIRED. I'm too old to die!! What do I have to look forward to? Post-sag, pre-menopausal spider veins and thinning hair and thick clown make up and wrinkle cream that will seep so deep into my craters and divots that my crow's feet will have turned into full personalities of their own. I can't be remembered like that!!! Jesus Christ, a girl has to have some pride.

Now I am forced to do something that I have never thought I'd be alive or coherent enough to do: Reflect on this terrible god forsaken stinking flaming roller coaster of a "short" life I have had. I have always done what I had to do merely to survive. I must remember that, or I will go crazy.

You should have had an abortion
You should have been an abortion.
You should have a few more brain cells.
You should have been born male.
You should have had your legs fused shut.
You should have run away.
You should have thought a little harder.
You shouldn't talk like that.
You shouldn't think those things.
You wanna make some money?

STOP!!!!

In retrospect, I should have planned my life out better. I should have had a "Plan B." But it just sounded so fucking easy... "live fast, die young." That was supposed to be it. There's no "live fast, and get real fucking old real quick so that when you're about 30 you belong in a nursing home but you are forced to walk the earth for the next 50 years only getting fatter and uglier and more alone." Adult Diapers, wheelchairs, hospitals, the stench of the elderly... I can't take it. I could NEVER deal with getting old. These first few small signs are absolutely unbearable.

I could always go at this pesky "life" problem I’m having rockstar style and take a drug overdose or die by my own hand, but I'm always afraid of the suicide attempt gone wrong, which will almost certainly happen. I am afraid I will try, and fail, and be forced to live my life out on this earthly hell in a wheelchair, my head held up by one of those braces with screws in it, shitting into a bag and depending on some fat, underpaid pervert to empty it out. Instead, I'll have to sit and brew in my anger for the next 80 years, and not even be able to talk to express it. NO THANK YOU.

Yup, I'm perpetually scared of failing at a suicide attempt, and the way my life goes, it seems like that would be the only thing that would happen. If I can't succeed at living, how the hell am I supposed to succeed at dying? And it's not supposed to be suicide. It's not "live fast and kill yourself before you get too old and gross"; I'm just supposed to die.

When will it all end? What happens to people who don't die? I guess they get old. And they live out their life like too many people I know, old and alone. EEECH that's fucking scary. I don't want to think about it. Hopefully the grim reaper will snatch me up before I even have to entertain the idea of dieting, wrinkle cream, botox, pee pads, irritable bowel syndrome, hair removal, liposuction, face lifts, OH GOD the list goes on and on, but I have to force myself to stop listing things before I hurl. Getting old fucking sucks. It's so gross. Fuck being old and wise. I like being young and fucking stupid, and I don't want it to change. I don't want to know a bunch of information and sit around in my own stink while parts of my body fall off into my coffee cup and my fat body takes the shape of the chair I am trying to squeeze it into. How Terrible! Retirement plans and 401 K's and menopause and Alzheimer’s and mowing the lawn and pissing myself and eyeglasses and depending on foul young idiots to change my diaper and turn me every five hours to prevent big, disgusting, gaping bedsores that the orderlies stick their foul dicks in when they’re mistaken for my old vagina when they're trying to rape me in the nursing home. Elder abuse. YUCK. DR. PULL THE PLUG PLEASE! AND FAST!!!

Someone needs to make an amendment to that punk rock adage. There should be a sidebar. For example it would be "Live Fast, Die Young*" and then the * will mean "If you don't, in fact die young, WE, the folks who are responsible for this philosophy, will provide you with a magic pill that is full proof... no getting old for anyone." That's what needs to happen. I think there needs to be a convention, a gathering of all of the people who live by this little saying, and we all need to connect and make the plan 100% full proof-guaranteed or your money back: "If you live fast, you WILL die young," and this horrible situation that I am going through – and I know that many before me and after me will experience – will not happen anymore. It's so irresponsible. Whoever made that up really fucked up my life. It's not fair. I will be the first one to propose it, especially now that I’m currently knocking on the door of the magic age – the age that Kurt Cobain, Jimmy Hendrix, Janice Joplin, Jim Morrison, and all the importants seemed to die at. (Not the die hard punks like Darby or Sid – they died earlier… lucky bastards).

My mind and body can’t seem to take the living fast part as well as they used to – probably because (and this is popular opinion as well) I SHOULD BE DEAD BY NOW. But I'm one of the "lucky ones." Instead I get to complain myself into menopause, into botox, into the fucking grave. I'll go down fighting. I have to accept this.

For all of you young punks out there who are "living fast" and expecting to die young, please take this to heart. You don't always die young. And then if you don't, you have to walk the earth (sort of like Lazarus), your brain and body being horribly ravaged by your lifestyle, and having seen and lived probably 30 to 40 regular people's lives, you’re suddenly forced to slow down not because you want to, but because you simply can't go anymore. Your battery is dead. But you are still alive. Please think of this. I don't know the solution. I wish I did. I wish I could make this into a public service announcement. But heed my words young punks... you may not die. Remember that.

DOCTOR, SERIOUSLY, IT'S TIME TO PULL THE PLUG!!!

Epic Of A Giant Dick

In my never-ending parade of broken monsters of roommates, I have had stalkers who drained their blood, any kind of addict you could possibly imagine (I have witnessed probably over 20 people overdose on heroin in the very houses I live in), dealers, drunks, whores, an electrician who has sex with his pet collie, an Italian immigrant who engages in clandestine necrophilia, an inebriated hustler who strangles his homosexual lover, an adulterous housewife who puts rat poison in her husband's coffee (that last one is just a fantasy of myself), but yea every type of bizarre bloated sack of degenerate shit has passed in and out of my living spaces.

I thought I was close to done with the stories. I do have that pesky abusive boyfriend, but let's leave it at that. He's good. Talked about him here already (and had my life threatened as a result of publishing them), but otherwise, I figured there really could NOT be another person who will walk through these doors and just surprise the hell out of me with his or her weird/heinous/bizarre and, in this particular case, extremely fucking retarded behavior. I can't describe it as anything but laughable and GAY AS HELL. I still don't know how what to make of his South American or African or Native American or whatever other sexy ethnicity he’d tell inebriated girls he was in order to insert his 10 inch black genital monstrosity into whatever hole he deemed necessary. I'll call him Qualeeb because it's one of those names that I can't pronounce because I'm either too white or just don't give a fuck.

My first encounter with Qualeeb was over the telephone when this crazy bitch had left her phone here, he called it, and I answered it thinking it was her. The voice on the other end was deep and smooth. Like a DJ on a black radio station at night when they play the "smooth jams." He asked for the bitch girl. I explained how I had her phone and was trying to get in contact with her, but he ignored whatever I was asking and moved quickly into the "Ooh, what's your name, beautiful?" routine. In general, I love how my beauty is so strong it radiates through the phone line, but at that point I promptly ended the conversation. He reminded me of a kind of person I’ve slept with before… a kind I sleep with and, afterwards, find myself taking tranquilizers and hoping I never have to experience such horrors again.

On to the second encounter with Qualeeb. The crazy girl who owned the phone came to my house in a huff. She explained that she had been kidnapped for five days by Qualeeb and he had been feeding her coke and keeping her prisoner. I think she wanted to take refuge with me but I had no coke to feed her so I could not kidnap her (thank God). I never saw her after that. I'm not worried though.

Next, I heard my boyfriend say that his friend Qualeeb was coming over, and that he was considering living here. I was thinking, "Oh shit... this can't be the same cocaine Barry White nightmare who I had the unfortunate chance of talking on the phone to." I told my roommate/boyfriend about this weirdo, and he assured me it was another person. For some reason I believed him. In retrospect, I don’t know why. How many fucking Qualeebs are there in this world.

The Qualeeb I had dreaded came over that night, and he and my boyfriend went out for drinks. When they came home it had already been decided that he was going to be the person who would occupy the third room. I would have shit myself, but it was explained that he'd only be there on some weekends because he was going to school in Florida and he just wanted to fly up to Chicago sometimes to DJ and do his thang, and that he wanted a place to keep his stuff. To endear himself to me, he assured me that everything that the nutty girl had said about him was a complete lie (which, for some reason, I decided to believe), and then he demonstrated his vast musical talent by playing an original song for me. "I'm a recording artist, Princess," he said in his smoothest most convincing tone. "DMX is my cousin, and you know, me and him fixin to get a lil’ somethin’ together. Check this one out."

It was very hard not to laugh at the DMX thing, but I wanted to hear this man's song. Boy did I get to. It seemed endless. I swear it was 20 minutes long. It was seriously an epic. And it was him playing acoustic guitar and rapping, but the whole rap – the entire 20 minutes – was about one thing: his dick. How beautiful it was, how big it was, how it satisfied everyone, how its shape was perfect, all the girls it's been in, just anything and everything you could possibly hope not to hear about this man's appendage. He went on and on. I thought the fun would never end. By this time I knew for sure he was a nut. And now, he was our roommate.

Qualeeb moved his stuff in slowly and, at first, really wasn’t around. One day though, when he decided he was officially in, he started to set up his room. He had a thing of sage that he was burning as a "cleansing ritual." The whole thing seemed extremely gay to me, but the smell covered up the ass, alcohol, and cigarette smell of the house so I didn't object.

The more he unpacked, the stranger his room got. Then he brought it in. His altar. He was a practicing Buddhist, which was also gay and soon proved how much of his chi and chai and chakras he had in check. The altar was made of a very elaborate, ornate, Dollar Store, wooden table with crappy placemats, some incense, and a daily reading book. In front of the altar he placed another shitty mat which I guess was where he sat when he chanted. He sometimes invited me to chant with him, but I would always decline. I found out he only chanted very loudly when people were around, to impress them and get them to ask him about it, but quickly stopped when he found out it was of no interest to anyone around him. He used the Buddha shit to get girls to polish his beautiful cock so that he could add lyrics to his epic song. Yup… this man was one of a kind.

Two weeks went by and I saw him maybe three times. Then, one morning at 9:00, I was woken up by a banging on my bedroom door. Not knocking so much as break down the fucking door banging. My always predictable and testosterone fueled boyfriend yelled, "What the fuck?!?!"

Qualeeb swung open the door and said, "MAN WE GOTTA TALK." My boyfriend calls him a motherfucker for waking us up so early, and Qualeeb, his nose caked with cocaine, yelled, "YOU ABOUT TO CALL ME MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHANG BOUT THA NIGGAZ I ROLE WIFF."

Apparently Buddha carries a glock and the chanting must just be some 50 Cent lyrics in a different language. The fight escalated to the point that we had to call in our gangster neighbor with a gun for protection. And what was the reason for this uprising? Qualeeb was pissed at the front door not being locked that morning. Qualeeb demanded his rent back, and I, always calm under pressure, asked him if that was what he really wanted, and he said it was. I could totally live without the dick songs and Buddhist chanting, so I happily agreed to go get his money and return it to him.

When I came back with the case, he explained that he and Buddha were cool with me, but unfortunately he was going to have to kill my boyfriend for "steppin' to him." I figure it was a tragic loss, but then again, I guess my boyfriend shouldn't have stepped. Whatever.

Qualeeb grabbed my hand and held it ever so earnestly, his nostrils still caked with cocaine, and thanked me. Then he looked into my eyes and said, "Princess, I'm gonna have to leave my altar here for a couple of days until I get a car to pick it up." (Apparently DMX wasn't around that weekend to help him move out.) "Will you make sure no one messes with it?"

"Of Course," I said, overjoyed that he had left the care of the almighty altar in my power, "I'll make sure no one touches it."

"You cool, Princess," he said, then he left the room without so much as giving a flesh wound to my boyfriend (which I’m still pissed about).

And here it is, a month later, and his altar is still where he left it. Naturally, I’m earnestly awaiting his return so I can get it the fuck out of here, but I have a sinking feeling that it’s not leaving anytime soon. Who knows? Maybe I'll start chanting and get in touch with my chakras so I can someday write an epic song about my dick.

Nope, I'm not touching that altar. I’m too scared to. Besides, it’s a beautiful reminder of my two weeks with Qualeeb. Like I said, he was a special one. I've had my share of degenerate, pock-marked, pig roommates, but none of them had fucking DMX as a cousin. That's tight as hell.

Clowning Around On TV

I can forever thank my parents for having an electric box raise me from birth. I really do thank them. They weren’t the crappy, tight-assed types who wouldn't let me watch certain things. And even if the v chip had been out when I was growing up, my mom would have been too cheap to buy it, and my dad would have been too drunk to notice it was invented.

Even luckier for me than having ambivalent parents was, around the age of nine, the daytime TV explosion of talk shows. Inexperienced journalists and old TV stars were suddenly psychiatrists, with their audience of retards behind them to push whoever was in the ring of the circus at the time further into TV craziness. Some of my favorites included images of dolled up drug clowns that called themselves "club kids" on Donahue, Geraldo getting a chair to the moustache for being a Gew, and one of my personal heroes, GG Allin, spitting and swearing and talking about rape with El Duce and Sally Jesse Raphael.

I wanted nothing more than to be a part of this extravaganza. When I watched fat women on the Richard Bey show rub themselves in mud, all I wanted was to be up there, on television, in front of the lights, being humiliated like everyone else. Since I was too small at the time, this became one of my dreams that followed me through my teenage years. In high school, I often skipped my last two classes so I could come home in time to see Springer.

All my dreaming and class skipping finally paid off, and my dream came true sometime around my junior year. I was going to be on TV. I was going to be on the Jerry Springer show!

It was such a fluke that I actually went on. It went beyond fluke. It went to the ridiculous. You know how at the end of every show they invite you to call with show ideas? Well, during this phase I had just gone through a huge mental breakdown and was living with my mother. The breakdown had something to do with three solid years of daily drug injections and a relationship with an immigrant rapist. That is, of course, a whole other story. But, needless to say, I knew some interesting people who could qualify for the show. As for me, at this point, I was sucking on the psychiatrist tit and slobbering around mom's house like a doped up bag of zombies, which was a mental state I was very familiar with, except now I was "sober" and the medication was prescribed, so it was legal.

Yes, I found myself with a large amount of time on my hands. My "previous lifestyle" had introduced me to all kinds of interesting and hideous trash in human form, and in my drug haze I decided to call the number at the end of the show and pitch them an idea. I was thinking of a particular couple I knew. If you could call them that. I could write a book about them alone, but I'll try to make it short. He called her his girlfriend, but she was a prostitute who would only sometimes let him hump her leg for money, or give her drugs to stick a q-tip in her vagina and let him hold onto it. Get the picture?

Anyway, I lived with them for awhile. I figured they were trashy enough to grace daytime TV, so I called the hotline. When the hotline called back I was so excited. Jerry Springer was interested in my story. Well… their story. I immediately called the couple with the great news, but in all of their debauchery and trashiness they actually had the nerve to get mad at me for thinking of them for a topic on Springer!! I thought they had no dignity, but apparently they did. To me they were fucking nuts for not wanting to be on television, but I guess their story was a little too real. I called back the show and told them it was a no go. Then they asked me if there was anything going on in my life, if I was a prostitute, or sleeping with a married man, or cheating on my amputee spouse, or if I liked to jump into tubs of urine, etc. Now at this point I had my share of stories. I had come into contact with those kinds of penises that come scented in special bacteria... Chlamydia. Herpes. Syphilis. I had seen coke bottles, razor blades, women fucking dogs, faggotry, psychiatrists and counselors, but I knew none of the other ends of the sex acts would appear with me on the show. For some reason, people have problems going on international television to talk about things that actually happened to them. Go figure.

I was trying to think of some weird fetish I could go on for and then make a story from it. Somehow, I came up with this one…

You see, I love clowns. I have tons of clown paintings and figurines. I have always thought that people's ugly faces look way better in bright clown makeup anyway, and I find them to be so sexy. I also knew I wasn’t alone. I knew other people had clown fetishes, because I had seen clown porn before. So I called Jerry Springer and revealed my clown fetish to them, and how I was cheating on my then-boyfriend with a man who would dress as a clown during sex. The producers loved this story and they even told me that they hadn't had a clown sex story for six years. I think that fact surprised me most. I had thought I would be the first one.

This time it wasn’t hard to find people to go on TV for something not so real, so I easily found two people who were very into playing the parts of my boyfriend and the clown.

Since the show was filmed in Chicago they limoed us to this really nice hotel where we were able to meet the other trash that was going to be on Springer the next day. They were from North Carolina, and their story was somewhat fabricated like ours. We instantly found all the other Springer guests staying at the hotel. They were all complete white trash and extremely excited to be out of their roach infested existences and put up for a night in the fanciest of fancy hotels.

After getting our story straight, we went to bed early that night because we had to be extremely early the next morning in order to be on the show. We waiting in the greenroom, where a gangly, transvestite makeup artist prepared us for the show.

The shit that went on in the back room was pretty unbelievable. Of course, some of the people who were on the show were there for real things. Others were more like us -- mental retards who wanted $100 and to be on TV. Not to mention that I was fulfilling one of my personal, childhood goals.

They fed me energy drinks nonstop until I felt like I was on methamphetamine… something I was rather used to. Those drinks, coupled with the psych meds I was on, made me into a shaky, tweaked-out mess. Oh, and it probably didn’t help that they kept feeding us cigarettes. (This was at the glorious time when you actually could smoke inside of some buildings. Random trivia: it Judge Mathis who forced the network to get rid of smoking in the building at the NBC tower in Chicago, and yes, I feel like an idiot for knowing that.)

After a couple hours I was slumped over on the couch and surrounded by 20 empty energy drink cans with cigarette buts stuffed in them, all the while shaking and tweaking like a malfunctioning robot. The scene must have been priceless. I’m sorry I can’t remember much of it.

The "Producer" of the show was this crazy woman named Gina. She was even more tweaked out than me, and I'm sure it had nothing to do with energy drinks. She wanted people to YELL. So she would YELL at you. The woman punched my friend – the fellow playing the clown – and called him a pussy just to get a rise out of him. It didn’t really work. But she wanted us to scream and yell. She even tried to make me really mad by telling me that my "boyfriend" had been making out with one of the interns in the hallway. I pretended to be really pissed. I really didn't know if they knew we were not for real or what. They made some half ass script of what was supposed to take place once we were out there, and Ms. Gina practiced it with me over and over, screaming in my face and pushing me until she actually got me pissed off and yelling.

After being in the green room for about six hours with one of the guys from North Carolina, watching him throw chairs and listening to him proposition me to have sex in the bathroom (he even asked the interns for condoms), he almost war me down. It was probably a combination of all the energy drinks, the fact that he looked semi-good, and his relentlessness. He was full of so much energy and so was I, but I thought sex might be too hard to have in the shower room, and even though I wondered about giving him a blowjob, I don’t think it would have been possible. Things were so chaotic with everything going on, and I think the girl he was with was really his girlfriend. I probably should have let him pull one off with me, but the gangly transvestite kept walking in and out and then she did my makeup, and once they had piled 20 pounds of pretty onto my face, I was barely allowed to talk so as not to smudge something, so I figured sex with a pock marked trash heap from North Carolina was out of the question. In retrospect, I still regret passing that one up. It was, after all, a sleazy, daytime talk show.

Finally the show started. Throughout the entire day I had been separated from my two companions who were god knows where and probably given the same treatment as I was, with the lines and the pushing and the yelling, so I didn't know what to expect when I saw them. We were to encounter each other on stage. I played the "villain" because I was the one cheating on my loyal boyfriend, so I was the one that the world was going to hate, the audience was going to antagonize. I was also the whore and the first one to go on for Jerry to interrogate.

As I waited, all the years of childhood and teenage anticipation of this dream flashed before me. This show had practically raised me and seemed so distant glowing on that little box, and here I was about to be a part of it. I was scared about fucking up, but watching the show recently, all of the shows look like fuckups. It was honestly beginning to lose its quality. Then Gina gave me this weird, half-tweaked out smile and pushed me out on stage. When Jerry said "Let's meet Meg, she has a bizarre sexual fetish that she has to tell her boyfriend about," it was about the most surreal moment of my life. And even when I watch the tape, I still cannot believe it. It’s the kind of stuff dreams are made of.

So I was on, and talked to Jerry, and during our little discussion they kept playing the "BOOIINGG!!" boner noise. I guess I can take that as a compliment. I mean they could have played the cow noise or something. They apparently didn't have a noise for a red bull fueled whore that worshiped clown dick. But then they brought my "boyfriend" out and I followed the script and told him what I was supposed to say. And then before I could blurt out another thought they brought Matt out, dressed head to toe like a clown. But not a clown that I would have liked. They made him a "sexy" clown. I later found out they did this because they didn't want any little kids watching to think that normal clowns have sex, which of course they do.

He had this gay rainbow wig on and just a vest, NO SHIRT!! (disgusting) and then combat boots and pants. He was gross but I made out with him anyway and I made sure to get as much of his clown makeup around his mouth (which was black not red like I wanted) on my face so I looked as disgusting as I wanted this character I was playing to be. ".

Then there was the audience. As a side note, this was right before all the crazy nudity and way before the "Jerry Beads" thing so there weren't many people demanding everyone show their shit. There were a couple of inquiries as to what my diet was that made me so skinny. Of course some people asked why I liked clowns. But they mostly just chanted "clown whore" and I just yelled back at them like I was supposed to. It was fun. All the people that were calling me skinny were all fat asses, how could I get mad? I just kept coming at them with anger and calling them fat.

There was only one audience member that actually scared me, and he was by far the most insane person out there. He had some kind of disorder where he had ticks. I don't know what was wrong with him but he reminded me of a robot with Tourettes in the process of being shut down. This thing was genuinely angry at me about being a clown lover.

He’d stand up and say, "I-I-I-I c-c-c-can't sssseee how you-u-u c-c -c-an [tick] d-d-d-do tttttthis t-tt-to him [referring to the boyfriend]." He kept saying stuff like that but ticking. I thought one of his limbs was going to explode or something. I angrily/jokingly egged him on and invited him up to the stage to resolve his obvious insane problem with me and my obsession with clown dick. He started coming down from the top row and threatening to k-k-k-k-ick my a-as-ss-ss. I welcomed him, because I knew the guards would stop him, except he was getting closer and closer, and angrier and angrier. I could not imagine how me sleeping with a clown could make this man so mad. But he was fuming and really close to the stage. I sort of stopped provoking him because the guards weren't stopping him, but finally right before this ticking robot man reached me, they got him. I think they wanted to see me squirm and they got what they wanted. I nearly shit my clown loving pants. The last thing I needed was some retard with an anger toward clowns ready to kill me. Sadly, that particular part with that man never aired. They edited it out. I have no idea why. If they wanted weird and obscene, it was definitely the most bizarre part of the show. Again though, I think things got a little too real, and the editors had to cut it.

After almost fighting with the audience, my stage-mates went at it. My "boyfriend ripped" off the clown's wig and punched him and they got in a big brawl which I was involved in. One of them even hit me, though it was probably on purpose for getting them into this ridiculous daytime trash TV mess. Then no sooner than it started it was over. My dream for years since I was a child was done. I had done it. I had appeared worldwide on Jerry Springer, the "trashiest show on TV

Since then they have aired and re aired the show and some days I'll be walking around, and I'll see someone and they'll be really excited to see me and they'll say "Girl, you was on Jerry Springer this morning. You was the clown lover. That’s craaazy shit. You really love clowns?" And then I get into some ridiculous conversation about it. I never want to ruin the illusion of the daytime talk shows, especially to people who love them as much as I do.

Surprisingly, when people find out I’ve been on the Jerry Springer show, the most impressed group of people are Russians. I was once in Russia, or former Russia, and somehow the subject of Jerry Springer came up and I told them the story of how I'd been on the show, and these Russians were so excited. It was almost like I was Pam Anderson or something. They treated me like a celebrity for a minute. They’d say shit like: "If only I am on Jerry Springer, everyone will know who I am." They seemed to be the only people that shared my excitement and joy for having been on the show. The show is really huge there. It's great to know that people can be watching you at any time. It's not exactly fame, but it was a major goal for me that I accomplished. The whole thing was like this weird whirlwind, but I'd definitely do it again. I even got one fan letter from it.

I had trouble watching Springer after appearing on it because it sort of lost its appeal. I felt like I had shattered a fantasy by actually doing it. But as long as there is the great medium of television, there will be more trash for me to worship. And I certainly plan to. In fact, I plan to devote my life to making sure this trash continues, and, better yet, help it get even worse.

My Life As A Toilet

I guess I'm the bargain basement barely female that they managed to scrape out of the gutter to share details of my – some would say – depraved life with all you fat, lowly slugs sitting at the computer with your hand down your pants searching for a gem. You'll find it. I know. I’ve always believed if people keep scratching their genitalia, eventually a gem will pop out. It just has to. Otherwise, it would be way too much work for it to not happen.

I guess I can consider myself a low level writer now. For a long time I considered myself a "comfort woman". I was far from what they actually were, but I did feel a certain camaraderie with them as I feel many females do. "Comfort women" are all either dead or Korean grandmothers now. During the Japanese occupation of Korea in WWII, these women were kept in rooms the size of mats and used solely for the pleasure of the Japanese male soldiers. They were raped by as many as 30 men a day and 7500 in their lifetime. Now I can't boast numbers that high, but I have been a hole for my share of sloppy pigs, as well as well groomed gentlemen. But I have found that most are the same. They all have this appendage they need to satisfy. It fills up with blood. And un-filling it becomes their main drive. I’ve been told this is not always the case, but in my experience, I always seem to run into the same damn person in a different suit of skin.

I can compare my life to a garbage can, which is constantly littered with crap being thrown in it without me ever asking for it. Take, for instance, the people in my life. We can call them pieces of trash. Everyone else does. I will talk about a lot of them here.

Or I can compare my life to my toilet. It recently stopped working. And I couldn’t shit in it. It was horrible. When I had to shit I either had to hold it in or run across the street. Eventually I just said fuck it and started shitting in the broken toilet. And then it started piling up. Really high. And then it started smelling. Really bad. And then one day it got so bad that I had to go downstairs to the dollar store and purchase those yellow rubber gloves and a ladle and scoop it out. And then instead of trying to find a plumber to fix it again, I just started shitting in it. And emptying it out by hand. I did this for six months. I would let the shit pile up so high until the entire house smelled like there was a shit sandwich right in front of my face, and then I'd scoop it up. That's the best metaphor for my life I can come up with.

When I took this post, I wanted to write an introduction for myself, and a general explanation for who I am. But that's the best I could come up with. A toilet full of shit. Sure it's empty sometimes, but it will eventually stink again. And will continue to do so until someone calls a plumber and fixes the whole thing. Of course, no one will ever call a plumber. Or no one has... yet. Maybe someday someone will. Or maybe I will. But I am satisfied with everything now. It's adequate.

In order to compensate, I used to just hump everyone I could see, but recently I decided to settle down and select one particular Prince to settle down with. I thought maybe my life would improve a little bit if I did not wake up next to strange old men with pictures of their mother all over their bedrooms and not know how or why I was there. After a month or so things with this new fellow settled down. It was strange the way I felt about him after such a short amount of time. This is demonstrative of the way my life usually goes. For awhile it's heavenly, but after a short time it becomes a toilet overflowing with shit.

Right now, I think I really love him to death! It's hard for me to talk about anything but him because I'm soooo obsessed with him. KEVIN, KEVIN, KEVIN... that's all I think about... I don't think I have ever had a better time going out with someone in my entire life!

I really love my new boyfriend. He's so great! First of all, this morning, he promised to wake up super early with me to go to the doctor... so sweet. When I tried to wake him up he grumbled something about me being a stupid bitch, and then pushed me off of him... it was divine. The poor thing has had no money for the past six months, so I have been supplying him with alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, money, food, you name it. Sometimes I wonder if he will pay me back so a couple of times I have asked him, and he called me a Jew and laughed in my face. He has such a good sense of humor!!

Once, I brought up money in front of him and his friends, and he called me Whoopi Goldberg (a famous Jew), laughed in my face again, pushed me, and looked around to get his friends approval. I don't think I laughed so hard since my neighbor accidentally shot his gun through my wall and almost killed me!! That was a riot, but it has nothing to do with HIM so I'll leave that story for another time.

Back to the love of my life. His friends all sorta had this weird look on their face after he pushed me – like they didn't know what to do – but I knew he was just being creative and funny again and I know he loves me so the whole pushing thing doesn’t bother me. I laughed and laughed!!! I just can't explain how much I love this guy.

The other day he finally got his first check from his job in New York. Oh that reminds me of a quick story. One night when he was gone to New York I went out with my friend Lindsey and I neglected to call him every thirty minutes as he wished. My stupid ass actually ended up passing out in a bar for about three hours... I woke up and called him, and he was CONVINCED that I cheated on him. Silly bear. When he got home from New York, he threw me through a wall, but I mean I guess I would have done the same thing. After all, I did piss him off. But how could I EVER cheat on such a wonderful human being?

So fast forward to the first day we were supposed to go out because he finally had money. We were going to go to the movies. He is such a sweetheart, and we had so much fun last time we went to the movies eight months ago. I asked if we could stop at the grocery store so I could buy myself the coffee mix I enjoy so much. He complied, and as we were walking into the store, we discovered a bootleg copy of the movie we were going to see being sold outside. I was disappointed because I really wanted to see it on the big screen, not the small screen, but he really wanted to watch the bootleg. Using his great reasoning on me as usual, this time explaining that since I woke up too late (3:00 pm) it was too late to go see a movie and we might as well buy the bootleg. I figured he was right, since he always is, so I bought the movie that he was going to take me to see. Since I wanted to watch it on the big screen, the sweetheart promised me that when we got home, he would hook it up to the projector so it could be projected really big. I guess he was tired from that long walk to the store, because when w got home he said that he probably broke the projector when he kicked it over and didn’t feel like fixing it, and so we watched it on my little television.

We were also going to go out for dinner. He also decided to skip that and agreed to have me drive to the local Little Caesar’s where we got the 5 dollar pizza special. But this time, we didn't only get the pizza, we got to get Crazy Bread too. And he paid for it all! But I could only get one of the 50 cent crazy sauces, because I already had something resembling cheese sauce at home, and why would I want to get another one? Again, him and his GREAT reasoning skills.

We decided that later we would go out for drinks, but I guess that five dollar pizza really left him high and dry because he was barely able to buy me a pint of vodka, after I had bought him enough alcohol to keep an army of men drunk for a week. Then when I asked him if he wanted to go out for drinks, after we had watched the bootleg movie on the television, he told me I had said that I didn’t want to go out for drinks. Even though I couldn’t remember saying that, I figured it was just him trying to watch out for me and my tendency to drive drunk. I swear, he is such a good man and I don’t know what I’d do without his constantly thinking about me and my well being.

Instead I got a little sad that we did not go out at all, and he informed me that if my lazy ass had been up earlier, we could have gone to the museum together. Even though I had to get up at 5:00 am to get my medication and was up until 9:00 am, without sleep, I guess I missed my chance. But he is so sweet! A date at the museum... and here I go ruining everything by sleeping. He is right. I am an intolerable bitch.

I was feeling bad so I started to clean the house. I decided one last time to ask him if he wanted to go out. He told me to fuck off and keep cleaning. I know that's what I'm for and I don't think I have been quite doing my job cleaning enough. I am a bit of a slob. I even made six bags of garbage that I could not take downstairs because they were heavy. He, of course, refused to help me, but in retrospect, that makes perfect sense. It is my role and I should just toughen up.

After being awake about three hours, he told me he just wanted to go to sleep. Poor boy... he had SUCH a hard day. He told me to stay the fuck away from him Finally when he went to sleep I put my head on his chest just to get some human affection, and he put his arms around me and we went to sleep until about midnight. The window was open and I had no blanket because he was sleeping on it, so I closed the window and tried to ask him kindly if I could use the blanket and give him other pillows, and he said to me "Go away. Fuck Off. It's over," and turned around. Then he farted several times and started snoring loudly. God I love my man. This is truly bliss. What else can love be? I am truly on Cloud 9 and all I want to do is profess to the world how much I love this man. I am forbidden to write about him, so I hope he doesn't see this or I might have a new bruise, but since this is a testament to my love, I would hope he wouldn't be too harsh.

Right now I’m typing in the dark because I don’t want to wake him with my "fucking work." My friend just called and informed me that I missed an excellent sold out show with members of a band that I really like, but I'm actually really glad that I stayed home tonight and have this alone time with my boyfriend. Alone time is always important. Hey I still have that bottle of Vodka. I guess I'll drink it and stare at the back of his beautiful head and listen to him snore and fart. The perfect ending to the perfect day.

Lil Princess And The Big Fat Queen

Anna Nicole Smith always appealed to me. I didn't really follow her career back in the Playboy days. But once she got that show on E! and I saw how she was this fat hedonist who gorged herself constantly with food and pills, I could definitely see an idol in her.

Hell, if I could find myself an old man to marry and have him die so that I can sit on a couch with a dyke assistant who has a tattoo of me on her leg and a Hebrew lawyer who will jump at my every command, I would never complain. I'd be the same way as Anna was: slurring my speech, fat, whiny - exactly as the show depicted her.

I saw a hero in Anna Nicole. Even though she was doing things that were widely stigmatized by regular society - e.g., being a fat monster and stuffing her face with food at every moment, being on every drug possible, fucking whoever the hell she wanted to, and being a woman - she is a hell of a role model. Everyone around her was obviously obsessively in love with her.

Howard K. Stern, Anna's lawyer and loyal servant, was obviously in love with her. He was hurting himself while watching her exploits with other men but still taking very good care of her estate and making sure she had tons and tons of money.

And then there was that lesbian assistant, who I have not heard much about recently, but I remember she had this big ass tattoo of Anna Nicole on her leg. This "assistant" was talking about how much she respected Anna Nicole as a person and how much the tattoo meant to her, when it was obvious that Anna would sometimes let her lick her snatch and the woman was wildly in love with her.

Obese Anna's pizza-eating, narcotic-fueled ass seemed to cast a magic spell over all around her. It was and remains amazing. Especially since she seemed to have experienced a warped version of the Pretty Woman/Cinderella story, coming from working at a cheap chicken joint, to being a stripper, to being in Playboy, to marrying a dying billionaire, etc. etc. etc. She was a lucky gal.

The whole Anna Nicole saga was always so interesting to me. I really could not picture in my head how it could possibly get any better, and then all the recent stuff happened with her son, her baby, the paternity tests, and her death. Now everything aside, you can say what you want about Anna Nicole, but she is a woman who knew the exact right time to check out to become a legend. She knew when to die. And that is so important if you want to make an impact. Death. You have to know when to do it.

All the crazy tabloid stuff would have gone on for a while had Anna Nicole lived. But not forever. It would have been a crazy circus, but then Anna Nicole would more than likely vanish into Hollywood obscurity. Like most superstars do. Very few make it to being old and having people still pay attention to them.

James Dean made three movies, then he died. He is still all over the fucking place: on mass-produced printed t-shirts, on blankets, on cheap dollar-store posters in frames. Good old Jimmy knew just when to croak.

Kurt Cobain, now a rock legend, if still alive would have probably the same status as someone such as Billy Corgan. I know fame is not what Kurt was (totally) aspiring to, but, again, he died at the exact right time to render himself a legend.

Do you know what makes you a legend? It's hard. I asked myself that question for a long time. But then I went to Tijuana and saw all the velvet paintings.

Of course, there were paintings of Jesus and Mary and that really cool looking Mexican Mary, and the devil taking a shit, but amidst these masterpieces were the portraits of legends. And every one of them had one thing in common: They were dead.

There was Elvis of course, then Bob Marley, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Jimmy Hendrix, Janice Joplin, Jim Morrison, Tupac, Biggie, Lenny Bruce even. They were all immortalized on velvet right next to Jesus and Mary herself.

The only one who was not dead was Scarface, Tony Montana, and he was a character in a movie. They were obviously portraits of Tony Montana, not Al Pacino the actor (although that would have been hilarious). This is what makes you a legend.

I saw no portraits of Marlon Brando, a great actor, and in a whole hell of a lot more films than James Dean. The man worked his whole life. I would agree he is a legend, but he doesn't have a velvet painting, so he isn't a real legend.

The world watched Brando get fat and old and star in some really crappy movies, even though the man is a genius. He died too old. And I'll be damned if I don't see a bunch of Mexicans and tourists like flies on shit surrounding the new velvet paintings of Anna Nicole.

Michael Jackson is a good example. He is a great genius and always will be, but I guarantee you that if he would have just died during all those trials when he dangled his baby or when he was in court with his umbrella walking around with his kids with masks on, he would be on those velvet paintings.

It's just all about the right time to die. I think about it all the time.

One day I will slightly bust out of obscurity. It's already happening. I picture myself someday having the fame of someone like Vincent Gallo maybe. I'm not talking about being like him, just having his level of recognition.

The average American would not know who the hell I was, but I could fuck girls, or guys, or get girls like Chloe Sevigny to suck my dick. That kind of fame. And if I do it right, and it comes at the right time, I will plan it out and make sure I die. Or at least make people think so. And then I will suddenly become a legend.

Garbage that was lying around my house previously who no one could give two shits about except crazy hardcore fans, which there would be no more than 20 of, would start to get taken and everyone would want it.

If I died in the right way - like with a bizarre story attached to it - that might make my fame skyrocket even more.

People may think that I am sick for thinking about the right time to die as to preserve my fame and become a legend, but I think it's really important. Some may say that Anna Nicole's death was a tragedy, as well as the demises of all those other famous folks - and they are - but they all get fucking velvet paintings of them in Tijuana. That's worth it in my opinion. If I had multiple people with my portrait hanging above their heads while they slept, I think I would rest well in my lovely coffin.

It's also good that I think this way, because sometimes (not often, but sometimes) the thought of just letting go crosses my mind, but it is quickly stomped out because of the voice that says, "Dude, Princess, you can't fucking die now, you've got some more shit to take care of. You'll never be on a velvet painting if you die now." And then I know no matter what happens I'll fight until I feel that I am at my prime to end it all.

Legend has it that when Eskimos get old they are considered no longer useful so the elderly are set afloat on ice flows and pushed off into the sea to die. My father told me this. It would be a good idea.

There's a serious talent to know when to die, and I congratulate Miss Anna Nicole for dying at precisely the right moment.

I'm sure there's tons of fun stuff going on in Hollywood, or there's some fat baby or freakish creature living their lives somewhere out there for them to cover. But no. It's Anna Fever! All because the girl knew when to die.

Rest in One Huge Piece, Anna. You will remain one of my role models forever.

A Day That Will Live In Skinfamy

Do you know where you were when Kennedy was assassinated? Do you know where you were when you heard the bomb was dropped on Pearl Harbor? Do you know where you were on September the 11, 2001, when the two planes crashed into the World Trade Center? Do you know where you were on April 18, 2007, and the world froze?

Everything stopped. Seven plagues were released at one time. Every serious problem in my life--the diseases I have, the fact that my dad is dying, the fact that I have no income, the fact that I live in a shit-hole, et cetera, et cetera--suddenly did not matter. Two events happened on this day that will darken my life forever.

The first. A beautiful man named Sanjaya Malakar was selected to be one of the top finalists on American Idol. Although I have always enjoyed the Idol, there has never once been a contestant close to as amazing and talented and as Arab as Sanjaya (who, yes, I know is actually Indian).

Everyday when I drove around listening to the local black music station I got to listen to how much Sanjaya had no talent whatsoever, and how he should work at a 7-11 or go blow up a plane.

People were outraged. I took little notice until, on Extra, I saw a sad story about some fat wench teenager who went on a hunger strike until Sanjaya was eliminated from Idol. Believe me, she needed the fast. I really think he was doing her a favor.

Each week I watched. Each week Sanjaya came up with the most ridiculous songs and sang them terribly. Each week, I got to watch Paula squirm in her chair searching violently for something not too mean to say to the dusky-hued young superstar.

Randy would say his usual "Yo, dog, I'm just not feelin' it." He gets off easy. Paula, though, was really shaken. She is the nice one and she has to give feedback to this singer. It was wonderful to watch her drunk ass squirm. Half the time I couldn't tell a word she was saying, so it didn't really matter. It was usually some mumble about choosing the wrong song, and then her eyes would close.

But Simon, as everyone knows, showed no mercy. Every week he would not hesitate to use his famous catch phrases and call Sanjaya the most horrible disgusting singer he's ever seen, and that he was making a mockery of Idol, and I really think Sanjaya, with his lack of talent and being able to get so far in the competition, made Mr. Cowell genuinely angry, which was great.

With this, I was in love. Each performance got worse and worse. And Snajaya would choose the most horrible songs. Even I could not figure out who he was or what his deal was. It was impossible to pin him down. Was he just a stupid kid? Or was he someone really smart who was making a mockery of everything? I like to think the latter. Plus he had great hair.

The week before Sanjaya was cut was Idol's Latin episode. Sanjaya and J.Lo worked on a rendition of “Besa Mi Mucho.” I think because the song is in a different language, people didn't recognize how bad it was. Thus, this was the first Sanjaya performance to get the review by Cowell as not being extremely horrible.

For me, it melted this disgusting girl's heart.

The close-ups on Sanjaya's gentle face were mesmerizing. His bedroom eyes looked right at me, seemed to be saying: "Lil Princess, I want to stick my big brownish penis into your vagina and have hot sexual intercourse. Oooh." I had about 6 orgasms merely by watching him sing that song. I didn't even have to touch myself. I just wanted to run my fingers through that hair and have him all to me forever.

THEN IT HAPPENED. APRIL 18TH.

Far away, in Australia, there was another reality show going on. A very popular one as well, which I rarely miss: America's Next Top Model. Rarely do I identify with anyone on that show, but then along came a Blewish girl named Jael Strauss.

I had stopped watching this season (gasp) because the last couple had been way too lame and I started to really loathe Tyra and her "one of the girls on the block" attitude. But I was informed by Mr. McPadden that there was a girl on this cycle of ANTM who resembled me, not only in the way that she looked, but in the way she talked--very slowly, like she was on a lot of downers.

Jael is from Detroit, and she did resemble me quite a bit. Blonde hair, skinny, slow talker. And her name is pronounced "Jail!"

Uniquely gorgeous Jael says that she's half black and half Jewish--"Blewish," as she called it. She was often made fun of for the fact that she talked nonstop (much like myself) and she never made any sense (much like myself).

The moment I laid eyes (and ears) on her, Jael Strauss found a place in my heart. I loved her and lived through her on that show. And I still love her. Forever. Jael was me if I were to ever make it on ANTM, which has been a dream of mine. Jael and her bargain-basement pill-popping femalia are so beautiful.

I loved when Tyra would try to tell her how to talk. "She just wasn't Top Model material. Models need to know how to present themselves in a positive way and they need to know how to speak."

Jael, I know how you feel. People often don't understand what the hell I'm saying or what I'm talking about. Tranquilizers are my best friends, and I want Jael to be as well. She is a true role model to every American girl. And Jael has EVERYTHING it takes to be THE TOP MODEL IN THE WORLD.

Back to this dismal day. April 18, 2007. THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE. APRIL 18TH. I HAVE BEEN BEATEN, TORTURED, RAPED, INTERROGATED PHYSICALLY, IMPRISONED, KIDNAPPED, TRAFFICKED, GANGBANGED WHEN I WAS THREE YEARS OLD, BUT NONE OF THIS, NONE OF IT, COMPARES TO THE HORROR OF APRIL 18TH.

Sanjaya had been in the bottom three on Idol for the last many weeks, and it was always nerve-racking to watch the results show. My mind kept going back to the fat ass who stopped eating until Sanjaya got cut, and more than anything I wanted him to be the next American Idol, because he was so goddamned sexy and untalented. But I also wanted that fat girl to die. What a bitch!

So it was promising, because he kept rising from the bottom. But on that dismal day, beautiful Sanjaya was cut. He would be on Idol NO more. It was terrible. I broke a mirror and sliced my arms with the glass and carved "SANJAYA" in my chest. Unfortunately I spelled it wrong, and now the space just above my titlets reads: "SANJIAH." It's a mess. What a horrible day.

That same night ANTM was to air, but there was a sports game on that day so instead of airing at 7 pm, I thought that it would be airing a different day. When I caught that it would be aired that night at 10:30 pm I cleaned up the blood and tried to put what self-respect I had back together and toughed it through Top Model.

The models went to Australia, and they had to film a commercial in an Aussie accent. And since Jael has trouble speaking regular English since she always sounds bombed out on tranquilizers, this task proved impossible. She, like Sanjaya, had been in the bottom two the week before. This week when I saw she was in the bottom two again, I knew her fate. I started crying. Sobbing. Wailing.

This time I broke the television and carved "JAEL STRAUSS" under Sanjaya's name. The reason she got cut was that she could not talk correctly. I could kill Tyra and her stupid no-name judges. That fucking black who-knows-what Miss J. who hated her from the start. But Jael left in typical Jael fashion. She put on her red tutu, a blue wig, and pranced down the hallway explaining that she was going to spread her love as much as she can around the world. Her love has definitely reached me, and I wish she would start a cult, because I would follow her every move.

Jael and Sanjaya. Two perfect spirits who will be thrown in the dumpster along with the hundreds of other reality stars. But these two were special. And booted off their shows on the same night.

I didn't leave the house or eat for four days. I tried to stick it out for longer, but Church's Chicken had a special and I couldn't resist.

I love you Jael and Sanjaya. You changed lives. This day will forever remain in my memory as one of the unluckiest days that ever existed. It is terrible that one of them had to go, but both of them??? On the same day????? What is this world coming to???

Then you hear about that guy shooting up the school and shit. It’s because of shit like this that school shootings happen. That elimination almost made me want to go on a murdering spree. It was a sad day in history. April 18, 2007. I would like everyone to observe a moment of silence for these two fallen stars.

R.I.P. JAEL STRAUSS
R.I.P. SANJAYA MALAKAR