Friday, August 27, 2004

Jumping the Gun or Rope Since Rope Would Actually Make More Sense, Not Much but Some

I was skimming and organizing the box to make it easier to grab one and type it up in the future when I found this journal entry. I had to go ahead and do it tonight. It corresponds to my entry The Door is Shut and Locked.

And now, here is One from the Box.

Thurs. 9:07 p.m. 2/12/98

So, Mrs. Waites, how've you been? I haven't written to you in over a week. Not much has happened though.

Last week, I went through a "mid-teen" life crisis. I think that's why the Journal Page slipped my mind. Who knows?

Do you think I'm weird? Honestly. I know I am, but I want to know if everyone thinks I am. I like to be different. I mean, everyone wants to be just like everyone else. It's stupid. I think all but one of these "clones" should be slaughtered from each group. Less food, space, and oxygen would be wasted then. It would be great. The lone survivors of the "clone groups" and all of us oddballs would rule the world. I think I'll write to the President about this idea.

9:30 p.m.

I'm kind of worried about that essay. I read the book several times, but I'm still worried. Oh well. All I can do is try. I suppose.

10:15 p.m.

Do you believe in aliens? I was just thinking about MIB (Men in Black in case you can't remember anything Will Smith did prior to I, Robot), and that popped into my mind. I was just wondering. You don't have to tell me.

I believe in aliens, vampires, psychics, ghosts, bigfoot, the Lochness Monster, and werewolves. I also think leprachauns, fairies, gnomes, and elves are real. Dragons and unicorns used to live on earth. They were killed by knights. Therefore, it is impossible to see them now.

I don't have proof yet, but I'm pretty sure toys, books, rocks, trees, and everything else is alive. When no one is looking, it comes to life. I've thought this since I was small. I also think everything is jealous of everything else. Like, if you pick up an orange out of a fruit basket or something, all of the other fruit gets jealous. That's why I pick up every piece of fruit the same number of times. No one is jealous then.

I'm almost positive porcelain dolls are alive. You have to be careful in front of them. If you insult them or someone they like, you'll probably be killed by them.

Before I do anything in the bathroom, even brush my hair, I look in the cabinets, drawers, bathroom closet, and behind the shower curtain. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I look every time anyway.

I am in desperate need of a therapist. I know. I'm a paranoid, mental, clown-a-phobic. I really hate, despise, detest, and get nautious over the thought of them.

I can't write anymore. I HATE clowns!!!
The paranoia in the bathroom has been with me quite awhile. That paranoia of everything else that I had never planned on actually mentioning to anyone has also, apparently, been with me awhile. I can't believe I actually told a highschool teacher all of that. If it is good enough for her, it is good enough for all of you. Done and done.

Later Consuela.
What a Novel Idea...More Idea Than Novel Really

To avoid having this blog fall by the wayside like so many other things that I have started over the years (i.e. Mexican turtle rehab center, Everything Asparagus Diner and Carwash, Michael J. Fox bobble-head which was released a little too late and considered in poor taste), I have dug into the deepest darkest pits of the box to pull out some old things I have written over the years. For the next several months, I will continue posting, but most of it will be old things that I had written and kept. Considering I have everything that I have written since the first grade, I have lots of material to pull from.

Why am I doing this instead of just writing new stuff? Well, I have reached a point in my life where I am actually starting to try and be a bit more responsible. I want to actually accomplish at least one of my lifelong goals. I have wanted, as some of you may know, to write a novel for quite some time. I am tired of starting on something and never doing anything with it. I mean, just because I want to write one does not mean that it is just going to appear in front of me already written. As my very southern grandfather used to tell me when I was a kid, "Want in one hand and shit in the other and see which one gets full the fastest." If I don't actually do anything about wanting to write a novel, if I just keep wanting it and nothing more, if I keep up this whole perpetuacrastination that I have gotten so used to, I will end up with nothing more than a mound of useless shit in the end. I cannot accept that. That is why I have decided to pour myself into accomplishing at least one novel. Actually sitting down and following thru with at least one goal.

I have started a secondary blog on here that I haven't told anyone about. It is not a public one. No one has read it. No one will read it. It is what I am using to write my novel in. If you want to read it, please, feel free to email me and ask for a link to it. You will be denied your request, but you should still feel free to ask.

I am using old things that I have written because I can type them up on here alot faster than I can type up totally new, fresh ideas. Besides, I am trying to conserve as much creativity as possible for the book. I will, on occassion, write something new, but for the most part you will be seeing what I am going to call One from the Box.

And now, here is One from the Box.
January 29, 1998, 10:13p.m.

Well, I have just returned from a Youth Revival which took place at my church tonight. Every night this week, it was at a different church. Youth groups from Vicksburg, Jackson, Meridian, Brandon, and other cities in Central Mississippi were at the Youth Revival. I go to a Pentecostal church, by the way. I don't, however, agree with some of the beliefs of my religion.

Chances are, you're a Baptist. 99.999% of all students and faculty at Raleigh High School are Baptist, I think. I only brought the Baptist thing up because I'm almost positive that you don't understand the Pentecostal definition of the word "revival".

During our revivals, we have screamers, dancers, runners, shakers, jumpers, and even a few people who just lay there. I know when we have visitors, they have to be scared to death. I won't lie. Sometimes, even I get scared. It's a good show though.

I know that one day I'll be struck down by lightning for saying or writing things like those. I can't help it though.

Our church is very strict and serious. I know I probably make it sound like we hang from the chandeleirs, but really that doesn't happen very often. In fact, it hasn't happened at my church in weeks.

I'll probably be kicked out of school for writing about church. Oh well!

This is a change from my other journal pages, but this is what I felt like writing. Sorry if you've been offended in any way by anything that I've written. Recently, people have taken everything I say literally. "Certain People" would try to grow a cheese tree if I told them it could be done. Therefore, just to be safe, alot of the unbelievable stuff isn't true. However, all of paragraph three is true. Bubye!!!
See how sweet and caring and innocent and shit I used to be. Awww...
And to clear something up, Pentecostal do every mother fuckin' thing I said that they do in that entry. Those are some church going folks. They spend more time in the church house than God does. Now that is just a shame.

Later Consuela.

Thursday, August 26, 2004

Do I Look Like Your this dress?!?

No one seems to appreciate anything these days. You know those people who are always needing something. Money. Food. A ride. Your broom. A cup of Splenda (Sugar is so 2001). You know who I am talking about. Compulsive borrowers. No that is an inaccurate description. I'll go with compulsive 'could-you-do-me-a-huge-favor'ers. You all know that you are thinking of one right now.

So you have maybe been awake for an hour or two. I don't know, you might like to do yoga or pilates or synchronized swimming in the morning, so maybe you have been up for five hours at this point. Maybe four. I guess it depends on what you had to do that morning. At any rate, you have not been awake long. You are sitting there on your favorite beanbag chair in your "Hugs Not Drugs" tshirt, smoking cigarettes and eating a kelp and tofu on rye while listening to John Denver or John Mayer or John Tesh, any John will do really, and thinking about how staggeringly remarkable everything is today. Today is one of those June is bustin' out all over sort of days, and no matter what happens, nothing can ruin your day.

Then the phone starts ringing. They start phoning you around noon or maybe six in the morning. "Hey. What are you doing?" Before you can even answer they immediately go into, "That's great. Look, could you do a HUGE favor for me? Good. My blah blah blah did blah blah blah. And you know how blah blah is when blah goes to blah, so I had to blah blah for the blah before the blah blah blah blah. Could I borrow a hundred dollars until I get paid again? Thanks! You're a doll. Bye." *click*

You immediately start plotting their death and say to hell with June and where it is bustin'. You want to bust something allright. I'll show you bustin', Buster Buddy Brown. That stupid son of a mumble grumble. I'll bet he/she/it doesn't even need the mumble mumble. That mumble mumble grumble own money mumble mumble not his momma grumble mumble tired of this mumble mad as hell grumble grumble.

So then, you take him or her or it or whatever the money, vowing yet again that it'll never happen again. That you will never again do anything for that useless, vampirical demon from the fifth circle of hell. And that this time when you say it, unlike the last twelve times that you swore this very oath of foot downery, you really mean it!!

I just wanted to thank everyone and anyone who has ever helped me out with money, a ride, Splenda, whatever.

Later Consuela.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

If You Can't Beat'em, Make Lemonade

I have nothing to say tonight really, but how is that really any different from a typical day for me. I just cannot think of anything else to do. I guess I could do actual work, but I am all caught up until four. That is almost three hours away. I think I will call Father O'Flannigan. Ring. ..ring...ring...ring...Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Shit! I would call NN, but she is staying with her parents right now. They might be a lil upset with me if I did so. Who else can I call? Hmmmm...I'll just scroll thru my cell phone contacts list. Dutch date is in bed. He told me he was going to bed a couple of hours ago. I'll call Coop. Ring...ring...Hello? Hang on I am on the phone. Okay. I'm back. Coop told me that the thought of me in the cowboy hat and the queer cowboy outfit from Saturday night made his stuff do stuff in his pants. I love Coop. He always knows how to inflate my ego. Granted, he can also deflate it just as quickly. Tonight he pumped it up though. Happy.

I cannot be this boring. I have put the lotion on my skin soas to not get the hose again. I have done all my work. I have looked at every possible thing that the internet has to offer. I could read my book I guess. Actually, I am wanting to know what happened to that bitch. It is a good book so far. Or I suppose I could just go to some site and learn French all night. Hmm... What is there to do in a hospital at 1:21 am. A whole lotta nothing. If I didn't work in the pharmacy I could ride around the hospital in a wheelchair. Pharmacy does not have that much demand for wheelchairs I am afraid. I would climb up and down the stairs, but my legs still friggin hurt. I could go and count the stairs. That would kill all of about 2 minutes. I could go to the floors and start carolling. I guess I could wrap a garbage bag around my neck for a makeshift scarf. Not sure that anyone would enjoy that though. Prolly get fired. I could always cover my body in those little adhesive reinforcement hole saver label things that you put on torn three ring binder paper holes. I don't know why I would do it, but I guess it is still something I could do. I could always just go on yet another smoke break, but I only have one cigarette left. I could go to the ER waiting room and carry a tray of little medicine cups with placebos in them for all the people who are waiting. Tell them, "Here, this will help calm you a bit." I could draw a tattoo on my arm. I could pretend I just met someone really famous. I think I'll do that. Oh my GOD!! You will never believe who I just met! Guess. No really, guess! No. Close, but no. I just met Ricky Schroder! No kidding, Ricky fucking SCHRODER!!! Well, that killed about fifteen seconds. Father O'Flannigan just called!! Hoorah! It is now 1:53am and he is going to bring me something to eat. That is why I love him. He is my sexless lover. I think I will sing a song for him. This is Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond but covered by Preston Lastname. Ahem.

Boo boo bah dee dah do bee bebopity do be booby (I can't remember the beginning. I'll just skip ahead.) Haaands. Touching haaands. Reaching ouuut. Touching ME! Touching YOOOU! SWEET Father O'Flannigan. OH OH OH. Good Times was one hell of a show! I'd be inclined. OH OH OH. To say it's the best ever made, ya know oh oh oh...

Now for my cover of Brother Love's Travellin' Salvation Show by Neil Diamond and performed my me, of course. I am pretty sure that that is its name. I'll just skip to the parts I know.

Put your hand in mine, Father O'Flannigan. We could drink some wine. Pigs can be called swine. To eat is also to dine. halle Halle HALLe HALLE!! LOVE Brother Love dee dovey dove's travellin' salvation show! Halle HALLE! Beat up some babies and little old ladies and take all their dough. Halle HALLE! Rub, rub a dubbie dub a dub travellin' salvation show! Halle HALLE! Yes I have scabies, mild case of the rabies let everyone know! Halle HALLE! Chug, chug a lug a duggie dug trabullin hospital yo! Holly HOLLY! Ping ong uh nadies a ching bongin bradies a tee doe boo doe!.....(fade out)

AOL Instant Messenger convo I just had with Father O'Flannigan:
Father O: Don't get sassy just b/c ur behind a computer screen.

Preston: It makes me feel safe.

FO: Remember I do know where you work... and live. ha ha ha

P: I aint scared of you, jive turkey.

FO: Bring it on!

Auto response from Preston: Before you get up for that final snack, I want you to know I ate your cat.


P: IM me if you go to bed before I get back. I'll be back in 30 minutes

P: from

P: ........


FO: Hello?

P: I am back.

FO: *shudders*

P: All is right in the world once more.

FO: Blah I'm tired.

P: So, wake up.

FO: Shut the fuck up.

P: I am tired too, ass wiper.

FO: Your so brave. You do have to come home sometime.

P: No I don't. I could live here with a cute intern.

FO: lol

P: Speaking of cute my icon still a fetus?

FO: lol It's not showing up.

P: Damn! It used to be a singing fetus. I took a screenshot from some fucked up Alanis Morissey or Tori Anus video. It was a cute fetus though.

FO: All fetuses are cute.

P: Especially dipped in honey mustard. Mmmmmm honey mustard...

FO: lol You sick fuck.

P: Okay fine. Buffalo wing sauce. Whatever that is called.

FO: Yeah that's better.

P: But that makes the babies squirm as it is so hot and all. Fucking pansy babies.

P: I think I am going to put this conversation on my blog. Say hello to the nice people.

FO: Okie. Write about me.

P: Well, say hello to NN as she is the only person who reads it.


P: Please sir.

P: Do it for Melvin Davis!

P: Are you touching your special no no you pervert?

P: Actually, you probably just went to bed and left your thing on so I'd sit here and be talking to myself.

P: I hate you.

P: See because now I am going to have to sit here for the next 3 and a half hours talking to myself and pretend you are there.

P: I have to do work for a minute, so don't stop not being there.

P: I'll brb.

P: I'm back

P: I know you missed me.

P: Well, you will once you wake up and realize that for 3 1/2 hours I sat and professed my undying love to a man who just up and went to bed without so much as a "I hate you Preston."

P: Ya know, when I was young,

P: I never ever needed anyone.

P: And making love

P: Oh yea, it was just for fun.

P: There! I said it.

P: But ya know what?

P: Those days are done.


P: Don't wanna be


P: anymore!!!

P: Okay fine! I am going to return to my blog.

P: Bye!

P: Did you go to Wal-Mark to by some turlet papuh?

P: I bet you did

P: Oh you silly boy!

P: I guess it is okay now. I forgive you, silly willy nilly billy frilly head!

P: Bye!
Later Consuela.

Monday, August 23, 2004


I went to Memphis, TN last night. It was absolutely fantabulous. I had more fun last night than I have had in a long, long time. I was going to visit my gay momma who has been trying to get me up there for quite a while. Well yesterday, I decided to go after much flip flopping about over whether I wanted to make the three hour drive. I drank too much. I danced until about five o'clock Sunday morning (my ass and legs fell off and are killing me right now). It was just a really, really great trip. I watched a dragqueen perform. I think she got a bit confused as to what a drag performance is supposed to be all about as she performed Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady." Yes, dude did in fact look like a lady, but we don't want dude to lip synch about it. That was, in my humble opinion, ignunt. Erbody up in there knew that she was a fuckin dragqueen. Ain't nobody need her to get up there on stage and synch some Aerosmith. It bothered me highly.

I was dressed real country boy cute Saturday night. I had on a faggy sleeveless brown plaid country/western shirt, some real faggy Kenneth Cole cowboy boots, my tight as fuck Levi ass jeans (they make my butt cute), a larger than life belt buckle with a man on a bronco on it, and my ultra fag brown and black leather cowboy hat. Don't get me wrong, I looked cute, but I was real tired of all the moths circling around my overdone flame. So I get out on the dance floor, take off my shirt, and begin to do my thing. I like to call what I do interpretive dance as you need an interpreter to understand what the hell I am doing. One second I was dropping it as though it were hot. Then, I would pick it back up as though it were not. Of course then I'd drop it right back down again because it was pretty fucking hot. You would have thought I was Juan Valdez in there as much grinding as I was doing. My ass was bouncing in so many directions Saturday night that people had to clear me a spot on the dance floor. Not one of those "go whiteboy! go whiteboy!" spots, but one of those "stop, drop, and roll" spots. I had some folks scared in that club. Never underestimate the power of my ass. So after bebopping around for a bit on the dance floor, this guy named Steve or Tom or Bobby or Billy or Ted (I am sure he had a name) decided that my bouncing ass was an invitation for him to impale me with his tongue. I dropped it. Picked it up. Did some dragqueeny spinning shit. Then BOOM! He had his tongue down my throat. I would have thought that the look of 'whatthefuck' on my face would let him know something. It did not. So I had to turn up my flame just a lil, invite just a few more moths to my flame, and do the queeniest sashay spin across the dance floor away from him. Alcohol is flamable. For Preston, alcohol feeds his little flame and turns it into some California forest fire shit. But it was still fun.

Oh I am going camping in Tennessee in a couple of weeks. Very very excited about that.

Later Consuela.