My Blog

Okay, I was supposed to post yesterday. Sue me. Or, sorry, “Don’t harsh my zen, man.” That’s my new catch phrase. Some of you may recognize it as a bastardized version of a line from Tron. So here’s my movie review of Tron:

I have seen movies as stupid, but none stupider. Also, Olivia Wilde looks damn good in form fitting latex, but looks like a retard having an orgasm when trying to register awe and amazement. Also, Jeff Bridges knew the script was a pile of shit and was mocking it from within the movie, and watching the look on his face when he says his stupider lines was almost worth the price of admission. Almost.

Amazement

I had an incredibly boring week cleaning my house, but now that I am going to change my name everything will be so much more excitement. Yes, in today’s fast-paced world I just don’t think “Cherry” is sexy or exciting enough. So I am going to steal the name of one the commenters on my blog, who had this to say: “Nmxk chkl as$s sex?” OK, I’m not sure what that means, but when your name is Free Bukkake Clips, you can say anything you damn well please.

My weekend and why I’m cranky as hell

My weekend was low key. Friday night I met a few folks out at Butter–have you been there? It’s this self-proclaimed, self-referential dive where they serve deep-fried twinkies and other white trash goodies. Me I was all over jalapeno poppers and bear, the treat I used to refer to as boyfriend before I acquired a real one, and I may soon be going back to jalapenos and beer if I don’t watch out. I am crank-tastically crankulent. I am a crank burger with a side order of mean. Why? WHY? WHY?

I have no idea why I’m cranky as hell. It could be because…I’m behind on a writing deadline, cleaning my house because I have the only landlord in existence who actually inspects, and boy problems. Well, I guess that all adds up to cranky. Cranky as HELL. But I promised I would blog, and so here I am blogging: are you happy now? Does this make you happy? DOES IT?

Clearly, I need stronger meds.

PS I tried to put in a picture of a cranky monkey with glasses here, which is the first image you get when you google search cranky. If you want to see the monkey, you will have to go search for yourself, because, like my willpower, my self-esteem and my self-respect, my ability to upload and insert images isn’t working today.

cranky

Blog, radio, the show and the book

This post is a new promise to you, my loyal reader (I don’t think anyone reads this, actually) that from now on i ill post twice weekly, Monday and Friday. You’re welcome.

OK, let’s be honest here. I suck. I suck suck suck suck suck.  I canceled my last radio show because my partner couldn’t get there on time and I just couldn’t handle it on my own. I haven’t been writing. My best friend has been in and out of the hospital. I tried to write two days ago for my book and erased fucking EVERYTHING I did and now have to start over…

OH, man I just got a call from my friends Erick and Eva. They have kidnapped a dog from Mexico and are now broken down in LA in a camper truck which has a broken clutch and a frame that is falling apart. I love them but they are crazy nutso.

Anyway, I have to start over which is what I have been doing this morning, trying to reconstruct the work I did Wednesday.

I want to do my show again but I have no money, none, it’s sad as hell. My radio show is pretty laughable: the very sight of the equipment makes me want to run in circles and hyperventilate.They keep telling me it’s easy but every time I hear the word “levels” I have to breathe into a bag and pop a xanax.

Anyway, if you read this, encourage me. I need to perform and write and do my radio show but all I really want to do is have lots and lots of sex, which is fun but not furthering my performance career. And don’t write me a comment encouraging me because I have 500…500!…unscreened comments which all read something like this:

“Hypothecate, they remonstrate on to be taught that filing lawsuits is not the diplomacy to about piracy”

I don’t even know what the HELL  the point of that is. What are they trying to sell me? Asian teen pubic hairs baked in cupcakes? Pirate-ghost lawyer drugs? Puppy-raping sex toys? Hook-handed nun porn? Does just copying and pasting that infect me with the first trans human-computer virus MECHA-HYPER-AIDS, which will simultaneously cause my toes to blacken, my bank account to  develop pustules, and my hair to migrate to the scalp of the person next to me in the grocery store, and then I die right after becoming unable to say anything but, “Me Cookie Monster?”

OH MY GOD TIME is UP and I have to go back to WRITING…

I am going to tell you a weird little secret. I have been–this is actually true–procrastinating on my writing this morning by fucking solving quadratic equations. That’s WEIRD, right? I’m WEIRD. It’s like procrastinating on having sex by doing the dishes. I mean I am supposed to LIKE writing. I do it voluntarily. No one makes me do it. So why do I treat writing as if I hated it? Why am I so ornery and contradictory that the moment I make a commitment to anything I immediately start to feel that that is the thing I hate most in the whole world? That I would rather be doing anything, anything, even high school homework or scrubbing the toilet or drinking Richard Simmons’s butt sweat?

I had probably better never get married again.

OK. If you want to encourage me not to quit, please email me at cherryterror@gmail.com. I could use a kindly word or two.