Climbed Up on The Rainbow Just to See If I'd Fall Off

8:40 P.M., Friday: If you're reading this, then you already know. [Name that movie.] I need a new post here. I'm going to live-blog tonight. Live-blog what, you may ask? I am going to live-blog life. You know why people like blogs, I think? Because, unlike all other forms of narrative storytelling, you've really got no clue what'll happen next. No one does, you know? Because it hasn't happened yet. There you go. Who knows where these thoughts come from? They just appear.

I've got a lot of things to say, you know? Like, right now. But also, it's hard to get my thoughts together because I'm on so much crack, heroin, smack, dope, um, whatever else the kids are doing these days. I don't know. I'm obviously too cracked out to even notice.

9:04 P.M. : I'd like to apologize formally to everyone who probs was driven insane by the inordinate amount of spelling errors during the early days of Auto-Win. I don't know if I can say anything to make the pain go away, but most of them are fixed now.

9:49 P.M.: You know what's funny? When I first started blogging it didn't even occur to me that I was risking something via truth. I didn't have a sitemeter or have any idea how many people were even reading it until about November, but I suspected it was approximately "2" people. (Haviland, Lainy, Lo sometimes but from my same IP so that doesn't count) I thought I was lucky to have a job that didn't care, I never talked about it, and etc. Like, I honestly didn't understand why some people didn't use their photos. As a writer, I'd obvs put my name on it, my real name.

But the first blog I think I ever read was Waking Vixen, who talks about her vagina way more than I even think about mine. Most of the blogs I read were blogs that either made fun of New York, told boring stories about how it's so hard to find a good man in NYC omg my ovaries waaaa, or were about sex or erotica or something. When I started blogging, I thought I was being pretty clandestine -- as long as I wasn't smoking crack in a video blog, I could make jokes about crack -- which honestly, I've never even seen in my life, let alone used -- as I wished. I didn't ever think Auto-Straddle would be highlighted for explicit content. Also, obvs this is Ilene Chaiken's fault like everything.

I realized over the summer that I'd have a tough time garnering employment with the kind of internet presence I had, regardless of my blog. But also, i was honestly just realising that people cared about that shit, I figured people were logical and reasonable. The only reason I ever googled an intern applicant in my old job was to see if they were hot or not, 'cause obvs I'd rather boss around a hot intern than a not-hot intern. If a blog had come up, the only way it could've affected my decision negatively would've been if:
1. They were a douchebag like the people I was gonna work for.
2. They couldn't spell, but like, really bad, like totes retarded-seeming. Actually, not really. Because who knows, maybe it's just a character? You never know until you know, sugar.

Anyhow. Mr. Redacted's daughter is my friend, and she'd suddenly swooped into my life in September and started fixing things left and right with an efficiency I haven't experienced in years. It was the kind of logistical support I've needed since I was 14, and it was beyond what I previously fathomed as possible for one person to do for me out of the goodness of their heart and their recognition of the way the world is. Then Mr. Redacted, inspired by his daughter's kindness, offered me a job. However, following the totally logical progression of events detailed in my prior post, we've both been cut off, yeah, me and his daughter.

Me: "It's like the 1950's or something, the like, censorship."
Her: "It's more like the 1800's, because I have no light. Or heat."

I know I say things like "I can fly" or "I live in a crack den" flippantly, but I'm serious about the no electricity, no phone, no car insurance, frozen bank accounts, not allowed to talk to me or to anyone else in her family, etc. etc. I know what you're thinking: Auto-Win, wtf? I know!!! Seriously you guys I could not make this shit up. Anyhow, yeah, so also I had a lot of other things that were cut off from me, which really blew, but not as bad as it blows to have um, like, no phone or electricity.

Anyhow, we can't really do anything about it, when people are acting totally ridiculous. How do you begin to argue with things that defy logic? I know all about this, as I've had a lot of insane argument experience.

Also, we've got no money or power, and he's got lots, and that's how the world is, surprise. I've told you; I've stared mania in the eyes. I know that mania is either a vacuum or an elevator or a suffocating embrace or rubber and you are glue, or rubber and you are something that bounces away from rubber. We are just girls yelling at rubber.

10:11 P.M.: I know you're all asking yourself ... when did you first employ the term "hands down totes"? Well, that post has just been published. This is the context:

NY Mag said: The Farm on Adderley (1108 Cortelyou Rd. Ditmars Park, Brooklyn)
I say: Arby's. (National Chain)
Hands down totes Arby's. I can never even decide: homestyle or curly? They are both delicious, but in totally different ways. You know, like men and women. That being said, I usually chose curly fries. I think they are just more emotionally complex.

Sat 12: 54 A.M.: Guess what? I think this day has gone on long enough. I forgot to mention: this job was gonna be perfect. Like perfect hours, amazing pay, a lot of perks, like basically my whole life was gonna turn around, it wasn't just like, a cool job, it was like, miracle job.

Why do I keep extending days I wasn't really enjoying to begin with? Maybe that's the real mid-afternoon slump; realising you're trapped inside an unpleasant narrative and you're not sure it'll turn around before you can quit trying for 6-8 hours.

When I was little, I didn't understand what death was or why it happened because I didn't understand illness. I was new to the world, obvs, so I didn't realise that it was the physical that degraded into expiration, not the mental or spiritual. I remember when my Great-Grandmother died, I thought she died because she was so mean to everyone all the time, I thought once you got like that your time was up. I felt guilty for thinking that when I learned how it all worked for real, but I don't know if I ever stopped believing it, even though it's clearly not even remotely true. How weird though, that we were created this way -- for like ... [omg seriously I should be asleep, wtf am I even talking about? I'm like, totes creating my own religion. It's okay if no-one wants to join it, I have my stuffed dog, Ryan, and the Flying Lesbians, obvs.] ... our physical selves to be the ones we must maintain actively and concretely -- which affect only ourselves, is entirely reflexive really. Whereas actual purity of intent and being isn't necessary for survival, it's like, more important if you wear sunscreen then if you are nice to people. That's weird. My mosquito bites look like vampire bites. Maybe they are! That'd be neat, totes bitten.

*
Everything is free now,
That's what they say.
Everything I ever done,
Gotta give it away.
Someone hit the big score.
They figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.
*

11:06 A.M. Saturday: OMG. Durrrrrr. Ugh. I hate that split second in the morning where you could be anyone, anything, where any number of possibilities are possible and then the reality of your actual life washes over you all of a sudden, ugh. Also, my roommate Ryan is so sweet. I like people who are good people. Go Team Good.
*
2:51 P.M. Saturday: OK, Stef just helped me out with a major crisis involving ebay people needing refunds for products they clearly never received, because Mr. Redacted has no soul. I seriously almost just punched a wall, which I've never done before. Usually I'm clumsy enough to make these things happen on my own without doing them on purpose. E.g., I just banged my elbow/funnybone thing on the edge of the dresser for like, the 10th time in the last 24 hours and it fucking hurts like hell.

Also, I had an article for Curve Magazine due on November 1st, and I haven't finished it yet. What's wrong with me, I'm not sure. Also, I think I'm going to go to Reno for a few days soon to chill 'cause K-Lilly is a good friend. I'll win big on the slots and then buy the whole world a Coke.

I'm so blessed to have such amazing friends, really. Ryan just got me groceries and he's cleaning right now. Like how adorable is that? There are no words.
*
5:10 P.M. Saturday: Someone keeps calling me from a 402 area code. Where is that? Oh. Nebraska. Obviously. That's where most of my friends live. JK I don't know anyone in Nebraska actually. Is it even a real state? Are any of you from Nebraska? Is it fun there? Are there Jews and Gays?

I just found it, P.S., the part of my blog where I start being honest emotionally almost sorta, which'd be this post. I just got chills, like, reading it, and seeing like, all my feelings start to crawl out of my self-made turtle shell. This is unrelated to the firing incident, because I'm in trouble for implying that my totes real-life friend Kit Porter wanted to have sex with a vodka bottle, not for talking about my emotional realities. I wish my emotional realities involved more sex and vodka though.

Also, I feel dizzy like I am on a boat. I think I need to go for a walk.
*
7:40 P.M. Saturday: That was a nice walk. Now I am home. I just talked to my friend. You guys, seriously, I just want to say right now that I do not, nor have I ever, fucked Kit Porter, or anyone -- real or otherwise -- with a vodka bottle. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just wanna get that out there. Also, sidenote: writers write about television and movies. TV and movies often contain sex [not enough sex, as far as The L Word is concerned, but that's another story I've told many times on Auto-Straddle ... which, P.S., wouldn't even come up if you googled me, because it's not under my real name.] Also; sex is legal. Also, fine. You obvs can't have a writer working for you. But what about all the other things that were happening, Mr. Redacted, BEFORE you even OFFERED me DREAM JOB, even offering to forego the background check in case I had any skeletons in my closet. I don't, so it doesn't matter -- I've never been arrested or anything -- so you could have checked my background all you wanted. Also, you should still pay me for the two weeks that you said you'd pay me for and shouldn't have stopped the ebay transactions, asshole.

What does that have to do with your daughter's electricity? You are cutting her out of the family because she dared to hook me up with you and attach my scandalous personality to your workplace. Except ... except! ... she didn't. She didn't want me to work for you, you offered, it was your idea! Your idea! You offered!!! Also, I'm not sure what cutting off your daughter's everything has to do with Kit Porter's vagina.

9:21 P.M.: A Complete Explanation of Why This is Ilene Chaiken's Fault.
At this point, I would like to address the situation regarding Kit Porter, the vodka bottle, and my feelings about having sex with objects.

As we know, Ilene Chaiken cannot write her way out of a paper bag. Following Kit's discovery that Angus was cheating on her with Tickle-Me-Hazel, Kit pondered returning to her former alcoholic glory. There's a lot of ways that this could've been revealed. For example, someone could've offered Kit a drink and she could've pondered it. However, Ilene Chaiken likes to confront exposition head-on, directly to the forehead. Also, no-one ever had sex in Season Four, which bothered me, as I am clearly a nymphomaniac. Seriously, P.S., I am not. In my recap I was making fun of two things:
1. The retarded plot device of the vodka bottle.
2. The fact that no one ever has sex on this show, leading me to pits of desperation so deep that I actually imagined Kit fucking herself with a vodka bottle.

Here is the section from Auto-Straddle. ["If I have to hear about that goddamn fucking-with-the-bottle thing one more time ..." (her)] Disclaimer: Auto-Straddle recaps television shows, which are about fake people. I make jokes about these characters. Also, here is a Wikipedia article about Television Without Pity, they basically invented the recap.

This scene is in Episode 409, "Lacy Lilting Lyrics." Again. These people are NOT REAL.

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree!
Then Kit goes into her office. There are at least $1,700 worth of flowers in there. Seriously, you could like, sponsor 10,000 kids in Nepal for that amount. Talk about the depths of sorrow, Hazelfucker. Kit sits down to face the bottle. You know, the proverbial bottle. But a real one. She keeps it around for moments like this one, when we need a literal representation of her mental conflict because the writers for this show aren't exactly like, um, Sarte, or something.

Me: Wouldn't it be awesome if she was actually thinking like, 'I wonder what it would feel like to stick this bottle up my vagina.'
Haviland: She's debating if she wants to drink or not.
Me: I know, but it would be like, way cooler if we THINK she's considering taking a drink, but then there's a twist and what she's really considering is if she's got enough lubrication in her vaginal canal to handle that bottle and then she just hiked up her sundress and was like "Okay boys, let's roll!"
[Kim and Haviland look at me like I'm a maniac]

You might notice that in the intro to this section, I actually mention giving to starving children in Nepal. Like, totes. I am totes so immoral. Excuse me, there is a really hot vodka bottle sitting on my bed, waiting to get fucked all night long.

11.8.07

I'm going to link this part from tomorrow's blog -- it's an explanation. Most of it I really can't/shouldn't talk about for many reasons, so this is as much as I'll ever say here -- not sure if this'll be permanent or not.

Also, everything is gonna be fine -- not with Mr. Redacted, but in general ... Olive is just awesome, and things'll be fine. Totes totes fine.

HOW MR. REDACTED BECAME NOT JUST AN ASSHOLE BOSS, BUT A TOTES SOCIOPATHIC TWATWAFFLE-

8. His Idea To Begin With -- Law firms rarely wanna hire me 'cause I've got too many media connections. But he asked his daughter if I wanted a job, since she'd spoken so highly of me and honestly of my situation, and subsequently he totes swooped in and made it happen, said I could forego the background check if necessary and proposed a confidentiality agreement to solve the blog problem. Offered $35/hour, my hours [10-4, M-F], company car there and back, etc etc. I couldn't even tell people about it 'cause I felt guilty I'd snagged such a ridic awesome gig, didn't know how to deal with it. I was fantasizing already about paying off Visa and taking everyone and their mother out for dinner. I bought a pack of cigarettes, walked to Columbia, talked to Amahd for an hour, gave away my pack of cigarettes, and 24 hours later I couldn't even reach Olive, and I was panicking, emailing people saying I was concerned because they were normally not out of touch like this. I had reason to panic, and I hate that. I hated having my trust dashed.
7. Two Weeks Salary -- Was promised, not paid.
6. No Sweat -- If it's allegedly so simple for me to cancel ebay transactions, isn't it equally simple for him to follow through with them? And even if not, for Christ's sake, are we 12? Also, um, hello pregnant 20-year-old upstate waiting for a charitable donation I'd arranged? Like, why punish her for what I did with Papi last night? I mean, really Papi?
5. I Cannot Comprehend How You Can Be So Heartless, So Rash, So Cruel, So Sociopathic, Yet So Confident, So 'Successful.' I know in your mind, this's all justified. Just how you somehow justified what you did instead of parent. I can't believe I'm actually yelling at my friend's Dad. It's like, you don't do that really -- parents are tender ground, especially as I haven't known her for that long. But his actions were so severe that this doesn't really feel as wrong as I typically would feel when dealing with someone's parents. Olive will be the opposite of you, and dude, I know people who know people, and I'm serious about the kingdom of heaven w/r/t you not being invited.
4. A reader called you "Captain Douchetard McHatesHisFamily," I know that I need to stop doing lines off Shane's barely-there ass, but that's clearly my problem, not Olive's, cutting her off is retarded.
3. As far as sexual preversion goes, I'd say marrying someone 40 years younger than you ..
2. Cutting off Olive from her family: insane.
1. My Blog Has No Bearing on My Work Performance. I'm not expecting you to realise that, because in a time of universal deceit — telling the truth is a revolutionary act.