Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Like A House on Fire

August 14, 2013

Dear Diary,

I think I have a yeast infection.

Wait, am I supposed to tell you things like that? I’m not sure. Again, I am at a loss for advice on how to go about doing this. My new therapist, Dr. Freeman, really likes the idea that I am keeping a diary. He agreed with the late Dr. Marcus as to the diary’s effectiveness. Yet he hasn’t been as instructional as I found Dr. Marcus. In fact, he doesn’t say much at all. Perhaps starting each session with a verbal promise that I won’t shoot Dr. Freeman in the head isn’t as good of an idea as I thought it was. Ah well, as they say, therapy is a learning process.

Meanwhile my cooter itches like I’ve got a pack of fire ants setting up shop down there.

Note to self: Send Bart out for vajayjay cream and one hundred gallons of yogurt.

In other news, I scored a small victory against Sterling this week. Well, I say small, but in his eyes I am sure it is tragedy at its worst. You see, I set his girlfriend’s grandmother’s house on fire! I know! It was just shear luck that I discovered her at all, much less was able to set her home ablaze. And no, that wasn’t a typo, you grammar Nazis. I meant shear in every sense of the word. Allow me to explain.

 Last April I decided that my one act of kindness would be donating my luxurious red hair to Curls for Care. It’s a nice little charity that …

Caligula suggests that I back up and explain the whole single act of kindness thing.

Every April, to commemorate the passing of my late parents, I commit one, single, unforgettable act of kindness. I do this mostly out of hate, but partially out of joy that that those goody two shoe parents of mine are finally dead. Nothing like two horribly nice parents kicking the bucket and leaving their only child fabulously wealthy to bring joy to an evil daughter’s heart. Sixteen years I put up with those asshats, and I can’t think of a better way to mock their legacy than to donate my precious time and/or their enormous amounts of money to charity while laughing my ass off about it the whole while.

Caligula argues that I am in fact honoring their memory by my one act of kindness day.

He says potato. I say root vegetable powered ray gun.

Anywho, last April I decided my parental remembrance charity would be Curls for Care, the folks that collect clippings of other people’s hair for wigs and give them to the downtrodden and homeless. At least I think that is what they do with the hair. Truthfully I am not certain. For all I know, they could make wigs for barnyard animals. Although I suspect if hey did something along those lines, they would call the charity Wigs for Pigs, or Hair for Mares or something catchy like that. I mean Curls for Care is pretty good, but Wigs for Pigs has a certain ring to it. Don’t you agree?

Note to self: See if is taken.

How does all of this link back to setting an old fart’s house on fire? Well, not wanting to attract too much attention, I kept to one of the smaller salons that handled Curls for Care donations, and ding dong, ring my bell, guess who cuts hair down at the Klip and Kurl? Sterling’s dashing whore—oops, I meant girlfriend—Linda Lou.

Who knew?

My darling cat just pointed out that I, of course, knew. That’s why I chose the place. Way to ruin a good story, Caligula.

Point being, Linda got all worked up the minute she saw me walk through the door. I tried my best to calm her, but she panicked and called on that man of hers to save the effing day. Even though there was no effing day to save. I wasn’t even doing anything! I just went in for a hair cut! Thankfully, Captain Dummy recognized the date, and granted me amnesty for the afternoon, graciously allowing me to complete my one act of kindness. As if I need that boob’s permission to do good. I can do good all on my own. I don’t need anyone to tell me when and where I can be a do gooder! I think it’s a testament to my willpower that I am able to keep from doing good. Especially since it is so ingrained in my very being all those years. What else can you do when your family coat of arms consists of rainbows and fairies and unicorns? I mean, literally! The whole thing is a bunch of unicorns farting rainbows while little fairies fly around their heads. It takes a superior willpower to break that kind of sanctimonious brainwashing.

Note to self: Burn family coat of arms … for real this time.

Very long story short, Linda Lou cowered in the company of an old bag for most of the time I was at the Klip and Kurl. And by old bag, I don’t mean an antique purse, I mean an elderly lady. Imagine my delight when I witnessed Sterling hug the wrinkly sack of bones as if it were his own flesh and blood! It took a little bit of digging, and a minimal amount of interrogation that resulted only one death, for me to figure out the old woman was Linda’s grandmother. I had kidnapped Linda Lou on many occasions, but it never occurred to me that Sterling might care for other people in the bitch’s family. 

That very night I formulated a plan. And, yes, I understand that plan took almost six months to come to fruition. As I explained before, world domination takes time. I had Bart design me a giant praying mantis, which was set to climb onto the woman’s residence, break in through a window, pluck her from the house, and then fly her back to me. Why a praying mantis? I don’t remember. I think I was going through a bug phase at that time. Must’ve been the spring getting to me. That’s the trouble with these plans; half of what seems important at the time means very little later on.  

Once I apparently asked for a six foot metallic scarecrow with scoop nets for hands.

I still have no idea why. It’s in storage now. Someday I might use it.

Back to the bug, yes? It doesn’t matter why I wanted a bug anyways, because as it turns out, the wiring on the wings was faulty. Instead of kidnapping the woman, it burst into flames, destroying her home. While I was pleased to hear of the fire, I was disappointed to learn the woman escaped alive. Not my Bart’s fault, or Dr. Astic’s, though I was quick to blame him first. No, the wires that Astic’s construction crew used came from a little factory in Peru. The day after the thing caught Linda Lou’s grandmother’s house on fire, the factory sent me an email with a recall on those very same wires. Faulty, was the only excuse they gave. Once I removed Astic from the archery range—as a target, not an archer—I apologized, and sent him to Peru for a week with his favorite toy to exact my revenge.

I hope those Peruvians enjoy swapping sexes before their genitals explode.

Speaking of exploding genitals, I really have to sign off. It is almost impossible to type with my hooha on fire like this. Bart should be back soon with soothing creams. I can’t wait to soak in a yogurt bath. Hopefully, when Astic returns in a few days I will be over this little inconvenience and I can apologize to him properly.

Oh yeah, momma’s getting her some!

See ya on the sexy side,


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