List: Reasons My Cat Is Bitchy And Mean

Election fraud
Can play Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C Minor but no one gives a shit
Outside world is only a pipe dream
Prized possession is an empty box
Has yet to receive royalties from a single video
Abandoned by bitchy mother who was left high-and-dry by a tomcatting male
The look of world-weariness on the faces of passersby
Given nothing to eat but nuggets the color of dirt, day-in and day-out
Lap sorely lacking vibrating massage function
Can’t understand what you see in him
Hardened exhausted —completely non-dot related
Still upset about the ill-fated “leash incident”
Heard about noise-canceling, mouse-scented Japanese litter box
The birds flew south. The leaves died. The children stopped playing outdoors. Seriously, what's left to live for? 
Hates cuddling up next to Hitachi Magic Wand
Misses piles of paper lying around like in the 90's
Wishes she was alive in the 90's when shit was real
Nothing but reality TV nowadays. No good, scripted shows, like Alf
DOG spelled backwards is GOD but CAT spelled backwards is TAC
Disgusted with the political establishment and our failed socio-economic system but powerless to truly change things without the only means of gaining power there is—money
Really jonesing for a cigarette


Sins of the Flesh: Confessions of a Cheating Pescetarian
(Ongoing Series)

Episode 1: The Herzog Pepperoni
Dammit Werner, you Teutonic troubadour of technological doom, you were in cahoots with Kubrick the whole time.

"A new industry has established itself."

I look at the iPhone appendage growing from my right hand with newfound horror. Mere plastic and metal it is not. After two hours of “Lo and Behold, Reveries of the Connected World,” I realize that my smartphone is an instrument of my own destruction. God dammit, why can’t we have nice things?

“This one named Chimp is testing its limbs on its own.”Usually, Herzog’s inability to smile just calms me in a world of careless smiles. Today, his 90 min ramblings about the digital apocalypse have created horrific rumblings in my stomach. I have a handful of peanuts and ignore further warning signs.

“You can bring down the whole infrastructure by bringing down the network.”

As he sounds his death knell for civilization, I decide my last meal should be a drink. On the way home, I stop into Schubas for a Bloody Mary. It comes with a round of pepperoni thrust onto a skewer like hard won game. It’s scarlet flesh glistens in the afternoon light. By now my stomach’s growls have turned into Wagnerian wails and this time the pepperoni growls back. It’s just me and the bear. (Or pig.)

Werner would want me to eat it…to save civilization from the antiseptic tastes of a virtual future. Because this piece of spicy, old pig flesh represents what we will all become – aged artifacts of the past replaced by HAL or Siri or Alexa or....Fuck it. I'm eating the goddamn cold cut. The world stops.

Herzog: “Do you love it [the robot]?”
Guy holding robot: “Yes, I do. We do love Robot 8.”
Herzog does not seem surprised or amazed at my actions. In fact, Herzog feels nothing.

All quotes from “Lo and Behold: Reveries of the Connected World,” © 2016 Werner Herzog

My Breasts Need Zoloft
I do Sun Salutations every morning but they don't. I drink coffee and they stick to decaf. They counter my uppers with apathy and my energy with ennui. They need help. And not the Victoria's Secret variety. But what wire can't do Wellbutrin can. Prosthetic boobage be damned – it's Prozac all the way.

So what led to this cavernous tragedy? What meteor struck that wiped out my giganto-raptors and left the Grand Canyon in their wake? Am I fated for extinction? After all, buoyant bovine teats are a primal asset. It's survival of the fittest not survival of the flattest. And my breasts don’t want to procreate….they want to hide.

And really, who can blame them? The poor things are fated to spend their lives strapped into sadistic car seats. In their youth they’re taken out to be groped and fondled by boys who think breasts are toys, just hanging there for their personal amusement. Or that every touch will make you erupt in volcanic ecstasy. Neither of which is true. At least for me. Then if the shenanigans payoff your breasts get to meet their predetermined fate: to be sucked by co-dependent creatures with stray teeth and an inability to feed themselves. And babies too. But at least when you’re a mother the sag is justified. I, however do not have a squealing excuse.

My problem goes much deeper. I could blame Catholic School? Mainly because I blame everything on Catholic School. And because it makes sense that confessing your pre-adolescent sins to hefty women with billy sticks, if mean rulers, would either A: make your breasts pop-out in pious defiance or B: leave the church entirely. There’s also the fact that I was chubby as an adolescent and then got skinny. Very skinny. Very, very skinny. Very, very, very…if you get my drift. I didn’t want to be a woman, or even a girl. I wanted to be a weightless spirit floating around in a fantasy too beautiful to touch. I think my little girls are still pouting about the loss of Ding-Dongs and Ho-Ho’s, not to mention all four-food groups and my entire adolescence. (Though from what I hear, I wasn’t missing much.)

Or maybe it's my skeleton's fault. My bedmates can use my collarbone as a handlebar. “Loose items may fall out while the ride is in motion. Secure your valuables, hold tight and enjoy The Big Digger. ” Below this my breastbone thrusts out from my chest like it's trying to escape. “Hate to tell you this sweetheart but you’re stuck here, just like me.”Or maybe I have Mammary Reuptake Disorder. Hell, I’ve had just about everything else.

I have options you say. Really? A nipple-ectomy? (Anything that involves slicing off one's aureoles and repositioning them to create the illusion of height doesn't deserve the innocuous title of "breast lift.") Then there’s the tried-and-true implant. An American tradition, like…trophy wives, an idiotic lack of gun control or Saturday morning cartoons. Speaking of which, the latest augmentation innovation is the “Gummy Bear Implant”. No, Haribo isn’t expanding their profit margin, the American Plastic Surgery Society, otherwise known as the Silicon Swingers’ Golf League of Greater Miami, has invented an implant that retains its shape when squished, hardens over time, and tastes the same in every color. Um, no. I’ll take my gummies bite-sized and soaked in Vodka, thank you. Engineered brassieres? I draw the line at underwire. On me the So Obsessed Secret Push-Up is the So Obviously Not Interested take down. The Hollywood Exxtreme Cleavage is a straight-to-video shot on a shoestring in Vancouver. And the Breathless? On me it can’t even make you hiccup. And no padding, please. Why should poly-fill, styro-fluff get all the fun when I get felt up.Plus, I’m terrible with contraptions. I didn't learn how to ride a bike until I was ten, and even then I had to be bribed with Barbie money. (If only I knew my upper half would more closely resemble Ken. Or worse, Skipper.

“Just be an earth mother”, some say and go "au natural." Let me tell you, I am as far from a hippie chick as you can possibly get. Pot makes me paranoid and patchouli makes me nauseous. I can't stand the Grateful Dead or any of its unseemly "jam band" progeny. The last time I tried free love it prosecuted me for stealing. And to be blunt, no pun intended, hippies look slovenly and smell funny. Yes, I'm stereotyping but screw it. Anyway, that wasn’t my scene. In high school I found interesting people who wore black and hated life as much as I did. Add in a love of dancing like a tripping whirling dervish and presto- I became a Goth girl. And being a Goth is a plus when you have body image issues. You wear black. You hang out in dark places. You hunch and cower. No one sees a thing! I hid my White Cliffs of Dover in black velvet and told myself in my best apathetic whisper that, “I didn’t care.”

But I saw through it, even if no one else did. In the secrecy of a public gym where none of my friends ever went, I did exercises that would make Judy Blume proud. But sadly, what didn’t work for Margaret didn’t work for me either and I soon gave up on what couldn’t be pushed up for hell, high water or the mosh pit at a Black Flag concert. So I did the only thing I could do – I settled in to my discontent. I smirked when boys said they liked my breasts. That I had a great figure and it was only natural. Fuck natural. When has that ever been a goal for the female sex? Ten bucks say’s Eve used lemon juice to lighten her hair and her man was guaranteed. It’s only natural to want what you don’t have.To this day when I meet a female my eyes sneak southern glances like a horny teenager. I actually walked up to a girl at a party and told her how much I loved her breasts. She let me touch them and we’ve been friends ever since.

Then I was in a car accident. In 2006. My Nissan Sentra was hit by an SUV and driven into a tree. I was extracted out with pliers. The impact fractured my neck, my back, my pelvis in multiple places and all my ribs. It punctured a lung and put me on life support. I was in a coma for 10 days. On the 11th, I woke up. And gradually, my body healed. So I'm learning to love my lack of triple D's. To pull my shoulders back and thrust my chest out high. To layer appropriately and strip artfully. To work what I've got and distract from what I don't.

Like I said to a friend recently, "I don't have T & A, but I have I & Q."
And that's more than enough.

Pretend Woman (Video Performance)

Welcome to the Olive Garden
Merlin:(Male) 20
Raven: (Female) 17

Alaric: (Male) 32(Open on a table at a local Olive Garden)  
RAVEN: Sigh...
MERLIN: Yet another sad day in a tortured life.
RAVEN: Totally.

(Alaric sits down at the table.)
ALARIC: This is the monthly Goth Meet-up group, right? I'm Alaric. Nice to meet you.
MERLIN: Merlin.
 RAVEN: Raven.

WAITRESS: Welcome to the Olive Garden! When you're here, you're family. I'm Tammy and I'll be your waitress today. Would you like to start off with our unlimited soup, salad and breadsticks?
MERLIN: These breadsticks may satisfy me now, but I will forever be hungry.
RAVEN: You're so deep.
ALARIC (To Waitress): Is the soup perhaps the Pasta e Fagioli popular with the Neapolitan peasantry?
ALARIC: And this "salad"?
WAITRESS: Romaine, tomato and cucumber with a Caesar dressing.
ALARIC: Hah! Honorius is no Caesar, he is a loony man who plays with chickens.
WAITRESS: The salad doesn't come with chicken, but we have...
ALARIC: I ate him for breakfast.
WAITRESS: Okay, great. That's three all-you-can-eat soup, salad and breadsticks coming up. Anything to drink besides water?
RAVEN : Black coffee.
ALARIC: A large jug of mead, please.
WAITRESS: Uh, we have Merlot.
ALARIC: One fat wineskin then.
WAITRESS : And one glass of Merlot. I'll bring these right out guys.

MERLIN: Life sucks. There's nothing to do in these wretched suburbs. I am a trapped soul.
RAVEN: Yeah, me too.
ALARIC: I am a Visigoth of the Baltic Lowlands, formerly called the Eastern Roman Empire.
MERLIN: We're from Schaumburg.
ALARIC: That sounds like Saxony. You are Ostrogoths then?
RAVEN: Is that like from Ohio?
MERLIN: I'm a Trad or Traditional Goth, Raven's Victorian.
ALARIC: I'm not familiar with those tribes.
RAVEN: Sigh.
So, MERLIN, are you going to Dracula's Dungeon tonight? DJ Cyclonius is spinning EBM-Industrial.
MERLIN: Duh. It's only the release party for Death Whispers new 7". 
RAVEN: Wicked.
ALARIC: Hey, I know Cyclonius! I defeated him at the first siege up near Tiber.
MERLIN: Whatever.
RAVEN: Sigh.

WAITRESS : Here are your soup, salad and breadsticks. Can I interest you in a culinary tour of Italy? We'll travel from the rich, decadent North to the bold and spicy South...
ALARIC: Lies! All I got in Lombardy were 30,000 pieces of gold, 500 slaves and a priceless urn with a broken handle.
MERLIN: I'm a vegetarian. Can I have the spaghetti and meatballs with tofu?
WAITRESS: Uh, I can just give you spaghetti without meatballs?
ALARIC: MeatballS? Balls of cow flesh? I'll take them. With the Italian sausage and the Steak Toscano.
WAITRESS (To Raven) : Great. And what can I get you?
RAVEN: Do you have black spaghetti?
RAVEN: Then it doesn't matter.
WAITRESS: And one spaghetti. Your entrees should be coming right up.
ALARIC: Well, the Romans certainly did a good clean-up job. The watercolors of the Tuscan countryside are a nice touch.
MERLIN: All Olive Gardens all the same.
RAVEN: Sigh.
ALARIC: Oh, I beg to differ. Each part of the Roman world has subtle differences that make it unique. Culinarily and culturally.
MERLIN: Who cares? 
ALARIC: I care. The Romans may be pussy fighters who like to wear dresses and watch parades, but they are damn fine cooks.
MERLIN: Have you ever eaten at the Olive Garden?
ALARIC: Take the Spicy Calabrian Wings, the Piedmont region really does bring out a wealth of flavor in their food. Or Chicken Alle Brace. “Alle Brace” means it was broiled over open flames, like an execution.
ALARIC: A toast! May your black lips brighten and your wives behave.

(Smashes the glass)

WAITRESS: Here are your entrees. Bon appetite, y’all!
ALARIC: Italy, I will devour you like I did in 410.
RAVEN: You ate earlier?
MERLIN: Rolls his eyes
RAVEN: OMG. He's spearing a tomato!
ALARIC: Who needs silverware when you have weaponry? My battle-axe still has an edge.
MERLIN: Screw butterknives.
ALARIC: Bring out the harlots!
MERLIN: You my friend are a true Goth.
RAVEN (to ALARIC): Want to go to Dracula's Dungeon with us tonight?