I'm going to write something soon, she said, running in the opposite direction

WHAT

Some horrifying things to consider:

The text reads: Who'll deliver a hot dog and fries to me?

Ahem. That guy.

The Stench of Hope

Last night went pretty well, it turns out! Despite this unfortunate outfit:

Me and another victim of the Purple Death wear fake, cracking smiles.

We all got a huge, be-musicked chocolate cake donated to us which I had the honor of slicing. I also had the honor of getting slightly sloshed at the Kinsale with my bosom pals Dana, Allison, Matt and Katie. Boy do those vegans know how to party.

In other news, today I got the affirmation I've been waiting for all my life. Kids suck, and here's why. I was working on the third floor (where all the sparkly pink stuff is), and a child of maybe three or four started screaming uncontrollably, swinging from her mother's arm like a lame chimp. She grabbed a display of silly magnets (inscribed with phrases like "LOL" and "QT") and threw it to the floor, covering it with her body. I tried to take it from her and got an earful, let me tell you. The mom said, "I'll get it from her," and I was perfectly happy to leave them to it. Five minutes later, they come up to the register, the child's still screaming, and the mother puts the display in front of me and starts taking off all the magnets. "Uhh, that's a display," I said without conviction. "I know," she said. "I'm taking all of these. Well, at least twelve." So she buys a pink magnetic board and $16.21 worth of those stupid magnets and reconstructs the display for this child who is still screaming, crying for a reason no one, not even she herself, can comprehend. How much useless crap do people have to buy to placate bratty, noisy kids? Where does the travesty end? In bankruptcy, I'll bet.

Speaking of travesty, has anyone read this story? Looks like I'm going to smell like salmon for days and days now.

Learning about ourselves

Good movies always encourage you reflect about your own life and experiences - they provide a certain "What would Jesus do?" moment, except usually without the Jesus. This is especially true of the most recent movie I saw in theaters, "The Last Exorcism" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Exorcism), whose reviews could have been much worse, let's be honest.

So if I were Nell, the "possessed" (read: repressed) waxen girl in TLE, it's pretty clear what steps I would take to, you know, deal with that shit.

First of all, this girl's wardrobe is made up entirely of lacy nightgowns, and what exorcism movie have you seen where the chick isn't wearing one of those? Demons find white nightgowns ironic. Also, if you're a demon, you know that only ghosts are allowed to wear nightgowns in the underworld, and ghosts are probably the most un-hip evil things there are. So you might as well take advantage of the opportunity on Earth (that's what Jesus did).

If you're going to be possessed, at least do it up right. One: get a fucking awesome voice, not your own voice just lowered a little bit. I mean, you just sound like a stern parent that way, talking about the evils of "blowing jobs" and outdoor sex. Two: don't go half-way lesbian. Three: If you can climb walls and do all sorts of Cirque du Soleil contortions, DO A DANCE!!!! Nell even did a split at one point, and I think everyone was more confused than terrified.

If someone tries to impregnate you with a demon baby, it's okay to cut the nice, girl-next-door spiel. There are tons of firearms around, if you know what I mean. Make Louisiana proud.

But, as we all know, hindsight is 20/20. Of course I can advise these things now while sitting in a mosquito-less, airconditioned theater. Decisions are hard when you're choking in the muggy Bayou air. I can only hope that my resolutions will persuade future demon victims to make the most of their - well, what would you call that? A demon exchange program? Anyway, I hope they forgo the nightgowns.

In unrelated news, I saw a group of tourists asking a man in full clown makeup directions to the Harvard Bridge at 10:30 a.m. the other day. Does it not occur to anyone else that asking A CLOWN for directions is asking to get lost? It's a clown's responsibility to dick people around, on or off the clock. And this was no amateur clown, either. His red nose was perfectly sculpted to his face, and his hat was pinned delicately to gentle auburn tresses. His polka-dotted suit looked worn but not old. That kind of guy takes clowning seriously, and when someone takes clowning seriously there's no hope for the rest of us. It would save time if you just slipped on your own banana peel. So yeah, that's another revision those douchebags might make in hindsight.

Of course, this post could have very well been called "pot calls the kettle black," if any of you are acquainted with my personal history. But these recent events have issued a new beginning in awareness. If I ever catch myself bashing a cat over the head with a camera or talking to a clown as if he were a normal person, I'll know to stop, drop and roll (so to speak). And that's life, isn't it?

My roommate's back, and there's gonna be trouble (hey now, hey now...)

Katie has returned from her seemingly endless Haitian vacation (p.s., it wasn't a vacation, I just like how those two words rhyme). Apparently she acquired some new bacteria friends, as well as an appreciation for donated Halloween costumes. In witnessing a man wear a cow-replete-with-udders outfit while he ferries people from a passenger boat, you are appreciating the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the human spirit. I only wish things like that happened more often. HINT: costume party on the Common, plz.

Instead of souvenirs, Katie brought back a tremendous heatwave that saw me flipping my hair up and down in an effort to fan my brain. I am currently encased in a thin, ever-growing layer of sweat that I don't know what to do with. Though Mab could use a bath...

Charles has also returned to Boston, but only for a few weeks. During those few weeks I expect to be introduced to at least five more local bars I've never heard of and make the trek out to Roslindale for free stuff. Tonight I got two cardigans, a neon "Philadelphia" bag, and cut-off shorts that Charles "made herself" by dissecting a pair of Eddie Bauer jeans. Gotta love hand-me-downs!

What's with the hyphen-use in this post, btw?

In less than two weeks I will be performing in a Calliope concert at Old West Church in Boston. I am convincing people to go by means of showing them the ensemble I have to wear, which closely resembles the below image in terms of mood and neckline:

I don't think you're ready for this jelly. Or the forty-five minutes of nonstop German we're about to serve up in here.

Any takers? Or is ya'll scccred? (I might be a little scared as well, but I'm going for it!)