2:31 a.m. - 2003-11-21
Hell Resume
I just got home and Im ever so slightly, pleasantly, perfectly intoxicated from one beer and a half a Special Brownie. Im also disporportionately proud of myself for still knowing most of the lyrics to "sure shot" by the Beastie Boys.
I had a point when I signed on..... Oh right. I told you a few entries ago I'de fill you in on some of the naughty naughty things I've been up to lately.
If there is a Hell then thats definately where I'm going when I die. Maybe even before I die. One day I'll be standing in front of my professor explaining that my book report isnt finished because I was up all night comforting the poor dying pet dog i dont have, school bag full of stolen goods and illegal drugs, ignoring voicemail from brokenhearted underaged boys and a holes going to open up in the floor and suck me down bodily into the Abyss like a reverse Virgin Mary. Once you accept that youre already going to Hell, very little actually stands in your way.
Audra and I, in the spirit of making the best of things, decided that before we die we should make up "Hell Resumes" chronicling all the bad things we've done, all the people we've corrupted, all the times we went on mad shoplifting sprees and tallied up our take, competing to see who snagged the greater dollar amount. So that when we die and stand before Satan we can show him, say "Hey, look at this list, clearly we deserve some sort of management positon at least. Talent like this shouldnt go to waste."
And so, without further ado....
(in which Sonya flirts with disaster, but disaster just wants to be friends)
Brownies, brownies everywhere, but not a thing to eat. A freind of some freinds happens to grow money on tress. Bushes technically. He sells it to medical distributors on San Fransisco, but before they buy it it must all be neatly trimmed of all stems and leaves. The man's back and hands have gone all arthritic from being bent all day trying to trim it himself so everyonce in awhile Santa Clause comes south with jolly garbage bags full of pounds and pounds and pounds of what we were to call in front of his children "Potpurri." We trimmed for hours until our fingers were stuck together and we were sick of looking at it. In exchange he pays these freinds of mine in both cash and crop. Baked goods being easier to sell covertly, the house now overflows with brownies. Abundence brings them generosity, and who am I to refuse gifts? Free, yummy, intoxicating chocolatey gifts? No one.
The day before Halloween I decided I wanted more sex than I was getting, which was none, and invited a freind over. A different one that this one, and little time was wasted. Many new things were tried and I made noises I have never made before. I will mercifully spare you of details.
For Halloween I decided to be a Sexy Nun (think Mother Superior slapping rambunctious catholic schoolgirls with rulers) and wanted the appropriate "habit" (anyone know why theyre called that?) for my costume. I could'nt decide which of two different ones i liked better so bought the cheaper one and stole the more expensive one. Its not even a real nun's habit, just a cheaply made fake, but somehow it still felt more damning than stealing regular clothes.
If stealing part of my costume didnt damn me then wearing it certainly did. Rose, Bryan, Rich and I decided to go to this LeatherMasters sponsered fetish themed fundraiser. Rose and I were a hit, between her legs and my breasts we were the sexiest bitches there. We looked HOT. There were a few scandalous things going on from time to time, but the music sucked and there was no hard liquer and that'll ruin most parties for me. I was very pleased though with the St. Andrew's cross, mummification, and violetwand demonstrations.
The next day my young supervisor, Erik, and I were discussing what we'de done to celebrate and when he asked I told him the truth. "I went to a fetish party." I dont remember the last time I've seen anyone looked so shocked. But then he laughed, thank god. To this day he still sometimes looks at me quizzically and then shakes his head and laughs and says "I can never look at you the same way again." Apperently he and everyone else at work have been thinking I'm the good one. The nice one. The innocnt one. I get this alot. Partially because I dont really think of the things I do as wrong, and so dont give off that "wrong-doer" vibe, and partially because I just dont look the part. I dont look dangerous or depraived. I dont look like I'm a supermodel by day and international kung-fu spy by night. I dont even wear lots of black or have crazy tattoos and peircings. Anymore. I wear t-shirts and jeans or a work uniform. I look......normal. A lot of "alternative" kids think people who dress boring and blend in are hiding somthing, insecure, afraid of standing out.
A lot of us are hiding somthing. It just isnt what you think.
