Archive for the ‘gangsta crackhead whores’ Category

gangsta scarface chin girl

February 9, 2009

Needless to say I’m a little sensitive about the 2 large, prominent scars on my face and neck from my skin cancer surgery on January 19th.  Fortunately the pain is about 97% gone. My chin itself is still really numb though. I can’t feel anything from my bottom lip to the bottom of my chin. Its weird. I feel like I’m wrapped in duct tape and  Andy Roddick could probably hit tennis balls off my chin and I wouldn’t even feel them.

I did get my stitches out early last week. Under all the bandages, I was like totally convinced Dr. Mohammed would probably be snipping stitches for like 10 to 15 minutes, you know since I could barely open my mouth and have now lost 10 pounds (yay!). But all he did was go “snip…snip…snip“. DONE. Three fucking stitches. I was astounded because I still couldn’t open my mouth and I still felt like a rhinoceros was sitting on my face…but not in a fun way.  Yes, I realize there must be those kind of stitches that dissolve on their own, but still, I had been looking forward to some kind of instant physical relief. 

The doctor then handed me a mirror. I really wasn’t sure what to expect…A huge horror movie gash down my chin and a Zodiac Killer slash across my neck? Yeah, that was about right. Plus there was also this really odd little pea sized bump just under my chin. So I innocently asked and it really was a legitimate question: “Will this little bump ever go away?”

His reply? Well, I should probably go back and re-introduce the guy. I have never mentioned our conversation right before my surgery. Oh, it was a knee-slapper. He had come into my little cubical with his clipboard, all official and stuff. You, of course, always want the doctor to be on your side, especially if they’re about to 1) take cancer out of your body and 2) be cutting your moneymaker  stunningly adorable 50 year old face. So I rather charmingly recounted a conversation I had had with a woman who had gone to him for some plastic surgery and had been very happy with his work.  Without looking up, he said, “I pay people to say things like that” and then went back to writing. 

WTF? Now I realize you’re reading someone’s blog who’s like the biggest smart ass in the universe. But for some reason, whether it was the IV feeding me hyper sensitive feelings glucose or what, but at that particular moment, I felt very…distressed by his tart remark.

God damnit! I KNOW I’M SARCASTIC EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE….but you don’t say that to a patient who’s scared out of their gourd and doesn’t have anyone there to hold their hand.

So anyways, as I was looking at my “Friday the 13th- the Aftermath” face in the hand mirror, I simply asked him if he thought the little lump under my chin would go down in time….a legitimate question if you ask me. I wasn’t being critical. It wasn’t like I started screaming  and running around smashing bottles of Botox in his office or anything. So he slowly turns to me and says, “People pay me to have chins like that.”

Oh.

Anyways, after my appointment, my friend “J” took me out for lunch at a local foo-foo yuppie pastry shop. I was fairly successful at slurping some French Onion soup sideways off a small spoon. But then  I started noticing was how everyone (a.k.a. “The Beautiful People” as my brother used to call the people who frequented this place) were all suddenly staring at me. I’m sure there was a lot of “Who is that hideously scarred girl slurping her soup sideways and why is  she making us look at her whilst we’re typing on our cute little pink iMacs and drink lattes”. Although I’m fairly certain that maybe a few of the older women were probably going, “Gee, I haven’t been to Dr. Mohammed for a while. Maybe I better call his secretary for an appointment”.

Nevertheless, I felt very conspicuous, especially when I was not even aware that droplets of soup were streaming down my numbed chin in rivulets and I looked like Patty Duke in “The Miracle Worker.  I later went with “J” over to Target and while he shopped for clothes, I inexplicably tried on teenaged boy fedoras. “J” said I looked like a Black Irish Gangsta. For some reason that made me feel a little better about my scars. Or at least menacing enough to make a yuppie drop their iPhone and have it smash into a million pieces in the home furnishing department.

Since then, I’ve had two people ask me if I slipped and fell on the ice. And I’ve had three people look at me rather sorrowfully and ask, “Will you be able to get plastic surgery to (cringe) fix that?”

Very….

Very….

Doubtful…..but thanks! :-)

Of course after a two week hiatus from my art class, I was finally able to return to my class this week and I have no idea what Charlemagne announced to the class. Not that I wanted anything announced, but evidently something was said since some people I know looked at me like I had a terminal disease or something . Oy!

It was just good to have some social contact. I’ve been really isolated during this whole thing and isolation=depression for me. And also thinking I look hideous=depression too.  So I’ve been struggling mightily.

And did I mention I met a guy on sMatch.com? Why not add stress to your life when you’re healing from cancer. I didn’t mean for that to come out that way. This last month really proved that I could really use a person in my life. My own person, I mean. Sure I managed to convince three friends to  help get me to appointments and surgeries up at the hospital, but the real proof of how alone I felt became quite apparent as I was lying in the O.R. cubical just before the surgery. I looked around at the other three people in the quad waiting for surgery and they all had people with them. Me?  I was just lying there alone with no one. It was really then that it hit home.

So we’ve been writing since right after the surgery. He knows about the surgery and the scars and says he’s willing to wait. He seems very bright and thoughtful. He does have a sense of humor (essential) and he’s Jewish, which is not essential, but I do like Jewish men. I did think a good first date would have been  to go see that new movie “He’s Just Not That  into You” this weekend. HA! Oh, witty, you’re such a kidder!!  But we haven’t quite got things together to go out yet. So we’ll see. There’s always this coming Thursday when I hit my 51st birthday and then I’ll be even  older and MORE scary looking. Woo hoo!

Thanks again to Stepfie for caring about my love life. And also thanks to Xat for the lovely hand-knitted hat she sent over the weekend. I lost my beloved beret about 3 weeks again and have had a cold head ever since.

artist birthdays aren’t like others

November 24, 2008

What a week. I have somehow managed to avoid ever going to a funeral for  my entire 50 years, until my first one this week. Won’t go into details, except to say, I went to support my friend, but mourned for my Dad since I never got to go to his funeral and all the feelings I have pent up inside for him kind of came flowing out as people remembered a person I barely knew. It really perhaps was like letting out 3 gallons from Hoover Dam, but at least it was something and fortunately I had tissues for the inevidible waterworks.

In other news tonight, my mother called and in a very low serious voice said “witty.” Whenever she does that I always think that she’s found my blog and is about to lay a three hour guilt trip on me. Instead she had just talked to her cousin in Michigan. This cousin still owns a house here in town which belonged to her mother who died almost 20 years ago. But the house still sits just as it was left 20 years ago. Well, except like when it was broken into  4-5 times, since nobody lives there and her daughter has refused to ever let anyone in because she wanted to leave it as an utter and total shrine to her mother. 

Yes, insanity does definitely run in our family.

So anyhoo, I guess my cousin, who thinks she is about to die, has finally decided to un-shrine her mother’s house, and wants someone to  live there. Guess who? Go ahead guess? Yeah, me! I guess my mother was really talking me up, saying how responsible I was (she forgot cute, dammit) and my cousin finally said I could live there for free and I would only have to pay for the utilities. And you would think I would be sitting here saying “Yay! Whoopee! Free rent! Wahoo! I’m rich! I’m rich! A whole house for Guardcat to run around in! Two freakin’ bedrooms! I could have my own art studio! Woo hoo!”

But no. Unfortunately there are some minor problems, like:

  • A large hole in the roof in the main bedroom, alias a giant squirrel condo,  where it is probably snowing on my aunt’s bed as we speak.
  • Ummmm…..bullet holes in the bedroom window. Yeah. Some gangstah got busy this summer and shot out several of the windows on the side of the house. My cousin had someone put large plastic panels over the shot out windows, but still.  Gulp!
  • The neighborhood is the kind of neighborhood where the emphasis is on ‘hood, if you get my drift.
  • There is no water, the house smells like mold and some homeless guy was living there briefly and was pooping in the toilet with no water in it and it literally looks like a giant shit hole, plus…
  • All the porch lights are smashed out, you know, so gangstas can break in without being seen! 

So, I guess you get the general idea. The house is filled with some really decent antiques…what hasn’t been stolen….yet. And in some past years I had considered living there, that is, before the bullets started flying this last summer. I am a total whimp though. I mean I was terrified when some wacko guy with garden shears was staring up at my apartment at midnight, smoking a cigarette. Imagine, what would happen if a guy with a glock showed up on my doorstep?

And yet tonight my mom was still saying….”Oh witty, you should really move there. And then “P” would sign the house over to you and you could sell it and get a better apartment. I even told her how nice you were (huh? Poetic license I guess). And she even said she loved you. (I don’t even know her, but ok).

So that’s that. Don’t worry. I’d rather live in a cramped crappy apartment, than be hiding under a couch during a shoot out.  I’m funny that way.

And in other news, I went to my art friend JS’s 50th birthday last night. He rented the place where we have our art class and…well, we drew and painted him for his birthday! And no, he wasn’t nekkid. I did ask him what his intentions were the Wednesday before. JS has always been extremely kind to me, and I wanted to be prepared for the drawing of any potential naughty bits. (Just kidding JS).

 Initially he was going to wear this oddball hat that looked like a paint can with a disco ball on top of it. You know how artists are.  But we all voted that down, since I think that would have been a little too heavy for JS, who is very slight in build.

Afterwards he very kindly fed all of his blood sucking lazy ass artists friends catered lasagna, salad and a beautiful cake drizzled in caramel. Naturally I got stuck at a table with a rich girl artist who had snarked me a couple of weeks ago. There was also a yuppie couple who were bragging about how handsome their son down in NYC was and how he was a model and then starting naming off big name designers he had worked with. I love when yuppies try to say things with French accents and fail miserably.  You know like: Ralhhhhhhllf Saaayyynt Laurrhhhhhhayyyyyntt.

Of course I did leave the table briefly for a soda and when I came back everyone at the table was trying to outdo each other with that great ol’ party game “competitive nostril flaring”. The guy next to me said he used to pick up women at bars like that.

And then to prove it,  he sort of leaned towards me and did this guppy nostril flare thingie…right there in front of his wife.  I figure it must be because I look so damn fetching in my new Tina Fey glasses.  Yeah, thats it.

So, that’s been my week. I will be taking yet another train trip to see my best friend “G” on the road once again. I’ll be down in Schenectady on Thanksgiving and then Black Friday. Woo hoo! Is there anything to do down there? I guess I could flare my nostrils at unsuspecting passerbys and make them swoon. Although I really don’t want to ruin my nearly perfect “No Dates in 2008″ record. That would be just wrong.

boob squish and cemetaries

April 18, 2008

Who knew that the Pope’s visit to the United States would absolutely set my blog on fire!! I mean all my usual Googles for “ghetto crackhead whores”, “Creamsex” and “Nude woman bending over a car” are now mixed in with a bazillion hits for the “Pope’s Seven Commandments”. Woo hoo! I should really run for President. I mean look at the vast cross section of people I appeal to!!! Pervs and Catholics!! 

Oh wait….I know there an obvious joke in there somewhere.

Anyways, I went for my yearly mammogram yesterday. I had to sorta press for it because it seems that our lovely government just arbitrarily decided I could no longer get a yearly physical like I have for the last 12 years. Oh no. Why would we want to do preventative health care when we could just let people get sick and accrue millions of dollars worth of medical bills.

 I do enjoy my yearly school pictures of “the girls“…not. But since breast cancer runs in the family and killed my grandmother in her early 40’s and even had me under the knife about 10 years ago for a lump, I am vigilant about going every year. So I got to the place at 10 a.m. and what do you think? There was yet another bratty little boy in the small room where you take off your clothes on the top half. The kid was talking a mile a minute and running around near the dressing rooms and knocking magazines off the table. WTF? Why are they bringing little boys in there? And then  suddenly I hear him ask his mother “What’s a MAN-ogram?” I had to laugh to myself a bit. I had just been looking for a birthday card for “A” and saw this one that said: “If women ran the world…” with a nurse leading a quivering guy to a mammogram machine, only a little lower, if you get my drift. I knew it was wildly inappropriate, but I still considered it for about 3 seconds.

Finally mom and ritalinkid disappeared and it was time for my mammogram. Naturally on the paperwork I had indicated that I had been operated on and for some strange reason the nurse wanted to actually see the scar….on my boob. HUH? Nobody has ever asked me that before. Its been 10 frickin’ years. I barely even remembered where it was. Besides the fact that its weird anyways that you have to unsheath your mammory to a total stranger (is it warm in here?) and literally put it into their hand (What sign are you again? A Leo? Oh, I’m an Aquarian) and let them handle it like a piece of chicken they’re marinating (Do you want to meet at Barnes and Nobles for a latte?). I mean, why should I have to get it out to just show it to her?

So I opened my little generic nightie and nervously looked down at my left breast and kind of examined it like Agent Mulder might examine a piece of  glowing alien cranium. Hell, I couldn’t find a 10 year old scar, in a darkened x-ray room, with some woman looking at me.  Eeeesh! So I finally just said, Oh, I think this is it. And then she proceeded to say, “I think I see it” (yeah, right, should we smoke a cigarette now?) and then we finally went onto the squishing of innocent breasts into heavy machinery part. Yay!

Amazingly, she called me within an hour and said the results were “negative” and have a nice day. I guess that’s good. Is it? So I turned to Guardcat and said “She said the results were negative, just like me!!” Sometimes only Guardcat “gets” my humor.

It was art class day that day, and I had to call “L”s answering machine. She had a message with a Cockney accent, so I left a message for Eliza Doolittle. Why? Because I actually had a minor freelance job Wednesday afternoon. I haven’t had any kind of job for over a year, over or under the table, so I jumped at the offer. The job? Put together a newsletter about cemetaries. First thing on the agenda? Meet the person and drive up to the cemetary and take pictures of masoleums.

Did I mention I’ll do almost anything for money?

So we met up where I have my art class a little after 5 p.m. and fortunately it was a beautifully warm and sunny day. And I’m an avid photographer, so I had my little digital camera all set in my purse.  I had never been to this particular cemetary before and little did I know it had something in common with the freakin’ Swiss Alps…as in large steep hills. Oh. my.god.

Now even though I’m a little chubby and suffer from fibro, I’m in pretty good shape from lots of walking. But as we drove around this huge cemetary,  the person would stop their SUV and say “I’d like a picture of that” and it would be this tiny, little speck up on top of a muddy steep hill, I’d say “Oh, no problem”. But I really was afraid that I’d either fall on my ass or twist my ankle or something. And as I was traversing this one particularly big hill, I even momentarily felt like I was doing a “Biggest Loser” competition. Run up the steep muddy hill. Grunt. Make lots of faces. Cry a lot. Burn 3000 calories. Get yelled at by the skinny chick. Win a million dollars. But no, I was just taking pictures of dead people places.  Whee!

They did hand me a twenty dollar bill when they brought me back to my car 45 minutes later. I guess I’ll be doing the graphics part this weekend.

I was totally exhausted for my art class with lots of sharp pain in my calves, but I really wanted to go because one of our usual artist guys was going to be posing nekkid and being the red blooded female that I am, I wanted to check out the goods. This guy is very full of himself and the one time he deemed me good enough to talk to, we realized that we both knew Married Guy’s wifie. Afterwards he said he had fruit flies flying around his head during the one hour pose. I guess when you’re totally awesome, stuff like that happens.

My aura is grunge

February 24, 2008

The week before my birthday was awesome. I was wrapped in the warmth and love of my friends. The weeks since…total darkness. I always get this mid-February depression thing. I’ve been in my apartment almost the whole week. Except when I went to the Food Stamp office midweek and witnessed some woman bitch-slapping her little kid with a fist. Nice, huh? No body did anything of course. We were all too busy listening to some other woman freaking out in the stairwell screaming “Motherfucker — red…motherfucker – blue….motherfucker-orange” . Not sure what she was getting at. “Sesame Street – The Ghetto Edition — Learn Your Colors Motherfucker”?

And then the guy behind me started bitching that some women up at the counter had cut ahead of him. He was yelling in my ear. He then started yelling at me to “DO SOMETHING“. Like me, the only white woman in the middle of 400 “culturally diverse people” could step in. Dude, I forgot my hand gun!  What makes you think I could possibly get off a few warning shots into the ceiling, before getting my ass kicked?

I did go my Wednesday night art class. My oasis. The place where they talk to me like I’m normal (i.e., not bipolar or poor) and I was able to toss off a decent drawing of one of my favorite models.

blackgirlfeb.jpg

Thursday and Friday…more couch time in my apartment  in my pajamas. No human contact except phone calls from my mother talking about her grave site and imminent death.

I finally decided I had had enough. I had been watching these commercials on TV for a “Psychic Fair” at the local Holiday Inn Hotel, so  I decided to just go, dammit. Sure, its flaky, but hey, I grew up 15 miles north of Haight and Ashbury in the 60’s and 70’s. I used to do astrology charts. I believe the moon and nature have magical powers. Why not?

And also I’m always looking for answers. Why do you think I’ve been in therapy so long? I’m not there for therapy. I’m there for answers! I also unfortunately bug the heck out of my friends for answers, like why do you think this person did that? Etc. I guess it comes from growing up with a mother who only talked about herself and never did anything to help me be a complete person.

So I headed over to the Holiday Inn, sort of with kind a half sneer (ha, what a bunch of loonies) and a half glimmer of hope. The old guy taking the money at the front counter was pretty weird. Bolo tie (oh witty, you know you used to wear them in the 70’s!) and humming WHILE he was talking. Was he getting some vibe off me? 

….you will strip naked at the yuppie grocery store and jump up on the natural food display and sing “Yanni, How I love Ya, how I love Ya, My Dear ol’ Yanni!”

But no message was forthcoming. He just stamped a small face of an space alien on my hand and I went it. It was jammed… with mostly women. I really had no idea how or where to start. I knew I wanted to get a reading though. I had gotten over $100 for my birthday and had been really strict with myself. No gifties!! Must.pay.bills!! But I had decided that I was going to “let” myself do this. Sure Food Stamps had just completely cut off my food stamps this last week and its still up in the air whether I’ll get them, but dammit I wanted some answers. My life is really stagnant right now. I need to know what to do.

So I started to walk around and look at the various psychics and clairvoyants (“Jennifer: You have Uranus in your twelfth house” Why did that make me laugh like a 10 year old boy?) and reiki people and people dangling crystals over feet and my personal favorite the “Aura Photo – $20!” booth. My camera does that too. The swooshy, flare thing off the edge of the image? Its usually means your camera batteries are low, people! 

Anyways, I was shocked at how expensive the readings were. $35-40 for 15 minutes. $70 for 30 minutes. Gulp! I sure wasn’t expecting it to be that much! I only had about $28 in my pocket…the last of my birthday money. I finally found an inner circle of (ahem) cut-rate psychics for only $25. One guy just looked plain scary, like a serial killer. Another one looked like my mother. No thanks. I finally got it down to a hippie chick and an African American woman. I took the African American woman. She had a raven sitting on her table. I liked ravens. And her name was “Ravin”.  And I also kept thinking of Whoopi Goldberg in “Ghost” since she was sort of dressed like her in crushed purple velvet and lots of jewelry. So I set my appointment with Ravin…my Intuitive Consultant.

We finally met 25 minutes later. Most of the psychic ladies were holding hands with their people. Not Ravin. She just had me write my name on a piece of paper. She also had a pad of paper for me  to write down her impending thoughts on. I wasn’t sure how to act or interact with her. Didn’t want to give her any info for her to work off of.

Guess what the first words out of her mouth were? “Guarded and has to be in control of every situation.” And oh dear, she did go on and on about that and me liking to be in control of everyone and everything. Can you imagine? Me?

And you better leave some comments, bitches. 

 (cough)

And then her eyes rolled back in her head once again. (She was talking to her guides). And she said there was a lot of black energy around me and that my aura was very smudgy and that it was a grunge aura (I’m definitely copyrighting that name for  like a band) and that I needed to breathe because it was taking all my air and I haven’t been able to function very well recently.

Hallelujah to that, baby!

She finally exited the Grunge Aura room and said that I would soon be the Executor of Knowledge. She kind of chuckled. She liked that title. “Executor of Knowledge”. Had a nice ring to it. All I could think was Executor of a will, considering how my mother’s been lately, but Ravin, in fact, said she saw that I would be teaching children and adults. She didn’t say what though.

Next up, out of no where. “You’re a writer, right?” WTF?? Now that was weird. Maybe it was because I’m Irish and look all depressed and angsty. She did tell me I’d be writing a book sometime soon. I rather think if I’m teaching anyone anything, it might be via a book, since I can’t see myself standing up in front of people pontificating, although I did want to be a music teacher when I was a kid.

She finally finished up by saying I really have to do something about taking care of myself first …AND STOP TRYING TO CONTROL EVERYBODY. All right already. And maybe create a “ME-room” with a lot of plants and music and sounds of gurgling brooks. She also said I needed validation. I started to cry at that point. Validation is a huge thing for me. Never got much growing up, which made me needy as an adult. And needy= No love life or a fucked up one.  Working on that one. thanks.

Anyways, she finally asked if I had any questions. I was a little surprised that the subject of love didn’t come up. Isn’t that what most woman want to know about? She said nothing will happen until I get rid of my grunge aura and dark energy and then the men will “rush towards my light in droves”. Oh my goodness, I guess I better get those traffic signals working then! 

meet my boyfriend google

November 12, 2007
  • eros creamsex
  • weird people show
  • 66 triple m boobs
  • penis cakes in Newfoundland
  • phone numbers of whores
  • Michigan whores
  • gangsta whores
  • cop blow jobs
  • coworkers naked
  • I took off my clothes at Walmart
  • crackhead whores
  • penis cake template
  • crackhead whore phone numbers

Yup, just another day at wittykitty’s Google list.  That’s basically all I get. Penis, crackhead whores and creamsex. I mean it kinda sounds like I’m running a sex toys company doesn’t it?  If only I were having so much fun. Because the only penis I get is at my art class and the only cream has sugar and cholesterol. So Whee! What an exciting life. Sign me up for my own Reality Show.

“Blog Island”: A woman petrified of participating in real life sits at her computer 27 hours a day and reads about how others are living their lives and wonders what it would be like if she had a real relationship and not pretend ones, like the ones she exaggerates so people on the Internet won’t think she’s a total loser.  And then for the season finale she votes herself off the island (i.e., “The computer”) and is forced to walk out to the kitchen and feed the cat. It’ll be a ratings BLOCKBUSTERA RATINGS BLOCKBUSTER, I tell you!!

Okay, I might have to be naked for that part. You can turn away if you want. Funny people generally aren’t that attractive naked. You think I kid? Okay, lets go down the list.

  • Phyllis Diller
  • Roseanne Barr
  • Drew Carey
  • Jimmy Durante
  • Jamie Farr
  • Rosie O’Donnell
  • Jim Belushi

See what I mean? Okay maybe Jon Stewart, but that’s it!

Why do I talk about all this nudity and penis stuff all the time? Well, first of all, probably because I’m not getting any. And secondly…my mother. I get it from my Mother.  My mother who will gladly share her favorite joke about the guy with the 18″ penis with anyone who will listen. Granted she’s almost 80. My mother, who this morning at breakfast was talking about Hugh Hefner’s reality show and about all his bimbos and how they look. And how big their boobs are. And how Hef switches off with different girls on different nights. And how one girl even flashes the gardener by pulling up her top with my mom attempting to demonstrate. All over our egg McMuffins.

I actually feel like sort of a nerd. What do I talk about? Oh, my cat barfing. Ummm? My back hurts. My neighbor’s toilet keeps running every 5 minutes, so that’s like 240 times a day and its driving me insane and even though I’ve already talked to her about it and mentioned, like ow, it also scalds me at least twice during an average shower and is slowly burning away the flesh on my naughty bits, she doesn’t seem to care and looks at me like I’m talking Swahili, so I may have to just go over there and take a nearby end table and smash the hell out of her toilet  and then the landlord will HAVE to come fix it.

Oh goodie…another Google…toilet. Now everyone who wants to know about toilets will come visit my blog. SCORE!!!

Anyways, I did have one noteworthy thing happen to today. After the breakfast my mother, I took a quick trip to the gym to burn off that square of lard (i.e., better known as McDonald’s hash browns). I had also taken a dip in the whirlpool. It felt good, but I felt very lackadaisical. 

There was a very famous Broadway hoofer in town today and I really wanted to go see him, but….but….I just couldn’t quite see spending the $20 for the ticket. Damn. So afterwards I was just sitting in my car doing nothing. Okay, correction: I was just sitting in my car feeling terribly terribly sorry for myself. No Broadway hoofer for witty. Wah! I finally decided to just go fill up my car. After that, more lackadaisical wandering around a local shopping area. La, la, la. Man, there’s a lot of single guys walking around Bed and Bath. Who knew?

Anyways, so I get back to my car. Did I notice anything unusual? Oh, you mean besides the $25 worth of gas I just bought absolutely flooding out of my gas tank onto the parking lot ground?

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’ve had holes in my gas tank before….just not so dramatic. So I got in, said, “Oh well, my life isn’t that exciting anyways.” and started the car and fortunately didn’t blow up. I immediately called my mom when I got home since she just had her gas tank replaced. And since we’re both really poor we have to talk to guys who know guys named Vinnie who will meet you on a dark corner who will fix your car for under $100 if its not too bad. Although in this case the guy is named Cookie and he’s a friend of Gay Elvis who is Eye-Talian and there’s already been a lot of secretive phone tag going on. Cookie weighs 350 pounds and lives with his mother.  He’s already asked my mother for $20 for “his services”.

Cookie “da Car Guy” Diamondetti.

(sigh)  

Call Lourdes….we have a miracle!!

October 4, 2007

WTF? Now why would awittykitty ever have $100 in her hands?

http://awittykitty.wordpress.com/?attachment_id=76

  1. She just knocked over a bank and has stupidly stopped for a moment to take a photo, since she is so unfamiliar with such vast sums of money.
  2. Remember when her friend from California thought New York was full of crackhead gangsta ‘ho’s?  Well witty finally realized how much money she could make with her natural gansta style and charm.
  3. Pass Go, and collect $100. Hey! Guess what? The pretend version of Poor People’s Monopoly you play in your car…Actually works!!
  4. She just collected 1.5 gabillion aluminum cans and brought them back for a nickle a piece.
  5. awittykitty sold a painting(!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Breathe, witty, breathe!! You did tell them of your no-return policy, right? Right??? 

Yes, I sold a painting this week. Its the law. One a year.  No more. No less.

My old boss from my last job had sent me an e-mail last Friday telling me that someone was interested in buying one of my paintings, that was hanging at a mental health center downtown. Why was it hanging there? I don’t really know. After my summer art show downtown, it was just randomly transferred to this place. I had gone there twice to go get it, but both times the place had been closed, which must have been karma. Why? So that the nice young woman who eventually bought it, got to see it, of course.

But did I call her once I got her phone number? Hell no. I was too scared. I would just look at her phone number  on my counter repeatedly and say like “Hi, I know you’re there!” And “Okay, you can stop looking at me now.” Why? Because of my infernal lowselfesteemcrazybrain syndrome which was setting up this whole complicated scenario. I was thinking…oh she saw my painting and thought…oh some mentally ill person probably did that so I can probably get it for only $10. And I totally can’t wait to get it for such a great deal because the person who painted it (whispers) …won’t even know the difference. (evil laughter).

Hey, I didn’t say it made any sense. Its just how my brain works. Why do you think I’ve been in therapy 80% of my life? Plus I thought…as long as I don’t call her, I will still be an artist who has somebody who wants to buy their painting. Yeah, I know, pretty lame, huh? But, it did keep me all warm and cuddly over the weekend, especially after I eventually hid the woman’s phone number in my kitchen drawer Sunday night, because looking at it made it all too real. 

On Monday I went down to the social service place I’m no longer a part of. I am allowed to attend their support groups and even though I am suffering from a really bad cold, I went to my old Empowerment group with my old homie “J”.

I told the group about my extremely ridiculous low self esteem thingie and even THEY were perplexed by it. Like WTF? Huh? I  really think I just needed Cher’s character from “Moonstruck” to whack me across the face and say, “Snap out of it!”

 So after the group, I asked “J” if he would help me find the person who was buying the painting, since *SURPRISE* they worked there!! I was nervous, but I figured if “J” was there, at least the letdown wouldn’t be so bad. 

Anyways, so after asking around a little, we finally located the young woman who wanted to buy my child painting and I told her who I was and she smiled and said she really liked my work. And then almost immediately she said the price aloud. One hundred dollars. My heart leapt. She DID know the price and was okay with it. Oh my god, can you imagine?

I did have to work really hard not to let the gremlins out, however. The “Oh, that’s all right. Its only $40.” or “Wait. I’ll come clean your car and house for that price.” No, damn it, I actually let it be.  They were getting a wittykitty original after all. A print I had always wanted to put on tee-shirts.  A painting, I was soon realizing, I hadn’t really wanted to sell because I had become emotionally attached to.  When I told “L” the Hippy Chick that last night she said the reason I felt that way was because it was good. Me: “Oh.”

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So we had to figure out a few things, like how to get the painting. We called the crazy-crazy place to see if they were open and they were,  so she decided that we should just go over and get it.

It was a quick, painless transaction.  She told me she was buying it for her fiance for Christmas because they had a white cat and her boyfriend “liked kitties like a girl”. Heh! The people over at the Center were sad to see it go too. They asked me what it was called and I said “The Scream”, but they  all thought it should be “The Meow” or “The Hiss”. And then she handed me the check. I was still in a state of total denial at that point, for some reason. Will it really say $100? Or is this like some elaborate “Punk’d” episode to make witty pay for all the mean things she has said in her blog over the years? 

But it was real. And before we walked out, she asked if I had signed the painting. I said no. My mom is always bitching at me about that. I don’t sign my work. The  woman said she wanted me to sign it in case I got famous.

Oh, you kidder you!

So I signed the back of the painting and wrote something far more important next to my signature:

SOLD October 1st, 2007

clearing out the gangstas before my friend comes

July 31, 2007

Well, I am now less then 24 hours away from when my friend “S” from California is supposed to arrive but there is a slight problem.

I have no idea when she’s supposed to arrive.  Morning. Noon. Night. I dunno. I also don’t know how she is supposed to arrive.  Let me explain. She evidently was going to go to some reunion in Michigan on the 29th with her goofball husband Bob and then they were going to rent a car and drive to see her daughter in New Hampshire. Now since I’m on the way, she was going to stop and visit, but I have no idea if goofball Bob was going to be with her (Gawd, I hope not. I’ve never liked him in the 25 years I’ve known her. Ever) or not. 

Plus my apartment is about the size of a McDonald’s restroom, as in everytime the phone rings out in the kitchen, me and Guardcat have to jump over the top of each other, because she thinks she’s Pavlov’s Dog and gets to eat Fancy Feast everytime the phone rings.

And if the answer seems obvious, like of course witty, if they’re driving together, he’s going to be there. Well, she made it sound like he had some kind of alternative mode of transportation and was going to go on without her and she would rent a car. But now I’m not totally sure. Plus I have no idea how long she is going to stay. Argh!

So what did we talk about when we chatted on the phone? Oh lots of stuff. Life. The whole Bob wouldn’t let her come to New York because its so dangerous thingie. Her laughing about it. Me laughing about it. But dang, I like totally forgot to ask about any specific details about her time of arrival. And then we even talked about cell phones. She was shocked I didn’t have one. And that was certainly my cue to, well, I don’t know, maybe get her cell phone number so I could call her tonight and ask her how she liked Niagara Falls today, and did Bob fall off the Maid of the Mist boat and get sucked into some horrible watery vortex and ended up in Newfoundland (hope, hope). But no, I was too busy getting all indignant about someone calling my hometown dangerous and unsafe.

But who knows, maybe Bob is right. Maybe I am just hardened by life on the streets of the Village.  Accustomed to the sounds of ducks quacking out in the creek  gunfire from nearby driveby shootings. I mean look at the ‘hood where I live… 

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 I mean wouldn’t you be scared to walk by one of the scariest crack houses on the East Coast? I know I am, or at least I used to be. I mean I’d walk by and see Big Ralphie “the Hand” Lauren looking out of the curtains with those dead eyes of his. I mean I wasn’t fooled by those khaki pants, Polo shirt and SUV out in the driveway with that  “Stop Global Warming, Hug a Republican” bumpersticker. I knew he was a killah. I just knew it.

I also knew he was the guy the two cops in our police department (we only have two) talked about when they parked out behind my apartment building in their police cruisers. They were chatting about the newest flavored lattes down at Starbucks discussing the recent decline in the neighborhood and the recent upswing of violent crimes and also probably wondering who in the hell took chalk and drew a giant penis and balls in the middle of the street at Chapel and Clinton. Although there is really no surprise that there are balls on Clinton. This is New York after all.

I do have to admit my life has been touched by crime recently. I’ve actually been too distraught to talk about it. It happened about a month ago when I was doing my laundry in the next Village over, which is actually even far worse than here. I went for a walk during the spin cycle and was minding my own business when suddenly I was viciously and I might add, brutally attacked. And it was totally unprovoked. One minute I was walking along a path in relative safety and then  the next…

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Like freakin’ ow!  But I chose not to contact the authorities, since, well, you know, people don’t always believe bipolars. They think we make things up and live in a fantasy world and want to steal creamers from restaurants and shit, but we really aren’t that bad. And if you had to live where I live…scary and unsafe New York, you might understand.

So maybe its best that I didn’t tell “S” the whole truth about what she’s getting herself into if she stops to see me tomorrow.  We all pretty much pack heat here in the Village.  Or it might be those little MP3 thingies….I’m not really sure. Fortunately though, I’m already scary enough with the Village Crack Whore Gangsta look I’ve been procurring the last couple of years….although it may just be  called “middle aged woman with menopause” but boy is it ever scary. Even real crackhead whores are afraid of you when you come walking down the street with your Fuju digital camera taking pictures of flowers….let.me.tell.you!!!

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See what I mean???

I just hope I don’t scare my friend when she comes to visit tomorrow. I’d never forgive myself.


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