yey I win

scott writes book, Officer Butt Baby still thinks he sucks cock

My friend Scott is in the process of completing his second novel, his first “Riding in Penis Shaped Floats with Boys” was a stellar success. He asked that I take on the daunting task of choosing the cover. His next book is sort of a how to manual for men in the midst those hazy life changing years between the ages of 28 and 30 where you are not sure if you still have “it”. And by “it” I mean a normally functioning penis and ¾ of your hair.

everybody loves me

home is where the chambered muscular organ in vertebrates that pumps blood received from the veins into the arteries is.

For most, going home is a brilliant way to feel safe and loved again. Home can be a sanctuary, a haven for lost souls and wandering thoughts, a fresh of breath air.

In my case it is also a really good way to make you happy you’re not a redneck.

In an effort to stay away from if not violently maim and torture Jeff Foxworthy and his pathetic excuse for a career, I will not reference redneck tendencies in a negative connotation as we all know and have certainly grown to love them.

In my continuing and self effacing advance towards normalcy I took a recent break from bars and parties to make a visit to the lands of whence I was born and reared. Good ole sunny Virgin-I-AY. I ate some home made beef jerky, rode on some motorcycles, went up in a cherry picker, threw bachi balls at cats and drank beers on the porch with my brothers.

Yee-haw I miss it sometimes. Especially when I’m sitting on a patio in a NYC restaurant having just paid $9 for a beer freezing cold in my attempt to be outdoors in the spring, hating the horns honking in my face, wishing I had remembered my metro card, worrying how I need to save enough cash for a cab so I wont have to go to the deli ATM where the Mexican sandwich maker looks at me like he’s going to kidnap and lock me in a hollowed hole in his basement, still waiting for the waitress to hurry up with my artichoke hummus. Damn.

Having said that, if I were to return home permanently I would be either constantly and dangerously annoyed by the stupids or likely take to throwing myself under pickup trucks when things like this happen, http://officerbuttbaby.blogspot.com/2005/01/tracy-goes-to-west-virginia-has.html. Although this did not take place in my home town, it is safe to say it could very well have as the aforementioned towns are similar in residential make up in regards to physical proclivity and mental fortitude.

heeeeeyyyy Tracy! what in the heeel are you doin home?

In conclusion, I believe that the reasons I like home are significantly proportionate to and do not negate the reasons I like NYC.

While they differ in every possible way this does not discontinue my wish to mash these places and feelings all together into a big ball of great shopping/ bars that stay open until 5am/ being able to see 12 different races in one city block/ eating the best pizza ever/ having beer cigarettes and liquor delivered to your door at any hour/ meeting possibly hundreds of new people in a months time and guys with mullets that have mullets because they are old rednecks and do not even realize mullets are actually back in style in most large cities/ driving on the country roads listening to loud music/people who say yall 4 times each sentence/ rolling down a grassy hill in the park and not worrying about the pile of drunk bums peeing on each other at the bottom/ trucks with tires bigger than the width of the truck itself/ kids with guns.

Well I guess kids with guns are synonymous.

Bye yall.

i am a crying ball of mush

I wish I had a fast forward button or a heart made of barbed wire and killer ants.

I cried this morning when the little old black lady I buy a banana from every morning asked me why I looked so sad. I also drank 6 beers last night getting advice from the alcoholic that no one talks to in the bar I live above. The little bit of what I understood through his slurred ramblings was "burn all your bridgeths" and don't ever pass out with a cigarette in your mouth waking up to hair on fire.

I have cried in front of exactly 3 people my entire life sustaining my need to remain somewhere between an emotionally strong woman and a happy kitty cat lover. I have added 16 to that list in the past 2 days.

At the risk of blatantly copying my friend Dusty's (http://porktornado.diaryland.com/riley.html) brilliant idea to make up words that have not yet been created due to a situation becoming utterly incomprehensible, I have taken it upon myself to invent my own word for my current state of having my ginourmous heart ripped completely from my voluptuous bosom and plowed over by a monster truck full of klu klux klan members and proffessional baby eaters. And that word is..

Fuckinsuckashitihatebreakingupalottus

I am still in the middle of the shit filled tunnel with only a broken flashlight at the end. I know soon there will be a bright light at the end; either that or I will be violently run over by a speeding train full of angry lions and napalm. I am slightly better than just a short while ago though, if you call better walking down the street like a catatonic zombie who just lost her best friend and puppy in a cancer related car accident.

A friend told me once that nothing worthwhile is ever easy. That being most exactly true, I still feel the incredible urge to throw myself into work/ friends/ parties and whatever else I can find to keep myself busy right now.

So in an attempt to find a therapeutic manner in which to healthily convey my thoughts and not stab myself in the eye with my letter opener I am writing this entry to sooth my soul. I will take great comfort in the fact that myself, my mom, and my roommate will be among the 5 people to ever read it.

I love you guys, I'm gonna go cry to the guy in the copy center now.