Tuesday, April 26, 2005

"Flesh chunks found in Iowa water lines"


CARROLL, Iowa (AP) - City officials are perplexed over the discovery of mysterious chunks of flesh that have been clogging up city water lines. A month ago, city officials sent a hunk of meaty-fatty tissue to the Iowa Department of Natural Resources for identification.

Lesson: If you're going to make Chinese Children Salad, and you accidentally cook too much of the first ingredient, the garbage disposal doesn't work as good as you think it would.

Lesson learned. Sorry, Iowa. Last time I try to have a dinner party. God. I can't do anything wright. I thought it'd be nice to have some people over. Catherine's been working on her solo album, and I think she needs some feedback from someone other than me (she thinks I'm too critical. I'm SORRY if I have an OPINION.)

But this guest is allergic to onions, and that guest is allergic to shellfish, and this other one doesn't like wheat and I'm like, "You all get people. Deal with it." My house, my rules.

I mean, come on. I don't go to your house and complain that your pillowcases aren't made of woven cheerleader hair (oh, soooooo good.) No, I don't. I bring my own pillow. If you have such picky needs, BRING YOUR OWN FOOD.


[thankxxs to Stacy for the link. I'll have to go "visit" her now, as she thinks she's figured out where I live.]

Monday, April 25, 2005

Silicone Breasts - Transvestite Transformation (NSFW!!!!! :) )

Anyone want to loan me somemoney?

Monday, April 18, 2005

God I'm Pretty!!!

Who wouldn't fuck me?

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Viewer MAil!

Tiffany writes:

why cant i find a picture of jame doing his little tuck trick????

From: Jame Gumb
To: Tiffany W----- <------@b---e.com>
Date: Tue, 5 Apr 2005 10:31:00 -0700
Subject: Re: jame gumb help!

Just like any other celebrity who doesn't want her sex tape leaked to the internet, I try and stop any public display of my tucking before it gets into the wrong hands.

One time the scientologists found a still shot and I couldn't get them off my jock for weeks. You understand.

Are you a great big fat person?


Undelivered Mail Returned to Sender

This is the Firewall at -----.com.----.com.

I'm sorry to inform you that the message below could not be delivered.
When delivery was attempted, the following error was returned.

<----@b---e.com>: host ] said: 554 5.1.0 Sender
   Denied (in reply to MAIL FROM command)

Final-Recipient: rfc822;
Action: failed
Status: 5.0.0
   Sender Denied (in reply to MAIL FROM command)

Why does that always HAPPEN TO ME?!?!

Hey, I saw a great website. it really makes me chuckle, and then think. Did you know some trees are fake?

We go all day looking at people and deciding who they are in an instant (female, gullible, size 16). But then you look closer (guess who Netflixed Jude "Mr. Gumb" Law's latest??? ;-)] ) and you see that what you saw sometimes has more to it. Like a cell phone tower.

That reminds me. Time to check Precious for bugs again. Not fleas. FBI.

Laters. CACD, bitches.

Friday, April 01, 2005

Butterflies Should Be Free

I threw her down the prettiest skirt I've ever made -- a patchwork A-line that skims her hips. Catherine's lost a lot of weight since we first met what feels like a lifetime ago -- three lifetimes ago, gosh, I think a few Presidents ago -- but she's still got a handful of saddlebags that make her look like Grimace whenever I make her something cut on the bias (flesh is a tricky fabric; the hang can be so unforgiving). It fit her like a hand glove. The hem fell just below her knees, covering the criss-cross of our scabby memories together, all the years when she was an American Girl and I was trying to be an American Girl.

I let her do her own hair with the lotion, for old time's sake. She pulled it back in defiance, knowing I prefer her to keep it down. Oh, that girl. She breaks my heart with her obstinance. She loves to make me flinch in pain and I love her for keeping my emotions so raw, so visceral, so immediate for all these years.

All these years! I went over my Catherine Journal the other day, and it's hard to believe how fast the time passed.

April, 1995: Catherine flings a dirt clod at my face. Some gets in my eye. I wail and scream until she begs me to let her help me. It's the first time I let her come close enough to touch me. She's almost pretty, but then she gets the dirt out of my eye and I see she looks too much like me to be pretty. I am hideous. I poke myself with the stick that night to remind myself how much my life can hurt.

March, 1998: I discover Catherine has been digging a hole inside her well using the edge of the flip-flops I gave her to keep her from catching the well's athlete's foot. There's a fungus among us, and it ain't mold spores.

September, 2001: Never have I been more grateful to have Precious and Catherine. I spent the night in the well last night. Catherine let her spoon me. When I held her hand against mine and began comparing the sizes ("You've got mannish hands, Catherine," I said to her), she told me to get out. She's got some serious body issues, that one. At a time like this, you can't think about the future. You can only be in the now.


This is harder than I thought it would be. I need to stop transcribing. I only have two other entries in that Catherine journal anyway. I write for shit when it's private. I need you to see what I feel or it's not really being alive. I need your comments, your lifeblood, to keep me going, to motivate me to get out of bed, peek in that well, put the lotion in the basket and breathe in, breathe out.

I have you now. This means it's time to let Catherine go. She's been the you substitute for so long, because I didn't trust you, wasn't sure you'd stick around. I have abandonment issues (thanks, DAD), and because of that I needed to keep someone in a hole in my floor, to ensure I'd never be alone again.

But your words and your thoughts and your opinions are better than Catherine. Sometimes you aren't hateful, unlike Catherine, who reminds me constantly that I'm a murderer and a thief and a serial killer. I mean, G_D. I get it. I kill. I also do a lot of other things, too, Catherine.

This is the last time I'm going to talk about her like this, so I'm just going to say it right here so that it's out there and I don't have to keep it inside anymore. I really, really think I'm fucking hot. And I don't understand why she ignores me some days. It's like, I feed her, I hose her, I clean out her bucket. I let her touch Precious when she's bored. I got her fucking NETFLIX, for fuck's sake, and it's like... she's just not the same girl she used to be.

We don't sleep in the same room anymore. And she's so annoying all the time. It used to be her wails and screams were like music to my ears, but now they just remind me of my failures, my insecurities, my past rejections. I haven't killed her yet, and I think that means I'm unable to. She's morphed into a human being down there, like a butterfly from one of my cocoons, she has emerged. She used to be a body larvae, something I was going to slice down the middle and inspect, but now that she's munched through that crunchy cave that incubated her metamorphosis, and slid her wet legs out and flapped her gooey wings until they dried... I have to let her fly from that well. And she will do it in the pretty patchwork skin skirt I made for her.

Her legs are weak as they try to climb the bone ladder I toss down. We laugh about that. "I used to hate my thighs," she says. "And now they barely work." We're both wiping tears, not talking about them, letting them drip silently to the bottom of the well of our past.

the well of our past...

I watch the top of her head as she gets closer. When she got here she was a fake blond, but now the brown is back and it's filled with dust and I even see a cobweb near the crown. I reach out to touch it, but pull my hand back, unsure of our new relationship's rules. She's not IN my well now. She's climbing out of it. She's going to be the girl NOT in my well, and I have to be okay with that.

There will be other Catherines. You might be the new Catherine. I might be the new Catherine. But Catherine can't be the new Catherine because she's the old Catherine. (sidenote: I hate that whole blank is the new blank thing. It just isn't any funny anymore. Cheese is the new cracker. What does that even mean? How can twelve be the new eleven? (side sidenote to self: cancel Netflix. not worth the painful memories.)) )

"It looks different from up here," she says. "I didn't know you had so many plants."

"I got them a few years ago," I say.

"The renovations I heard you do look great."


"Oh, yeah. The kitchen looks phenomenal."

"Thanks. That's your blood, mixed in that paint."

"I know. It looks just like the blueprints, the archway -- oh, wow. Look at that skylight."

"Yeah, that was a lot of work."

"I know it was. Hey, mister."


"Thanks for letting me out of the well."

"You're welcome."

"Hey, mister?"


"How old am I?"


It was quiet then, until Precious yipped at her feet. Catherine wipes her eyes and looks at me with one last questioning look -- this is the last time she needs my permission, the last time she's going to ask if it's okay, the last time she pleads with her eyebrows and her eyes up and her mouth like that.

I nod yes, and Catherine kicks Precious in the gut.

"I won't miss that fucking dog," she says as Precious pees on my Mexican Hair Ottoman.

I let her out in the middle of the night so I don't have to face the day without her. I let her out so I can cry myself to sleep and try to pretend I never met that woman, the woman who changed my life with her passion for life.

I will miss many things about her, but I won't miss that god damn screechy hick-ass voice of hers. Good lord, it makes the spine twist in agony with the way it shouts and wails.

My well is empty. My heart is full.

Create a Cool Life, Catherine.

Create a Cool Life.

A_p_R_i_L F00lz!

SUckers. I'd never let Catherine out of the well. Then I'd have to shut down my blog. And you can take my blog when you pry it from my cold, dead, QWERTY-loving fingers.

I got you, didn't I?

I'm awesome.

[special thanks to Catherine, who suggested I let her out of the well, giving me the insipriation for this HILARIOUS entry. I think I deserve a diarist award. Or a bloggy. South By Southwest? Give me something. I'm amazing.]