Hey, Pay Me. Also, WHat if I had a Pet Store??

I guess last Saturday was bleak because I spent it devouring the rest of Nurse Jackie, sipping on a gin & juice with my mind on my money and my money on my mind. Now, I’m nowhere near broke, but what I am is emotionally spent. Socially taxed. Creatively kaput.

You know what’s cute? People think I make money off this blog. (It’s very flattering, and) I’m sort of silly for not making that a reality until now! It’s always been my ideal career to just get paid for thinking thoughts and because people like me. So, make my dreams come true? Hey, pay me.


I now have a donate link! I appreciate the support SO, SO MUCH if you are able to contribute <3 <3


Maybe I could make money patenting juice deliver system for birbs!!

Anyway, speaking of money… My current fantasy is to stop telling programmers what to do (that is my Real Job) and instead open a pet shop with my Pa. I mean, it will never be as exciting as the Free Zoo but perhaps it could be more conveniently located? Trendier? San Diego pet shops (F’Zoo excluded) sort of run the range of What If Whole Foods Ran a Pet $tore? to Holy Fuck This is Just A Closet Full of Dog Toys. Neither of these extremes really meet my needs, so I either go to Pet Kingdom or convince my roommate to go there on her way home from jewelry class to pick up a mouse for snakesnake.

Consider this my first exploratory effort. What’s lacking from your pet shop experiences? Do you actually like going to the pet stores? Who else is grossed out by PetCo? Send me a picture of your cat? Are there any animals in here?

Anyway, love you my readers. Less disjointed blog posts coming soon when I’m not being such a weird lil’ stress ball. LIFE IS HARD THO. I CAN’T EVEN TALK ABOUT IT ON MY PUBLIC BLOG THO.


Pay me?


Unrelated journal entry & I went to a Goth Club in LA (predictably, somewhat of a disaster)

I’m struggling to write something Survival Guide appropriate. I could relate my venture to Los Angeles, where I went to the wrong Goth club, spent too long in Hollywood traffic, went to the right Goth club, dropped my lover in a fountain, and spent 3 hours going up and down Sepulveda Blvd trying to get to a hotel room that never was.

I could give the diary entry that followed that night, but to be honest it’s too dark. Maybe it was the Goths, or maybe it was because a San Diegan in LA with only scraps for a plan and too much whiskey is destined for shame, baby. Oh, lord, haha my shame.

Because I don’t want to disappoint anyone who may be keeping track of the fact I promise new content every Thursday night (tricked you today by posting last week’s work to Facebook!) I’ll give a more innocuous diary entry. I thought this one was appropriate because I refer to my “audience” a.k.a. my friends <3

Screen shot 2013-10-10 at 6.06.51 PMAlso… 91 degrees — that was in September! Yesterday, I learned that what I have been experiencing this week in the form of “weather” is called, “blustery” and that some masochists people out there enjoy it.

Welcome to Sami Brain:


My face catches, little gestures of sadness, unfinished frowns. Lately. I’m grieved that I spend no time on my book, grieved that I have no discipline. I have nothing to say. When will the words come pouring out? I can draw myself puking black but it doesn’t make it so.

I’m stretched. So thin. I don’t know who I am. I can borrow other people’s words. Gather them in a little brown book. Publish them to twitter. I can become a filter for the firehose. That’s all anyone every wants these days. Discernment.

How do I produce reliable opinions on subjects? Are all prophets just bullshitters? I stared at my words written in red ink, and I didn’t recognize them, just as I didn’t recognize my face in the mirror when I was young and concrete was so cold it ached inside your lungs are fibers* your bones are glass.

If only, if only, I can become such a celebrity that people will want to read my diary. Then, maybe I am being productive. Gathering a fan club, generating mythos, larger than my ego, 50 feet tall, a giraffe of a girl. I will be so desirable, you will all read my diary. Whatever I write, you’ll eat it up like I eat pussy. It’s not that I want people to worship me, it’s that I’m lazy. I prefer to craft my audience to my existence than my writing to an audience. Love me as I am and let me be as slowly and lightly as I like. I don’t want to filter my firehose.

Anyone reading this would add so much more melodrama than I actually feel. I am just a little tired, a little hungry, a little naked and bored. My insides are immovable and I won’t feel better until the rocks come out of me. Stress and fucking, I suppose. I don’t think it was the cheap food. I feel instead pounded like a slug of clay into a hard lump.

I’m so close to the finish line. I am chewing on ambition like an overworked piece of meat that I’ll never be able to swallow. My mother will offer her hand (to me, as a toddler) and I’ll spit out the soggy, heavy chunk.

*Reference to a poem I wrote in 2008 or 2009. I’m not sharing the whole thing because I’m pretty sure the only people who like poems are people who write them, and then, only their own poems. When I read my own poems I am convinced I am a genius, and when I read other people’s poems (except Matt Steele’s or Rachel Dexter’s) I am pretty sure they are talentless puffs of cotton candy or that I am an asshole who doesn’t appreciate poetry.

Anyway, since you’re not living inside of me with me, and you can’t read my mind, you might benefit from a little context. Here’s the excerpt:

this slick demon
sucked air from my
tiny fibers were my lungs
scrambling like fingers toward a pale

It goes on, and basically it means I should have listened to the doubts telling me to dump my boyfriend.