actual conversation from work today

her: "yeah, i think i've been working too hard."
me: "yeah, me too."
her: "no, but like, see, it's making me crazy."
me: "i kind of am beyond that point now."
her: "no, yesterday, somebody asked if i was having suicidal thoughts."
me: "oh."
her: "i mean, of course not, but they really were worried.  it's not like anyone has asked you something like that."
me: "..."


so go me for

1. apparently holding it all together at work
2. not having any friends who would notice things and ask questions like that
3. whining about everything on my blog

also time to fucking bawl my eyes out

wow.  i'm totally keeping my mental illness together today!

just banging through this depression and suicidal thoughts!

wheeeeee!


i'm like a whirlwind of DEATH AND PAIN AND HATRED THAT WILL CONSUME EVERYONE!

wheeeeee!

fuck

today's thursday, not friday.

shit.

time to mop up blood.

woo.

go me!

ok, but

have you ever looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror while you're washing your hands?

and made weird shapes with your lips while you do so?  maybe add a bit of tongue in there.

now imagine like an octopus or a snake or a slug making that shape.  that's fucking gross.

but not when you do it with your lips.  that's weird.

"ok, seriously, sammy, maybe you need to not be drunk so so much."

no.

i need to be drunk this much all of the time.


here's a link.

yes, ok.  i'm ugly and gross.  and i go out of my way to not make friends.  and i'm pretty sure i'm a fuck up at work.

but

read through that whole thing.  it looks like the comments went a bit crazy, but that is so much how i feel every day.

"nice job being awful, sammy.  did you write anything?  did you do work stuff good?  did you figure out how to take out your trash like every fucking normal person can do?

"nice job, sammy.  great job at life.

"worthless bitch."

so yeah.  welcome to how my brain works everyday.

sorry.

sorry everyone.

ok, so:

"European Union laws require you to give European Union visitors information about cookies used on your blog. In many cases, these laws also require you to obtain consent.

As a courtesy, we have added a notice on your blog to explain Google's use of certain Blogger and Google cookies, including use of Google Analytics and AdSense cookies.

You are responsible for confirming this notice actually works for your blog, and that it displays. If you employ other cookies, for example by adding third party features, this notice may not work for you. Learn more about this notice and your responsibilities.

"

i mean, ok.  if you're an "European Union visitors", i guess this is for you?  i guess there's a notice?

like, i'm not trying to give you cookies or anything.  i mean.  if you want cookies, you should have them.

but not my cookies.  those are mine, and if you take them, i might just cut you.  cookies + sammy 4 ever.

anyway, some sort of political computer shit.  i don't care.  probably no one cares.

stuff.

dear drunk sammy from last night,

are you doing well?  i hope you're having a great evening.

just wanted to let you know that i received your gift.  "one bite of chocolate cookie, mushed in a ziplock bag, and then rolled over in the night so that it's all melted and crushed" was right where you left it, underneath the pillow.

maybe in the future, you can leave more than a single bite, or, alternatively, just eat the whole cookie and be done with it.  just suggestions for you to mull over.

anyway, i need to get to sleep at some point, so i'll let you get on with being in the past.

love,
right now sammy who kind of wanted to eat that whole cookie herself

wwwhhhiiinnne!

shopping for jeans sucks.

"ok, those look fine."

NOPE.

"maybe these?"

NOPE.

"maybe just a size bigger?"

NOPE.

"are you stretchy enough?"

NOT FOR YOU, BITCH.

shopping for jeans fucking sucks.

party dream

we're all outside, and having this giant picnic.  i know no one there, but am offered enough drinks that i eventually get to a stable point where it's not just a giant panic attack.

"hey, we're going to go watch the movie!" so we all start heading inside.

she walks up, holding a garbage bag.  "is that empty?" she asks, pointing at the champagne bottle sitting next to me in the grass.  i pick it up, and swirl it, and we both see that it's still about half full.  "seems like a waste.  pop it open."  just from the swirling, it's become agitated and the cork pops out (ok, so it hits the wall, so we're inside now?  dream scenery is hard).

she takes the bottle, and takes a long drink before passing it back to me to finish.  she then takes my hand and we go off to watch the movie.


which is a documentary about tax collection in england.  because why not.  it's a dream, so you can watch anything at all.

ok, also?

if you're going to have a pet dog, and then tell that dog that they can't go into a room, don't be a fucking jerk about it.

like...

here:

this dog is like, "i want to get this thing back, but you told me not to go in there, but i can't get this thing without going in there! bark bark i am frustrated!"

you have to let that be ok.  i mean.  sure, dogs aren't super smart about everything, since they're dogs.

but, like, they're fucking dogs.  they're not super smart.  if you say "never can go in here," that's like a big fucking deal to them.  they can't like, "oh, but i'll just pop in and get that thing and it's ok."  it's like "MURDER WILL GET YOU IF YOU GO IN THERE FOR ANY REASON!  MURDER MURDER DEATH DEATH DEATH!"



i guess today's point is: reassure your pets.  make sure that your pets know you love them a lot, and that if they make a mistake, you're still totally going to love them, because they're fucking awesome.

nightmare

i had a dream this morning where i was sitting on my couch getting ready to go to work.  "wait, isn't it the weekend yet?"

"no," said "mother" (not my mom, that's just the name the giant not-human thing sitting next to me had in the dream).  "it's monday."

i woke up in a panic that after working all week, it was actually the start of another work week, and had to check my phone to confirm that it was really friday.

ok, it took a month for me to actually sit down and watch the rest.

carmilla.


this is pretty good.  and honestly, it took a big binge watch to come around, but you should go watch if you take recommendations from drunk jerks with blogs.

yes, yes, it's slow, but you get to like episode 15, and then it kind of takes off.  maybe episode 18.  22?  i'm not clear where the take off point was.  it was blah then not blah.  i'm vaguely scribbling on a chalkboard that doesn't exist.  this probably doesn't help anyone.]

yes, i'm drunk.  yes, i'm a jerk.  yes, i have a blog.  christ, it's like you're new here.

so, everybody, go watch season 1, and i'll try to catch up with season 2 when i can.

and write things.

i'll try to do the thing i claim is the thing that i do that is totally the thing i don't ever do because i have a lazy deep down in my heart where the motivation lives.

This message contains feedback for:

This feedback was sent by: Anonymous

Comments:

1) how did the cheerleader and naked girl deal with their urine over the twelve hours.
2) how about a further vacuum bag exhibition where sammy is diorothy of the wizard of oz with her dress swirled (from the tornado) and also in the bag is a male whose body is sprayed tan to look like Toto and there is a ring around his genitals and left leg lifted as if urinating into a hollow plastic tree


um, how am i supposed to respond if you don't give me a way to contact you?  so here are the answers:

1) not peeing for 12 hours isn't super hard.  haven't you gone to sleep and slept a really long time?  besides, i checked, and they are only in the bags for like ten hours.  that's two easier.

2) no.  there are many reasons why, but the answer is no.  write your own stories if you have ideas.  that will always be better than trying to make someone else write the story you want to read.  also: isn't toto grey?  that's not a spray-tan-able color, is it?  so so many reasons why "no".

poop

all over the place!

why are you talking about poop?

poop!

POOOOOOP!

poop.



poop at you.

i want a bagel

a cinnamon raisin bagel, toasted, with honey (or even better: maple syrup), then covered with peanut butter.


i'm pretty sure i have most of that in my fridge and my counter.


but both are super gross with old rotten shit.

i am awful at life.

oh no, not me, i never lost control, you're face to face, with the man who sold the world.

i'm drunk.

as-i-do.

sorry.

i left and shook his hand.  i searched for form and land.

for years and years i roamed.

[redacted]

we must have died a long, long, long time ago.


key:  sorry for taunt prompting you.  feel free to ignore this.  also the next bit is for you, too.

everyone else: sorry for having to get drunk a lot to make a post that i don't immediately delete when i can.  i hate my shitty life.  i'm sorry i've dragged you in to this nonsense.

some cat.

i should stop listening to music put out two decades before i was born.

this is totally just being a jerk.

"cause he knows it's all worth it."

or

i might have fucked htat up.








all the children boogie?



honestly.  five years, people.  sorry for being the crazy jerk you read about.  just.  five years..


i'll send gross cunt pics if we're all ok in five years.

ok, going to see what i get next, but in private. sorry.


also, which post do you think sober sammy is going to pull down?

vote in the comments!

edit to add: drunk again!  woo.  go me.  getting drunk, posting crazy shit.  way to live your fucking life.

yep.

way to live my fucking life.

i've been having a panic attack since 9am this morning.

i do not like that.

i wrote some of the new part last night.  i wanted to write more tonight, but i can't.

it is already longer than other parts, and i haven't even gotten to the main story point.  i continues to have very little sex or kinky stuff.

sorry.

accomplishments!

things i wanted to do today:

1. laundry.
2. buy new jeans.
3. write more stories.
4. change bed sheets.
5. be an for-realsies grown up.

things i did today:

1. be lazy in bed.
2. drive around and see things.
1. dead bird.
2. dead cat.
3. homeless lady pushing all of her belongings on a wheelchair (the belongings were on the chair, not the lady).
4. cool clouds.
5. a super cute chicken, with like a red head and neck, but then it was a black/brown mottle for the rest of the body.  
3. sing song to my food before realizing other people can hear me because i'm in a restaurant.
4. change bed sheets!

i actually did a thing on the list!

things i had to move while changing bed sheets/things that live in my bed:

1. laptop charger
2. phone charger
3. kleenex box.
4. second old empty kleenex box to put the used tissues in.
5. floss.
6. nail clipper.
7. crappy paper file that needs to be replaced.
8. headphones.
9. bag of nuts.

huh.

ever get super drunk, make a blog post, realize the next day you made a blog post, make it "draft", get super drunk again, and then read it and realize it's just fucking perfect?

so you repost that shit because wow, yesterday drunk sammy, you're just fucking killing it here.

just like, wow.

this was totally a point where sammy passed out and annie took over.  i shouldn't personify my mental illness like this.  but whoa.  i love you annie.

wow.

so much love.

hey.

um.

this is weird.

usually i get drunk, choose a point to fight over, do a big blog post about how like, squirrels are fucking people now.

and then wake up sober and make it all go away because that's pretty much nonsense.

and we don't even fucking have squirrels here.  are they really just like super fluffy tail cats?

so today i got all drunk like usual.

as-you-do.

and then forgot the point i was going to fight about.

like.  no clue.  squirrels are cute though.  fluffy tails and all that.

i have the beatles playing, so maybe that was the thing?  not as good as mr. david bowie?  they're pretty great, though, so this is a weak point.

so hey.  sammy here.  drunk up as i do.

without a point.

let's look at the news?

ok.  that's bad, that's good, that's also bad, that's cool, that's just kind of fucking horrible.

80 fucking percent.

christ.

"Laws in many states allow the police to arrest girls as young as 13 on prostitution charges, even when they are victims of sex trafficking."  omg.


dear prosecutors (i guess?),

what the absolute fuck?  "oh, congrats on getting raped a bunch!  your reward is going to jail!  you slut!"

diaf,
love,
sammy!


so, you know, if you're confused about how much i'm kind of going with the gay side of bi, read that last bit, and tell me how you feel.  seriously.  i was going to talk about the animal thing i saw today, but this is so much more fucking depressing, it makes a rhino potentially dying of gross infections due to humans ripping off a shitty horn seem like someone dropped a popsicle.


seriously.  i've read stories about cats playing with something for a bit, then killing it and eating it.  why is that so fucking less horrifying than what people do in like a day-to-day thing?

here comes the sun?

fuck you, the 60's.

good job fucking everything up in your adult-hood.  thanks for making me and my cohort so fucked up.


i can only forgive you so much for the chords used in "because".

and now you know how to turn me on.


ok.  time to drink enough that i don't care to update this post anymore.  just.

just think about things.  think about how much you might have helped, and didn't.

i'm doing the same, so don't get all upset.  i could have murdered old people, but instead i voted for the democrats.

TOTES KIDDING!

except the democrat thing.  i mean, i don't want to murder people in their sleep.

like the republicans.

#socialism_forever

i was going to change my sheets today too, but i forgot.

i wrote some.  not nearly as much as i was hoping to ("i can just write the whole thing in one go! it's all plotted out, and the new things are why i want to get it down before i forget them!"), but it's more than zero, and is pretty much all of the first act.  this one is another no sex chapter, and it's also out of place in the story line, so i edited the story page to have place holders so if someone is looking, they'll see that i didn't have a stroke and forget what was going on, i'm just moving forward a bit so i can get this story done.

but it's not coming out as easily as i hoped, but the tumblr post that i need published before i can publish the story seem to have gone out (thanks, tumblr queue), and that sorted out a plot point i wasn't happy with.  so hopefully everyone will like it when i get it done.

i'm pretty sure i had another point, but i don't remember what it was.

morning porn dream

we're in the garage.  on the couch.  in the garage.  that is there.

but we met on the plane.  "i'm going around the world."

"i'm going home."

"can i visit?"

"sure?"

we're there, on the couch, i'm closer to the house, she's toward the street.

"i don't even know you're name."

"samantha, you surely do?"

"no?"

"katja" she says, the german accent explicit to my ear.

"katja."  i repeat.  remembering something from somewhere.

she sits up, twists, falls down.

i'm buried under her, and i feel her arms wrap around my body, pulling me closer.  "what was that?"

the garage door slides down.  the guy who does...stuff?  rests a bike under the door to prop it open a few feet from the floor.  "something's happened."

a bunch of cats flood into the garage.

katja slinks up onto a perch next to the couch, back arched against the gunshots we're aware of outside.

i gasp, and feel her paw at my face from behind me.

--

and then i wake up, worried about my dear katja.  i hope we share a dream again, as i think we've done in the past.

hah.

sorry for being dumb.  a lot of sorries on that front.

sorry if i send a drunk email that is super weird and super out of the blue.  not sure if it was a drunk email?  here's the flow chart:

1. did you get an email from me?
1. it was a drunk email.  probably should throw it away.

"no, but sammy, it's all ok, you're not dumb!"

yes i am.  i am super dumb, and i paste over my insecurities with a lot of alcohol.  which is stupid, because you can't fucking paste shit with alcohol.  

"hey, let's stick these things together!"  

"great idea! let's use a liquid that actively resists sticky shit!"  

"brilliant!"

i wish i could try harder than i do, but trying hard is hard, and failing at something hard doesn't hurt any less than failing at something simple.  it's way easier to be like "hey, let's drink less" and then fuck that up.  you get that feeling in your brain telling you how "gorss" you are, and that you're such a "dumb bich".

ha ha ha, anxiety!  you've fallen into my trap of "get anxiety so fucking drunk she pees herself, because it's super hard to make me feel bad when you've got wet underwear"!

but not really, because anxiety is still me, and when anxiety is all "gots to pee," i make sure we both get there in time.  mostly because i have no clue how you fix a pee soaked bed.

so, what i think i'm saying is "i'm drunk again, as usual" and "i'm sorry that i've pulled you in to my crazy world."  i am going to try super hard to get stories out this long weekend.  i might fuck it up and fail, but i am going to try.