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2005-05-20 @ 1:44 a.m.
I can't GET no...s.a.t.i.s.f.a.c.t.i.o.n......

So, did you hear some asshat about 3:15 today driving through you neighborhood, playing Mick Jagger’s "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" as loud as a Ford Tempo’s cheap-o car stereo could possibly play? Heh, heh. That was me. Sorry. I just love that song. And it pretty much encapsulates my entire angsty loveless, sexless fucked up life....but in a cheerful way. :-)

And I not only played it as loud as my stereo would go, I also had my hand on the (cough) radio dial (and no that's not secret code for something else, although that is in sore need of attention too) and I would turn it up on certain lyrics, like...

"I can't...


"I can't...



Most cars had their windows closed. But I didn't, so when I pulled up to the corner, there was this black woman standing on a corner waiting for a bus. She looked over at me and I was rocking out with the Mickster. Playing with my dial.

"Cause I


and I


and I


and I


I can't

get no,

I can't

get no


Well, then the woman started cracking up and did a little impromptu pelvic thrusting, out on the corner, as if to say, me either honey.

This morning was a little traumatic though. It appears that the scale in the bathroom may be broken. That's really the only explanation. I haven't used it for several months. I had sworn off my scale for good reason. Why? Because I used to weigh my self excessively. When I was losing my weight (about 45 pounds), I used to weigh myself virtually everytime I went in the bathroom. Like gee, I just pooped at least a 5 pound poop, I better weigh myself to see if I lost any weight. Yeah, it was a little obsessive.

Oh, not you wittykitty. You obsessive? Well, I guess its safe to say that I have probably never gotten through an entire appointment with "A" without the word “obsessive” or “obsession” or “obsessed” being uttered at least once in my presence. I prefer the word "Passionate about my surroundings" or "Attention to Detail". Hey, it was part of my training when I studied journalism in college. I had to observe things and people. It was my job. I had to remember things so that when I wrote about them later and didn't take good notes, I could remember what took place during an interview since I may or may not have had batteries in my tape recorder or may or may not have been stoned tired from my long hours down at the newspaper office.

Ok, I'm a little OCD. But I really think my scale is broken, because this morning when I stood on it, I was 7 pounds heavier than last time I stood on it. And I totally blame Guardcat. I know she was probably playing near it or ran into the bathroom like she always does when I go to the bathroom and slammed into it somehow. She loves watching me pee. It’s kinda weird. No matter where she is in the house, as soon as I head into the bathroom, she'll come running in, inevitably sliding on the rag rug and plowing into the bath tub. And then she'll look up at me, like she's looking at the Holy Grail or just gaze lovingly at me while I'm going to the bathroom. Its really creepy. I really think she has an ulterior motive though. She knows she has a captive audience, and she knows that I always pet her when I'm peeing (is this too much information?) and its really become our special time together. Awww!

But anyways, back to the obviously defective bathroom scale. Hrrrrrumpph!! There has to be something wrong somewhere. I mean, I walk 10-15 miles a week. I don't Supersize anything. And then I thought...hmmm. I must have gained the weight in muscle mass. That's it. My leg muscles are so awesome from walking that they're showing up as a weight gain. Yeah, THAT'S IT!!!!

Oh, you poor, delusional girl. Its because you've quadrupled your chocolate intake in the last month or so. You're like totally addicted to anything that begins with "Choco" and ends with "late". Its really been since I ended my support group. Chocolate has become my support group. I used to be a binge eater, but had kicked the habit about 4 years ago. But since the people I can talk with has been dwindling, chocolate, who never says NO or “You Suck”, has become my friend once again. I guess its something I'll have to talk to "A" about.

I went to my art class last night. I got there about 6:55 p.m. and was shocked to see Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy hosting. I usually co-host with him, but we had just co-hosted last week, and I had no idea he was going to do it two weeks in a row. Thanks for the notice. He was in his usual tizzy, but he did run up behind me and kiss my neck, which certainly did wonders in his quest for forgiveness, although I did call him a dork when he did that. MEN! Can't kill'em, can't leave out on the curb with recyclables.

Anyhoo, I did get my stuff set up next to him. He had set all the art tables up high like his. I was perplexed as to how I was going to work, until I saw a stool, which was new and used that. Although for a 3 hour stint, a stool was kind of uncomfortable on my ass. Because I'm proud to say, even with an extra 7 pounds, none of it went to my ass. I have a totally wobble free ass. In fact, if there were such a thing as a Wobble Ass Richter Scale, my ass would probably not even register, except maybe like a 0001.

We had my least favorite model. The Nazi Model....Ava Braun. And its funny, I had just been thinking, hey, we haven't had the Nazi Model for a while. And then there she all her Third Reich plenitude. “You vill draw me with perfect breasts or I vill squeeze your tiny Irish head like a pimple....a pimple I say!!” She’s in her late 50s, by the way, and her breasts aren’t perfect, but who’s looking, its really those hairy arm pits that get my attention. I think the thing I like the least about her is that a strange man will always show up at the beginning of the evening and have to be asked to leave. And its always a different one each time. I think she brings her own groupies. And she also always comes off the stage and asks you to see your drawings of her. I don’t always like showing my drawings to people. Sometimes, if I don’t like a model, the drawing won’t be that flattering. Like I’ll exaggerate their big ass or their crazy, maniacal eyes/hawkish nose (her) just because I’m bored or I feel vindictive.

And then she’ll come over and stare at it, like a Nazi school marm, staring at little Han’s homework telling why he thinks Hitler would make a good dictator, and I’ll be standing there all nervous, because I know I made her look like a crazy bitch, and then she’ll look at me and say, “Veddy interesting...Can I get a ride home?”


Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy did have another Trivial Pursuit Contest at the break. The question which nobody was able to answer, although I got part of it, but I couldn’t get partial credit for knowing it was an acronym for something was the origin of the word “Golf”. Anyone know the origin of the word “golf”? It was a game, of course, created by the Scots, and it was a acronym for “Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden”.

After class I helped clean up even though I wasn’t co-hosting. Guess I just wanted to help Charlemagne out and have fun with the After-Art group. I had brought my Screaming Cat painting to show “L” the Hippie Chick and she really liked it. I showed the Sci Fi Guy, who I believe owns or runs a tee-shirt print shop and told him that my friend in NYC had said he thought it might have a good tee-shirt to sell. He really liked the artwork on it, and said it was way better than his first attempt at plagiarizing Edward Muench. He said it would probably cost about $150 to make the color plates to print the shirt and that you would probably have to sell them for about $15/each. Oh p’shaw! Cat lovers would definitely pay that! But who has $150 laying around? Maybe sometime in the future when I land a sugar Daddy. Or a winning lottery ticket. I don’t think it would be a huge seller, but it could probably sell a few.

Today was pretty uneventful. I participated in another focus group at work for a whopping $25. But that was a good thing considering I only worked a total of 3.5 hours the whole week. Both of my clients cancelled on me (can you feel the LOVE, witty?), so my hours were pretty miserable. One good thing that came out of work....I now officially have a new best friend. Yeah baby. Remember the chick I did the women’s group with who was such a stick in the mud about trying something new? Well, “L” managed to wrangle 6 free massages from the local massage school for some of our impoverish clients and I get to have one of them, since I’ll be “supervising” their visit!! YAY!! Man, I am so psyched! I haven’t had a massage since my birthday, and I am so needing one. With all the walking I do, and with my fibromaylgia pain hurting the way it does, a massage, even if its only a student masseuse, sounds absolutely delicious. Good going “L”!!! You are officially off the “stick in the mud” list!

Lastly, after walking around my favorite glacier lakes and seeing two cute deer, I decided to go get my hair trimmed. Its been getting kind of unruly and the ends are pretty dry from all the dyeing I do, so I decided to treat myself in honor of only working 3 hours this week. So I went into this little shop I usually go and had to deal with the obnoxious yuppie owner who is always obnoxious. Fortunately, since I am not in her social class, I am therefore assigned to one of the lesser luminaries in the shop, which is totally fine with me. Because this woman always asks me the same two tedious questions: where do you work and are you married, and ya know what? Its really none of your damn business and if you had actually listened to the answer the FIRST time you asked me 3 years ago, you probably wouldn’t need to keep asking Bedhead. So I had this young girl doing my hair and she took great care in cutting each strand individually I think, because I was in the chair for over a half hour for a mere trim. So she finally took the little hair catching sheath off and the music playing in the shop suddenly launched into Roy Orbinson’s “Pretty Woman” and I looked at her and smiled and said, “Oh, they’re playing my new theme song” and she looked at me blankly.

Gah. When you have to explain something like that, its no wonder I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty