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2006-06-02 @ 10:55 p.m.
certain days when the mothership hovers

I am perhaps the only person in the universe, who can have an anxiety dream about going in for a massage. I had won a gift certificate to this frou frou beauty salon back in December and I had just finally made an appointment for a 45 minute massage this morning. It seemed like a nice place, although it was built in a former Ponderosa All-You-Can-Eat Hog-a-Rama Restaurant. Can you imagine? A frou frou velvet couched place with a massive big screen tv touting the benefits of getting botox, in a place that formerly served large metal trays of macaroni and cheese and chicken wings. I mean if that isnít poetic justice, what is?

Anyways, the dream that preceded it was all sort of disjointed and Kafka-esque. It had me entering this really nice beauty spa, giving my name and then being led down hall, after hall, after hall, deeper and deeper into this building which innocently starts out as a beauty spa but soon turns into the set of ďSin CityĒ with its smelly, smokey grates and weird cartooned faced people. When I finally get to this certain room, the girl asks if I want to take off my clothes for the massage. The only problem is, well, there are actually two, but that there is some scummy old Sin-City wino guy laying on the floor drunk and also my clothes are soaking wet and no matter how hard I try I canít get them off. Theyíre like glued to me. The girl said she understood if I didnít want to take my clothes off in front of Gus and actually, come to think of it, she actually had a different massage therapist in mind anyways. So then we walked down some more halls, which were now starting to look like the sewer systems under New York. Or at least what I think they would look like.

I once wrote a movie script called ďDragon Under New YorkĒ and did all this research on what the sewers and subways looked like, and Iím pretty sure I was dreaming was what I was seeing. Anyways, suddenly we get to this large, dimly lit room, which looked strangely like a dirty old gym, and this huge 7 foot tall guy in a dirty wifebeater greets us and when she asks him if he could fit me in for a massage, he looks really frightened and says, ďBut Iíve never massaged a girl before!!Ē

Ah ha! Iím sure if I told ďAĒ about this dream he would say it had to do with SEX, but then again, almost any dream Iíve ever told ďAĒ about, has had to do with SEX.

I finally got up about 8:30. Somebody in the apartment complex was hammering something. Probably the Freak in the Creek building caskets for his serial murder victims. I tried the water. No water. Grrr! And then my phone rang three times in rapid succession. I have caller ID and saw that my mother was calling and tried to answer it, but there was no sound. And then I got my cell phone out and tried to use that but it only beeped blankly. Double Grrrr!

It must have been the fifty twelfth Friday, you know, when the alien mother ship comes to hover over Twin Peak Apartments for like .00001 milli-seconds to send down her alien ion beams and fuck everything up, because then like 5 minutes later I picked up my phone and called my mom and everything was fine. I tried my cell phone. It was fine. I turned on the water. It was fine.

Bye mothership! Next month, dudes!

I finally got to the beauty spa at around 9:45. Meh. It wasnít as fancy as I thought it was going to be. And my massage therapist was just this plump blonde Valley girl who grunted slightly as she massaged me. I was really ready for a good massage too, especially since my fibro has been so severe lately. But this girl gave the weirdest massage. Iíve had massages with about 5-6 people now and she did something that no one has ever done before. Tickled me. The way she worked on my spine and back with her bony little fingers, it was almost unbearably ticklish. It was like there was no padding on her fingertips, so it was bone on bone and it was uber-uncomfortable. It got a little better on the parts of my body where there was more padding. And lord knows, thereís a lot of that, but gah! I still have money left on the gift certificate, but as far as using it for a massage, I think I might get a facial or a waxing next time out.

And then it was onto the Big Event of the Day!!! Looking at a car. My mom and I went to that place recommended by ďAĒ and looked at a slew of Subarus. Four of them were somewhat in my price range. Two station wagons. One stick shift. One sedan. The sedan, we later found out, was actually out of my price range.

So we met with the guy who seemed pretty nice. He told us about all the cars and how great Subarus were and how great the engines were, blah, blah, blah. I sat in two of them. I felt kinda dumb. I am such a girl. I had no idea what to say or ask or look for. I was like ďwitty! pay attention! look for wear on the tires!! look for oil leaks!!Ē

I did finally take the 1996 Legacy out for a test ride. When I first stepped on the gas I almost got whiplash. Iím not used to a car being so dern peppy and it just abruptly zipped forward like a little rocket! Plus I was nervous about driving it. I guess Iím just nervous in general because Iím so used to driving my piece of crap and having things fall off and disengage and leak and/or nearly catch fire.

So I guess I got me a 1996 Legacy Subaru. Well, not quite yet. He has to do a few repairs on it. Heís replacing the rear brakes and giving the a/c a shot of freon and then rotating the tires. I should be getting it next Tuesday. The price was a little higher than I wanted to go. It will, in fact, pretty much clean me out financially for the month. Yeek. I had hoped to sell my Ford Tempo of Doom to some poor sucker lucky teenager, but he said he thinks it will be really hard to sell, since theyíre not very good cars. (duh!) He didnít even think I could sell it for parts. Geeze, and I just paid $127 for new parts two freakiní days ago, dammit!

So I guess Iíll have to think of ways to make some money. Last night I was crying to my mom. I would like to start selling my art, but Iím not very aggressive, and sheís like, well, why donít you just set your paintings up on a corner and sell them. Well first of all, I live in a Norman Rockwell painting. A New England Village full of yuppies. Just how well would they enjoy seeing a bunch of nude paintings propped up against their irises? I mean one block from my apartment are two kids who have competing lemonade stands across the street from each other. How would you cross promote a nude penis with a ten cent glass of lemonade?

Iíve got to think of some way to start making this art thing pay. Because when I hand this guy a check for $2500 on Tuesday, I am going to be broke. I do have a little money stashed in a sock in my bedroom, which I guess will pay the electric bill, the insurance bill and the shrinkster, but then how will I eat at the end of the month?

Calling the mothership. Calling the mothership. Need assistance. Please advise.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty