Riding that coke train to freedom.

They say the ends justify the means.

Maybe they do.

But I would like to see the ends come a little quicker in that justification. Haha.

Side effects. side effects. What a ridiculous term. More like life effects. I've spent the better half of my 20's battling side effects, so much that I'm not sure what the side and what's the effect.

These new ones make me feel like I'm on a constant coke high. Crash all day and then awake all night and having what they call, "hyper-activity". More like a coke binge. Except I don't wake up half naked wearing dirty underwear and have the underlying feeling of mysterious shame. Well, not ALL the time.

I really am putting a productive spin on my life, which is good, since I'm awake all night, while the world sleeps. My interpretive dance has improved. And my shower is super clean. But really, Emily, do all the shoes need to be facing the same way? Do all the socks need to be put in decreasing order by size? No. I feel like me and Charlie Sheen should be hanging out.

So, I have run out of things to do, and decided, hey hyper-activity, let's blog! jesus loves bloggers.

Now, don't take this the creepy way, but I think I've started seeing things again. You ever done that? Seen things that "weren't" there? It's a bit hard for me to understand, seeing as how most of my spiritual beliefs do coincide with opening up to perceptive energy and letting it in... therefore having the ability to indeed see things. When I was on my devil meds, I always use to see these dogs with human faces. Like asian human faces. I tried looking them up to see if they mean anything, but I couldn't find anything on it. For now, it's mostly just small things like bugs and occasionally shadows and things like walls pulsing, hallways closing. It's like inception. Maybe I'm an architect! I wish I could see cool things like Mario Lopez naked. Wait, what?

Oh, Mario. Hot damn. I'm coming for ya! (take that as you will)

The human body is a crazy, crazy thing. Adjust. Take three. Don't eat. Blah blah blah. Anyone who's seen Next to Normal or heard the music from it, can probably understand a bit where I'm coming from.

Makes you crazy. Makes you react, makes you sad, makes you manic at times. And you don't know why. I guess your hormones don't like being bitch slapped around. Like you're always on the verge of the cliff just waiting to be pushed. Whatever that means.

If only a side effect could be like, Warning, may cause: laser eyes, flight, super strength, teleporting, and kick ass boots.

Totally cute.

All these things come in waves.

None of this really helping the crazy girl status, lol.

I've recently gone through my robot uprising hand book. And let me tell you, there are some pure jewels of wisdom in there. Including how to treat laser wounds, how to do hand to hand combat with a droid, and how to stop a giant walking robot.

These things are important to know. Working on a robot musical sensation. Should take the stage by storm. Action, adventure, tears, rust. Who could ask for anything more?

And speaking of theatre, when I was at work the other day, I was measuring out platforms with the kids outside and all of a sudden I hear this sexual, "uhhhhh....uuhhhhhhhh.......yeaaaaaahhhhhh!" And I turn around and see this bum standing by the fence by the dumpster lookin' my way.

Jesus. And the kids are like, "Hey Emily, what's that hobo doing?"

Yeah, what's that hobo doing? About to blow a load on the only thing within his vicinity that happens to have a hole. Open dumpster.

"He's just peeing. Hey, let's go inside!"

Really? who does that?!

Gives the term "cum dumpster" a whole new meaning.

Ha, the world never ceases to surprise me.

Trick or Treat. Smell my feet. But don't, cuz I've been wearin' heels all day.

So, I'm sitting here at work.

Yes, I get paid to watch a door for 4 hours.

College education at its finest.

The kids here call me the security guard.

I.E. Kid on the phone to his mother, "Yeah, mom, its okay that you're late. I'm here with the security guard."

-And let me rephrase. I say kid. I mean 17 year old senior, boy, about 6'3.

Thank God he has me to protect him.

Then again, Buffy was only 5'2.

You never know.

Girl power.

I'm trying to convince them to give me a taser.

Anyways, fall is in full swing, and I am loving it.

Wishing I had time to do things like go to pumpkin patches and corn mazes. But also wishing I could steer clear of more and more distractions.

But you know...wishes, beggars, horses....the saying goes thus.

And of course, what to be for Halloween?

I could purchase the classic chick outfit:

When all creativity and self-respect abandons you.

Your run of the mill off the wal-mart rack polyester garment.

Then again, I am a costume snob.

on a side note. I want a dog soooooooooo bad!

This picture is so cute, I want to EAT it! Two of my very favorite things of all time.

I just can't wait until I become an eccentric old woman, who owns the "haunted house at the end of the block". Kids will have to dare one another to walk up and ring my bell on Halloween. At which point, I will creek it open, wearing my purple jumpsuit, hand them old candy and whisper...."you can still hear his screams....especially on all Hallow's eve....." and then proceed to slowly creek the door shut.

So many things to look forward to.

I think the smell of spice, cooling of the weather, and playfulness of Halloween all have me feeling a bit nostalgic, and a little sad that I fear the magic is fading the older I get.

Also, Halloween in a big city is a lot different than small town.

I do miss it.

But, I can always revel in the fact that when I do make them big bucks, I will have the most intense Haunted House in the neighborhood.

HOBO: is a migratory worker or homeless vagabond, often penniless.

More and more, this starts to define me.

Luckily, I never had a thing for labels.

If only I knew Karate.

Anyways, the reason I bring this up: all the children at the theatre call all the bums, 'hobos'.

(A term I unfortunately started during one of the summer camps.)

See, the theatre is in a shitty part of town. The theatre is gated, and the kids are not allowed to go outside. Bums sleep on the grass out front. One of the few Las Vegas lawns that the city has to offer.

Needless to say, its fun to people watch.

Like today. Today I met "Moustafa".

I'm instantly taken back to my Disney childhood.

Now, Moustafa was from Africa. (The irony runs thick here).

He was looking for the library.

Now the Las Vegas Library, boys and girls, is not only a place for reading and doing research. Oh no. It is a haven for bums. See, they wait outside (on the grass) until the library opens, then they go inside, enjoy the air conditioning and free movies all day, and then come outside for the night.

The library is right next door to the theatre.

So unless the homeless literacy rate has improved in the past few years, the homeless have ulterior motives.

See, the phallic looking thing is the library. (A comment on our social ideals? Maybe. But, I digress.)

The building right next to it is the theatre.

So, anyways, Moustafa approaches me as I get into my car.

Moustafa: Hey Lady! Hey Lady!

Me: What? What are you saying to me? I can't hear you.

Moustafa: Lady! Lady!

He's still like 40 feet away from me.

Me: I can't hear you! What? What?

Moustafa: (approaching) Lady! Lady!

Me: What?! What!

Moustafa: (finally arriving closer to me than I'd like.) Hey Lady!

-sometimes, I wonder why I don't carry pepper spray. Too bad my hatchet doesn't fit in my purse.

Me: Dude, what do you want?

Moustafa: Where's the library?

Me: Right next door. Right there.

Moustafa: Okay, cool. My name is Moustafa.

Me: Okay.

Moustafa: I'm from Africa.

Me: Okay.

Moustafa: Its my first day in Vegas.

Me: Okay.

Moustafa: I'm trying to get to California.

Me: Okay.

Moustafa: Get my career going.

-Its amazing the amount of information people volunteer.

Me: okay.

Moustafa: You got a man?

Me: What?

Moustafa: You got a man?

Me: No.

-Instantly, I knew I should have said yes. Why do I do this to myself.

Moustafa: Give me a chance.

Me: What?

Moustafa: Give me a chance. I'll treat you right.

-Ya, right into an early grave.

Me: I'm not really looking for anything....

-that may have hepatitis A, B or C.

Moustafa: What's your email?

-Okay, now this is not the first time a man has asked for my email instead of my number. What is that? Is that the poor man's way of communicating? I ain't got no phone baby, but trust me, once I get me to a public computer, its on.

Me: I dont have one.

Moustafa: You don't have an email?

Me: No.

-Really? You don't have a house! And youre looking at me stupid like I dont have an email?!

Me: Listen, I really have to go......

Moustafa: Are you sure?

Me: Ya. Real sure.

Bye bye Moustafa.

Really a harmless bum. That's always nice. Its better than the one that approached me when I was working in the costume shop by myself.

I was hanging up costumes on the rack, and I see this guy come around the corner. He stops right in front of the rack, and says, "you made those?"

-Costumes? Why yes, yes I did.

After a long silence he looks at me and says, "you're a pretty lady. A real pretty lady."

Once again, mace or some sort of blunt object would have come in handy.

If I were homeless, I feel I would be really resourceful. Like there was this one guy who in a matter of like 10 minutes stripped all the copper off the building. Now thats taking a risk.

These are the things to keep in ming as my fiscal situation slowly keeps declining.

I could also wash car windows. Lots of the homeless do that around my work.

Everytime I park my damn car, I got someone coming up to me with a squeegee and a bucket of god knows what. And you have to be careful! They're crafty fuckers. If you don't say no right away, or turn your back too soon, they've already started on your windows. And then you're just rude if you don't pay them.

See, its the sympathy that gets you!

Maybe I should go up and start a more intriguing convo with one of these so called 'hobos'. Bring a blanket, a 40, and sit out front on the grass with the true outdoorsman.

People are Strange

Ever feel like you have a 'weirdo' target on your back?

Like you emit this electro-magnetism much like the island, and bizarre things are invariably attracted to you?

Let me explain.

Ever since I was little, I have always met this interesting characters in my life. And I don't mean like, "Oh, crazy uncle Rick is here! He's a wild card!". No, no, no. I mean like people who claim to be princes, millionaires, involved in secret military gang warfare, have terminal diseases, make you perform their poetry out loud upon first meeting them, etc. etc.

I find my life is engaged with these people more than the 'normies'.

This may explain my lack of patience with most people.

It takes someone super crazy to really surprise me anymore.

Let's take One Armed-Bob for instance. Now, One Armed Bob was this gentlemen who owned to laundry mat next door to the video store where I worked as the Hawaiian Shaved Ice Girl for the later part of my childhood. Bob had one arm. I'm sure you've got that by now. And he looked like a homeless vagabond. He would hang up people's rugs on clotheslines and just beat the shit out of them with his one arm. It was like watching a goddamn wind up toy. Just relentless.

Now Bob would always come into the video store and talk to me and other people in there. This was a small town and everybody knew who he was. Come in and chat for a bit, as he was always pretty chatty...probably to make up for the awkwardness of renting all the porn in the back room. Which, FYI, seeing your first grade teacher rent a bunch on bondage videos, really puts your life in perspective.

So, one day, Bob does not show up for work. He doesn't show up the next day, or the day after. People are going to his house, and he is not answering or anything. Rumors start flying that Bob is dead. They close down the laundromat and start planning vigils and things of that sort.

My brother is rather upset at the news, being the bleeding heart that he is.

Then about 2 weeks later Bob walks his one-armed ass back into the video store, with this huge shit -eating grin on his face. Of course, everyone is stoked that he is alive. When asked where he was and what happened. He just shrugged and said, "I can't believe how much everyone cared that I was gone."

Faked his own death.

Real classy.

Then he just sauntered off and went back to beating the shit out rugs with that one arm of his.

That was an interesting summer.

Much more demented things have occurred, even with living situations. There was this guy named David who lived in my garage for a while with the rest of the roommates. His name was David. Yes, just David. Your run of the mill name.

He ended up legally changing it it: Phaeton Praxidous Cu Roi.

He was a comic book writer who inhabited the bowels of our garage with his two ferrets.

Now he was writing a comic book about fecal bots, of which I have some copies, if anyone ever wants to read them. But he did not illustrate them.

Instead, he 'hired' this foreign guy to come live with him, when he was still living on his own, and draw for him for room and board. David kept this guy shut up in the house until he finished his drawings. This dude was so freaked out by him that he ended up pissing in jars around the room and hiding them, because he was afraid to leave the room to use the bathroom. So, when he finally moved out, the room was full of jars of piss. Like some goddamn science fermentation experiment.

Gross, I know. But to understand the level of psychotic behavior, it must be told.

On a lighter, less gross note, recently, I had the pleasure of being stuck at some dude's house that was trying to seduce me. Haha. This is what happened. After drinking some white russians, mmmm delicious.... he hands me his journal. Let me paint this a little better:

We will call him J.

J: (handing me his journal) "Here, read this."

ME: "What is it?"

J: "My journal. I want you to read it."

ME: "Uh....okay......"

(After sighing to myself at the almost expected self-obsessed nature of most guys who are "artists" I open to a page and begin to "read" silently to myself.)

J: "No." J almost whispers and he pulls down the book in front of me. "I want you to read it out loud."

ME: "You want ME to read YOUR journal to YOU out loud?"

J: "Yes."

ME: sigh. "Okay." I clear my throat and being to read with the vigor and zest that any well trained theatre actor would. "In the darkness, we are entwined, but in the daylight, there is none."

(I look at him.)

ME: "There is none?"

J: while is eyes are closed and he is nodding. "Yes! Keep going!"

ME:"Oooookay.......there is none. We are two vines that seek the light, like the sun seeks the moon......" I look over at him and see him mouthing the words along with me. Jesus, if this is the first time I met him, I can't wait to see what the second time is like. We will probably end up cutting ourselves together while listening to some hipster band that no one has ever heard of......"we shall be together, until the darkness has descended..... so, what was that about?"

J: "The poem?"

ME: "Yes.... the poem......"

J: "I wrote it about my ex."

ME: "Okay, so you make me read YOUR journal out loud to YOU about poems that you wrote about your EX?"

J: "Yes."

ME: "Jesus Christ."

Some people don't have so much of an emotional weirdness as they do a physical one. This one friend of ours use to have terrible verbal outbursts. And it was odd, because it was not like turrets where he would outbust random things. But just a huge increase in volume. Like sitting in a restaurant and, (we will call him Frank), and Frank saying,: "Uh, yes, I would like to order the cheeseburger with nO FRIES AND COLESLAW INSTEAD PLEASE!" From 0 to 60 in no time at all.

And the weird thing was, was that he didn't even seem to notice. When talking to the girl he was dating he would say, "You know, I really do liKE YOU A LOT! Do you want to haNG OUT SOME MORE LATER TONIGHT?!"

To make matters worse, sometimes his gestures and arm movements would increase, so he would almost resemble a malfunctioning robot who is on the fritz. You had to like duck to avoid being hit by the massive arms.

It was hard to take him out places. That's why we chose quiet venues like the movies.

I'm telling you, like catnip for tards. A beacon or something that apparently I emit. Well, at least it keeps my life interesting, and gives me good ideas for characters.

Can't sleep. 

Have to lead parachute time tomorrow. 

Its stressing me out. 

Nightmares of bright colors and children fill my head. 

Moving on to the more important questions in life. 

Do ants poop? 

I mean, they must right? 

This bothers me. 

And, if ants do indeed poop, all other insects must poop, and if all other insects poop, then there must be poop everywhere.

Where are quite honestly sitting in shit. 

This make me uncomfortable...

On a lighter note, my quick timing reflexes have taken on a whole new level. I'm starting to feel like my idol. 

The one. The only. 

Buffy Ann Summers.

True, I do maybe do certain exercises to hone my superhero abilities, but man...my reflexes are lightening fast lately. They never work when I'm playing catch (which in all honesty, I really never do...so this is a bad example, but come along on this journey if you will), but when I least expect it.

Oh, somethings falling off my counter?

I reach out and catch it in midair without even thinking twice.

BADA-BING!

Oh, frisbee of death coming right to my head outta no where.

I duck in the nick of time and that baby soars over my head like an eagle.

If I am Buffy, then that means my Spike is coming along soon, right? Too bad he dies. (I'm not acknowledging his appearance on Angel. This was a serious mistake) But, I'd rather have a hot and heavy torrid love affair that gets cut short, than a lifetime of heartache.

Not really sure where this blog is going...or where it went, rather.

But that's okay. Le sigh. 

Alright, I have to get some sleep, so I can be super, peppy, oh-so-excited, the world is sunshine, rainbows out my ass for tomorrow!

YAY!! *excessive use of hands clapping and head motions here*

Goodnight, fellow slayers.