February. Meh.


I woke up this morning not only with the “Oh, FUCK. It’s Monday” mindset, but also with the grim knowledge that it was FEBRUARY, to boot.

This is my least favorite month. You’re past the holidays, but Spring isn’t coming for a long way yet. It’s bleak, it’s cold, and smack dab in the middle is Valentine’s Day.

My relationship with Valentine’s Day is complicated. Not “complicated” in the sense that I’m sleeping with it a couple of times a month and pretending not to care that it’s flirting with other women on Facebook. It’s complicated because of dredged-up memories of Valentine’s Day parties at school where I’d only get a couple of cards from the kids whose parents made them write cards to EVERYBODY. Pity Valentines. It’s complicated because of the Valentines Day in 1986, when I got a carnation in homeroom from “Guess Who?” and I spent the entire day CONVINCED it was from the guy I’d been crushing on for MONTHS, and it turned out to be from this weird kid in my F Block History class.

As Coombsie, and any of my ex-boyfriends for that matter, can tell you – I am about the least “romantic” person on this spinning ball of overheating rock. This is not to say that I’m unsentimental. I openly wept into my box of pretzel M&Ms during Les Misérables. I’m just not especially romantic. I am not into flower petals on the duvet, long walks on the beach, overpriced 3-course dinners in a restaurant full of people trying to get laid, doing weird things with food in the bedroom, lacy undergarments besieged with hooks and snaps that push and lift parts of me that are perfectly happy where they are…any of it.

Any song that references tangled sheets, dreams, breezes in trees or across bodies of water, or being in love with your best friend, gets instant side-eye from me. In fact, when I started dating Coombsie I was all, “For God’s sake, whatever you do, DON’T WRITE A SONG ABOUT ME.” Fortunately, he’s strictly an ax man, so I’ve been quite safe for the last 16 years or so.

You know that episode of Star Trek where they land on the looooove planet and Spock starts acting all goofy and like he’s going to write that Leila bint a song about tangled sheets? GROSSES ME OUT. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Whenever it comes on I start tensing up and yelling, “Ew. Ew! EW! Change the channel! CHANGE IT RIGHT NOW I CANNOT DEAL WITH THIS.”

Know what I like? 5:30 in the afternoon on Valentine’s Day at CVS. The desperation. Dudes coming in and buying the red-cellophane-wrapped boxes of candy that’ve been on the shelf since December 26th. That makes me so happy.

I bet some of you are starting to feel sorry for Coombsie, being married to such a cold, hard, unromantic data jockey such as myself. Sometimes I feel sorry for him, too. Like he should be married to someone who listens to John Mayer or something. Because, okay, Coombsie’s birthday is in March and somebody asked me what I was going to get him and I was like, “Wellll, he kind of wants a new meat thermometer.” And when I got a weird look (kind of like the one you’re giving right now) I yelled, “THIS WOULD MAKE HIM VERY HAPPY, OKAY?!” JESUS.

The Curmudgeon’s Guide To Christmas Music


One of my great pleasures in life is creating playlists of Christmas music.  I like the standards, I like interesting twists on the standards, and I like a lot of the “modern classics.”  I like listening to these playlists on my way into work.  I like listening to them as I’m walking through the city, admiring the lights.  I am, generally, a fan of Christmas music.

That being said, there are certain songs that will never appear on any playlist I create.  Indeed, these songs are more or less banned from my home.  I can’t do anything about them when they turn up on the radio, or in some store, but I can control the amount of tripe that makes its way into my living space.  Here are but a few examples:

It never fails.  Every time I hear this song I am almost honor-bound to sit through the whole thing, sputtering in outrage the entire time:  “What the…?  WHAT AM I HEARING?  IS THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENING?!”  And the quatrain that always makes me shriek the loudest:  “We went to have ourselves a drink or two / But couldn’t find an open bar / We bought a six-pack at the liquor store / And we drank it in her car.” I suppose for many, Christmas Eve is the night you want to be prowling around convenience stores looking for ex-girlfriends/boyfriends so you can go drink in a parking lot and rehash everything that went wrong.  Here’s a tip: you can do the same thing in the comfort of your own home by reading just about anything over at Thought Catalog, and hate yourself just as much in the morning.

SOB!  The poor kid just wants his mama to die wearing nice shoes.  It’s a sentiment we can all relate to, right?

Picture the scene:  it’s 1979, and Sir Paul has just gotten an analog synthesizer – top o’ the line, state o’ the art, and all that.  So he’s sitting there, scratching his head, pondering the best way to take advantage of the patch memory feature and newfangled modulation capabilities.  What do you do if you’re Paul McCartney, ex-Beatle and one of the most beloved songwritering (typo, but it stays) talents of the 20th century, and you’ve got all this technology at your fingertips?  Why, you toke up and write “Wonderful Christmastime,” of course.  And you load it up with so much flatulent synth that you sit at your console and giggle like an 11-year-old boy who’s just heard a fart joke.  And then you foist it upon the masses.  Because you’re Paul McCartney.

If CIA operatives ever wanted to get information out of me, locking me in a dark room and playing this over and over will get me to spill the proverbial beans.  As well as the contents of my stomach.

Dear Mariah, Xtina, et al:  the point of a holiday song is that it has a memorable melody that people like to sing along to.  They can’t do that if you’re cramming ALL THE NOTES into a single measure.  Leave the melisma and vocal acrobatics in your own music, and just SING THE SONG THE WAY IT’S WRITTEN PLZKTHX.

You’re probably thinking, “OK, Ms. Caustic Barbed Wit Curmudgeon – so what is it that you DO like?” I’M SO GLAD YOU ASKED. Just a sampling:

In my opinion, no collection of Christmas music is complete with The Ventures’ Christmas Album.

This is probably my all-time-favorite version of this song. It’s so simple, and so wistful, and so gosh-durned ALTERNATIVE.

Waterworks. Every single time.

So tell me, since I know you’re reading: What’s on your so-bad-it-makes-you-stabby list? Your favorites? Have at it…

Dreck Catalog



This is a rather presumptuous meme, no?  I wouldn’t call my disdain for Thought Catalog “fashionable.”  I’m not a fan of Thought Catalog primarily because I don’t find the writing to be all that original, or exceptional.  But since you asked…

Envy?  Hardly.  Status Anxiety?  I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean.  Ageism?  Mmmmaybe.  OK, probably.

Honestly, I think another reason I’m so irked by Thought Catalog is that it’s clearly not meant for someone like me.  I’ve worked at the same company for 20 years, I spend most of my day analyzing data instead of text messages, and I’m well past the point of obsessing over whether or not my “relationship” with Coombsie is “headed in the right direction.”  I’m not launching my wee raft onto the turbulent ocean of my twenties. I’m halfway across the bay. I can see the shoreline, and I’m pretty sure there’s a subscription to Reader’s Digest and a MedicAlert bracelet waiting for me once I get there.

In other words – I’m old. Old old old. I’m not jaded and/or disillusioned before my time; I’m a pragmatist. If Thought Catalog’s countless listicles are any indication, I’m living the dream, man, since apparently the dream includes being able to run around my house stark naked in front of the person I married. Of course, a lot of times that’s because I’ve been rousted from my bed by the telltale hrk hrk hrk sound of a cat about to expel something wet and flocculent into the shoes I’ve left in the living room, BUT STILL. LIVING THE DREAM.

Christ, I’d LOVE to be able to go back to wondering What It’s All About. I’d love to have the luxury of beating my past relationships into the ground in list format. Thought Catalog – alas – is not interested in my postmodern Bombeck-ian musings on age spots or why I insist on bagging my own groceries. I’m not in the throes of a constant existential dilemma; I don’t have time for it anymore. My immediate concerns revolve around when we we’re going to have to remove the knobs from my mother-in-law’s stove, what’s for dinner, and whether or not I bought trash bags.

In other words, I have come to a grudging acceptance of the fact that most twenty-somethings don’t want to hear what it’s like on this side of my forties. They don’t want to read about how I know Coombsie is “the one” because he laughed at the song I made up while I was cleaning the litterbox the other night (it was to the tune of Duran Duran’s “New Moon On Monday,” and let me tell you, it was some of my best work as a satirist).  And they certainly don’t want a lecture about why ceaseless, insufferable navel-gazing is just not an attractive trait at ANY age.

And this is not to say that I am living a better, more fulfilling, or “grownup” life than Thought Catalog’s readers and contributors. I’m not so old that I don’t remember feeling those feelings, even if the circumstances which prompted them are on the fuzzy side these days. I will say this, though: thank God it didn’t occur to me to use the internet circa ’96 to chronicle those feelings, in real time, any time I may have felt the urge to share them. Because I’m fairly certain that would’ve looked an awful lot like Thought Catalog. In fact, it would have been more accurate it to call it “Tripe Catalog,” or “Dreck Catalog.”

Because I’m not going to pretend I was anything close to a deep thinker at 25, despite what I may have felt about myself at the time.  Shit, I’m not even particularly sagacious now. At band rehearsal the other night we spent an embarrassing amount of time between songs coming up with increasingly terrible and puerile euphemisms for my Lagoon of Mystery. And I’m FORTY TWO YEARS OLD.

And so, since nothing I write will ever make its way into Thought Catalog, here’s my own Thought Catalog:

8 Things That Make Me Realize I’m Too Old For Thought Catalog

  1. I’ve been getting mail from the AARP, and I’m starting to consider opening it.
  2. Pondering the state of my relationship usually goes no further than: “Am I going to yell at him for leaving that dirty pint glass on the counter?”
  3. I have underwear in my drawer from the Bush administration. And that’s the “sexy” stuff.
  4. I graduated college the same year that the average Thought Catalog contributor was being potty trained.
  5. I have a Pinterest account. I use it for recipes.
  6. I am regularly addressed as “ma’am” by baristas.
  7. Was that a hot flash?
  8. I remember a world in which Jabba never appeared in Episode IV, and Hayden Christensen was nowhere to be found in Episode VI.

Now pass the Postum, and get out of my yard.

Things Can Only Get Better…


I was hanging out the other evening with a handful of some of my favorite people, among them my friends Jon and Craig.  They’ve been together – oh lord – for YEARS now…I think almost as long as Coombsie and I have been married.

I don’t even remember how this came up, exactly, but Craig and I were on the couch, and Jon was in our Big Fancy Grownup Mission-Style Leather Recliner™, when Craig said to me, “You know, 80s music is really like Prozac for Jon.”

“Oh, it’s true,” Jon piped up from the recliner, “Like this morning, I was in SUCH A BAD MOOD, and Craig knew to put on some Howard Jones and within an hour I was just DANCING AROUND THE HOUSE.”

I sat on this for a minute.  “My God.  You are SO RIGHT.  Because it’s TRUE.  At the end of a particularly trying day, I have to tell Coombsie, ‘No…NO…I CANNOT listen to college radio on the way home.  I cannot listen to the latest hipster music, or avant klezmer zydeco, or whatever they are playing on the college radio station right now.  I have had a DAY, Coombsie, and I need to listen to SOMETHING I KNOW.'”

When I was a kid, I liked listening to “oldies.”  I liked sitting in the back seat of my mom’s Pinto and grilling her on whatever song was playing.  Because it was the Seventies, and in the Seventies, everyone was obsessed with the Fifties, and I had done the math and realized that my parents were ALIVE BACK THEN.  So I was naturally curious if they sipped on milkshakes at Formica-topped counters while Elvis crooned in the background, like they showed on “Happy Days.”

My mom studied me in the rearview mirror.  “You want to hear my Elvis story?  Here’s my Elvis story.  It was around Christmas, and your dad and I were at some shitty bar, and the jukebox was stuck on ONE SONG.  ONE SONG, and that was ‘Blue Christmas.’  OVER AND OVER AGAIN.  Those whiny backing vocals.  JESUS CHRIST.  There was not enough liquor IN THE WORLD to make that song bearable.”

Still, I wondered about what I’d consider “oldies” when I was my mother’s age.  Already I had a sense of borrowed nostalgia, and the idea that certain songs could be comforting in some way.  And now I’m at the age where records I remember going out and buying for myself are being played on “oldies” stations.

And Craig is right.  He’s absolutely right.  That stuff soothes me like nothing else.

If you could pack this stuff into pill form, it would work wonders for some of us.  I mean, I’m not going to stop taking what I actually do have to take in pill form to keep me from doing something completely inappropriate in ANY context.  Let’s say that it’s part of a mental health regimen that’s just better for everyone involved.

…and we’re ALL safer for it.

It’s not a journey…


At what point does one outgrow pretentiousness? I’m asking for a friend.

In the early 90s, I’d just been jettisoned from my cozy little undergraduate cocoon into the harsh, cruel world, where it turned out that the only employment available to someone with a B.A. in Theatre (and plans to continue on to graduate school to learn how to WRITE) was at The GAP. Yes, y’all – I worked at The GAP. I started on the floor but was quickly “promoted” to Visual Coordinator, where – totally unseen by the customers – I held court in an unused bank of fitting rooms, armed with an ironing board, iron, clear plastic “bodyforms,” a box of T-pins, whatever clothes we needed to pimp that week, and what was left of my pride.

The GAP was enjoying a renaissance of sorts that year. It was the year of their hugely successful khaki campaign (“Steve McQueen wore khakis!” “Some writer guy wore khakis!”). It was also the year of this particularly baffling commercial:

As I said, this was the year I was readying myself for graduate school, and so I wrote feverishly (read: under the influence of various substances) in order to have plenty of material to present to Emerson College when it came time to apply to their Graduate WLP program. As such, I had filled notebooks with playlets, short stories, and “poetry” by the spring of ’93. I was prolific during this time, due to a combination of ruthless ambition, and the totally untreated mental illness that made me such a thrilling girlfriend back then.

And some of my writing was quite good, certainly good enough for Emerson to decide to take me on that autumn. And some of it was strikingly putrid dreck. But I remember seeing this commercial and thinking, “I can write better than that. Where’s MY GAP commercial?”

Fast-forward to 2012. I am still paying off that graduate degree from Emerson, and I’ve parlayed all that I learned there into this wildly successful “blogging career.” And perplexing, mediocre poetry in commercials has made a comeback:

So there are these lightbulbs going off in my head, you know? I have all my journals from ’92 – ’96 in my basement, along with my old Thespian Society trophies and those jeans that I keep thinking I’ll fit into again once I lose ten pounds. Somewhere in those journals is SOLID COMMERCIAL GOLD.

I can picture Brad Pitt continuing to shill for Chanel, looking all purposefully unkempt and morose, staring into the camera and reciting these lines:

in case you were wondering,
i played house with you
when i couldn’t sleep
it was nice in theory
and we had cool furniture
but i could never quite
telling you about
the things that keep me alive –
my words,
the words of others that
i wish could be mine,
how they fit together and
how some people make money
by getting them into a lucrative
i couldn’t tell you
because it all became static…
and i knew that yours
was only
the most polite of interests…

Yes, ladies and gents, that up there is something I wrote in 1994. Innit TERRIBLE? Every time I read it, I fantasize about going back in time and saying to my 24-year-old self: “JESUS GOD NO – do NOT write that. NO – DO NOT – DO NOT – WRITE THAT. DON’T.” But the fact is that I DID. And I may as well try to cash in, since the ad agency behind this particular campaign seems to be in the market for Wicked Shitty Poetry Penned By Drunk, Mentally Ill 24-Year-Olds. Because if you look at it THAT way, it’s BRILLIANT. It’s tormented! It’s puerile! It has absolutely NOTHING to do with perfume!

Brad, have your people call my people. I have REAMS of this crap, for real.

Shock and Awe on the Internet


My friend Derrick and I were talking about that moment when you stumble into some dark crevice of the web and realize that the internet is not as wonderful as you once thought.  And we weren’t even talking about the comments sections of most major news outlets.

I’ve had an online diary/blog/whatever kind of presence on the interwebs since the late 1990s.  So that’s — what? — at least 15 years?  And I’m not even counting my Prodigy account in ’94 or whenever.  And I can remember some of those early moments of total disillusionment.  I mean, not enough to scare me off the web…it’s sort of like your weird, drunk cousin.  You know you’re going to run into the weird, drunk cousin (WDC) at every family gathering.  You will have to endure WDC’s wine breath as WDC confides some deeply personal (and borderline disturbing) information that WDC has been DYING to tell you since the last wake/wedding/birthday party.  But you don’t STOP going to these things just because WDC is going to be there.  You go because there’s also a high probability of cake, and cake will always trump WDC.  Right?  And so it is with the internet.

But I remember the first time I encountered chatroom acronyms.  I remember venturing into the terrifying realm of Angelfire-hosted goth websites, navigating their spinning ankhs and dripping blood bars:

I remember my first “flame war,” with a creator of one of those said goth websites.  I remember the deep shame and remorse I felt as a result (“I’m picking a fight with a kid in a Christian Death tshirt…what the HELL is wrong with me?”).  I remember realizing that ANYONE could publish their terrifyingly execrable poetry for all to see.  I remember my first internet “stalkers.”  I remember the guy who kept sending me pictures of himself with his cat.  I remember Numa Numa.  I remember goatse.  I remember MySpace.

But none of these things have kept me off the internet.  I began to feel as though I was becoming jaded.  I’d seen so much over the years.  Once I’d seen Cryptie, I reasoned, could I really be surprised by anything anymore?

Never underestimate the vast universe of WTF?! that is the internet.  Because one evening (the eve of my 42nd birthday, if you want to get precise), I was confronted with a heretofore unprobed dark corner of the web.

Bunnies humping balloons.


You guys.  This is a THING, you guys.

Bunnies humping balloons is a THING.

My mind is completely blown.

“I live my life like there’s no tomorrow…”


On Sundays, we go to the Linden Diner for brekkies (no – not brunch; we are there far too early for it to be considered brunch, and there is no cantaloupe garnish on the plate). As is our custom, we take certain sections of the Sunday paper with us. I read the Magazine, the Arts section, and the “Ideas” section. In that order, always.

Yesterday I drank my diner coffee, one eyebrow raised, lips pursed about to deliver the snark, as I read this article, an interview with an scholar/sociologist who has written a book suggesting that Van Halen are misunderstood and under-appreciated Zen philosophers.

Sort of. The author doesn’t go quite as far as to say that David Lee Roth was some kind of deep thinker, but asserts that he was “an adherent of Zen philosophy.”

The idea of Diamond Dave as a lion-maned, hairy-chested, spandex-clad Zen Master is sort of ridiculous on paper, but is it totally unfounded?

Zen teaches us to live in the present moment, or as Roth teaches us in “Runnin’ With The Devil,” to live our lives “like there’s no tomorrow,” although he later posits that the “simple life ain’t so simple.”

Still, one “might as well jump.” “Reach down between my legs n’ ease the seat back,” and search for satori.

I withheld the snark yesterday in the Linden Diner, and went home to reflect on what I had read, helped along with Zen Master Roth’s isolated vocal track from “Runnin’ With The Devil,” which my friend Jon had sent me many years ago when I was in the midst of heartbreak. “See if this doesn’t bring you some moment of joy in all of this,” he instructed me. Because Jon and I have been friends since we were teenagers, I grokked that he perhaps understood me better than I did myself, so I listened. And, lo, I was clean amazed and did laugh for the first time in many days. All these years later, it’s still my go-to for joy.

Woooo!  WOOOOOO!  Indeed.

The Fireworks Retaliation Playlist


Coombsie and I lived in the city proper for 14+ years. During that time, we had a number of relatives who refused to visit us in our urban digs. You know, because the city is DANGEROUS.

I always wanted to tell them, “Listen, I am a product of the suburbs. And let me tell you, FAR more freakish shit happens there than here.” Prostitution rings run from dungeons in basement rec rooms? The ‘burbs. Major oxycodone busts involving pillars of the community? The ‘burbs. And yet people persist in clinging to this belief that if you live somewhere with a lot of trees and chain restaurants, you’re “safer” than you are in a city.

In the city we lived less than a block from a playground and a health center. We were within walking distance of nice parks and organic grocery stores. We moved to a suburb north of Boston a couple of years ago. We are now within walking distance of a strip club, a shady abandoned bank building, and a bar that’s open at 8 o’clock in the morning. And these same relatives were all, “Yay! When are you having a barbeque? What do you want us to bring?”

In the city, our neighbors were artists, teachers, and social workers. In this suburb north of Boston, our neighbors are…well…hillbillies.

Yes, this is an incorrect term, both “politically” and geographically. Our neighbors are not literal hillbillies.

A very large number of them all seem to live in the same house on the end of our street. They spill out onto their driveway and down the sidewalk, upon which the children scrawl obscene epithets with luridly-hued chalk. In the evening, they sit on their steps (and sometimes OUR steps) and yell into their cellphones. The air is electric with profanity (which ordinarily isn’t a problem for me; it’s just that it’s such pedestrian profanity). On Saturday nights, they get quite intoxicated and wander up and down the street loudly bewailing the sad, sorry state of their relationships/jobs/other family members. And they LOVE fireworks.

And hey – who doesn’t? It’s just that they have been setting off fireworks roughly every evening since June 29th. There is seemingly no end to their cache of illegal celebratory explosives. This past Sunday night they began lighting them off at 10 o’clock. So I began devising some retaliation strategies that A) would get my message across (the message being: “Hey hillbilly neighbors – quit setting off fireworks when it’s no longer Independence Day!”), and B) wouldn’t get me beaten up by the aforementioned hillbilly neighbors, who already think I’m a freak (and let’s face it, I am).

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a rather large collection of music, reflecting my varied and broad tastes. Some of my favorite music tends to be a little…er…DARK. I also gravitate towards loud, inappropriate lyrical content, and downright strange. So I figured, I’ll create a playlist that I can play at, say, eight o’clock on a Sunday morning when teh hillbilly neighborz are sleeping off their hangovers. It will be something I will enjoy listening to, AND it will deliver a couple of messages:

1) I am crazy as hell.
2) I will keep playing this for as long as you have fireworks.

Let me remind you again: I was raised in the suburbs.

Wide “Awake” On Twitter.


It’s no secret among my nearest and dearest that I cannot stop watching the prolonged trainwreck that is Tila Tequila.

If you have no idea who I’m talking about, here’s a brief primer: she’s a former Playboy/Import Tuner model who inexplicably had, like, a billion friends on MySpace (remember MySpace, kiddies?) and a couple of MTV reality dating shows based on her alleged bisexuality. The general consensus among those in the “industry” is that Ms. Tequila, born Thien Thanh Thi Nguyen, is the opportunistic sort known as “gay for pay.” In other words – will this get me a show on MTV? OK, then, I’m bisexual! Yay!

On paper, she’s not at all interesting. You may be asking why I follow her antics at all. What I didn’t mention in the above paragraph is that Tila Tequila is also COMPLETELY BATSHIT INSANE.

To hear Tila tell it, nobody has endured more hardships and tragedy than she has. It’s sort of like that girl you knew in college who always had something worse happen than whatever happened to you, right? You’d mention you once were in a car accident, and she was not only in THREE car accidents, she also sustained grave injuries and had a childhood friend die in her arms. Tila is that girl. Tila has had numerous “pregnancies” and “miscarriages,” one of which she live-Tweeted just hours before getting on a plane to Australia to lip-sync her hit song “I Fucked The DJ” in a couple of bars. She had a brief “engagement” to socialite/heiress Casey Johnson, which ended when Johnson was found dead of diabetic ketoacidosis (Tila, never one to pass up an opportunity for publicity, romped around in her yard posing for pictures the next morning, looking kind of sad).

While this is all typical z-list celebrity fuckery, Tila really shines brighter than them all when she goes off on one of her Illuminati rants.

DISCLAIMER: Look, I know some people out there believe the Illuminati still exist and have control over everyone and everything, right down to what I had for breakfast this morning (Illuminati-os, fortified with extra vitamin MKULTRA). I know all about the 13 bloodlines and the Reptilians and the “greys” and all that other stuff that makes it so entertaining in the way that many things on the internet are entertaining. Like kittens, and kids on nitrous oxide, and people who analyze Lady Gaga videos for satanic symbols. And I know that as soon as I post this, some conspiracy theorist is gonna get all on my wick and tell me I’m blind/stupid/sheep-like for not taking it seriously. Hey, believe what you want; nobody’s stopping you. And, for that matter, nobody’s stopping Tila, either, despite what she’d have you believe.

Which brings me back to Tila Tequila’s Illuminati Revue. Every six months or so, she takes a little too much of something which may or may not be illegal, and goes on 12-hour internet benders, most of which go a little like this:

I don’t want to tell you all of what I know, right now, because they are watching. As a matter of fact, I had a huge battle with the others for a long time and I must admit, they are powerful. But there needs to be someone, anyone, to stand up against them and for world to be restored back into peace and harmony once again…You would be shocked if I told you which celebrity has the same bloodline as the devil God I wish I could tell you more…I for one, was sent on earth from God. To be one of his angels to try to help this world that is half white and half dark. There is right now a critical war between good and bad. I am on the good side, and that is why they’re always trying to get me.

I, for one, feel so much safer knowing that there is a merciful, benevolent God who so loves this world that he sent TILA TEQUILA to look after us.

Sometimes I have to pretend to act like a ‘BIMBO’ so they dont monitor my page. That’s an act. Im sorry but that’s the only way to get them to stop monitoring. Cuz when I start being myself and speaking the truth they come to monitor me. I learned the ONLY TIME they stop watching me is after about an hour of me posting mindless bimbo type status but thats my cover up. God now I’m paranoide agin.

Yeah, I couldn’t quite decipher that, either. Although “paranoide agin” has a nice ring to it.

And then, generally, these tweets/posts disappear within 24 hours and she hints that THEY made her take them down. And her fans go bonkers, like, ZOMG SO SCARY TILA UR SO BRAVE FOR EXPOSING TEH OTHERS!!1!

Just recently, Tila claimed to have had a brain aneurysm. Or, wait, no…it was an overdose. An overdose on pain medication because she was having an aneurysm. Something like that. But you and I know that it was really THE ILLUMINATI TRYING TO SHUT HER UP.

I find this whole thing hilarious for many reasons, not the least of which is the idea that of all the people out there hell-bent on exposing the Illuminati, it’s Tila Tequila that poses the most threat to their quest for world domination. Listen, if anything, the Illuminati is TOTALLY THRILLED that Tila is writing about them so much, because her crack rants make most sane, rational people LESS likely to believe in it. Say I’m in the Illuminati, getting ready to don my Sumerian robe and direct a Jay-Z video, and someone tells me Tila’s posted this:

This goes back waaaaaaaaaaay back from the beginning of time. Also where the bloodline starts, and up til this day, you would be SHOCKED to know who is in the same bloodline and cousins as who. For instance, Obama and George bush are actually in the same bloodline, as well as Prince Charles, Brad Pitt……….. shit I better stop now before I get shut down.

I’d be all, “Great! Keep at it, cray-cray!”

My theory? Tila doesn’t actually believe in ANY of this. She is carefully carving out a name for herself as “Hot Chick Who Writes About The Illuminati” (sort of like the Ann Coulter of the Conspiracy Theory Set) because she can’t get work anywhere else. Hey, it makes people pay attention to her, right?

Or it could be that she’s just batshit insane – a glorious fireworks display of crazy, viewed from the banks of the River Wackadoo.

I feel dirty now. Time to take about five showers.