The Worst Day everrrrr

This day sucks so royally bad. It was like a pool-shark's effect of ricocheting bad-news balls. The terrible events of October 19 ran like an obituary of a cursed (wo)man's life. Somewhere in Haiti there's is a pissed voo-doo witch sticking pins into a corn-husk doll that must look exactly like me. I woke up with a teeny, fetal hangover to nurse, but nothing an iced skim latte couldn't render. I returned 3 movies and the shy, seemingly nice counter girl scolded me for bringing them to the front counter when there's a perfectly good drop off box located at the front of the store. Then I skulked back home to find an e-mail awaiting about this trade/craft/livelihood/métier I interviewed for the day before (when they shook my hand and congratulated me on the gig) telling me that, upon further investigation of their agenda, they now find that they are, indeed, full up. So I moon a little. Hours pass. And then I get my mail. A credit card account I closed six months ago found a hidden accidental credit (from March!) and I owe them $200.00. Of course, Me: Glutton, I call them and get transferred to people other than inmates at the womens's prison, perhaps their supervisors, and Clayton (a homo) and I throw down. Who do you think won? Clayton did. So I have to mail the Bank of America (SHAM! FRAUD! SCAMMERS!!) $200 bones I'll probably have to prostitute myself out to earn. After all this ranting, I'm pretty hungry, so I walk to Whole Foods and pick me up some dinner where I'm waiting in line to pay, and just like out of a movie, this little kid was laughing and playing with his mother in the cart, looks over to me and sticks his tongue out at me, but goes back to his mother and pretends like he didn't do anything. It was really like he knew what kind of a day I was having and wanted to twist the knife in a little harder, with his precocious little eraser pink f-ing tongue. I go home and my sister (who's apartment I'm staying at, for $600 a month, on a broken, spring-poking couch in a 10 X 10 room that is the go between every room) and she tells me to f'ing "straighten up my area." And then we get into it: I go, "I hate it here." She goes, "Then leave." And I go, "Maybe I will!" She goes, "You should!" And on and on. Then I go to the movies, hoping I'll catch something in time, anything, and what's on? The Halle Barry movie about how her husband dies and she takes care of his heroine-addicted best friend. Sunny, uplifting. On the way to the movie, however, I pick up a sugarless chocolate at a health food store. When I stand up to leave the movie, poo tries exiting my anus with great force and determination. I go to the bathroom. The poo gets shy and doesn't want to go swimming just yet. So I race home, and that's when Poo decides he wants to come out and play all over the pavement of New York. I barely made it home to the porcelain god, but as I sat there releasing the toxic poison chocolate, I almost wished I never made it. Because what better ending to this story than, "And then I shit my pants!"

It's harder than you think...

So, recently I went on a series of auditions to be the host for the Discovery channel's new show "Wasted" about renovating homes into "greener" versions. I really wish their show was just about getting wasted, because I think I would've done much better. I love my Mother Earth and all, but I'm no tree-hugging hippy. Anyhoo, they had me do some weird things like go through garbage and tell people what they could've recycled or not used at all. Their direction to me after a few takes was, "Be like Louis C.K.!" "No, we need more Denis Leary!" I'm like, "What the F? You want me to fire one up and start telling these people they can shove their plastic bottles of water up their diamond-tight ass-holes?" I mean, it was just so bizarre! 'Hey, Actress, we want you for our show! Can you lob banana peels and batteries at these total strangers, and make sure you tell them how to properly dispose of type 2 plastics!!!!!!!!!' Whatever, Discovery Channel. Then it dawned on me (like a CFL lightbulb) Hosting is a lot harder than it looks! We watch all these retarded reality shows/make-over shows and see these well turned hosts never skip a beat. And then it dawned on me some more. I think everything is harder than you think and I'm going to go through life just saying that about every new thing I try, so I won't look like such a failing ass-hole. "Oh, going grocery shopping? That is a lot harder than you think! You have to get a caaarrrrttt. Then you have to pick out stuff on shelvessss and then you have to pay. It's really tough. I know! You wouldn't think so, but it is." Or, "Actually, getting cash out of an ATM isn't as easy as it looks, folks. There is a vertiable montage of things that could go wrong." And, "If I can just accomplish returning this video back to Blockbuster, then I know the hardest part of my day is over."

How Unemployment Insurance mocks us...

Since my cabaret is closing down for a little while, Gigi gets to take advantage of some free filthy lucre. But here's the catch: each week, I must log onto the UI page and make my weekly claim to get my measly duckets no one could live on save for homeless, dieting people like me. I love the series of deriding questions it poses in its clinical, governmental way: Did you make an active search for employment this week? (yes) Were you physically able to work each day? (well, I was hungover, bleary eyed and all I could do was eat greasy food and drink Vitamin Water and watch back-to-back "Weeds" episodes and surf the World Wide Waste of Time, but YES! I probably could get out of bed and show up somewhere -- lord knows I've done it before.) But what I really enjoy is how they, like a shuffle-footed ex-lover, beat around the bush: They say,"Did you make an active search?" But what they mean is, "What the Fug have you been DOING with your time, you lazy bitch?" They mean, "Seriously, you slothful whore, crusing Barnes & Noble DOES NOT constitute a J to the O to the B." When they say, "You proclaim you made an active search making at least 3 job contacts in the last week?" They mean,"WTF, Gigi?" And then they make you prove it -- furthering their doubt of your productivity and genuine yearn for gainful employment. They scold, "So you're f'in telling ME, the Washington State Government, that you mailed out a measly 3 whimpy, flacid resumes to fancy restaurants who won't even look at you without your modeling portfolio and a proper BJ to the doorman and expect to get work?" "Oh, jeez, good job, you indolent C-You-Next-Tuesday." "Shit." "Well, here's your check! Go out and buy yourself a 40 ouncer and a strap into a Silm Jim. Treat Yourself! On US."