All posts by Licketysplit

No shoes, no shirt and I still get serviced

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Darlings, I find I get much more service when I take my shirt off. It’s a game changer in any argument. Try it.

Today, I just don’t even know! Things, stuff, goings on. New Hampshire loves a wing nut, so that’s not surprising. Santorum in the rear? This stuff writes itself. You don’t need me, jerks.

All I know is I got home somehow, in a rage fugue, after a long day of God knows what (answering stupid questions, interviewing a stupid person, attending stupid meetings, making my standard yet perpetually popular suggestion of “ambush makeovers!”), and there was a bouquet of Percocet waiting for me. Was it Valentine’s Day already? No, someone just didn’t want it. Well, I never.

I am so genuinely touched that when people seek to discard medication, they think of me. “Ah, Licketysplit will take that!”  I’m like your neighborhood health department, only I don’t make you wait for one special day to offload your contraband.

Next thing I know, I’m having a bikini fashion show courtesy of a giant Zappos box. I love when I order things yesterday and then forget all about it. And the things show up today! Which is now! A while ago that is. I went to change, and someone had been hot boxing in the bathroom. Not me, but I appreciated it. Then I aimlessly wandered around the house, forgetting why I was wearing a bathing suit. Damn it, Zappos, how am I supposed to return the things I over-ordered when everything looks so fabulous? Do I have the best taste or what? Hang on, let me tweet you a picture of how good my hair looks today.

Someone is talking at me. Why, why is that person talking? Am I listening? No. I don’t do that anymore. It makes life much more tolerable. Oh sweet Jesus, I just had to explain the term “Machiavellian.” Damn it, that was my fault for listening. OK, I slapped myself. Better.

Nothing’s gonna touch you in these golden years

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First David Bowie takes our livestock, and now our entitlement programs? Bless him. If he can give the gift of swagger to the world and all its little Timberlakes and Biebers, he is allowed a measly check on the first of the month. I hope he is enjoying a lovely party with lots of “Sexty-five” balloons.

I have had a taxing week, which caused me to completely fail to post every day. How does that work? For some reason, I am now a professional meeting attendee. This would be fine, except I have no time to actually DO work. I just talk about doing work, then tell other people to do the work. Then I listen to wrathful music on my commute home, bolt some food if there is any prepared already, throw as many substances in my body as I can, and then it’s off to dream land, or more likely staring into the dark replaying irrelevant interactions. Like, yeah, I should have told that person to fuck herself, but live and learn. There’s always next time.

Then yesterday was an exhausting maelstrom of salon appointments and trips to Barneys, because who can get everything done in a single go-round? I think I also got Starbucks. And there was a real touch and go moment when I thought I had lost my sunnies, but they were already on! Haha!

Today I had a meltdown at the prospect of trying on bathing suits. Why is life so cruel? I die.

And tomorrow? I will attend work in a physical sense, but likely not a mental one. It will be like the opposite of astral projection.

I will dye the child’s hair raspberry red, as per her request. I will tear into a Zappos order and start a shame spiral and vow to live in nothing but caftans for the rest of my days. I still need to ruthlessly analyze my successes and failures of 2011. I give 10 points to House of Vomitola because I remained alive. But I must subtract 5 because of that whole Ryan Gosling thing. Another 5 for inconsistent skin care regimens. Another 5 down for recovering from anorexia. Oh, I can’t win for losing.

Grab somebody sexy, tell em hey

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Hey girl, I had a better run than I did in 2010. At least I was not run over, unlike my poor Lambchop.

I did not lack for Klonopin, have surgery, move, or have any important breakdowns. I added many witty and attractive friends to my roster, and most of my existing friends remained witty and attractive. The exception has been properly counseled.

I got several jobs by simple virtue of not drooling on myself, and I am now on my second nemesis. I am closing out the year richer and thinner, which is apparently the American dream.

But there is still work to be done in the coming year. Did I sell the Indian Burial Ground?  Travel enough? Truly work at creative pursuits? Have sex with Ryan Gosling? Resolve my .375 life crisis? No.

I was all set to hunker down and berate myself for all the little things that perpetually go wrong and the larger things not yet accomplished. I was going to make A Plan. I would summon my plastic surgeon, my colorist, my trainer, my attorney, my accountants, and my therapist. I would set right the insults of aging and goad myself to superhuman levels of performance in all areas of life.

Then I realized that would be a lot of tedious work. And what do I ultimately prefer? No such thing.

Hence, a solution was born. Or rather casually regurgitated by the cloud with no effort on my part.

It’s Vomitola canon law that losers fuck themselves, so the real secret is to get out of one’s own way. And be the ball. If you build it, you may get sued. So don’t. Even.

Continue

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Much has transpired in 2011. I have gone from sitting around in my underwear to sitting around in my underwear. In the Caribbean.

So where have I been? My brain is constantly buzzing. It rarely gets me anywhere. As a thought publisher, I become confused as to where to distribute my best thoughts. There are ramifications. Do I choose Facebook? Twitter? This esteemed site? Tumblr? Should I post a boob shot or disapproving scowl on Instagram? Lengthy comment on a Foursquare check-in? Should I just do a group text? An actual email?  Will what I’m thinking of saying get me fired or arrested? The answer to that last one is often “yes.”

And there’s a question of publishing opportunity. I require regular helpings of sleep and alcohol. Work has the incredibly poor taste to be time consuming. Oh, I got a new nemesis, y’all!  I am not a time waster.

My loose plan is to battle my raging case of ADD and post every day for an entire month. I think I could coast for an entire week just on pictures of dogs with ennui, but that’s not very sporting, is it?

There is no pill for this

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My heart says yes. My gut says move to Belize. I’ll let them fight it out, as none of them are getting out alive.

In the meantime, I will wear the pointy shoes of authority and hope for the best. What does that ancient sage Liz Phair say? “It’s nice to be liked, but it’s better by far to get paid.”  Your love is better than ice cream? Who cares! Liz, you’re a goddamn genius.

 

Quittin’ Time!

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Right now, I’m taking a break from rolling around on the floor, giggling.

My work here is literally done.

Not at Vomitola HQ, mind you. Lambchop and I sued for sexiness discrimination the last time they tried to oust us. It’s true: in America, you cannot be dismissed for being too attractive. Thank God we finally have some protection as Attractive-Americans.

I think I’ll miss commuting at 5 mph the most. But perhaps this longing can be assuaged by swimming in my money bin.

See, I applied to join the 1%, and after a series of tests (mostly matching shoes to bags and ordering off the menu in French), I reached the final hurdle: orphan clubbing. But I saw through this ruse. I hired someone to club the orphans FOR me. And what do you know, I was in!

I take my new responsibilities seriously. No, I will not sponsor your charity walk. Why are you obsessed with redistributing my wealth?

Memorare

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Let us never forget…that Americans are resilient, quickly regaining a complete lack of shame in only ten short years.  Thank you, Operation Enduring Zuckerberg.

I think that calls for a palate cleanser:

No? Too angry?

How about…

Now THAT’s better. America, I am looking for a brand new lover.

In not totally unrelated news, last night at around 11 o’clock, Mr. H. got a text. He read it and said “Oh, hey, happy crapiversary!” And I’ll be darned, the little dickens was right, it was our wedding anniversary. Which we both thoroughly forgot. I don’t know what we’d do without texts from other people to remind us. Oh well, eight years. I guess we had a good run! That’s like a whole model’s career in dog years.

Everything.sucks

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tiny and very reasonable painted sparkle heads

I need someone to take dictation. Ideally someone with some really flumpy sweater kittens. Anyone? Eh, I guess I will continue to shout out loud to myself while I drive. A significant portion of my day is still spent driving, and while I try to delight in the anthropological value of watching a Prius ruthlessly cut off the Coexist-plastered Tercel that ruthlessly cut off me, sometimes the good life wears thin, as Stephin Merritt said. I need an evil twin to handle my commute!

And once I’m on the job, I need to exert a certain amount of mental energy in vanquishing my enemies. Luckily, they pretty much take care of themselves, owing to their stunning incapacity. I am going to suggest the patented Vomitola program of vanquishing when I am next at the Pentagon. I could do it in less than 5 slides, including stick figures and case studies. And with that, we’d save billions of dollars a month, as we leave our enemies to inevitably ruin themselves. We could build a giant dome and keep to ourselves with the extra cash. A swimming pool full of money for every man, woman, and child! Now there’s a stimulus.

But this experiment called life is not all eye rolling on conference calls and sniffing white board markers as others flap their gums. Sometimes we find time to do things! Lambchop has been very busy luring passersby into a van, and she is working on a series of Tiny and Very Reasonable paintings (as seen above!), which can be coveted and purchased at Sparkleheads.com.

I am thinking of raising money on Kickstarter to snap up the .sucks domain when internet anarchy begins to reign next year. I only need $185,000 more, and I think I’ll be good. My company would be called Everything.Sucks. We’re all you need for things that suck! I am assuming I will face stiff competition for the acquisition from Verizon.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out why my Entourage calendar keeps flipping to 2013. Does Microsoft outrank Mayan prophecy?

A Glamorous Retreat

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I was recently informed that sitting is the new smoking (God help smokers who also sit). I spend a fair amount of time in the car now, typically sitting, and this gives me plenty of time to ponder my own mortality and the mortality of that idiot in front of me with the “Cash For Your Warhol” sticker on his bumper. Oh, tee hee. Frigging Cambridge.

Last night, as I drove home in a lightning storm, narrowly avoiding a squashing as the rear doors of a tractor trailer flew open in front of me, I wondered if I should prepare a farewell post for Just In Case. I already have my clearly marked album of sexy photos labeled “Approved for use for public memorial purposes.” But there are so many ways to kick it that I think I might have to target my posts and photos, much like one used to be advised to target a resume in the olden days when people actually had those or read them.

If I die in a particularly thrilling way, like forced Fugu poisoning because I crossed the Yakuza or going on a mescaline-fueled bender and crashing a stolen fighter jet into Mount Rushmore, I want my family to first call Michael Bay and sell the rights to my story. Then they will need to notify my social networks and even my parents. I would want my official final photos to show the deep, introspective side of me too. It’s not all glitter and body oil and cleavage over here. We also have philosophy. And Opinions.

If I die in one of the far more likely common manners of death, I might need to punch it up a little. Imagine reading an obituary blandly detailing my death in a car accident, an IKEA assembly tragedy, or acute compflunction from exposure to Katy Perry (It’s transcendental/at another level). Yawn. In that case, pull out all the stops! I want to be remembered as a be-frilled vixen who ruled with an iron fist in a newborn skin glove.

It really is impossible to please everyone, even myself, isn’t it. Some people make wills, I leave style guides. Oh hell, I will leave it all up to Lambchop. She’s good with this sort of vision work.