I started to write about Tiger Woods and his wife and Windermeregate.

And then I thought, oh good gravy, who gives a flying golf ball?

You’re welcome.

Ever feel that way?
Why go on?

I do. I feel that way right now.

Everything has turned to ashes, all around me. I feel surrounded by death and entropy.

And I try to get out and I just get pushed farther in. By other people. Nobody will let me come out.

After a while you stop trying.

Except for this. I just took a sleeping pill, and stopped. I didn’t swallow the whole bottle, like I wanted to.

That’s something, anyway.

Now I’ll probably fall asleep soon, and the pain with it.

And that’s as close to writing a suicide note as I’ve ever come on the blog.

Late breaking news: I still can’t sleep. So I swallowed two more.

Three Ambiens does not count as a suicide attempt. It is my desperate way to try to make my suicidal brain shut it down, now.

I am trying very hard to deal with this responsibly.

I know nobody will say they want me to kill myself. Except maybe a couple of real shitheads who aren’t around anymore, anyway.

But the thing is, when you’re feeling that way, what everybody says is just white noise.

And it’s mean, I know, but I want to shout back.

You don’t want me to off myself? Well then why the hell did you say that to me that time or do that thing you did to me? That what I always want to yell back.

Other people put you in hell and then get exasperated when you find yourself there and just want to end it to get out.

Maybe if people would stop PUTTING me in hell….but oh, I know, that’s a fool’s game. Nobody can do anything to do without your consent, and all the rest of that psychobabble nonsense I’m supposed to buy into.

I know this makes no sense. When we get into this territory, cryptic is the only language I can use. 

It’s just that I feel pain. A lot of it. Tons. The pain is so intense, if you can believe it, that it’s making my eye sockets ache. 

It’s an old pain. The pain that reminds me I’m useless and have no use here. It’s always waiting for something in life to prove it right so it can weasel into my brain and say “Seeeeee? What did I tell you? You’ve always sucked, and someone new has found out. They always do.”

That voice is my enemy. And it lives in me.

I want to go to sleep. Please kick in, sleeping pills.

You can see it here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im8oLs3o_Ug

It’s already had quite a few hits, but if you haven’t seen it yet, it’s a funny as song lol! As funny as SONNY WITH A CHANCE, imho.

It parodies I Don’t Dance from high School Musical, but well worth your time and effort

On dirait que tout le monde à le goût de s’envoyer en l’air. Guy l’a fait.

Balloon Boy aussi.

Maintenant c’est au tour de Toshiba d’essayer l’expérience à l’aide d’un gros ballon d’hélium, 4 caméras IK-HR1S, une chaise spécialement construite en bois de Balsa afin d’en alléger le poids au maximum et sans oublier un bidule GPS pour retrouver le tout une fois retombé sur le sol du désert du Nevada.

L’expérience avait déjà été testée par des étudiants du MIT au mois de septembre. Avec un budget de 150$, ils ont réussi à prendre des clichés à près de 93,000 pieds.

C’est intéressant de voir comment le fait de voler ou s’élever du sol fait encore rêver. Ça fascine les gens et aussi les médias!

Ballon Boy a monopolisé l’attention des Américains et des chaines de TV pendant plusieurs heures. Le vol plané de la soucoupe a notamment été couvert en direct par CNN.

La couverture médiatique du voyage de Guy équivaudrait selon Influence Communication à plus de 592M$

Le projet des étudiants du MIT à été mentionné par de nombreux journaux, portails (Wired) et autres chaînes  FOX, CNN et ABC

Pas étonnant que Toshiba s’intéresse à la haute voltige. Le dernier spot est soutenu par le slogan : « armchair viewing redefined». Le clip sur You Tube atteint presque les 200K vues en une seule journée. Deviendra-t-il viral ? Peut-être pas. Mais la campagne à su miser sur deux bons insights qui favorisent son succès :

• Voler fait rêver

• On trippe sur les projets DIY (Do it yourself)

[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJi6maTueSc]

On the blink

Add new post.

Add new post.

Add new post.

Sorry. Having some technical difficulties. Brain evacuation. 

Stay on the line.

Stay on the line.

Stay on the line.

I took this off the Internetz. Because it’s pretty. Credit goes to Me, for finding it.

Check out this latest story about how Wall Street fatcats

Make me wanna hollah, the way they do my life.

are scheduled to receive $140 BILLION in compensation THIS YEAR.

That’s right, this year. 2009. A year when:

Middle-aged Americans suddenly lost their jobs and for the first time in their lives have had to worry how to pay for food;

Parents in California, Maryland, Iowa, and Orlando murdered their kids and spouses after job losses and financial woes;

We had 600 Starbucks stores disappear. Just poof! I always knew that when the aliens landed, they’d take Starbucks first. Bastards1

My darling friend Patti, who taught me so many things about being stylish and beautiful and a real woman, says her husband is a banker and doesn’t get diddly squat of those bonuses so leave him the hell alone.

Damn straight, Patster. Will do. It’s a scary jungle out there and nutballs are bearing arms and hunting down yuppies.

Not cool.

Just because somebody has a Tuscan kitchen, it’s no reason to terrorize them and their loved ones. Good god, people. 

But there is an anti-banker backlash building. No two ways. People want zee revolution!

I’ve been to Paris, where revolution got pretty ugly. Severed heads and crap. Yikes.

I hope we can proceed with more civility.

I don’t like money. Honest. When it’s in my pocket all I want is to get rid of it.

Money makes people so happy, I love to give it to them. Truly.

It’s only through the intervention of family and friends that I gave up my once-vow to give all the money in my wallet to a bum if he happened to be standing at a street corner when I got stopped by the light. I’m sure I gave hundreds if not thousands before I stopped that. I have also handed out my car window an entire Whitman’s Sampler, a Bruce Springsteen CD, and a Lean Cuisine.

It’s not like I’m a saint. Or that I don’t like to buy stuff for myself. I love clothes, shoes and Clinique as much as the next girl.

I just don’t feel entitled to hoard money. Not with all the immediate needs in the world. When the spirit moves me, I give. If there’s money in my pocket and someone needs some, how easy is that to take care of?

You might think I’d be utterly destitute by now. But I’m not. Money keeps finding its way here and I’m a happy pass-through window.

Sometimes, however, my channel gets clogged too. Like right now. I’m busted. I’ve got to tap the Universal Money Keg again.

When this happens I temporarily become a true Capricorn. Nay, almost Republican.

Like yesterday I spent my last $40 on meds and food for the sick Tony, and then I was late to an event, and then my car ran out of gas.

I turned into Scrooge. I called my sister just to spew out how horrible my life is and to bitch at her about the loans I recently made to her, loans I not only gave willingly I practically forced on her. I don’t even expect her to pay me back. It was a gift.

But I just bitched up one side and down the other about how generous I am and the Universe just screws me in thanks!

Then, because I’m a real bitch, I told my sister I couldn’t talk anymore and hung up.

Can you say Nancy Imperiale is a Huge Tool? Huge.

I wasn’t even pissed at her. I was pissed that my Money Tree has shed all its leaves right now. I know it will grow new ones. Always does. 

In the meantime, the Universe, great leveler of Huge Tools, decided to pay me back for bitching at my innocent sister.

I lost my BlackBerry.

If I’m reduced to trying to conduct social media on a Jitterbug, it will be a huge reminder for me not to be Scroogey again. Nay, almost Republican. Shudder…….

I would like to apologise to my friend, Maddie, for saying that she was mean to me, even though I wasn’t directly pointing it to her. I was pointing it, however, to the rest of everyone, but I said “except Courtney,”. I should’ve said “Except for Immy, Maddie, Corutney, Kitana, Paige, Chantelle and Mum” but I was in a bit of a rush, so I will also apologise to those people (even if they dont read my blog,).

Maddie, Immy, Corutney, Kitana, Paige, Chantelle and Mum, I’m truly sorry for saying (however undirectly it may’ve been) that you were all mean to me, when you really werent.

But I cant say exactly what I would like now, with someone easily able to read over my shoulder, so I’ll get back to you on that later.

I feel so numb. Don’t like to write when I feel this way. The inner critic is out to play and won’t shut the hell up. So every other sentence gets erased. Then the next one is written and it gets erased. You can spend five hours like this and have written nothing.

The reason the inner critic is holding court is because the Otter, as I call my fun side, has flown the dam. Too many un-fun things happening. Funerals. Family hardships. Life.

And that’s about the size of that. Inner Critic says so long, no more, over and out.

This whole alleged “scandal” about someone pretending to be a hooker who was pretending to get advice on a tax shelter from a couple of lowly social workers who work for a bare bones nonprofit that helps the poor?

Wow, that’s just outrageous, isn’t it?

If you’re going to get advice on tax shelters, you need to be an evil rich corporation seeking advice from soulless, rich lawyers.

That’s how you keep from getting shunned from the halls of government.

ACORN helps the poor. So by all means, let’s shut ‘em down.

Given the apparent void, maybe I need to start a nonprofit strictly devoted to giving free tax advice to hookers. But what am I saying? I can’t even do my own taxes….

Sorry, hookers. With ACORN being tarred and feathered, guess if you were getting advice from them you’ll have to start turning a few more tricks so you can afford tax advice from somebody who can REALLY help you — a laid-off Wall Street banker.