Anna Nicole Smith always appealed to me. I didn't really follow her career back in the Playboy days. But once she got that show on E! and I saw how she was this fat hedonist who gorged herself constantly with food and pills, I could definitely see an idol in her.

Hell, if I could find myself an old man to marry and have him die so that I can sit on a couch with a dyke assistant who has a tattoo of me on her leg and a Hebrew lawyer who will jump at my every command, I would never complain. I'd be the same way as Anna was: slurring my speech, fat, whiny--exactly as the show depicted her.

I saw a hero in Anna Nicole. Even though she was doing things that were widely stigmatized by regular society--e.g., being a fat monster and stuffing her face with food at every moment, being on every drug possible, fucking whoever the hell she wanted to, and being a woman--she is a hell of a role model. Everyone around her was obviously obsessively in love with her.

Howard K. Stern, Anna's lawyer and loyal servant, was obviously in love with her. He was hurting himself while watching her exploits with other men but still taking very good care of her estate and making sure she had tons and tons of money.

And then there was that lesbian assistant, who I have not heard much about recently, but I remember she had this big ass tattoo of Anna Nicole on her leg. This "assistant" was talking about how much she respected Anna Nicole as a person and how much the tattoo meant to her, when it was obvious that Anna would sometimes let her lick her snatch and the woman was wildly in love with her.

Obese Anna's pizza-eating, narcotic-fueled ass seemed to cast a magic spell over all around her. It was and remains amazing. Especially since she seemed to have experienced a warped version of the Pretty Woman/Cinderella story, coming from working at a cheap chicken joint, to being a stripper, to being in Playboy, to marrying a dying billionaire, etc. etc. etc. She was a lucky gal.

The whole Anna Nicole saga was always so interesting to me. I really could not picture in my head how it could possibly get any better, and then all the recent stuff happened with her son, her baby, the paternity tests, and her death. Now everything aside, you can say what you want about Anna Nicole, but she is a woman who knew the exact right time to check out to become a legend. She knew when to die. And that is so important if you want to make an impact. Death. You have to know when to do it.

All the crazy tabloid stuff would have gone on for a while had Anna Nicole lived. But not forever. It would have been a crazy circus, but then Anna Nicole would more than likely vanish into Hollywood obscurity. Like most superstars do. Very few make it to being old and having people still pay attention to them.

James Dean made three movies, then he died. He is still all over the fucking place: on mass-produced printed t-shirts, on blankets, on cheap dollar-store posters in frames. Good old Jimmy knew just when to croak.

Kurt Cobain, now a rock legend, if still alive would have probably the same status as someone such as Billy Corgan. I know fame is not what Kurt was (totally) aspiring to, but, again, he died at the exact right time to render himself a legend.

Do you know what makes you a legend? It's hard. I asked myself that question for a long time. But then I went to Tijuana and saw all the velvet paintings.

Of course, there were paintings of Jesus and Mary and that really cool looking Mexican Mary, and the devil taking a shit, but amidst these masterpieces were the portraits of legends. And every one of them had one thing in common: They were dead.

There was Elvis of course, then Bob Marley, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Jimmy Hendrix, Janice Joplin, Jim Morrison, Tupac, Biggie, Lenny Bruce even. They were all immortalized on velvet right next to Jesus and Mary herself.

The only one who was not dead was Scarface, Tony Montana, and he was a character in a movie. They were obviously portraits of Tony Montana, not Al Pacino the actor (although that would have been hilarious). This is what makes you a legend.

I saw no portraits of Marlon Brando, a great actor, and in a whole hell of a lot more films than James Dean. The man worked his whole life. I would agree he is a legend, but he doesn't have a velvet painting, so he isn't a real legend.

The world watched Brando get fat and old and star in some really crappy movies, even though the man is a genius. He died too old. And I'll be damned if I don't see a bunch of Mexicans and tourists like flies on shit surrounding the new velvet paintings of Anna Nicole.

Michael Jackson is a good example. He is a great genius and always will be, but I guarantee you that if he would have just died during all those trials when he dangled his baby or when he was in court with his umbrella walking around with his kids with masks on, he would be on those velvet paintings.

It's just all about the right time to die. I think about it all the time.

One day I will slightly bust out of obscurity. It's already happening. I picture myself someday having the fame of someone like Vincent Gallo maybe. I'm not talking about being like him, just having his level of recognition.

The average American would not know who the hell I was, but I could fuck girls, or guys, or get girls like Chloe Sevigny to suck my dick. That kind of fame. And if I do it right, and it comes at the right time, I will plan it out and make sure I die. Or at least make people think so. And then I will suddenly become a legend.

Garbage that was lying around my house previously who no one could give two shits about except crazy hardcore fans, which there would be no more than 20 of, would start to get taken and everyone would want it.

If I died in the right way--like with a bizarre story attached to it--that might make my fame skyrocket even more.

People may think that I am sick for thinking about the right time to die as to preserve my fame and become a legend, but I think it's really important. Some may say that Anna Nicole's death was a tragedy, as well as the demises of all those other famous folks--and they are--but they all get fucking velvet paintings of them in Tijuana. That's worth it in my opinion. If I had multiple people with my portrait hanging above their heads while they slept, I think I would rest well in my lovely coffin.

It's also good that I think this way, because sometimes (not often, but sometimes) the thought of just letting go crosses my mind, but it is quickly stomped out because of the voice that says, "Dude, Princess, you can't fucking die now, you've got some more shit to take care of. You'll never be on a velvet painting if you die now." And then I know no matter what happens I'll fight until I feel that I am at my prime to end it all.

Legend has it that when Eskimos get old they are considered no longer useful so the elderly are set afloat on ice flows and pushed off into the sea to die. My father told me this. It would be a good idea.

There's a serious talent to know when to die, and I congratulate Miss Anna Nicole for dying at precisely the right moment.

I'm sure there's tons of fun stuff going on in Hollywood, or there's some fat baby or freakish creature living their lives somewhere out there for them to cover. But no. It's Anna Fever! All because the girl knew when to die.

Rest in One Huge Piece, Anna. You will remain one of my role models forever.

Do you know where you were when Kennedy was assassinated? Do you know where you were when you heard the bomb was dropped on Pearl Harbor? Do you know where you were on September the 11, 2001, when the two planes crashed into the World Trade Center? Do you know where you were on April 18, 2007, and the world froze?

Everything stopped. Seven plagues were released at one time. Every serious problem in my life--the diseases I have, the fact that my dad is dying, the fact that I have no income, the fact that I live in a shit-hole, et cetera, et cetera--suddenly did not matter. Two events happened on this day that will darken my life forever.

The first. A beautiful man named Sanjaya Malakar was selected to be one of the top finalists on American Idol. Although I have always enjoyed the Idol, there has never once been a contestant close to as amazing and talented and as Arab as Sanjaya (who, yes, I know is actually Indian).

Everyday when I drove around listening to the local black music station I got to listen to how much Sanjaya had no talent whatsoever, and how he should work at a 7-11 or go blow up a plane.

People were outraged. I took little notice until, on Extra, I saw a sad story about some fat wench teenager who went on a hunger strike until Sanjaya was eliminated from Idol. Believe me, she needed the fast. I really think he was doing her a favor.

Each week I watched. Each week Sanjaya came up with the most ridiculous songs and sang them terribly. Each week, I got to watch Paula squirm in her chair searching violently for something not too mean to say to the dusky-hued young superstar.

Randy would say his usual "Yo, dog, I'm just not feelin' it." He gets off easy. Paula, though, was really shaken. She is the nice one and she has to give feedback to this singer. It was wonderful to watch her drunk ass squirm. Half the time I couldn't tell a word she was saying, so it didn't really matter. It was usually some mumble about choosing the wrong song, and then her eyes would close.

But Simon, as everyone knows, showed no mercy. Every week he would not hesitate to use his famous catch phrases and call Sanjaya the most horrible disgusting singer he's ever seen, and that he was making a mockery of Idol, and I really think Sanjaya, with his lack of talent and being able to get so far in the competition, made Mr. Cowell genuinely angry, which was great.

With this, I was in love. Each performance got worse and worse. And Snajaya would choose the most horrible songs. Even I could not figure out who he was or what his deal was. It was impossible to pin him down. Was he just a stupid kid? Or was he someone really smart who was making a mockery of everything? I like to think the latter. Plus he had great hair.

The week before Sanjaya was cut was Idol's Latin episode. Sanjaya and J.Lo worked on a rendition of “Besa Mi Mucho.” I think because the song is in a different language, people didn't recognize how bad it was. Thus, this was the first Sanjaya performance to get the review by Cowell as not being extremely horrible.

For me, it melted this disgusting girl's heart.

The close-ups on Sanjaya's gentle face were mesmerizing. His bedroom eyes looked right at me, seemed to be saying: "Lil Princess, I want to stick my big brownish penis into your vagina and have hot sexual intercourse. Oooh." I had about 6 orgasms merely by watching him sing that song. I didn't even have to touch myself. I just wanted to run my fingers through that hair and have him all to me forever.

THEN IT HAPPENED. APRIL 18TH.

Far away, in Australia, there was another reality show going on. A very popular one as well, which I rarely miss: America's Next Top Model. Rarely do I identify with anyone on that show, but then along came a Blewish girl named Jael Strauss.

I had stopped watching this season (gasp) because the last couple had been way too lame and I started to really loathe Tyra and her "one of the girls on the block" attitude. But I was informed by Mr. McPadden that there was a girl on this cycle of ANTM who resembled me, not only in the way that she looked, but in the way she talked--very slowly, like she was on a lot of downers.

Jael is from Detroit, and she did resemble me quite a bit. Blonde hair, skinny, slow talker. And her name is pronounced "Jail!"

Uniquely gorgeous Jael says that she's half black and half Jewish--"Blewish," as she called it. She was often made fun of for the fact that she talked nonstop (much like myself) and she never made any sense (much like myself).

The moment I laid eyes (and ears) on her, Jael Strauss found a place in my heart. I loved her and lived through her on that show. And I still love her. Forever. Jael was me if I were to ever make it on ANTM, which has been a dream of mine. Jael and her bargain-basement pill-popping femalia are so beautiful.

I loved when Tyra would try to tell her how to talk. "She just wasn't Top Model material. Models need to know how to present themselves in a positive way and they need to know how to speak."

Jael, I know how you feel. People often don't understand what the hell I'm saying or what I'm talking about. Tranquilizers are my best friends, and I want Jael to be as well. She is a true role model to every American girl. And Jael has EVERYTHING it takes to be THE TOP MODEL IN THE WORLD.

Back to this dismal day. April 18, 2007. THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE. APRIL 18TH. I HAVE BEEN BEATEN, TORTURED, RAPED, INTERROGATED PHYSICALLY, IMPRISONED, KIDNAPPED, TRAFFICKED, GANGBANGED WHEN I WAS THREE YEARS OLD, BUT NONE OF THIS, NONE OF IT, COMPARES TO THE HORROR OF APRIL 18TH.

Sanjaya had been in the bottom three on Idol for the last many weeks, and it was always nerve-racking to watch the results show. My mind kept going back to the fat ass who stopped eating until Sanjaya got cut, and more than anything I wanted him to be the next American Idol, because he was so goddamned sexy and untalented. But I also wanted that fat girl to die. What a bitch!

So it was promising, because he kept rising from the bottom. But on that dismal day, beautiful Sanjaya was cut. He would be on Idol NO more. It was terrible. I broke a mirror and sliced my arms with the glass and carved "SANJAYA" in my chest. Unfortunately I spelled it wrong, and now the space just above my titlets reads: "SANJIAH." It's a mess. What a horrible day.

That same night ANTM was to air, but there was a sports game on that day so instead of airing at 7 pm, I thought that it would be airing a different day. When I caught that it would be aired that night at 10:30 pm I cleaned up the blood and tried to put what self-respect I had back together and toughed it through Top Model.

The models went to Australia, and they had to film a commercial in an Aussie accent. And since Jael has trouble speaking regular English since she always sounds bombed out on tranquilizers, this task proved impossible. She, like Sanjaya, had been in the bottom two the week before. This week when I saw she was in the bottom two again, I knew her fate. I started crying. Sobbing. Wailing.

This time I broke the television and carved "JAEL STRAUSS" under Sanjaya's name. The reason she got cut was that she could not talk correctly. I could kill Tyra and her stupid no-name judges. That fucking black who-knows-what Miss J. who hated her from the start. But Jael left in typical Jael fashion. She put on her red tutu, a blue wig, and pranced down the hallway explaining that she was going to spread her love as much as she can around the world. Her love has definitely reached me, and I wish she would start a cult, because I would follow her every move.

Jael and Sanjaya. Two perfect spirits who will be thrown in the dumpster along with the hundreds of other reality stars. But these two were special. And booted off their shows on the same night.

I didn't leave the house or eat for four days. I tried to stick it out for longer, but Church's Chicken had a special and I couldn't resist.

I love you Jael and Sanjaya. You changed lives. This day will forever remain in my memory as one of the unluckiest days that ever existed. It is terrible that one of them had to go, but both of them??? On the same day????? What is this world coming to???

Then you hear about that guy shooting up the school and shit. It’s because of shit like this that school shootings happen. That elimination almost made me want to go on a murdering spree. It was a sad day in history. April 18, 2007. I would like everyone to observe a moment of silence for these two fallen stars.

R.I.P. JAEL STRAUSS
R.I.P. SANJAYA MALAKAR

I am a disgusting female. I guess. Lil Princess is disgusting. Is there much wrong with that? I really don't think so.

I am drawn to shit and vomit. When people get downright mad and call me a "DISGUSTING SLUT," I really cannot argue. I am a disgusting slut. Some words hurt. Those don't hurt me.

All of the people who have ever called me names like that have been men. I don't know if they feel threatened or if I'm hurting them and their maleness by what I do.

So sorry.

The entire male race is inferior. This inferiority transfers over to the female gender, making them feel like shit about their bodies, their appearances, their intellects.

One result has been the recent surge in plastic surgery. Women undergo mutilation not for themselves, but rather to make them more attractive to the male gender. It's pathetic--the male part of this equation, that is.

The male gender is obviously the underdeveloped female gender. Their chromosomes are incomplete: XY instead of XX. It is demonstrated in normal biology. Females are far superior in mind (using kindness, creativity, and nurturing instead of war, fighting, and instant madness) and body (softness, beauty, and overall shape as compared to the male, covered in hair, and damaged with some disgusting appendage that unfortunately makes them able to decide when they can be satisfied . . . but because of this they are monkeys . . . they think of nothing except where to stick their penis . . .).

"Oh, how-oh-how will I get rid of this next boner?"

The male walks around all day and night trying to get rid of the boner. He doesn't care how he does it. He is no different from an ape. The woman however, nurtures, cares for, and loves her partner. The male only wants a place to blow a load. It doesn't matter if it's a live body or a hole in a tree.

On occasion, a man may act like he craves intimacy, but really he does not care. He can get as much out of an exhaust pipe as he can out of a female. He may act and court her as if he cares about her, but ultimately all he wants is a release. He may even convince himself that he cares about a certain female, but he does not.

I am a hole to him. To you. That's it.

Sure, men will say that women use that to their advantage, but why would they not? When they are dealing with creatures that have the brain of an ape, yet make far more money then these beautiful, nurturing, smart, witty, amazing women do, women will of course use their cunning . . . and their cunnies.

It is unfortunate that all of these apes have gotten together and decided that they will not let us into their world. Most of us remain oppressed. They highlight things like the women's rights movement, and they control the media and say things are changing and there is no glass ceiling and women have the same opportunities, but still there is war, famine, prisons, and general chaos across the globe.

And I cannot name a single woman who is in charge of any country in the world. When a woman tries to do this, and gets to the point where the males get to, they are ostracized and called stone cold bitches, accused of lesbianism and hated, hated, hated. These women are mocked, laughed at, and generally become pariahs.

This has been going on since before the days of Joan of Arc. It continues to this very day, and it will go on until we stop it. These males make me sick, and it is time there is something someone does about it. Valerie Solanas, head of S.C.U.M.--the Society for Cutting Up Men--was very heavily into biology (but, of course, she was thrown into a mental hospital and labeled insane, because of her beliefs against men), and she seemed to figure out a vague way of reproducing without men. Or by using a few men who adhere to the beliefs that women are beautiful creatures who should be worshipped.

The world has gone to hell. And guess who’s brought it to this point? Who fights in wars? Who leads the countries? Who starts the wars? Gender oppression is the world's preeminent injustice, considering that the globe is 50/50. And men have so much more control over women. Even I, who considers myself liberated and aware, falls prey regularly to abuse and disenfranchisement. Every woman does.

Media moguls Oprah Winfrey and Martha Stewart stand as the few poster children for women who make money. They exist so that the men can claim: "Hey we don't oppress or push people out; just look at these women and how successful they are."

Well fuck you. Why did someone like Kathy Acker never have a daytime talk show? Because people are afraid of the truth. Women are of course guilty of this too. And it is not hard to understand.

Since this is a male-dominated society, and males run everything, women are rightly scared to lose their menial jobs or their husbands if they speak up . . . But they need to. Men need to know that their time is up. They need to know that their reign is over. It is completely biologically possible to reproduce without the male gender. With stem-cell research, as well as artificial insemination and test tube babies, we do not need men in our society.

Women are sexy, smart, wonderful, beautiful, and they cannot possibly express themselves properly in this society. It is sick. The media convinces women to be concerned with their skin, their fat asses, their small breasts, their nagging, their bad mothering, all while their husbands are out winning all the bread, making it impossible to leave even the most domineering man.

Men seem to need "vacations" from their "nagging" partners. Let's give them a permanent vacation. A holocaust of cocks. They were given a disgusting appendage to make them penetrate us, so they seem to think that they are naturally superior. But let's live without men for a century, and we will see a century free from war, free from prisons--a virtual utopia.

The main problem with women is jealousy and cattiness, which makes us hate our fellow women. The only reason any of this exists is because of men, the woman's desire to please her man and to keep her man to herself. If they would just learn that the man is absolutely useless, as they are today, we can remold the world. The boy, the small boy has a sex, but not yet a gender . . . If we can start to reproduce, without the aid of men, and produce both boys and girls, but help the boys and not push them to fight and not have emotions, society would be so much more beautiful.

Like a cunt.

Usually I always tell the truth and let everything out. My writing is like bad diarrhea. I try to write as honestly as possible and not leave anything "secret", but there is a secret that plagues me. A secret that I am absolutely perplexed by, something that really tears at my insides and threatens my bargain-basement anti-femalia.

My father is a very strange man, no doubt. He had a terrible childhood. He was raised in the 1930s, a poor Irish boy with an older brother who was too stupid to do anything. He also had an absent father, a mother who would rather buy herself a fur coat than shoes for her kids, and a younger brother and sister he was forced to raise most of the time because his alcoholic mother was missing.

When my grandmother was not missing, she was beating the shit out of her kids and having sex with the many "uncles" they had. The way he was brought up, I'm surprised he did not become a serial killer. Instead, he grew up to be an electrician who drank two gallons of vodka a day until he was about 40 and his stomach gave out and he almost hemorrhaged to death due to drinking. The doctor gave him a 5% chance to live. This is when he met my mother. He proposed to her before the operation. She said yes (probably thinking the old bastard would die) and he lived. They then got married, and five years later, had me. This brush with death did not stop the drinking, though. Daddy was an alcoholic tried and true.

Alcoholic dads . . . You have to love them. And I mean that in the most literal way. You have to LOVE them. And here is where my dirty little secret comes in. I never really LOVED my dad. I mean made love to him.

I was never molested by my father.

Sure, there were some touches and caresses here and there, and I saw dad's weenie plenty of times. Our relationship walks the line of being sickly sexual, but as far as molestation goes, Daddy never did it.

I even tried to initiate things. I remember one time sucking on his nipple when I was about seven, and he said I was too old to do those kinds of things. I wondered at what age that would have been appropriate, but I didn't ask.

Can you believe that? An alcoholic dad NOT molesting his daughter? And here is the kicker . . . my sister, who is also a nut, but was from a different wife and not even raised by my father, claims that he molested her! She doesn't even live with the bastard. I was raised by him until I was 15 and she is the one that gets molested?!? What is up with that? I was not an ugly child either. I was very cute and sweet; for sure I could have been a huge star in child pornography!

Coming home from school was stressful, because dad was so unpredictable with the drinking and all. Sometimes I'd get bombastically berated for two hours for forgetting my house keys and having to ring the doorbell and making him get up and get it. Other times I'd ditch school and he'd find out and play checkers with me and let me win and give me 20 dollars. It was like a rollercoaster in a dark room. You never knew what twist, turn, or sudden drop lay ahead.

When Daddy was really horribly drunk, I'd lock myself in rooms for hours to avoid him. But he would only talk, never touch. And to this day, that baffles me!

Yes, child molestation is horrible, and I certainly don't condone it; but I am so sexually fucked up that when people ask me why I do the things I do, I could so easily say daddy molested me and the conversation would be over. But I can't do that. Not if I want to be honest. I have to go into a whole bunch of different reasons as to why I think that I'm like this, and it just doesn't make sense.

My sexual complications extend back as far as I can remember. Ever since I started playing with other kids (I was raised an only child), I was playing with other kids. And it never stopped. People like me, who behave like me, are almost always victims of sexual abuse.

But not me!

Psychologically abused? Yes. Emotionally? Yes. And that's it. Daddy kept his hands and his glands to himself. He did not do his job as an alcoholic dad. Well, I take that back, maybe he did.

His yelling and insanity did really do a job on my budding psyche, and maybe I didn't need his daddy-cock to make me a complete nutjob who is abused by men on almost a daily basis. Maybe he did love me enough to fuck me up.

Maybe his swinging my beloved dead iguana around by its tail when he was drunk, or tapping on a table and saying "tick, tick, tick" for three hours straight, or finding him outside passed out on the hood of his car, watching my mother pull a knife on him to get him to calm down, and multiple trips to motels to avoid his insanity did the trick. All this time, I thought it had to do with some kind of flaw in my body or something.

To this day, I do have fantasies about being with my father sexually. And to anyone who thinks that this is weird: Where do you think the (repulsive) phrase "Who's your daddy?" came from?

If a man ever asks me "Who's your Daddy?" I promptly stop whatever we are doing and tell him: "Thomas McCarthy, why do you ask?"

All of the men I date have substance-abuse problems. They are usually abusive as well. I have the dreams too. The dreams plague me. They say the subconscious is the window into the thoughts we choose to forget. I have at least one dream a week where my father is chasing me and trying to kill me. Or when I am at home with him and he is trying to fuck me. There was that whole trend in psychology that got popular around the early 1990s, with repressed memories and all.

One of those shrinks would certainly tell me that I have some kind of sexual relationship of my father. Like I said, I am only attracted to people who remind me of him, although I know this is common. But the dreams; I can't seem to shake them. Having known that I was molested would explain the dreams so well.

My own psychotic disorders read like some kind of mass-murderer textbook: paraphilia, sexual masochism, voyeurism, hebephilia, acute personality disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, mania, sexual addiction, substance dependency, depression . . . and the list is longer, I swear.

When people ask me what's wrong with me they can't believe I was not molested as a child. I can't believe it either. It would make everything so much easier to explain. Why do I have sex with so many men? Why do I let men abuse me? Why am I so fucking strange? Daddy loved me . . . But he didn't love me. I still have body issues because of this.

So here it is . . . My dirty little secret. I never made love to my father. It would explain so much. My life would make so much more sense. I guess it's going to be a little harder to trace my fucked-up-ness. But if it's true that my sister got some daddy love and I didn't . . . well, talk about sibling rivalry!

Once upon a time--a long long time ago--when Lil Princess was still pure, and she had not yet been sexually defiled in triple digit amounts by mindless wastoid hog apes, and before she ravished herself beyond repair, back she was young, about 18 . . . that was a good time.

Your Lil Princess had not yet done sex work, then, and she was a college student. An ad in the local paper boasted $400 per hour to take photos, no sex involved. Imagine this--$400, and no sex. What could that mean? I couldn't help to be curious. That was the equivalent pay for like two weeks of my telemarketing salary, 40 hours, for a mere hour. And I did not have to break any of my boundaries that have long since been blown through, because there was no sex involved.

A polite man answered when I called the number listed in the ad. He wanted to know my age and my measurements and if I was comfortable in front of a camera. I told him I was. Visions of how many pints of Dimitri vodka I could buy for 400 bucks were sloshing through my then much-clearer head.

At the time, I had just started drinking and had a special taste for cheap vodka, which I have never been able to shake, but now instead of a special taste, its an insatiable craving. So I agreed to meet this fellow a few doors away from the old Jinx Cafe on Division Street.

I was so nervous going up there. I knew Jinx Cafe. I had been there many times, but I didn't know that there was a "special interest" studio just around the corner from it. I had no idea what to expect. No sex . . . $400 an hour. What could this be?

When I got to the address, I rang a doorbell, the one with the red dot next to it. The one I was told to ring. Much to my surprise it was a regular apartment building, not a huge scummy pornatorium. I entered the apartment, and I realized it was just a scummy crash pad, with a guy and a mini DV video camera, much like most of the sleazy porn that I was to be in later in life.

A black man with dreadlocks welcomed me, and he seemed nice enough. The apartment was gross, with leather couches, and I saw a chair surrounded by lights. I assumed that was to be my stage, but what the fuck was I going to do?

While walking in, I noticed a long table with a stained cloth covering it. My mind took note of it. The Nubian prince asked me if I was comfortable being nude in front of the camera. I said yes. He made me take my shirt off. I was a bit put off . . . by the whole situation . . . I wanted to go home. He commented on the size of my nipples: Big, good, mmmm . . .

He asked me to take off my pants then. I wanted to be a pro. So fucking stupid. When I removed my underwear to reveal my hairy crotch, he told me I would have to shave. I didn't know a shower and a shave was included in the deal. And now I realized that I'd have to use this shithead's razor, which had previously cut who-knows-who's who-knows-where.

I came out clean and shaved. Four hundred dollars. That was all I tried to focus on. Four hundred dollars. I left my pubes sticking out of the razor and all over his shower and his bar of soap. I wanted to make the place even more disgusting than it was to begin with. I still didn't know what the fuck I was doing.

When I returned to the main room, the king of ashy class told me that I looked much better. He then took me to the long table with the stained towel over it. He removed the towel only to reveal about 12 dildos of different sizes and shapes. There were so many. They smelled of cum and asshole, a smell that I was not yet so familiar with, but I knew it was foul.

He picked out a sex toy for me. It was the biggest, blackest, longest, thickest two-sided one. He then told me I had to masturbate with it for 30 whole minutes. And that would get me 200 dollars.

It didn't seem too bad. What's 30 minutes? An episode of Different Strokes? Shit, for $200 dollars, I could shove this big, black thing up me and pretend to enjoy it. Yeah, right. I picked it up and it stuck to my hand.

My host instructed me to put lube on the toy and go to town. I sat down in the chair with the cheap lighting around it. He took out his mini DV camcorder and I lubed the sticky long black stem. Then I very reluctantly put it in my hole, trying to be as mindless as possible. I worked it up in me. Up and down. He asked me if I was getting wet myself.

What the fuck?, I thought. How in the fuck could I be getting wet in this fucking disgusting monster's apartment after using a hepatitis-laced razor to shave my bathing suit areas and now I'm shoving this sticky AIDS-basted double-ended cold slithery sluggish thing up my cunt-hole? No sir. Not wet.

How long was I doing this for? This must have been at least 10 or 15 minutes. He told me to touch my breasts. I did. Then I stopped. It's surely almost long enough. I asked him how long it had been.

"Not yet two minutes," he told me.

I almost gagged and fainted.

Okay, I guessed I could work this thing in and out of me and touch my boobs and make a noise now and then and hold it out for another 28 minutes . . . right? Ummmm . . . No. What the fuck was I supposed to do?

This was the most simultaneously repugnant and boring thing I had ever done in my life. How the fuck could I continue? Don't think . . . Just shove it in the hole and moan . . . But my mind can't help but wander. I count. Each second feels like a fucking year. This is way worse than trying to sell Sears credit cards to old people. In and out it goes. More lube. More cold. How much time now? 5 minutes . . . "Are you nervous??" . . . Umm . . . 200 dollars . . . "No, sir, not nervous" . . . Shit . . . UUUgh . . . This dildo is black. I cannot see what possible fluids have been on it, all I know is that it was sticky . . . Six minutes . . . Then I start to imagine the person who would watch this for this long. If I could not even do it, who the fuck could watch the same girl masturbating with the same dildo for 30 whole minutes . . . Six minutes and 30 seconds . . . "You're nervous" . . . I CANT FUCKING TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!! . . . Yes mister. I have to stop . . .

I walked out of there with $50, 4 venereal diseases, a shaved pussy, and my first experience in the adult film world. Wonderful. Sickening. Shameful. Private. Piggish. It took me awhile to recover from.

Still, I could not complain. It was all consensual. He did not hurt me. I did everything by my own will and when I said I couldn't take it, he paid me 50 bucks and was apologetic.

That was my first taste of the sleazy adult world. There would be countless more episodes. Many more where I did not get paid. Many that are even more harrowing and stomach-churning. But this was the first.

I just actually remembered this the other day when discussing the cafe, Jinx. I said, "Oh yeah, that's right near where I did my first porno gig thing at." I sat down and remembered how beautifully horrible it all was.

So why, then, did I go ultimately back and do it again? And again. I don't know. But I have no regrets. I guess. Sticky black dildos. Black pornographer. Dirty razors. Dirty money. Dirty videos.

It works for me.

I love this show. I love the bulimia. I love the fighting. I love the cattiness. I love that monstrous half-trans half-whatever Ms. Jay, who is the blackest of the black and who wears high heels and black body suits but has a beard and walks the runway.

I love the part where all the girls get their $200,000 makeovers and then start crying because they can't wear their $18 dollar weaves that they got in some back alley barbershop that specializes in fades.

But most of all I love Top Model hostess Tyra Banks. Ooh, Tyra. I love Tyra and her feigned "caring" for each of the models. I love how she is so down to earth. I love when she gets all ghetto and waves her head back and forth and says, "Girl, you go!" It makes me so happy. I love how on her show she talked about how everyone thought she was fat and how the media is obsessed with being skinny, and how she was considered fat, so that all the little girls at home that are already obsessed with dieting decide that Tyra is considered fat and how they are all starving themselves.

Tyra is great. Now she has her own talk show where she brings prostitutes on, gets them to tell the perverse details of how they fuck and suck, and she is so interested in how these girls can possibly make a living by selling their bodies. Sorry darling, but isn't that what modeling is? A conundrum for the ages.

To dump my naked body on Tyra Banks would be my ultimate cream-dream come true. I have thought about it a whole lot, how I would do it. Fantasies of storming Tyra Banks are the only little tidbits that keep me going in this harsh world. I am currently watching the show and it fills my mind with wonderful ideas. Here is how I'd do it.

First, I'd set up a camera and get the tape rolling. I'd get Ms. Jay, Tyra, and her top models, all 12 of the ones in the beginning. I would lure them into a salon, just like the Nazis lured the Jews into death chambers with promises of a shower, and then bam, they got gassed.

All the Top Model stars would eagerly march into the salon. But the salon would all of a sudden turn into a torture/surgery room. Still, it would be highly decorated and very posh. The barber chairs would become beds with straps and restraints.

Since I don't really want the girls to be in pain, I'd have trained anesthesiologists on hand. They would put each girl under, and I would first shave all of their heads except one, but in different ways. First, I would shave some like natural bald spots in some models. Some completely bald. Some monk-style. This I could do myself, because I'm good with hair and clippers. Almost as good as Ms. Britney Spears.

But I'd need some surgeons. Here is where the anesthesiologists come in. I will put each girl under and have lots of fun with their nipples. I will cut them all off and affix them to Tyra. This will all be under anesthesia, so no pain will be felt. I will put two visible ones on her cheeks so that she will look like a little toy soldier.

A tattoo artist will imprint little pictures of bunnies and where the naked beauties’ nipples used to be. I'd also tattoo a big picture of Michael Jackson fucking JonBenet with a gun onto Tyra's back. That would make a wonderful Sports Illustrated cover!

There's this tough Bronx bitch on Top Model this season. Her weave was falling off at her audition. I would scalp another model and then sew the scalp onto the Bronx-weave-bitch's head. This way, I'd never have to hear her ugly accent complain about her fucking fake hair again.

Next, I'd put all my subjects in cheerleader costumes and put nooses around their necks. Once the dope wore off, I'd make them dance with me to Olivia Newton-John while forcing them to eat as many Arby's Big Montanas as possible. Then they'd vomit and I'd feed them more. The tough cunts would try to talk shit, but they can’t because they'd have mouths full of Arby's horsey sauce and roast beef

The climax will star Tyra, the down-to-earth supermodel with the big forehead. She will be dressed like a toy soldier, with the nipples on her cheeks. I would bring in three Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and have them skull-fuck her with big black dildos while playing Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots were Made for Walking" layered over sounds of deer and rabbits dying through subwoofers.

I would be dressed as Raphael, the red ninja turtle. But I would be dressed as Raphael dressed as Marie Antoinette and I would be all fucked up on Arby's and I would fuck the living turds out of Tyra.

We will then retire to a dining room, where we all be served a lobster dinner. With a side of Kool-Aid, Jim-Jones-style (that's with cyanide for you dolts who don't know who Jim Jones is). Everyone will drink it with the exception of me and Miss Jay. And I will be the happiest girl in the whole world.

These models would all be the stars they wanted to be. They would be in the greatest snuff film ever created. The nooses will be tightened and their limp dead bodies will all be hung for effect. In their cheerleader costumes. I would collect their weaves and make a rug out of them and sell it on eBay for seven million dollars.

I would then remove my Raphael costume and do Tyra face-to-face using a strap-on dildo. I know she likes to get it hard. Pieces of her pussy might fall off. I'll put them in little glass vials and I will sell each cunt-chunk for $300 on eBay.

Miss Jay would survive. And then we'd do a bunch of coke together.

This is my fantasy of the ultimate episode of America’s Next Top Model. I will of course make tons of money off of it and I will promise to donate 25% of it to feed all of the hungry inner-city children Church's Chicken for as long as they live. I will then retire and go into hiding somewhere, getting each model stuffed, so I can have tea parties with them.

One day I will reemerge as a star, and shave my head and get a tattoo of lips on my arm . . . oh wait Britney Spears already did that. Well then I'll drive across the country in a diaper with a meat tenderizer and try to kill an astronaut’s wife . . . oh, wait that happened too.

This world is becoming so crazy. I'll really have to think.

Recently, I made contact with a woman who is, like myself, a living mascot for an orgiastic shock-rock band. She goes by the name of Titty Bear. I had been told she looked a lot like me, and I saw some photos, but you never can tell with these photos these days.

When I transform into Scumbalina the Porn Fairy for a performance with Gays in the Military, I sprout butterfly wings, an adorable mask and electrical tape on my deliciously huge and meaty nipples. When Titty Bear performs with Human Aftertaste, she grows furry ears and paws, electrical tape on her nipples (!) and even a huge, rubber penis that juts out from her endlessly kissable crotch.

Despite the costuming similarities, how could someone share my siren-like beauty? It is hard to even begin to wrap my mind around. Then it happened. I went to a seedy bar to see if I could get a job as a seedy waitress and SURPRISE! Titty Bear's band was playing!

So I approached her, and her delicate, rose-like gorgeousness sent an electric shock through me. It was like looking into a mirror.

For a moment, I thought that maybe Titty Bear might even be a bit more perfect than I am because her chin was more defined, but when she told me that the first part of her body she had issues with was her chin, I was smitten. Utterly and forever. In the ultimate act of narcissism, I must make love to and mate with the Titty Bear for the rest of my life.

I put my thoughts and feelings into a letter. Here it is:

Dear Titty Bear:

This is quite hard for me to write.

I have never met anyone who simultaneously loved and hated herself so much as I do. On one hand, I am constantly beating myself up over being a big loser crap-turd and having the brains of a monkey that throws his poop at the wall. And even though I am that lacking in the skull, I want a lobotomy.

Having said that, I also love myself more than anyone you will probably ever meet. More than Morrissey even. And whenever I receive a compliment, I won't stop talking about how great I am. And why the hell not? I am fucking great. I have extremely negative traits, but the fact that I am so incredibly gorgeous and my mind is nothing short of genius really turns me on.

You may or may not know that I have talked in the past a lot about wanting to and having sex with many people, most of them monsters, but the truth is that the ultimate person I'd love to be with is myself. Oh, we have so much fun together. Just me, in my room, holding onto my own hand and imagining being in Disneyland, laughing as the fat ladies beat their kids. Those are the happy times for me. I only date people who remind me of myself. The more like me they are, the more I love them. But of course, no one can compare to the one and only. ME.

I had a fantasy for a while, and that was to have a guy fuck me--despite the fact that I love myself, I also love dick (unfortunately)--while he wears a bag over his head with a picture of me eating a big sandwich affixed to it. I tried it a couple of times. It wasn't the best, but it was definitely better than seeing anyone else's ugly-ass mug. When I got a huge paper cut across my chest because of those sturdy brown bags, I realized I had to stop. It was getting hazardous.

All I want is someone to sit down on the couch with me, eat chicken-and-ham sandwiches, take antidepressants, and watch Trading Spouses and Extra. When I saw you in front of me in your bloody bear suit, with your big purple dildo, and your below average-sized breasts and your non-pronounced chin, I knew I had finally found the one--she who I have always been looking for!!! And you have a penis!!! No more paper bags. No more sex with monsters. I would love to spend the rest of my life with you, Titty Bear. I know I am saved now.

It is really not that bizarre. I figure almost everyone masturbates. Isn't that a testament of love to one's self? And usually the best person to get you off is you. I mean, who knows you better? So I don't have to masturbate to photos of my face anymore, or to a mirror. I can masturbate to you. Or we can have crazy bloody AIDS sex with your big long purple dildo (as I know it has been up the AIDS Monkey's derriere).

Sweetest, I have written you a lil poem:

Your body is a garbage dump
where I'd like to pee.
I think I'm in love with you,
because you look like me.

How I hope you like it! I spent all night choosing the right words. Trust me. I wouldn't do such things unless I was absolutely smitten.

Darling, I have never found someone who was so close in appearance to myself. Please marry me and maybe we can make babies that look like miniature girls with small boobs and no chins.

All of My Love,
Lil Princess.

Let’s all hope that she will love it so that my search will finally end . . .

There is a type of girl who changes in front of a window. She pretends not to notice that she's doing it, in hopes that there will be some foul, open-mouthed pervert downstairs, working a handful of precum with her name on it. As she does this, she fantasizes that the perv looks like Patrick Swayze getting out of prison, and she hopes that he'll attack her and take her into the alley and fuck her over and over. That way, it won't be her fault so her boyfriend can't be mad, and then everyone will have total pity for her and buy her flowers and give her money and stuff.

That girl is . . . well, not exactly me, but sort of close to it. I want all that and syphilis, too.

Peeping toms. You have to love them. I do. I have to admit I've looked into a window or two hoping to see some naked 360-pound man staunchly masturbating to some crinkled up old photo of Al Pacino from Cruising that he's holding in his fist. I've even been to apartment complexes and walked around looking for open windows. All to no avail. No one changes in front of their windows anymore, apparently.

So one night I was on eBay and drinking, and looking for cameras, I stumbled upon a Spy-Cam that is the size of a penny. So nice and small . . . so perfect for me. Suddenly fantasies of all of the amazing footage I could capture with this little eye streamed through my brain. I thought about how maybe I'd stash it somewhere and some fat man would sit his obese ass down, eat a big hoagie, and then promptly jack off to a piece of lettuce, and then a dog would run by and he would kill it and then chop off its nipples and glue them to his body and then the President would come by with his secret service and they would all start suckling and licking his nipples and I would have captured it all on my little pinhole camera. And then I could sell the videos to Geraldo for like six million dollars and live out my dream of getting a lobotomy and being hooked up to a Church's Chicken drip. So much potential this little device has. And all for a mere 5.95!

No more kidding around; I had to have this thing. I got it for so cheap and it was sent to my mother's house. I became the happiest person ever as I ripped open the box and plugged the little shitty eye into the television and a vague image of the room appeared on screen and came barely into focus. Oh, how excited I was!

I woke up one morning in a haze, not unlike many mornings before. When my eyelids finally peeled apart, the first thing I noticed was the little eye. It was pointed at me, and it was hooked up to the TV and VCR. I tried to remember hooking up the contraption, but I could not place it. All I knew was that the night before I had done a lot of boozing, and now all I wanted was strawberry pop. My head was pounding. Then my roommate burst in, holding a tape. I tried to focus.

The previous night oozed slowly back into my foggy brain as my roommate waved the tape at me, beaming with joy. I realized that I'd had a gentleman visitor the night before. It occurred to me then that my roommate had turned the camera around on me and, as a result, he now had a tape of the whole dirty disgusting foul fucking mess.

Instinctively I tried to take the tape but my frail body is no match against his fat girth. He explained to me how good the tape was. I had a hard time believing that he even got me to sign a model release form until I looked in the corner and saw a bunch of official-looking papers that said "model release." They were crinkled up and covered in used condoms, socks, and coffee. Wow. He really had thought of everything.

The whole boondoggle became clear. I realized that there was now a video of me performing heinous acts that I can hardly remember, and that I don't really want to. There are other recordings of my more private moments, but the others I was at least half awake for and I consciously signed model release forms.

This video is genuine. A real live sex tape! That I don't remember. Something like this a girl can cherish for the rest of her life. I can no longer run for public office. My dreams of being Miss USA are now over. I wonder if a person with a sex tape is even allowed to vote. I'm going to have this "dirty little secret" for the rest of my life. When my deformed children are born, I have to constantly worry about the day that they come up to me talking about some tape that so and so told them about.

I wonder how far the tape will get. I can only fantasize. It's so easy now. I still change in front of the window, hoping that perverts will see me, but I can't always be standing in the window naked, I have to eat and watch TV and stuff, and now I know that even when I'm not trying to get perverts to "accidentally" see me naked, there is a tape that they could be watching at any time!

The procedure now is for me to pretend to be upset and act like I would be totally horrified if anyone ever saw it, but deep down, I'm hoping it gets more popular than Star Wars. But I won't tell anyone that.

I think that Paris Hilton and Pam Anderson and the countless other celebrity sluts with sloppy sex tapes are the same way. They love it. And I love it too. It's like having a peeping tom all the time.

Thinking about moving out of the total rat-pig shithole that I called home was wonderful; a new set of opportunities, no more people collecting my tampons, but I never knew it would be so fucking hard.

Word came down that my roommates and I had to evacuate our dwelling by the first of December because our very gray and very male and very white landlord stupidly bought a building on the crack hub of Chicago. This location prompted my very cracked-out half-brother to announce loudly at a family get together: "That's where Zee (his friend) gets all his rocks!" And he was right. The landlord could not have picked a worse place to start gentrifying. Big mistake.

The landlord let us "artsy WHITE college students" move in, after kicking out the gay black man upstairs, who I guess turned out to be too black and not gay enough. However, he soon learned that we were a bunch of junkies who also worked for the needle exchange, so our whiteness faded ever so fast and our once beautiful apartment soon turned into a crack den where the toilet did not flush and you couldn’t walk two feet without something sticking into your toe.

I lived in a giant pincushion, essentially, except the pins were syringes and they stuck out instead of in. I wonder myself how many times I have been accidentally stuck. When I was on the needle myself, I think I was perhaps cleaner than I am now, off the needle and sucking the methadone tit, due to accidental needle sticks. I still refuse to get an HIV test because I do not want to know the results. Meanwhile my vagina stands as a weapon, infecting each unknowing stranger that I bring home from Nick's Bar with my horrible affliction. I do use protection, or try to, but you never know who is a flea-bitten AIDS bag and who is not.

That aside, after two years, the landlord decided that the gunshots were not going to stop and the crack baggies were not going to go away and the city was not going to fill in the potholes, or even reinstall the streetlight that has been knocked down and which lays hazardously on our corner. A thirty-day notice is what he gave us.

What could go wrong in those thirty days? What did go wrong in those thirty days? How many upright citizens would stand there, their mouths gaping wide open, witnessing my life spiral downward further and further until I swear it cannot get any worse?

That might have been correct until I found my roommate's "secret stash" of my used bloody tampons. This I discovered as I was spending hours and hours straining my arm trying to clean the blood off of the walls so that we are not sued by our very white and very eager to sue landlord. I did what he asked.

And then three days before we moved away, my other roommate almost got his eye removed by a neighborhood maniac. I took him to the hospital. While I was there, every doctor and nurse that entered the curtained room looked first at me as though I were the patient. There was a man next to me with his eye hanging out of his head, and I got repeatedly mistaken for the one who needed help. Maybe these trained professionals are not so mistaken. I would have long since checked myself into a mental hospital or some such place with all of this chaos going on if I had the luxurious privilege of having insurance.

Upon driving my one-eyed pal back to the house after the doctors decided he'd have to get skin grafted from his ass to his face, I found my other roommate (the tampon thief) outside with a destroyed car--the fifth one he's destroyed in two months. He claimed he drove it into a pile of dirt, but the wrecked car with streaks of dark green paint from a Ford Escort down the street told a different story.

The police quizzed him back and forth before they put him in handcuffs and whisked him away. I wished so hard they'd take him to a mental hospital. I was so scared of him I had to lie and say I was living with a Hispanic girl, not my former roommates, because he's threatened to kill himself on several occasions if I ever left that house.

I wanted to leave a million different times, but his threats made it somewhat impossible. I wanted to say fuck off, but how could I to someone who's entire room is a shrine devoted to me. Photos of me adorned his walls, as well as the paintings I'd made for him.

They were the only things on his walls except drug-induced messages written in blood that made no sense. I got news that he was also using our needle-exchange equipment to drain his own blood. Needless to say, that disturbed me a whole bunch. I really don't think there are many more things that can shock me.

Then I found out on not one, but two different occasions that he was collecting my used menstrual blood! The worst thing about this abhorrent behavior was that I had to act like this was absolutely normal, in fear of him going crazy on me.

"Oh, you're collecting napkins containing the bloody scrapings of my fallopian tubes? Yes dear, that would make a lovely art project! Just throw a couple of popsicle sticks in and you could make a whole tampon-ranch type thing!"

So that old living situation is over, and I am now on to bigger and better things. I even bought myself a brand new very white apple computer for the life makeover and then the bomb dropped . . . again. My job laid me off. The job that has supported my need for 18 hours of sleep a day and daily doses of benzos and Church's Chicken laid me off. Now what the fuck do I do?!

I do what every drug-addled retard who does not want to deal with life at all would do: I got on a heavy-duty antidepressant that makes me sleep all the time. That is my solution for a bit, then it gets too boring. How is a girl to cope??? Especially a delicate princess like me.

No home. No job. At least I get sex, but that is a whole different can of worms that I will not open at this point. Lovely is the new year, but I am very scared. There are visions of tampons dancing in my head. . . .

It's hard for me to find places to live and even harder to find a landlord who is oblivious enough to let us stay there and destroy their property. We have been destroying this house for almost two years now, and I can't believe nothing has happened.

Maybe it's because we live on the hub of the crack center of Chicago and, even when a full streetlight collapses on the corner, nobody picks it up for weeks. The whores and drug dealers just step over it and wait for the live wires to come and electrocute one of the children.

Recently our landlord decided that this crack-pile of a neighborhood was not getting white fast enough for him, so he wanted to sell this place. In order to sell it, though, he has to show our half of the house. Good luck!

Since we live in a horrible shit den, the landlord hired maids who claimed to be really good at cleaning big fucking messes. These maids came over and told me, not to my total surprise, that this was one of the few places that they had ever seen that they would not even touch. That made me feel great. Fucking assholes.

My landlord's daughter lives beneath us and she's handling everything. She's about nine months pregnant and ready to explode out a parasite, so she's all bitchy and pissed that we have ruined the apartment.

This got me thinking about the probably 15 other places that I had lived in, however briefly, and how I've gotten evicted from each one of them. It's pretty amazing, some of the damage I have done.

In one house, I decided to raise chickens, and there was room in the backyard to have these chickens, and I was a good mom, except chickens shit … a lot. And having a concrete slab filled with chicken shit would piss our Ukrainian landlord off to hell. But his kids seemed to like the chickens.

Another landlord stormed in once, shut off the power, and told me and my roommates to leave by the next day or he would kill us all. Now I know that there is some kind of eviction process involving a lot of paperwork; I didn't know it involved threats on our lives.

But perhaps the worst I ever did--with the help of about 30 people in the matter of three months--was to completely destroy a storefront right next to the Congress Theater. The living situation started out very optimistically, with lots of promises of turning the place into a vegan coffee shop or some bullshit. Of course, it was not long until we got the vegans out and the crack addicts in.

My roommates and I then had a rave with about 600 people in the basement, and then a truck started parking across the street watching our every move. I felt really cool. There was something about having one of those trucks watching you, at least for me, that gave me some reason to live. It was even better than having a stalker.

We got paid in hits of acid to have the rave in our place so we, all 16 of us, were on various large amounts of acid and we just completely destroyed the place. Downstairs there were a bunch of ravers dancing and being idiots and upstairs there was us, a bunch of legally insane drug addicts ripping our own ceiling out and laughing hysterically about it.

I realized that some serious shit was happening when a pipe in the basement broke and water would not stop coming out of it. But I was way early in my thinking. I kept thinking it couldn't get worse and it did.

Someone threw a rock through the glass door. Air conditioning pipes fell out of the ceiling and were ripped to shreds. We had already had a hole in the bathroom wall big enough so that you could see anyone doing his or her business and watch whenever you wanted to, but I think the destruction culminated when the toilet was smashed--and the floor started flooding with shit.

That's how we knew the party was over, when the toilet died. It usually tells you something.

The next day our house was raided by cops and we had guns pushed up against our heads. We had a Mexican guy sleeping in the basement using his kilo of coke as his pillow. When the cops came in they were floored. But they did not find anything, very much to my surprise. Where did the crack pillow go?

One man showed me after the police had left. He pulled out all his back teeth and then dumped a bunch of rocks he had been hiding in there into my hands. I was thoroughly impressed.

This was all about six years ago. From there, my roommates moved into another poor unsuspecting house in Lincoln Park and our drug habits got bigger, I got more pets, and the house got completely destroyed in three months.

We had a dead raccoon named Chauncey in the freezer who was our pet and we would have visitors over and ask them to get us a beer out of the freezer and open it to find Chauncey's big glassy eyes and teeth flashing at them. This house was also oddly equipped with a pigeon coop. So occasionally we would get pigeons there with little bracelets on saying who they were. It was really exciting when one showed up.

The landlord of this place was this bizarre pervert who decided to show up at our house in a dress upon our moving in. He was extremely rich and lived next door and would have extravagant parties with underage girls where he would feed us coke and let us amuse his friends while they watched hardcore porn on this guy's huge television upstairs.

He soon got tired of us after he realized that we were destroying the fuck out of his shitty house next door. Then he told us that his uncle was the mayor and that our families were going to "live with the fishes" because of what we had done to his house. Again, this was not a tactic that I thought was a step in the usual eviction process, but what can you do?

We weren't normal tenants, and even though we paid the rent, we were very efficient at destroying places in very short amounts of time.

So here I sit now, six years later, in another house … waiting to get evicted. Maids won't clean it, and I wonder what the fuck the problem is. I like to blame it on everyone else, but the fact is that I'm just a fucking slob and that's all there is to it.

I lived with clean people once, and I kept the place clean, but that was almost worlds of time ago. In a different life. Maybe it can happen again, but it's hard to change when you wake up in a shitty filth-filled wastoid slob house and you surround yourself with wastoid cum-bags like me.

Do I even want things to change?

Sometimes I have to say no.

I'll probably live in roach-pits like this for the rest of my life, but that doesn't mean I'll ever stop complaining about it.

This bustling shit-hole where I live--you wouldn't believe it.

This is where my roommate has a collection of my tampons, which I'm not supposed to know about, and where drunken prostitutes are brought in along with men who steal computers.

One of my roommates walks around in his underpants while another one--who is desperate not to see the guy in his underpants--turns the air down to under 50 degrees. The idea is that it will be too cold for anyone inside not to be fully dressed.

So I awake each day in an arctic fucking tundra and, yet, I still see that one roommate prancing around in his underpants.

This is also where the sounds of smoking crack are so often heard. All that "uggh-phhfoooo-uggh-huhh" … it sounds like a dying horse. And then come the coughs, the hacking sounds of death.

There's one crack smoker around here who at least gets nicer after a hit, but only for about 15 minutes. Then he turns into a raging asshole who steals from me and throws me into ashtrays. It's always fun to have bruises that you can’t explain.

When I walk into my front room, I find people that look dead holding cigarettes that have been lit and not smoked, creating an ash about five inches long. They have their fucking heads down.

This morning, a bootleg version of Snakes on a Plane blasted from the television. In between the disgusting sounds of sucking and coughing up crack, all I could hear was, "WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE FUCKING SNAKES?"

One junkie lit another cigarette and then passed out. I watched it wither down until it burned his fingers and he threw it out. Then he lit another one.

What the fuck am I doing here?

I think I'm addicted to these living situations. In order to find a fork, the house has to be thoroughly searched and then the fork has to be scrubbed before you can eat with it.

If I weren't on enough methadone to kill a man each day, this stuff might bother me. But it's fine. I especially love when my stuff gets stolen. That's always fun. I get to yell at everyone and then throw books at people’s heads, because that's the only way I know how to fight … to throw books and shoes.

And then, of course, my three male roommates don't hesitate to make a hole in the wall with me; domestic violence is fun. I've managed to be drunk and fuck almost every male roommate I've ever had.

Of the three I cohabitate with now, I dated one for about five years, I had sex another one several times, and the third one claims that he and I had sex, but I don't believe we did. He's also the one that's obsessed with me and, I believe, collects my feminine products. It's all so endearing.

Meanwhile, I sit here on the computer typing out people’s deepest, darkest secrets and sharing them with the world. It's really horrible. But besides the methadone and Xanax abuse, writing about this shit is the only way to cope. It's unreal.

Sex was an escape for a while. Crack-stupor rape isn't exactly "rape," is it?

There's a question for the ages.

Here's another: How do you get a cat addicted to drugs? I have had so many pets addicted to drugs it’s not even funny. There was one cat in particular.

My friend had after-hours parties for raves about ten years back and everyone would get all fucked up and drop their coke all over the floor, along with Ecstasy pills and whatever else you can think of, and this cat would eat it all. He was a total drug addict. People would think this behavior was abhorrent, but my friend was so proud that his cat was a drug vacuum cleaner.

This same fuck used to put my little bunny in a box and blow crack smoke into it. I don't like that shit. My poor little bunny. This man should be put away for sure. The poor thing grew a tumor and then some fuckhead dyed it purple.

There were two cats there too; no one would buy them food. My roommate would steal hot dogs for the cats and the cats would be eating the hotdogs and this poor rabbit was so hungry that it would bumrush the fucking cats to get to the hotdogs, so not only was the rabbit a crackhead, but it was carnivorous.

I once had a wonderful cat who looked just like Sarah Jessica Parker, but one day she got real horny so I let her out to go fuck this cat because the noises she was making were driving me fucking insane and she left, running away with her boyfriend.

1. There is a 60-year-old woman whose diet consisted of pickles and cheap wine and she got a big red blotch all over her butt and crotch. It's really gross. I want to make sure I don't have that happen to me. But that's the direction in which I'm headed.

2. My doctor prescribed for me a medication to curb my drinking habits. One of the most common side effects is suicide attempts. One of the less common ones is sudden death. Sure beats drinking though. I wonder what would happen if they interfered, and while I was trying to kill myself, I experienced sudden death. At any rate, I know the doctor is trying to kill me.

3. There is a crack addict in my neighborhood named Jerry. One time his foot was bleeding, so I helped him clean it off and he gave me the world's smallest deck of tarot cards. Then he asked me if the drapes matched the carpet. He was really insistent on knowing, so I told him the carpet was infested with genital warts.

4. I have a relative named Jay who is gay and has AIDS and he wears a "Git 'er dun" hat. He's a huge perv and on top of all of the HIV meds he's on he drinks tons of alcohol. He ripped the sprinkler system out of a Cook County Jail cell. Then when he got out, he called those cops repeatedly and apologized, until they arrested him again for harassment.

5. Oprah is a defective monster.

6. I bought a load of Teddy Ruxpin dolls from eBay, and none of them work. I want to do a perverse show with Teddy, but I fear I will never get a real one. This lady I talk to completely anthropomorphizes the bear and never refers to it as it, always he. She says, for example, that "he had surgery on his neck," rather than "his neck was broken." She's fucking weird. She keeps sending me these broken bears, but she claims they work. I'm afraid to send them back now, because I think she thinks I might be breaking them, which I am not, but I think she's too senile to be selling things on eBay.

7. Pubic hairs are really hard to get out of the bottom of a tub. When I try to shave my crotch, it looks like a rat with mange is hanging out on my vadge.

8. I need to figure out at which point I should die so as to prolong my fame.

9. I cannot believe Ted Nugent has his own reality show and the prizes are like $500 for, like, wading thigh-deep through a sea of diarrhea only to find an American flag and salute it, and while you're covered in the diarrhea, to take the flag and plant it into the body of a chicken without a head.

10. Pubic warts clear themselves. It's great. But I just saw this fucking dermatologist book with tons of pictures of a snatch with a ton of them and it was really sick. I hope I don't turn into that.

11. I'm hungry.

12. That fucking surfer with one arm has a book out, so why the fuck don't I? It's all about God. It sucks. I want her to die. She can only swim in circles. What a fucking blessing.

13. I knew a girl that got cat scratch fever for real and she turned into a real bitch.

14. Someone I know just got a $10 pan set and he already fucked up a pan after one day when he decided to boil eggs while he was really drunk and passed out over the eggs and they got boiled into the pan, thereby ruining the $10 dollar pan set in a day.

15. Meg Ryan's lips look like two worms fornicating. Too much botox!

16. I love to watch fat mothers beat their children in grocery stores.

17. Once I dated a guy for six whole months and the highlight of the whole relationship was getting semi-raped by his friend who was really semi-retarded. He was slow like Lenny from Of Mice and Men.

18. My mother having breast cancer was not a good memory for me, but there was this one photo of her that I still cannot stop laughing at where she has no hair and a birthday hat on for my birthday party. It's lovely.

Looking back on certain fucked-up aspects of my childhood lately--and, believe me, there are a lot--I recently got to reflecting on how our local Pizza Bunny family restaurant franchise was the most completely fucked-up place I've ever been to in my life.

Whoever came up with the Pizza Bunny concept must have been some fat, greasy pervert. It was a loud, flashy combination of video games and singing animal robots surrounding tables where you could eat crappy food. In that way, Pizza Bunny was like a lot of other chain restaurants, but more of my friends managed to get molested there in a shockingly short amount of time than any other place that I can remember.

It's all still so vivid to me: Pizza Bunny's waste-soaked playgrounds and ball pits and tunnels and hard wood and hot slides that I would split my lips on because I would slip and fall. There were also tube slides I'd get stuck in and almost suffocate because some lard ass decided to go ahead of me and plug the shit up. This was by far the dirtiest, most disgusting playland I've ever been to. Still!

First and worst of all, there was this area which could not have been designed for anything else except for defiling the innocent. It was a room that was about 12 feet by 12 feet and whatever genius designed it decided that it would have lights that would go on for about 20 seconds, and then flash on and off, and then it would stay dark for like two full minutes. More than enough time to for a short blowjob, or hand-job, or use your imagination.

I remember the ceiling was really low, designed for little people only, and it seemed empty a lot, but these pock-marked sleazeballs used to sneak in there and grope away. It happened all the time.

My father was a sick man and never hesitated to tell me about sex crimes against the under-aged. I think he got off on it in some weird way.

But, being an only child, I often would venture into Pizza Bunny's most foreboding chamber by myself. It reeked like a Port-A-Potty. Everything there was constantly being pissed on, but I'll get into that later. Sometimes kids would even shit in there. Still, I'd go in for a "surprise" until, after a few years of complaints, Pizza Bunny shut that room down.

Years later, I went to Chicago's premiere gay porn theater/cruising joint, The Bijou. As I took in the Bijou's smell of open-asshole and cum, while I was cruising down blow job alley, gazing at the glory holes, I was reminded of Pizza Bunny.

I'm surprised that Pizza Bunny didn't have a sex-swing suspended from its ceiling somewhere. Maybe it did, and I never noticed it. I was too busy wondering what weirdo was lurking in the corner eyeing me up and down back then. It was a similar feeling to that I had when I visited The Bijou, except they do have a sex swing. I think whoever designed The Bijou must have had something to do with the design of that Pizza Bunny.

The Pizza Bunny ball pit was another treat. It seems like most places would keep their ball pits at around two feet deep, so that you could easily move around and stand up if you had to. The Pizza Bunny ball pit went four feet down.

I remember this because, many times, my small ass got trapped underneath the balls and some stinking, shit-covered piglet climbed on top of me and I almost suffocated. My mom also told me that she had many memories of me disappearing in the ball pit for hours on end.

For some reason, kids reverted to hamster behavior in the pit. Each ball had its own special scent of piss and shit mixed with barf and bologna--the way that kids who smell each have their own smell.

At least at the splooge-basted Bijou, they hose the equipment off, and I'm sure that similar bodily fluids were not foreign to this ball pit. It was so sick. And getting stuck in there and trying to come up for air when some 200-pound blob with big gym shoes is stepping on your head is not pleasant.

I don't understand why the pit was four feet deep, except so that adults could wade in for whatever purpose. Yes, they allowed adults in the ball pit.

And then there were the tunnels.

The tunnels, again, were big enough for adults, so they'd stuff their fat asses into them and create huge traffic jams. I recall, on certain occasions, unfortunately running into some nasty perv who had plopped into the tube and then having them proposition me.

Actually "proposition" is not quite the right word. I didn't know what they were doing at the time, but an adult sitting in a piss-stained tunnel--just, like, "hanging out"--is a rather bizarre sight.

They were probably the ones pissing in there too, because the kids were running around, but the adults would just stay in one place and try to play with random kids. Even at a young age I remember thinking this place was fucked up.

Another time the Pizza Bunny himself--some teenager in an Italian rabbit costume--came out and tried to choke me when I hugged him. I mean, he just choked me, and I wasn't one of those asshole kids that like fucked with him or pulled on his tail or tried to knock his head off. All I did was go up to the Pizza Bunny and try to hug him and he fucking choked me.

After about 70 reports of wrong-doing, the authorities tore down the Pizza Bunny and made way for a less fucked up Little Caesars. It was sort of sad to see it go, because I cannot remember a single place that was so sleazy.

Pizza Bunny was a beautiful place. It was where I learned to feel love, and I will never forget it.

Crack. Mental Death. Takes your fucking life away so fast you don't know when it left or how. There's no camaraderie with this shit. It's every fucking man for himself.

Do you know how they got kamikaze pilots to fly their fucking planes into buildings and single people? They gave them speed. Methamphetamine. And suddenly they were insane people ready to die at any moment for some abstract cause that they didn't even really care about.

At least now with the suicide bombers they have a cause. They want to fuck the 73 virgins or whatever is waiting for them after they blow their precious bodies into little pieces in order to destroy whatever worthless crap happens to be within 25 feet of them.

But those kamikazes, they had no cause except fucking meth. Now I hear that governments are feeding soldiers Provigil, pharmaceutical grade methamphetamine, but not really telling them what it is, to make them better at what they do.

All the soldiers know is that it makes them feel like they're fucking Godzilla, so they take it. Fuck, I don't blame them, how the fuck else are you supposed to live with the stink of rotten death and the sound of women getting raped and their babies crying?

So the soldiers take the drugs and it turns them into supermen. And they fuck and kill all they want.

Here's what I do:

I come home on a Tuesday night, walk past the fucking street light that has fallen down on the corner and has been lying in the grass for the past two weeks.

This is the corner that must have been forgotten by the world because no one cares to even remove this hideous reminder of what everyone in this dreadful place has turned into. The whores just step over it on their way to the alley to get gang raped and choked and then kissed on the cheek by nigger after nigger after nigger. I step over it too. What the fuck else can I do? I'm not going to plant a fucking flower.

I climb up the dreadful dark staircase up to my apartment to reveal a dingy unwashed room. Filth. There is nothing more to do about this though. I continue to live in filth because that is where I belong. It means so little to me. Just like sex. And the filth consumes every facet of my life.

Six people are in the house. Tonight, for some reason, they are not their normal depressed, gray, fat-socket faces that I see every day. Today, they are jovial, interacting with one another. I don't quite understand it. They are not depressed and passed out on couches that are half eaten away by piss and roaches.

There are no dead raped rats flopped over garbage on the floor. Suddenly the meaning of all of this hits me though, and I realize what is going on.

Crack.

This house is cheap. And ugly. Gross. Pathetic. And less than nothing to me. Shit. Garbage. Small. Fat. Sweaty. Dark. It's so hard to convey. But why the fuck not smoke crack when you're here?

I try to stay away from crack because the last time I tried it, I found myself, after a binge, sitting on a piss-stained mattress, staring at a television and trying to forget that a greasy impotent scumbag that I have been avoiding for years has his tongue in my vagina and I am waiting for the five minutes to be up, so that I can have the two hits that he promised me after this horrible act of self sacrifice is done.

But then the fucker got up and belched into my face, blasting me with the smell of my own pussy mixed with crack mixed with a garlicky gyro from six hours ago. It wasn't humiliating, though it should have been.

Surveying the scene at home and thinking back on that, I seem to have forgotten for a quick second everything that is going on, waiting for that promise of my lips wrapped around that glass pipe for two more seconds.

I just sit and wait in my sleazing, belly-mulching existence. I smell death, but forget about it. This has happened before and I'm not unfamiliar to it. It'll happen again too. It's fine. I am a beautiful girl, and people don't know about this. And what the fuck do I care if they do. So I'll tell them all. Promise of this feeling for free is worth it. The feeling that nothing exists anymore, and I can be in any place at any time and be perfectly content with it.

War. Decay. Disease. Filth. Darkness. Dirt. Garbage. Foulness. Impurity. Violence. I understand a kamikaze pilot. I understand suicide bombers. I understand doing everything and not caring.

I let the crack-doling creep stick his asshole in my face and my fingers digging shit out of him. Digging. I look at my shit-smeared knuckles and shit-stained forearms and I hear all his bends and grunts and growls and I feel a liquor-soaked need to plow in deeper and deeper until I pass out with the hot mess on my chest, along with his wrinkled dick and collapsed balls amid the hot morning flies and roaches.

It's good. It's okay. Everything is.

This I only just recently realized: I am obsessed with my childhood. And for this I feel ashamed and stupid. It basically took something hitting me over the head with a baseball bat to tell me how sick I have become.

Recently I wrote about the man who sells various junk close to my home who I am getting close with, and that has not changed, but this week I bought the most bizarre lot from him yet: An old Barbie doll with a hole bore through its stomach and its head, yet another speculum, a clapper (but one from the 1970s, and I got the guy to sing the "clapper song" which was worth 20 dollars alone), and two music boxes.

One music box has a butterfly that flies around with the music. The other one features butterflies but they were plucked out of the foliage in the box and do not move. I played them both. But the second one, the one with the butterflies that were plucked away and do not fly, plays the most haunting melody. I recognized it immediately. It was the melody from my old music box I had when I was a kid. It was either from my favorite teddy bear or from my jewelry box. Either way, when I put it on I started bawling and could not stop.

Why the fuck, I wondered, was this affecting me so much? I could not stop thinking about it, and at my house now I have only two stuffed dolls from when I was a kid and I grabbed both of them and held onto them so tightly until I was able to gain composure. It was so fucking weird. Then I started looking at stuff. I looked at the walls of my room, which are covered with clown paintings. I looked at the art that I made, all dolls and kid’s stuff.

I listened to the songs that I wrote, all about my dad and childhood, but nonetheless all with an extremely twisted edge. I realized that no doubt I was ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED with my childhood. And in a completely warped way.

My ex-boyfriend told me that he had known this about me for quite some time, and I asked him why he had never pointed it out to me, but he just said he thought that I knew. He also pointed out my love of theme parks, water slides, and the like. And then he started to use some kind of scientific jargon on me and said "when you are exposed to certain stimuli, it's obvious by the way you would act and that you never really grew up." I asked him for examples of such "stimuli" and he named some, but I was still confused. But it was all becoming clearer to me now. Especially if it was so clear to someone I knew, who decided never to talk to me about it, I knew that it was true.

After going through college, I can think of two possible reasons for this sort of behavior. One is that I grew up with parents who were constantly fighting, so instead of being a child I was forced to be a mediator. So now, at 25, I am still an immature retard with clowns on my wall.

Another theory is that when something terrible happens to someone (for example, when a girl gets violently raped), she might want to live out the violent rape over and over in various sexual situations with her boyfriends to be able to better deal with the trauma.

Since I had such a shitty bizarre childhood, I think that maybe I want to constantly live it out, acting and living like a child, making childish art and songs, decorating my room like a child's room, collecting fucked up old dolls, being enraptured by Disney World and the like.

Maybe neither of the theories is true. I don't know. But this fucking TERRIBLE music box got me going this week. It hurts to hear it. It brings back all sorts of memories that I thought would never surface.

Let this be a warning. I thought repressed memories were bullshit. Now I know that they are not. I also now wonder if the weirdo who sold me this music box might be supernatural. I am scared of him but more obsessed with him now. But everyone beware this man . . . perhaps he holds the truth. And the truth is scary.

The past is even scarier. Often we want to forget it all. I know I want to.

This music box brought back a lot for me. I simultaneously want to destroy it forever and just sit in my room in a completely cathartic state and listen to it for 48 hours without leaving to do anything, even piss or shit. It is so weird. It just sits there and stares at me now. And I want to turn on the song. I know what will happen though. I will be shot immediately back into the past, into my childhood. It's like the big red button that you're not supposed to press but you do.

I am also dealing with the fact that I am afraid that this man selling items on the corner could be a serial killer or some kind of otherworldly creature sent here to fuck with me. Or maybe I'm just going nuts.

As I've revealed before, I have always assigned personalities to inanimate objects. If there were two apples in front of me and I took a bite out of one apple, I would have to take a bite out of the other apple or else it would feel sad. And I still act that way.

I just hope I don't turn into some kind of fucking Michael Jackson/Peter Pan creepy-ass pedophile mess, even though MJ is one of my idols and I adore him soooooo much, I don't want to be Peter Fucking Pan (maybe Shirley Temple, but not Peter Pan).

I don't climb fucking trees. But I bet if I somehow got famous and had unlimited access to money I would create some sort of fucked up amalgamation of Michael Jackson's Neverland and Andy Warhol's Factory--except no kids allowed.

I don't want what happened to poor MJ to happen to me. I don't know. At least I don't have vitiligo and have to walk around draped in black clothes and carry a black umbrella. All of this because of this damned music box. Repressed memories. Michael Jackson. OCD. Speculums. The clapper. A Barbie with a fucking hole bore through the top of her head and through her stomach, serial killers, weird sales, supernatural demon men, childhood obsession, never never land . . . I think I will need that lobotomy soon, doctor.