I have been so hung up on the capital ‘B’ Bullshit that’s been falling all around me, I forgot to make with the jokes…

So, I’m into technology, and I think Bush has got to go. What does a tech savvy chick do in 2004 to sway voters? Here’s my idea — webcams. I seduce people in chat rooms to cam with me. After showing them my tits, BAM, I hit ’em with my rhetoric — NO MORE in ’04. Better than Dean’s Blog for America, I’ll cam to defeat Bush. Doing my part for democracy one horny geek at a time.

OK, needs a punchline, but I think it combines my three favorite things: Sex, Politics and horrifying people with the outrageous.

ROCK ON, and remember kids, Cam if you love Jesus.

I was just thinking in the shower (because in this rocking life, I don’t need to shower afore noon).

Firstly, you’ll need this:

Secondly, this post may be the first REAL post here ever. Everything has been honest, but very little has been absolutely real (I will explain that below, grab the NoDoz…)

Here’s the thing, there is a part of me that feels like a huge fucking failure. I want to clean up loose ends at work. I want to be remembered for all of the hard work I did not for this misunderstanding. And, it is indeed a misunderstanding, not a relevant sign post in my impending psychosis. I am sure that several people feel that I have let them down. Perhaps I would too if the roles were reversed.

I think they see me as reckless, but I am not and have never really been reckless. In the drug years of youth, I always did far, far fewer than any of my peers. I picked and chose moments and never ingested anything unknowingly without caution. In the sex years of that same freefall of youth (OK, that’s not a past tense kind of thing, although damn if I ain’t getting any right now, shit), I mostly have exercised a little judgement there too, and acted mostly safely. To this day, I’ve never done anything universally freaky or fetishy; no costumes, no ball gags, no crowds, no pain, no tampering with orifices ideally left to their own natural state. (I have an ongoing argument with a friend on vanilla vs. freak. I swear I’m vanilla, he points out the context of the true vanilla. But, still and all, I have simple tastes.) And, financially, apart from a blip also fed by callow youth, I have lived largely debt free. I paid off student loans literally as soon as they possibly could be, saved a bit and bought a house when I was 31 or 32. After college, I’ve held jobs and done the “right” things, making career choices and developing skills. Stable and focused.

I mention all of this, because here’s the thing — I like to seem reckless. The ideas in my head, my politics, my beliefs, my “vision,” the shit I think is cool all lean toward radical. I don’t think the revolution needs to involve sado-masochistic destruction, however. You do need to rattle some cages and shake shit up to get new ideas moving. I just don’t think personally that you have to starve or explode to make changes or to ONLY, if only, just to START A GODDAMN DIALOGUE. Comedy is reckless, because you are saying shit out loud for effect that other people don’t think of or don’t want to say or whatever, but still want to hear. Writing is reckless for the same reasons. By the way, performing nude brings all of that shit over the top and beyond.)

But the recklessness of comedy and writing isn’t actually reckless. There’s no destruction or doom lingering, no total anarchy without caring. For fuck’s sake, if anything it’s a pussy way to revolt and not lose your benefits. Thinking is just a good idea, it’s not radical at all.

I thought that it was pretty widely apparent that writing and thinking and ironically, intellectually masturbating in a public forum was and is not REAL. Weblogging by it’s on the fly nature, by being temporal, by grabbing disparate links and ideas, amalgating little doodads and factoids can’t be REALLY REAL. The Internet is a virtual world. I am a virtual character made flesh (I hope) by my words, but the person typing this text has other real world, tangible characteristics, reponsibilities and context missing from this page. AND, by the very nature of writing versus living, those things will always fucking be missing from this page.

However, if I write properly and effectively my emotions are honest and my thoughts genuine. The frustrations I have described in regard to work are true, but they are not real. Emotions are not tangible things. They also are usually fleeting. Describing anger and frustration (and fucking humor) in prose does not equal action in the real world. Apart from Ernest Hemingway sucking on a rifle barrel most people and/or so-called artists aren’t looking to wallow in the pure idea-based, descriptive, emotional plane. I mean think about it, how much would life actually suck if every time you had a thought or an emotion you just snapped and acted right on it. Guess there’d be a lot fewer jobs and spouses and a lot of Hemingway-type messes to mop up alongside a whole lot of freaky naked sex in the streets.

I value honest expression, but I don’t confuse it with reality. If only someone else were smart enough to figure that out, we all wouldn’t be listening to me wax all philosophical right now.

There is I hope truth in everything I write or perform, even just a kernel, but it fucking ain’t real.

Fucking lemons = fucking lemonade. I suck in a trite classroom poster kind of way.

On the serious bright side (whatever the fuck that means, somehow I’m picturing seriously bright, like lasers), I really needed the free time. My car is about to be illegal in multiple ways simultaneously, and to make that not happen I need(ed) to pay off parking tickets in three different towns. Plus I need to get it inspected, and now there are a lot fewer places to go, and, as always, you have to go during a regular 9-5 type of day. So far, two towns down on the tickets, one to go. You gotta pay cash when you are trying to get the paper to prove to the registry that your deadbeatedness has been resolved, and there’s a limit on how much cake the ATM will let me get.)

I should be more careful with writing about the parking violations. Knowing my current luck, I’ll be mistaken for the criminal element for sure. (How stupid is it when the most criminal thing you got going on is parking tickets, but you are expected to undergo a psych evaluation, because you might explode at any minute. Seriously, yeah, I might just pop and, watch out, you might see me not feeding the meter on time. Yeah, I’m a rebel. No quasi-legal parking space is safe when this wild woman feels the urge. Hide those lawn chairs or barrels, I’m liable to stack them on the curb neatly off the street and park anyway. You just never can tell, I’m a maverick.)

Last time I needed to re-register my car or renew my license, I couldn’t find the time to take out of my work day. My bro, who was between computer companies, did me a righteous solid and went to the Boston City Hall parking desk for me. Is that fucking ridiculous or what?

I am soooooo glad I worked soooooo hard and put my own life on hold. Man, I am so friggin’ smart I can’t stand it.

When you ain’t got no schedule handed down from “the man” weekends are interesting. I spent part of the weekend not being sure what to do, because I didn’t have to worry so much about having time enough to get things done. Having that extra 50 hours or more I think I’ve spent week after week at work back gives you a lot more play.

While I ponder my fate and wonder what in fuck will happen and/or can happen, and whether at the heart of all of this mess is simply the desire of my workplace to find some way to extricate me from the workday life, I can’t help regretting or resenting all of the time I spent at work. I fucking tried and worked my ass off, and I found a lot of good in even the most trying situations. There is tangible evidence of my impact, and several people do know (or fucking should anyway) that I pulled some mighty big shit out of the fire (OK, that was fucking awkward and mixed metaphorish). But, honestly, I did some work that sucked badly at the time, but I’m proud of from the distance of time, and I know would have caused weaker mortals to weep; Simultaneously organizing, clarifying, encouraging, pushing, pulling, prodding and fucking doing it all with a goddamn sense of humor. I missed two different comedy shows, because I stayed until midnight once and 10 p.m. another time to make sure folks had the help they needed to meet unrelenting deadlines. For a while, it was a regular occurrence that I would be given sketchy details at 6 p.m. and would show up at 10 a.m. the next morning with well-thoughtout spreadsheets tying those sketchy details up in a honking big red bow. For fucking fuck sakes, the night before my big meeting where I found out at least one person thinks I’m nuts, I worked until 11 p.m. sending out five separate emails with five separate spreadsheets to five separate organizations giving them precise budget breakdowns detailing several changes and future scenarios over several years, because the boss decided what I had previously provided wasn’t detailed or clear enough. I can’t help wondering if she knew what brick was about to smack me upside the head most rudely, when she wrung that last bit of workaholic productivity out of me.

If you asked me why I worked so goddamn hard (and I really did, and someone must fucking recognize that), I would say it’s because I honestly cared about the people with whom and for whom I worked, and I cared about the work they are doing. (Watch the tenses in here deteriorate. I have no fucking idea whether I am now to my employer clearly the past tense, and they are just waiting for the right moment to yell “last call.” And, I don’t know if I should give a shit anymore, because only a drooling imbecile still fawns and cares after the folks who kicked her to the curb. With each day I feel more and more like a character in a Toni Morrison or similar novel. You know, it’s a modern classic cliche, the impoverished black woman takes a job in the wealthy white peoples’ home. They bond together and suffer adversities and the women’s friendship is strong and nurturing. Until some terrible shit comes down, and everyone has to deal with the fact that the maid is just a goddamn maid afterall and there was no use in her getting all uppity and thinking she mattered. I’m not a black maid, obviously, but I was servant under the ivory tower of academia and now they all be up in my face letting me know I gots too uppity by reading and writing on this here world-wide web.)

I really, truly felt as though one of the people from work thought more highly of me and cared about me more than just the maid. But, clearly, I read that fucking WRONGO! Dumb shit that I am, I didn’t realize I was so expendable. But, live and learn I guess and always remember your place. I will never be the equal to a non-ethnic (because face it there is no WASP ethos), highly ivy-educated, academic leader. I suspect that would be true, even if I got my doctorate, because some pigs will always be more equal than others. I can’t explain how much it hurts to have this light dawn on me.

You wanna know the one thing worse than being told you are being investigated for the potential for workplace violence over something you wrote in your private life as a joke? Finding out that people who should know better are going along with the aburd accusations for some reason you will never likely know.

Meanwhile, as I learn about who doesn’t give a shit about me, cosmic balance keeps reminding me about the people that do. What would I do without M. listening to my harangues? Jesus, that man has some mighty big store of patience. Either that or, as I veritably wallow in my soap opera, he still manages to find some of my better qualities in the pity mix.

This weekend I heard from a couple of people who saw the thing in the Boston Globe’s Sunday magazine about the chick who was fired from Harvard. Someone else offered an anonymous corner of his domain to let me get my well-lathered dander up. (I think he’s waiting to see the torrent of literary abuse excellence this workplace tempest could inspire. I’d link to his site now, but you never know I might need to take him up on his offer.) I also got some of the web stats from the sites I’ve linked here. Good to see Big Brother is making such a thorough game of it. I ain’t naturally paranoid, but I was fucking relieved to have the weekend, when so many hits from work domains weren’t racking up my totals. Let’s hope tomorrow they find other target to analyze. (Actually, I don’t want that last bit, since I know it blows and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’ll just hope “they” find something else to read or do.)

When shit happens, it’s easy to wallow, feel isolated, think the worst of dark clouds, death and destruction. But, what the fuck? Given the coolness of folks around me, they’d just punch me for being a jackass.

One thing I’ll say in defense of the ball-breaking institution known as a large, Boston Irish Catholic family, don’t even fucking think about messing with someone in the clan. Nah, it’s not just parochial “for us or agin us” bullshit. It’s support, great fucking advice, emails, phone calls and great fucking advice. My aunts, my uncle, my oldest brother (haven’t talked with the other two), my sister, all pretty cool, and they of all people in the world would probably know if I was a fucking powderkeg with a short fuse and a raging temper. They know the real me–the one that is actually too fucking inert to even get it up to take a shower right now. My rage as a kid was yelling, and retreating to the furthest corner to weep silently and read a book. Yeah, I’m psycho. (Note to whoever is reading this shit to mind my business, that last sentence is sarcasm. It’s sometimes used for humorous intent.)

And, there’s a ton of friends, who are OK with me boring them over dinner again, as I lick my wounds. (I think you know who you are, and Thanks.) Or the “comic” who left a couple of voicemail messages taking a stab at what my favorite song might be. The contenders, “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads or “Crazy on You” by Heart. Someone else added Sheryl Crow’s “The First Cut is the Deepest” (OK, that song could be a lot of people, I just figured Sheryl’s is the freshest).

I’ve met a lot of people who I wouldn’t have if I never went down the perverse path of trying to fucking do stand-up comedy in the first fucking place, and whose ears I wouldn’t be looking for right now, if I skipped that path entirely. Motherfucking life, why does there always have to be the thorn and fucking rose. (I was going to say something about a blade, but don’t want to freak out non-metaphor-comprehending big brother.) I do stand-up and write here to get out of a fucking 40-year old closet, too shy to go public with my bullshit words. I finally leave the house, meet a literal shitload of like-minded people, and the fucking people who I was afraid to cross for 40-fucking years of closet living are out there in spades. Proving one thing I know, given half a chance, people suck (and software with “people” in the name sucks, but I digress).

Finally, how cool is it that in the middle of whiny, whiny, self-indulgent, whiny-ass whining about my dilemma, M. is chatting about growing older together and hoping we’re as cool as my aunt and uncle? (It always has to come back to the clan I guess, after, what is it, like 300 years or something of dumb mick oppression by “the man.”)

By the way, do y’all think it’s a fucking coincidence or what that so far in the month of June there have been in the range of 15-20 searches combining “Denise” “comedy” “Boston” and the name of my employer, whereas in all prior months there have been ZERO featuring my employer. Coincidence right? (By the way, the only reason there was even one hit–I went to a non-work related benefit for a related charity. Yeah, I’m an asshole.)

Thanks to this comic blogger and comedy colleague I started perusing former Facts of Life megastar, Lisa Whelchel’s website. Lisa’s given up showbidness for Jesus, and through her prayer guide ‘blog thingy, I found the motherlode of happy, joy and wonderfulness — a bunch of wav files with the variety of them songs over the 9-year run of the wacky hijinks of those girls from Eastland Academy (or whatever the fuck the name of the fictional school was).

Just hearing the them music from They Facts of Life Goes to Paris helped my spirit to soar and the first smile to cross my face in a week or so of worry.

So, it’s kind of like Lisa prayed for me, you know. She got religion and a website, which made my friend link to her, because damnit, she be all goofy and shit, and then I got to hear the theme music. All is right with the world (at least for a minute.)

Here’s how I know I’m not the Unibomber, just a misunderstood artiste —

I know intellectually that the flood of work computer traffics is probably due to a slew of people parsing my every word for a clue to my mental health. Striving to decode what isn’t there, namely the actual, serious intent behind the words. Bwahahaha, jokes on them, I know more than anyone that these are idiotic ramblings without weight, gravity or substance. Horsefeathers, I think that’s what we have here.

But, the part of me that is all writer, all ego ridden, communicating fury, stand-up comic, Barnum and Bailey spectacle, what is that person thinking about the increased traffic? That wingnut “artist” is thinking, “Huh, they keep coming back every day. Maybe they are enjoying the read.” Always look for the fan base no matter how ridiculous, right?

And that’s how I know that (a) I’m OK and (b) I possess just that overactive imagination that a friend does a comedy bit about, namely how he always gets in trouble for it.

Did you hear the distant thunder this morning?

Postponed my psych evaluation after talking with a lawyer. At the end of the day, being told that you must be evaluated as a risk for workplace violence is too fucking huge. Enormous. Gigantic. Dare I say, monstrous, to take lightly.

Many things I am, but violent prone ain’t one of them, and my name is going to have to walk away from this dust clear and untainted. My non-psychotic head recognized as such.

So, now I have called HR and uttered the phrase that you just know is all rippling and repeating all over the place: “On the advice of counsel…” And, now, I guess, since I’ve hit publish, the dozen or so sharks with company IP addresses who have been circling this little backwater of the Internet know too.

And so it begins.

Twice now I’ve tried to go through every post here to clean things up, recategorize and generally deal with the bullshit raining down on my head. That means that twice now, I’ve dozed off while reading my own words.

I almost feel sorry for the people who seem to be going through this little crap heap with a fine-toothed comb. (That’s a helluva mixed metaphor I got going on there, I know. Poop comb.)

Anyway, I wonder how many times they dozed off?