Faith

My faith did the drama diva swan dive off the Golden Gate Bridge when I almost peeled out from Graves' disease. Over the past year, I've been working on faith restoration in every area of my life. Let me tell ya, it ain't easy.

I have good days and bad days. Days when I am so in the flow of faith-- if we bonded any harder, I'd spontaneously combust from being overly faithed. Other days, I want to fuck faith in the ass with a giant cock the size of the Chrysler building sans lube. My faith is moody, tempestuous and unreliable. I know it's there, it's just a matter of rekindling it.

Pre-Graves' I was a very idealistic broad. And now my idealism is fractured. When it surfaces, it's a beauuutiful thing.

Today for example, I have been reading Wade Agnew's poetry books A Desultry Way and Solace for a Starving, Naked, Alone In The Dark Soul (does that scream KATIE or does that scream Katie?! Please...) The boy has serious poetry chops. I'm falling hard and fast for his work. Anywhoodle. After receiving his books a few weeks ago with a lovely note attached, I mentioned that I wished he'd signed them. Ya know what this mensch did, he sent me two more books SIGNED with another fabulous note. Faith restoration in people-BOOM.

In the meantime, I'm craving raisin bran crunch. I won't drink soy milk or eat RBC straight outta the box. It's dry as a bone and dripping in gluten. I will suffer in silence. Dramatic enough?!

What is it with Craigslist and chairs?! I'm telling you the chairs are cursed on the list of craig. I found two more beauts I wanted and to get them to my house.... Don't ask. The fellow won't give me his address and he won't accept my address. He just wants cross streets. What's his fuckin' plan? Hit the corner and start shouting "SCHWARTZ, I GOT YA FUCKIN' CHAIRS."

And now I must run. Virg has a new post I want to read. I need to e-stalk a few peeps back and, oh, wait, wait, WAIT. I have more dish. One of my naybahs has decided that smoke from my apartment is infiltrating her apartment through the walls. 1) I don't smoke. 2) I don't cook. 3) I'm not an arsonist. However, she's decided that the smoke is my fault. My landlord comes over today with a cigarette and walks into my kitchen, lights it and says, "Smoke this. I'm going to turn on the stove and be back in 10 minutes." While a ciggy burns in my kitchen and flames from the stove shoot out, I stand observing this strange turn of events. My landlord comes back, puts the cigarette out and turns the stove off. He then decides she's nuts. Hi. Who you tellin?! His theory is that she's trying to get out of her lease. NEWSFLASH... she doesn't have a lease. We've lived in this buildink for the same amount of time and we're both on month-to-month. She's free to flee any damn time she wants.

I'm off like a prom dress.

More later.

Oh, I gotta cawl my fathah.

Loving....