there’s a gaping hole where my soul used to be. i need to get out of corporate america. mostly because of the pudsuckers i talked about in my last post. it just makes my blood boil that these princesses executives are grossly over compensated and they’re not even doing anything great. they’re not changing the way the world does business, saving lives, or doing anything to prolong the female erection.

au contraire! too many of them are actually running businesses into the ground (e.g., the american bankers and automotive execs).

i have to believe the execs at the likes of franzia and apple, whose companies are doing great things, don’t behave like the rest of these corporate asshats by taking their money for nothing and chicks for free.

the other reason i have to get out is because my mental illness isn’t really compatible with corporate america. there isn’t a name for my mental illness, other than “my mental illness,” because it’s a mixed bag of mental maladies, including but not limited to:

blushing disorder– i hate the spotlight and have issues with authority figures. you have to lovvvvee the spotlight to succeed in corporate america. substance not required.

high-low disorder — i could conquer the world during my manic phase, but i could junk punch a bitch during my low phase.

german disorder – i hate my lack of perfection and criticism thereof. believe me, i’m my own worst critic so i don’t need any help in this department.

irish disorder — i believe drinking and occasional recreational drug use should be part of the creative process. “The problem with some people is that when they aren’t drunk, they’re sober.”  ~W.B.Yeats

punk disorder– i despise conservative clothes, jewelry and hairstyles. why can’t a girl wear rock tee shirts, jeans, and doc martens to work and still be taken seriously?

night owl disorder– i prefer to work when i’m inspired, which doesn’t always occur during the set hours of 9-5.

UV disorder– i’m wilting under fluorescent lights. i need frequent doses of the UV rays to thrive.

george carlin disorder — there’s rarely a sentence formed in my mind that doesn’t have shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits so it’s a little hard to get anything out of my mouth because it requires reprocessing. and let me tell you, my filter is deteriorating with age.

so i’ve explored two alternative ideas, but they have flaws:

photographer– i’d need to be a fine arts photographer, like nan goldin, cindy sherman, diane arbus, robert frank, robert mapplethorpe or larry clark. i wouldn’t want to do babies, weddings or sports. commercial photography might be good if it was fashion or portrait photography like the work of annie leibowitz or richard avedon. but i think it’s a little late in the game for me here.

greeting card writer — hello, have you seen 500 days of summer? but here’s the rub: print is a dying breed in the wake of facebook, twitter, and free e-greetings. ideally sommecards would be a target but often, they’re too mean. hilarious to read, but not sendable.  i would need to start an edgy online greeting card company, without the insult and free factor. anyone in? designers, email me.

if you have any other ideas for me, let me know.

on the up side, everything is well in my little blogosphere. i’ve felt the bloggy love and have bestowed it on those whose writing continues to inspire and entertain me. recently, i received this award, from not one but two beautiful bloggers, sister merry hellish and the barreness.

the rule is i’m supposed to name 10 others to give the award, but the truth is i couldn’t pick just 10. everyone listed in punk places is worthy of this award, so read them all!

cuz i have a exceptional taste in writers and they’re all dougie like that.

i’ve been on a bender lately punkers. last weekend there was nyc and last thursday a late-night concert with four bands (rogue wave, midlake, peter wolf crier and philadelphia’s own, restorations). then a pretty heavy weaning period this weekend. i realize i need to dial it down a notch. i’ve been partying like lilo. which made me think, i wonder what goes through her mind when she has fallen down the rabbit hole and is all tripped out from the crazy binging.

it was easy to channel lilo in my recent state which felt like something created by oliver stone with freaky angles, hallucinatory sequences, and a vaguely surreal feeling. i shared lindsay’s thoughts on twitter with the hashtag #thingslindsaylohansays. only one fun girl played along. i can always count on wicked shawn when it comes to an ingenious hashtag. she’s the diva of them.

well, it’s sunday, i’m in detox mode and feeling lazy, so here’s a quickie. things i imagine lilo says:

really, a white bra, lindsay? i thought you knew better.

my mug shot is kinda bangin’

they tried to make me go to rehab, i said ‘no, no, no’

my publicist told me the betty ford center is where you go to audition for dancing with the stars.

i thought those were pop rocks, how was i supposed to know it was crack? (wicked shawn’s cameo)

partying like a rock star is for pansies.

i blame the slammer for my being a lezzy come lately.

can i bedazzle my alcohol-detecting ankle bracelet?

feeding the homeless is a good deed because i might be one of them someday.

not bathing is my body’s natural way of masking the smell of alcohol.

sometimes the coke causes the sinus infection. sometimes it clears it up.

i don’t want my mom or dad as my conservator. i choose paris hilton.

what’s a conservator?

i plan to tell the judge this was all research for my role as linda lovelace.

it’s only right that i play her in my next film because her nickname is lilo too.

feel free to play along in the comments . . .

i’ve received another blogger award. this one is called the end of days award and it’s from this dick who knows how to insult a bitch and crack her up all at the same time — with gusto. it’s pretty awesome.

there are no rules for this award. the only thing i have to do is post a short summation of what i would do if  the mayans were right about 12.21.2012.

i can do this. why the hell not. i don’t have anything else to talk about. oh except maybe this blogher10 conference i attended in nyc this weekend. essentially, it just confirmed for me that i don’t have anything to talk about. i obviously don’t take my blog seriously. fuck, i didn’t even have blogger business cards to pass out.

there are so many bloggers out there who are way more talented.  i don’t even know what i’m doing in the blogosphere.

i don’t have an original bone in my body. i’ve never even coined a word/phrase. i don’t mean like sarah palin (aka shakespeare) who coined “refudiate.”  but actual usable terms like fucktard, crapstorm, cock knuckle or lame sauce.

the homeless people on the street have more words than me. and they’re not even degreed in this shit. and they sure as shit don’t do it for a living where they might stand a chance of having the discipline beaten into them.  and i’ll be a monkey’s uncle if they can’t throw an f bomb way more poignantly.

hell, i can’t even monetize my blog properly. i don’t know how to tell a brilliant story and then tie it to the brand’s needs like one famous blogger (who shall remain unnamed). sure, i figured out how to use google ad sense but that brings in about .000000006 cents per day. however, i think after attending the blogher10 conference i have a blockbuster idea for raking in the ad dollars. just you wait and see! i may reveal it in my next post. if you’re lucky.

i did meet these awesome chicks who can blog like nobody’s business. even though i was my shy and typically socially awkard self especially upon meeting people i adore and admire for the first time, i had a blast partying like rock stars with them.

bugginword and absence of alternatives

a vapid blonde, brilliant sulk, bugginword, for the birds blog, me (who cares)

shy girl wishes she could be a fly girl or spy girl, brilliant sulk, dufmanno

once upon a time (last week) i dreamt that i flew away to a utopian world by the sea. it was a visually transendental trip and i saw the most fantastic things. (it was not unlike the kind of trip i had the first time i put acid blotter under my tongue in high school and saw floating M&Ms and could read my BFF’s thoughts from the other room. and music sounded more intense than ever. every instrument was like a string attached to my body and mind making my arms and legs dance and my brain pop. only this trip was much more real.)

there was a magnificent sea castle with an ocean view.

and the sirens of atlantis appeared before my very eyes.

then a cranky sea witch who always hated having her picture taken in a bikini emerged from the sea and i saw that her frozen strawberry potion had melted which may or may not have accounted for the reason she was not smiling.

but there were water ninjas determined to make the sea witch smile because they knew she shared their need for speed and non-stop exhilaration.

the sea witch lived in the tower of the doom where thunder and lightning sparks constantly shot out into the sky even amongst the bright sunshine and deep blue sea.

despite having to live in the tower of doom with the evil nunzilla,

the sea witch was made very happy by the beauty and adorned bodies of the nereids who surrounded her.

one night amphitrite (the tall sea nymph) was celebrating her 18th birthday so a handsome black knight brought his chariot to take the sea nymphs and their worshippers to a lively party.

that evening there was merriment and libations

and swings that made one giddy.

even the sea witch was so taken with all of the revelry, she broke out into some form of bohemian dancing (this is a euphemism because it’s hard to classify exactly what she was doing or explain why she had no makeup on).

and voila the birthday mermaid was presented with an abundance of decadent chocolate. (so the sea witch must have been doing a chocolate dance, obvs.)

the next day the sea witch decided to take the nymphs out on a boat to a place where the sea witch could share the wonder of her sea underworld.

the sea witch led them on a guided tour.

there were magical coral reefs,

blue angel fish,*

butterfly fish,*

and moon jelly fairies.*

it was a spectacular adventure and led the sea witch to feel very proud of her marine world. she decided she never wanted to return to the evil tower of doom or the harsh reality that she had known. so they all lived happily ever after amongst the nymphaeaceae.

the end.

*i know nothing of fish species so i made these names up.  fuck it, it’s my fairy tale so i can.

time for me go into my cage punkers. don’t be concerned. it’s a self-imposed imprisonment. i shouldn’t be near people right now cuz i’m all ragey and hormonal.

and angsty.

and angsty ragey hormonal.

when i enter my cage, i look like an untamed bush woman with dilated pupils, and sticks, leaves and dirt in my dreadlocky hair.

when i’m in this condition, primping and grooming take a back seat to wanting to closed-fist punch a baby bunny.

the cage is good for me. it’s full of oversized cushions. but also with knives and small feather pillows that i can mad stab the fuck out of.

it’s stocked with potions like pitchers of sangria and franzia boxes laced with xanax for soothing my savage beast.

the cage is also replete with lotions for softening my skin, conditioning my hair, calming my nerves, relaxing my muscles, and inducing deep rem sleep.

there is a life size voodoo doll that i can jab with chopstick sized needles to circumvent the irritating behavior of:

• slow walkers (stick in the hips)
• loud talkers (stick in the throat)
• ego-maniacal corporate bosses (stick in the gut)
• douchey drivers (stick in the eyes)
• mean girls (stick in the back)
• catholic priests (stick in the scrotum)
• people who eat up all of my time by talking incessantly about all of the minutiae in their lives (stick in the neck).

i have a pretty young thing who comes to shampoo my hair, massage my scalp and give me a blowout. she brushes my hair for hours, does foot reflexology and applies lotions where i can’t.

there is triumphant music piped in like beethoven’s ode to joy when i need to jump up and feverishly conduct. and tender lullabies like asleep by the smiths when i want someone to sing me to sleep (for the last time).

or i may choose to partake in the magical poppy garden.

it is sunny, 80 and breezy in the cage. there are splendorous butterflies and an eccentric lepidopterist who explains how the butterflies got their brightly-colored and complex-patterned wings. he also teaches me how to catch and hold a butterfly. the always curious look in his eyes and his baritone voice pacify me.

there is copious fresh fruit and delectable cheeses.

no shoes.

only sundresses and warm skin.

and what cage wouldn’t be home to my inner barbarian without the perfect social anxiety drug (no side effects, no half-life grogginess, no calories). in abundance.

the bars on the cage are there so i don’t try to leave. sometimes i’m a glutton for punishment and feel the need to leave my protected environment to go out tilting at windmills.

enter again the untamed bush woman.

won’t you join me in my cage? my guests must be careful not to overwhelm or overstimulate me. and do not think it possible to enter unless you can amuse me with fantastic tales or braid my hair.

today i would like to sell out to the man. well more like the anti-man. not in a gender kind of way. but in an anti-establishment way. i’m using this post to pimp the latest paintings of my dear friend and personal inspiration, david brooks, a starving artist.

actually he’s not starving at all. he made a fuckton of money in the ad biz as a creative director and copywriter. in his 40s he decided to semi-retire and teach himself to paint. ain’t that the shit! it is in my book.

anyhussy, i say starving artist because he doesn’t make a living off his painting yet, but
it’s only a matter of time because he’s on to
something with this recent series.

and i say anti-establishment because david is an outsider artist. outsider art is raw and untaught, and illustrates extreme mental states, unconventional ideas, or elaborate fantasy worlds. it often has nothing to with the mainstream art world or institutions.

david has painted things that sum up america like sports figures, musicians, farms, cows, jet fighters, strange characters and hustlers. his paintings have sold at the prestigious outsider art fair in new york (which we have attended with him many times and where he turned me on to one of my favorite outsider
artists, henry darger), the montreal gallery,
and gallery bourbon-lally.

his paintings have hung in galleries in kansas city, columbus and portland.  a number of paintings are in private collections in oregon, los angeles, las vegas, and cherry hill, nj. one of these new paintings better make it to my private collection for doing this post.

david grew up in cherry hill, nj. he became one of the mad men in the chicago ad world where he met his lovely wife, farmgirl or kathy if you’re not family. he also worked in advertising in portland, seattle, and san francisco.  he has a voracious appetite for music and experiences live music on average
3 times a week. once a huge dead head, he named his first born son, jerry. he also has a darling daughter named lily bell.

david is a huge fan of a good hallucinogenic and many of his paintings are based on visions from some of his religious hallucinations. he’s just the coolest. i love when recreational drugs are put to good use and used to feed the creative genius.

to inquire about one of the new pieces shown here or to see david’s other work, go to his website. and let me know in the comments which one of these new visual
spectacles you think i should choose for my house.

i’m pretty sure “important factoid” is an oxymoron. fuck it, the title stays.

here are 10 important factoids about your punker:

1. i dislike the serial comma. the less punctuation, the better. punctuation just slows everything down. and formalizes shit. i write like i talk and the only time i pause is when i go into an absinthe trance. (although the tilda~ might be good punctuation to represent that.)

2. i used to be a catholic, a bartender and a smoker. not all at once. well i did smoke with my bestie in the cemetary while attending catholic grade school. anyhussy, the only one of the three that i miss is smoking. i just pray for one month’s notice before i die, so i can smoke my motherfucking ass off.

3. i always take the biggest, cheesiest slice of pizza. i have no qualms when it comes to my pizza. i’ll cut a bogarting bitch.

4. i don’t think farts, pirates or dane cook are funny. chances are you do but you should know that shit is not universal. and i won’t fake laugh or crack a crooked smile for it either.

5. i stockpile xanax just in case it all becomes too unbearable.  if my daughter dies or i get a horrible disease, i don’t want to live through it. i NEED control in this. sorry for the heavy, but that’s the way my brain works. i consider it forward-thinking and good planning.  also, i think i’m pretty clever outsmarting my doc to write me multiple scrips (i tell him they’re for the pms rage and no doc argues with that) and i get my insurance company to pay for them. you’re welcome.

6. i’m not a lesbian but i like to flirt with girls. especially foxy girls who give good blog like a vapid blonde, buggin word and wicked shawn.

7. i always liked yoko ono. even when everyone else blamed her for breaking up the beatles. not that i was alive then. okay maybe i was but i’m sure it was only for minutes. she makes good art. for realz. and this is one of my favorite songs that john lennon wrote about her.

Oh Yoko!

8. speaking of music, this is my favorite love song of all time.

This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)

9. i may or may not have tried heroin. but i if i had, i would have snorted it because it would have been the 80s and needles–aids… no thanks.  and if i had tried it i would have really liked the euphoria and heroin-sex but not the vomiting all night.

10. i think the jolly rancher should sell bags of the watermelon flavor 0nly.  i don’t care for the grape, cherry or blue rasberry ones. and i hate the sour apple ones. this is a huge miss on the jolly rancher’s part.

what’s an important factoid i should know about you?

i’m feeling masochistic, punkers. not like in an S & M kind of way. not that there’s anything wrong with that.  some ass-slapping, hair-pulling, and hot wax are pretty routine play. and not that i wouldn’t try the real hard core stuff.  like the rape role playing, auto-erotic asphyxiation, or blood fetishism. (the latter, being the most intriguing cuz vampires are way seXXXy.) and i said try. i didn’t say i crave it hard or need it now. i said try as in, give it a whirl just to see what all the fuss is about.

same goes for that B&D stuff. who hasn’t tried some handcuffed to the bed posts restraint action? but i’d also be willing to give the slave collar, rope and spreader bar, or leather slingy thingy the old college try. for the sake of having the experience. like trying a new hallucinogenic.  like don’t knock it until you try it kinda thing.

but i digress. when i said i was feeling masochistic i meant i need a good public flagellation to set my punk ass straight. and i’m hoping you will give it to me.

time to go all marquis de sade on my ass

because i text and drive. in fact, i tweet, email, fb & internet (that verb’s for you bugginword) and drive. i suck donkey balls. (we’re off the sex stuff. would never try bestiality. move on with me.)  i know it’s abhorrent behavior and it makes me 20% more likely to have an accident when the odds of having an accident are already off the fucking charts.

but it’s not me i worry about, cuz i’ll say it again, i suck donkey balls and don’t deserve to be cared about. it’s the other driver that matters, the innocent victim that i’m going to end up ramming (still not going back to the sex stuff. get over it.) because my head is down and focused on my iphone.

i’ve actually come close to an accident a couple times and felt like whipping myself right then and there for being such a twat. (you got it by now.) the problem is my addictive personality and i’m full-on addicted to this shit. and i can’t get enough of all my cyberfriends. you’re all the bee’s knees and cat’s whiskers.

and now you are my floggers. so let me have it! hard and nasty. make me scream out in pain. there will be no safe word. make me feel like a beaten dog. humiliate me into subservience so i will stop this fucktardry.

one of the reasons i wanted health care reform to pass was because i happen to have a few pre-existing conditions and wouldn’t be able to get health insurance on my own at a cost anywhere less than $50k per year. so i have to work for the sluggish corporatey goliaths lead by douchey ex-student body presidents, mean girls all grown-up, type A blowhards, spotlight whores, and mirror gazers.

but what the insurance companies don’t understand is that I really don’t have any physical conditions at all.

i just hurt in weird places.

see, life’s emotional shit manifests itself in my body physical. this is evidence-based medical science people and has been proven in double blind placebo-controlled clinical trials. or something like that.

all I know is the emotional-physical connection is undeniable. and I think the name for it is referred pain. or something like that.

how do I know this? because once the emotional factor is removed from my life, my condition goes into remission and I no longer need expensive health care services like specialist visits, MRIs, ultrasounds, or surgeries that end in ectomy or scopy.

The diagram below shows the type of chronic health conditions the insurance companies think I have that make me an expensive risk, and the actual causes and treatments:

now isn’t it obvious just how silly those insurance companies’ medical underwriting systems are? i might have a few flaws here and there, but they can all be fixed for next to nothing.

(but if the insurance companies want to continue to pay for my recreational drugs, that would be super awesome. i’d be willing to pay a little more in premiums for the convenience.)

All has settled down on the home front. Thanks for all of your love, kindness, and insights. I’ve got all kinds of big love for each and everyone of you punks.

So with spring on the way, I’ve decided to go on tour and promote my new blog. I don’t have anything scheduled yet, but I’m sure once my publicist gets the word out, all of the very important magazines (VIM) will want in. To make sure I’m ready for my interviews with the likes of Playboy, Vanity Fair, and Esquire magazines, I’ve prepared some answers to the questions I am likely to be asked.

VIM: What is your blog about?

Patty Punker: Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Random acts of ridiculousness. Surprise and happy endings. The C word. V things. My raging celebrity crush on a certain male blogger. List making and other addictive behavior.

VIM: Why did you start blogging about this stuff?

Patty Punker: Because I’m really a chick bass player in my own mind. And that’s how we rock stars live. Write about what ya know, ya know?

VIM: Who would be interested in reading this blog?

Patty Punker: People who enjoy depravity and who believe engaging writing should contain superfluous use of the F word.

VIM: How long have you been blogging?

Patty Punker: I just started blogging in December 2009. But because I have an addictive personality, I can’t stop. My first blog was a beginner sitch and was hosted on wordpress.com (pattypunker.wordpress.com), but now I’ve gone Pro and am hosting my own blog.

VIM: Why did you decide to go Pro?

Patty Punker:  So I could sell some ads and make extra money to support my nicorette gum habit. That shit is more expensive than my street drugs.

VIM: What other blogs do you follow?

Patty Punker: I worship the words of MommyWantsVodka, The Bloggess, Tremendous News, A Vapid Blonde, Wicked Shawn, The Checkout Girl, Pointless Banter and Stuff-about.com.

VIM: Where do you get your inspiration?

Patty Punker: Aunt Becky of MommyWantsVodka is my own personal Jesus. I read her like I read the Bible. I learn from her like I learn from religious ed class. I wish she were a sacrament so I could receive her. She saves my soul everyday.

VIM: Why should we subscribe to your blog?

Patty Punker: Because I get my crank on without nicorette gum and I can’t afford nicorette gum without ads and I can’t get ads without subscribers. Oh and sexual favors may be bestowed.

VIM: What advice do have for your fans?

Patty Punker: Work hard and play hard. If the hard work doesn’t pay off, become a high-end escort so you can afford to play harder. In other words, never quit hooking.

VIM: What advice do you have for new bloggers?

Patty Punker: Yeah right, cuz I’m a veteran or any good at this shit. (Like how self-deprecating I can be?) But I do have something to say here. Be honest and be true to your punk self. Reveal your soul. Don’t water it down because you’re afraid of exposure. This is your chance to say what’s really on your mind, so do it full throttle or don’t do it at all. Safe is soulless.

VIM: So what’s next for Patty Punker?

Patty Punker: Having the Coen Brothers write a movie about a week in the life of blogger, Patty Punker. Frances McDormand (a chick who doesn’t bore me) will play me, obvs. There will even be footage of me writing songs and playing bass with the band.