The Bird Is The Word

Pin It

When you are disabled for psychiatric reasons you must come up with projects that, to most people, would seem insignificant.  But to make you feel like you are a productive member of society you must aggrandize the importance of these projects.  So, when I'm not at the pharmacy picking up my latest prescriptions I'm busy working on my reputation as the neighborhood's "Crazy Bird Lady."  (I've already mastered "Crazy Cat Lady.")

One day I went out and bought some bird feeders.  I set them up and waited for birds but no one came.  It's always good to have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) when starting a project because you can constantly obsess about it then compulsively work on it (hopefully making it a success.)

The Mexican Amphetamine Starhawk

I put out an ad in "Blue Jay Weekly."  I posted flyers for birds around various nature parks promoting
the new venue.  I put an ad in Craigslist but all I got were freaky responses from sexual predators.  (Mike, as soon as the nipple clamps arrive I'll email you.)  Eventually, birds started showing up.  But when you have OCD nothing is ever good enough.  I obsessed about getting MORE birds and having BETTER birdseed.  I wanted my feeders to achieve three Michelin stars. 

I studied various cuisines so that my restaurant for birds would gain a wide variety of customers.  I learned that birds eat mostly nuts and seeds.  As someone who has several anxiety disorders this made me worry.  How can I, as the Iron Chef of Birdseed, accommodate food allergies?  What if one of these birds has a nut allergy?   Nut allergies are so common these days the only nuts you can bring on a plane are ones with hair on them.  I tried to see if they make very tiny Epi-pens but at this point they do not.  I started petitioning various pharmaceutical companies to make minute Epi-pens but stopped when they threatened to press charges for harassment.

The Cum Guzzling Gutter Slut

Every morning I wake up and make breakfast for the birds.  Being on time and good at this job is very important.  Perhaps more important than those who work in life saving professions like cops and doctors.  After breakfast is served I monitor the feeders.  When a new bird shows up for the first time I say, "Welcome to my feeder of light and love."  Then I give a quick tour: suet options, the crushed peanut bar, and of course, the black oiled sunflower seeds (the signature dish.)  However, some birds turn their beaks up at my feeders.  To them I yell, "What?! My feeders aren't good enough for you?!  Gordon Ramsey would love my feeders so go fuck yourself you little feathered fuck!"  And then there are the birds that think it's an all day, all you can eat buffet.  To those gluttons I yell, "Hey, save some for the other birds! You fucking pig! You fucking bird-pig!"

The Arabian Barking Salad Tosser

As you can see, I've also renamed the various species.  Because I am mentally unsound I am allowed to do this.  I noticed some pervert named most of the birds anyway: titmouse, red breasted woodpecker, nut hatch, etc.  I thought, "Hey, I'm a pervert. Why don't I rename the birds."  I eventually plan on writing a bird identification book with these new names and new descriptions.

However, I am not sitting around all day with my feet up coming up with new bird names. 

The Sparrow Incident

My birds and I are still recovering from a tragic event that has led us on a healing journey.  One day my feeders were pillaged by a herd of house sparrows which I have renamed Satan's Disciples.  They descended upon my feeders in one giant strike.  (This is true.)  They viciously attacked all the other birds then proceeded to eat everything in all the bird feeders.  It was like 9/11 all over again.  I ran outside shouting, "This is a feeder of love!  This is a feeder of light, love and unity!"  But the damage had been done.  Even the squirrels have been more respectful.    

Squirrel at the Crushed Peanut Bar

I began obsessively researching about Satan's Disciples and how I could keep them at bay.  I discovered that I could build a "feeder halo." (How appropriate for my feeder of light and love.)  A feeder halo prevents flocks of house sparrows from raping birds and pillaging feeders.  It's duty is to protect and serve.  I built my feeder halo which looks like a bunch of crazy wires surrounding a feeder (I guess because that's what it is.)  To the untrained eye, it may look ugly, bizarre and just confirms my insanity.  But my birds and I know better. 

When I get together with friends and they talk about their kids and their jobs, I talk about my birds and my feeders.  I speak at great length about our daily struggles, successes and our path toward wholeness.  If someone interrupts me to speak about something going on in their life I retort, "Oh yeah, when was the last time you did CPR on a Pink Bellied Pussy Pirate?!"  

Pink Bellied Pussy Pirate

This post is dedicated to my soul-sister Aubree who has been on my ass to get my blog up and running again.  You must check out her blog at Akashic Aisles: The Basement View.  Love you Aubs!

© All Rights Reserved

Pin It

Shitters Anonymous

Pin It

I shit my pants a lot.  Don't get me wrong, it's not a lifestyle choice like Weight Watchers or cancer. 

I realized I had a problem when friends started making comments about my shitting.  I believe alcoholics call this, "A moment of clarity."  It started when I would go to a friend's house and they would casually point out where the bathroom was located.  "So, Gwen, let's pass by the bathroom and go sit in the living room."  This was particularly odd because the bathroom was on a different floor than the living room.

And when I leave I don't get, "Drive Safely!" or "It was so great to see you!"  Instead I get, "Please don't shit on my front lawn."  One time I happened to shit on the front lawn of a friend's house.  Now I'm treated like I flew a plane through one of the twin towers.  Perhaps my friend's over reaction had something to do with the fact that her dog then rolled in it and went happily running through her house.  I thought dogs really loved peanut butter but man, they go wild over human waste.
(Just a tip for the ladies.)

I've fantasized about starting Shitter's Anonymous.  "Hi, I'm Gwen and I'm a compulsive shitter."  But then I realized another group equally as important would be left out: the pant-pissers.

I also piss my pants.  Not regularly--but it has happened.  In fact, you can see it live on my video Quattro Formaggi under the videos section.  It's in the bloopers clips at the end. 

A few years ago I was at a cook out.  I was wearing a skirt.  I went inside to get my purse in the living room.  My friend made a joke and I doubled over with laughter--and proceeded to urinate all over the living room floor in front of a bunch of strangers.  If my friends weren't so funny I wouldn't have this problem.  


Eight years ago when I was picking out features for my car a friend said, "What ever you do, make sure you get leather seats."  "Because they are nicer than cloth, right?" I asked.  "No, because when you piss yourself you don't have to worry about ruining your seats."  (This advice was from a friend who once pissed in her cat's litter box so she didn't have to leave her bedroom to go to the bathroom.)  At the time I thought her advice was useless and ridiculous.  Little did I know taking her advice would pay off in the fecal department as well.

Speaking of pissing my pants in the car, how come every time I get on a highway for a road trip my brain instantly sends an urgent signal to my bladder that I need to pee immediately?  Even if I just pissed one minute before getting in the car?  It's like my brain is tapped into some GPS where it can tell that the next rest stop isn't for another twenty miles.  "Send her the signal NOW!!" My brain screams.  Getting off at the next exit takes too much effort so I just keep driving.  I'm seriously considering wearing adult diapers.  I have this image of me looking calm, relaxed, my hair flowing in the breeze and pissing myself silly all the way across state lines. 

And I wonder why my blog doesn't get me laid.  I suppose it would be more disturbing if it did.

© All Rights Reserved

Pin It

The War Against Pubic Hair

Pin It

© All Rights Reserved

Pin It

Adventures with Pubic Hair

Pin It

Why is having the smallest amount of pubic hair associated with Brazil; the 5th largest country in the world?

Everyone is at war with their pubic hair.  Even my mother called me and asked if she should get a landing strip or hardwood floors.  Puberty should be the last time a mother talks to her daughter about pubic hair.

I started my pubic hair jihad with waxing.  I walked in to the salon looking like Zack Galafinakis was doing a stand up routine between my legs.  The woman had me in so many positions I felt like I was trying out for Cirque du Soleil.  I kept that woman pretty busy.  She has carpal tunnel now.

If you leave a professional wax confused, kinda ashamed, looking all around, wondering if you were just violated, that means you got a good quality wax-----AND you’re now in Cirque du Soleil.  So leave your perpetrator a big tip. 

I then tried home waxing.  Not as easy as you might think.  My pussy ended up looking like a dog--with mange.  Now my dog is afraid of my vagina.

I moved on to laser hair removal.  The woman said to me was “Let’s see how you are wearing it now.”  How am I wearing it now? Are we talking about a scarf?

Then she busts out her calculator and quickly begins punching numbers.  "Ok we charge $10 dollars per square foot.  You have about half an acre.  Looks like we could give you your current style for $800.00.”      

I can’t afford $800.00.  I considered my options.  I could get the Freddie Mercury.  Maybe the Alexander Hamilton.  Or the Justin Beiber.  The Barak Obama is really popular right now.  But the OJ Simpson’s on sale for $400.00.

But, in the end, I ponied up the $800 bucks and got the full Honey Boo Boo.  Too bad my vagina still smells like a dumpster in Chinatown filled with rotting fish heads on a hot summer day.


All Rights Reserved

Pin It