Death of a Career

My basilisk-eyed, wanderlust once-creature-comfort career has ended abruptly.

It fell through the cracks ending up in bargain bin obscurity. When you shop at a bargainers dreamhouse, weaving in and out among useless countless off-shore off-colors of designers galore: Donna Karan purple plaid shirts, Ralph Lauren futile folds of foreverness, anything-in-abundance circa 1960 through 1989, Izod shirts lampooned into lascivious dryspell dryweave, cold whorish cotton-blended whatevers, lurid lustful polyesters, plentiful paisleys, vomitous greens/mauves/peaches, hellish hues of avenue-blues, whimsically-distressed violets, various vioin-colored old man’s cardigan sweaters, once-bitten twice-shy tawdry yellows and angry oranges, big-mouth toadstool browns, etc. don’t you just ask yourself where did all this crap come from? How did it get here? And furthermore, how the hell did I get here?

Well I happen to know that some of it fell there, just like my crash-bore accident-prone career.

Its fall was deep and crunchy, crusty and dire, harsh and severe…and it just fucking fell…

Like a bad-mouthed irritable screeching baby bird out of its mamma’s bawdy milk-residue-laden nest…

Into no man’s land.

A harrowing gumphawing Harumph! of a wasteland.

Sifted through and possibly pilfered by Jewish American Princesses at Bargain Basement’s R US?

I think not.

Smoothed-over, glossed-through, half-ass-heartily by the glassy-eyed Girl Next Door?

Nada.

Poked, prodded, and breathed-on by the White Trashy Whore Next Door?

No way, Jose!

Rather, ignored impetuously, imperceptively – icy indifference.

Which leads to…

My life is now a big galumphing gargoyle mess. It just stinks. It’s almost like my brain fell out of my head and landed with a clanky KERPLUNK!

It’s quite a killjoy isn’t it?

The brain. If you don’t use it then you lose it.

Yup. My brain.

It’s lost in an abyss of phlegm and flim-flam wading waters surrounding a castle, a moat of mired messiness with gritchy gators guarding its inky ilk. Not to mention the barnacles that have attached to my grimy brain.

So now I’ve got to figure out how to capture my brain from the wild waters in the messy moat from the bitchy beasts, and regain back my career from the blasphemous bargain basement crazy-circus hellatiousness.

It doesn’t help being QUIMMISH, a Quirky Uncontrollable Immature Middle-aged woman. My gut reaction is to consume exorbitant amounts of chocolate and to redux Sex & the City reruns, i.e. to basically escape from everything evil and erroneous in my life.

I’m very good at that. If there ever was a job opening for someone middle-aged to consume large quantities of chocolate and watch girlina chick flicks and write about this stuff, then I’m game.

But. Reality does not play this game well with me. It bites back blue and hard. Insolently, even. And I have vicious teeth-marks from it all over my ravaged body.

So I don’t really know what to do about this tired tangled tragedy. But they do say that tragedy is comedy’s sordid silly sister. And I believe it.