Top Five Spam Opportunities of the Past Week

I could…

5) Claim my unclaimed money.

4) Get the best deal on the best quality “chemicals” from someone named Sam.

3) Take advantage of discounted Lasik.

2) Own my invention via

1) Check out thousands of pictures and videos of beautiful Asian singles.

I’m a lucky gal. Why do I even have a spam box, anyway?



I was waiting at a coffee shop for my friend B this evening when a girl who looked like her walked in dressed in a similar style, down to the hair. Scanning for basic physical recognition highlights (the way we read), my brain decided that for all intents and purposes this woman was my friend. I smiled at her expecting the typical silly quip B would make, and when it did not come I began to see her politely accommodating expression for exactly what it was. This woman did not know me, and I had officially been holding her gaze for WAY too long. Damn, Spaz strikes again.

Personal Growth

I’m at the point in my cycle of moods (aka wheel of death) where my attitude is constantly awful  because the wind blew wrong. Yep, ladies and gentlemen, that scowl on my face – I’ve been mean-mugging the wind all day. However, I’m at the point in my therapy experience where tracking my moods helps me anticipate the swings. This provides me the peaceful perspective that outside stimuli which trigger my highs and lows are not the actual causes.

It also ROBS me the opportunity to assign glory and blame to those people and situations who would be temporary gods and scapegoats in my day. YAY personal growth.

Actually, I blow RASPBERRIES at your personal growth. I’ll embrace it in two weeks when I’m manic again.


I’m a hypochondriac. And, worse still, I’m a miseducated one. I don’t call the PCP or bother 911 when I  have a cough or a rash – oh, no.  I consult Specialists WebMD and Dr. Google Images until I find a report that confirms my suspicions of TB, or photos that demonstrate with frightening accuracy how my rug burn could most definitely be a flare-up of that flesh-eating virus going around…and thusly live my life according to my findings. it’s kinda the reason I’m currently medicated for bipolar disorder. If WebMD had compared my erratic behavior and emotional symptoms to that of a dying squirrel, I might have made myself a tree home and began hoarding nuts to save my life before seeking actual psychiatric help. Of course, had I done all of those things, it wouldn’t have taken long for psychiatric help  to come out of woodwork (pun intended) looking for me.



Lately, I have been experiencing a pain at the tip of my left pinky. I originally wrote it off as an invisible bruise of some sort and thought nothing of it. The pain however, has persisted, and the other evening I began scrutinizing both my pinkies. One would expect (well, one with the medical background of an AVID internet explorer) to find the disgruntled digit, if bruised, to be a bit more puffy (an elite medical term) than the other. However, it was actually the peaceful pinky on the right that felt…fleshier (also an elite medical term; I’m not surprised you don’t hear it more often) than its counterpart. By comparison, the hurting pinky tip seemed almost flatter, as if it had somehow deflated.



This last part definitely concerned me – but only for a moment. I mean, let’s get real here, Spaztastic. It’s not like some THING physically flattened your finger without you being aware of it. And the idea of a medical condition that deflates your hand one unassuming tidbit at a time is absurd (though in the search to confirm that last assertion I did find documentation describing the current coloring of my fingernails as a possible indication of cirrhosis. Damn).



Dismissing the inequality of the pinkies as an anomaly to be investigated at a later date but probably not the cause of the pain, I was left with determining which internal intruder was injuring my poor Pigletine persecutee. Ever ready to answer the call, my hypochondriac senses activated and I have thoroughly diagnosed myself with a currently mild case of fibromyalgia…again.

I dream in color…

…and I’m usually the victim. But the other night, I had a kick-ass dream in which I totally took back every ounce of power I ever eeked out into the universe, or just plain threw away.

It went a little something like this…

I know I live in a military state, and as my dark and disheveled apartment shifts into focus I am increasingly aware that I have slipped onto the wrong side of it. An alert strains to sound from the dying television and my face flashes across a snowy screen along with those of so many other “rebels”. My heart gives one beat to aching as the manhunt begins.

Time to pack a bag: clothes, but just as much as I can immediately carry; food, but just a few perishables, as I can always barter for more later. I happen to have no cash, and if my assets have not been frozen they will be soon.

Heart racing, I kick lead feet out the door and blink in the sunlight with provisions only half secured in my bag.The whole world has paused its dreary mechanical churning to stand still and stare at me in cheerful indignation. An electric blue Cadillac sidles up to my building and, lazily straddling three parking spots, vomits out a crew of enforcers led by a fashionably leather-clad harbinger of death. We are definitely spinning again.

In a panic I bolt toward my car flinging bag, jacket, spare pants, t-shirt, red apples in various directions that all lead inevitably down. I soon realize, though, that I will not make it before bullets begin to fly in my direction and a futile effort would be a waste of energy. I go limp and feel my knees, fingers, head sink into the cool blanket of grass over warm earth as the first shots shatter a stained-glass afternoon of eery silence.

It is timed perfectly and every bullet whizzes just passed me as I fall so convincingly.

But. will. he. believe?

He hovers over me and shakes with rage as breath still pours in and out of my frame. I am panting from that ridiculous half-sprint. His minions circle round like vultures; he hunkers down for the kill. I know that I will take a few punches, and after the shock of the first blow I relax into it – not into the pain, but into the understanding that when he becomes arrogant and convinced of my certain demise, there will arise an opportunity.

At last, at very long last he leans back on his haunches to marvel at the mess he has made of me and to take a breath himself. I see my opportunity; it is all so clear. With little effort I whip my legs up behind him and grip his head with my FEET. I calmly use the force and friction of rubbing my ankles together around his FACE to deftly SNAP his NECK…BAM! His rag doll body slumps off of me and henchmen momentarily scatter. I leap to my feet victorious, and suddenly refreshed. Let.the. manhunt. begin.

That’s when I wake up with the peace and confidence that after that madness, nuthin’s gonna keep me down.

Anyway, I love dream logic and I LOVE dream-me! 😀 I would NOT want to run into dream-me in a dark alley. She is a bad-ass who is not acquainted with the laws of physics. Real-life-me is still a spaz. 😦 Real-life-me went grocery shopping last and ran into a wall. No, no, not the cart – me. Sigh.