Today began with a jolt, when I turned the spigot to get a glass of water, and just before gulping it noticed a roach corpse swirling toward the bottom.

I’ve found roaches dead or alive in or on every dish I own, so by habit I’d glanced at the glass before filling it, and there was no roach. Thus I conclude that the roach must’ve crawled into the plumbing and died there, and been hosed out with the running water. This seems less than ideal, so I rummaged through my junk bin, found an old shower attachment with sort of a built-in strainer, and duct-tape-attached it to the sink faucet, which (I hope) will prevent future roaches from crawling up the pipes.

♦ ♦ ♦

After that victory, I checked my messages — none — and farted around for a few hours, then checked my messages again — one. It was Dahlia, asking me to come to a meeting about the play. The meeting, though, was actually a table read with the three main actors, and Dahlia playing all the other parts, a very dry skim through the story line.

So is the play funny? It’s hard to say. It’s funnier than a latter-day Mel Brooks movie, but so are dog farts. The play’s concept is funny, and the set-ups seem funny, but we didn’t hear much of the dialogue, and anyway, I have no experience with comedy in such a raw state. 

I was there because I’m going to be the script girl, typing the play from Dahlia’s handwritten pages, then photocopying it and bringing it to the next rehearsal. It’s a paying gig, and I need paying gigs, and also I'll maybe do a walk-on as the ass Jesus Frankenfurter rides on Palm Sunday. That wouldn't be a paying gig, but the part calls for a fat guy who’s muttering about feminazis, and Dahlia thinks I could be Rush Limbaugh. I'm not eager about it, though. I'd have to shave my beard and pretend to be a Republican.

After the meeting, I earned ten dollars (no tip, damn it) for helping some schmuck move out of his SoMa flat. And then, since my voice mail hasn’t heard many voices lately, I went a’flyering again, up Russian Hill, across Union, and on toward the Marina. Flyers everywhere, but too few calls. Come on, San Francisco — my existence may be grotesque and incomprehensible to you, but you need me on that wall, or something like that. 

Gave up on flyering earlier than I’d expected, because my sticky fingers were screwing everything up. I’m using spray adhesive in a can, but it makes my fingers sticky. Trashed a few flyers when they wouldn’t let go of me, and all the way home on the bus I could almost hang from the handrail without holding on. My fingers did the holding on without me.

Now, despite ten minutes of scrubbing, I’m still gumming up the keys on this typewriter. I push a letter and my finger stays there. I’d castrate myself if I tried masturbating right now.

Verdict: No more sticky stuff from a can. Tomorrow I’m going back to Flax, to see what a few hundred “Hi, my name is” stickers might cost. Those stickers are pre-stickied, and I could re-work the text of my flyer so it fits in the sticker’s white space. It’s an idea, anyway.

♦ ♦ ♦

Say, did I ever tell you about the time an employer sent me to a seminar? This was, like, five years ago, when I was living a normal life in Seattle, but I was already me so I hated people. At the seminar they gave everyone one of those “Hi, my name is” stickers, and you were supposed to write your name on it and stick it to your shirt or suit jacket so salespeople could approach you and call you by name.

Who the hell wants that? I don’t talk to strangers, and I double-don’t talk to salesmen, so my stickers said, “Hi, my name is… none of your business.”

From Pathetic Life #10
Saturday, March 4, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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