Surfer Girl's Discontent

Surfer Girl Serialized. And conversationalized.

PART TWO.

After a long evening at Employees Only, December 12, 2005, celebrating Liz Taylor Jr.’s birthday, she wrote.

December 13.

Okay, first of all. You are hilarious. And who knew that dirt weed could be so good. I know there is documentation (see photo) of just how good it was last night. My last memory was you and me on the bar stool cracking up over nothing. Or was there something? Who cares. It was funny.

Whatever it was. In a world full of crime and hate, I am innocent. I swear I am. Catholic school girls are good girls.

I think I am EWI right now, that is emailing while intoxicated. My walk from Starbucks to work was quite sobering since it is fucking tundra weather outside. Don’t go outside today if you don’t have to. Don’t go.

Write when you wake up, you dirty rotten stay-out.

December 13. I popped a response.

Jeezus-H. Can you say wicked stoned? That fellow sitting next to me? George? George who? Time stopped. All I saw was you. It felt like we were eyeball-to-eyeball for hours. The bed was spinning by the time I got in it. And I awoke at the crack of 1 p.m. Nice.

I’ll be up all night catching up writing. I cannot fathom how you made it to work today.

Fucking penance. And fuck that.

We'll have to try to be mellow-er next time. Right.

December 15.

Next time we hang, I have to tell you about my baby-jesus stealing fetish. I am craving it right now.

December 15.

(Me:) One of my Los Angeles gal pals, visiting me years ago, thought we should remove all the baby-jesuses out of the yard crèches – and replace them with…yams. In Cliffside Park. Can you even? I am so game for your fetish. Hit me with your rhythm stick.

December 30.

While I was in my hometown of Middletown, on xmas eve, I drove by my old church (the fucking cult hell-hole that it is) because I wanted to steal their baby-jesus. To me, this would be the greatest baby-jesus theft of all time, since those Catholic fuckers owe me for a lifetime of guilt with which they cursed me.

Mind you, I had to give some homeless woman money the other night because I needed some advance karma. Like when I saved three turtles’ lives on Dune Road last summer on my way to surf, just so I could be a super bitch to idiots that tried to pick me up. Dude, if they were hot, there would be no questions asked, but apparently I have this idiot-hit-on-me switch that I can’t seem to turn off.

So anyway, back to stealing the baby-jesus. I parked my car in the lot of my old Catholic grammar school, St Mary’s (what a fitting name) because there are gigantic pine bushes to hide my XTC-Terra from the road. I ran across the street and ditched in the woods to back-door the manger.

No. Seriously, I am not even kidding about this shit. I am thirty-three years old. Had I been busted, my parents would have laughed the rest of their lives away.

There I am, I was doing my best ninja impression, sneaking up on that manger, when I freak. Some guy was sitting in a car in the parking lot. Now of course, I think this guy is watching the manger for sick demented fucks like me, but then I think it was some priest getting his xmas blowjob by some slutty altar boy.

I dropped down and did my squirrel impression and froze there for a good five minutes behind a tree. Anyway, my xmas was ruined because when I looked, I saw that the motherfuckers wired all the statues to a tree behind the nativity. I was pissed. Next year I am going in with wire cutters and baby-jesus will join us for next year’s parties. I promise.

From an (earlier) November response, more appropriate here.  (Remember? Because I get to, dammit.).

Right of Catholic school passage (Middletown? Mater Dei? I was a wannabe-slut at St. John Villa in Staten Island, yo). You are almost duty-bound to steal a baby-jesus from a crèche, for chrissakes.

Back to December 30. That day was rich and rife.

Deep thoughts by Surfer Girl. A cat always falls on its feet and when you drop a slice of peanut-buttered bread, it always falls peanut-butter-side-down on the floor.

If I stapled a slice of peanut-buttered bread on a cat’s back, and threw pussy out the window of a fifteen-story building, which side would it land on? Pussy’s feet – or – peanut-buttered bread?

I will lose sleep if I don’t find the answer. Must try this tonight after I find a kitty in my ‘hood.

December 30.

I live with two fifteen-plus-year-old cats (at the time I did, alas). Don’t.

Try a Paris Hilton lap rat instead.

Comments

[Datomantrix]

I am at a complete loss for words? Me? At a loss....now thats funny. Seriously, I was laughing so hard I think I peed a little. I spent four years in Catholic school (Paraclete HS, CA) as a baptised Lutheran. My parents thought the education would be better. I got an education all right. You catholic kids are really naughty.

[karen]

Oh my GOD! You are cracking me up once again. Thanks for the laughs.