11/27/12

a depression epidemic.

Well, Jesse is devastated that you don’t care more about “mustached man eats head of lettuce.” He slept until 2 pm today. I took Roy out for a walk, and when I came back, he was hunched over “Best of Craigslist,” the mustache shaved and so no hope of a sequel. At least not for another 2-3 weeks.

The whole month has been filled with heartbreak. I let myself fall in love with this goddamn yellow lab with half a tail. His owner hadn’t called for weeks and I was starting to entertain the idea that I’d be able to keep him. Then his family came and took him for a walk a few days ago, and the dog couldn’t contain his happiness. He ran around in circles and whimpered with sheer joy, and now that they’ve gone again he’s fallen into an inconsolable depression. (His owner will be back for the dog in a week or two, once his new house in Helena is ready.) Imagine a grown woman, jealous and angry that her dog has other loves. A human can get real cocky about her dominion over animals, I tell ya. Roy, I am your God, and I am a jealous God, and thou shalt have no other Gods before me, you got that? He doesn’t get it.

Both Jesse and Roy have fallen into a terrible depression and I don’t know how to make either of them happy.

Meanwhile, the chickens multiplied; now there are eight. There are the original suicide girls: Sylvia, Dorothy, Anne and Virginia, plus four more we got from some weirdos on the Northside. They gave us all kinds of grief before they’d let us take their chickens. They were all “What the fuck do you want with four-year-old chickens who don’t lay eggs anymore?” It’s a good question, I guess. They’re worried we’re going to eat them. How do you convince a stranger of your eccentric personality?

As for me, I’m a step above indifferent. I love animals, and it’s fun to hear them cluck and I enjoy chasing them down, picking them up and putting them in their coop at night. But Jesse. Jesse loves these chickens. The new chickens are wild. They look wild and they act wild. Meanwhile, the suicide girls have become increasingly domestic. They try to come in the house all the time and they eat right out of our hands. Here’s a video of when we first introduced the northside chickens to the westside chickens:

I don’t know. Life is about to be full of changes but I don’t want to go into it right now. I bought a car. No, you’re right. My mom bought me a car. I’m going to “pay her back.” It’s a toyota camry. Who the fuck cares about a car.

For those of you signed up for novel blog… sit tight. There are some paid writing gigs I have to take care of first. I’m hoping to get started in the next couple of weeks. I don’t want to do the paid writing gigs, but what kind of an asshole would I be if I just straight up declined an offer to write 4,000 words or whatever on basically whatever I want for $500? I’d be a colossal fucking asshole, that’s what I would be. Still. I might just not do it. We’ll see.

I need to get my own dog. I can’t keep house sitting dogs. Just grow the fuck up and get your own dog, Molly. Get some goddamn friends, Molly. Stop talking to yourself on the internet.

11/12/12

this is what I think I look like.

There are these terrible, symmetrical sores on the crease of both my thumbs from raking the yard the other day. They are both ugly and painful to the touch. It makes handling things a challenge; I feel like Edward Scissorhands. With these sores, I’m pretty sure that I don’t deserve nice things. I should sleep on a bale of hay in a tower. Here’s where I tried to document my ruined hands using photo booth:

On the other hand, It’s winter and I feel hearty and alive. When the weather gets this bad, the only people left wandering the streets and waiting at city bus stops are the ones who don’t have any other choice. We eyeball each other, all, “That’s right. It’s 24 degrees and I’m riding my bike, what now?” It’s class warfare out on the streets of Montana (in my head). Bundled up is a good look on me. This is what I think I look like:

I went to see a fortune teller at a weird crystal shop on the corner of Orange and Broadway. The fortune teller read my tarot cards and said vague things about “going through a lot of changes.” She told me I was a hard worker. Oh my god, I know! Just look at how quickly I tore open my hands with a simple garden rake. I am hard as shit.

I told Jesse that I went to see a psychic. He said, “How much did it cost?” and I said, “Thirty dollars.” This figure baffled him. He looked at me with wide eyes and said, “You could have given that thirty dollars to me and I could have put it in a video poker machine.”

So that brings up an interesting thought experiment: Which is the more insane vice? Spending 30 dollars to have a stranger tell you encouraging shit about your life with no hope of a payday, or pinning that 30 dollars on the hopes of a lottery?

Thanks to everybody who signed up for my secret novel blog! I’ve been thinking about it all weekend, and I hope to start sometime in the next couple of days. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, that’s fine. Everything’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with anything.

11/7/12

sorry for all the caps/swears + an exciting opportunity.

This blog is the dumbest fucking idea in the world. What was I thinking? Here’s my impression of me: “Ooh, my name’s Molly Laich. I’m going to post my feelings on the internet all day every day from 1997 to 2012 and beyond. I’m going to use my real first and last name so any swinging dick can read about my misfortune and blame me for it. la la la.” Friendships will be lost, feelings hurt, intentions misunderstood, lives shattered, animals kidnapped and that’s just the way it is. No one can change it. The little boy who lives inside my mouth has got a gun to my head. I know, it’s weird, right?

What else? Yippee, America pulled together and just barely didn’t elect the cruelest, blandest, most out of touch and soulless man I’ve ever seen. I’m so proud of us.

Just got three texts from my roommate. In order, they are:

  1. Fuck Off
  2. Fuck Off
  3. Im going to buy you yak trax

There’s been some new animals. There’s a big yellow lab mix named Roy, and he loves the orange stick. So there. We’re in love, but I don’t get to keep him; he goes back to his Dad on November 20th. We also got four chickens, and these are for good. I named the chickens Sylvia, Anne, Dorothy and Virginia, so that if/when Jesse decides to eat them it will be sad, sure, but also a tragic and beautiful inevitability. TRIVIA QUESTION: Who are the chickens named after BONUS SUB QUESTION: Which one of these unlucky ladies never actually killed herself but just thought about it a lot? Leave your answers in the comments field. DON’T ANSWER THE GODDAMN TRIVIA QUESTIONS ON FACEBOOK, YOU LAZY MOTHERFUCKERS.

in case you don't know what chickens look like.

only known picture of the orange stick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the exciting opportunity:  I had this idea that I wanted to run by you. I love writing blog posts and I hate writing everything else. So I thought I would trick myself by starting a novel and posting it in a serial, blog format with sort of a bloggish voice. Now, it’s a FUCKING NOVEL, which means that even if you think it’s based on shit in my real life, it’s not, or if it is, you still can’t hold me accountable for it. THOSE ARE THE RULES OF FICTION, I did not write them.  I don’t want everybody in the goddamn world to read my novel. I just want some people to read it, so that’s how come the subscription thing.

So that’s that. Email me here at mollylaich (at) gmail (dot) com if you’re interested in subscribing to my novel blog. I plan to get started sometime early next week. Be sure to use whatever email it is you want to use as your login name to email me with.

And please, only sign up if you genuinely want to read this shit. Don’t do it out of politeness cuz you think I’ll be mad at you if you don’t. I totally don’t care. My goal will be to update the blog around 3 days a week with around 1,000 words per post, but really I have no idea. You have to do it this way because I’m not going to promote it on Facebook. This is an exclusive, private club you’re entering into.

To review:

1. This blog is a terrible idea, I’m an idiot, why do I keep doing this, somebody put a bullet in my head. 2. Mitt Romney does not care about black people. 3. When Jesse and I are not together, we’re texting, but it’s dark. There’s dark things you don’t know about. 4. We’ve got a dog on loan and four chickens for keeps. 5. Email me to sign up for my experimental novel blog.