September 30, 2015


After fifteen years apart, I finally found my Icelandic friend Oli.  Do you realize how difficult it is finding an Icelander?  They're the most homogenetic people on the planet.  It's like looking for a piece of hay in a haystack.  

We met at college in Germany.  I was drawn to him because he was the best-looking person I had ever seen, with the kind of Nordic looks that would give Hitler a boner.  But, soon he became Oli, and looks no longer mattered.  He was brilliant, kind-hearted, and had a childlike wonder that gave him the clarity to see me as I was.  Perhaps this is why he was the first person I confided to that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, specifically, an autobiographical one. 

It sounded as embarrassingly impractical as saying that I want to be a princess when I grow up, but Oli didn't flinch.  Instead, he became the first person to believe in me.  
He didn't just believe in me though- he would laugh at my jokes and say things like, "There's something about Kat."  He would listen to me in a way that made me feel interesting, like I had something worth saying.  Normally, I felt like a loser scraping by, but his influence left me feeling like I could actually be somebody.  I began writing for hours every night, and haven't stopped since.
I suppose writing is just in my nature, but Oli is the reason why I started.  When I recently found him, and he responded, there was a familiarity present, like we had said farewell last week instead fifteen years ago.  In my heart, it feels like one of the rooms that was dark has been filled with light again.  Maybe that's how we know who our real friends are in life- in their absence, we save their rooms for when they come back.  
He's married with kids now, of course, because you people keep growing up whether I want you to or not.  I've been kind enough to preserve myself in time. 

Me today.
He's married with kids now, of course, because you people keep growing up whether I want you to or not.  I've been kind enough to preserve myself in time.  
Me 20

Me 19
Me 35
Oli has pneumonia, so I made him a card. 

Heh...I'm a Card.

I used to write Nathan Malachowski "I don't not love you" letters.  They sounded something like this:


I'm not sick of you.  Your presence doesn't make me vomit.  I hope you don't burn to death in a bathhouse fire.  I'm not dreading seeing you again.

Not hate,

Yeah, I'm a cut up. 

My friend from Iceland has pneumonia so I made him a card:
Specifically, rotten shark.
But my best work was when my BFF got laid off, so I sent her this:
While you're at it, get a haircut! 

It's Not Easy Being Green...

You know how people rave about the wonders of kombucha?  (hippies.)  I'm going to show you exactly what it tastes like.  

"Green sludge and vinegar?  Sounds like a taste sensation!"

"omg...Son of a monkey's uncle!!!"

"Why would you do this to me?  
What kind of monsters are you?"
I kombuched the kombucha.  

September 27, 2015

Finding the Dragon

I have slowly been organizing the photos and mementos that were stored at my mom's house.  Among the piles was this little guy:

It's an old karaoke slip.  Andy and I loved doing karaoke.  

Notice how it's all burnt up?  That's from smoking heroin.  It's called "chasing the dragon".  We were under the impression that it was less dangerous or addictive when smoked.  Growing up during the Nancy Reagan "Just say no!" era was the drug education equivalency of teaching abstinence only sex education to teenagers. 

See that little shiny nugget?

That's black tar heroin that got stuck on the slip.  Either that or the residue- I wasn't interested in getting close enough to find out.  

There was a period of experimentation before addiction when things were still fun.  A lot of kids smoked heroin with us, then stopped and went on to become lawyers and social workers.  Most of them liked it way more than I did.  I don't know why Andy and I couldn't put it down like they could- addiction is just weird like that.  Sometimes I wonder if he was still alive, would he be sober now too?

This is on the back of the slip.  Andy drew it:

 It says, "You are my sunshine."

Pipe Dreams

When I was a baby, my dreams were simple:  be cute, eat food, and get my BM taken care of. 

I was such a little stinker.
 Then I read some platitude about reaching for the stars, so in my early teens, I decided that I wanted to be an actress when I grew up.

Auditioning for the part of the constipated girl.

Then I went off to college, and my life revolved around boys, classes, and sucking at John Barleycorn's sweet teat.

Me with my beloved.

Then life got simple again.  All I wanted was food, some delicious heroin, and the occasional baby laxative in my cocaine so that I could have a BM.
They call it "Heroin Chic".  More like "Heroin Shit".

Then at thirty-five, I finally grew up, got practical, and decided that the most logical career path was "famous writer".  

Me hard at work writing poop jokes. 
My neighbors blast pirated Christian music at all hours.  In order to communicate, they have to yell over it.  I've complained too many times, so now I just relocated my office.  

This is me sitting in my (dry) bathtub.  When I'm no longer able to "rock with the flock", I grab a pillow, and banish myself to my porcelain think tank and close the curtain.  It's so quiet and dark in there that I can focus for hours.  

That's the purple bathrobe I wore the night before detox.  I wear it when I need to believe that my dreams aren't stupid and impossible. 

September 24, 2015

Drinks on Me!

I redecorate my apartment every equinox.  For spring and summer, I use light teals and accent with dark reds.  For fall and winter, I do the opposite.  My favorite color has been red for as long as I can remember.  My guess?  I've probably got the bloodlust.

Or, it could be because growing up, dark red was usually the most delicious seletion.  Dark red candy meant cherry or strawberry- and strawberry is my favorite flavor.  Orange, lime, and lemon are like shitty consolation prizes.  

Anyway, I needed dark red for my coaster set that doubles as photo frames, so I used the pictures from my knee surgery.  They're so disgusting, I gag when I walk by the table.    

I'm not especially worried about what my guests will think because I'm just about the only person I know who actually uses coasters.   

I checked,- not strawberry flavored.

September 23, 2015

Happy Spinster Day!

I'm sick of not getting a complimentary flower on Mother's Day.  What about the women who couldn't get a husband if their lives depended on it?  Where are our flowers?  Where are our anniversary presents of jewelry and romantic vacation packages?  

In the past, I would have just said, "Up my butt with a coconut."  But, ever since I turned thirty-five, I've decided that I'm a grown up and can do whatever I want.  So I told my BFF that from now on, we are celebrating Spinster Day.

How exactly do we celebrate Spinster Day?  By doing whatever we damn well please!  (And cursing while doing it.)  

Happy Spinster Day, buttasses!

Because we can, suckers!  

September 20, 2015

If Your Day Is Long, and You Want to Ride On..

You know what I love?  Cocaine.  The first time I did it, I thought, "Whew!  Now THIS is my drug!", then I pulled Andy aside because I was fascinating, and he needed to know my opinion on chairs.  Twenty minutes later, I was back to normal, ready to do another line, and it was gone.  My opinion of chairs suddenly changed, and I wanted to throw them across the room in rage.

Cocaine became a weekend hobby, and soon enough, it was just always around.  That was the music scene in the early 2000's though.  Instead of bongs, parties had coke rooms.  Everyone was sweet on the booger sugar.  Since the eighties, the quality had been increasing, and prices dropping, so it was no longer a rich kid's drug.

My nose started bleeding too frequently, so I mainlined cocaine instead.  Few thing are as uncomfortable as visiting a friend to do some lines, as she casually goes in the next room to shoot up her share.  Even now, my nose bleeds frequently, especially around dusty bookshelves.

Kill the Messanger

 My lack of texting and messaging protocol causes me deep shame, and I appreciate those of you who tolerate it.  My color bubble will be a yard long, then several inch sized ones.  Only women and guys who still find me a novelty read those.  

Once I'm yesterday's news, men just delete without reading them.  How do I know?  I was a middle child in a nutty home.  We always sense neglect- it's where we thrive.

You know what though?  I'm a writer- they should be so lucky to get a free sample of my work.  You're welcome, assmunchers.  

September 10, 2015

Ow! My Lady Wiener!

I just had knee surgery.  Since I had to throw out my pain medication because it was trying to Shanghai me and turn me into a ghost hooker, it has been an uncomfortable week.  
Yesterday I was sitting on the futon binge watching “The Fall”, and I suddenly felt something downstairs, in my pee chamber.  I went to the bathroom and discovered that not only did I have some major kidney stones, but I had not noticed them on their southern journey.  That’s concerning.  Maybe the whole area finally went on strike after years without a love-life.  Sigh.  Being chronically insulted by male rejection is one of my charming trademarks.  
Meh.  Even I'm not that into me. 
I continued birthing my private gemstone collection on and off for a few hours, then ran out of liquids that aren’t tap water, so I drove myself to the store to buy some diet cranberry juice.  I hate drinking water- HATE IT.  I would rather eat vegetables.

When I sat down in the car, a feral black cat came out of nowhere, jumped on me, and ran off.  I screamed, and no one cared.  Sigh.  In the distance, I heard the cat cackling, as it shapeshifted into the Witch of Spinster Future, and across the face of the moon was the silhouette of her on her broom.  
Today I feel the stones in me.  I get several at a time, and I have heard women say that they hurt worse than childbirth, which I will just have to take their word for.
A few minutes ago, a stout maintenance guy who looked like Wilford Brimley wearing Jeffrey Dahmer's eyeglasses came by to do a scheduled routine check of the overhead sprinklers in my apartment...and he was flirty. I laughed at his joke that wasn't funny, and now I feel cheap. Like a Shanghai-ed ghost hooker.

September 6, 2015

No-Budget Porno

I'm still stuck at home recovering from knee surgery.  I thought I had bought two weeks worth of food, but I forgot that I have to be force fed vegetables.  It turns out, I had five days worth of food, plus garnish.  

Today I ordered a pizza.  Let me try that again.  Today I ordered two pizzas.  Normally the delivery guy is a rotund, middle-aged, peg-legged gentleman in Dahmer glasses. 

And normally, I look like this:

Taken yesterday.
For comparison, this is Jenna Jameson, most celebrated female porn star in history:
Also, most celebrated pizza delivery customer.
This is what greeted the adorable, twenty-four year old, lanky dreamboat who brought my pizza: 

He was about a foot taller than I am and smelled like delicious pizza.
Our sexy dialogue went like this:

Pizza delivery kid:  Hey, you really know how to order pizza!  You got the apple pies and the chocolate-chip brownies too.

Katt:  Shut up.  

September 5, 2015

The Akattemy Award: Best Actor

Marlon Brando used to be my favorite actor.  Then Erik Nicolaisen tied with him as my favorite.  Then I saw this commercial:

Press this link.
This is me laughing so hard that I fell off the futon:  
It's official:  Erik Nicolaisen, you are my favorite actor. 
 Erik defied jock stereotypes by being not only the coolest guy in school, but also the kindest.  

Poppies on the Outside, Opiates on the Inside

This is seriously the most comfortable shirt I've ever worn in my life, and this is coming from someone who works in her pajamas. 
I tried to get all the letters, but my boobs weren't cooperating,
This is the first shirt.  There was a tear in the collar, so I sent a snarky email wanting a refund, and the response I got referred to my email as something an angry customer would send K-Mart.  For some reason, that's one of the funniest things I've heard in my life.  But, behind the laughter, I felt terrible.  I would rather slit my throat than be mean.  

Another shirt was sent, and now that I'm stuck at home recovering from knee surgery, I just rotate the two.  You didn't know that I had knee surgery?  Yeah, almost one did.  I hate being taken care of.  

Besides, the only thing I really need at this point are hugs.  So far, I've had two today, so I'm good.  I've been working on being more physically affectionate in the past few months, learning to trust that no one is going to hurt me.  (Men haven't been exactly "kind" to me in the past.)  In fact, the first thing I did when I came out of surgery was bolt up and yell, "Hug!!!", then held out my arms whimpering until a nurse came over.  

The painkillers- those were terrifying.  I needed them at first, but then I desperately wanted to pour the whole bottle in my mouth and live forever in a walking coma.  I nearly had to rip my own arm off to flush them down the toilet.  Now I miss them and wish I could crawl down the plumbing to find them.  Bad smells make me vomit, but I would literally wade through human shit for opiates.  It's been nearly a decade since I was on the yam yam, playing pincushion with my chubby, zombie limbs, yet I'm still so vulnerable.

At first, I didn't feel anything from the painkillers.  Then I noticed that my knee didn't hurt as much.  Around that time, I started falling asleep in the bathroom, dreaming about pants.  Within two days, my skin had claw marks all over from scratching myself, and I looked like I had two black eyes.  That was when I was taking only half as prescribed.  Then one night, it was so sudden.  I was holding the bottle, and it looked like a warm abyss that I desperately wanted to jump into.  If this could happen to me, is no one spared?   

That was several days ago, and now I just take Tylenol and sleep as much as I can.  I wish there were matching pants for this shirt.  It's from a band though.  I had a "thing" with the singer, but we decided that we were no longer into me. 

Those are poppies on the front. wonder I find it so comfortable.  

September 2, 2015

On My Knees: Part 3

On a dark evening in 2003, Andy and I were at my mom's who wanted me to bring books downstairs.  She kept piling them in my arms until I couldn't see ahead, and I played my usual game of "One Trip Adams"  The light was burnt out above the stairs to the den, and I tore my ACL for the second time on my (unsurprising) fall down them.  Since I didn't have medical insurance, I just ignored it.

Have you also noticed how gross the human body is?  Like a big bag of smelly goo.
After twelve years, I am finally getting it repaired again.  My goal is to be able to run from serial killers, or at least dazzle them beforehand while trying to tap dance in Morse Code.  


Ankle Deep

 don't remember whose crutches they were, but they certainly weren't mine.  When I was seven, I jumped out my window in a swimsuit and cape, causing a sprained ankle.  Instead of taking me to the hospital right away, my mom and dad captured me in the game room and yelled at me.  They finally decided that it was someone else's fault, and like the yellow-bellied seven year old I was, I agreed and finally got to go to the doctor  Because it wasn't broken, I was disappointed 

On My Knees: Part 2

Technically, I'm bionic.  

My special skill is early-onset arthritis.
There are metal screws in my right knee from surgery twenty years ago.  

The tear originated in an ill-fated game of floor hockey in seventh grade gym class.  I was playing defense, went in get the puck, and was suddenly sitting on colored lines and floor wax.  The first thing I tried to do was get back up and keep playing and to my surprise, my knee wasn't working.  All it did was buckle until the gym teacher finally told me to stay down.  

Katt in middle school, quietly growing boobs.
A couple kids helped me to the office, which I found embarrassing because in 1993, I was the heaviest kid in the class at a whopping 144lbs.  I waited in the office while the staff tried to locate my parents, who must have had a sneaking suspicion that I would need them that day, then laughed maniacally while toasting to my neglect.  Finally the secretary sighed and called my emergency contact, who came over right away.  Coincidentally, look how awesome her non-neglected kid turned out.

September 1, 2015

On My Knees: Part 1

Perhaps you play this game too...

I call it "One Trip Adams", and the goal is to transport everything in the least amount of trips possible.  Circus stunts could be invented from some of my tricks, and I owe a special thank you to my greatest teacher of all:

Suck it, Pong.
 There's also a game called "No Cart Adams", where I can only use one basket at the grocery store for all of my items.  (It's also called "Can We Get A Clean Up In Dairy".)