Never thought I�d say this, but I think I had too MUCH coffee. I just typed up a page of an entry, and deleted the entire thing. Too much meaning I feel more tired from drinking it than sparked. Sigh, �sparked�. Sparky. I miss Sparky, he was such a fun little fucker back in Hollywood. I feel like I could pass out. What the fuck?! I got an extra shot of espresso! Yesterday, I was flying off the walls with that. But here, like Garfield, my eyes are half-mast, just wanting to close and dream of cuddling with Pookie (which means �pussy� in Tagolog for those of you who didn�t already know that) and killing Odie. That silly pup.

I almost drowned this morning. I wasn�t aware I had that much moisture in my body, and I just washed that pillow case. Where the hell did all that drool come from? Ew. I woke up after my alarm must have gone off, after I must have slapped it off, to my cats MEOWing, touching my face with their paws, c�mon, wet-face, wake up. Or maybe one of them pissed by my head. Yeah, that�s it. That perfect wet circle on my pillow HAD to be cat piss. There�s no way in hell I could have slept like a dork with my mouth open and leaked like that. Or maybe I was crying in my sleep. Poor me, I must have been so sad in that dream!

Actually, I do remember a bit of a sad dream. Not that I�m telling YOU about it, and show my vulnerable side? My insecurities? That simply dreaming about a certain person, certain sensitivities, could make me cry in my sleep? Make me cry enough to wake up after my alarm and blame the cats for pissing on my pillow? No, not saying a word. Let�s just settle with this: I drool sometimes. And I�m totally cool with that. More cool with that than crying in a dream, and that�s all I need to tell myself.

Friday. I�m interviewing three professionals today. God help me. I must contain myself. I have this tendency to fuck with people that I interview sometimes. To say random, unexpected things, see if they�re listening, throw them off. That�s how I met rug-cleaner in LA. Interviewed him, Graphic Designer, Customer Service guy. I called him a �bitch� during the interview. Next thing I know, he�s at my place, wearing a wig, little leopard dress, heels, and red lipstick smeared between his mustache and his goatee, scrubbing the stains out of my carpet with yellow rubber gloves and some pungent cleaning product. The stains stayed away for a week or so, then came back.

But I digress. Point is, I like to throw people, do something out of the ordinary, they are not used to the kind of interviews I can conduct. They are NOT READY for me. These poor people. Me, too much coffee, flashbacks of choking on tears in the middle of the night and memories of a crazier life, a crazier town, dreams of going even farther, being even crazier, and amidst it all, here he comes, walking in, Production Manager of Nokia, wanting a new job from ME. This MESS of a woman, the epitome of �psychosis�, the pinnacle of distraction, sitting in my throne and holding a scepter engraved with the head of Medusa, under which is inscribed, �Man Eater�.

Nope. Wouldn�t want to be these guys today. Who knows, maybe I�ll end up getting my carpets cleaned this weekend. Stranger things HAVE happened.

-Barbarella

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