Fork In the Road

I open my dryer with a fork. I just wedge that bad boy in a hole where the door handle once was, pry – and pop! It opens.

Generally, I only believe in replacing things that are vital to my survival.

  • Like vibrators. Every time my vibrator goes on holiday in Ibiza [translation: I lose it] I feel my demise is imminent.
  • Or cat food. [And my cats are just waiting to eat me if I forget.]
  • Or coffee. [Is this not self-explanatory?]

But caring about drying clothes that I don’t even want to wash?

I’d rather have a PAP smear in a supermarket parking lot.

This can’t be life….

Working at a job that I hate to buy shit I don’t want. It just can’t be. Right?

Besides, my dryer works. Kinda.

Aside from slashing my pinky finger from top to bottom when the handle popped off…

It works. Like Congress works.

Whenever the hell it feels like it.


With one pivotal difference…

My dryer isn’t filled with self-important, privileged babies that will shut a fucking country down when they get all pouty.

It’s a small detail, but a relevant one.

Oh, god.


I’m in the supermarket parking lot. [That’s how time travel works.] Not for a PAP smear though…

I need to buy a lottery ticket. This is my new addiction since my job turned into the job from hell this year.

If I win the lottery, I will move to Ibiza with my vibrator and send my furry babies to boarding school in Switzerland.

That’s the plan.

There is a woman with a table with stacks of pamphlets holding the front door to the supermarket hostage.

[Question: Is it possible to have one friggin’ second where someone isn’t asking for money that I don’t have? Can’t a girl just buy a lottery ticket?]

I know that’s two questions. But geez.

Look down.

Look down, dammit!

If I look down, then I am invisible. [That’s how invisibility works.]

I just want to enjoy this last warm day before winter. And the sun.

I start walking like my cats do when I call them from across the room. They hurdle through the air like a rocket, strategically bypassing me.

As if my existence is merely an uncanny coincidence.

Look down. Walk fast. Look down. Walk fast.


Saved by the bell. She cornered some people with a stroller. Stroller People.


[May the Goddess, RuPaul, bless Stroller People. The bad thing about them is that they get in the way. But that’s also the good thing. Perfect protection device. Better than condoms.]

On my way out, she nabs me though… I am such a creature of habit it never occurred to me to USE THE OTHER DOOR ALREADY!

“Would you like a pamphlet?” [Yes, I would like a dryer, herpes, a yeast infection and a friggin’ pamphlet.]

[Note to self: Work on your go-away face. I am always smiling. It’s completely idiotic.]

“So what’s your organization do?” I chirp like someone has just rammed happy pills up my bum.

“We are dedicated to feeding the hungry and fighting regulations so poor people can afford to pay their utility bills…” Supermarket Lady chirps back.

Food + Utility bills? What an odd combination. It’s like the genius who combined a skirt + shorts. Skorts. Just odd.

And then, suddenly I was overcome with this feeling…

I am a douchebag. A lottery-ticket-carrying douchebag avoiding folks just trying to make the world a better place.

What’s wrong with me?

Is this what empathy feels like? [Or malaria? Or rickets? I mean clearly this is an illness.]


Or crazy-shit remnants. From a lifetime ago.

Like knowing what it’s like to be hungry.

Once, when I was a kid I remember only having one bag of wheat bread in the fridge. Me and my mom were moving from place-to-place. Half of the time she was beating the shit out of me and the other half I was alone in some crumby apartment.

She was either off scamming some dude for money. Or selling drugs.

And I was just so hungry. It was all I could think about.

So I opened the bag of wheat bread, ready to pick out the little seeds that plague wheat bread.

[Show me a kid who will eat those stupid little seeds in bread and I will prove to you that it’s a cat in a clever disguise. This morning, my cat ate petrified puke off the floor. Need I say more?]

Anyway, a seed started to move. In the bread.

And I couldn’t believe it. I was poor and starving. But not crazy.

Seeds don’t move.

But roaches…

Roaches stuck in bread? They move.

Again, I know what it’s like to be hungry.

So the idea of people starving fills me with a deep sadness.

And sometimes I feel guilty. For surviving. For escaping. For being lucky. For being able to buy a new dryer and just deciding not to.

It’s totally irrational. But it happens.

And if you catch me at the right time. Well…

I hauled ass back into the supermarket, filled up a cart with non-perishable food and wheeled it out to her.

Supermarket Lady turned out to be really sweet. And I am nutty. [Whatever. Give me your 10 million pamphlets so I can go home.]

I probably have cat puke to clean for the umpteenth time. Although, I don’t know why I bother. If I wait a few days, they’ll inhale it like cocaine.

[Note to self: Stop doing stupid shit that doesn’t matter.]

Just chill out. In your backyard. And watch your wannabe serial killer.


She’s the cutest wannabe serial killer you’re ever gonna meet. But she’s wicked and evil and hellbent on homicide! [Insert creepy music here.]


Every time we are out in the backyard – it’s kill, die, kill. She rarely catches anything though… [This is how a lack of commitment works.]

Right now, she’s watching a tiny bird perched on the edge of the concrete bird bath.

She crouches forever. And watches. And waits. Then, she leaps. Honestly, who knew my fat cat could jump at all. [Nice one, killer.]

She only gets one paw on her prey, before it flies away.

A voicemail pops up on my Mac while I am watching my fur baby try to kill defenseless creatures.

It’s the Supermarket Lady.

I almost forgot I gave her my real name and phone number. I mean that was weeks ago.

[And ordinarily I wouldn’t, but what’s she gonna do? Hunt me down, feed me to death, then pay my utility bills?]

I wanted to volunteer. That’s why I did it. And this is it. Here we go! Let’s change the world! Make an impact!

[Do me a favor? Hold hands and sing and light candles and stuff…]

While I vet Supermarket Lady on Google.


Google has really made “getting to know stalking people” a lot easier.

Great! An exposé about her organization…

From an ex-cult member who is hiding her identity. [Wait WHAT?!] No. Not Supermarket Lady.

I am inhaling this exposé like it’s candy. Super fast.

The organization has been around since the 60’s fighting big government. They rigorously solicit volunteers. And the volunteers who are willing to work all day – and then some – they try to recruit in an effort to sustain the legacy of the organization. All you have to do is sign over all of your money, be willing to work 18 hour days for 30 cents an hour, live with a bunch of strangers – and you’re in! Weeeee!


The anonymous author keeps saying over and over “how they do good work” trying to help the poor – in spite of the whole cult thingie.

But I guess you also have to volunteer to be poor first.

It’s a small detail, but a relevant one.

Y’all know I am too lazy to work 18 hours in a day. I can barely work 8 hours without wanting to slap someone.

But that’s not the important part.

The important part is something I learned from online dating…

DON’T GIVE PEOPLE YOUR REAL NAME AND PHONE NUMBER [until you’ve done a background check and fingerprint analysis.]

Until then, pretend. Yes, it does make getting to know people which is highly overrated a challenge.

But pretending is easy.

Just stick a fork in your dryer door and make-believe it’s a handle.

144 thoughts on “Fork In the Road

  1. There are times I am also irritated with those do-good people with their petitions and pamphlets. I mean some days you are in such a hurry. But I have to admit, I am a sucker for some causes, too! Smiles, Robin

  2. My computer was stuck on your Napkin post so I thought you didn’t post anymore. So glad you still do. My cat would like to be a serial killer too, I think. She bit my friend, then glared at her. HA!

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