As I've already spent over a grand having my ankle lasered, I have to believe that there is some greater purpose than just turning a mediocre tattoo into a genuinely bad tattoo, which is how it appears now.

I had my most recent session of laser tattoo removal on Wednesday after work. They give me a few shots of some sort of local anesthetic which hurts like a bitch, and then they go to work. There are two of them, one is a nurse, I think, and the other is a laser technician. They like to weigh in about my life and career while they burn the top few layers off my skin. "Watch out for those European boys," the technician told me this time. "They're all drunks," she said knowingly, and then added as an afterthought, as she turned up the strength on the laser, "Living in the suburbs isn't so bad." She knew from my winces that I was trying to decide where I want to spend the next few years of my life.

Usually I'm grimacing and unable to respond to any of the life advice they give me. Sometimes, when the novocaine isn't strong enough, I scream "motherfucker!" and the ladies administering my treatment look away and act as if they hadn't heard.

I went home after my treatment this week and was in bed at my normal, early hour. I had a dream that my right foot and lower leg were on fire, and I woke up in terror around midnight. I realized that there was no fire, but the pain had not been imagined. My leg resembled a small tree trunk, if trees were red, swollen and tattooed. I took a few ibuprofen, checked my email for marriage proposals, and went back to bed.

I was unable to sleep, however, as the tears that were sliding down my cheeks refused to abate. I briefly considered calling my mother, as she now lives horrifyingly close by. (Hi Mom!) However, I thought it would be a good test of my mettle to take care of this minor incident on my own. If I plan to move to a country filled with spotted dick, I'm going to have to learn to fend for myself.

So I headed to the nearest emergency room at approximately 2 am. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Bay Area, I'm not going to give you a lesson in socioeconomics or how the crack trade has influenced the population here. Suffice it to say, I would not recommend using Oakland emergency rooms in the dead of night as a source of health care.

I was greeted, as I limped towards the door by a man in a crown. A crown made of rich burgundy velvet and bejeweled gold. In addition to the crown, he was also in possession of a princely coach (read: wheelchair) and an overwhelming stench. Ignoring the royalty, I forged ahead and found myself waiting to be triaged in a near-empty emergency room. The only other patient ahead of me was a hipster boy with angular cheekbones and precision sloppiness. I tried to diagnose his illness, but there was none apparent. After noting what appeared to be a squirm of discomfort (could it have been from my examination?) I decided he was obviously the possessor of a rectal foreign body and acknowledged the veracity of him being triaged ahead of me.

As it turned out, the staff having naptime was also triaged ahead of me. Interestingly, this did not include the woman who took down financial information. She, I was able to see within 10 minutes of entering the hospital. After filling out about a hundred papers where I signed my soul away in exchange for two minutes of medical attention, I returned to the emergency room and my brethren. A man in a wheelchair appeared. He seemed to be in possessions of only a single limb, which grasped a greasy bottle of Tropical Fantasy.

The Torso, as I dubbed him, had a companion with him, who was pushing his chair. The Torso, much like the royalty in the lobby, stunk. He was not only willing to bring the music, but the funk as well. The funk of forty-thousand years, from the smell of things. But what really hit me was that the Torso was not here in the emergency room by himself. He had a friend, willing to not only be his source of mobility, but to provide him with low-cost sugary drinks. If you counted the gerbil in the cheekbone boy's ass, I was really the only person there who was on my own.

It wasn't until I had been sitting in the emergency room for two hours, and had broken into loud, uncontrollable sobs, that I was allowed to see a doctor. He prescribed the antibiotics that I had requested when I first arrived, and after gauging my tear-stained face, enough painkillers to cripple an elephant.

A little after 5 am, I arrived home. The pain in my ankle had been nearly replaced by a headache and the return of the repetitive stress injury that I've diagnosed myself with. I took a handful of antibiotics, and went to sleep for two hours. I dreamt of the things I would tell my co-workers when I arrived at work that day. I imagined my hardcore rap career flourishing once the tale of how I survived a gunshot wound circulated around the water cooler. "Oh," I would say, blushing, "It was nothing."

The female officer giving the lecture was a specialist in the area, and seemed to enjoy her ability to shock and horrify the audience. She told us of how she would pose as a child online, and make plans to meet up with older men. "Yep," she said, "he showed up to the meet with a single red rose, a box of condoms, a tarp, rope, and a knife." She gave us a knowing look then, and all of the parents in the room--which was everyone except me--looked terrified.

The officer then regaled us with an anecdote about her time online, posing as a 13 year old girl. "I went into a chat room," she told us, her eyes glittering, "called 'Amy Loves Dogs.'" I figured it was a chat room about, you know, pets. The kind of chat room a kid might want to go into. But that's not what this chat room was about. When I went in there, they were talking about--" she then paused for dramatic effect.

"They were chatting about women having sex with dogs!" Everyone in the room gasped, and I started laughing hysterically. It quickly dawned on me, however, that I was apparently the only one who recognized bestiality as comedy gold. Disappointed, I regained my composure and tried to practice looking horrified.

The theme was 80's Prom, and I was instructed to dress in costume. Once I arrived, however, it was suggested that rather than "80's Prom" I had gotten confused and come as "80's Prostitute." My defense? It's a very fine line.

Usually I am capable of resisting, but the other night, in a moment of weakness, I went in. I wandered aimlessly through the departments, knowing that I wanted something—it could be anything, really—I just had to find it.

Clutching the pair of Calvin Klein skivvies that I had picked up in my travels through the lingerie department, I headed downstairs to the make-up counter. Like an addict about to score, I knew what I was doing was a bad idea, but I just wanted it so bad. I tried to rationalize it. “I’m out of moisturizer,” I told myself. “I’ll just get that. And maybe one other thing. Just to treat myself.”

The ‘treating myself’ concept is laughable to anyone that knows me. One who lives frugally could treat oneself to something now and again, but I try to live each day as if the Great Depression or some sort of ration book system were lurking around every corner. I have earned a reputation at work for being the recipient of packages many times a week due to my affection for online shopping.

However, despite my acceptance of my shopping ‘problem’, my judgment is not so obscured as to prevent me from recognizing that the make-up counter is not a safe place for me to be. Since I tend to shop alone, the salespeople act as surrogate friends to me. Ever the optimist, I fall for their trickery and buy whatever it is they attempt to sell me. This is especially true at the make-up counter, where they insist on giving me makeovers. I generally feel so guilty for the time they spend on me, that I must buy whatever it is they are selling, even when it is wrinkle cream or botox alternatives.

This time, I vowed to go in, buy what I needed, and get out. Then, of course, when the woman approached me, palate in hand, and asked to give me a makeover, I couldn’t refuse. “I guess so,” I said hesitantly. “Try not to make me look like a tramp, okay?”

Like any true artist, she ignored my instructions and proceeded to paint me up like a chippie. She examined the black rings around my eyes first. “Have you not been sleeping, sweetheart?” she cooed at me. All natural, I have come to look on them as my signature, much like Cindy Crawford’s mole. I then gave her a run-down of my sleeping habits, which generally leave me comatose more than cognizant, and she winced with displeasure.

Her work began, and though I tried to slow her down, it was all I could do to keep her from releasing all of her creative energy, and greasepaint, onto me. I told her the story of the last makeover I got, where the woman was under the mistaken impression that I was a Latina. She painted me a caramel brown, and then put a heavy purple lipliner on me and sent me out onto the streets of Manhattan. That was the most recent time I vowed to never get a makeover again. “That’s terrible sweetie,” the woman said distractedly as she applied numerous shades of blue and purple eyeshadow well past my eyelids and well into my eyebrows.

She examined me carefully. “Your eyes…they’re like beautiful pools.” She paused a moment. “A man could just drown in your eyes.”

“As long as it’s fatal,” I replied, in all seriousness.

Confused, she looked at me, her penciled-in eyebrows forming question marks. I took the opportunity to try and slow her down. “I’m actually looking for more of a ‘daytime’ look,” I said.

“This is perfect for work or anything!” she bleated, and headed for my pouty gills with hot pink lipstick. I knew, from bitter experience, that there was no point in trying to stop her, or even slow her down at this point. My only chance was to get through it as best I could, and pray that I didn’t see anyone I know--or anyone trolling for prostitutes, for that matter--on my way home.

She finally finished, and I approached the mirror hesitantly. I tried not to gasp openly as I saw my reflection. I didn’t even look like a scarlet woman as I expected, instead, I looked like I had just received the beating of my life after a long night drinking. She looked at me expectantly, and I claimed to adore my new look, not knowing what else to say. Sorry, Ma’am, although I appreciate the effort, but I am firmly against domestic abuse, and I expect my visage to reflect that. It was just easier to get out of there as quickly as possibly.

I couldn’t help but glance in the mirror again as I walked towards the register. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, I thought. Perhaps men are attracted to painted and demoralized women. I jutted my swollen lips out, held my head a little higher, and pulled out my wallet.

The other day my buddy Kathleen and I were in the checkout line at some ghetto store. The man in front of us turned around and started at us for a while. "Hi," he said. Now, I'm generally not very friendly. Especially when strange men talk to me. But since the man was obviously "special," I said hello. He then asked if we were mother and daughter. Now please, let me remind you, that Kathleen and I are a mere 3 years apart. Granted, she looks like an 11-year-old, and I generally look like a 45-year-old Tijuana hooker, but I was offended nonetheless.

I said yes, I was her mother. Kathleen immediately went into sullen teen mode to back my story, and started kicking her own feet and staring petulantly at the floor to help convey the ennui and alienation she was now feeling as my daughter. He told us that he could have almost mistaken us for sisters, because I looked pretty young. "Well, I was a young mother," I said. He nodded, and then his eyes rolled back to their original walleyed postion and he went back to drooling on himself. He then purchased his used copies of "Guns and Ammo" and other assorted camping magazines and then darted--if a 300 pound man can dart--with the magazines, into the bathroom from which he did not emerge.

Kathleen and I giggled hysterically and finally made it back to the car where we had a supply of wet-naps to wipe the impurities of the day off our hands.

Later that day we checked our grades online. We had taken two classes together, and I was dismayed to see that Kathleen had gotten an A in our British lit class while I had received an A-. Of course this sent me into a frenzied spiral of self-loathing and bitter rage, until I received an email the next morning from the professor telling me that she had made a mistake with the grades and that I had earned an A as well. Yes folks, another semester with a 4.0. Let's hear it for your little cupcake! My hysterical perfectionism that will surely one day result in the taking of my own life has paid off once again. Go me!

In related news, when I told my parents about my grades, my father said to me, "You know Lina, if you hadn't have gotten straight A's we wouldn't love you anymore. And you're adopted." I shit you not. That was my father's reaction to my stellar GPA.

I'm still looking for work. I'd really rather not work, because I'm like a delicate hothouse flower who is doomed, to when confronted with a situation where I have to behave in a socially acceptable manner, to often finding myself at a loss and starting to wilt. I was obviously meant to be born independently wealthy but god--who is, mind you, a vengeful one--spited me yet again.

I've been a bad friend lately. Unintentionally, of course. You know when you think hiring strippers is a good idea, and then later you realize that maybe it was not such a good idea? Yeah, that happened again. I'm an ass. I was in Trader Joe's buying cheese and strawberries, and we were on the phone with the strippers while we were going through the checkout. I paid for my items, and requested $20 cash back. The checker sneered at me and said, "Would you like that in singles, ma'am?"

I blushed furiously and slunk out of the store. Later, as the stripper was doing his thing, he suggested that he bring out his friend--who was waiting in the other room for him to finish so they could go out clubbing--to dance for us as well. We cheered, and he said, "Well maybe I can pull another guy out of my ass!" One of our gay male friends snidely said, "I've done that before." As things heated up, one of strippers pretended to put his hand nearly on my friend's crotch. He said, "I think I feel something hot!" A flaming homosexual in attendance (a different one) uttered dryly, "That's chlamydia."

In other, less shameful news, Fran and I were talking the other day about the cutest bikini that she saw. It's pink with cherries on it, and she was contemplating getting it for me. And herself, of course. I love things with cherries on them, but I had to admit that there was a chance only slim-to-none that I would ever wear a bikini. I'm pretty Amish in that department, and like to keep my gorgeous body covered at all times. Fran made the astute observation, "Lina, girls way fatter than us wear bikinis all the time." Somehow it's not translating very well for the web, but I will tell you, at the time it was freaking funny. I love that girl.

So I'm looking for a job for the summer. I've only put in one application sp far, but I'm working on it. I'm hoping to not get an office job again this year, because they suck the lifeblood out of me. I'm excited about summer though. If anyone wants to help me celebrate the end of the semester, remember the tube sock pix and of course it wouldn't be a weblog without the wishlist link, to which I've added a plethora of DVDs that I desperately need to make it through my summer.

So when I heard a pounding on my door at 10 pm this evening, I assumed that it must be one of my little buddies.

I said, "Who is it?"

A man answered.

Now I wanted to quote the conversation verbatim, but he was too out-of-control for me to be able to accurately describe precisely what he was saying. To sum it up, he identified himself as Pretty boy Floyd with the Baby Blue Eyes, and repeated this and other things at a speed which was intelligible yet terrifying.

The other things were things that almost rhymed and had the effect of bolstering his claims of being THE Pretty boy Floyd. At this point, I still thought this was a joke from one of my retarded friends. But then I looked through the peephole and saw grey hair.

Yes, I like older men. But not like this. None of my friends look like this. And that's when I got scared. There was a freak in some sort of methamphetamine-induced psychosis pounding on my doors and windows trying to get into my apartment. I said, "Who are you looking for?" The woman who moved out of this apartment a few months ago was 93. I don't think this was one of her friends. He said, "THE CREAM. THE CREAM, MAN, THE CREAM."

Pretty boy Floyd was at my door in search of the cream.

At this point, I shat myself and then yelled to Floyd "I am calling the police!" I said it again. "Police!" I actually picked up the phone. I was watching him through the window he was trying to hurl himself through. Suddenly, he said "Oh shit!" and started running down the street. After about 30 feet he turned around and started running up the street. And then, like a woodland sprite, he was gone.

And no, this is not a figment of my (granted, active) imagination.

So the problem is, I have no access to a computer. Right now I am at the public library, and while it is fun to sit next to a fat, hairy man that is humming and trying to read what I am writing (hi dipshit!). I don't think it is going to be a long-term solution. I need to get a computer, and pretty damn fast or I might end up sleeping around. Well, maybe not, but without a TV or computer I might have to go out and search for real human interaction, which is never a good thing. I'm thinking about buying a computer from Dell, just because they have a one year warrenty and apparently I can't go for more than a month without breaking my computer anyway. I can get one for $779 with free shipping and all the things I need, sans monitor, which I will deal with later. Anywho, if you like me and want to help get me online, please feel free to drop me a few bucks to lina@shutitdown.net via paypal :D, email me a letter of support. I probably won't get to write back though, because I only get limited time here at the library. :(

Apart from my computer woes, all is well. I am becoming a normal person again, and I actually leave my house. I think it might be the seratonin or something. Dunno. I went crazy at Ikea a few days ago, and oddly enough, saw one of the CHICKS ON SPEED. Crazy, man.

I got this email from null over at DGNR8. Thank god someone is concerned about my well-being.

I've noticed your run in with random squirrels. And i cant help but think about how deadly, yet cute these squirrels are.

The saddest ground squirrels I'd ever seen were part of a gang, in Dallas. They always seemed brave, at first, but if you looked past the switchblades and macho posturing, you could see they just wanted a handful of roasted walnuts. I saw a squirrel kill a man once. There was no wasted energy, just a simple lazy end-over-end sommersault and the deft pull of a sharp blade. The squirrel moved with the lazy precision of a window washer. He hit near the top of the man's neck, and by the time he reached the ground again, he was smoking a cigarette, and the man was dead.

"The ground is our mother," a squirrel once said to me. "We were born on the ground, we live on the ground, and we'll die on the ground. Ain't no thing."

Ah, but you could tell it was. It was obvious that it was a thing, and an important thing at that. More important than nuts, even. These were no tree squirrels, with their techno raves and big stylish pants.

Dallas cops asked me about the killing, but there was little I could tell them.

"He was part of the Loco Posse," I said, "and he moved like a dancer."

The cops, however, were able to tell me about the man I saw die. He'd been a biker with the Rebel Riders, an Oklahoma-based motorcycle gang. He'd been selling cystal meth to the ground squirrel community. The squirrel that killed him had reportedly been unimpressed with the buzz, but the man's associates claimed he was selling the pure stuff.

The thing is, both the squirrel and the man might have been telling the truth. These squirrels were hard.

My intentions are not to frighten and alarm you, I just want you to be aware of what you could possibly be dealing with. And even tho' we don't talk on a daily, or even weekly basis, i still lay awake at nights wondering, if those damn dirty squirrels have harmed you....

Thanks, buddy.