Open Letters

Dear Opera Companies,
Hey. Don’t you have a bunch of people that work for you? Because it doesn’t really seem like you do, considering you’re super irresponsible.

Riddle me this: how come I have to get all my shit in on time and totally perfect, but you can’t seem to do things like “respond to emails or phone calls” or “send letters/emails/anything at all on time” or “treat people like human beings with feelings” ?

I’m just one lady. You’re a giant team of people. And I swear to God, you’re a team of sadistic bastards.

Let me tell you how un-funny it is when you leave people hanging until the last minute, or don’t respond to people contacting you. About as un-funny as finding out the hamburger you just ate was made of dead babies. You wonder why singers are fucking insane and narcissistic…it’s because you cause us to obsess about everything until we go batshit. I have a friend doing covert ops for me so I don’t come off as crazy, which actually makes me even MORE CRAZY. So thanks for that. The next time someone calls you 30 times or throws a diva fit you know who to blame.

Fuck you in the ass using lemon juice and salt water for lube,
Artsy

Dear Jobs,
Why are you so impossible?

How hard is it to find a really good paying job with super nice people that has hours that I am available for that will let me take entire weeks and days off in the next couple of months that is also really interesting and rewarding and gives me some medica benefits so I can stop worrying about getting into a car accident?

I mean, come on now. I know you’re out there.

Still looking,
Artsy

Dear Body,
I’m sorry for being really bad to you. I know that my going to the gym is really nice, but that I totally undo that by sitting in the recliner all day (you can talk to Jobs about that, though) and by eating entire pizzas out of stress and the fact that it’s really cheap.

However. I really wish you’d stop taking it out on me by gaining weight and feeling lethargic and horrible all the time. That’s just not right. Jesus said to turn the other cheek, and I think you might want to go ahead and follow that advice.

Making me chubby is not going to help. In fact, I’m going to eat even MORE and work out even LESS because I feel worse about myself. You know that, buddy. We’ve been together since the beginning. So quit it.

Still pals?,
Artsy

Dear Horror Movies,
Why do I watch you? It does not help my already very sparse sleeping habits to watch movies involving people eating each other and vomiting blood into each other’s mouths.

Uncool. Now you are in my dreams in a zombie-vampire-serial killer mix.

Shitty shitty shit shit.

Ghoulfully yours,
Artsy

Hey, my struggling music career: Feel my wrath!

Ok. I know I try to keep it nice n’ lighthearted here, but I’m going to throw a minor shit fit right now.

I am mother-humping over this whole singing business. I keep getting shot down for auditions. It’s not uncommon, the ones shooting me down are major companies, and I’m getting a lot for auditions, too. BUT STILL. I’m reasonably good at singing. Really! I am!

Because I have apparently become asexual and don’t date, getting rejected for auditions/programs feels a lot like getting broken up with. Not like, a long-term relationship. It feels like breaking it off with some guy who you really had high hopes for but had only been out with once or twice. You liked him a lot, but weren’t attached. It stings and leaves a bruise.

However, say you got broken up with like that, oh, I dunno…maybe 4 times in 2 weeks and you were waiting for 10 other guys to see if they’d break up with you too (apparently you’re really slutty and you date 15 guys at once/are also a psycho because you get emotionally attached to all of them…but you get what I am saying), it starts to really wear you down.

That kind of shit can make you really emotionally unstable. And bitter. And depressed. And obsessive.

I don’t know why we subject ourselves to this. To my friends who are singers: WHY?!?! What are we doing to ourselves? It’s like every time you get up you get smacked in the face. And you KEEP DOING IT. It seems dumb and counterintuitave. Not even freaking lab rats will try for something after they get an electric shock. Not me, though. I just keep trying for the cheese in the corner.

But, goddamn it, I have to keep trying, which is the worst part. If I gave up I don’t know what I’d do. I’d hate myself, and the world, and everyone on it. Spending 3 months singing in the mountains was rough, I will give you that. But it answered my big life question: “Do I really want to do this? Is it worth it?” And the answer is “yes.” It makes me happy. It gives me purpose. It’s the only thing I feel like I can do.

If I felt like I could be happy doing anything else, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I don’t. And that sucks. A lot.

So I’m just going to keep being on the verge of a nervous breakdown and hope it pans out.

Oh my God, that sounds psychotic. Shit.

Dreams about the undead are awesome.

So. I had a really weird dream last night. It was scary. So scary I had to wake myself up and so I didn’t even know how it ended.

1. I had an older brother (not true) who looked exactly like my friend Grant (but isn’t him), a younger brother (again, not true) and a younger sister (true, but it was def not Chrissy, because this chick was like 10).
2. While my stepdad is a nice lookin’ dude, he does not look like Dennis Quaid, and this guy who was apparently my dad did.
3. I don’t live with these unnamed brothers and sister in a room with one giant 4-person bunkbed.

So that’s how it starts. Me and my Brother-who-looks-like-Grant and other brother and Baby-Chrissy are all sleepin’ in our 4-high bunkbeds (a la Schindler’s List) and our Dennis-Quaid-Dad comes in and tells us that there are a bunch of zombies. So then we try to escape, and everywhere we look there are zombie leftovers. Like arms and legs and entire skeletons that have been picked flesh-free.

Somewhere along the line we have lost Dennis-Quaid-Dad.

So we give up trying to escape and just go back to our gigantic bunk beds and go back to sleep. So later when my Brother-who-looks-like-Grant and I get up we discover the rotting skeletonesque corpses of our other siblings in their beds. It went from youngest to oldest (bottom to top) in the bunkbeds and since Brother-who-looks-like-Grant and I were on the top, the undead couldn’t reach us to eat our sweet, sweet flesh.

Apparently, Brother-who-looks-like-Grant and I are also really deep sleepers, because we didn’t wake up at all when the zombies devoured our siblings. Oops!

So then Dennis-Quaid-Dad busts in and it turns out he’s a zombie, too. Uh oh.

So we run into the street. And then I help my brother-who-looks-like-Grant by grabbing him big rocks and bones and stuff to beat Zombie-Dennis-Quaid-Dad over the head with to hopefully give him enough brain damage to kill him. You have to destroy the brain to kill a zombie, you know. Then Brother-who-looks-like-Grant got bit by Zombie-Dennis-Quaid-Dad. Right on the forearm.

And then I got scared and woke myself up.

I’m sure there is deeper meaning. It’s a stress dream, and the fact that Grant’s twin is in it is probably because we have similar stressors? Hmmm. I’m so deep.

Or it could be because I’m reading World War Z, a book about a post-zombie-apocalypse.

It’s probably both.

Why can’t I have sex dreams like everybody else? Damn it.

Things I want

If I had things like “money” and “the power to rule the world” this is what I would want:

1. To have all the singing gigs I want to want me back.
2. A gazillion dollars so I could make me and all my peeps financially secure.
3. To weigh 135. I always get so close and then fuck it up and gain like 10 lbs in a week.
4. A maid. Or maybe a personal organizer to help me get rid of all my extraneous shit.
5. Lucia Popp’s voice.
6. Long, shiny hair.
7. Good credit.
8. A date with Jason Schwartzman. OMG.
9. To never have to shave any part of my body again.
10. Or to wax my eyebrows, for that matter.
11. A day job that I do not hate.
12. World peace.
13. Real leather adorable riding boots instead of my fakey cheap ones.
14. A rad place in New York. And Chicago. And San Francisco.
15. The ability to paint my nails without getting it on everything in sight.
16. Nonstop orgasms whenever I feel like it.
17. An adorable Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.
18. To be able to upgrade to two at a time Netflix. I get so anxious waiting! But it’s too expensive.
19. To see my mom more than once or twice a year for more than 2 or 3 days at a time.
20. A Coach bag.

Most of those are really shallow. Wow.

Turns out I’m shallow, kids.

Open Letters (for Vista, as promised)

Dear Job Market

Hey. What’s up? Nothing much here. Just chillin’.

In fact, I’ve been just chillin’ for a while now.

And do you want to know why?

You are impossible.

Like, I know that I don’t have things like “skills” and “good availability,” but seriously. I’m really good at bullshitting people, and that’s half the battle when you’re trying to get a job. Unfortunately, there aren’t any jobs to be had, even if I could get an interview to put my BS skills to good use.

So fuck you, Job Market. I hope you like washing vaginas, because you are a total douchebag.

Love and kisses,
Katy

Dear Six Feet Under,

You are awesome. Every time that you are on Bravo I am sucked in to an entire day in the recliner, and I never, ever feel guilty or bad about it, because a day with you is never a day wasted.

I wish you were a person, Six Feet Under. I would make the sweetest, most tender love to you.

Marry Me,
Katy

Dear Bank Account,

Congratulations on not being completely empty this week. Unfortunately I’m going to have to empty you again so that I can pay all my bills. Better late than never, right?! LOL! Be patient with me. I know that lacking a stable evironment must be hard on you emotionally. I’ll try to save some (any) money pretty soon, ok?!?! BFF!

XOXO!
Katy

Dear Girl at My Gym With a Perfect Body,

Hi. I know that I stare at you all the time. We go to the gym at the same time, and I envy you. A lot.

You’re what I would look like if I really tried super hard and dieted like a fiend for a year. You have a rad, petite-curvy-girl body. And I’m jeaous.

You’re not ridiculously skinny, but you’ve still got a flat stomach and are really toned and look good in shorts and a t-shirt. Plus you’ve got really pretty, long, shiny hair. Hair that I have always wanted.

I’m like you’re less cute cousin with about 12 extra lbs and short hair.

I hope you’re not creeped out, Girl at My Gym With a Perfect Body. I’m not a lesbian and I’m not going to go all Single White Female on your ass. I just kind of want you to be my goal. Please excuse my oogling.

Nice Ass,
Katy

Reasons I am not good at retail

So. I always think that I’m not going to hate working retail and then I always do. And you know what? Retail hates me right back. We’re not a good match. Here are reasons that I suck at it.

1. I am lazy. Real lazy. Standing up sucks and I’m constantly leaning on stuff with one eye on the three-way mirror to see if anyone is coming around the corner into the dressing room.

2. I’m an asshole. I totally have a feeling of superiority to all those normal people who are working there. This isn’t my real job. I’m way too good to be folding sweaters and trying to make big sales. Of course, none of this is true. I’m the poorest person there, including the customers, and I should be grateful for my 9 bucks an hour. But I’m not. Instead I walk around all inwardly snooty and outwardly perky, which makes me miserable all over.

3. I don’t care. At all. I don’t care if anyone buys a damned thing. In fact, I hope they don’t. I hope no one comes in the store at all.

4. I am a bad liar. I try really hard, but seriously, getting a credit card at a store is NEVER a good idea. And you can buy pants like that at Target that cost 70 bucks less than those. God. Everyone can probably tell I’m not sincere.

That’s probably it.

So, am I fired?

I’m apparently longing for sexual harassment

So I’m feeling a little embarassed about something.

There is this really smarmy dude that works out at my gym, and we must have similar schedules because every time I’m there he’s also there. He is totally unattractive and seems to spend half of his time chatting up various ladies while they try to work out instead of actually working out. He just walks around with one of those weight lifting belts on but never lifts any actual weights. Seriously, he talks to people so much that for a while I thought he actually worked there. But no. Just out on the prowl for some post-gym sexin’, I suppose.

Which brings me to this. There are like 15 people who are always there at the same time. Maybe 10/15 are women. He has hit on every single woman except for me and the super old lady who does a lot of weight training.

Is it weird/bad that I’m kind of like: “Hey! How dare he not hit on me! I’m adorable!” ?

At first I thought it was because I always have my headphones in so I can get in the zone. But he’s totally the kind of guy who will talk to you really loudly or poke you on the arm until you take your headphones out and listen to him spittin’ some mad game, so that’s not it.

Like, I realize that I look like crap when I go to the gym, but so does EVERYONE. And this guy is no prize. He’s pretty fat (like he seriously should be running on the treadmill instead of standing next to it hitting on the lady running on the treadmill) and totally looks like a child molester.

And if he was hitting on me I’d probably be super outraged.

But still. Everyone but me? That doesn’t seem fair.

What’s wrong with me?!?!

It reminds me of the time I was flying home from Christmas at my parents’ house and sat next to two gross overgrown frat boy types who complained the whole time that they never sat next to cute girls on the plane.

Anyway. This can’t be that weird, right? But it sure makes me feel like a crazy-face.

Does this count as news?

So I went to the grocery store this evening for some milk and apples (I also left with a bunch of Halloween candy that I will not share with anyone). I was standing in line looking at celebrity-gossip-brain-rot magazines and happened to glance at the cover of OK! magazine.

It said (about Britney Spears):

“Britney suicide watch! Family worry about what Brit will do next, now that she has nothing to live for.”

Um, wow. That’s pretty intense.

I mean, I know that she’s a hot mess and hilarious to make fun of, but “nothing to live for”?!? Really? That’s kind of mean, OK! magazine.

She’s got lots to live for! Here’s a short list:

1. Drugs!

2. Boozeahol!

3. Hair extensions!

4. The knowledge that if she cashed out her bank account in quarters she could put it all in a big room and swim around in it just like Scrooge McDuck on Duck Tales.

And really, if that’s not something to stay alive for, I don’t know what is.

What was lost has been found.

I have been looking for my remote for 3 days.

I just found it in a cereal box. I shit you not.

There are crumbs all over it and now when I push the buttons there is a little crunching sound.

Briefly

A friend from high school got engaged. We haven’t spoken in like 4 years, but I’m really happy for him. He was a nice dude. Really goofy. I found out through Facebook. Isn’t it weird to find out things about people we never think about anymore? But it’s nice to know and makes me smile. Hooray Patryck. You look really happy in your profile pic, so I’m assuming it’s not because you knocked her up or anything. You probably love her a lot. Congrats.

Here’s the thing.

In addition to changing his status from “In a relationship” to “Engaged” he also posted a 4 minute video of them getting engaged dubbed over with an indie pop ballad.

I mean, it’s really cute and they look nice and normal.

But does that strike anyone else as kind of creepy? Posting it for all the world to see?

I certainly felt a weird mixture of the warm-fuzzies and the super-creepies watching it.

Then I kept thinking “what if they’re some kind of weird perverted voyeurs and they’re totes getting off on me watching their video? Sickos.”

And immediately after that: “I can’t believe that I just thought that thought. I’m a sicko.”