What It’s REALLY LIKE to get a DUI in Vegas!

These days when I go out (which is every day), I just don’t drink as much or party as hard as I used to. Is it age? Ennui? NEITHER!! My problem is that I was spanked pretty hard by the long arm of the law back in August 2010, when I got my first (and ONLY, dog willing) DUI. I’ve been wanting to write about this awful experience for quite some time, and now enough time has passed where I feel I can relate all the sordid details. Let me tell you about it!

Ever since I started drinking around age 23, I’ve considered myself an Alcoholist. Not an alcoholIC — an alcoholIST, as in, one who studies and appreciates wonderful, life-enhancing alcoholic beverages. Like a scientIST loves science and a chemIST loves chemicals…I love booze.

But not in your lame-ass typical binge-drinking-frat-boy, drink-til-you-puke kinda way. I was always more the type to enjoy a few well-mixed cocktails (but none o’that pretentious mixology shit that requires muddling or coddling; I like classy no-nonsense drinks like white Russians and Campari & soda). I have never once drank to the point of passing out, and can still count on two hands the number of times I have vomited due to overconsumption (I think…might have to use my toes, too). I prefer to enjoy my drinks, not slam them.

Now to be honest, there has been many a time when I’ve used alcohol as a crutch — a little known fact is that I’m a cripplingly shy person, moreso back in the day before I discovered booze. Alcohol helped me open up and become comfortable talking to strange people, so I owe booze a HUGE thank-you. I used to have to have a drink EVERY SINGLE NIGHT before going to work taking souvenir photos in the showroom — I was simply too shy to approach strangers and hustle them for photos, otherwise. This went on for 4 or 5 years, shamefully…until one evening I realized I didn’t need it anymore, and have been working sober (for the most part) ever since.

But just because I realized I didn’t NEED booze, doesn’t mean I still didn’t ENJOY it! Going out for a night of revelry, karaoke or otherwise, is simply more fun with a buzz. But three drinks was pretty much my limit. Any more than that, and I’d get sick. And NO SHOTS! Shots of any kind are a surefire way to get me to puke all over the place, so please don’t even ask. Again, I like to enjoy my liquor…so what exactly is the point of shooting it, I ask you?!

Anyhoo, I was lucky for many, many years in that I’m positive I drove around Vegas with a blood alcohol content over the legal limit (.08) many times. But I never got caught, even though in those days I careened around town in a ginormous 18-and-a-half-foot Lincoln Town Car that was painted bright pink. !!! I was lucky, I tells ya. But even the luckiest girl’s luck runs out sooner or later…and mine caught up with me in August 2010.

I remember it well…I had just finished shooting a bunch of crazy fetish videos for my friend Trixxie’s website, HumiliatedLosers.com, and Trixxie and I decided to go out for drinks afterward. I was also celebrating this new job I had just gotten, writing a sort of adult column for this web guide to XXX Vegas called AfterDarkVegas (now defunct due to morality constraints). It was my first professional writing job, and the site was sponsored by the local newspaper, so they paid me pretty well and put all these full-color ads in the local papers to advertise it, of which I was inordinately proud. The first ad appeared in the paper that very day, so Trixxie and I went out to have a few drinks in celebration.

We first headed over to Trixxie’s house so she could change clothes, and while there I enjoyed an impossibly genteel can of champagne — that’s right, Sofia Coppola sells champagne in a CAN! After finishing that, we headed over to this awful local bar called Blue Martini. I fucking hate that bar — it’s the worst kind of annoying local meat market, chock full o’ desperate local hags in their sluttiest bebe dresses, looking to get picked up on by assy douchebags in Affliction t-shirts and the like. You won’t find one single interesting person in this bar, EVER, but I went here anyway because they have ginormous, delicious martinis full of shit like marshmallows and chocolate syrup, and it was sort of near Trixxie’s house.

At Blue Martini I had THREE martinis (and you can see from the photo how ginormous they are), before Trixxie and I decided to go downtown and check out this new gay strip club that had just opened. Trixxie didn’t feel sober enough to drive, so I assured her I’d do the dirty work, and we piled into my truck, got on the freeway, and started cruising back down toward the gay place.

But just as I was preparing to exit the freeway (SO close @#$%#$&*!!!!!!!), a highway patrol car started flashing its lights behind me. Fuck!! The freeway exit I had been heading toward is kind of a weird one (Spring Mountain Rd, for those of you who know Vegas), where it’s like a sort of flyover, requiring that you cross over a few lanes of traffic to get where you’re going. I couldn’t just stop right in the middle of the freeway, so I kept going until I reached a spot where I felt it was safe to pull over — apparently enraging the big fat dyke cop who was flashing her lights at me, causing her to accuse me of “evading arrest.” OK boss, next time I’ll stop right in the middle of the fuckin’ freeway!

Anyhoo, once I pulled over she came at me huffing and puffing and snorting like an angry bull. There was NO talking to this woman, so I didn’t even try, which seemed to make her even angrier. She was screaming at me about my evading her and not pulling over in a timely manner, and when people yell at me like that it makes me cry, so I started bawling like an idiot. I gave her my license and insurance and stuff, and she made me get out of the car and do one of those field sobriety tests, right there on the freeway offramp, which was so embarrassing that it made me cry even harder. But it was my own fuckin’ fault — the sad truth of the matter was that I was WAY over the limit. She said I had been swerving in and out of my lane, but to this day I swear I was not — I was changing lanes without signaling, also illegal, and also unsafe; but I was not swerving, I swear!

I felt like I did a passable job on the sobriety test (walking a straight line and looking at her flashlight while she moved it around), but apparently I “FAILED MISERABLY” (her angrily bellowed words), so she shoved a Breathalyzer in my face and exhorted me to “BLOW.” Apparently I failed that, too, and I was going downtown with her that very minute. She clamped handcuffs on me and shoved me in the back of the squad car, and I had no idea what to do. Meanwhile, she wouldn’t let Trixxie talk to me, so I was really freaking out. I had never ever run afoul of the law before, and as corny as it sounds I was really scared.

Now, what really sucks in this scenario is, I have friends who have been pulled over for drunk driving before, and the cop has let them go as long as they were able to call a friend to come pick them up. But this big fat bitch wasn’t about to cut me any slack. Her male partner, the “good” cop in the good cop/bad cop scenario, was kind enough to allow Trixxie to call a friend to come pick her up, and then they impounded my truck and took my ass down to the county jail.

I’m telling you, I was so embarrassed to be going to jail — say what you will about me and my upbringing, I am not that kind of a gal!!! For once in my life I was even dressed in a semi-ladylike manner, with a button-down blouse and high heels. Well, I was wearing high heels — I had taken them off while I was driving, and the bitch-ass cop wouldn’t even let me put them back on for the trip down to jail. So technically, I was barefoot. But still!!!! I had a nice hairdo and my makeup was tastefully done and all, so I didn’t look like your typical Vegas whore/party girl…for once in my life!

Still, that means nothing in the eyes of the law. I got downtown to the jail and they unloaded me and passed me off to this really mean, flinty-eyed brace-faced Mexican woman cop, who grabbed my arm with her talons and shoved me into the booking area, where they gave me another Breathalyzer, fingerprinted me, and took my mug shot. I do remember having the presence of mind to maintain a chastened-yet-unbroken expression in my mug shot, but despite having scoured the Internets many times, I have been unable to find a copy of it anywhere. Where the hell do these news people get their celebrity mugshots?!  I couldn’t find mine anywhere.

Then they marched me over to the counter where you surrender all your belongings into a giant brown paper bag. They took my purse (contents: driver’s license, compact, lip gloss, breath mints), my necklace and earrings, and my BlackBerry. I offered up the contents of my bra, as well, because I was trying to be helpful and honest…but they would never have even known I had anything in there if I hadn’t told them, since they never patted me down or anything. Dumbasses! As it was, I surrendered about $160 cash and a $100 traveler’s check. (The traveler’s check was payment received for this dumbass Smirnoff Vodka commercial I had filmed the night before…ironically, the only two requirements for being in that commercial had been that you had to be 21, and you had to have never had a DUI. HAH!!! I squeaked that one in under the door, motherfuckers!!! But seriously, being paid with a fuckin’ traveler’s check was a real royal pain in the ass, since I couldn’t deposit it in the drive-thru ATM — you had to take traveler’s checks in to the counter in person, and I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.)

Aaaaanyhoo, as I was heading over to surrender all my possessions, the Mexican lady cop who had me by the arm asked me something technical about my booking, and I didn’t understand the lingo, being as I had never been arrested before. So I guess I sounded dumb, because she sighed angrily, rolled her eyes at me and seethed through gritted teeth, “God, I hate STUPID PEOPLE!” That just made me cry even harder, because Jeez, I wasn’t really stupid…I just didn’t know what the fuck she was asking me about!

So I was distracted when they took all my possessions, and didn’t really pay attention to what was going on…just let them lead me away into this sort of holding tank, with a bunch of other losers who were sitting around talking in their ghetto dialects about baby daddy this and parole officer that. Depressing!!!!!!!! I was freaked the fuck out, because in the movies the women in jail are always super-cruel dykes who can’t wait to rape and/or cut you…but I’m here to tell you, these chicks were actually pretty cool. This one big fat lesbian chick took a shine to me — but not that kind of shine, you perverts! She was just nice and friendly, and everyone else sort of followed her example. I sat in there awhile without incident, before they finally came and got me out, and brought me into this giant sort of central waiting area.

There, they plunked me down into a chair and told me not to move. And they left me there for a LONG time! I had no idea what was going on — no one explained anything, so I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to call someone from the pay phone on the wall, or if I was just supposed to keep sitting there, or what. Other inmates were getting up and using the phone, so I figured maybe I was being dumb by just sitting there like an idiot, and I was actually supposed to take the initiative and make a phone call or something. This went on for a loooooong time, and I’m ashamed to say I sat there weeping like a little bitch the whole time. Cops kept passing to and fro, but none said anything to me, and I got more and more confused. I think the Mexican lady bitch cop passed by and cussed me out again, which made it even worse.

Finally this one avuncular mustachioed cop took pity on me and explained that I was about to go through some kind of interview so that they could release me, and that I should just sit tight. I was still crying like a puss, because I was afraid I’d lose my new journalism job and everything — despite the fact that thousands of people drive drunk every single night in Vegas, getting a DUI still has a terrible stigma attached to it, and some employers will fire you for it!

So finally, they brought me over to the desk of this big, fat black bitch, who glared at me with unmitigated hate and began snapping questions at me: “Name? Address? Employer? How long you live in Vegas? You own your home, or rent?” I had all the right answers — at the time, I was a homeowner, had lived in town 12 years and had held the same job all 12 years…all very nice, responsible answers. And honestly, I WAS a responsible person — I just made a terrible fucking mistake! There was no call to treat me like such a piece of shit. (I’m sure if you know anyone who was hit or killed by a drunk driver, you’d disagree…but in my defense, I didn’t hit anyone or anything.)

Finally, she asked me whom she should call — I guess they have to call someone to confirm that you are who you say you are (??? I can’t figure out any other reason for this; it’s not so they can come pick you up, or anything). I said she could call my mom, and she asked for her number.

“Uhhh…I don’t know, it’s in my phone, and they took it when they booked me.”

“You mean to tell me you are SO DUMB you don’t even know your own mother’s phone number?!!”

“No! I don’t remember it! It’s in my phone!!!” Now I was really crying — I felt stupid for not remembering my mom’s number, but I mean WTF! I remembered our old landline phone number growing up, but my mom had recently disconnected the landline, and I hadn’t memorized her cell number yet!!! When I call her, I just punch in “M-O-T-H-E-R” and it comes up!!!!

“Well, give me someone’s number,” she hissed. “I got to call someone to vouch for you.”

“I don’t know anyone’s,” I sobbed. “I’m all alone here! My family all lives in California!” (That had nothing to do with anything, except for the fact that I felt really alone and lonely at this pathetic juncture of my life.)

She hissed and rolled her eyes and went on and on about how stupid I was, and how she just didn’t like me. Come to find out, when I surrendered my possessions at the booking window, there was a big sign warning inmates to copy down phone numbers from their cell phones — but it you’ll recall, the Mexican bitch who had me by the arm was bitching at me so hardcore she distracted me from even noticing it!!! If I’d SEEN the fucking sign, I would have obeyed — I’m nothing if not obedient when called upon to be so!!!!!!!!

“I could let you go,” this black woman said again, “but I don’t like you. And because I don’t like you, I’ma make you stay here allllll night. Now get outta here!” I mean, she was so mean!!  I gave this woman no cause whatsoever to be so cruel — I guess she hated me just because I was where I was. It was very disheartening.

With that, they sent me over to another desk for a psychiatric evaluation, and then to another desk for a medical evaluation and a TB test. Now I was really weeping in despair, and figured I had nothing to lose — so when I passed by that big, fat ugly bitch’s desk again, I leaned over and told her, “If you have a daughter, and anything like this ever happens to her…I hope people treat her the way you treated me!”

“My daughter is dead!!!!” she hissed, before shouting for security.

At once, I was surrounded by about 10 cops, as if I had tried to attack her (I didn’t even raise my voice, I swear to you — I just sort of muttered it angrily at her!) and I was now escorted away and put into the violent disruptive psycho holding tank, with all the REAL looney-tunes!!!!

Oy, vey. It was a NIGHTMARE. Now I wasn’t even in the regular holding tank anymore with all the friendly lesbians and whatnot — my only cellmates here were a passed-out barefoot crackwhore, asleep on the bench; a sunbaked, toothless, homeless Tammy Wynette lookalike who was picking at her green toenails and muttering to herself incoherently; and a stocky bull dyke with a buzz-cut and masive biceps. At least the bulldyke was friendly, and chatted with me a little bit to pass the time. But soon she was taken out, and it was just me, the crack whore and Tammy Wynette. The worst part was, due to my terrible insomnia (I had it even back then) I couldn’t even SLEEP to pass the time! I ended up just sitting there weeping. There were no clocks, no windows, no nothing. I had no idea what time it was or even what DAY it was! The worst part was, there was a pay phone on the wall right there in the cell that allowed collect calls to be made…but I couldn’t remember ONE FUCKING PERSON’S phone number! The phone had a list of bail bondsmen’s numbers, but I didn’t even have any way of paying them without having my purse, so I figured it was pointless to call unless I could remember someone’s phone number.

(Only in hindsight did I realize I should have had one of the bail bondsmen email my mom or sister… I knew their EMAIL addresses, and they would have gotten the messages on their phones, anyway, and could have called to spring my bail. Oh well, I wasn’t thinking clearly!!)

Aaaaaanyhoo, after weeping around 100 buckets of tears, they finally admitted another woman into the cell — a fellow barefooted DUI arrestee, a voluptuous stripper by the name of Dulce. She was wasted — but she was one of those affectionate, lovey-dovey drunks, and she was very friendly. She told me it was her son’s birthday that day, but he was back in Mississippi with his father, and she was missing him terribly and feeling shitty about the life choices she had made that resulted in her being a stripper in Vegas while he was turning 8 back in Mississippi…so she had gone out and gotten wasted, and was now in the klink for DUI.

All of this she told me in this amazingly sweet, sexy accent — she was Panamanian, and had this really sultry, earthy, lovey vibe about her that was just irresistible. Plus, her ginormous DD tits were spilling out of her cheap stretchy party dress — you just couldn’t help but like her. After chatting with me, she next turned her affections on the homeless, toothless Tammy Wynette lookalike, who was still sitting in the corner picking at her toenails and muttering to herself.

“Why you peek at yourself?” Dulce asked. “Stop it! You gonna hurt yourself!”

“Fuckin’ beeyitch! Shet up!!”

“Why you call me a bitch? I like you!”

“Shet up fuckin’ beeyitch, I said shet up! Fuck off ya fuckin’ beeyitch!!!!!”

“Stop it,” Dulce pleaded in her velvety stripper lilt. “I like you. You can’t make me stop liking you!!!”

“Fuckin’ bitch!!!!!”

“What’s your favorite color, honey?”


This went ON and ON — Dulce just WOULDN’T GIVE UP trying to win over this crusty old homeless crackhead…but it never worked, I’m here to tell you. At the very least it was astoundingly entertaining — I had to bite my lip not to laugh, which was a nice change from crying, for once.

After a few hours, Dulce gave up and went to sleep, and I went back to weeping. FINALLY, a young male cop took pity on me and let me out, as long as I promised not to “attack” anyone again, which I wholeheartedly agreed not to. Now they at least let me back into the regular holding tank, with all the regular losers…which was a real upgrade, believe it or not!!!

There were probably about 20 women in there, mostly prostitutes, and a few strippers in there for DUI or drug possession. It was ASININE how much time and taxpayer money was being wasted on these women — and for what?! Having sex with willing customers. Seriously?!! Even worse, many of them had been busted with elaborate sting operations, requiring the wasting of even MORE taxpayer money!!!! Give me a fucking break!!

One chick was in there because a couple had hired her for sex, but didn’t have a hotel room, so they all three got it on in the backseat of the couple’s car in some parking lot somewhere. A passing cop noticed the flailing of limbs in the wildly rocking car and stopped to investigate — but of course, neither party admitted to paying for anything…so she was busted for PUBLIC NUDITY!!!! OMG…PLEASE STOP WASTING MY FUCKING TAX DOLLARS ON THIS NONSENSE!!!!!

I sat in that holding tank for around 10 hours (literally), and it felt like ETERNITY! There was one television bolted to the ceiling playing some godawful Tyler Perry movie that made my brain bleed, but as exhausted as I was, I COULD NOT FALL ASLEEP! Worse, I was freaking out because there was a clock in this cell, and I could see that it was around 6pm on Saturday night — and I was supposed to go to this big Playboy Midsummer Night’s Eve party at 9pm, that I had been planning for all month!! I had this fabulous costume and everything rigged up, and I was overly distraught to think that I might miss the ball. Booooo hoo hoo, poor me. Back then I didn’t know any better — those parties are LAME as hell, and I didn’t miss a goddamn thing! But as it was, I was freaking out. I told everyone in the holding tank about it, and this one young black pross kept reminding me how late it was getting: “Girl, you ain’t going to no party!!”

Meanwhile, this other woman came over to chat — an Asian stripper in her 40s, who was pretty beat-up looking, but claimed to work at Spearmint Rhino. “Are you dancer?” she asked. “No,” I said…”I wish I were a dancer; I know the money’s great, but I could never do it. I’m the world’s WORST dancer! They’d laugh me off the stage!”

“No honey, it easy!! I show you!” I let her demonstrate her technique right there on the bench, where she gave me a lap dance and showed me how it was done. While she was grinding on me, I noticed she had severely deformed hands, like lobster claws — only two sort of thumb-y appendages on one hand, and only three or four fingers on the other. Creepy!!

“Um…where did you say you danced again?” I asked her. Spearmint Rhino is supposedly home to the hottest girls in Vegas — I couldn’t imagine them allowing the likes of her to dance there!

But yeah, she confirmed it was the Rhino!!! Only they made her leave at 9pm, and then let her come back at 3am, so she didn’t poison the waters during prime time!! During this window she would often go down the street to dance at less discerning clubs, which I found utterly tragic. Out of curiosity, I asked what she was in jail for…DOMESTIC ABUSE!!! She kicked the shit out of her husband, LOL!!!!! Don’t fuck with Lobster Woman, boys!!!

Now, after sitting in there for 10 hours and suffering through two disgusting meals of what looked like dog chow mixed with vomit and horse jizz (of which I ate only one Hydrox cookie), and having to piss on a nasty-ass stainless steel toilet in front of everyone (actually not a problem for me, since I’m used to being naked in public), I finally remembered my sister’s cell phone number — it has the numbers “420” in it, so that helped, haha!!! I was able to call her and get her to post bail for me, but then I found out that my friend Trixxie had already posted bail for me anyway, and that all this motherfucking time (20 hours I was in there….ugh) her bail bondsman had been trying to navigate the byzantine legal system to get me out. FINALLY, after TWENTY LONG, MISERABLE HOURS OF TORTURE, I waved goodbye to my cellmates and got the fuck out of there.

Dulce was released at the same time (she was in way less time than me, because I had mouthed off to that black woman, which earned me an extra 10 hours or so. But guess what…I’m still glad I did it. It had to be said to that smug bitch), so we collected our belongings together and started to leave. But since both of us had been booked barefooted, the cop who released us very generously allowed us to keep our ugly orange rubber jail shoes, so that we wouldn’t cut our feet walking down the street. NICE!

We headed next door to the Golden Nugget valet area, where both of us had arranged for our friends to come pick us up. We sat there in the valet area going through our stuff, which had been bagged up and itemized neatly, and I found that I had an extra $100 — I think the booking agent was confused by my traveler’s check or something. That means I made $5 an hour for the entire time I was in jail! Whatever, I had to pay it back in spades, anyway, what with all the fines and shit I had to pay after that.

Humiliatingly, the Golden Nugget valet jockey came over as we were going through our stuff: “Um, you girls can’t sit here doing that.” I guess they get a lot of jailbirds in that valet, and don’t want their classy-ass patrons being scandalized by the sight of two tore-up alkie bitches in orange jail shoes digging through paper bags!! Embarrasssssssssing!!

Our rides finally came, but we exchanged numbers and kept in touch, somewhat. I went out for drinks with her once, but she really just wanted to use me as a way to get her old job back as a stripper at one of the clubs — the manager had fired her for being an alcoholic, but she figured if she brought a friend along, he might go easier on her, if the friend was interested in becoming a dancer too. So I had to PRETEND to be interested in dancing at that shithole, and it was pretty hairy there for a minute, because he wanted me to start THAT VERY NIGHT!!! I barely escaped with my integrity intact, and never went out with that poor alkie nut job again.

Aaaaaaanyhoo, getting that DUI really changed my life — it was a classic case of once bitten, twice shy. I had to ride my fuckin’ bike around for 45 days, then drive on a temporary license another 45, and it was HELL! Not being able to drive is MADDENING!!!!! I almost went INSANE! But I suffered through my punishment, and paid up all the fines (over $1000 at the end of it all), and went to the classes and kissed all the right asses….and FINALLY got my beloved license back.

I went straight out and bought a $300 Breathalyzer of my own, so that this would never happen again — but now I think I was putting myself at risk of another DUI anyway, because some nights I would go out and drink, and then sleep in my car to sober up, waking every hour or so to Breathalyze, until I blew low enough to be able to drive home. But come to find out, I think you can get a DUI just for BEING in the car drunk!!!!! WTF!!!! I WAS TRYING, ASSHOLES! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?????

Anyway, some asshole broke into my truck and stole my Breathalyzer this past January, so I have no choice these days — I either don’t drink, drink very little, or get a ride from someone else. IT SUCKS. I’m here to tell you — a DUI will really put a damper on your party life….but guess what?! Being HIT and/or KILLED by a drunk driver would REALLY put a damper on your LIFE IN GENERAL! So, I consider my self very, very lucky 🙂

The scary thing is, I know a chick who just got her FOURTH DUI!!!!! She’s on house arrest for 90 days, and can’t drink for 3 years. God, that would be a fate worse than death. With that in mind….with dog as my witness, I AM NEVER DRINKING AND DRIVING AGAIN!


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Giving up Sleep Restriction Therapy in Favor of a Hillary Clinton Mask and Naked Yoga

So as you may recall, last week this neurologist put me on a very strict sleep restriction regimen, in the hopes of curing my insomnia. I was supposed to got to bed at 3am, and get up at 7am — and if I awoke during the night, and lay awake longer than 5 minutes, I was to get out of bed and go sit in another room until I was sleepy enough to go back to bed and fall asleep.

I am nothing if not dedicated, so even though I was already pretty worn out from the previous week of trying my own half-assed sleep restriction (2am-6am), I went at this balls out. Even though it was TORTURE, I somehow forced myself to stay awake until 3am the first night, before allowing myself to go to bed. (The paradox of insomnia is that I am SO SLEEPY, but when I fall asleep I wake after only one or two hours and then can’t get back to sleep.)

Now usually I am able to fall asleep right away when I first go to bed (it’s the STAYING asleep that’s hard). But the first night I tried this hardcore sleep restriction, I wasn’t able to fall asleep until around 5:30am!!! Then I had to get up at 7am, which meant I got a total of 1.5 hours of sleep that night. As per my regimen, immediately upon rising I went out in the backyard, exposing myself to bright sunlight (to supposedly reset my internal clock) and writing in this bullshit sleep diary I was supposed to keep, to track the hours I slept and my moods and whatnot.

Surprisingly, I felt fine that day — not really tired at all. I was able to stay awake all day (20 hours) until 3am again…and then that night, I was able to sleep about 2.5 hours total. (Woohoo.) The next day, I still felt fine — not too sleepy and able to go about my business without incident.

This business included a VERY weird photo shoot I was hired for — some guy wanted me to wear a Hillary Clinton mask, and a bunch of hats, over at Sunset Park. I met him at the park, and we sat in the picnic area amidst families and birthday parties while he shot close-ups of my face in various hats and the mask, all of which he had me pull halfway down my face so that only my mouth was showing. Then he had me make two expressions: a big, manic smile…and then a gaping-mouthed expression of shock. Over and over, these two expressions, in a succession of different hats. I don’t know if it was some kinda fetish or what — he wasn’t even using a real SLR camera, just a little point-and-shoot!

This went on for an hour, and finally one of the other people picnicking nearby bemusedly inquired if we minded him asking what we were doing. “I have NO IDEA,” I stated flatly (my fatigue made me less polite than I normally am), and the photographer muttered something about “for my portfolio.” Whatever!!! All I know is, I was panting into a sweaty Hillary Clinton mask on a park bench, trying not to fall asleep at 3:00 in the afternoon. SAD!

For the final shot, the photographer had me put on a knit burglar cap and pull it down over my entire face, but pulled taut in the back so that you could see the outline of my lips and nose…then he gave me $50 and sent me on my way. Then I went home and passed the fuck out (my therapy allowed one 20-minute nap per day, of which I made FULL FUCKIN’ USE!).

Anyway, that was like day 3 or so. The next couple of nights I was able to get about 3 hours sleep (amazing how I was SO FUCKING TIRED, but couldn’t even sleep a measly 4 hours straight through). But that’s when I started breaking down. On the third or fourth day (it’s all a hazy blur) I became SO FUCKING TIRED, it was TORTURE to try and stay awake til 3am. I tried to read or watch TV, but sitting on the couch made my eyelids start to droop. I tried standing up while watching TV, but I even nodded off while standing up!! The only way I could be sure of not nodding off was if I was walking, so I went for long walks around my shitty ghetto neighborhood in a desperate attempt to stay awake.

Now through all of this, my boyfriend Captain Crunch was very supportive. He went for walks with me, went out for drinks with me, talked to me, and kept my bizarre hours for the most part (I let him sleep in in the mornings). But there were a few nights when he was working, and couldn’t spend the night, and I had to figure out a way somehow to stay awake on my own.

The worst was Monday night. I started getting really sleepy around 10:30pm, so sleepy I started nodding off at my laptop. So I saddled up to take a loooooong, 2-3 hour walk around downtown Vegas. I figured to walk down to Fremont Street, which is always full of weirdos who might be able to distract me from my sleepy misery. I figured to stop at the Circle K on the way, and get some ice cream, in the hopes that the sugar would pep me up — after all, I needed to stay awake another 4.5 hours!

I remember standing in line at the Circle K, and everything was just swimming. My vision was getting kinda blurry from the exhaustion, and all the colors and stuff under the fluorescent lights were sort of fuzzy and warped. It was freaky! I got my ice cream and shuffled off into the night, but it was like one of those dreams where you’re trying to run away from something, but it’s like you’re stuck in quicksand — my legs were heavy and sluggish, and it was a windy night to boot, so the wind was conspiring against me to blow me back with every belabored step.

I somehow managed to slog along Las Vegas Blvd. toward Fremont Street, SO FUCKING TIRED that I swear I could have laid down right there on the sidewalk and passed out, roaches or no. I was THAT TIRED. At one point I stopped to lean on a parking meter and sob disconsolately…but I felt myself starting to nod off AGAIN, so I shoved off and soldiered on, determined to make it til 3am. By now it was 11:30 — 3.5 hours to go. GAH!!!

I shuffled resolutely on, but I’m here to yell you: I FELL ASLEEP WHILE I WAS WALKING. I didn’t think it could be done, but I actually nodded off while in motion. Scary! I was afraid I’d fall down and hit my head on the concrete or something, so I held my eyelids open like in A Clockwork Orange as I slogged on. I must have looked like a real fuckin’ freak!!!!!

Thankfully, once I got down to Fremont, I was looking at a half-demolished apartment building and some random guy came along and started chatting me up. I knew he was aiming to hit on me, but I was SO TIRED that I welcomed any diversion, and ended up walking along with him for about 30 min, talking about anything and everything under the sun, just to stay awake. (Talking to other people was pretty effective…I considered making a sign reading “PLEASE TALK TO ME” and then just standing around Fremont Street all night, chatting with drunk tourists to stay awake.)

Anyhoo, of course this guy wanted to know why I was walking around alone at night, so I finally told him the story before bidding him adieu and heading home. All in all it killed 30 more minutes, so now I only had to stay awake another 3 hours. Shuffle home as slowly as possible — kill another 20 minutes. Wash hair — 20 minutes. Apply a gallon of anti-acne cream in desperate attempt to repair ravaged face — 15 minutes. I swear, I was doing ANYTHING to stay awake. Torture!!!

SOMEHOW, I made it to 3am, and passed out in bed for a grand and glorious total of 3 hours. WTF! How could I be THAT tired, and still not sleep the full amount of allotted time?!?!?! I was starting to despair that this fucking treatment would never work — here it was Day FIVE, and I still wasn’t sleeping the full 4 hours. And I had to sleep the full 4 hours FOUR DAYS IN A ROW before even allowing myself to add an extra FIFTEEN MINUTES! At this rate, I wouldn’t be up to 6 hours for MONTHS — and I’d be insane by then!!!!

That next day was ROUGH. I was sooooo exhausted, I started to get sleepy around noon. I had to drive way out to the ‘burbs for a dentist appointment, and I almost fell asleep at the wheel. Then I had a photo shoot, which was the most miserable photo shoot of my life because I was a TOTAL ZOMBIE the entire time, and didn’t enjoy it one bit. Worse, because my immune system was worn down from lack of sleep, my yeast infection was still raging and my face was a broken-out DISASTER! My hair was dull and dry, and I just felt and looked like hell warmed over. BLECHHH!

That evening to I took a bath, and broke down sobbing and screaming on the phone to my mom. I was desperately tired, but felt like this was my ONLY HOPE for curing this fucking insomnia — nothing else has worked, and I was loath to puss out and give up. But I really felt like it was killing me! My mom of course freaked out and told me to quit the stupid sleep restriction — “It’s not worth it!” and I screamed at her like an insane banshee about how I HAD to do it, it was my only hope, etc. Sorry, Mom!!

After my pity party, I broke down and took a 20-minute nap — even though it was already 10pm, and I had already taken my one allotted 20-minute nap at 3pm. I was SIMPLY TOO TIRED not to. I felt better after that, and went out to do some grocery shopping. Captain Crunch was coming over, and I wanted to stock up on vodka so we could get wasted and forget our troubles (he had a bad day that day, too). But because I live in the ghetto, none of the grocery stores carry liquor — just wine and beer (they’re afraid of getting robbed, I guess)!!! I stumbled around Smith’s in a sleepy haze before going home empty-handed (well, I did buy some fruit and Greek yogurt and Lara bars and health food stuff…just no vodka). Captain C and I were forced to swill gin & tonics as we commiserated about our shitty days…but it was IMMENSELY therapeutic, and I felt a lot better.

That night, I gave up. Captain C told me the same as my mom — the restriction thing doesn’t seem to be working, so give up and just sleep when you want to sleep. I was really reluctant to give up, because the 5 days I’d already gone were so hard-won — but the idea of SLEEPING IN was so seductive that I did — I totally pussed out. For the first time, I slept the entire 4 hours straight — but then I pussed out and snoozed an extra two hours in bed, for a total of 6 hours.

The next morning I was depressed and disappointed in myself…but GOD, I felt SO much better. It felt like I had emerged from a foggy funk, and for the first time in days I was able to enjoy myself. So now, I’ve basically abandoned the idea of sleep restriction therapy — all the doctors say it’s the most effective anti-insomnia treatment, but by god I don’t know how people do it. They say it’s the hardest six weeks of your life — but I had no idea it would be THAT FUCKING HARD! In my darkest hour, I remember trying to Google personal accounts of people who had tried it successfully (I wanted to read others’ tips on ways to stay awake when exhausted, and to see how long it took them to see results, etc)…but there were NONE! I could not find ONE first-person testimonial from someone who had suffered through sleep restriction therapy. Probably because it’s too fucking hard to adhere to!

Anyway, once I gave up on sleep restriction therapy, I went back to my old shitty ways of sleeping 3-4 hours plus another 4 hours of dozing…but guess what? It wasn’t as bad as what I’d just been through!!! And right away, as soon as I started sleeping again, the hijinks started back up: I did a really, really awesome body paint photo shoot with Michael Maze and this super-cool father-daughter team one day (pics coming sooooon!) and then another day I went to a naked yoga class!

Let me tell you about it! The class was held at the Erotic Heritage Museum — one of the COOLEST museums I’ve ever been to, and it’s right here in Vegas! Two stories of really well done exhibits and displays relating to the history of sex and pornography — fabulous! I’ve long been a fan of that museum and of all the cool-ass people who work there, and it was really great to be able to strip naked and do yoga with a bunch of other like-minded weirdos there. We all rolled out our yoga mats and went to town under the aegis of this beautiful blonde yoga goddess, who was also naked, but in a very progressive, matter-of-fact way. It was GREAT!!! No one was perving on anyone, we were all just focusing on our postures and what not. There were probably 15 people in the class — fat, skinny, toned, flabby, pierced and dreadlocked and bald and boring. The guy in front of me had a Prince Albert piercing, but I honestly only noticed it once, because I was so focused on my yoga moves! Seriously!!! It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever done, and I’ve done a lot of cool things!

Now speaking of yoga, on a final note, I read online about this certain discipline of yoga called Yoga Nidra, which means something like Corpse Yoga and is used to treat soldiers with PTSD…and insomniacs! Apparently, it uses breathing techniques to put you into delta-wave sleep while meditating or something like that…and is supposedly VERY BENEFICIAL for high-strung types like me. I looked online to see about taking a class here in Vegas…but alas, I couldn’t find anywhere that offers it 🙁 D’OH!!! If you know of one, please let me know…I need help!!!

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  • wonder hussy nude picture

Zombie With a Yeast Infection!

My name is Wonderhussy, and I. AM. EXHAUSTED!!!!

This exhaustion is mostly due to the bogus program of sleep deprivation I’m engaged in, to combat the chronic insomnia from which I’ve been suffering the past two years. (Basically, by limiting your time in bed to fewer hours a night, you’ll eventually get so sleepy that you’ll SLEEP the whole night through.) As previously mentioned, since May 2nd I’ve been going to bed at 2am and rising at the ungodly hour of 8am every day…sleep or no. It hasn’t worked AT ALL, but I don’t want to give up because I HAVE to beat this fucking insomnia so I can get back to the business of living a fabulous fun-filled life!

As the days went by, I found myself getting tireder and tireder…but still paradoxically unable to sleep well. That’s insomnia for ya — it’s a classic mindfuck!

The tireder I get, the harder it is to stay awake til 2am every night. The insomnia websites recommend reading or watching TV, but I can’t do either of those late at night or I’ll doze off before 2 and ruin my chances of sleeping. I basically have to stand upright to stay awake, no matter how tiring it is. One night I was sooooo tired my eyelids were just drooping like an old man’s ballsac, and the only thing I could think to do was go for a long, lonely walk. I put on my hoodie and iPod and sort of ambled around East Charleston Blvd. in a zombified haze, killing time until 1:45am at which time I could shuffle home to bed.

It was an interesting walk, though. East Charleston is full of crazy Mexican stores — I mean CRAZY — and though they were all closed at that hour, I was able to look in the windows and see some really weird shit. It was almost like being in another country! There were no less than 3 Quinceañera stores in the immediate vicinity of my house, and I spent quite a few minutes drooling over the poufy Barbie-princess style ballgowns they make for those chicks to wear. I have long been OBSESSED with Quinceañeras — I find them such a creepy, bizarre ritual. For those who don’t know, it’s like a sweet sixteen party, but for Mexican girls — and they do it at fifteen, since as we all know those girls mature at a faster rate. Their families ball the fuck out for these parties, with ginormous dresses and hairdos, and then they bring out this super-creepy giant “Last Doll” to symbolize the passing of youth, and then bring out a pair of high heels on a pillow, to symbolize the coming of womanhood. LMFAO!!!!! (Then the next day some dumb homey brings out the First Jism, which leads to the First Teenage Pregnancy, which leads to My First WIC Coupons, which lead to My First Snot Nosed Brat Throwing a Temper Tantrum in the Kotex Aisle at Food-4-Less, which leads to Wonderhussy getting the fuck out of there.) (I’m kidding…..relax!!)

Aaaaaaaaanyhoo, another night I wandered around the Strip, instead — but that was even worse! My intent was to walk from one end clear to the other and back — all the way from the Stratosphere in the north to the Mandalay Bay in the south, and back — a total of about 8 miles. But the sidewalks were so choked with cockroaches, whores and drunk idiots that I had to give up after a mere 4 miles. It was literally making me sick. I hate summertime in Vegas!

Anyhoo, every night I find some way to stay awake til 2am, and then try and sleep til 8…which hasn’t been working, and has led to some serious sleep deprivation, which has led to some serious bad shit. One night, I was driving up to my boyfriend Captain Crunch’s house (he lives waaaay up north), and I got pulled over by the freaking cops!! They thought I was drunk, because I was weaving — but really I was just trying to brush my hair, which I had just washed. It was two officers, a chick and a dude, and they were like “You were weaving pretty badly back there…you wanna explain why?” You could tell they thought they had another juicy DUI on their hands, but sorry fellas, I was sober as a judge. I just pointed at my hairbrush, on the seat beside me, but you could tell they didn’t believe me. Then when I got out my driver’s license they saw my medical marijuana card, and now they were REALLY suspicious: “Is that why you were weaving?!!!!!”

“Sorry officers; I am a classic textbook example of a responsible medical marijuana patient — I do not use it socially or recreationally, only in bed to help me sleep!” You could see the disappointment on their faces, but it was funny, I had a giant prescription vial full of Afghani Kush in my overnight bag, which was open for all to see, right under the guy cop’s nose. Either he didn’t see it, didn’t care, or actually respected my prescription. Who knows!

Anyway, they still made me get out and do a sobriety test, just because they could…and I passed, of course. Still, they ended up giving me TWO traffic tickets, at which point I just broke down weeping. It wasn’t the tickets so much as the sheer exhaustion, and the feeling that everything was just piling the fuck up on me. You could tell they felt sorry for me, but apparently not sorry enough to let me go with a motherfucking warning. Fuckers!

My fatigue only grew worse as the week wore on. Part of my therapy is to listen to this 20-minute relaxation mp3 twice a day in the afternoon, and I usually doze off while listening to it (it’s just a bunch of chimes and gongs, allegedly isochronic tones that will “reprogram” my brainwaves). Well, one afternoon I had a foot fetish photo shoot at 5pm over at the Imperial Palace, in the Penthouse. (If you’ve ever seen what a class-A dump the I.P. is, you can only imagine how fabulously shitty the penthouse was. It looked to be on par with a Motel 6 penthouse…if Motel 6s had penthouses.)

Anyway, before I went over to the photo shoot, I figured I had just enough time to do a quick relaxation session, then powder my nose and head over there. Alas, I was sooooo tired that I passed the fuck out and slept for around 30 minutes, waking up with only 15 minutes to get over there in time!! Fuckin’ insomnia! I didn’t even have time to wash up or powder my nose…so I had to roll over with filthy feet and a shiny face 🙁

I jumped in my truck and tried to hurry, but I had just gotten those two tickets and I was loath to speed, so I kinda limited myself to 1 or 2 miles over the speed limit the whole way there. I made it more or less in time, though — and what a freaky scene!!!!

Apparently, this wasn’t for any website — it was a private fetishist from Montreal, some random Quebecois who came to town and hired all these chicks to come up to his room, put on a karate gi, and pose for a series of still photos pretending to kick his frog ass!!! LULZ!!!! He hired one chick to take the photos, and then this other guy was in charge of the remote control for the TV, which displayed a series of photos he wanted to recreate. All I had to do was copy the poses, and pretend to kick his ass. He was a nice looking guy, very soft-spoken and mild-mannered, and at the end of the shoot he gave me a single red rose. Like the Bachelor, LOL! He also gave me $300, which since the shoot only lasted 45 minutes was pretty sweet.

The best part of all this was the chick who was leaving just as I came in (he had models booked one after another…he really spent some coin on this little trip). It was an Asian girl with an odd-sounding New Zealand accent…and come to find out, she has Foreign Accent Syndrome — you know, where you randomly acquire a foreign accent out of nowhere??!!! IT WAS AMAZING! She said she fell off a wall and hit her head when she was a kid, and then gradually developed a Kiwi accent over the years. She said it was very gradual, so that her family didn’t even notice right away…but it has become so pronounced that there’s no escaping it anymore. Crazy!!! I told her she was lucky she didn’t develop a hillbilly twang instead, or something even worse where she said “sorey” and “aboot.” LMFAO!!!!!

Then the chick who was photographing the whole thing chimed in. Apparently SHE, too, fell and hit her head once…and it fucked up her pituitary gland so that it stopped secreting HGH, and she gained all this weight. She has to get regular injections from an endocrinologist just to stay normal. But then she got uterine cancer, and had to stop taking the HGH (to inhibit tumor growth) until they gave her a hysterectomy. FUCK! All this medical talk was kinda freaking me the fuck out…but now that I think about it, maybe that’s exactly what I need — maybe if I fall off a wall, I’ll hit my head and reboot my brain so that I can sleep again! Or…maybe not.

Anyhoo, all of that at least kept me awake for awhile. I’m telling you, I need constant diversion to keep my eyelids from falling shut after about 9pm. Some other things I did this week to stay awake were: walk my dog around silent, sleeping neighborhoods; go to this weekly drum circle up in Red Rock Canyon (a bunch of hippies and assorted weirdos gather up there every Sunday for an awesome jam); and hike up Lone Mountain. Let me tell you about this last one in more detail.

So a few months ago, I was on my way back from a photo shoot in the desert, when I passed this random wacko who was pedaling a stationary bike on top of a stack of shipping containers at the side of the freeway. I pulled off immediately and navigated a warren of bizarre back streets and frontage roads to get to him, just to find out what the fuck he was doing up there. Come to find out, he goes up there every day for a few hours to promote his fitness website, 1minuteexercisechallenge.com — this guy is a fitness fiend. He seemed like a genial enough kook, so I gave him my card, and he started reading my blog, and we sort of became friends. He saw on my bucket list that I’ve been meaning to hike up Lone Mountain (a smallish hill in the northwest part of Vegas with amazing views of the city), so every couple weeks or so he would text me, “So when are we gonna hike Lone Mountain?” Well, I’ve been too busy lately with random shit, so I kept blowing him off…but now that I have all these endless hours yawning ahead of me every night before I can go to bed, I finally had the time to do it!

I was kinda worried he was trying to hit on me, but I figured if he reads my blog then he would know I’ve been dating Captain Crunch, and would realize that this was just a friendly, time-killing hike. As it happens, I needn’t have worried, because he himself is a happily married Mormon with five kids!!! We met up at the mountain, and as we hiked we talked of cabbages and kings, and I realized how hardcore this guy is: he works out non-stop, every minute of every day. He works from home, at a treadmill desk, and then does all these high-intensity one-minute workouts using his kids as weights in between…in addition to bicycling atop the shipping containers every day. I was exhausted just talking to him — how does THIS guy not have trouble sleeping?!

He also convinced me it was OK to hike in my flip flops, without a headlamp…even though it was already dusk when we set off, and the trail was covered in all kindsa loose scree and stuff. Fuck! I almost ate it a time or three, but it was actually a great hike and I enjoyed it immensely. On the way back down I mentioned I had a sore throat, and he told me I should gargle with essential oregano oil, which you can find at health food stores. It was already 8:30, and Whole Foods closes at 9, so I was like, “Oh well, I guess I’ll go tomorrow…” But then this amazing guy offered to give me a bottle of his personal supply, if I followed him home!

Now I know what you’re thinking: That’s the oldest ruse in the book, right?! Well, you’re wrong! I followed him to his amazing badass custom house, which is on a half-acre lot in a really cool neighborhood, and he invited me inside and introduced me to his wife and kids — all super-photogenic blond Mormons, right out of a movie! It was crazy!! He said he had told his wife about me and my blog, and I was just shocked that they would invite a hussy like me into their home to hobnob with their impressionable offspring.  But they were so fucking cool! He brought me the bottle of oregano oil, which he warned would burn my mouth and throat really badly, and taste really gross. His kids all gathered around to watch, expecting me to puke or something…but I’m here to tell you, for a hussy like me, oregano oil ain’t no thang. I gargled it, put drops directly on my tongue, and then drank some of it mixed with water…and yeah it did taste pretty funky, and burn a little…but it wasn’t bad!

They were all shocked and appalled at my apparent lack of tastebuds, and the guy tried to ascribe it to my consumption of alky-hol having desensitized my tastebuds. That’s where you’re wrong, bro — I have excellent taste buds. It’s more likely due to the fact that I regularly drink cayenne pepper mixed with hot water (for my sinuses)…now THAT burns! Once you’ve drunk cayenne pepper tea, oregano oil ain’t no thang at all.

Anyway, not only did he give me the oil to take home (surprisingly, it works very well…I gargled with it 5 or 6 times over the next couple days, and it really did the trick), but he also gave me a bottle of lavender oil, said to help with sleep. The jury’s still out on that one…but I’m here to tell you, oregano oil is a great homeopathic remedy for a sore throat, people.

So after chatting with his amazing family for a few minutes, I left them to their happy shenanigans and toodled off down the road, with the invitation to come back whenever I wanted for family fun night. How cool is that?! I just LOVE meeting random people like that…especially when they turn out to be so interesting. And to think, it all happened because I took the initiative to exit the freeway. Let that be a lesson to you all…STOP AND SMELL THE ROSES!

Now, the reason I had a sore throat is twofold. One, Captain Crunch had it and likely passed it on to me…and two, since I’m so sleep deprived, my immune system is kinda weakened. I also got a god damn yeast infection, which was a whole other rigamarole — I know damn well when I have one of those, but if you go to the drug store all they’ll sell you is this nasty-ass injection tube full of cream that is messy and time-consuming and just plain GROSS. Meanwhile, if you get a prescription from a doctor they’ll give you ONE SINGLE PILL which fixes it all. ONE PILL!! How the fuck is that fair, I ask you?!

Since I still have insurance until the end of the month, I figured to kill some more endless evening hours by going into the 24-hour Quick Care for an exam after work one night, so I could get the prescription for the pill. But what a fucking farce! I had to go in, wait around, get triaged, wait around, pee in a cup, wait around, see the doctor, wait around, then finally get my prescription and pay FIFTY FUCKING DOLLARS for the privilege! And that’s WITH insurance!!!! WTF!!!!!

Then I had to drive to TWO separate pharmacies to find one that was open 24 hours, and wait around some more with a bunch of cranky old Jewish men who were also at the pharmacy at 1am on a Thursday night, for some reason. They were cool, though — because I only needed one pill, my scrip was filled way before theirs, so when the pharmacist called me up first they mock-grumbled about it not being fair. “Hey guys,” I said, “It’s cuz I only need one pill. One magic pill!” “One pill!” they said, referencing the Jefferson Airplane song “White Rabbit.” “What is it, a magic mushroom?” “Um, yeaaaaaahhhhhh! Something like that,” I said. LOL — a yeast infection really IS a sort of fungus!!!! The joke was totally on them!

The point of this is, I spent $60 and 2.5 hours to get one fucking pill — and when I got it, it was packaged in a cardboard box, in a paper bag, with a paper information booklet stapled to it, inside a plastic bag with a foot-long paper receipt. ALL THIS FOR ONE FUCKING PILL! No wonder our society’s so fucked up!

Aaaaaanyhoo, these were some of the things I did to stay awake this past week. But wait, it gets even worse! One of the readers of this blog emailed me, lambasting me for not going to see a REAL, LEGIT DOCTOR about the insomnia — no more of this sleep restriction quackery, please! I don’t know why I never looked into sleep specialists before — I guess because my experience with my primary care doctor was so shitty, and then with my therapists and psychologists too, that I just sort of gave up on modern medicine. But now that I only have insurance til the end of May, I finally looked up a guy and went to see him.

He was a really cool guy with an affable demeanor, and I told him the whole fucking sob story — how I thought the insomnia was set off by my having eaten LSD and Ecstasy at Burning Man in 2009. Interestingly, he didn’t judge — in fact he said he actually went to the very first Burning Man, LOL! He agreed with my program of sleep restriction, but said I wasn’t tired enough, and that I needed to reduce my time spent in bed to only FOUR hours!!!!! FOUR HOURS!!!!!! So now I can’t go to bed til THREE A.M., and have to get up at 7 — EVERY SINGLE DAY! Oh gosh, now I’m REALLY gonna be a wreck!

What really sucked though, is I was telling him about the jackass psychiatrist who diagnosed me bipolar, and how I didn’t think it was true. He said I did seem manic, which I totally cop to, but I am not really depressive — if anything, I’m MONO-fucking-polar! Meanwhile, I was probably acting extra manic because a) I was soooo tired, but I try to put on a good front; and b) I was trying to be extra engaging and likable, so he might agree to see me at a reduced rate once I lose my insurance. So of course I acted manic!! It’s called a charm offensive, people!

But because I came off so energetic, he said I wasn’t nearly tired enough for the sleep restriction therapy to work, and so for the next 2 weeks I’m supposed to do this 3-7am bullshit and see if it works. When I heard that now I have to stay up even later, my facade crumbled and I broke down weeping. “I’m soooooo tiiiiiiiired,” I sobbed…and guess what, now I REALLY looked bipolar 🙁 But I’m telling you, people…if you were this fuckin’ tired, you’d cry, too.

Anyway, he sent me on my way with another bullshit plan of action — a sleep diary where I’m supposed to record my sleep patterns for the next 2 weeks, then report back to him. He said he’d work something out with me if I don’t have insurance, so we’ll see. Meanwhile, I’m going to be VERY tired, and have to be careful driving and stuff…which sucks ass, because how the fuck am I supposed to stay up 20 hours a day if I can’t GO anywhere?! Arrgh!

So last night was the first night I tried it. This was right after the whole pharmacy magic pill rigamarole, so I got home around 1:30 and killed time til my 3am bedtime. But when I got in bed, I wasn’t allowed to smoke my “medicine,” so guess what? I DIDN’T SLEEP! I think I may have briefly dozed off very lightly, but I looked at the clock and it was 3:36… and I was wide awake. They say you’re supposed to GET UP out of bed if that happens, and go into another room until you’re sleepy again, so that your brain learns to associate your bed with sleeping only, not with tossing & turning. So I got up and sat in my darkened office for awhile. I tried listening to my relaxation mp3, but it didn’t help this time. I tried getting back in bed with the relaxation thing on, which also failed. Finally I got back up and went in to sit on my living room couch, figuring I might get sleepy there, since every time the Cap’n  and I try to watch The Wire I fall asleep…and after awhile that finally worked. Around 5am I crawled back into my bed, and slept for about 90 minutes. That was IT! I am typing this on 90 minutes of sleep…don’t ask me how I’m doing it, and don’t ask me how I’m supposed to stay awake another 15 hours :-/

The worst part of all this is, it’s going to put a serious damper on my relationship with Captain Crunch!!! The sleep doc said I shouldn’t sleep in the same bed with him until I get my sleep back…and who the fuck knows how long THAT’s gonna take!!!! WTF!!!! It freaks me out because I really, really like this guy, and I like sleeping with him…that is, IF I could sleep. I’m afraid he’ll get tired of my bizarre fucking sleeping patterns — he tried to humor me when I was doing the 2am-8am thing, but THIS is beyond anyone’s capabilities. Oh well, I guess we’ll see what happens. If only I hadn’t eaten that fucking Ecstasy — that shit is POISON! I can’t believe all these dumb-ass bean-eaters frying their brains on a regular basis with that shit.

Speaking of Burning Man, another shitty thing that happened to me this week was, some stupid chick rear-ended my truck after work one night when I was on my way to Captain C’s house (hmm, maybe it’s a sign I shouldn’t go up there anymore). So now I had to deal with insurance hassles, but on the plus side I got a shiny new bumper for my truck. The bummer is, I lost my “WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN RARELY MAKE HISTORY” bumper sticker. But whatever; it was kinda corny anyway.

The funny thing was, when I took it into the body shop, I was wearing a bikini since I was on my way to the lake with Captain Crunch to go paddleboarding. The body shop guys thought that was pretty cool (my attire), and we joked about it…and then when I went to pick up my truck the next day, they were like, “Hey, you went to Burning Man?!?!?!” I was like, “Yeah…why do you ask?!” As soon as I said it, I realized how they knew — I have this thing hanging up on my passenger-side visor from Burning Man last year that is a laminated Genital ID Card, with a picture of my vagina and some information about me on the side. (Some stupid camp was making them, basically an excuse for them to photograph twats all day long. Don’t let ANYONE tell you Burning Man isn’t just about sex, drugs and booze — IT IS!)

When I realized the body shop guys had all seen my vag, we all shared a hearty laff…but whatever, it’s not like everyone with a computer hasn’t seen it anyway. What’s the big fuckin’ deal? It’s just skin and hairs, nothing more.

One last thing. As mentioned, I went paddleboarding out at Lake Las Vegas, a pretentious man-made lake surrounded by multi-million dollar homes, peopled by the likes of Sally Dingdong and the Sultan of Brunei. The funny thing is, the lake water is basically treated wastewater from Vegas…so all those rich dumbasses are floating around in a puddle of our shit. Take that, 1%!!!

I had never been paddleboarding before, and I was totally afraid I would suck at it, since I’m TOTALLY uncoordinated and a total klutz…but as it happens, I did all right and didn’t fall into the wastewater once! (Paddleboarding is basically standing on a giant surfboard, paddling around with a canoe oar.) It was really fun and really nice out there. We spent the day hanging out in the fake Italian village on the south shore, and then cruised into Boulder City for the night, where we stayed in one of those run-down old-timey motels like in the movie Leaving Las Vegas, where Nic Cage is an alkie and Elisabeth Shue is a hooker, and they go down there to drink and wallow in each other’s misery. Fun! We basically did the same thing, only without the misery — we had a damn good time! We shut down all the bars in that square ass town, and then had breakfast the next morning at this overrated “dive” coffee shop that’s been on the travel channel or some shit, but in my personal opinion is way overrated.

And then we came home to Vegas…me to my long, lonely nights full of empty sleepless hours. If you see a random zombie stumbling around town at 2am, holla — it’ll doubtless be me, wandering around Vegas in my desperate quest to stay awake, and then to sleep. Wish me luck!

Oh and one other thing. We had a dog show at the neighborhood park down the street from my house…and my dog Stubby took top prize!!! He is now the official Mascot of the Huntridge Neighborhood, LOL! I’ll admit, I went all “Tantrums & Tiaras” on his ass, berating him like poor little JonBenet Ramsey for not performing well enough… but he still won, despite not giving a shit and despite having long-ass toenails and shedding like a motherfucker. I have to go get him groomed before they do his big photo shoot…after all, I myself know a thing or two about photo shoots! Yay, Stubbs!!!

Oh, and one OTHER thing: if you like these latex glove photos, feel free to deposit some cash in my PayPal account (email me for details) so I can go buy the matching panties and the matching dress! I’ll lube ’em up nice and shiny for ya, and do another photo shoot just for you! xxx!

A Drugged-Out Desert Party and Another Fake Seizure

What a DAY! It all started much too early, at 8am. My insomnia has gotten worse of late, and I finally decided I’ve had enough, and it’s time to get serious about curing it. For the last 2.5 years, the only way I’ve been able to get a decent night’s sleep is by eating a heavy-duty-dose marijuana cookie before bed (I have a medical marijuana prescription), and then hitting my bong as needed when I wake during the night. But I’m sick of being a nasty-ass stoner! I want to be able to SLEEP ON MY OWN — withOUT drugs!!!

One of the most effective therapies for insomnia is called cognitive behavioral therapy — basically, you re-train your brain to associate bed with sleep. Only use your bed for sleeping and sex, keep the room dark and cool, no TV, and get up at the same time every day, no matter what. They also recommend creating a “sleep debt” by limiting the number of hours spent in bed to the amount usually slept — you’re not supposed to lie there dozing, or trying to sleep a little bit longer, no matter HOW tired you are. Since I used to get about 6 hours total when I clobbered myself with marijuana, I decided to set 6 hours as my nightly time spent in bed — I’ve been going to bed at 2am, and getting up at 8 every day. I haven’t been sleeping well at all, and I am EXHAUSTED…but I’m desperate, and all accounts swear that this approach is the most effective way to cure insomnia. It’s hard with my crazy life to be in bed by 2am every night, but by golly I’m trying my damndest. I’m on day 7 or so, and it’s not really getting any better…but I’m not giving up. I’m staying with it for at least a month, just to see if it works. The idea is, eventually you will create such a huge sleep debt that you eventually start sleeping the entire 6 hours straight through.

One problem I’ve been having is that I started dating this guy, and whenever we sleep in the same bed, I sleep TERRIBLY. The first night I slept in the same bed with him, I didn’t sleep AT ALL 🙁 I guess maybe I was nervous…I dunno. The poor guy has been a good sport about keeping my shitty bedtime schedule, but it’s a royal pain in the ass.

Now you may be wondering, who is this guy that has tamed the legendary Wonderhussy? Well first off, I haven’t been tamed (read on for more evidence of that)…and second, you may be shocked and appalled to learn that he is a very normal person, no weird fetishes or blue hair or dreadlocks or whatever. Ironically, he works at the same air force base as the last jackass I dated (Sgt. Peanut, you may recall)…and in fact, is also a pilot who sits in a darkened trailer all day blowing shit up 5,000 miles away. What a small world! He doesn’t know Peanut, though…I asked him.

Anyhoo, we’ll call this guy Captain Crunch, and he is awesome. I never expected to date a military guy (let alone two in a row)…but he’s really good people. I spent quite a bit of time hanging out with him this week, but I also had plenty of time for random hi-jinks…to wit:

As I was saying…WHAT A DAY! It started at 8am, I went to breakfast with Captain Crunch, and then went over to do a focus group on AAA Roadside Assistance. If you don’t know, focus groups are when they pay consumers for their honest opinions on the products and services they use — I know a lot of freelancers who do them to make extra cash, and some of these people are SHAMELESS! They lie and say they use everything from lite beer to tampons to goat cheese, just so they qualify for more groups.

Worse, the companies that STAFF the focus groups are just as crooked! They get a commission for bringing in qualified participants, so when they call to ask you if you can do a study, they pretty much shamelessly coach you on what answers to give. I remember I did one about slot machines once — I RARELY gamble, usually only when my friend J.R. is in town, and I told the lady at the staffing agency a perverted version of the truth, that I gamble “on average” about $40 a month. “Well, couldn’t you say you sometimes gamble $40 a WEEK?” she asked. “Uhhhh…I guess so…sometimes.” I HATE lying! But I qualified for the group, and spent an afternoon designing my “dream” video slot machine with a roomful of other lying degenerates. WTF! How are marketers supposed to figure out what the fuck people really want, if everyone’s just lying to get a paycheck?!!

Anyhoo, the group today was pretty straightforward, since I really DO use AAA roadside assistance — a LOT! My truck is always getting flat tires and whatnot, due to my desert traveling, and I am a huge fan of the AAA service. I would get my car insurance through them, too…but alas, my driving record is waaaay too abysmal to qualify 🙁

After the focus group, I went home to meditate (part of my relaxation therapy for the insomnia shit), and then I lifted weights and ran some errands. Then I came home and rigged up a nun costume for this photo shoot I did at this creepy Catholic church on Las Vegas Blvd. between the Wynn and the Riviera…and then I did another bachelor party prank!

You may recall how I pranked that bachelor party last month, pretending to have a seizure from too many drugs and all that. Well, one of my Facebook friends saw a posting on craigslist for a similar gig, and forwarded it to me…and the bachelor’s pranking pals hired me based on my extensive experience! I ended up doing the same basic shtick, only I went up to their room and pretended to be a stripper doing a room call. I made the bachelor, a shy young nerdy kid from Rhode Island, sit in a chair while I gave him the world’s most awkward lap dance (I SUCK at dancing and being seductive). Then I went over to snort some “drugs” from a little baggie (again, it was cornstarch)…and ended up having a fake seizure all over the poor kid’s lap!

It was priceless — he TOTALLY fell for it! He started yelling “Call 911! I gotta do CPR!” (I rolled over onto my stomach so that he couldn’t start in with any chest compressions — I don’t have a death wish, ya know). But he was checking my pulse and yelling “Stay with me!” and all this shit like you see on E.R. Meanwhile, his buddies pretended to call 911, then ran out of the room all skeered-like…leaving the panicked bachelor with my foaming body (I used 1.5 Alka-Seltzer tablets again, just like last time…I put them in my mouth when I went to take a hit of my “drugs”).

Finally, his boys came back in, like all “Surprise!!! It’s all a joke!” and I spewed a frothy fountain of Alka-Seltzer at the bachelor, like ha ha ha just kidding! But that kid was PISSED! He was so mad he got up and ran out of the room, and his friends were kinda weirded out. I grabbed my cash and got the hell out of there before he came back, so I don’t know what ended up happening…but all’s well that ends well, and now I can pay my internet bill! 🙂

So now I have Alka-Seltzer crusted up on my face, but I’m still writing this. That’s DEDICATION, yo!

Another night, I planned to just lay low and stay in…but a friend texted me that some bikers he knew needed babes to do a bikini bike wash, and would I come down to their clubhouse to meet with them? I’ve never been to a biker clubhouse, so I said sure thing! It was in this creepy kind of industrial area behind the Rio, in this warehouse-type building that had been converted into biker party central, with a stripper pole and a bar and a reggae band, and a big fat Samoan biker out front barbecueing burgers. Come to find out, it was an interracial bike club — which I thought was really cool! Most of the members were black, Samoan or Puerto Rican…with a few whiteys thrown in the mix for good measure. They were cool people!

Meanwhile, I arrived at the same time as these other 3 chicks: a sort of rockabilly/meth-chic Bette Midler lookalike, and two big fat zaftig babes in minidresses…one of whom was Bette’s “wife,” and all three of whom were escorts, hired to service the bikers at this big rendezvous they’re having in June!!! I was like, “Waitaminute, I’m just here to wash bikes!!!!” but the head biker, this compact little dude with a really quiet, raspy voice, took a shine to me and assured me I need not engage in any hanky-panky. Whew — for a minute there, I thought I’d wandered onto the set of a Russ Meyers movie, and was about to get gang-banged and forced into white slavery under the aegis of Madam Midler!!!

After everything was ironed out — me and some of my “sorority sisters” will be washing bikes at the event, while the other chicks will be working the “VIP” area — we all relaxed with a drink and I chatted with Madam Midler — and found her to be QUITE fascinating! Most notably… she has a glow-in-the-dark vagina!!! I’ll be darned….what the fuck will these kids think of next?! She had a bull’s-eye tattooed around her pubis in ultraviolet ink, and intimated that she climaxed when the tattoo artist inked the outline. But when he filled in the ultraviolet coloring….it hurt like a motherfucker. Still, I suppose it was worth it…I mean, who WOULDN’T want a glow-in-the-dark vagina?! I know I would!

So anyhoo, now I gotta round up 6 or 7 other chicks to be my “sorority sisters,” and help me warsh bikes. The head biker wanted me to come up with a name and a logo, so I picked Alpha Sigma Sigma…or ASS for short!!!! It should be a fun event, and great to write about…and in fact, they might also use me for these foxy wrestling events they’re about to set up out there in the lot behind their warehouse! No telling WHAT kind of hi-jinks I’ll get up to with these crazy bikers!!!

Anyhoos, another night I went downtown for this big cholo party some guy was having at the Beauty Bar. For those who don’t know, a cholo is a Mexican gang-banger — you know the type: khakis, Nike Cortez, Pendleton buttoned only at the top button. His female counterpart, the chola, is perhaps better known due to her crazy Sharpie eyebrows and hideous brown lip-liner…so I put together my best chola outfit and headed downtown! I ended up looking more like a guera Gwen Stefani-type poseur chola, but it was all good — I put about half a can of Aqua Net on my pompadour, and decided to ride my bike down there since it was such a nice night, and it’s easier than trying to find a place to park. So there I was, pedaling furiously down the street at 10:30pm on my crazy-ass, pink-duct-tape-covered Burning Man bike…and I’m here to tell you, my hair did not move AT ALL! I arrived at the party with my mighty pompadour still perfectly intact, and enjoyed some vodka cranberries while mingling with other cholos and cholas to the sounds of the Geto Boyz and other classic East-L.A. tunes.

The only bummer was, it wasn’t so much of a costume party as a REAL cholo party….so I was kinda afraid of getting my ass kicked. Back in high school, I went to a school with a LOT of Mexicans, and this one cholo had a crush on me, and used to walk up behind me on my way home from school to pull my skirt up, exposing my 14-year-old-girl panties. Trouble was, this one chola had a crush on him, and was so jealous of me that one day she jumped me and beat the holy living crap out of me in front of all her chola friends! Ever since then I’ve had a deathly fear of cholas…but I’m all about facing my fears, so I soldiered on and went to this party, rubbing elbows with the likes of the girls who beat my ass in high school Yay, me!! 😀

I didn’t have much time to relish my victory, however, because the very next day I was heading down to Arizona for this big Burning Man campout near Snowflake (a tiny town near Show Low, somewhere in central B.F.E. a few hours south of Flagstaff). A friend from L.A. had invited me to come down and work as the mistress of this maze he was building there…but at the last minute he had to cancel, so I just cruised down there with a couple girlfriends, neither of whom I really knew at ALL! We all sort of caravaned down there, and what was supposed to be a 6-hour trip somehow ended up taking NINE HOURS! We got there in the dark, set up camp (I had my trusty pop-up camper with me), and then proceeded to booze and party for three days straight.

The one chick was named Button — so named because she lost a ton of weight one time, and had her excess stomach skin trimmed off. When the doctor asked where she wanted him to place her new belly button, she told him she didn’t want one at all — and ended up

having a tattoo of an old-fashioned button inked where her belly button used to be!!!! LMFAO, what a great idea! I want to get my nipples removed and tattooed…and see if I can go topless THEN!

The other chick was this little 21-year old I met at the blood-wrestling match I did a few weeks back — a fiesty little nutcase who ended up being a TON of fun! We were all three into nudism, so we basically ran around naked most of the time, like a camp of crazy naked Amazon ladies. It was awesome! I participated in a drum circle, a lengthy Balinese monkey-chant session, and a good old-fashioned rave in which I danced with a man in a Civil War jacket and a rubber horse head…but by far the most fun thing I did was march in Mr. Chow’s Birthday Parade. Mr. Chow was a dog belonging to this gray-bearded traveling vagabond, and to honor his faithful companion’s birthday, he organized a parade for all the dogs at the event (there were 500 people there, and quite a few brought dogs…you know hippies!).

Alas, my campmates and I didn’t have a dog, but the little 21-year-old chick reeeeally wanted to participate. At first we were gonna try and make one out of felt (she had brought a bunch of crafting supplies along)…but then she had the idea of being the dog HERSELF! I painted a dog nose and whiskers on her, she made a leash  and collar out of one of her backpack straps, and then she bounded along naked while I walked her in the parade. She was SO FUCKING FUNNY, sniffing other dogs’ asses and lifting her leg on bushes…and at the end of the parade, we all ended up back at the traveling vagabond’s trailer for treats — margaritas for the people, and Pupperoni for the dogs. I’m here to tell you, that girl even ate two Pupperoni sticks — although another dog came up and ate half out of her mouth, Lady and the Tramp-style. LOL!!!!!!!!!

Then the vagabond gave me a tour of his fabulous Scamp trailer — Scamp being the brand name for a certain type of white fiberglass trailer on which I’ve had a lustful eye for quite some time. His rig was SICK — solar panel on the roof powering his fridge and ham radio equipment, propane stove, and even a little swamp cooler to help keep Mr. Chow cool. I swear, if I had a trailer like that I would travel around the country having adventures that would make this blog look like a PBS pledge drive. If anyone wants to buy me one, feel free — I just want the little 10-footer, nothing fancy 🙂

I had a lot of fun during the day at this desert party…but at night, it was the same story as Burning Man: everyone ate ecstasy, put on a big furry coat, and got stupid. BO-RING! I did stumble into a very intriguing, creepy tent across the way from our camp that was doing all these sadistic S&M rituals — and of course, I had to volunteer. Thus it was that I was lit on fire (hair mousse sprayed onto my chest, then lit aflame) and electrified with a violet wand (this creepy fucking device that gives you a mild static electricity charge). It was pretty interesting, but definitely not a turn-on. I’m pretty vanilla when it comes to that stuff – you won’t see ME shoving a cattle prod up my asshole anytime soon!

Anyhoo, I had a pretty good time at Saguaro Man (as that campout was known), but I was definitely ready to cruise back to Vegas on Sunday morning. Ten fucking hours later, I rolled into town…but I have to say, I have the summer camping bug now, and can’t WAIT to get back out and go on the next adventure! Who’s with me?????!


Also, I stopped along the way back to Vegas at some very cheesy tourist attractions…most notably, a corner in the blighted town of Winslow, Arizona that has become a shrine to that godawful Eagles song “Take it Easy.” You know, “I’m a-standin’ on the corner in Winslow, Arizona… such a fine sight to see…it’s a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford, slowin’ down to take a look at meeeee…” Apparently, this town’s economy is so trashed that they spent their entire annual budget on a statue of a hippie on the corner, and a flatbed Ford on the street in front of him, hoping to lure in tourist dollars. It worked — I stopped; but astonishingly, there were no establishments anywhere nearby to spend any money at!!! Come on, Winslow, what the fuck?! At least have a burger joint that plays Eagles music 24/7…don’t you WANT to make any money?!?!?!?! I personally would have DEFINITELY had lunch there!

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