Tuesday, May 23, 2017


Misti Asks: How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?
Misti Answers: Oh it feels fucking fabulous.
Misti Asks: Do I detect a facetious tone?
Misti Answers: Probably.
Misti Asks: You die at forty-four, the age you are now. You're standing in Heaven reviewing your life on a big ass diamond encrusted screen with Jesus The Son and God The Father. Are you ashamed?
Misti: When I was a kid I was told by people who should have known better that when I died I would go to Heaven and stand before God and Jesus. Together we would review my life. Every moment would be accounted for and documented for heavenly viewing pleasure. That seems like some bullshit but I guess I bought into it. I remember when I was in fifth grade I was walking around the classroom in my mini skirt and tights imagining Ricky Schroeder of "Silver Spoons" watching me on various cameras. I've never been diagnosed as schizophrenic, which puzzles me. Maybe the psychiatrists and psychologists I've been seeing off and on since I was nine years old didn't know what the hell they were doing. I don't believe in HEAVEN and HELL. I believe in heaven AND hell, the Dio song. I've never at any point been an atheist. I believe life will go on after I die just to piss me off. I just want to SLEEP and DREAM. Damn it. If anyone can sit through a movie of my life from beginning to end they deserve a batch of the most kick ass brownies ever baked. If brownies ain't their thing, they deserve a healthy helping of whatever their thing is. Ashamed? No. I'm pretty fucking far from being at peace with myself but I am not consumed with shame and guilt. There are a lot of motherfuckers doing shittier things than I have ever done and they sleep like babies at night. Do I know this straight and for a motherfucking fact? I do not. I do know that I have known more than a few sociopaths in my forty-four years. They continue to smile big for the Instagram and Facebook cameras. Assholes.
Misti Asks: What do you want that you do not have?
Misti Answers: I want a billion dollars, approximately. I want my Spanish dream home by the sea with the library with stained glass windows and the kitchen filled with red appliances and the garden tub in the master bath with the glassy skylight that lets me see the stars. I want a pool with a waterfall and grotto and purple lights. I want my own jet because it's gross riding Greyhound and coach on any American airline. Most people are gross. I'm a misanthrope. Money would buy me privacy and a much better quality of living. Money would buy me protection from most assholes. I suck at ghetto/barrio/trailer park life. I don't enjoy cheap beer and wine coolers and Redbox. I hate Laundromats. I hate cockroaches. I hate the smell of poverty. Cheap fried food. Body odor. Dollar store body wash. The other day I told my son that the two most valuable things in this world cannot be bought. Love. Peace of mind. That's a nice cross stitch sampler but I am not that good at being meek and poor. It's wrong of me to say,"I've paid my dues. I've suffered. I've scrubbed toilets and cleaned houses trashed by fraternity brats. I've taken calls from T-Mobile customers and drunk Victoria's Secret customers. I've wiped asses and snotty noses and tied shoelaces. I just want to create, write, travel, eat, drink, breathe, fuck, swim, EXPERIENCE the fucking world! FUCK the corporate clock!" That's the wrongest sentiment to have in Texas America. You breed. You work. You pay taxes. You buy a house. You buy guns. You buy a truck. You fucking die and people who didn't know you at all say trite shit like,"She's in a better place now. We'll all be together again someday in Glory." Bull fucking shit! What I WANT is for people to buy my art and books and donate money to my PayPal, roxixmas@gmail.com. I feel raw in every orifice from shit that has gone down these past couple of years. I'm bitter as FUCK. I don't want to be bitter. But thank Krist on a Popsicle stick I can be honest and not hide behind some not so cleverly constructed facade. I put a lot out there. I put a veritable fuckton out there. A fuckton is considerably more than a pound. I expect compensation. I'm dreaming. People don't give a shit. I consider tearing it all down, which I have done before. Delete the blog, delete the storefront at lulu.com, delete the videos at YouTube, delete the Twitter and Instagram. I'm not there yet. But I am not being fed. I'm surviving San Antonio on $800 a month and people who know this and profess to care about me continue to shit on me. If you owe me $80 and don't pay it, that's shitting on me. If you owe me $400 and don't pay it, that's shitting on me. I try to put things in perspective. I struggle. Meanwhile. Kylie Jenner. Reese Witherspoon. Courtney Love. Various shades of grey. Harry fucking Potter.
Misti Asks: What makes you so goddamn special? Why does ANYONE owe YOU any damn thing?
Misti Answers: Well gee. Let me think really hard about that one. I'm not special at all. I'm not Oprah. I'm not Joan of Arc. I'm not even Minnie Mouse. I'm certain I will die in obscurity at the poverty level. This is one tragedy in a glittering multitude of tragedies. Are you going to the Miley Cyrus concert? Hold that Bic lighter high. Look. Bitch. I've never been to AVN. Nor have I ever been to AWP. I had a creative writing professor at UTSA who suggested the creative writing workshop experience isn't for me. Yes. I will certainly die in obscurity at the poverty level but I promise you I'll make a lot of noise along the way.
Misti Asks: What is your favorite Beyonce song?
Misti Answers: Fuck you.


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