Doomtown

I've given explicit instructions to my loved ones that if ever my health is in enough danger to call the paramedics, they are to make sure I'm sent to any hospital other than West Jefferson. If my health is in so much danger that I don't have a choice(West Jeff being the closest hospital around when I'm on the West Bank), I've instructed them to shoot me twice in the head and once in the heart, just to be sure. Such is my loathing for West Jeff Medical Center. I have been having abdominal pain for months now. It comes and it goes, but lately it's been so painful that I was forced to call in sick from work. Being the smart bitch that I am, I procrastinated going to the doctor until I could procrastinate no more. I went to a regular physician who did nothing but look at me and ask a bunch of stupid questions. No lab work. Just questions. She proclaimed I probably had acid reflux and then prescribed me a generic form of Zantac. She said to see her in a few weeks i

I deal Black Jack. I deal 3 Card Poker. I will soon be dealing Minibac if I get through the three day class without pulling my hair out. I don't deal craps because I suck at math(I can count up to 21 on a good day) and because there is nothing deadlier than a Karma Girl with a long wooden stick in her hand surrounded by bitching customers. When I think of me dealing craps, I imagine myself in a black leather body suit, six inch fuck me boots, and fish net stockings. I imagine myself beating my customers black and blue, screaming, "TIP THE FUCKING DEALER YOU USELESS WORMS!" while men hand me their purple($500 chips) begging for more. Looking back, perhaps I should have taken that craps class after all. A customer came in the other day and got down on his knees begging me for a Black Jack. No, seriously. On his knees. With his embarrassed girlfriend standing right behind him rolling her eyes, probably wishing the casino would 86 him permanently. I would deal him one good

I am slowly being driven insane. The other night, the Hummer sat at one of my tables. I'm a black jack dealer, in case you haven't read my profile. I've been dealing the swing shift for two years now. You meet the most interesting customers on swing shift. There's a woman who comes in that we have dubbed "the troll" due to her short stature and the fact that she's ugly to everyone, customers or dealers alike. There's a guy we call "the black Don Juan", because he's African American(duh) and every time he comes in he offers sexual favors to one of our floor supervisors-much to her chagrin. And, of course, there is the man I like to call "the hummer" who looks like what Hitler's older autistic brother would have looked like if Hitler had an older autistic brother. Greasy hair, a funny mustache, and a blank expression. The thing that really irritates me about this guy is that he sits at a table, taps his knee vigorously shakin

I was raised Pentecostal. Assembly of God-hellfire-damnation-do-as-I-say-the-bible-says-and-whatever-you-do-don't-go-thinking-for-yourself-'cause-that-way-leads-to-trouble-Pentecostal. At least, that's the type of church my family attended when they did go. My parents liked to practice their own brand of submarine Christianity. We'd go if there was a crisis in our lives. My older sister comes home hung over after a night of partying. "Let's go to church!" My live-in cousin turns out to be a would-be rapist with a drug problem. "Let's see what the Lord can do to heal this family!" My father dies...So on and so forth. Once the crisis was averted-or when my mom figured whatever was on TV that Sunday was more inspiring than a sermon-we'd blow off church until the next crisis. I think most Christians are like that. Today I'm a born-again Agnostic which means I believe in the possibility of a god, but I won't place bets on whether He/S

I promised myself I would never stoop to starting one of these damn things. As a kid, I had an obsession with unfinished diaries. I would see one at a book store, ooh and ahh over the thing. I would buy it. I would keep it for a week, tops. Then I would throw it in my bedroom closet to be forgotten until sometime in the next decade when I bothered to clean my room. There I would find it rotting with a dozen other journals, diaries, and notebooks chock full of the same old whiny crap kids write when they're in the mood to write instead of burning their retinas watching hours of television. And boy was I ever an angsty little punk! If you're good(and I get drunk or stupid)I might post a few excerpts from my embarrassing past. " Dear Diary, I have a white girl afro perm now...sigh ." Chances are, this blog will be just as whiny. The only difference between a sixteen year old Karma Girl and a twenty-year old Karma Girl is that instead of bitching about schoo