http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNvLnwLzAcg
Still refining an internet persona, with a blue wig on.
............and a flash fiction piece......
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Barbara Banal, Security Operative
Last meeting with the boss I got yelled at again about my weight. I'm five nothing, 180, and the bitch says I have to gain another thirty pounds to be more nearly 'invisible.' Crisake, I got a job in the back office at a realty firm on McKnight Road and get my hair done by a fag at the Ross Park Mall. I'm invisible, for fuck sake. As covers go, it's better than Marvel Comics. But no, all the up close wet work I did on the West Coast doesn't mean shit. I have to choose make-up that accentuates acne scars and makes olive skin look purplish.
The Big Boss says I'm not working 110%. I told her there's no such thing, and she said there is if she and the rest of B.I.T.C.H. says there is. You would think this was all for the Pink Thunderbird at Mary Kay, and not an anti-terror unit. Sure, my feeling get hurt.
Working in Pittsburgh. How fucking intriqueing. I'm telling people about the Christmas big blow out sales and about how to clip coupons and about how much I love shopping along the Miracle Mile. There are W.O.G.s and illegal aliens working at the sun glass booth, and some of them work for Al Queda. Their cover stories are a lot like mine. There should be some sort of unifying theory that would make us all best friends. As it is I have to use my collection of guns, baseball bats, dime store toad-stickers and mail order stun guns so the jobs look like hate crimes done by white trash or drug deals gone sour by young African Americans. For Uncle Sam. Yeah, a woman has feelings.
Still refining an internet persona, with a blue wig on.
............and a flash fiction piece......
#########################################
Barbara Banal, Security Operative
Last meeting with the boss I got yelled at again about my weight. I'm five nothing, 180, and the bitch says I have to gain another thirty pounds to be more nearly 'invisible.' Crisake, I got a job in the back office at a realty firm on McKnight Road and get my hair done by a fag at the Ross Park Mall. I'm invisible, for fuck sake. As covers go, it's better than Marvel Comics. But no, all the up close wet work I did on the West Coast doesn't mean shit. I have to choose make-up that accentuates acne scars and makes olive skin look purplish.
The Big Boss says I'm not working 110%. I told her there's no such thing, and she said there is if she and the rest of B.I.T.C.H. says there is. You would think this was all for the Pink Thunderbird at Mary Kay, and not an anti-terror unit. Sure, my feeling get hurt.
Working in Pittsburgh. How fucking intriqueing. I'm telling people about the Christmas big blow out sales and about how to clip coupons and about how much I love shopping along the Miracle Mile. There are W.O.G.s and illegal aliens working at the sun glass booth, and some of them work for Al Queda. Their cover stories are a lot like mine. There should be some sort of unifying theory that would make us all best friends. As it is I have to use my collection of guns, baseball bats, dime store toad-stickers and mail order stun guns so the jobs look like hate crimes done by white trash or drug deals gone sour by young African Americans. For Uncle Sam. Yeah, a woman has feelings.
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