When things get toilsome and perilous, as they do in EVERY SINGLE LIFE, this is one of the mantras that I repeat over and over again to give me courage, strength, and sass. It has NEVER failed me. Liz has NEVER failed me.
In fact, I adore and admire her fearlessness SO much that I named my first daughter after her. She survived some SERIOUS goddamned tragedy in her life…and KEPT. FUCKING. MOVING.
HOLY SHIT, she was FIERCE.
There will NEVER be another like her.
If I were a month I would be: October.
If I were a day of the week I would be: Wednesday.
If I were a time of day I would be: 11:17 p.m.
If I were a planet I would be: Venus.
If I were a sea animal I would be: A Shapeshifting Octopus.
If I were a direction I would be: “Exit stage left…”
If I were a piece of furniture I would be: An ancient, sagging wooden bookcase groaning under the weight of old National Lampoon and New Yorker mags, every book ever written by Hunter S. Thompson, The Collected Poems of Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and WS Merwin, “Capote” by Gerald Clarke, “The Letters of Alexander Woollcott”, and “The Portable Dorothy Parker.”
If I were a sin I would be: Sloth.
If I were a liquid I would be: Either the tears of the world…or the bathwater of Liza Minnelli.
If I were a stone, I would be: A glorious Ethiopian Opal.
If I were a bird, I would be: A pigeon jauntily strutting about in Trafalgar Square.
If I were a tool, I would be: A blackhead remover.
If I were a flower/plant, I would be: Pennyroyal — standing ever at the ready for any dame who might need me to help change the course of her destiny.
If I were a kind of weather, I would be: A grey, cold, wet, most blustery day.
If I were a musical instrument, I would be: A clarinet.
If I were an animal, I would be: A church mouse at Westminster Abbey.
If I were a color, I would be: Pomegranate.
If I were an emotion, I would be: Curiosity.
If I were a vegetable, I would be: An artichoke.
If I were a sound, I would be: The urgent, tinny clinking of a Vegas slot machine delivering the goods.
If I were a car, I would be: An old Volvo 240 station wagon, oxidized periwinkle blue.
If I were a song, I would be: “The Peanuts Theme” (“Linus and Lucy”) by Vince Guaraldi.
If I were a book, I would be written by: Fran Lebowitz or Doug Kenney.
If I were a food, I would be: A BIG ASS BOWL of homemade vegetable soup.
If I were a place, I would be: The wild and windy tower at Rennes-le-Chateau or the croquet lawn on Neshobe Island.
If I were a material, I would be: Red Corduroy.
If I were a taste, I would be: Green Apple Jolly Ranchers.
If I were a scent, I would be: The dusty back stacks at Shakespeare & Company book store in Paris or ANYWHERE on The Pirates of the Caribbean in Disneyland.
If I were a word, I would be: Duende.
If I were an object, I would be: The transparent glass panel Miss Joan Crawford was referring to in “Mommie Dearest” when she bellowed, “Tear down that BITCH of a bearing wall and put a window where it OUGHT to be!”
If I were a body part I would be: A pair of Irises…green.
If I were a facial expression I would be: A wry smile.
If I were a subject in school I would be: Iconoclasm 101.
If I were a cartoon character I would be: Eric Cartman.
If I were a breed of dog I would be: A Norwich Terrier.
If I were a shape I would be: A Mobius Strip fashioned from a Taco Bell wrapper.
If I were a number I would be: 17.
If I were a piece of jewelry I would be: A silver charm bracelet or a Schiaparelli brooch — both vintage, of course.
If I were a team my mascot would be: The Jackals.
If I were a quote, I would be: “The thing women have yet to learn is nobody gives you power. You just take it.” — Roseanne Barr
Happy Birthday, to my GORGEOUS GUSBAND, Miss Jackie Beat! You FINALLY got your BIG, FANCY, FESTIVE, FABULOUS, FRAMILY PARTY! Now…SHUT THE FUCK UP.
We LOVE YOU!
Some people say The Lord’s Prayer, repeat Hail Mary’s, or whisper ancient Buddhist chants whilst rolling sandalwood beads between their divinity-seeking fingers. But The Universe Itself is MY GOD…so all I got is myself AND ALL THAT IS, WAS, AND EVER WILL BE…and that, along with the awareness of this profound notion that I speak aloud to myself every single morning as I begin my day, is what sustains me.
At long last: I FUCKING GET IT.
It’s about time.
“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.” ― Mary Jean Irion
I am a genre all unto myself, bitches. That’s right…I am an OLD, FAT, TIRED, SAGGY, WHISKERED, MENOPAUSAL, MANIC PIXIE DREAM CRONE.
Come und get it, boys!
I know that it is only human nature to lionize those who pass before us — to make them seem bigger and better in death than they ever wever were in life…but with Cory Monteith, that was simply not the case. Such a talented, devoted, sweet, sad boy, whose time here was FAR too brief. My heart is broken into a million tiny pieces for his mama, Ann, who loved him very much.
Rest in peace, sweet, sweet boy.
All of my scandalous life, I have been attracted to The Spaces In Between — those areas without rules, without limits, without care nor concern for the preconceived notions of others. I like to swing the camera around to the other side and see shit from INFINITE ANGLES. I like to acknowledge what it is that people expect from themselves, from their culture, from their world, from me…and then I like to smile a dazzling smile and FUCK SHIT UP.
Boys in dresses, girls in boxers. The GLORIOUS Spaces In Between.
And, now, with all that existential pissing out of the way…let me just say that I WANNA MAKE OUT WITH EVERY BEAUTIFUL MOTHERFUCKER ON THIS SITE.
In 1994, as I watched Susan Smith — who also ruthlessly murdered her own children and then blamed it on some mysterious, non-existent, black marauder — cry for the cameras and beg that her missing pre-school aged sons be returned to her…I was holding my own beautiful, tiny, premature infant son in my arms and blissfully nursing him as I watched NBC Nightly News. As cameras flashed and people gasped, I turned to my then-husband and, with a face and voice as bland and flat as Kevin Spacey in ANY AND EVERY FUCKING PART HE HAS EVER PLAYED, simply said, “SHE’S LYING.”
And so it was when I heard about this EVIL MOTHERFUCKER’S CLAIMS that two black teenagers just came up, demanded money, and then, as she watched, shot her baby in the face in his stroller, killing him. I cannot tell you how I knew, but I knew: SHE, TOO, WAS LYING.
The true horror and injustice of this story is not just that she murdered her own child, nor just that she blamed that murder on these two young black men. No, the true horror is that the world was, sight unseen, SO FUCKING READY AND EAGER TO BELIEVE IT. SO ready and eager to destroy the lives of these two young men and their families…because, as young black men in our culture, their own lives aren’t worth much to begin with. I cannot even imagine what their own mothers must be going through.
FUCK THIS EVIL, RACIST, INFANTICIDE-COMMITTING MONSTER…and ALL WHO ARE LIKE HER.
And I RAGE.
This is a LITTLE TINY BABY and Mother likes to KISS HER ON THE LITTLE TINY BABY LIPS!
The love of my motherlovin’ life: Miss Pearlie Mae.
I have never, ever understood humanity’s moral problem with willing, equal, empowered adults bartering sexual favors for products or services. Sex is a product AND a service — and, by god, it is VALUABLE. In fact, it is the most valuable commodity on the planet.
In fact, MY VAGINA IS A GODDAMNED DIAMOND.
muffy bolding 
