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“Crazy for Tryin’”

By Kelly Anneken, managing editor


I can’t believe I’m doing this again.


After I got my gig painting veins on fake dicks for sexually unsatisfied ladies at Doc Johnson Enterprises and Chad practically already had the dust jackets printed for my new erotic novel,  I told a certain editor-at-large where she could stick one of my painstakingly crafted dildoes—namely, where the sun don’t shine.  I was making almost minimum wage, and I met this guy named Preston out behind the dumpsters at the factory who always had a line on some pretty sweet lines, if you know what I mean.


Before I knew what was happening, Chad was kicking me and all the fake dicks I’d ruined in an uppers-induced rampage back out onto the streets he’d once claimed he was trying to keep me off of.  Preston invited me back to his place, which turned out to be an industrial-sized freezer he’d dragged into an empty field not far from the grocery, which turned out to be his name for the dumpster outside of Doc Johnson.  I began to suspect that Preston didn’t have his life quite as together as he had claimed while we were ingesting absurd quantities of cocaine off the dashboard of the car we’d broken into.


I managed to slip away by pretending to shit my pants and hopped a bus to the UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica.  I did leave about half of the ruined cocks for Preston—someone who lives in an abandoned industrial freezer can always find a use for knick-knacks like that.  But I needed the other half to support the story that I was sexually insane and in need of a psych ward bed, at least until I figured out some other method to make my way in the world.


As I walked toward the hospital, trying out different vibrators in hopes that I could turn one on, stick it up my anus and tell the intake nurse that I’d been raped by a unicorn, I noticed a pair of sandbaggish tits I’d recognize anywhere underneath a set of Spongebob Squarepants scrubs.  Attached to the tits a woman smoking a cigarette—my old friend Jaclyn.  At least I was pretty sure it was Jaclyn.  Her nametag said Jaclyn, and as I drew closer, I could tell that she smelled like Fritos, so if she wasn’t my friend Jaclyn, she was Single White Female-ing Jaclyn, which would be weird since Jaclyn is black.


I approached her cautiously and asked for a cigarette.  She squinted at me suspiciously.  “Kelly?”


“Yeah,” I said.  “It’s me.  Sorry about how I shot you in the foot last time I saw you, but in my defense, we were both tripping balls on PCP and you told me there was a tarantula on your foot.”


Jaclyn exhaled a plume of smoke and stubbed out her cigarette.  “You got a point.  I don’t know why we thought it was a good idea to buy that gun off Rocky before we did all that angel dust.”


“We were worried a rapist might get into the apartment because Val busted the lock the last time you kicked him out.”


Jaclyn laughed.  “Man!  Those were some crazy days.  What’s in the box?”


“Damaged goods.”  I rattled the box, trying to make the marital aids look appealing.  Jaclyn was always kind of gullible, so I thought she might give me a ten-spot for one or two so I could get my patented psych ward poker game off the ground once I got admitted.


Jaclyn wrinkled her nose.  “No thanks.  I prefer dick that don’t look like it went through a meat grinder.”


“Is that still your nickname for your pussy?”  We both cracked up and Jaclyn said she was pretty sure her ex-husband called it that.  She told me that after I shot her in the foot and fled the scene, she took a long, hard look at her bleeding foot and enrolled in nursing school.  Then she called an ambulance and her new life began.


She asked what brought me to Santa Monica, and when I told her, she shook her head, rolled her eyes, and led me by the wrist to the intake desk.  As I filled out my forms, she asked me if I wasn’t a little too old to be pulling this scam.  “First of all,” I spat, filling in my social security number (stolen) with a flourish. “The fine state of Maine has declared me sexually insane, so I probably have more of a right to be here than your usual parade of silent Native Americans and waifish bisexuals with pixie cuts.  Secondly, it says right here that this facility offers excellent geriatric psychiatric care, so I doubt I’ll ever be too old to pull this scam!


Jaclyn chuckled, which I thought was kind of weird, since she probably should have pistol-whipped me to death after that whole foot-shooting thing and that time I fucked Val, leading Jaclyn to kick him out and Val to bust the lock, which lead to the whole foot-shooting thing, but she seemed to be taking it in stride.  As she told me she had to get back to work and do her rounds, I caught a glimpse of the reason for her equanimity—a tiny, shiny gold cross around her neck.  She must have found Jesus.  I was impressed—being a Christian is the biggest scam of them all.


I didn’t see Jaclyn much after that—she worked in the neonatal intensive care unit, with all the defective babies.  I failed the standard sanity tests with flying colors, and I actually saw a doctor’s eyes bug out of his head when he got a load of my criminal rap sheet.  That’s more or less when the lithium kicked in, and I’d been shuffling around the psych ward in a blissful haze, reading numerous unauthorized biographies of Anna Nicole Smith and planning my next move until dumb, stupid Isa Hopkins busted in, busted me out, drove me back to Northern California, and then handcuffed me to a pipe in her basement to make me write this stupid column again.  I’d say it was like something out of Breaking Bad except she never cuts the crusts off my sandwiches.


So we’re stuck together again, readers.  I hope you’re enjoying my exploits, and I really hope that Preston’s okay.

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