Fake Memoir:

Here's a tricky dilemma for the experienced brainwasher, what do you do if your subject has no particular brain to wash?

Thanks to years of pumping myself full of every drug conceivable to mankind, I have developed an uncanny resistance to all types of hypnosis and suggestion. So I can say without hesitation that insatiable chemical dependency has saved my life. Suck that, Nancy Reagan.

And the perks of being in a cult compound if you aren't actually a member of the cult! Free food, free shelter, free drugs. Sure you have to pay lip service to the dictates of the supreme elder and spout claptrap about the aliens coming back to rescue/enslave/whatever us weak humans, but let me tell you it is worth it.

So you might be asking yourself, why did I ever leave the cult if life was so cushy? One word, four syllables: Intervention.

Seems that the "federal government" has taken some sort of "issue" with the idea of a massive cult compound being built on a former missile testing range. Personally, I think those mutant hillbilly freaks in the abandoned silver mine turned us in. Man oh man, when I get back out to the desert that Papa Jupe better watch his ass. I got a German Shepard and a baseball bat with his name written all over it.

At any rate, the feds bust in guns full blazing and I only managed to escape certain death by hiding behind the corpse of Isaac Hayes until the smoke cleared.

Luckily, the goon squads always need to have one or two survivors on the news so they don't look totally inhumane. I don't know if you could make me out with all the smoke and dirt and Isaac Hayes' blood. I'm the one that mouthed "Hi, Mom!"

After that, I was put through a government approved detox where the shelter and drugs were okay. But the food? Disgusting! It really makes you long for Katie Holmes' home cooking. Of course the last time I saw her, she was screaming and trying to reattach her severed arm to her body while an armed solder shouted at her, "Don't move, bitch!" Memories...

Two weeks later, I'm unceremoniously dumped back out on the streets and told to "make something of myself this time." It starts pouring buckets to boot and I have to quickly duck into the nearest Internet cafe to avoid dying of pneumonia. So I give Burt a ring and he says he can pick me up in about half an hour. In the meantime, I thought I would update my blog.

Dear God, will it ever end?

Real memoir:

Woke up. Went to work. Ate. Tried to work. Didn't work. Wrote fake memoir instead.

Sorry about the lack of updates. Fake memoirs require creativity and I'm a bit tapped right now. Logging for reality TV sucks my will to live.

Two ways to amuse yourself?

1. Check out my blog on MySpace

2. Take this super fun poll!

Fake Memoir:

It is difficult to write from within the compound.  The high elders monitor all Internet traffic and the security guards have eyes like hawks.

More once I have made my escape.

Real Memoir:

Tired.  Have to do homework.  No real time for writing fake memoir.

Fake Memoir:

Well I'm drunk at a bar and about four shots ago I forgot how to get home. A desperate middle age type in a disheveled business suit gazes hungrily from a booth in the corner. I know he's the one who keeps buying me little girl drinks. I'm a bit annoyed that he has ignored the fact that the bartender pretty much has me on a straight tap of single malt scotch. On the other hand I can't say I mind the help with the maintenance buzz and I smile in his direction whenever a frosty pink drink with an umbrella slides my way.

I attempt to stand but some prankster moved the floor on me while I was getting loaded and I come crashing down on my ass. About three seconds later, a man in a suit stands over me. Must be my Daiquiri Don Juan...

"Can I lend you a hand?" He stoops over and pulls me out of my sprawl.

"Thanks." I slur into his lapel. I know he can smell the alcohol on my breath. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Senior Business crouching shamefaced in his booth. So who is this new guy?

“Let’s get you home.”

“Hold on. I need to use the bathroom.”

“Do you think you can make it?”

I stare towards the restroom and the whole bar pitches side to side. “Rough seas,” I mutter under my breath.

“Come on. Let’s get you over there.”

Somewhere on the way to the john, I black out.


Real Memoir:

Woke up and wrote fake memoir.