Blog · of · the · Unnamed · Female · Superhero

Granting her the power they bear.

Beauty = Power.

Yes, it all makes sense now.

And I will never win.

Current Mood:

depressed

Marcie Jacobs-Hill, damn her and her coffees, has taken off…to Phil’s cabin-in-the-woods, I imagine. I need a cabin-in-the-woods where I can be ill.

This one -- one thousand pages of pure drivel on the “Effects of Beauty on the Female Condition.”

Written by A Man.

Such is the world. Full of stupids. How can this man possibly be remotely empathetic to the plight of the human female? And there are even illustrations accompanying this. Photographs, lithographs, charcoal drawings and…wait…

What’s this...?

Current Mood:

aggravated

I remember...once...he’d offered to fix The Toilet flushhandle.

This whole weekend I've been horribly troubled. Horribly troubled. Not simply by The Toilet (although this body continues to release waste the more it consumes—whatever happened to consuprocessing?). It’s also the thought of that wretched Inferno out there and snagging riches and buildings, one by one, bit by bit, mile by mile (I don’t mean to sound like a country-western song, b, but honestly!).

And here I am, sluggish, my abilities at their prime, unable to even conceive of finding her...her... with the flowing hair, amazing figure, ebony-glittering eyes underneath that scarlet mask… that wicked leer of hers…
She’s like every other nubile, glossy, devious vixen here on this paltry planet. I should search the sorority houses... the nightclubs...the Victoria Secret catalogues...

It’s so simple, b, and yet the idea of having to actually SEARCH through these places…Well…It petrifies me.

I’ve no idea WHY, really.

Something I cannot explain at all. It’s just a feeling that’s been growing inside of me for quite awhile now. Some sort of human feeling, this. My innards are gelatinous. My inner self feels heavy every time I think of having to seek out Inferno, the notion of this human body as sluggish and rotund and lumpish as it is, having to comb this city for…you know…femme-perfection. Glorious, dazzling, sinewy, sensuous, incredible superbeing. I can’t even look at my own reflection anymore, b. I am pallid, tiny...

Pathetic.

The Figure, The Appearance. Inferno. She is the epitome of the feminine ideal here, and, seriously, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t fret. No. It’s just a shape. That’s it. A ridiculous shape. Yes, a shape…A shape that curves in all the right places. A shape with great skin. A shape with such no wrinkle lines anywhere, no touch of cottage cheese fat dotting the thighs…

A goddamn shape I wish to maim.

Oh, I am being silly. Being so completely and utterly Human Female.

Why then can’t I seem to get on task and destroy the bitch? I must. No excuses, no nothing. I am acting as a child, and I am well into my 30's. Such feelings should have left this body after age eighteen (or puberty—I confess I’m no expert on this sort of psychological timeline, but humans are much more emotionally insecure during the horror called School Years).

I will, blast it all! I can! I WILL!

I will catch Inferno and destroy her!

(I think…I don’t know).

Current Mood:

depressed

INFERNO CRIMES ENGULF CITY IN FIREY WAKE
Kara Slaton
Megaopolis Observer

At approximately 1:37 AM this morning, our beloved city, untouched for seven years by criminal syndicate, was held under a maelstrom of fire and corruption when the Loan and Trust of Capital Court was robbed then set ablaze by a mysterious force known only as The Inferno.

Two hours later, gunshots were heard, and the Marquis and Co. on the corner of 7th and Main erupted into flames. Witnesses on scene reported “glass crashing,” “alarms ringing” and “fire, fire everywhere.”

Captain Michael O’Rourke, head of the city's olice profile division, has yet to comment on possible suspects.

****Oh, blog! This humanoid heart of mine is pounding away (can I get a heart attack at thirty-four?)! The excitement of it all! This Kara Slaton is a most extraordinarily brave (and quite insane) reporter. The thrill of it all, the rush of the mystery.

And, most importantly, dear blog--

SHE IS HERE.

Now all there is left to do is find her, destroy her and get the hell out of this paltry planet.

Where on earth (Pathetic) do I begin?****

Current Mood:

energetic

Such racket when beauty sleep is essential. Imagine coming into work tomorrow looking like Death Warmed Over (a Marcie Jacobs-Hill aphorism—I didn’t know one could actually look like death—isn’t it simply an ending of life?—And warmed over? Oh, I understand now. A play on the idea that death is cold and horrible and humans are warm and, oh, forget this crap)

Am considering using an ability to shut off that noise. However, I just can’t think which one would be effective enough. I could find out the cause of the outburst using The Sight, but I really think it would be best left to those in charge of the matter at hand. Don’t law-people and ambulance drivers get paid for this sort of thing?

If they do, I wonder how much they earn?

Oh, no no. I cannot think such thoughts.

This oppressed Planet Earth with its need for monetary gain and influence has gotten the worst of me. Every day at work, I think How Much and High Numerical Figure Income so that I may buy buy buy all all all that I want want want.

Shopping is such a part of the Human Experience. The Need for Things. Any Things. The newer, the better. A new house, a new pet, a new car, a new nose, a new collectible, a new computerized gadget, a new—
Wait, that reminds me. Must save for that Ann Taylor cashmere-- I saw it on sale at— (YOU SEE, b? Shopping! It must be some planetary addiction that spreads this insatiability to all corners everywhere)

(AND THE SIRENS WON’T STOP! I AM GOING TO LOCK MYSELF IN AN ASYLUM BECAUSE I AM GOING MAD!!!!)

Current Mood:

aggravated

I know She is here. The city reeks of her treacherous perfume. She could be Anyone, in any guise. I had my suspicions before. Today, in fact —

There was the incident with the vile creatures working in the coffee shop just below the offices.

Marcie Jacobs-Hill, ever-observant as she is, was the first to point out their nasty ways. She and I were waiting in line for our usual skim-and-mochacchinos (a cunning elixir that helps one remain awake during tedious staff gatherings). The line never seemed to move at all, and Marcie J-H and I had five minutes left before our presence was required at yet another ho-hum meeting of supervisory cretins.

Well, I confess, b, I used The Sight for frivolity rather than actual need. I scanned past the 20 or so waiting in front and saw this...this brunette...so craftily seductive in her green, logoed apron; white T-shirt and tight, iridescent, skinny slacks. This brazen supervixen had taken it upon herself to bat eyelashes and gush over a dullard duo in matching checkered shirts, saggy jeans and baseball caps. The moronic pairing were enamored with this temptress with her vacant expression and mousy squeak of a giggle.

The vamp, in her obvious dance of flirtation (and possible death...the giggling alone could develop into something lethal), cunningly kept the line from moving. Marcie J-H (I’m just tired of writing her whole name, diary) stopped a nearby table-wiper (another siren, red-haired and equally crafty) to ask what the “hold-up” was. The Red One let out a high, defiant squeak and rudely told Marcie J-H to see for herself.

This was the moment, b. It was obvious what needed to be done. The Coffee Girls were either soldiers of the Intended or an independent conglomerate, to say the least—or else the Destroyer of the Great City, my own city where I was born and raised—watched enveloped by the Red Flame…The INTENDED, yes! She, herself, was indeed the

Head Coffee Girl at the Front.

Front=Leader=Chief=Head Honcho

The Sight overcame my being once more and I Saw her logo on the apron she wore....and the coveted badge that marked her as

SANDIE
ASSISTANT MANAGER
(Starbright Coffee, Sheer Bliss in the Morning!)

That fear just took over, b! The notion that this one could’ve quite possibly been The Intended. So young in her guise, so cunning. A mask like this could conquer all of mankind — So many man-kinds all in the name of Beauty, this Beauty. Beauty on Planet Earth IS the ultimate weapon of destruction. It IS indeed! Men become jelly rolls, putty, melting like ice cream. Such power.

Or so I thought.

I remember summoning The Sound. The control in this pathetic human shell takes such guard and practice. Long ago, I’d planned on using The Sound as my weapon of choice. Its force shatters the essence of the human shield, and I’d hoped it would strip away “Sandie’s” guise to reveal the true villain underneath. I sucked everything in for a moment and released The Sound—

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THE HOLD-UP??”

(I think it was something like that, b. One never remembers with The Sound)

Coffee mugs shattered all over, tables shook, grown men fell to their knees, a few lightbulbs exploded in sparks. Everyone ducked—

Including Sandie...who was suddenly, amazingly, in tears. She was CRYING! So ashamed and apologetic, and everyone was rushing about. Girls sweeping up broken mugs and mopping coffee from off the floor. All of those in line stared at me with fascination and...well, I sensed admiration.

“Well, goddamn...GOD DAMN,” Marcie J-H said again and again. She was the most impressed I’ve ever seen her. She even gave me a couple of Mydol, asking me most kindly if I needed a tampon as well. It was simply marvelous, b.

And Sandie. Well, she gave everyone a free white chocolate biscotti for waiting. She even shooed away the moronic duo from the counter, whispering something about, “Later tonight at the bar.” When Marice J-H and I reached the front, Sandie apologized profusely, begging us not to call the “home office,” and she was just “so very very sorry.” Marcie J-H warned her not to do this sort of thing again when we were around.

Now Marcie J-H wants me to actually go on that Girls’ Day Out.

Amazing how humans react to superpower. Suddenly, you’re surrounded by admirers.

Odd, this Planet Earth.

Current Mood:

optimistic

I believe that I may have been poisoned. The potent concoction being in the sneaky guise of a strawberry margarita -- a carmine, fruity ice liquid in a fishbowl of a glass. It was most indulgent. Marcie Jacobs-Hill informed me it was the best drink in the bar. Perhaps she is in on the villainy.

If so, she is such an evil genius!!! The poison has turned my innards to jelly, wrenched my guts through my throat, burned the very core of my being. And since I am responsible for my own actions, I took the drink and another and yet another…and another.

(Oh, WHY?)

At least the flubby, naked human male is no longer here. How embarrassing. After his constant mutter-chatterings:

“Come back to bed, baby.”
“Lie down, baby.”
“Where’s your bathroom, baby?”
“What time is it, baby?”
“Enjoy yourself, baby?”

It was enough for me. This need to deem me as a “baby” which made absolutely no sense to me at all. I am a woman, am I not? A human woman, hardly perfection, I realize, but I’m well past the infancy stage of growth here being thirty-four earth years of age. Completely bizarre. Needless to say, I confess I used The Strength to pull the blathering ape to his feet and toss him out the window, dressed in...

Yes, my new Ralph Lauren twill bedspread.

I know. I know. Such luxuries on Planet Earth are sacrificed for a bit of peace and sanity. Now you understand my plight here. This sort of thing is so common! Insane!

Current Mood:

sick

(OH, I AM DYING HERE! I HAVE FAILED THE MISSION! THE INTENDED WILL DESTROY! DESTROY YOUU ALLL OF YOU ALL SO MANY OF YOU SO STOP PLEASE!!!)

(so quiet…I will be quiet now it would be best and THE BELL! WHAT IS THE HELL IS THAT BLASTED IMPLEMENT OF TORTURE??)

Oh, it’s the telephone…I am going to die now.

Current Mood:

sick

Peteed roun' 2nite wid MarcieMarkJakeandHyphen. Witta hyfen. Her naym hash a hypfen innit. Inn it. Innaside it. She don like talkin aboyut tha boy she done marryed too an Suttermannn. Sutterman'd owr boss. Meany. Uglee fase looklike handburgur.

Annnywaight, I go wid herrin her frennz fro work to go an partee at this 1 plays calld Hotttie. Issa club. Lotza peepol innit. Lotza men wid hairy chessts anna gold chayns an shinny shirtson. I done somdrinkin an thers som musik playeein loud an danseing SO -- MUCH FUNTIME INNNIT we do it 2gethur ! U shuld tryd it, blug. U wuld like it allot.

Im funnyfeeling in my hed tyrednow........ some1 innna bed tho makeing noyzes an im kinnna skared...whodat hommie ? innmy bed an stufff?

Current Mood:

crazy

I envy Boxer's gigantic mongrel that sleeps all day and night in that little box of his outside. How easy a dog's life must be...Sleep, eat, bark, sleep, eat, bark, evacuate bowels, bark some more, sleep sleep sleep, wake and evacuate bladder for a long time.

(I suppose their behavior somewhat parallels humans... Sleep, eat, bark, sleep...Ugh.)

I'm going to take a Sominex.

Current Mood:

exhausted

Anyway, Marcie -JH has informed me of the importance of actually dressing in an appropriate costume for the nighttime occasion we're embarking upon tomorrow evening. I've no idea what to do, as she's insistent on just HOW important dressing well is. (This, coming from a woman whose sparkly-pierced belly-button and see-through blouses at work are notorious.) After I told her I thought what I'm currently wearing today seems suitable for a Night Out With The Girls, she gave me that hiccupy-purr laugh of hers and proceeded to point out that every single item I had on was bland, boring, "urban-noho," yuppie and "just very Plain Jayne." I thought black and grey was a practical mixture, an easy switch from day-to-night as the insidious glam mags dictate to those as fashion-challenged as myself. We're to go shopping tomorrow morning -- a coveted female ritual I absolutely abhor due to the dye allergens, piped-in R&B Muzak, obnoxious sale mavens, and...the worst...the incessantly pushy saleswomen on commission.

We shall see. I still don't see what's wrong with what I've got on now though!

Current Mood:

determined

I have had to gather every single bag of waste I foolishly put by the creek and place it in the appropriate trash containers so thoughtfully left by the side of my house by Findley (note, blog, he did not make me aware of this the day I decided to rent the house). Then, before garbage day, I apparently have to roll out the containers and place them By. The. Street. NOT By The Creek. By. The. Street. I have taped the health inspector's inane gobbledegook writ on Mr. Findley's door, so that it's understood that the waste is no longer my problem, as it shouldn't have been to begin with.

Boxer was out watering his lawn while I was correcting Findley's mistake. B. saw me lugging the bags from the creek, and, like the ungentlemanly cad he's often appeared to be towards me, laughed at me rather than offered a hand.

(I know, blog, I know! I just don't want to expose The Strength during such an inappropriate time...plus, Boxer would, undoubtedly, call 20/20 and Jayne Dough would be no more)

Oh, Boxer, yes. Boxer is my piggy next door neighbor. He's probably around 40 or so, as his balloon of a beer gut and greying scruff give his relative age away. I don't know his actual name, nor do I care to. I call him Boxer because of his choice in undergarment -- that he wears without anything else in public. I think he has family living with him as well, but I'm not sure. I've heard Boxer yelling at someone or something in that dreadful, raspy voice of his. I never hear any sort of response, so I think he might be as mad as Findley. Maybe even psychotic.

In which case, I think it's a Good Idea to keep my eye out on him whenever I see him.

It took everything in me to keep from "beating the shit out of" Boxer for his lack of chivalry (that's a Marcie Jacobs Hill Hyphen aphorism, by the way), but I know it would be a waste of my powers, and, again, I must be absolutely careful. Besides, there are prying eyes in this neighborhood.

At least the waste issue has been dealt with. Now...one of these days...when Findley has learned the English, gotten some teeth, repaired the damage to his tiny brain.... I have to get Findley to repair my flushhandle.

Current Location:	home and without a flush
Current Mood:	annoyed

Sutterman just passed by and peeked in at my cubicle. "Nice rack, Jay, " he said.

I didn't realize just how right he is, for once. I've placed my entire reference collection (dictionaries, manuals of style, computer manuals, etc) on it, and it's holding nicely....not like the last one I had, the flimsy thing.

Current Mood:

happy