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I was on the road for two months circumnavigating North Amerika and doing book readings every night and spending the royalty money on junk food, alcohol, and lingerie.

My book tour partner was this tall blonde hot famous writer lady. Three hours before my departure, we sat around in really tiny see-through lingerie, eating cheese and sunflower seed pierogis in creamed cheese cream pork bacon fat gravy with 40 Creek. Goddess, Oracle, we have done the metrics! Both of you have really read the whole country. Now it is time to begin preparations for the vanguard.

Our eyes lingered on each other quizzically. We kept eye contact through the first four thousand feet of my airplane pulling out the station. My once swank boho betchlorette pad looks like a storage locker that has been looted. I keep her doing network maintenance for hours and then try to bribe her not to leave with six milk crates of old art supplies.

Please, I need to be a co-pilot in a car sooo bad!! Just for an hour? As burlesque dancers jog in and out the narrow infinity mirrored dressing room, I ask Jenny where the hell our Queen Dexxxidrina is: I look at my phone, and there are two texts.

One is from one of my gallerists, SuperWonderGallery , telling me they have plans to lease a sixty-room sex hotel as a gallery. I drag the stuff under the ballet bar downstairs and throw it in the Saturday afternoon trash. I call up a certain old boyfriend of mine. I pout and slip through the sweaty leather rubber and flesh onto the dance floor, watching only now and then a bit over my shoulder as K1K1 is held down and pushed around all crooked and spanked, and I think they made her blow someone.

I guess I like to fetishize, and to a certain extent, I exotify jealousy for sexual reasons. So watching K1K1 getting spanked and force fed sex in stirrups across the bar makes me stick my tongue in this nice toned boy in a rubber army suit and watching K1K1 wince while her boyfriend is whipping her makes me kiss that boy harder, and watching other people molest K1K1 across the room makes me ditch the rubber army really hot into me boy and go propose to K1K1 that we all kiki at my place.

Unfortunately, K1K1 insists on bringing her boyfriend and girlfriend along. Things were so much simpler when I was on tour. I give them champagne glasses filled with whisky and a pipe made from an emu bone full of Jamaica hash, and that keeps them busy long enuff for me to steal the new K1 or K2?

I tell her that SuperWonderGallery is waiting to announce the secret that the gallery is moving in to a sixty-room sex hotel that had to close with the new court morality rulings.

I say I know full well that she just sits around enveloped in her computer pod snarking on reddit surgery discussion boards while seeing how intricate she can do her nails. Not tonight, but just come try them on right now for one sec.

She hisses a command for her pet boy and girl to run outside and summon the limo. I stop her at the top of the slowly curving big art deco staircase. I grab her by one shoulder and slide her sideways and push her front first into the front door of apartment one, pushing her face over the peephole, positioning her with my right hand wrapped right around her upper arm, planting my feet on either side of door.

It sets a really weird work environment. Wires and insulation and pipes and shit? She flicks my neck with her claws and leaves a mark and takes long steps down the stone staircase.

K1 pauses with half her body already around the corner at the bottom of the stairs. I decide that all I need to show Topside Press to persuade them to make the sequel to Time Bomb is a seventeen-page outline and character sheets.

Attached to the outline for Sterile Amerika I write is my pitch in one short email. Tom phones me back in less than two minutes. You like Blondes, right? What you think of inviting Miss Czazik from Motor City who you met on the tour? But when me and Plett were vanguarding; we had to keep our minds aligned to focus our powers and blast people when we read in their town. Show up and take every single award, and our power and success will be burned into the cores of their minds.

Even if their next act is to try to get rid of us. While Tom is getting me to help delude his grandeur, a text pops up from Christian Wonder, the head chief of SuperWonderGallery. SuperWonderGallery only has sixty artists. I get off the phone. I even went to the grocery store in my leather underwear with just my chupacabra fur coat on top and got beef ribs on a cheese croissant.

Two teenage girls sitting next to me shot me dirty looks the whole time I ate it. At midnight, I have my boyfriend Stubb over.

East Indian, skinny as a skeleton, mostly wants to just kiss for four hours while wearing my panties. We develop a new understanding that donating an extra C to the House of Lamb art studio fund helps me relax and last until 6am. Otherwise, I automatically go limp at 4am and just lie there purring until more is inserted. As it turns out, the leather cargo net boobie harness makes Stubb blow in only two hours of making out.

He still gives me the extra C. Ten times as many baby girls vying for the same top ten feature girl bits. And ten times more likely to get pushed down a narrow flight of stairs. Though I think her main beef is that in the book Chicklette is just a kook hanging out in a hoarder nest playing videogames all the time, whereas IRL Chicklette makes pretty good money playing videogames professionally as a sound dev consult and fronts a seven-member performance collective creating Chinese Japanese Iroquois Mohawk rock operas.

I say, I know, I concur: This sounds preposterous, but all my House of Lamb girls are actually redheads. And remember that time I had a really awkward crush on that Blonde Nigerian Dancer but she thought I was a druggie creep?

Chicklette tells me to shut up. I remind Chicklette that I love her and need her. Chicklette scolds me for my brazen pomposity in choosing such excessive parts. Me and Lofty go out to smoke on the sidewalk and laugh at the snow getting rained on.

I rumple around under my black zebra skin geese down-filled comforter. My phone, which I sleep with but never answer in my sleep, has been going off for two minnits. I have to memorize my prattle and sleep on my back with my head between pillows and try not to ruin my makeup. So I answer it. Me and her have hung out a bunch; she likes smashing things I build in Lego. I ask my sister what they want for Xmas. I marvel at how the enormous five-year-old has already taught the doorknob-high two-year-old how to rip off all her clothes and just run back and forth until infinity.

The one-year-old is thrashing and squealing in her chair, dreaming of her turn in another year when her motor skills are more developed. Over eleven more of our cousins, uncles and aunts are also adoptions. Lamb tried to hide his half gypsy roots, or alternatively falsely claimed half gypsy roots to gain credibility for the child re-education family experiment he was doing. Certainly, all women who married into the Lambs went sterile shortly after.

The more I know, the less it makes sense: After his death, women in the Lambs suddenly started becoming fertile again, and my sister had three daughters as fast as she could stand to make them. We made thousands of dollars. But Plett and me spent all of it trying to make being a writer look like the most fantastic life ever possible ever. It was art consultation. Then, she tells me: I found her on Facebook right after I got the adoption disclosure release of birth info.

So I messaged her and we met for coffee. Seventeen and works packing fish? Do I got any hot half-siblings?

Crazy gets passed easiest of the paternal side. Help me do this when I come visit you at Xmas! You already did this, so I need your guidance.

Then, the buzzer on my downstairs starts buzzing. Andrew is my boyfriend from, like, and a chubby hairy trans dude hustler boy. Me and Andrew foolishly live in the village, and we own that every day while we do our groceries among twinks crashing on tina and molly. Andrew brings them home four times as often as I do.

We watch both the Pride parade and Blockorama from his giant tar beach patio. We both meet up there if we have to run away from fights we accidentally got into or whateverz. I also need the experience and perspective of our closest natural sibling, the trans guy gay hustler. Andrew insists we continue this discussion a block away as we take Charles on an outing to the Allan Gardens Arborariaum Cactus Museum.

Me and Andrew let tourists take our picture as we pose in our fur coats in front of the turtle pond next to a tropical cactus. We speed-walk the fourth, fifth and secret sixth floors of the contemporary art collection. I am excited about the temperamental barometric contortionist and the thirty-foot long pile of fur and broken mirrors. Andrew collapses on a couch mentioning something about chronic pain. Andrew puts away, like, three plates before we stumble back around the block.

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