I hate the rich. Really this time.

I know that Warren Buffet is giving 85 billion dollars to Bill Gates, and that's great. On the other hand, I went out to California to put up with the ridiculous drama of the Movie Star Mansion Swap and those motherfuckers have still not paid me. Where is my money? "In the mail." And where is my foot? In one of your 3 black gas guzzling SUVs. Because my foot is in your ass. And your asses are in your stupid cars.

The adventure itself blew, and nothing has really looked up since then, but this is the final indignity. She has easily spent $600 on supplies for cleaning her new mansion, or filling up the car tanks, but cannot pay the person they claim to have hired because they know of my precarious financial state. Honestly I am boiling with anger. My eyes are baking in my head.

Had I come home to an empty mailbox on, say, a day when I had been made sweet love to, or had looked really awesome, or read a good book and/or had a great session with a kid, maybe I wouldn't be fantasizing about exploding breast implants or stock market collapses. But today a particularly scary and sad client robbed me, and I severed all contact with my mother, and I wore cute shoes that got all stinky. The raw fact of these people's self centered idiocy was just right there. Do I have to fucking cry every fucking month about my bills? I put up with that indignity for the cash. No cash. No regard. No thoughts for others.

I should be more understanding--after all, they are moving, which is like brain surgery if you are stupid with nothing else to do all day. Sure, they are obscenely wealthy and manage to hire anyone that walks within two feet of them, but that is their generous, giving nature.

Grrr. I just ate my computer. I just torched their Escalade (with the heated steering wheel!) and drove it through their garage stuffed with what cannot fit in a mansion. It felt good.

The Center for Egg Options, LLC, called with some follow up questions after receiving my application.

"How much did you weigh before your gastric bypass?"

I told them. I was put on hold.

"Yes? Thank you for holding. I just spoke to our medical department, and...
because of your family's history of obesity and alcoholism, we will not be needing your eggs."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Since she asked again, I thought: she wants to know if I am okay with this. And so I said--

"Actually, I don't want to put a child in a family that can't handle the fact that their kid may someday have problems."

"Um, okay."

Anyway, the kind of people that buy eggs breed for perfection and mediocrity are not the kind of people that can handle a Renegade Jr.

Hurray for Kellywood!

Our fancy BBQ attracted a crowd Paris Hilton would kill for: cute kids, drunk social workers, and returned Peace Corps volunteers. Even Voice of Distinction Barry Howard showed up to man the grill that I had recently rehabbed from the basement.

These here are official Hollywood kids. You can tell because the 5 year old is dressed like a biker. Not even an actual biker would put their kid in a leather vest--they put their kids in sensible cotton separates from Target. More advice for you, Movie Star: my solidly Midwestern Sister is the only thing standing between your kids, their Rod Stewart hair, and drug rehab.

Yes, that is Nanny Deb of the Fox Television hit "Nanny 911." My co-worker finally got up the courage to ask for a picture with her. All she had to do was whore out foster kids: "Hey, Nanny Deb, I use your advice with my [poor, needy, television worthy] foster families all the time!" Lies, by the way, as I have yet to see the "Nanny 911" episode filmed in Englewood featuring a beleaguered and impoverished Black foster mother and the abused children that steal her stuff or poop in her freezer.

The real star of the show, as always, is Luso, the Cutest Baby in the World. She deserves her own blog, no? Baby Mama, are you listening? Everyone else is doing it.

And then the party was over, the yard was trashed, and the salmon burgers revealed themselves to be an impulsive and dangerous mistake. Such is life, my friends, as St. Renegade retreats from the glare bouncing off her sister which is refracted from her boss. Life without the concave mirror of constant Sisterhood, the pressure of protecting someone who doesn't need it and actually thinks they are protecting you. Also, I have no cable TV, and am forced to read books and learn. Ugh.

You wanna come over on Saturday? I am throwing a Hollywood Jackass BBQ. My sister has been purchased by a Movie Star and will be shipped to LA soon, so I thought, hey, let's have a goodbye party that insults her dreams. Sister pays for everything, naturally. Because she is reaching for the stars and I am drowning in the gutter.

Right now this doesn't feel great, a Sisterless Chicago. There is a perky blonde flight attendant setting up candles in my sister's room. Television watching is again shameful, and who wants to anyway, without cable, or a Sister to laugh at my jokes? I went to a party this weekend, no Sister to stop the endless river of beer to my belly, and nearly died of alcohol poisoning. I am feeling acutely and pathetically lonely and she only moved out this morning.

With no one to ask about my outfits, and no one to lay around with, I fear I will become calcified and hard. St. Renegade as Eleanor Rigby, with cats I pretend are boyfriends, and hobbies I pretend are friends. I will most likely drink myself to death.

If I could only remember how I survived during the fifteen years I did not live with my sister, then maybe, maybe I can make it. What comforts me during this icky, bleaky, needy time is that when Sister eventually leaves the Movie Star--and don't kid yourself, fancy, she will leave you--Movie Star will be unable to dress herself, make a decision, watch inane TV, or recapture her sense of personal agency. Take that, Sister-Purchaser!

So, anyway, come over on Saturday, five-ish. Bring some of those brats with cheese bits inside that Sister loves so much. Soon she will have nothing to eat but edamame, and will cry that she ever left us.