i just want to conquer people and their souls

If you read this blog on the regular, you will know already that I'm pretty finnicky. I'm like an old farmhouse cat perched on a windowsill, swiping angrily at people's nether regions as they try to take a quiet whizz in an outhouse bathroom (What?! This may, or may not, have happened to me recently). But every once in while, once in a blue moon, someone comes along and does something that makes you believe that they really care. Something that touches the deepest regions of your cold, dead heart. This happened to me today, readers.  My wonderful coworker got me a gift because, in her words, "When I saw it, it just spoke of you. It was made for you and expresses your essence to the world." Well, she was right. Behold, my essence in a button:

I just got bangs. I think I look like Brenda Walsh: * Yowser! But the Manimal keeps calling me "Crom".  Some googling alerted me to the fact that this may not be some cute nickname but rather an allusion to the fact that I look like an extra from Conan the Barbarian: Well, I am not in the Cult of Doom, is that clear?! If anything I am one step closer to being Dylan McKay's obsession! Take that, Manimal!

Note: If you're new to this particular feature (ie. my friend Big D and I's project to make a reverse bucket list of all of my past occupations so he can reverse-replicate my life) I suggest you catch up  here ,   here ,  and   here . Oh, and  here . Midtown Deli * This is the actual deli where I worked. Yikes! After my failed dalliance in the arts, I went back to my roots: food service. I saw an ad in the paper for someone who "speaks English and has flexible hours" or something to that effect. Since I could manage both of those things, I took a chance and went to the address on 46th Street. It turned out that it was an interview to work at a fast-paced deli. For those of you not in the know, no-one eats real lunches in New York City during the week. Most people just sprint into a cavernous deli where they either pick out some pre-made panninis with names very loosely linked to their fillings (like the Wild West Santa Fe Peyote Fiesta Chicken Salad or the Lad...

Note: If you're new to this particular feature (ie. my friend Big D and I's project to make a reverse bucket list of all of my past occupations so he can reverse-replicate my life) I suggest you catch up  here ,   here , and   here . I had begun the hunt for my first under the table job. Pre 9-11 , New York wasn't the judgey, "everything's above board, nothing to see here, move along" place it is now. Today, I feel bad for the up 'n coming illegals who have to battle with the Internet and databases which will bust them in an instant. I still had the ability to walk into various shady operations and try out my luck. Aside from being illegal, I had the added disadvantage of having approximately no skills (unless you count my fruit picking prowess or my mini donut frying talents). As you can imagine, this limited the job pool quite substantially. Artist's Model The first job I found involved nudity, pain and a Capuchin monkey. The Manimal has many hi...

Note: If you're new to this particular feature (ie. my friend Big D and I's project to make a reverse bucket list of all of my past occupations so he can reverse-replicate my life) I suggest you catch up  here  and  here  . So, I had absconded from Dunedin and its itinerant work and, after a brief sojourn in the Orient where my father was living, I decided to move on. But to where? I had had enough of 18 year-old solo travel and my gap year was coming to a quick end. Anyone who has read this blog more than one time will know the obvious and logical answer to this question. Has there ever been born anyone with a more hearty love of the U!S!A! than me, Veronica Montebellucci? No, no there is not. Who secretly, and creepily, had decided that Astoria, Oregon was their personal Arcadia at age 10 and then later made a pilgrimage there nigh on 20 years later to circle the Goonies house seven times? Whose number one best memory is eating Space Dogs at the whimsically nam...

It is a sad day here at ijustwanttoconquerpeopleandtheirsouls. Roberts Blossom gentleman, poet and all around BAMF  died   yesterday. Sadness. Those regular readers will recall my  heartfelt ode  to the Salt Man, and my general hero worship of the man who taught Kevin Mcallister (and us , dammit) about the power of forgiveness and demonstrated,  with a well-wielded snow shovel, the importance of vigilante justice. Rest in peace, good sir. I hope the pavements of heaven are salted with diamonds.

In my last post I waxed amorous about the King of all seasons: Summer. Things I enjoy about summer include (but are not limited to): - fireflies - reveling in becoming mahogany rather than sullenly accepting my usual skin tone - ending my work at the human processing factory for 67 glorious days that leads into... - my annual self-dubbed "Summer of Me" which essentially consists of me pretending I am Dickie Greenleaf from The Talented Mr. Ripley : * Now there's a man who knows how to mahoganize One thing I do not enjoy about summer is stinky pits. Which brings me to the latest in my seemingly neverending list of embarrassing life moments.  Recently, I made a pilgrimage "out west" (like Sal Paradise, or actually more like an unchaperoned Lennie) to Portland, Oregon. While in Rip City, I began to change and morph into a different, gentler Ronnie. Maybe it was the quinoa flakes I was eating for breakfast, or perhaps the hemp milk I was forced to douse the...