Caterwauling

You never know what’s going to happen when actors/actresses suddenly decide they want to, like, make a record or something. Given that their acting talents are usually nothing about which to brag, you wouldn’t mind for them to find another career, preferably one that doesn’t include them speaking or, for that matter, continuing to breathe. But some of them go into a record studio and actually turn out something quite good.

Brittany Murphy is the featured singer on Paul Oakenfold’s “Faster Kill Pussycat.” I have four remixes of it (I’m not sure which one I love most, but that’s not a bad problem to have). I was pleasantly surprised, but even if she didn’t do well, it’s hard to fuck up an Oakenfold song. Anyway, here’s the Club Mix:

[audio:FasterKillPussycat.mp3]

And shock of all shocks, Paris Hilton’s single doesn’t suck. That’s about the nicest compliment you can pay her, sadly. I heard this on the radio the other day and couldn’t get the melody out of my head. Although you don’t have to think too hard to wonder what she’s referring to when she says, “I’ll show you mine.” Heh. Here’s “Stars are Blind”:

[audio:StarsAreBlind.mp3]

First I’m going to burn down their building. Then I’m going to light myself on fire. But even before all that, I want what I paid for.

OK, five times they’ve shipped my order to the wrong place because they didn’t use all the information I gave them. This week? They lost the whole damned order. But they sure as hell didn’t forget to CHARGE me for it.

This is a product I run out of and need to replenish regularly. And god damn, do I spend the money on it. I’ve tried every available substitute and from places with better customer service (from which I just ordered one of the sub-par items for the low, low additional cost (ha) of next-day air shipping), but the stupid company’s product is better. Fuckers, talking me on the phone like I’m the crazy one when I tick off now SIX instances in which they have fucked me over. HATE.

What I also hate? My cat threw up all over my bedroom carpet AND living room carpet. Not just kitty chunks, mind you. Split-pea soup, acrid, pure liquid, bad-ass dark brown puddles. So now that I’ve been scrubbing the hell out of my carpets, I ran into the kitchen to dispose of the cat vomit-infused sponge. And guess whose wet feet slid and knocked their owner straight into a row of cabinets?

I need to go back to bed. I so very much miss the days when I could call off work and not have to stress out so much over formulating a game plan that it’s not even worth doing. Forget Amazon wishlist donations — can’t anyone just throw a girl a Valium dispenser?