I’m more pissed off than a liberal watching Fox. Believe it or not, I’ve been fired. Yeah, fired—me! What an insult.

It wasn’t the commune, if you’ve been wondering. I’m still employed here, though I’m commuting back and forth between the coasts and will probably try to spend less time around the office. People give you funny looks here and always bum money off you. And I’m starting to feel a little sorry for all the foreigners they hire to be inanimate objects, but I guess it’s better than not having a job at all. Which reminds me—I’ve been fired!

I lost the job as Metallichick to that infernal usurper, Jayme Kristofson. The same chick who’s suing me for libel. You’d think she’d at least have the decency to drop the lawsuit, but I haven’t heard word yet. Although come to think of it, filling the mailbox with concrete may have actually worked at staving off the lawsuits and bill collectors. But either way, I don’t suppose I’ll be worried about the mail. I have to job hunt. Did I mention I got fired?

I had a shoot for the comic book and the new graphic novel (that’s like double-time work) right after 2004 started and, of course, was still celebrating New Year’s when I was supposed to be there. Or sleeping off celebrating New Year’s. I told them ahead of time I take a little time to unwind after the year changes over, so they really shouldn’t have scheduled anything on the 5th. So I woke up around 10 a.m. or so, the 8th, and realized I had totally missed the thing. I called Nat and he was pretty pissed off. He said he hated to do it, but he had to let me go. Of course, I didn’t believe him. He was laughing too hard to sound like he hated it.

It wasn’t losing the money that bothered me so much. I can supplement my income making meth at home to cover the bills until then, same as when I only made money working for the commune—or I suppose I should say “money,” like “in theory, it’s money.” I’m not sure, but Red Bagel assures us it’s better than money in Costa Rica, and good at any Footlocker outside the continental United States. But I have more than enough shoes. I suppose what I really have to worry about is the rent and shit. Since I got fired—I got fired, by the way.

Money is money, though, and I can afford a break from work. Like I did before, from 1989-1997. It’s the all that prestige I lost—shitloads. Being Metallichick to all those pockmarked, glasses-wearing comic book nerds was the closest thing to real fame I had since they cancelled Who’s Your Daddy?. All those geeks, endless streams of them, asking me where I carried my broadsword when they didn’t see it drawn there, all those lame and pointless questions, it reminded me of being a young TV star and all the times those reporters asked me what I said when people offered me drugs.

Down again, I suppose. I spent so much time doing personal appearances at comic books and additional cover shoots and collectors’ cards and all that bullshit I basically pissed away my independent film career. But if anybody’s used to going from the peak of fame to the pit of existence—like the commune—it’s Clarissa Coleman. So I take the rotted turnip from the earth like Scarlett O’Hara in that movie and shriek out with contempt, “As God as my witness, I’m going to be real fuckin’ famous again.” I mean, like J-Lo famous, only without everybody hating me.