I work in downtown Phoenix. Which is bustling during the day, but if there's no sporting event going on at night, it's a scary nasty place to be.

There's a park bench right outside my office window. Most of the time it's occupied by smokers on their breaks. Sometimes a homeless fella is taking a nap on the bench, sometimes a couple of homeless fellers are engaged in deep conversation. Every once in a while there's a hooker getting harassed by the cops. One in particular, I'll call her Greta, always stands out. She's at least 6-feet tall, quite skinny (aren't they all?), with dirty raggedy short blond hair (almost Twiggyish and stylish), and somehow looks like she's Eastern European. I don't know how I know, but I feel I'm right. And she never seems pissed off by the cops. While I can't hear the verbal exchange, they seem familiar with each other. She smiles and shakes her head as if she expects the harassment. Who knows, maybe she's saying Curly Poodle Eat Cantaloupe And Spread Your One Webbed Foot, but it looks conversational from my vantage point. I like her. I feel bad when she gets busted.

There's also this tall black dude who wanders around the block sometimes, and he's always wearing a Darth Vader helmet. I wonder if it's blocking out the magnetic waves well enough.

Ooooh right now Yaya's Lookalike is sitting on the bench with her rendezvous! YL looks like my old man's ex mother-in-law. This comparison to the baglady isn't meant to be bitchy, because Yaya is a very cool grandma. And how do I know that Yaya is so cool? Because I have stayed at her HOME in Oregon before. I have slept with her daughter's ex-husband, in the same bed, under her roof. The mother of my fiance's batty ex-wife. Yup. My life is strange.

So YL looks like Yaya, she's pudgy and wears baggy capris and flip flops (kinda like Yaya) and she wears her hair in long braids, lika Yaya. I've had the chance to notice this repeatedly because she appears on the bench once a week or so. Yaya's Lookalike sits alone for a few minutes and looks around. Then a rattier skinny lady in a baseball cap and shades appears and they talk for a long time. Sometimes the skinny lady looks like she's crying. YL gives her an envelope. I think they're pals. Sarah, my cube neighbor, thinks it's a drug deal.

We are a downton full of menacing taggers, too.

And because you're dying for a Mojo update:

I thought I'd tell you that I am spending way too much damn money on toilet paper these days. Chris is being a bigger baby about the frayed rolls Mojo attempts to destroy, and he's throwing them away when I'm not home. He doesn't even have a hoohoo to get all the TP bits stuck in, what's HE bitching about?

Oh, wait. I've been hearing the toilet seat slam down a lot lately. He's sitting. HA. Okay, so perhaps TP in the bunghole is no fun either.

ANWAY, so I've been forced to buy oodles of toilet paper, like every other day. I came home last night with a new 12-pack. BRING IT ON, Mojo, you fucker.

I took several rolls and put them under our bathroom sink, and protected them by surrounding the TP with a fort of shampoo bottles and detergents and a stack of towels. There. The rest were going to go downstairs in the boys' bathroom. In the meantime I hung the Walgreen's bag on the doorknob, and left for work. Perhaps Chris would take a momentary break from his 8 hours of playing Fight Night 3 on his Homewrecking Bitch (the Xbox 360, that whore), and put them away. A slim chance, but I like to hope.

So.

Chris just called to tell me that he hates Mojo and that he wants to throw him away (he doesn't, Mojo is his bitch and he kisses him when I'm not looking). WHY? I ask. Mojo just ate a whole bag of toilet paper, he tells me.

WHAT? How?

Apparently the little bastard somehow knocked the bag off the doorknob and picked the rolls out. Or he ate through the hanging bag and grabbed the rolls. I don't know. Because Chris was still sitting on the fucking couch and couldn't really see. (I could hear the Xbox control, and his voice had that distant I'm-watching-Clint/Rambo/McQueen/Porn-but-pretending-to-listen-to-you, honey voice).

There were just a chewed-up roll suddenly laying at his feet to alert him.

And I'm reading A New Guide to Rational Living By Ph. D. Albert Ellis right now. RATIONAL is my middle fucking name. Yeah.

You fucking Psych majors will recognize him, apparently. He's also written other books with such remarkably restrained titles as:
How to Make Yourself Happy and Remarkably Less Disturbable and
How to Stubbornly Refuse to Make Yourself Miserable About Anything--Yes, Anything. Hahaha

Hmm. I don't know if it's working.