We probably should’ve sung it backwards, just to fully confirm that we’re going to hell.

During a moment of downtime on the last day of GLUE, I found myself in the host hotel’s hospitality suite, lounging about with Ben, Dirk Caber (who’d agreed to be our emcee this year), and Taliesin Wolf (who’d come down to judge the Mr. Third Coast Leather contest). I’m not sure exactly how we got on the subject, but as we were chatting, somebody mentioned Anglicanism, and after comparing notes, we discovered that Dirk, Talie and I had all been raised in the Episcopal Church.

Thing is, when cradle Episcopalians get together, no matter what their current religious convictions or career paths happen to be, they immediately start debating the merits of the Rite 1 vs. Rite 2 Eucharists. We were embroiled in the traditional discourse before we knew it, with Dirk pointing out that in addition to its old-timey language, Rite 1 includes more music. To exemplify, he began singing: Specifically, he began singing the Lord’s Prayer.

Dirk: [in a lovely baritone] “OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN, HALLOWED BE THY NAME…”

Me: [suddenly remembering the melody] “THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE…”

Dirk and I stopped for a second and looked at Taliesin.

Talie: [a tenor] “ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN.”


Ben: “…”


Ben: “





Me, Dirk and Talie: “AMENNNN.”

Ben: “I… I don’t understand why this is happening to me…”

And that’s the story of how a couple of adult entertainers and I broke my Jewish boyfriend with Gregorian plainchant. Der Suf.

PS: We went to a karaoke bar later that evening, where Ben obliterated the rest of us with his choreographed renditions of “Poor Unfortunate Souls” and “I’m Still Here.”

One two kick turn, heel toe kick turn.

He is a keeper. And one of the Chosen. Win/win.


[A gay guy and a straight girl are hovering in the doorway of the shop.]

Gay Guy: “Do you sell shoes?”

Me: “No.”

Gay Guy: “Oh. Okay.”

Straight Girl: “What about flip-flops? Do you sell flip-flops?”

Me: “No.”

Straight Girl: “You sell socks, though.”

Me: “Yes.”

Straight Girl: “But you don’t sell shoes?”

Me: “No.”

Straight Girl: [accusingly]But you sell socks.

Gay Guy: [to her] “God, you’re stupid.” [then, to me] “She’s stupid. I’m sorry. We’re leaving.”

You know, other than his use of the word “stupid,” there really wasn’t anything to apologize for. Although if someone comes in all, “Oh, you sell video head cleaners but not VCRs?” I will burn this whole place to the ground.

If the mousse tastes chalky, don’t eat it.

Me: [to my dad] “I promise I was joking when I did it, but I posted on Facebook about how your new condo reminds me of Rosemary’s Baby.”

[Ed. Note: The post in question was, “My dad is definitely about to move into the Houston equivalent of the ritzy apartment building in Rosemary’s Baby. The neighbors seem nice, though.”]

My Dad: “Ha ha! That’s really funny, because Mia Farrow used to live here.”

Me: “…”

I’m not sure what to get him as a housewarming gift, but I’m on my way to the Catholic bookstore as we speak.

Uncut and Paste

I was officially in charge of GLUE Weekend this year, and against all odds, I didn’t die or murder anyone! I’m calling it a victory. And even though I spent three days battling anxiety attacks while managing crises and bossing the Misfits around, I still found time (like I do every year) to record the bizarre and amusing statements I overheard throughout the event. Thus, I am proud to present a carefully curated list of…


“I’m not a Muppet. You’re a Muppet, you Muppet.”

“We got the Leaning Tower of Depression back to his room.”

“Wait… what’s my boyfriend’s name?”


“We put the devil back in vaudeville.”

“God you’re hot when you’re apathetic.”

“Suck my gray nutrient paste, daddy.”

“You look like death coming to claim souls.” “Then it’s working.”

“I’m already a slut. Don’t get me drunk.”

“I’ll give you my sandwich for your dick.”

“They should rename I-69 We-69.”

“If you can’t get the straw into the Capri Sun, then you’re not as vers as you think you are.”

“I heard ‘zoo,’ and then I heard ‘gaping anus.’ What are we talking about?”

“Because fashion, Brenda. Look it up.”

“There are a lot of choices going on here, and I’m not sure they’re the right ones.”

“Now that no one’s squirting water in their butt in our bathroom, I’m going to go pee.”

“Get in, loser. We’re going whoring.”

“Am I molesting the right leg back there?”

“I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire of some angry, resentful cum war.”

“I’m like your first black friend, aren’t I?”

“That stopped being sexy the moment it started.”

“If that cake could talk, it would be like, ‘Of course I’m cake, human.'”

“Have fun storming the asshole.”

Saccharine Boy

Customer 1: “Let’s go get a drink. I’ll buy.”

Customer 2: “Oh, so you’re my sugar daddy now?”

Customer 1: “Um, no.”

Customer 2: “Yeah, I guess you’re too young to be a sugar daddy. What do you want me to call you instead of sugar daddy?”

Customer 1: I… hadn’t really thought about it.”

Customer 2: [to me] “He’s younger than you are, but he has money. What does that make him?”

Me: “Successful?”

[awkward silence]

In the defense of everyone involved, it’s quite possible that Customer 1 is actually much older than I am and just has a better skincare regimen. Besides, success is subjective. It’s like Alaska says in that Adore Delano song: I’m “cash poor but spirit wealthy.”

But if you happen to be a sugar daddy in the market for a new pet, let me just point out that I’m also incredibly immature for my age and don’t shed. Plus my credit debt is well below the national average. I’m really quite a steal. References and writing samples available upon request.

Becoming Undazzled

First, some quick updates:

I’m still alive (always a good start);

I still work at the Forge;

I still have a day job;

I’m still on the radio once a month;

Ben and I are still happily together;

… and I am still neurodiverse, which is a big part of why nobody’s heard from ol’ Marjorie in awhile.

The depression hit at some point over the summer. I don’t think any particular thing set it off, other than unfortunate brain chemistry, but regardless, it led to an extended, oppressive fog in which I could really only focus on basics: Show up for work on time(ish), keep up with chores just enough to prevent my apartment from officially qualifying as squalor, etc. Compounding the depression, though, were some unexpected financial setbacks, a minor medical crisis, and assorted car troubles (including two more highly unnecessary break-ins), all of which contributed to the general feelings of malaise and despondency.

There’s an old X-Men comic in which everyone on the team has to choose between continuing the mission (stealing a big, magic crystal, if I remember correctly) or achieving their heart’s desire. However, when faced with this decision, the X-Man Dazzler is offered three different desires from which to pick: She could become a world-famous rock star, a high-powered attorney, or a bag lady. Here’s how it played out:


As a kid, this had a profound effect on me: Whenever I was struggling with something, or feeling overwhelmed, I’d be like, “Well, do you want to be a rock star or a bag lady?” And I’d push through. But for the past several months, as debts piled up and waking life got more difficult to navigate, “bag lady” started seeming more and more like a viable career option.

And old friend of mine used to say that it was hard to be a writer when the act of writing triggered her depression. I totally get that, but for me, the opposite is true: Writing puts me in a good mood, and I get my best writing done when things are going well — in that state, the act of writing enhances the happiness. It’s when my depression is in full effect that I can’t write, especially when I’ve used up all my spoons on Sisyphean efforts like getting out of bed or remembering to eat. And that makes me feel like a failure, which in turn makes me want to move into a cardboard box under an overpass with the other homeless mutants.

The blog languished during this period, and while I made occasional notes for potential posts, I spent more time at the Forge growling at customers instead of jotting down the hilarious things they said. I kept meaning to post… I don’t know, anything, even just a brief “not dead, just sad,” but even that seemed like an onus. And besides, it wasn’t like anyone actually cared what I wrote anyway, right?

And then, one fine day, Tank texted me to let me know that a woman name Bridgett had messaged the store, because I hadn’t posted anything for awhile, and she wanted to make sure I was okay. I mentioned this Nuke a few days later, and he was like, “Yeah, we’ve been getting phone calls from people, too. Apparently, you have fans.”

I strongly maintain that it’s okay not to realize one’s blog has a cult following, but that said… guys, I sincerely apologize for making anyone worry. The depression is still lingering around, but I can finally see the light at the end of the rabbit hole, and as such, I am going to do my best to get back to posting regularly and keeping you all entertained with the weird shit that never seems to happen to anyone but me.

And hey, Bridgett? Thank you for checking in. Even if it took awhile to set the bag lady costume aside, I appreciate being made aware that I was wearing it in the first place. This time around, I’m going to be a rock star, and I’m dedicating my first album to you.

ETA: I forgot to mention in the updates that I started wearing glasses. That’s neither here nor there and has nothing to do with depression or blogging, but still, I think they suit me.


Cock Block of the Walk

[Two customers enter the store with mischievous glints in their eyes.]


Me: “Are you, now?”

Customer 1: “Nothing says we can’t have sex in here!”

Me: “Just me.”

Customer 1: “But the sign outside doesn’t mention the Forge…”

[Ed. Note: There’s a laminated sign by the front door of Ripcord that says, “No sex in the bar area, bathrooms, or on the patio. If caught, you will be asked to leave, period.”]


Me: [leaning over the counter and beaming like a bear trap] “You are welcome to try.”

Customer 1: “…”

Customer 2: [meekly] “I promise we’re not going to have sex in here.”

Time to make more signs for the register, I guess. I hope management is sympathetic when we run out of Post-its.