Miss Spoken's State of (Her) Union Address

It's been an entire thirty seven years since I became President of my own Union. I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, Hey fuck-nut, aren't we all President of our own Unions? and to that I would declare a resounding Ummm, no.

Some people take years to become President of their own Union. You know who I'm talking about. They start their laxidasical lives as babies waiting for their mother's milk to come in instead of just nuzzling up to the lactating cat (lazy fucking newborns). These were the Junior High girls that took an F in gym class instead of paying me to forge a note in my perfectly adult-worthy longhand:

Dear Mr. Dempsey,

Please excuse my daughter, Mindy May, from P.E. class today (Monday, October 3, 1985) for she is suffering from significant cramping due to her menstrual cycle.

Thank you for your discretion and understanding,

Mrs. May

It pays to be in Honors English. At $1 a note, multiplied by a school full of bleeding girls, my self-enterprising ass could afford the new Tears For Fears album. Fuck chores, fuck allowance (Shout, shout, let it all out). I'm President of my Union and in charge of all financial matters.

Even in High School, I declared my living conditions uninhabitable and moved out. Sure I floated from friend's couch to friend's floor and maybe a night or two on the beach but, dammit, a President has to sometimes mingle amongst the homeless common folk. I also spent a couple of weeks at a Korean friend's house, surviving on Kimchi and cold rice (height: 5'10, est. weight: 12 lbs). I considered this necessary to understand foreign policies. I am now very savvy when it comes to other cultures, and not just because my mother dated a Filipino man and my father speaks in tongues (Meth tongues, that is).

Today, the State of my Union is this:

The housing crisis you might be experiencing in your Union, is relatively mild in mine. Yes, I have a landlord that is often "out of the country" and an improperly installed skylight which sometimes causes it to drizzle in my living room, but I am not living in a cardboard box under the bridge. I consider this a great success.

Employment is down. Creativity is up. Someday, maybe the two shall meet and I'll get paid for writing about vaginas and Xanax. I would like to pass a bill that allows me to be paid per usage of the word fuck as well.

Healthcare is non-existent which is why I may have to start buying Xanax from Mexico. Can you smuggle pills in a gasoline tank? It's also the reason I'm considering performing at-home pap smears.