Several people in my life… yes, I know a few people. Just ask….um. Ask Joe.

Moving on.

They Have asked me “when is the memoir coming out?”

This is a typical response to when peeps who know enough about my life to consider me the transgender version of Forrest Gump find out that I do words… not like they have ever considered to read them or have shown interest in reading them.

I’ve actually tried my hand at this autobia… however it’s spelled. 

Tried to word one out a few times.

Problem is, anything that I write beyond a few thousand words turns into hocus pocus.

Maybe it’s because I’m a great writer of fiction, but it’s more likely that I’m just a prolific and compulsive fibber who would have been committed in the days before Ronald Regan pretended to close insane asylums in America but really just relocated them to the public transportation vessels in a city near you.

I think I’ll give it a whack now, thoughz

That fateful day began like any other day.

I was absentmindedly walking my Dicrylan dolphin - Chestnut Peanut Butter, from my bungalow, to take they/them for a swim in the nearest lake of mercury, back on Titans most sought after moon - which of course would be, Epsilon_Thesalonia.69…

Ah fuck!

I was honestly just trying to talk about that time I worked at Dominos Pizza for $5.15 an hour.

Whack number two…

The most life-changing and defining moment of my existence began even more unremarkable as my very first boner.

Get first job.

Hell yeah!

I was tap-dancing on cloud nine…what the fuck is a cloud a nine?

I don’t care to google it.

I remember when I first was issued my Lego blue Dominoes polo shirt. 

“Jokes you on you, peers in middle school!” I thought as I looked at my pockmarked face in the mirror, finding more pride in my new uniform than I had found in the one ingrown hair on my lip that wasn’t peach fuzz…So what if it gave me a boil that was so substantial that I almost felt compelled to have a social security number assigned to it and asking my grandma to make it a quilt, like she did for me when I was first born.

Those kids in my math class who always laughed when I couldn’t math, just because I simply needed better glasses.

“You don’t even wear glasses, retard!”

I always had an answer for everything.

“Not by choice! Sorry my parents don’t work for NASA you…you.. fucking coin purse!”

Well I showed them!

Plus. I worked for fucking dominos now. I had way too many adult things to think about anyway.

Child labor laws eat my shorts.

Never so thankful to live in shit-old crap-ass Nevada!

How many middle-aged nobody’s can look back with reverence at the privilege of working at Dominos years before they got sued up the ass for… no, not embezzlement, no insider trading. Getting sued for making legendary-level trash pizza and employing the worlds most apathetic and strung out workforce. 

Dominos was so bunk that they had to run a year long national ad campaign later that decade, that was more or less to the affect of: “Sorry we suck so much ass.”

Being a part of that…

Man on the moon tier shit.

Hold up. I’m crying.

Alright, nuff about NASA.

I wasn’t a pizza cook, nor a mere cashier.

I wasn’t the bitch who has to match dotted lines to one another that guided the feeble minded on how to fold a pizza box.

I was a CSR.

“Customer Service Representative.” 

Immediately changed my MySpace bio to:

“Yes. I’m real.”

That acronym was like “007” on creatine.

Sure, I had to make pizzas, work the register and fold endless towers of boxes that would soon house the worlds most prolifically garbage pizzas, but I was exalted by my boss who later hung himself in a broom closet at another dominos that he had to float out to for a shift as a result of being rejected by the national guard, simply based on smelling him each day.

I was completely at a loss and taken aback…

Those spoiled cunts have a broom closet!?

The feels I got when boss tasked me and only me, with the extra- highly skilled duty of snaking the toilet that he himself ruined each night, because he only ate at work and drank half an Old Crow 750 per shift.

Chills.

So our bestest, most primo VIP client phones in a delivery order one night.

Everyone phoned in, not a soul ever walked in and if they did, it was for directions to Papa Murphys 

The VIP was super important because he broke the the record for repeat business by ordering from us four times. 

I answered the phone before that shit even rang.

This was not a drill…

Hand-tossed, black olive and sausage pizza, medium.

Yes sir! 

Boss was prepping the toilet for me to get the snake out again, but I was a leader and proactive AF and knew that I had to leap into action.

People sometimes hypothesize and fantasize about how they would react in a life or death scenario. 

Most of us would like to think that, if push comes to shove, if we saw a damsel tied to a train track, we would instinctively beat the crap out of the guy with the top hat and Salvador Dali mustache who tied her to the tracks, rescue aforementioned damsel, dodge the kiss on the cheek she tries to show thanks with, Batman into the night and never tell a soul about the good deed.

These are warm and motivational scenarios to entertain, but… until you are in a fight, flight or freeze situation, Glock 19 to your temple, you won’t truly ever know exactly how you would react to such situations, regardless of how many times you imagined that you would be courageous and composed.

I learned just exactly what I am made of that shift.

I had always defaulted to thinking in such situations, I’d be the little twat who broke the real hero’s neck, simply by the hero slipping on the puddle of piss I unknowingly made on the floor in front of hero.

Turns out… I have balls that could sound a gong.

Erm. Before I got rid of balls.

Bam!

I jumped on the line, grabbed the dough, slapped that shit onto the cornflower.

Can’t help but chuckle that I’m already making the za before the ticket finished printing to the kitchen.

Hand rolled it, and even though no one was looking, I tossed it in the air so many times that it stretched out to the point where I had to snag a new dough and use the machine to roll it.

Ladled the sauce like a boss.

I added the cheese in one second. 

Well, I loaded the cheese shoot with perfectly cubed pixels of cheese and hit the button on top that bukakied it all up in that bitch.

Slung toppings with a zealous enthusiasm that I’m sure the cameras didn’t have the fps rate to even record. 

Pizza is delivered.

VIP calls.

“The fuck asshole? I ordered sausage, not beef on my shit.”

There are some moments in life that seem so trivial and unremarkable but in retrospect, you realize those moments we’re exactly what defined who you became on down the road.

Sorry. Tears again, but, I have to get this off my chest.

Those moments define everything you are, and this moment…

Sure as fuck wasn’t one.

“I’m going to Papa Murphys, cock-sore!”