Does anyone else out there fucking HATE Central Market*?
First of all, there is only ONE entrance to the store. ONE! PLENTY of exits (so that people can sprint out for the sake of their sanity). Then, once you walk into the (single) entrance, you are immediately stepping into a maze. The place is a fucking labyrinth. There is no rhyme or reason to the way they set things up. Hence, the information booth located directly to the right of the (single) entrance. What kind of grocery store requires an information booth that hands out a map of the store?! Call me old fashion, but having ISLE NUMBERS with the corresponding items on the isle listed below the number is direction enough. I have a hankering for Skittles? I'll go to isle 6, the candy isle. Do I need ALWAYS OVERNIGHT PADS WITH WINGS-EXTRA LONG FOR EXTRA PROTECTION? I'll go to the last isle in the store (which is safely tucked away as to not upset manly men) the FEMININE HYGIENE isle.
Central Market doesn't have things like NUMBERED ISLES or CONVENIENT LISTINGS OF PRODUCTS ON ISLES. They don't even have things like "white bread", "Q-tips", or "all-purpose flour". Instead, they have things like "PREBIOTIC BREADS",the highly controversial "EAR CANDLES", or "GLUTEN FLOUR" (in bulk). Just sick.
Once you get past the overpriced produce sections, (Apples for $4.20 a pound?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME! I can get those puppies for $1.19 a pound at a REGULAR grocery store- COMPLETE WITH a shiny waxy cover and plenty of pesticides to kill the DISGUSTING pests), you come to a fork in the road. Do you go to the right (where the isles are filled with brown recycled boxes and artsy labels), or to the left (where the isles are filled with brown recycled boxes and less-artsy labels). Whatever you do, do NOT take too long deciding which way to go because you WILL be run over by some dreadlocked hippie wearing Birkenstocks, a FREE YOUR MIND tye-dyed shirt and smelling like they haven't showered for weeks. Seriously, you do NOT want to get in the way of someone who knows their way around Central Market- they will run over you and leave you crumpled on the floor and crying out for your mommy.
ANYWAY, it doesn't really matter which way you pick because BOTH ways are the wrong way. In fact, ALL WAYS are wrong. You will never find a single item off your grocery list in that store (unless, of course, you're looking for sugar-free candy made out of dirt). How many isles can one store have of homeopathic BULL SHIT? The only reason I even went in to Central Market is because I heard a rumor (obviously a lie) that it was a grocery store and I had a hankerin' for a cookie. I never found the cookie but I did find a place that makes normal people go insane and smells like shit.
Preacher loves you and your local pesticide riddled food store.
*I have actually only been to one Central Market (off 38th and Lamar), but I, without question ,assume all Central Markets are set similarly.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Feed me, bitch.
Today's post is brought to you by my sincere hatred for all things tropical storm related.
In the past, I haven't been, what you'd say, a "model student." In fact, I used to be able to justify pretty much any reason to not get out of bed and go to class. "I didn't do the homework," "There is a REALLY good episode of I Love Lucy on and I can't miss it," "Class starts in 15 minutes and even though I live 8 minutes away, I'm pretty sure I'd be late and that would just be really annoying/disrespectful to walk in late," "It's too hot out," "It's too cold out," "It's sooooo nice out!" You get the picture. But, after taking that year and a half off from school and working in the "real world," I've realized I don't get to justify not going to work. I have to go to work to pay bills and buy my booze. So, this whole mindset of having to have really, really good excuses has carried over into this school year (ugh, I feel cheap just writing that).
So here we are today, I'm up, I'm doing shit, I'm getting ready for school when Tropical Storm Hermine starts to wreck shop in San Antonio. Again, in the past, this would have been enough for me to get back in pajamas and watch DVDs all day (in fact, in undergrad, I once got dressed to go to campus, left my house, walked to the end of the walkway, saw the puddles of water in the street, said "fuck it" and turned around and went back inside), but not today! I decided that if I were going to miss class, I was going to miss class for something way more fun (like day drinking) than because of some stupid rain. Ha. Silly Dragon Slayer.
I'm not from a coastal town. I'm from fucking Dallas. We seldom get tornadoes. The wind isn't that bad. I just learned what makes a tropical storm a tropical storm (although, that is such a lie, I still don't know...and why don't tornadoes get names?). So, when I decided to venture out in this "little rain storm," I had no idea what was in store. First off, San Antonio's streets apparently flood reeeeeal fricking easily. And I just got a new car. No longer am I driving around in my tall ass SUV, I'm in some bullshit car that sits low to the ground. And I keep forgetting that fact. So, I'm barrelling down the streets like I can't be affected by this petty rain, when I hit a pond that has formed in the middle of the road and realize, perhaps I shall take this seriously.
THEN, my car is all "oh hey owner lady, I need gas. Feed me, bitch." So, I pull over at one of the gas stations that has "cover," get out, and the 40 mph wind picks up and DRENCHES ME with its sideways rain. I felt so great when I was getting ready for class, got my new jeans, makeup did, just to find myself completely wet from head to to (is that what she said?). But, I don't let this get me down. I was going to make it to class if it was the last thing I did.
So, I drive along to school (had to make a detour after going my normal route and finding a tree had fallen and taken over the entire street). Ya know...looking back, I wonder what the fuck I was thinking. I should have kept my ass at home.
But, I digress. I finally made it to school an hour later (which, BEE TEE DUB, it typically takes me less than 15 minutes to get to school). I park, prepare myself and run to class, landing perfectly in each 4 inch puddle on the way. I make it to the classroom building, my jeans wrapped around my legs, hair wet and curling, and water pooling in my backpack (with my laptop! shit!) when the doors open and people start pouring out. I look around and see several students from my class and ask "Did they cancel classes?" Yeah. That's right. THEY FUCKING DID. Power went out on campus and they cancelled classes. I BRAVED TROPICAL STORM HERMINE JUST TO GET TO CAMPUS AND THEM TELL ME IT WAS ALL IN VAIN.
So, I went back home, only to find out that my power was out as well, opened up my laptop and watched Wimbledon, because hey, who doesn't love a good love story based around tennis?
And now, I hear more wind and rain outside my window. Fuck. My. Life.
In the past, I haven't been, what you'd say, a "model student." In fact, I used to be able to justify pretty much any reason to not get out of bed and go to class. "I didn't do the homework," "There is a REALLY good episode of I Love Lucy on and I can't miss it," "Class starts in 15 minutes and even though I live 8 minutes away, I'm pretty sure I'd be late and that would just be really annoying/disrespectful to walk in late," "It's too hot out," "It's too cold out," "It's sooooo nice out!" You get the picture. But, after taking that year and a half off from school and working in the "real world," I've realized I don't get to justify not going to work. I have to go to work to pay bills and buy my booze. So, this whole mindset of having to have really, really good excuses has carried over into this school year (ugh, I feel cheap just writing that).
So here we are today, I'm up, I'm doing shit, I'm getting ready for school when Tropical Storm Hermine starts to wreck shop in San Antonio. Again, in the past, this would have been enough for me to get back in pajamas and watch DVDs all day (in fact, in undergrad, I once got dressed to go to campus, left my house, walked to the end of the walkway, saw the puddles of water in the street, said "fuck it" and turned around and went back inside), but not today! I decided that if I were going to miss class, I was going to miss class for something way more fun (like day drinking) than because of some stupid rain. Ha. Silly Dragon Slayer.
I'm not from a coastal town. I'm from fucking Dallas. We seldom get tornadoes. The wind isn't that bad. I just learned what makes a tropical storm a tropical storm (although, that is such a lie, I still don't know...and why don't tornadoes get names?). So, when I decided to venture out in this "little rain storm," I had no idea what was in store. First off, San Antonio's streets apparently flood reeeeeal fricking easily. And I just got a new car. No longer am I driving around in my tall ass SUV, I'm in some bullshit car that sits low to the ground. And I keep forgetting that fact. So, I'm barrelling down the streets like I can't be affected by this petty rain, when I hit a pond that has formed in the middle of the road and realize, perhaps I shall take this seriously.
THEN, my car is all "oh hey owner lady, I need gas. Feed me, bitch." So, I pull over at one of the gas stations that has "cover," get out, and the 40 mph wind picks up and DRENCHES ME with its sideways rain. I felt so great when I was getting ready for class, got my new jeans, makeup did, just to find myself completely wet from head to to (is that what she said?). But, I don't let this get me down. I was going to make it to class if it was the last thing I did.
So, I drive along to school (had to make a detour after going my normal route and finding a tree had fallen and taken over the entire street). Ya know...looking back, I wonder what the fuck I was thinking. I should have kept my ass at home.
But, I digress. I finally made it to school an hour later (which, BEE TEE DUB, it typically takes me less than 15 minutes to get to school). I park, prepare myself and run to class, landing perfectly in each 4 inch puddle on the way. I make it to the classroom building, my jeans wrapped around my legs, hair wet and curling, and water pooling in my backpack (with my laptop! shit!) when the doors open and people start pouring out. I look around and see several students from my class and ask "Did they cancel classes?" Yeah. That's right. THEY FUCKING DID. Power went out on campus and they cancelled classes. I BRAVED TROPICAL STORM HERMINE JUST TO GET TO CAMPUS AND THEM TELL ME IT WAS ALL IN VAIN.
So, I went back home, only to find out that my power was out as well, opened up my laptop and watched Wimbledon, because hey, who doesn't love a good love story based around tennis?
And now, I hear more wind and rain outside my window. Fuck. My. Life.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Hide yo kids, hide yo wife.
UGH. If only I had someone who followed me around and dictated my thoughts and random comments, this blog would be THE BOMB. And Toddles would be like "awesome! new blog post!" Um, PS Toddles, you should start commenting so that Preacher and Maverick don't think I'm making up this lone reader who keeps "requesting" me to keep posting...
So, I was driving home tonight and I started writing my blog post in my head and, as I was chuckling to myself, I thought: shit, I better remember all of this!
Haha, well, FUCK YOU, DRAGON SLAYER! I don't remember any of it.
But, let's talk about things that happened at the bar last night.
My friend and I sat down next to an older couple. I will not even apologize for my mad eavesdropping skills. Actually, I don't even feel like I should have to apologize because hell, if you're going to be in public and talk loudly, you should expect people like me to be listening and judging you. Anyway, back to this couple. The guy is CLEARLY trying to impress the hell out of this lady, because the first thing I notice him saying is: "listen, I'm really smart." What. the. fuck. Who says that? As the conversation wears on, we could tell the lady was getting less and less amused, which of course meant that the guy was trying harder and harder. Until, it finally got to the point where this guy was legitimately "witnessing" to her. Except, it was actually a sermon. And I think I heard something about he hoping the Good Lord would still accept her. Or something.
But, as for the more exciting things happening in my life, I'm in the midst of packing up all of my worldly belongings (like my I Love Lucy shot glasses and my original Nintendo) to move. Let's talk about how much I'm looking forward to leaving the city that is apparently second in consumption of Ed Hardy attire (this assertion very well could be wrong, but regardless, f this town and f Ed Hardy). I'm headed back to law/grad school, so be prepared for more lonely nights without a post from Dragon Slayer. And, start looking forward to excuses about studying and reading and being too damned important to worry about writing.
Wow, being hungover really zaps me of humor. Who was that famous guy who said: "Write drunk, edit sober?" According to Google, it was Hemingway. Well, Ernest Hemingway, you are a damned genius.
Since, I'm hungover, I will leave you with this:
So, I was driving home tonight and I started writing my blog post in my head and, as I was chuckling to myself, I thought: shit, I better remember all of this!
Haha, well, FUCK YOU, DRAGON SLAYER! I don't remember any of it.
But, let's talk about things that happened at the bar last night.
My friend and I sat down next to an older couple. I will not even apologize for my mad eavesdropping skills. Actually, I don't even feel like I should have to apologize because hell, if you're going to be in public and talk loudly, you should expect people like me to be listening and judging you. Anyway, back to this couple. The guy is CLEARLY trying to impress the hell out of this lady, because the first thing I notice him saying is: "listen, I'm really smart." What. the. fuck. Who says that? As the conversation wears on, we could tell the lady was getting less and less amused, which of course meant that the guy was trying harder and harder. Until, it finally got to the point where this guy was legitimately "witnessing" to her. Except, it was actually a sermon. And I think I heard something about he hoping the Good Lord would still accept her. Or something.
But, as for the more exciting things happening in my life, I'm in the midst of packing up all of my worldly belongings (like my I Love Lucy shot glasses and my original Nintendo) to move. Let's talk about how much I'm looking forward to leaving the city that is apparently second in consumption of Ed Hardy attire (this assertion very well could be wrong, but regardless, f this town and f Ed Hardy). I'm headed back to law/grad school, so be prepared for more lonely nights without a post from Dragon Slayer. And, start looking forward to excuses about studying and reading and being too damned important to worry about writing.
Wow, being hungover really zaps me of humor. Who was that famous guy who said: "Write drunk, edit sober?" According to Google, it was Hemingway. Well, Ernest Hemingway, you are a damned genius.
Since, I'm hungover, I will leave you with this:
Friday, July 23, 2010
Dead in a Grease Fire
I wake up this morning to find this posted on my facebook wall by none other than Preacher:
"Drunk and PISSED you haven't posted in a while. Your fan misses your wit."
Thanks, bitch.
But then, she comments on her OWN post with:
"fan=singular"
There really wasn't anything I could do other than like it. Both of them.
So,ladies and gents Preacher and my one fan, here I am. In all my weathered glory.
I know I make excuses all of the time about the reason for my lack of posting, but you'll just have to deal with it some more. Sometimes, drinking 3 rather strong margaritas after being in the sun/heat for 7 hours just seems like a much better idea than coming home at a reasonable hour and bootin' up the ol' HP to entertain you guys.
Speaking of getting drunk without realizing it, I really need to put a breathalyzer on my phone/facebook. I never say anything that I completely regret the next day, but hell, never say never. Amirite?
Speaking of needing a breathalyzer, I think today's post will revolve around shit I've done or has been done to me whilst I was drunk.
For my 25th birthday, I decided I would host a themed party. And by "I would host," I mean "the bars on 6th Street in Austin, Texas would host." And by "themed party," I mean "dressing up in costumes and bar hopping up and down 6th Street in Austin, Texas." What greater theme than Totally Tubular 80's? So, I don my highlighter yellow t-shirt, blue tights, leg warmers, neon colored Converse and I crimp the ever-living shit out of my hair. My sister, who actually went to UT-Austin in the 80s...and partied up and down 6th Street in the 80s...and is, in general, old as fuck, dragged us into one of those bars that have to give out free drinks to get people to come into the bar. My group and I are having a good time, drinking our free drinks and staring at people who were staring at us when some dudes who clearly thought they were necessary life forms, started hitting on various girl friends of mine. Now, I'm not the most pleasant person. Especially if you're some dude who expects me to give you the time of day. (Give me a nerd with a beard and ironic t-shirt any day of the damn week). But, this guy came up to me and STARTED TOUCHING MY HAIR. He grabbed a lock, looked at me with a semi-disgusted face (I'm expecting it is the same face he gets every time he looks at his own penis), and said "Nice dreds."
I give him my patented "you're the biggest fucking idiot I've ever laid eyes on" look and replied with, "Um. They're not dreds."
"Well, seriously, it just looks reeeeally bad. I mean come on," he says while STILL playing with my hair.
Deadpanned, I reply, "then quit fucking touching it."
His response? "You know, you should really think about being nicer to people."
"Pass."
I'M SORRY, but did you really just incorrectly insult me and then tell me that I needed to be nicer to people? I hope he dies in a grease fire.
That same night, I decided that my newly siiiiiiiiiiiiinnglllllllllee friend needed to make out with someone. I found a guy wearing a Cubs hat (as she is a devout fan), tapped on his shoulder and had the following conversation:
Me: "Are you here with anyone?"
Disilluisioned Baseball Fan: "Yeah."
Me: "Will you make out with my friend?"
DBF: "...............I'm here with someone."
Me: "Oh. I chose not to listen."
So, maybe Dead in a Grease Fire was right: I need to be nicer to people. Or at least listen to answers to my questions.
Yeah...I don't think that'll happen either.
Last summer, I was visiting some friends in Austin, Texas and really wanted to play with sparklers. I'm not real ballsy and this is as close to fireworks as I will get. Even though my mother tells me sparklers are just as dangerous. What.evs.mother. Well, I had like 40 sparklers and I wanted to see the prettiness of ALL of them lit AT ONCE. If you know anything about science, or fireworks, or fire, or common sense, then you're probably thinking "there is NO WAY Dragon Slayer would actually go through with that, she and her friends probably just discussed what would happen and went on to do something else equally stupid, but less dangerous." Well, if that is what you truly thought, you're an idiot. I lit it. And the sparklers WENT UP IN FLAMES. It was the coolest/scariest shit I've ever been a part of in my life. And I had burns all over my hands for months.
Oh shit, I was actually dead sober for this last one. Oh well, I'm not deleting it because it is already hard enough to think of blog-worthy stories. Although, looking over it, this story is extremely lame if you take out the fact that I was stupid enough to light 40 sparklers all at the same time.
Miss me, call me, love me.
"Drunk and PISSED you haven't posted in a while. Your fan misses your wit."
Thanks, bitch.
But then, she comments on her OWN post with:
"fan=singular"
There really wasn't anything I could do other than like it. Both of them.
So,
I know I make excuses all of the time about the reason for my lack of posting, but you'll just have to deal with it some more. Sometimes, drinking 3 rather strong margaritas after being in the sun/heat for 7 hours just seems like a much better idea than coming home at a reasonable hour and bootin' up the ol' HP to entertain you guys.
Speaking of getting drunk without realizing it, I really need to put a breathalyzer on my phone/facebook. I never say anything that I completely regret the next day, but hell, never say never. Amirite?
Speaking of needing a breathalyzer, I think today's post will revolve around shit I've done or has been done to me whilst I was drunk.
For my 25th birthday, I decided I would host a themed party. And by "I would host," I mean "the bars on 6th Street in Austin, Texas would host." And by "themed party," I mean "dressing up in costumes and bar hopping up and down 6th Street in Austin, Texas." What greater theme than Totally Tubular 80's? So, I don my highlighter yellow t-shirt, blue tights, leg warmers, neon colored Converse and I crimp the ever-living shit out of my hair. My sister, who actually went to UT-Austin in the 80s...and partied up and down 6th Street in the 80s...and is, in general, old as fuck, dragged us into one of those bars that have to give out free drinks to get people to come into the bar. My group and I are having a good time, drinking our free drinks and staring at people who were staring at us when some dudes who clearly thought they were necessary life forms, started hitting on various girl friends of mine. Now, I'm not the most pleasant person. Especially if you're some dude who expects me to give you the time of day. (Give me a nerd with a beard and ironic t-shirt any day of the damn week). But, this guy came up to me and STARTED TOUCHING MY HAIR. He grabbed a lock, looked at me with a semi-disgusted face (I'm expecting it is the same face he gets every time he looks at his own penis), and said "Nice dreds."
I give him my patented "you're the biggest fucking idiot I've ever laid eyes on" look and replied with, "Um. They're not dreds."
"Well, seriously, it just looks reeeeally bad. I mean come on," he says while STILL playing with my hair.
Deadpanned, I reply, "then quit fucking touching it."
His response? "You know, you should really think about being nicer to people."
"Pass."
I'M SORRY, but did you really just incorrectly insult me and then tell me that I needed to be nicer to people? I hope he dies in a grease fire.
That same night, I decided that my newly siiiiiiiiiiiiinnglllllllllee friend needed to make out with someone. I found a guy wearing a Cubs hat (as she is a devout fan), tapped on his shoulder and had the following conversation:
Me: "Are you here with anyone?"
Disilluisioned Baseball Fan: "Yeah."
Me: "Will you make out with my friend?"
DBF: "...............I'm here with someone."
Me: "Oh. I chose not to listen."
So, maybe Dead in a Grease Fire was right: I need to be nicer to people. Or at least listen to answers to my questions.
Yeah...I don't think that'll happen either.
Last summer, I was visiting some friends in Austin, Texas and really wanted to play with sparklers. I'm not real ballsy and this is as close to fireworks as I will get. Even though my mother tells me sparklers are just as dangerous. What.evs.mother. Well, I had like 40 sparklers and I wanted to see the prettiness of ALL of them lit AT ONCE. If you know anything about science, or fireworks, or fire, or common sense, then you're probably thinking "there is NO WAY Dragon Slayer would actually go through with that, she and her friends probably just discussed what would happen and went on to do something else equally stupid, but less dangerous." Well, if that is what you truly thought, you're an idiot. I lit it. And the sparklers WENT UP IN FLAMES. It was the coolest/scariest shit I've ever been a part of in my life. And I had burns all over my hands for months.
Oh shit, I was actually dead sober for this last one. Oh well, I'm not deleting it because it is already hard enough to think of blog-worthy stories. Although, looking over it, this story is extremely lame if you take out the fact that I was stupid enough to light 40 sparklers all at the same time.
Miss me, call me, love me.
Friday, July 2, 2010
TEAM JACOB!
Sorry to the "readers" for my lack of posting recently. In my defense though, there is little to no positive reinforcement for this well written BLOG and my psyche has had to recover from my hilarious work going unnoticed and/or unappreciated.
ANYWAY, guilt trip over. My computer program I need so I can work is down so CONGRATULATIONS! YOU GET A NEW POST! Now I just need to decide what to write about...
Well, I saw Eclipse yesterday. Yes, I'm talking about the third installment of the Twilight Saga. I don't know why I keep paying money to see these damn movies. I mean, I read all the books and did NOT enjoy them. In fact, I would berate myself every night right before falling asleep for spending so much time reading a book I clearly was NOT going to get into. Let's face it- if you weren't hooked 30 pages into Book 1, you were NOT going to EVER be hooked. It's the same pouty bull shit over and over again. Granted, each book was better than the last, but that's like saying that the book has improved from fourth in the Special Olympics to bronze, then silver, and finally gold. No matter how much better the book does, it's still retarded.
SERIOUSLY!!! I normally can grasp why people become FANATICAL over a passing fad because I, myself, love embracing passing fads (i.e., Hanson, BSB [first album + The Call ONLY], N*Sync [2nd album ONLY], SNICK, Fruit Stripes gum, etc...) But this? I don't get it.
C'mon ladies- seiously! Why would she EVER pick that STUPID, sad, moping, pale vamper when she could have Jacob aka Hunka-hunka Burnin' Love! You have GOT to give that kid props for his body! You've also got to remind yourself that he's supposed to be playing a 16 year old in the movies so it is NOT okay to let you're mind get X-tina style dirrrrrrrrty.
(Side note- I think I just chipped my tooth on the peach I'm eating...and not on the seed. My dentist appointment yesterday obviously did not take...)
ANYWAY, the movie was as disappointing as I expected it would be. In fact, I fell asleep and APPARENTLY started snoring during a "romantic" scene. The bitch (gayman) sitting behind me kicked my seat and rudely hissed, "How can you sleep when there's so much sexual tension!?" SEXUAL TENSION MY ASS!!!! THEY DON'T DO IT TIL THE FOURTH AND FINAL BOOK! Edward's "afraid" he'll KILL HER! Pa-LEASE! Sounds more like E.D. to me. Maybe Bella should slip a little blue pill into his next pint of "vegatarian" blood and see if he's STILL afraid he'll kill her. GOD those books are SO STUPID!
Preacher loves you and your limp dicked boyfriend
ANYWAY, guilt trip over. My computer program I need so I can work is down so CONGRATULATIONS! YOU GET A NEW POST! Now I just need to decide what to write about...
Well, I saw Eclipse yesterday. Yes, I'm talking about the third installment of the Twilight Saga. I don't know why I keep paying money to see these damn movies. I mean, I read all the books and did NOT enjoy them. In fact, I would berate myself every night right before falling asleep for spending so much time reading a book I clearly was NOT going to get into. Let's face it- if you weren't hooked 30 pages into Book 1, you were NOT going to EVER be hooked. It's the same pouty bull shit over and over again. Granted, each book was better than the last, but that's like saying that the book has improved from fourth in the Special Olympics to bronze, then silver, and finally gold. No matter how much better the book does, it's still retarded.
SERIOUSLY!!! I normally can grasp why people become FANATICAL over a passing fad because I, myself, love embracing passing fads (i.e., Hanson, BSB [first album + The Call ONLY], N*Sync [2nd album ONLY], SNICK, Fruit Stripes gum, etc...) But this? I don't get it.
C'mon ladies- seiously! Why would she EVER pick that STUPID, sad, moping, pale vamper when she could have Jacob aka Hunka-hunka Burnin' Love! You have GOT to give that kid props for his body! You've also got to remind yourself that he's supposed to be playing a 16 year old in the movies so it is NOT okay to let you're mind get X-tina style dirrrrrrrrty.
(Side note- I think I just chipped my tooth on the peach I'm eating...and not on the seed. My dentist appointment yesterday obviously did not take...)
ANYWAY, the movie was as disappointing as I expected it would be. In fact, I fell asleep and APPARENTLY started snoring during a "romantic" scene. The bitch (gayman) sitting behind me kicked my seat and rudely hissed, "How can you sleep when there's so much sexual tension!?" SEXUAL TENSION MY ASS!!!! THEY DON'T DO IT TIL THE FOURTH AND FINAL BOOK! Edward's "afraid" he'll KILL HER! Pa-LEASE! Sounds more like E.D. to me. Maybe Bella should slip a little blue pill into his next pint of "vegatarian" blood and see if he's STILL afraid he'll kill her. GOD those books are SO STUPID!
Preacher loves you and your limp dicked boyfriend
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I hate Monopoly, but love The Beatles.
Holy balls. Maverick and Preacher suck. Obviously. And stupid work is not only getting in my way of my blogger status, but also draining any and all creativity. But, as I was driving home today, I thought, OMG, my one reader must be wondering what is going on in my world. I should start thinking of ideas of what to write for when I get home. So, here are some stories about my life these days.
A few days ago I got drunk. And I don't mean a little drunk, I mean I don't remember the majority of the night drunk. In fact, as I was driving to work the next AFTERNOON, I listened to "Alejandro" by Lady Gaga on repeat. And started texting various friends that it was the "best fucking song fucking ever." Then, I get to work and walk up to one of my staff members and get too close for comfort and scream-whisper at her "I think I'm still drunk."
At work, we often do themes for the day, where everyone's name changes to go along with the theme. My staff had already decided that that day's them was going to be board games. Furthermore, they had decided that my themed name would be Monopoly. Well, I freaking hate Monopoly. And I let my emotions known. I started yelling, rather loudly, "I HATE MONOPOLY" repeatedly until they agreed to change my name. Okay, Dragon Slayer, what board game do you want to be? "MAAALLLL MADNESS!!!!" Well, in the normal world, this would have been a completely legit answer. But, in the world in which you work with a bunch of kids who were born in the 90's, this is apparently appalling. No one knew what the hell Mall Madness is. The 10 year old in me was screaming at the top of her lungs. So, I was told I couldn't be Mall Madness because I was the only one who knew what it was. This didn't appease me. I just screaming "I HATE MONOPOLY" repeatedly until they changed my name to shut me up.
But, seriously, I hate Monopoly.
This discrepancy in age is often a problem at work. Although, I don't think it is only the age thing. There is something in the water in this town they grew up in. Granted, I grew up in the city directly next to this city, but the differences between what me and my friends are into compared to them is astounding. They make fun of Twitter non-stop. This is crazy to me. They're never on Facebook. Hellllooooo, I think we already know how I feel about that. They don't like Classic Rock.
This last part has caused me, on several occasions, to get so frustrated that I have to walk away. Today, during a meeting, a colleague of mine said that he gets irritated when a certain staff member works with him because he always listens to "strange, awful" music. We asked what music and his response was "Old stuff...like The Beatles." He said this with a bitter beer face. My jaw dropped and asked him what the hell was wrong with The Beatles? They're only the greatest/most influential rock band to ever exist. Another colleague, in all seriousness, exclaims, "WHAT ABOUT METALLICA!?"
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Metallica. A lot. But, they are NOT The Beatles. WHAT KIND OF FUCKED UP EDUCATION DID THESE KIDS GET?
Ugh. I don't even know what to say.
A few days ago I got drunk. And I don't mean a little drunk, I mean I don't remember the majority of the night drunk. In fact, as I was driving to work the next AFTERNOON, I listened to "Alejandro" by Lady Gaga on repeat. And started texting various friends that it was the "best fucking song fucking ever." Then, I get to work and walk up to one of my staff members and get too close for comfort and scream-whisper at her "I think I'm still drunk."
At work, we often do themes for the day, where everyone's name changes to go along with the theme. My staff had already decided that that day's them was going to be board games. Furthermore, they had decided that my themed name would be Monopoly. Well, I freaking hate Monopoly. And I let my emotions known. I started yelling, rather loudly, "I HATE MONOPOLY" repeatedly until they agreed to change my name. Okay, Dragon Slayer, what board game do you want to be? "MAAALLLL MADNESS!!!!" Well, in the normal world, this would have been a completely legit answer. But, in the world in which you work with a bunch of kids who were born in the 90's, this is apparently appalling. No one knew what the hell Mall Madness is. The 10 year old in me was screaming at the top of her lungs. So, I was told I couldn't be Mall Madness because I was the only one who knew what it was. This didn't appease me. I just screaming "I HATE MONOPOLY" repeatedly until they changed my name to shut me up.
But, seriously, I hate Monopoly.
This discrepancy in age is often a problem at work. Although, I don't think it is only the age thing. There is something in the water in this town they grew up in. Granted, I grew up in the city directly next to this city, but the differences between what me and my friends are into compared to them is astounding. They make fun of Twitter non-stop. This is crazy to me. They're never on Facebook. Hellllooooo, I think we already know how I feel about that. They don't like Classic Rock.
This last part has caused me, on several occasions, to get so frustrated that I have to walk away. Today, during a meeting, a colleague of mine said that he gets irritated when a certain staff member works with him because he always listens to "strange, awful" music. We asked what music and his response was "Old stuff...like The Beatles." He said this with a bitter beer face. My jaw dropped and asked him what the hell was wrong with The Beatles? They're only the greatest/most influential rock band to ever exist. Another colleague, in all seriousness, exclaims, "WHAT ABOUT METALLICA!?"
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Metallica. A lot. But, they are NOT The Beatles. WHAT KIND OF FUCKED UP EDUCATION DID THESE KIDS GET?
Ugh. I don't even know what to say.
Monday, June 14, 2010
On Sunday Morning, Don't Speak because the Spiderwebs make the World Go 'Round in my Tragic Kingdom. You're Just A Girl, are you Happy Now?
I'm a little obsessed with this really great blog called "2 Birds, 1 Blog." Recently, they've been writing a lot about how awkward they were when they were in middle school. First, I have to ask, who the hell WASN'T awkward in middle school? Second, how in the hell do they remember so much that they can keep writing about it?
I have a hard time remembering who went to middle school with me. Shit, I can barely remember who I graduated high school with (oh shit! ending a sentence with a preposition. Middle school english teachers be damned!). But, as I was trying to conjure up some really awkward moments of my own to share, I thought of someone else's really awkward moment and found it much more amusing (probably because it happened to them...and not me).
When I was growing up, my hometown held an annual 4th of July celebration in the "downtown" area. It was so the shit. Carnies came in town and set up shop, various artists and vendors had booths to hawk their homemade, over-priced stuff and all of us 12-15 year olds finally had something to do every day. It was pure greatness. One year (I can't even remember which year it was...that is how bad my memory of middle school was), I get this call at home from this guy. We'll call him Schmody Schwhite. Schmody was a year older than I and had "dated" a friend of mine...well, at some point. Again, I don't remember. Prior to my friend and Schmody "going out," I had had a crush on him as well. But, in true "girl code" fashion, I got over it and let my friend have free reign. However, summer was here and you know what that does to school romances. Chops them dead. Anyway, Schmody calls and asks if I'm going to be at the festival that night. Duh, Schmody where else would I be but middle school mecca? He says that's great and that we need to hang out. Okay, Schmody, will do. The night comes, we meet up, we hang out (aka we walk around the festival for a solid 3 hours and do whatever we can to not spend the only 5 bucks we have for the next 3 weeks). But, he does a really stupid thing. He hands me a note he had written and then says the magic words "Don't read this until later...when I'm not around." HA! SCHMODY! You act as if we've never met.
Okay, I guess this is the time to explain my heavy obsession with the band No Doubt. It was the first band I saw in concert. It was the band in the photos that plastered my walls in my bedroom. It was the band whose logos I practiced drawing over and over until I had the ability to knock it out within minutes (and it be flawless). It was the band that my very first AIM account name was created for (NDfan327, what up!). To sum up, I LOVED No Doubt.
Back to the story. I immediately open up the note, while Schmody pleads with me to stop, and read it (luckily for him, to myself and NOT out loud). The note is deliberately written to include every song title from No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom album. Oh, how I wish I still had that note...and had it framed. If only I had known how the 25 year old me would decide one day that THAT is the note that needed to be read at her wedding (even though I would be marrying some guy who, undoubtedly, will never meet this Schmody character)...if she ever gets married. Just imagine the dedication to include the words "Spiderwebs," "The Climb," and "You Can Do It" into a 6 sentence paragraph...and for it to actually make some kind of sense. Even more so, imagine a guy thinking it was actually a good idea to call a 13 year old, emotionally vulnerable, low self-esteemed, middle school female "just a girl." If that didn't steal my heart, I don't know what will. And, at the end of the note were the 6 words every teenage girl yearns to hear from...well, almost any boy: Will you go out with me? As I tried to hide my emotion from my face (that of horror, humor and humiliation - for him, of course), I merely looked at him, while several of our friends stood by, completely unaware of the silent conversation the two us were having, and shook my head no. In my version of the story, I could see his heart break right in front of me. I just made his own Tragic Kingdom. He should have seen it coming. He either had never listened to the words of each song on that album or he was too dense to understand. Either way, we clearly weren't meant to be.
He awkwardly said "okay" and turned around and ran.
But, don't fret. I'm fairly certain Schmody Schwhite is now happily married. Well, I don't really know about the happy part. We pretty much never spoke again. But, I think I saw on Facebook that he's married.
Call me, love me, miss me.
I have a hard time remembering who went to middle school with me. Shit, I can barely remember who I graduated high school with (oh shit! ending a sentence with a preposition. Middle school english teachers be damned!). But, as I was trying to conjure up some really awkward moments of my own to share, I thought of someone else's really awkward moment and found it much more amusing (probably because it happened to them...and not me).
When I was growing up, my hometown held an annual 4th of July celebration in the "downtown" area. It was so the shit. Carnies came in town and set up shop, various artists and vendors had booths to hawk their homemade, over-priced stuff and all of us 12-15 year olds finally had something to do every day. It was pure greatness. One year (I can't even remember which year it was...that is how bad my memory of middle school was), I get this call at home from this guy. We'll call him Schmody Schwhite. Schmody was a year older than I and had "dated" a friend of mine...well, at some point. Again, I don't remember. Prior to my friend and Schmody "going out," I had had a crush on him as well. But, in true "girl code" fashion, I got over it and let my friend have free reign. However, summer was here and you know what that does to school romances. Chops them dead. Anyway, Schmody calls and asks if I'm going to be at the festival that night. Duh, Schmody where else would I be but middle school mecca? He says that's great and that we need to hang out. Okay, Schmody, will do. The night comes, we meet up, we hang out (aka we walk around the festival for a solid 3 hours and do whatever we can to not spend the only 5 bucks we have for the next 3 weeks). But, he does a really stupid thing. He hands me a note he had written and then says the magic words "Don't read this until later...when I'm not around." HA! SCHMODY! You act as if we've never met.
Okay, I guess this is the time to explain my heavy obsession with the band No Doubt. It was the first band I saw in concert. It was the band in the photos that plastered my walls in my bedroom. It was the band whose logos I practiced drawing over and over until I had the ability to knock it out within minutes (and it be flawless). It was the band that my very first AIM account name was created for (NDfan327, what up!). To sum up, I LOVED No Doubt.
Back to the story. I immediately open up the note, while Schmody pleads with me to stop, and read it (luckily for him, to myself and NOT out loud). The note is deliberately written to include every song title from No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom album. Oh, how I wish I still had that note...and had it framed. If only I had known how the 25 year old me would decide one day that THAT is the note that needed to be read at her wedding (even though I would be marrying some guy who, undoubtedly, will never meet this Schmody character)...if she ever gets married. Just imagine the dedication to include the words "Spiderwebs," "The Climb," and "You Can Do It" into a 6 sentence paragraph...and for it to actually make some kind of sense. Even more so, imagine a guy thinking it was actually a good idea to call a 13 year old, emotionally vulnerable, low self-esteemed, middle school female "just a girl." If that didn't steal my heart, I don't know what will. And, at the end of the note were the 6 words every teenage girl yearns to hear from...well, almost any boy: Will you go out with me? As I tried to hide my emotion from my face (that of horror, humor and humiliation - for him, of course), I merely looked at him, while several of our friends stood by, completely unaware of the silent conversation the two us were having, and shook my head no. In my version of the story, I could see his heart break right in front of me. I just made his own Tragic Kingdom. He should have seen it coming. He either had never listened to the words of each song on that album or he was too dense to understand. Either way, we clearly weren't meant to be.
He awkwardly said "okay" and turned around and ran.
But, don't fret. I'm fairly certain Schmody Schwhite is now happily married. Well, I don't really know about the happy part. We pretty much never spoke again. But, I think I saw on Facebook that he's married.
Call me, love me, miss me.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Fuck Off England
So here is the thing. I freely admit to being a bandwagoner when it comes to soccer and the World Cup. Beckham and Rooney are the only soccer players I could pick out of a line up.
BUT... if there are two thins that I really love it's America and sports. This combination is why every four years I give a damn about the long jump or mens gymnastics. I love the stars and stripes, and the World Cup is no exception.
So of course I was bathed in patriotic pride to watch us take on England. We really did it up right. Red white and blue beads, visors, leys, face painting... And one guy from the group really took it to the next level. Fu man choo, army belt buckle, FDNY hat and the American flag wrapped around him. God bless.
Oh, I should also note that I was drinking with a lot of politics grad students, which meant our bashing of England ranged from common (England fucks dirty dirty whores and probably has syphilis) to the nerdy (coalition governments can't rule efficiently). At one point I may or may not have recited the Declaration of Independence while standing on a table with a beer in my hand. That's just how America rolls.
At one point, because the bar was so packed they ran out of buckets to do buckets of beer so we went next door to the 99 cent store AND BOUGHT OUR OWN. Even then, getting to the bar to get drinks was a nightmare, so Mr. Fu Man Choo went out, bought us some 6 packs, and smuggled them back in UNDER THE AMERICAN FLAG.
The game itself was unreal. We were at an English Pub, so the fan base was split evenly, and to be a part of such energy between the "come on England" chants and the responding "fuck off England" chants was electrifying. The crowd outside the pub was 4 deep onto the sidewalk trying to catch a glimpse of the action.
It was awesome.
I leave you with this. It captures the sentiment nicely:
Monday, June 7, 2010
Beware of bar lighting.
So, I know we here at Get Some While You Can are reeeeeally slacking off on our duties to inform you of all of the mundane happenings of our lives. I, believe me, am the most upset because this means it is just going to take longer for my life to revolve our anonymous blogging and making my billions by making a "SIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNGGGLLLLLEEEEEE!!!!" t-shirt and selling it on the interwebs to support my lifestyle of drinking whisky and watching re-runs of Roseanne.
However, I've got to tell you, that while my biting sarcasm amuses the masses on a day-to-day level, by the time I get home and boot up the ol' HP, all of the funny has run out of me and all I can think about talking about is the fact that I was too tired to make dinner (again) so I ate Wheaties (again). Every once in a while, I'll think of something during the day that, in my opinion, would be hilarious blogging fodder, but once I get home and start a typing away, I realize I don't know funny and that I must have been inhaling paint fumes when I thought it was funny earlier in the day.
Instead, today I'm going to give you a life lesson blog. I'm sure you've heard of the phrase "don't shit where you eat" (I wonder if that would pop up if you typed in "shit" to the cliche finder web site I found for you guys last week). Well, that phrase couldn't be TRUER.
A couple of weekends ago, a friend and I went up to our local Houlihan's to partake in some mild debauchery. The weather was beautiful and we sat out on the patio and listened to the Dave's (two old guys with the same name who play covers for the drunken 20-somethings on Saturdays) playing classic rock after classic rock song. Near closing time, we struck up a conversation with a group of guys, who, after 3 long islands + 3 margaritas + 1 whisky&coke, were mighty attractive. I ended up giving my phone number to one of them thinking, as all women do, what does it matter? Men never call.
Now, perhaps I'm used to watching movies from the 80s where women bitch and moan about how a guy never calls because in 2010, a guy no longer HAS to call. Ah, the invention of the text message. Do you ever wonder if the guy who invented text messaging was some really shy, nerdy guy who could never work up the courage to call a girl? This was his savior. He no longer had to deal with one-on-one rejection. He could read it and assume she said it in the nicest way possible instead of hearing the humor in her voice as she dashed his hopes, dreams and self-esteem.
But, I digress. Homeboy texted me. I texted back. Mild flirtations ensued (because remember, in my mind, he was hunky). And we set up a date for the following week.
The date was lame. Way lame. In fact, the most entertaining part of the night was when, while sitting at the bar getting some post-dinner drinks, one of my "ex-boyfriends" (I use the term "boyfriend" very, very loosely) sat down next to us. As if a first date isn't awkward enough. *Sigh*
Maybe the signs of disinterest weren't strong enough. I understand that the majority of the male population needs things written in neon lights, but I feel that by his age (by the way, he's 6 years older than I am) he should understand that if HE is the one reaching out and making the most physical contact, I'm bored and am already wondering how my crops are doing on Farmville.
Basically, the date sucked and I have no interest of ever seeing him again.
Ha.
Too bad I didn't realize that if you ever meet a guy at a "bar," you will continuously run into him EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU GO BACK. And each time I run into him, he ALWAYS asks "so, I guess this place is turning into your new favorite place, huh?" Yeah, it could be my new favorite place or he could realize we live in the shittiest city in America and the place only has a handful of decent "bars" to frequent.
Now, I have to deal with the fact that a "bar" that I actually do enjoy is infested with him and his cronies and I can no longer go there. Unless, perhaps, I could go with a DIFFERENT guy and homeboy will finally get the picture and quit talking to me? Eh? Too mean? Even for me? Eh, fuck you.
So, moral of the story: don't go on a date with a guy that frequents somewhere you enjoy. I guess this means I can never date a guy who constantly watches Roseanne from my couch.
Call me, miss me, love.
However, I've got to tell you, that while my biting sarcasm amuses the masses on a day-to-day level, by the time I get home and boot up the ol' HP, all of the funny has run out of me and all I can think about talking about is the fact that I was too tired to make dinner (again) so I ate Wheaties (again). Every once in a while, I'll think of something during the day that, in my opinion, would be hilarious blogging fodder, but once I get home and start a typing away, I realize I don't know funny and that I must have been inhaling paint fumes when I thought it was funny earlier in the day.
Instead, today I'm going to give you a life lesson blog. I'm sure you've heard of the phrase "don't shit where you eat" (I wonder if that would pop up if you typed in "shit" to the cliche finder web site I found for you guys last week). Well, that phrase couldn't be TRUER.
A couple of weekends ago, a friend and I went up to our local Houlihan's to partake in some mild debauchery. The weather was beautiful and we sat out on the patio and listened to the Dave's (two old guys with the same name who play covers for the drunken 20-somethings on Saturdays) playing classic rock after classic rock song. Near closing time, we struck up a conversation with a group of guys, who, after 3 long islands + 3 margaritas + 1 whisky&coke, were mighty attractive. I ended up giving my phone number to one of them thinking, as all women do, what does it matter? Men never call.
Now, perhaps I'm used to watching movies from the 80s where women bitch and moan about how a guy never calls because in 2010, a guy no longer HAS to call. Ah, the invention of the text message. Do you ever wonder if the guy who invented text messaging was some really shy, nerdy guy who could never work up the courage to call a girl? This was his savior. He no longer had to deal with one-on-one rejection. He could read it and assume she said it in the nicest way possible instead of hearing the humor in her voice as she dashed his hopes, dreams and self-esteem.
But, I digress. Homeboy texted me. I texted back. Mild flirtations ensued (because remember, in my mind, he was hunky). And we set up a date for the following week.
The date was lame. Way lame. In fact, the most entertaining part of the night was when, while sitting at the bar getting some post-dinner drinks, one of my "ex-boyfriends" (I use the term "boyfriend" very, very loosely) sat down next to us. As if a first date isn't awkward enough. *Sigh*
Maybe the signs of disinterest weren't strong enough. I understand that the majority of the male population needs things written in neon lights, but I feel that by his age (by the way, he's 6 years older than I am) he should understand that if HE is the one reaching out and making the most physical contact, I'm bored and am already wondering how my crops are doing on Farmville.
Basically, the date sucked and I have no interest of ever seeing him again.
Ha.
Too bad I didn't realize that if you ever meet a guy at a "bar," you will continuously run into him EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU GO BACK. And each time I run into him, he ALWAYS asks "so, I guess this place is turning into your new favorite place, huh?" Yeah, it could be my new favorite place or he could realize we live in the shittiest city in America and the place only has a handful of decent "bars" to frequent.
Now, I have to deal with the fact that a "bar" that I actually do enjoy is infested with him and his cronies and I can no longer go there. Unless, perhaps, I could go with a DIFFERENT guy and homeboy will finally get the picture and quit talking to me? Eh? Too mean? Even for me? Eh, fuck you.
So, moral of the story: don't go on a date with a guy that frequents somewhere you enjoy. I guess this means I can never date a guy who constantly watches Roseanne from my couch.
Call me, miss me, love.
Monday, May 31, 2010
It will never be seen on a galloping horse (other fun cliches)
Okay, so I actually had a request for a new blog post. I can't freaking believe it. People love me, they really, really love me!
But, sucks for you, I can't think of any awesome stories or anecdotes for you loverlies, so instead, I give you:
Shit I've Found on the Internet (from now on: SIFONI...hmm, said fast enough, it sounds like "symphony," I take this as a sign): Part Un
The only true way to find shit on the internet is to use "Stumbleupon" or what the fuck it is called. Awesome find #1: "Cliche Finder." Here, you can pop in a word into the search engine and it will find you a cliche that uses the word. What word did I try to find first? Poop. Cliche: Do you have pigeon poop in your ears?
Use it in a conversation this week and report back.
Oh, and P.S. apparently you can hit random and 10 cliches will just appear.
Not-so-awesome find: "This Day in Music" You type in your day and month (ideally, some important date to you) and it will pop up every year's history in music (stuff like #1 hit song, etc.) While typically, this would be AWESOME for me because I do love music, but this shitty ass web site doesn't have my birth year! Is this indicative of my love of music? Did the music die for just one day?
Awesome drinking game find: "The Brainstormer." On this web site, you click the button "random" and 3 wheels spin around and eventually 3 ideas/words match up. Why? Who the hell knows, but we can totally make this into a drinking game.
Go here - http://www.distractionbeast.com/brainstormer.swf
Click "random."
If the outer ring has a word that can be associated with something in current events, take a drink.
If the outer ring has a word that can be associated with the oil spill, make an "Ocean Breeze" and take 2 drinks.
The first person to think of a sexual pose using a word from the outer ring gets to give away two drinks to anyone in the room.
If the outer ring lands on "bottomless pit," it is time for a group waterfall!
If the middle ring has a word that stereotypes someone in the room, make them drink.
If the middle ring has a word that describes the weather outside at the moment, take a drink and give one away.
If the middle ring has a word that describes what you WISH the weather was like, everyone finishes their beverage.
And, because I can't think of anything awesome for the inner ring, just shout out the words, cheers everyone, and take a drink.
As a little extra something, something - if you can think of a wicked awesome movie (with the inner ring being the title and the other two rings being in the description) make everyone else take a shot of whatever they're drinking. If more than one person thinks of a movie, the group can vote on which movie would be better.
Okay, well, I guess stumble bumble bee is having my kind of day and just not being clever. Damn you, Stumble.
Love me, miss me, call me.
But, sucks for you, I can't think of any awesome stories or anecdotes for you loverlies, so instead, I give you:
Shit I've Found on the Internet (from now on: SIFONI...hmm, said fast enough, it sounds like "symphony," I take this as a sign): Part Un
The only true way to find shit on the internet is to use "Stumbleupon" or what the fuck it is called. Awesome find #1: "Cliche Finder." Here, you can pop in a word into the search engine and it will find you a cliche that uses the word. What word did I try to find first? Poop. Cliche: Do you have pigeon poop in your ears?
Use it in a conversation this week and report back.
Oh, and P.S. apparently you can hit random and 10 cliches will just appear.
Not-so-awesome find: "This Day in Music" You type in your day and month (ideally, some important date to you) and it will pop up every year's history in music (stuff like #1 hit song, etc.) While typically, this would be AWESOME for me because I do love music, but this shitty ass web site doesn't have my birth year! Is this indicative of my love of music? Did the music die for just one day?
Awesome drinking game find: "The Brainstormer." On this web site, you click the button "random" and 3 wheels spin around and eventually 3 ideas/words match up. Why? Who the hell knows, but we can totally make this into a drinking game.
Go here - http://www.distractionbeast.com/brainstormer.swf
Click "random."
If the outer ring has a word that can be associated with something in current events, take a drink.
If the outer ring has a word that can be associated with the oil spill, make an "Ocean Breeze" and take 2 drinks.
The first person to think of a sexual pose using a word from the outer ring gets to give away two drinks to anyone in the room.
If the outer ring lands on "bottomless pit," it is time for a group waterfall!
If the middle ring has a word that stereotypes someone in the room, make them drink.
If the middle ring has a word that describes the weather outside at the moment, take a drink and give one away.
If the middle ring has a word that describes what you WISH the weather was like, everyone finishes their beverage.
And, because I can't think of anything awesome for the inner ring, just shout out the words, cheers everyone, and take a drink.
As a little extra something, something - if you can think of a wicked awesome movie (with the inner ring being the title and the other two rings being in the description) make everyone else take a shot of whatever they're drinking. If more than one person thinks of a movie, the group can vote on which movie would be better.
Okay, well, I guess stumble bumble bee is having my kind of day and just not being clever. Damn you, Stumble.
Love me, miss me, call me.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
I have a vagina.
Waiting rooms are kind of the bane of my existence. They're always associated with non-exciting things: doctor, dentist, orthodontist, emergency room, the car place, etc. Of course, how many people out there actually like waiting rooms? Maybe I'm not alone in this. Well, today I have had to sit in (at least) 2 waiting rooms. Here is what they have in common: really bad magazines.
Some waiting rooms try to cater to their demographic, which is sensible and all around a good idea. But, the ones that annoy me the most are the ones that cater to people in the same line of work as whatever office you're in. Let's talk about how this is NOT a good idea. Say I'm a mechanic. Why in the hell would I go to someone else, sit in their waiting room, read their Car and Driver magazine, and let them take money from me for something I can do on my own? Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you City Tire & Wheels. There are plenty of independent women in the world who can get in their air conditioned, automatic cars and drive them to the mechanic to have him change the oil, grunt, spit and fix our tires. Therefore, maybe you should think of putting out some other magazines. And you know, educated people drive cars, too! Where's Time? Or Newsweek? Or my personal fav, Vanity Fair?
But this place gets even better. At least there is a TV in here. So, you've got Car and Driver magazines (and other equally manly reading materials) on the tables and, get this, Martha fucking Stewart on TV. How does this make any sense? Shouldn't Spike TV be on or something to round out this waiting room? *sidenote* Big Bird is the guest right now. Is this their (by their I mean the man) way of enforcing stereotypes? Cause I'd at least rather it be all Oprah all the time.
Alas, the only reason I'm even writing this post is to give myself something to do. I hate having to wait in a waiting room unprepared. Stupid nail in my stupid tire.
Oh, and on a related note, just because I have a uterus doesn't mean you can convince me to buy a bunch of crap for my car that it doesn't need.
/rant.
Some waiting rooms try to cater to their demographic, which is sensible and all around a good idea. But, the ones that annoy me the most are the ones that cater to people in the same line of work as whatever office you're in. Let's talk about how this is NOT a good idea. Say I'm a mechanic. Why in the hell would I go to someone else, sit in their waiting room, read their Car and Driver magazine, and let them take money from me for something I can do on my own? Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you City Tire & Wheels. There are plenty of independent women in the world who can get in their air conditioned, automatic cars and drive them to the mechanic to have him change the oil, grunt, spit and fix our tires. Therefore, maybe you should think of putting out some other magazines. And you know, educated people drive cars, too! Where's Time? Or Newsweek? Or my personal fav, Vanity Fair?
But this place gets even better. At least there is a TV in here. So, you've got Car and Driver magazines (and other equally manly reading materials) on the tables and, get this, Martha fucking Stewart on TV. How does this make any sense? Shouldn't Spike TV be on or something to round out this waiting room? *sidenote* Big Bird is the guest right now. Is this their (by their I mean the man) way of enforcing stereotypes? Cause I'd at least rather it be all Oprah all the time.
Alas, the only reason I'm even writing this post is to give myself something to do. I hate having to wait in a waiting room unprepared. Stupid nail in my stupid tire.
Oh, and on a related note, just because I have a uterus doesn't mean you can convince me to buy a bunch of crap for my car that it doesn't need.
/rant.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Preacher vs. The Apt Management
I'm filling/feeling out this application sheet to live in my apt complex. Although I live in this apt currently, the management is requiring everyone to fill out a NEW AND IMPROVED application form- but they are kindly waiving the fee for all current residents. They had to reach deep down to find this kindness. I mean, I have had some WORDS with these people.
FOR EXAMPLE!! One time I asked them to change the burnt out light bulb in my front entry way. Well, APPARENTLY, that is NOT something they do. I explained to them that the problem was that that is not something I do, either. And you know what they did? THEY LAUGHED! Like I was joking! Pfft. I could see this was an official fight for dominance and I was not going to give up that easily. Since this struggle for power over my apt complex, I call at least once a week asking them to change the light bulb in the front entryway. Because of these weekly calls, 2 things have happened. 1) I learned that my apt complex does indeed have caller ID in their offices and 2) my calls are screened every time I call and I am required to leave desperate messages to a computer generated voice mail. My front entry way has been dark and grim for over 9 months now, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be the first one to give in.
ANOTHER EXAMPLE!! The HOT WATER handle on my sink unscrewed "itself" (I actually think that Samara from The Ring found me and is haunting my new apt now. BACK OFF SAMARA! BACK! OFF!) Well, I immediately panicked and called the apt complex (THANK GOD FOR WEEKEND HELP!) My name was not recognized on the caller ID and my call was answered. I explained that my apt was possibly haunted and as a result the handle on my sink was no longer attached to the sink.
She asked if there was a leak.
No.
She asked if it was actual handle or the "decorative" handle.
Well, I wouldn't call this decorative...
She asked if the part that fell off was white or metal.
White.
She explained that that was only the "decorative" part of the handle and that the hot water function of the sink did not need the "decorative" part to produce hot water.
But it's hideous.
She explained that she would send someone out sometime Monday to fix it for me.
OMG! WHAT?! Can't you send someone now?! It's UGLY!
She explained that she wouldn't use the word "ugly" and that they only did maintenance calls on the weekends for emergencies.
MY MOM'S COMING OVER (lie) AND SHE WILL THINK I LIVE IN A DUMP IF MY SINK IS FALLING APART LIKE THIS!
She told me that if I explained to my mom the difference between the "decorative" part of the sink and the "functional" part of the sink, my mom would understand that the sink is not falling apart.
BUT SHE WON'T UNDERSTAND THAT IT'S NOT UGLY!
She explained it would be fixed Monday.
BUT WHAT ABOUT MY MOM! YOU DON'T KNOW MY MOM!! SHE'S COMING TO-DAY! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!
(This is my favorite part of the conversation)
She then tells me, and I quote, "Ma'am, the events of your life do not constitute an emergency."
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Touche weekend help. You win this round.
Anyway, the application is asking for my height and weight! WTF? This makes me think they're trying to play a cruel joke on the short tubby girl in apt 123. Well, jokes on you apt managers! According to my NOTARIZED "NEW AND APPROVED" application, I'm 5'10'', 115lbs! OOOOOOOH, SNAP BITCHES!
Preacher loves you and the events that constitute your life.
FOR EXAMPLE!! One time I asked them to change the burnt out light bulb in my front entry way. Well, APPARENTLY, that is NOT something they do. I explained to them that the problem was that that is not something I do, either. And you know what they did? THEY LAUGHED! Like I was joking! Pfft. I could see this was an official fight for dominance and I was not going to give up that easily. Since this struggle for power over my apt complex, I call at least once a week asking them to change the light bulb in the front entryway. Because of these weekly calls, 2 things have happened. 1) I learned that my apt complex does indeed have caller ID in their offices and 2) my calls are screened every time I call and I am required to leave desperate messages to a computer generated voice mail. My front entry way has been dark and grim for over 9 months now, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be the first one to give in.
ANOTHER EXAMPLE!! The HOT WATER handle on my sink unscrewed "itself" (I actually think that Samara from The Ring found me and is haunting my new apt now. BACK OFF SAMARA! BACK! OFF!) Well, I immediately panicked and called the apt complex (THANK GOD FOR WEEKEND HELP!) My name was not recognized on the caller ID and my call was answered. I explained that my apt was possibly haunted and as a result the handle on my sink was no longer attached to the sink.
She asked if there was a leak.
No.
She asked if it was actual handle or the "decorative" handle.
Well, I wouldn't call this decorative...
She asked if the part that fell off was white or metal.
White.
She explained that that was only the "decorative" part of the handle and that the hot water function of the sink did not need the "decorative" part to produce hot water.
But it's hideous.
She explained that she would send someone out sometime Monday to fix it for me.
OMG! WHAT?! Can't you send someone now?! It's UGLY!
She explained that she wouldn't use the word "ugly" and that they only did maintenance calls on the weekends for emergencies.
MY MOM'S COMING OVER (lie) AND SHE WILL THINK I LIVE IN A DUMP IF MY SINK IS FALLING APART LIKE THIS!
She told me that if I explained to my mom the difference between the "decorative" part of the sink and the "functional" part of the sink, my mom would understand that the sink is not falling apart.
BUT SHE WON'T UNDERSTAND THAT IT'S NOT UGLY!
She explained it would be fixed Monday.
BUT WHAT ABOUT MY MOM! YOU DON'T KNOW MY MOM!! SHE'S COMING TO-DAY! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!
(This is my favorite part of the conversation)
She then tells me, and I quote, "Ma'am, the events of your life do not constitute an emergency."
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Touche weekend help. You win this round.
Anyway, the application is asking for my height and weight! WTF? This makes me think they're trying to play a cruel joke on the short tubby girl in apt 123. Well, jokes on you apt managers! According to my NOTARIZED "NEW AND APPROVED" application, I'm 5'10'', 115lbs! OOOOOOOH, SNAP BITCHES!
Preacher loves you and the events that constitute your life.
Monday, May 17, 2010
If you unfriend me on Facebook, it may take a while before I realize it.
We all know about my mad love for Facebook. I mean, I think I've talked about it quite enough in the few posts I've written already. But, hell, my life revolves around that precious multi-blue-toned web site. I mean, there are times when I am out having a fabulous time with friends, but all I think about is whether or not someone has "liked" or commented on a post of mine. I just need some validation, people!
So, let's discuss Facebook some more. *Sidenote* Oh God, I really hope that at my funeral I am not only remembered for my love of Facebook. I mean, shit, I did some other stuff while I was alive...right? Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I probably won't even be able to have a real, live wedding. It'll have to be done on Facebook.
Anyway, back to my bff, FB. I'm really selective when it comes to who I "allow" to know the FB version of myself (you know - the one where only the flattering aspects - ie, photos - of you are kept around and all the others become "non-existent" -- because if they're not showing up my page, they no longer exist in the world...yes?). Therefore, I delete people and ignore others ALL OF THE TIME. I feel like you shouldn't be angry with me. It's not my fault that FB cut back on the privacy stuff. If it would just go back to not allowing ANYONE to add me on there, I would never have to ignore you. And ignore you. And ignore you. I feel like there are couple of people out there who are either too dense to realize I've already deleted and then, ignored their requests or are determined to beat down my will.
The real reason I'm mentioning this is that today, I was on a friend's FB page. Well, actually, homeboy is a friend of my brother's. So, I look over at the "mutual friends" tab and see that my brother is not there. WHAT THE FUCK? I live with the ass hat and he has UNFRIENDED ME?! I was two seconds away from storming into the kitchen (where I could hear him rumbling around in) and demand to know what the hell is going on. But, then I started thinking. You know, I get drunk and tend to do some really stupid shit. Like, this one time, I deleted EVERY SINGLE person out of my phone in a drunken attempt to delete only one person. So, now I'm sitting in my room wondering: did I get really drunk and mad at him? (Well, yes, that happens often. I tend to not like my brother in any kind of way when I'm drinking). Okay, well did I get really drunk and mad at him and whip out my Blackberry faster than you can say "Betty White is my Lord and Savior" and delete his ass to show him just how angry I was? I dunno. But, it is totally possible. So, as of now, I will sit in my room and continue to contemplate this before storming in there and throwing a beer bottle at his head.
Call me, miss me, love me.
So, let's discuss Facebook some more. *Sidenote* Oh God, I really hope that at my funeral I am not only remembered for my love of Facebook. I mean, shit, I did some other stuff while I was alive...right? Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I probably won't even be able to have a real, live wedding. It'll have to be done on Facebook.
Anyway, back to my bff, FB. I'm really selective when it comes to who I "allow" to know the FB version of myself (you know - the one where only the flattering aspects - ie, photos - of you are kept around and all the others become "non-existent" -- because if they're not showing up my page, they no longer exist in the world...yes?). Therefore, I delete people and ignore others ALL OF THE TIME. I feel like you shouldn't be angry with me. It's not my fault that FB cut back on the privacy stuff. If it would just go back to not allowing ANYONE to add me on there, I would never have to ignore you. And ignore you. And ignore you. I feel like there are couple of people out there who are either too dense to realize I've already deleted and then, ignored their requests or are determined to beat down my will.
The real reason I'm mentioning this is that today, I was on a friend's FB page. Well, actually, homeboy is a friend of my brother's. So, I look over at the "mutual friends" tab and see that my brother is not there. WHAT THE FUCK? I live with the ass hat and he has UNFRIENDED ME?! I was two seconds away from storming into the kitchen (where I could hear him rumbling around in) and demand to know what the hell is going on. But, then I started thinking. You know, I get drunk and tend to do some really stupid shit. Like, this one time, I deleted EVERY SINGLE person out of my phone in a drunken attempt to delete only one person. So, now I'm sitting in my room wondering: did I get really drunk and mad at him? (Well, yes, that happens often. I tend to not like my brother in any kind of way when I'm drinking). Okay, well did I get really drunk and mad at him and whip out my Blackberry faster than you can say "Betty White is my Lord and Savior" and delete his ass to show him just how angry I was? I dunno. But, it is totally possible. So, as of now, I will sit in my room and continue to contemplate this before storming in there and throwing a beer bottle at his head.
Call me, miss me, love me.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
What Women Want
Or more accurately, what I want. This post should probably be titled "how to get a piece of this hot piece."
Step One. Never call me a piece.
I've noticed that a lot of women will put up a do's and don'ts list for men. Sometimes they even do this outside of their myspace/facebook/twitter/recently published memoirs. Sometimes, they instead blast this from their lungs at every interaction with men, suitor of friend alike.
This is not one of those posts.
This, my sadly numbered audience, is a simple post about one don't that's really be grating my nerves lately
DON'T call me wifey, boo, lil mama, or anything else you've heard in the latest club remix. In fact, please refrain from any terms of "endearment" until you've learned my ACTUAL name. And oh by the way, even then, never use those listed above.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Alcohol makes me feel awesome.
Whoever made alcohol so fun and hurt so bad needs to be taken to the community square and flogged. You know that responsible feeling you get at the beginning of the night, when you're like "Noooo, I'm not going to drink too much tonight. It's going to be a nice chill evening"? Yeah, fuck that and those famous last words. Well, my nice chill evening started at 1pm at a winery. Between six girls, we polished off a good 8-10 bottles of wine. Who doesn't think that is an awesome idea is stupid. I'm not even sure I'm making sense right now.
Seriously, I'm too old for this shit.
Seriously, I'm too old for this shit.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
My terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day
When thinking about my day yesterday, it reminded me of a day that could possibly be classified as being worse than eating ants for lunch. Here's the scoop:
First, I woke up at 6 am barfing.
Second, my alarm (which I'm sure I set with some brilliant planning in my drunken stooper) went off at 845, which gave me approximately negative 10 minutes to leave and be on time to class my first day. Since my alarm went off so late, I thought "well, if you HAVE to miss a day of school, missing the first day WOULD be the best day to miss..." But I thought that would be a bad way to start the new year off-and this was gonna be a GOOD year-, so I sucked it up and went to brush my teeth. Simultaneously, Burly comes walking out of her room in her towel saying "fuck. fuck. fuck." with every step she took. She had to be at work at 9, so we were both running late.
I finally got to school, and couldn't go any further without a diet coke. I needed a caffeine fix in a bad way. So I buy my diet coke for 75 cents (highway robbery) and walk into class 15 minutes late. I walk up to the teacher to grab the syllabus and WHOOSH!-my diet coke falls, splashing everywhere on the floor. Great start.
I look up and the teacher looked PISSSSSSSSSSSED. I couldn't apologize (well, I could have apologized but didn't) and I didn't know her name yet and I couldn't read my syllabus to figure it out because the diet coke had smeared the fresh ink. I was not in a perky mood myself, so I looked up and said, "Look Teach, I know this diet coke needs to be wiped up, and I have every intention of cleaning it, but I really need the caffeine that is now splattered on the floor. So during my trip to the bathroom for paper towels, I'm going to stop by the vending machines and get a diet coke. I'll be right back." Needless to say, I had a little 'talking to' after class...
Then, I get to leave school. So I call Burly to tell her how my day had been so far, and I spot a Dairy Queen. It was like UT had beat OU. I started screaming "WHOOOOO!! WHOOO!!! I'm getting a blizzard! WHOOO!!" It was like, all my problems ever in my life could be solved by this one perfect blizzard I was about to buy. I drive over to Dairy Queen and am sitting in front of the drive through window for what seemed like FOREVER! I started saying "HELLO?! Hello? DOES ANYBODY WORK HERE?!!" Then the lady speaks to me through the speakers and says, "Uh, ma'am. We're not opened until 11." I said, "I'll wait." And she goes, "That's like, 35 minutes..." I was like, "Oh, okay. I'll go." I REALLY need to get a clock in my car...
That plan foiled. So I drove down Stasney and the train crossing rails come down. I'm like, 2 cars back from the bars and the line of cars behind me is piling up. I've never had a problem with Union Pacific. In fact, if I had to choose, they would probably be my favorite train company. But today, they failed me. I'm watching the train go by and I'm thinking, "Wow...this is a looooooooong train. Kinda cool...Is it slowing down. Why is it slowing down? WHY IS IT SLOWING DOWN?!"...then...it stopped. Union Pacific conductors think they own the whole fucking road. Everybody behind me is able to do the turn around, but there was (of course) one freaking car that blocked my way.
A hippie lady.
With dreads.
Driving a Volkswagen van.
All she had to do was turn around, then I could turn around, and we could both be on our merry little ways. But that lady was DETERMINED to out wait the train. So I had to HOP THE CURB in my BUICK in order to turn around. My Buick! The aligning was NEVER the same after that. And all because that hippie lady, probably for the first time in her life, was following through with something; out waiting the Union Pacific train.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Facebook Chat is a trap.
Here's the deal. I'm not a girly-girl. Don't get me wrong, I love curling my hair, wearing makeup, buying shoes (granted, they're Converse and not Gucci) and squealing at high octaves when seeing friends. But, when it comes to relationships, I very much have a "boy" brain. Maybe this is why most of my friends hold off on talking to me about their relationships until they're ready to accept the cold hard truth. Luckily, (well, for your reading pleasure - not for my own sanity) there are some people out there who are unaware of my general pessimism and love for the book "He's Just Not That Into You".
Which brings me to the inspiration behind tonight's blog post. I have thisfriend acquaintance friend's ex-girlfriend who keeps bombarding me on Facebook to...Well, honestly, I'm not quite sure what she wants. At first, it sounded as if she was asking for advice about what to do to get him back or if there was even a chance. Then, she got me after some big talk they had (via Facebook, so we're, like, 16 again), she was telling me about how "she blew it with him." Honey, you didn't blow it. You never had it. I told her the guy is a selfish asshole and she's better off without it. Move on, sweetie. Her response? It would be so much better if he were an asshole, then it would be easier. He's not an asshole because he keeps apologizing for hurting me! **blink, blink** Is she serious? I kind of want to photocopy the pages to chapter 8: "he's just not that into you if he's breaking up with you" and mail them to her. Or maybe just the title page because it is all right there in the heading.
What am I saying? I don't really know. Perhaps I should make sure that every guy who is slightly interested in me reads this book. Maybe I just want to make sure that every female out there HAS read this book. Maybe that would prevent me from having to be bitchy mcbitcherson all of the time. Or from being told "Yeah, but..." There is no "but." We are the rule, not the exception.
Now onto me praising this book. I've been friends with lots of guys through the years. This book nails each and every one of them right on the freaking head. Guys are not complicated. Girls are complicated. Guys don't "mean" things, they say what they mean. Girls are complicated. Guys will make it known whether they're into you. Girls are complicated. The sooner everyone gets this and lives it, the better my life will be.
Miss me, love me, call me.
Which brings me to the inspiration behind tonight's blog post. I have this
What am I saying? I don't really know. Perhaps I should make sure that every guy who is slightly interested in me reads this book. Maybe I just want to make sure that every female out there HAS read this book. Maybe that would prevent me from having to be bitchy mcbitcherson all of the time. Or from being told "Yeah, but..." There is no "but." We are the rule, not the exception.
Now onto me praising this book. I've been friends with lots of guys through the years. This book nails each and every one of them right on the freaking head. Guys are not complicated. Girls are complicated. Guys don't "mean" things, they say what they mean. Girls are complicated. Guys will make it known whether they're into you. Girls are complicated. The sooner everyone gets this and lives it, the better my life will be.
Miss me, love me, call me.
Not-So-Happy Mother's Day
So, I lied on my last post. I am NOT computer savvy- AT ALL! Every freaking time I want to post something I have to ask Dragon Slayer for assistance. I'm not sorry I lied. I was trying to impress you people. Given our steady number of "followers", that is a near impossible feat.
Anyway! I'm having "one of those days". I just looked at my bank account and realized that I have 30 bucks to "play with" for the next two weeks.
What. The. Fuck.
I can't live off of 30 dollars of groceries over a two week period. How am I supposed to keep up the PARTY-ALL-THE-TIME lifestyle I've grown so accustomed to?! Also, Mother's Day is coming up this weekend. Do home-made arts&crafts still count as heartfelt gifts?
"Happy Mother's Day, mom."
"What is it?"
"It's a vase filled with flowers."
"It's an empty vodka bottle with grass in it."
"Aw, no need to get all mushy. You're worth it."
Yeah...looks like I'm about to be written out of the will. On another pissy-day note, I'm 95% sure I saw at least 4 ants crawl out of my Lean"Comfort Cuisine" lunch. I ate it anyway because I'm pathetic and was slightly hungry.
Preacher loves you and you're out-dated ant farm.
Anyway! I'm having "one of those days". I just looked at my bank account and realized that I have 30 bucks to "play with" for the next two weeks.
What. The. Fuck.
I can't live off of 30 dollars of groceries over a two week period. How am I supposed to keep up the PARTY-ALL-THE-TIME lifestyle I've grown so accustomed to?! Also, Mother's Day is coming up this weekend. Do home-made arts&crafts still count as heartfelt gifts?
"Happy Mother's Day, mom."
"What is it?"
"It's a vase filled with flowers."
"It's an empty vodka bottle with grass in it."
"Aw, no need to get all mushy. You're worth it."
Yeah...looks like I'm about to be written out of the will. On another pissy-day note, I'm 95% sure I saw at least 4 ants crawl out of my Lean"Comfort Cuisine" lunch. I ate it anyway because I'm pathetic and was slightly hungry.
Preacher loves you and you're out-dated ant farm.
Monday, May 3, 2010
BLOG post # 2 and still apologizing!
SOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry for my extended absence! I see we still have a WHOPPING 4 "followers" who have immensely missed my take on everyday life situations.
What happened was, I recently acquired a new male roommate. His name is Flesh Colored Beard (from hear on out he will be refereed to as FCB). I've had 8 different roommates in my time- all female. 3 out of 8 of my ex- roommates and my relationship have ended greatly! We're still friends and sometimes chat on g-chat and ask each other about our boyfriends. The other 5 out of 8 of my ex-roommate's and I's relationship have ended with sobs and/or law suits, but I've matured since then and am no longer bitter. (BUNCH OF FUCKING COWS!).
ANYWAY, the point is, the fact that all my roommates were female and had full access to my computer never caused a problem. I give FCB my password and less than a week later, i have a virus that eats through all my computer shit. (Sorry for using the technical terms. I'm what some might call a computer guru and I get carried away with the computer language.) I tried to explain to FCB that, just like in real life, when dealing with shady people/websites, one MUST be careful and use the proper protection or else you WILL get pregnant and die. Well, FCB did not heed my advice and so my computer died.
But I'm back on track now (CAN I GET A WHOOP WHOOP!) and am ready to continue BLOGging.
Peace in the Middle East, mother fuckers!
Preacher loves you and you're porn-obsessed roommate.
What happened was, I recently acquired a new male roommate. His name is Flesh Colored Beard (from hear on out he will be refereed to as FCB). I've had 8 different roommates in my time- all female. 3 out of 8 of my ex- roommates and my relationship have ended greatly! We're still friends and sometimes chat on g-chat and ask each other about our boyfriends. The other 5 out of 8 of my ex-roommate's and I's relationship have ended with sobs and/or law suits, but I've matured since then and am no longer bitter. (BUNCH OF FUCKING COWS!).
ANYWAY, the point is, the fact that all my roommates were female and had full access to my computer never caused a problem. I give FCB my password and less than a week later, i have a virus that eats through all my computer shit. (Sorry for using the technical terms. I'm what some might call a computer guru and I get carried away with the computer language.) I tried to explain to FCB that, just like in real life, when dealing with shady people/websites, one MUST be careful and use the proper protection or else you WILL get pregnant and die. Well, FCB did not heed my advice and so my computer died.
But I'm back on track now (CAN I GET A WHOOP WHOOP!) and am ready to continue BLOGging.
Peace in the Middle East, mother fuckers!
Preacher loves you and you're porn-obsessed roommate.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
LOLOL - its complicated!
To start off the evening, I would like to get something incredibly important off of my chest. I hate "LOL." Like, genuinely despise the acronym. I want the acronym to go play with "Imma Be" in traffic. Or be thrown into the oil spill prior to the oil being burned up. Or be made into tablet form and thrown into Rush Limbaugh's typical diet. Do you get it? Which one is it, anyway? "Laugh out loud" or "Lots of laughs." OMG, I don't fucking care.
In other news, today I competed in the Warrior Dash. Description: something about mud, sweat and beer. I really don't think you can get any more accurate than that. The race was held out in small town USA, where the people are supposed to be friendly and inviting. Well, that's bull shit. Small town USA can kiss my ass. If I have to hear "this is private property" one more time, I may consider buying the adjacent land and pointing speakers at their house/business on remote control so that I can blare "Imma Be" - on repeat - and stop it right before the Sheriff's Department can roll in and do something to stop it permanently. I would gladly pay that fine, either way.
Can you freaking believe it is May? I have been unemployed for over 2 months. Is it possible for your muscles to atrophy even though you still get up and walk to the bathroom/kitchen? My mom's couch has a permanent indention of my ass. I keep telling myself I need to rotate the cushions, but then I remember that I don't give a shit and I'm far too lazy to muster up enough energy and determination to stand up for the 3 minutes to accomplish this feat.
Hhmm, is it becoming more clear as to why I'm unemployed. How did I not get laid off sooner?
- Its Complicated is damn funny and you need to watch it immediately.
Speaking of, why was that phrase ever thought up? Every relationship is complicated, so Facebook might as well take away "married to," "in a relationship with," "engaged to," etc and have the only option be "Its complicated with" and "Its complicated" (for those "sssssiiiiiiinnnnggggggllleeee!" people out there).
Okay, Dragon Slayer - out.
Love me, miss me, call me.
In other news, today I competed in the Warrior Dash. Description: something about mud, sweat and beer. I really don't think you can get any more accurate than that. The race was held out in small town USA, where the people are supposed to be friendly and inviting. Well, that's bull shit. Small town USA can kiss my ass. If I have to hear "this is private property" one more time, I may consider buying the adjacent land and pointing speakers at their house/business on remote control so that I can blare "Imma Be" - on repeat - and stop it right before the Sheriff's Department can roll in and do something to stop it permanently. I would gladly pay that fine, either way.
Can you freaking believe it is May? I have been unemployed for over 2 months. Is it possible for your muscles to atrophy even though you still get up and walk to the bathroom/kitchen? My mom's couch has a permanent indention of my ass. I keep telling myself I need to rotate the cushions, but then I remember that I don't give a shit and I'm far too lazy to muster up enough energy and determination to stand up for the 3 minutes to accomplish this feat.
Hhmm, is it becoming more clear as to why I'm unemployed. How did I not get laid off sooner?
- Its Complicated is damn funny and you need to watch it immediately.
Speaking of, why was that phrase ever thought up? Every relationship is complicated, so Facebook might as well take away "married to," "in a relationship with," "engaged to," etc and have the only option be "Its complicated with" and "Its complicated" (for those "sssssiiiiiiinnnnggggggllleeee!" people out there).
Okay, Dragon Slayer - out.
Love me, miss me, call me.
Thank You for Being a Friend
I should probably echo the earlier apology on my behalf...
Actually I'm not sorry. My Ute does what it wants, when it wants. There is no controlling, and if I have to deal with it, I'm certainly not going to apologize for it.
But another rant is not my purpose here today. Instead, I wanted to let the world in on a little secret. Drum roll please..... THERE ARE GOLDEN GIRLS GREETING CARDS!
That's right. Be impressed right now. And while I can't confirm that they are in wide distribution, I can tell you that a novelty shop in Chelsea sells them right next to some leather and chains.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Apologies, Comrades
Um, I just wanted to take a second to apologize for Maverick. She isn't well.
But, also, it reminded me of this:
But, also, it reminded me of this:
Violent Revolution
Disclaimer: Not appropriate reading for the male gender, or really anyone who is queezy at the thought of discussing "the Ute".
So here I am, at work, minding my business on a rainy day when lo and behold I get hit like a ton of bricks by my period. And this isn't your run of the mill, a little cranky a little tired a little bloated period. No, this is the kind that makes me consider a self-administered hysterectomy using the chopsticks that came with my lunchtime soup dumplings. My Ute is in full on gorilla warfare mode and is taking no prisoners. If ever there were a documented case of XX chromosomal rebellion, this is it.
Now to combat this problem, I palmed the recommend dosage of Midol in preparation -- hoping to head off homicidal tendencies at the pass. The over the counter drug has indeed done its job in that regard, with one minor side-effect.... I'm now high off my ass. This is from a girl who has never done an elicit drug but who does hallucinate off Nyquil. Laugh if you will.
"Ha ha, you talk to your teddy bear when you take Nyquil."
"Ha ha you see slow motion lines following you hand right now while you're at work."
It's all fun and games until you have to do anything productive... like focus on something other than that tingling feeling creeping up my arms.
In other news, I leave you with this old email change that always brings a laugh to my day when I hit that time of the month. It's a letter written by a very disgruntled Texas woman to the Always corporation.
Dear Mr. Thatcher,
I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the Leak Guard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts.
But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can’t tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body
will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.’ Isn't the human body amazing?
As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the
bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying, jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy!
The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy
Period.'
Are you fu*ing kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned
above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James?
FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.
For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn’t it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bull sh*t. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Preacher takes the pulpit
I would like to welcome my self to this very INCLUSIVE* club of only the super-ist bad ass people in the world. At least that's what Dragon Slayer, formerly known as The Beloved, try to convince me of when she signed me on to this BLOG.
What I'm trying to say is my first post to this BLOG is more of an apology. I'm sorry for my shitty grammar. I'm sorry for my excessive use of quotation marks and to a lesser extent my over use of commas. Lastly (and most certainly leastly), I'm sorry for offering those little trick or treaters floss and toothpaste while selfishly pouring an entire bag of M&M's down my throat even though I hate M&M's...twice.
*I see there are only 4 "followers" of this BLOG, 3 of which are "contributors".
**I save the COPY option exclusively for when I'm trying to plagiarize someone else's more intelligent/already edited work.
Preacher loves you and your whore of a mother.
Friday, April 23, 2010
SIIIIIIIIIIIIINNGLLLLLLLLLEE!!!
I'm not embarassed easily. People do a lot of things to me or around me and I try to find the humorous parts in it so that I won't hang my head and hope I never see the people around me again. I learned a long time ago that the chances are I will NOT see those people again. Also, I just don't give a damn.
That being said, I have got to tell you a story that involves an embarassment (maybe not so much MY embarassment) and hilariousness (yeah, it's a word).
It was May of 2009. One of my friends from law school was soon to be a Mrs. and I, along with the entire wedding party (all, what, 25 of us?) and friends and family of the bride and groom were pre-partying at the rehearsal dinner at a fabulous italian restaurant in downtown Austin, Texas.
Okay, let me back up for a second. You see that I wrote "law school." Yes, it is true, I was in law school. I had also withdrawn from law school before this wedding. Also, I had every intention of NOT drinking at the rehearsal dinner because I had to be up at 7am the next day and would never have a chance for a nap (as the wedding was at 2pm).
Now, back to the rehearsal dinner. It started becoming a free-for-all in terms of toasts. If you felt so compelled, you could stand up with your glass and tell a story about the bride and/or groom. Well, groomsman after groomsman continued to stand up and tell stories about the groom. I, after about 3 or 4 glasses of wine, was getting irritated that no one was standing up and saying anything about my girl. So, I took it upon myself to get up and regalemy audience the diners of stories about the bride. I stood up and said: "Okay, well I was getting sick of hearing so many stories about the groom, so I felt it necessary that one of her friends say something about the bride. When I first met the groom...." And I dramatically paused awaiting the onslaught of laughs, claps and murmurs about how funny that girl is, when all I was met with were crickets. And pins dropping. And I believe I could hear "woo girls!" on 6th Street two blocks over. I was tempted to tap at my "microphone" and ask if this thing was on. Actually, I think I might have. I may have also started quoting, "Bueller? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?" But, alas, I persevered and kept going about how the groom called me a bitch and we became friends instantly. Then, I went on to tell of how I met the bride. "The bride and I went to law school together. Please note the past tense of that word. We went to law school together. I dropped out. Guys, I'm SIIIIIIINNNNNGLLLLEEE!!!!" At this point, another friend of mine from law school and fellow bride's attendant, started tapping me in the arm and whispering "Just say Congratulations and sit down." Hell, why stop there? I had to try to redeem myself. Which I did. And teared up over my own sentimentality (but, I won't bore you with that crap).
Now, let's move onto the reception. I was at the bar getting a refill on my whisky and coke, when a group of guys walked up next to me. A couple of them were groomsmen and a few others were mere mortals. One of the groomsman recognized me, looked to his friends and said, "Guys! This is her! The 'I'm Single!' girl!" Yes, my notoriety was already spreading.
Since then, I hear more and more jokes about that night - even from people who weren't even there! Apparently, even the groom, on his honeymoon, would randomly shout out "SIIIIIIIIINNGLLLEE!!"
And yes, dear readers, I am still single.
That being said, I have got to tell you a story that involves an embarassment (maybe not so much MY embarassment) and hilariousness (yeah, it's a word).
It was May of 2009. One of my friends from law school was soon to be a Mrs. and I, along with the entire wedding party (all, what, 25 of us?) and friends and family of the bride and groom were pre-partying at the rehearsal dinner at a fabulous italian restaurant in downtown Austin, Texas.
Okay, let me back up for a second. You see that I wrote "law school." Yes, it is true, I was in law school. I had also withdrawn from law school before this wedding. Also, I had every intention of NOT drinking at the rehearsal dinner because I had to be up at 7am the next day and would never have a chance for a nap (as the wedding was at 2pm).
Now, back to the rehearsal dinner. It started becoming a free-for-all in terms of toasts. If you felt so compelled, you could stand up with your glass and tell a story about the bride and/or groom. Well, groomsman after groomsman continued to stand up and tell stories about the groom. I, after about 3 or 4 glasses of wine, was getting irritated that no one was standing up and saying anything about my girl. So, I took it upon myself to get up and regale
Now, let's move onto the reception. I was at the bar getting a refill on my whisky and coke, when a group of guys walked up next to me. A couple of them were groomsmen and a few others were mere mortals. One of the groomsman recognized me, looked to his friends and said, "Guys! This is her! The 'I'm Single!' girl!" Yes, my notoriety was already spreading.
Since then, I hear more and more jokes about that night - even from people who weren't even there! Apparently, even the groom, on his honeymoon, would randomly shout out "SIIIIIIIIINNGLLLEE!!"
And yes, dear readers, I am still single.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Dragon Slayer likes your status.
I love the ability I have to "like" things on Facebook. I actually feel we don't have enough of that power. Not only do I want to "like" people's statuses, activities and photos, but I want to be able to "like" comments on statuses. When will those Harvard nerds get on this??
Maybe it's because I'm unemployed and have extra time to troll the internet or maybe it is merely because I love liking, but I have gone overboard with this fun feature of Facebook. In fact, I find myself trying to figure out where the "like" feature is whenever I see someone's gchat status. I WANT TO LIKE IT! NOW!
My Facebook friends have started commenting on my lightning fast speed of liking various activities. I'm afraid they're going to come at me with an intervention and change the password to my account so that I can't get on (a la Kirstie Alley). OMG, just the thought of it has me hyperventilating a bit.
In other news, I'm required to do five job searches a week to qualify for unemployment (thanks, US Government!). But, with me not knowing what I want to do when i grow up, I've been stalking Craigslist and applying to various personal assistant jobs because I think it'll be as glamorous as it is in Entourage (I would gladly make mad love to Ari Gold). Well, someone took the bait and sent me an email in response to my resume (which is so damn impressive, I must say).
Here are some snip-pits (which, I must ask - is that the accurate spelling of that? It's what Firefox told me...) of this glorious email this guy sent me:
"This position is home-based and flexible, working with me is basically about instructions and following them, my only fear is that I may come at you impromptu sometimes, so I need someone who can be able to meet up with my irregular timings."
Okay, pause. I was a Journalism major. I've indicated as much on my resume. Journalism = grammar. But, okay, sir, please continue.
"I'm sure you'll understand I tend to have a very busy schedule at this point, as I am presently in Canada and i will be back in Three Weeks time."
Three weeks time? Who is this guy?
"I think you're the right person for this position, (Wait, what position is that?) Please note that this position is not office based for now because of my frequent travels and tight schedules, it's a part-time work from home and the flexibility means that there will be busier weeks than others, so it's a little difficult judging the exact number of hours you'll be doing per week."
Okay, seriously. Who is this guy?
"As I have said, I'd want us to get a head START with things as soon as possible. (I don't remember him saying that) I do have lots of works piled up presently and a number of unattended chores which you can immediately assist me with, I hope we can meet up with the workload eventually. Permit me to use this week to test your efficiency and diligence towards all this, also to work out your time schedule and fit it to mine.
Keep in mind, this guy still hasn't told me what it is that he does! I'm scared. Did I give this guy my address? Shit.
"I'm online most of the time as I am hard of hearing (Fuck, now I feel like an asshole) so I prefer we contact each other through E-mails, but if there is need for me to call, i will be glad to do that. I have been checking my files and what i would want you to do for me this week is to run some errands out to some of the orphanage home. I do that every month. "
What's the word for big asshole? 'Cause that's what I feel like now.
The email was much longer than this and included a "job description" which I was to sign and get back to him. How can I sign a job description when I don't even know what kind of work this guy does? And who hires someone without at least talking to them? And who works for someone without some kind of a guarantee that he/she will be compensated?!
Okay, no more Craigslist for me...
Miss me, love me, call me.
Maybe it's because I'm unemployed and have extra time to troll the internet or maybe it is merely because I love liking, but I have gone overboard with this fun feature of Facebook. In fact, I find myself trying to figure out where the "like" feature is whenever I see someone's gchat status. I WANT TO LIKE IT! NOW!
My Facebook friends have started commenting on my lightning fast speed of liking various activities. I'm afraid they're going to come at me with an intervention and change the password to my account so that I can't get on (a la Kirstie Alley). OMG, just the thought of it has me hyperventilating a bit.
In other news, I'm required to do five job searches a week to qualify for unemployment (thanks, US Government!). But, with me not knowing what I want to do when i grow up, I've been stalking Craigslist and applying to various personal assistant jobs because I think it'll be as glamorous as it is in Entourage (I would gladly make mad love to Ari Gold). Well, someone took the bait and sent me an email in response to my resume (which is so damn impressive, I must say).
Here are some snip-pits (which, I must ask - is that the accurate spelling of that? It's what Firefox told me...) of this glorious email this guy sent me:
"This position is home-based and flexible, working with me is basically about instructions and following them, my only fear is that I may come at you impromptu sometimes, so I need someone who can be able to meet up with my irregular timings."
Okay, pause. I was a Journalism major. I've indicated as much on my resume. Journalism = grammar. But, okay, sir, please continue.
"I'm sure you'll understand I tend to have a very busy schedule at this point, as I am presently in Canada and i will be back in Three Weeks time."
Three weeks time? Who is this guy?
"I think you're the right person for this position, (Wait, what position is that?) Please note that this position is not office based for now because of my frequent travels and tight schedules, it's a part-time work from home and the flexibility means that there will be busier weeks than others, so it's a little difficult judging the exact number of hours you'll be doing per week."
Okay, seriously. Who is this guy?
"As I have said, I'd want us to get a head START with things as soon as possible. (I don't remember him saying that) I do have lots of works piled up presently and a number of unattended chores which you can immediately assist me with, I hope we can meet up with the workload eventually. Permit me to use this week to test your efficiency and diligence towards all this, also to work out your time schedule and fit it to mine.
Keep in mind, this guy still hasn't told me what it is that he does! I'm scared. Did I give this guy my address? Shit.
"I'm online most of the time as I am hard of hearing (Fuck, now I feel like an asshole) so I prefer we contact each other through E-mails, but if there is need for me to call, i will be glad to do that. I have been checking my files and what i would want you to do for me this week is to run some errands out to some of the orphanage home. I do that every month. "
What's the word for big asshole? 'Cause that's what I feel like now.
The email was much longer than this and included a "job description" which I was to sign and get back to him. How can I sign a job description when I don't even know what kind of work this guy does? And who hires someone without at least talking to them? And who works for someone without some kind of a guarantee that he/she will be compensated?!
Okay, no more Craigslist for me...
Miss me, love me, call me.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
I'm too old for this shit
Tuesday night I was watching some great season 4 HIMYM and the premise of the particular episode was creating a Murtaugh list of things you're too old to do. Think Lethal Weapon and Officer Murtaugh constantly saying "I'm too old for this shit." My point for telling you this is that the episode was a fantastic foreshadowing to my Wednesday night/Thursday morning.
I spent today hungover at work. And I'm too old for this shit.
Sure, drinking a tower of beer while bowling and following it up with bottles of wine at the cheesiest place in Manhattan (Red Lobster at Time Square), was fun in the moment. The problem is that the moment passes and then you're choking back nausea sucking on a Pedialyte Popsicle trying to rehydrate. Let's face it, having your boss tell you not to puke near her because she'd give it up too... not the way to fast track your career to the executive office.
There was a time when getting too drunk for your own good on a Wednesday night was acceptable (college). There was also a time when hangovers the next day didn't suck so damn much or take so long to get over. I already feel like I'm 50 when in reality I'm only half way there.
But I'm still too for this shit... not that that's going to stop me.
My Coming Out Party
So the other one introduced herself, which makes it my go.
I'm not here to be famous or be discovered. Truth be told, I'm already pretty badass and most people know it. [poetic license anyone?]
In actuality I'm just a girl making her way through life the best she knows how, trying to make a difference, have a few laughs, and collect an awesome set of friends along the way. I live in New York City, which is quite the chuckle most days. I'm a jeans and flip flops kinda gal making it in a stiletto city. Go figure. If nothing else, the subway rides alone will be plenty of fodder for this blog.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Willkommen is to Welcome as Schlampe is to...
Welcome, welcome. Go ahead and kick your heels up (but please put them immediately down, you're scuffing up my fancy Ikea furniture). I hope you're open-minded and not easily offended. Want to know a little bit about me? I'm twenty-something, beautiful, unemployed, crazy smart and live in a shitty city that I can't wait to get the hell out of.
The main purpose of this blog is to become famous. Is there any other real reason for starting a blog? Actually, I guess there are other reasons, I'll just highlight the ones that I, personally, see far too many of.
1) The Tracking Family Blog.
This blog is started by a new mom who lives in a city not occupied by most of her family/close friends. Most entries contain pictures of the little bundles of joys in varying stages of life and very little text. They're also really peppy. And really make me want to vomit.
2) The Artist Blog.
These blogs showcase the amateur or professional artwork of those wounded souls who are merely looking for validation in their sad little lives. If you ever come across one of these blogs, you must comment. You must comment happy, encouraging things unless you want to hear that some random artist was found dead in their loft apartment.
3) The Sports Commentary Blog.
The best variation of this blog is the "all-female" cast of writers. Supposedly, this is some great spin on what ESPN and other major news networks can offer because it's females, right? Incorrect. It's actually just a couple of females who are so hardcore in proving they're not girly that it is basically just a couple of dudes talking about sports, but intervening every now and then with OMG Hawtness.
But enough of that, do you wanna see this awesome painting that my nephew drew while watching the Mavs v. Spurs game?
So, back to my becoming famous. In reality, I just need someone to come along and decide to sponsor this fun little shindig so that all I do during the day is wait for someone/thing to irritate me (HA!) and write it out into words for all of you lovelies to enjoy. I wouldn't even have to leavemy my mom's couch.
Oh, and Post to the Scriptizzle, this blog is meant to be anonymous. So that potential employers who are actually interested in me won't stumbleupon it and reject my unemployed, smartass ass. That being said, if you know who I am, keep your damn mouth shut (Love you, mean it).
Miss me, love me, call me.
The main purpose of this blog is to become famous. Is there any other real reason for starting a blog? Actually, I guess there are other reasons, I'll just highlight the ones that I, personally, see far too many of.
1) The Tracking Family Blog.
This blog is started by a new mom who lives in a city not occupied by most of her family/close friends. Most entries contain pictures of the little bundles of joys in varying stages of life and very little text. They're also really peppy. And really make me want to vomit.
2) The Artist Blog.
These blogs showcase the amateur or professional artwork of those wounded souls who are merely looking for validation in their sad little lives. If you ever come across one of these blogs, you must comment. You must comment happy, encouraging things unless you want to hear that some random artist was found dead in their loft apartment.
3) The Sports Commentary Blog.
The best variation of this blog is the "all-female" cast of writers. Supposedly, this is some great spin on what ESPN and other major news networks can offer because it's females, right? Incorrect. It's actually just a couple of females who are so hardcore in proving they're not girly that it is basically just a couple of dudes talking about sports, but intervening every now and then with OMG Hawtness.
But enough of that, do you wanna see this awesome painting that my nephew drew while watching the Mavs v. Spurs game?
So, back to my becoming famous. In reality, I just need someone to come along and decide to sponsor this fun little shindig so that all I do during the day is wait for someone/thing to irritate me (HA!) and write it out into words for all of you lovelies to enjoy. I wouldn't even have to leave
Oh, and Post to the Scriptizzle, this blog is meant to be anonymous. So that potential employers who are actually interested in me won't stumbleupon it and reject my unemployed, smartass ass. That being said, if you know who I am, keep your damn mouth shut (Love you, mean it).
Miss me, love me, call me.
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