The Hot Librarian

It's actually just his hair's Twitter

2010-11-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

My niece would straight up murder me if she saw this.

I had a dream last night that everyone had Hepatitis except for me and I had to figure out if it was Hep. A, B, or C. I drove around the city on a motorcycle painted like the U.S. flag, solving medical mysteries. Then I rode the motorcycle off Justin Bieber's hair, topless but for a pair of strategic sparklers placed just so.

See it's quality writing like that which gets Justin Bieber's hair to follows me on Twitter. Next up I shall get Robert Pattinson's European satchel to follow me and I will retire into obscurity.

Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly

2010-11-09T14:24:00.000-08:00

On candystripe legs the spiderman comes

softly through the shadow of the evening sun

stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead

looking for the victim shivering in bed

searching out fear in the gathering gloom and

suddenly!

a movement in the corner of the room!

and there is nothing i can do

when i realize with fright

that the spiderman is having me for dinner tonight!

If you've read here for any length of time you'll recall a great enmity exists between me and spiders. I consider myself in a war with anything that has eight legs, even if it were a bizarre eight-legged cloneman who was grown in a lab specifically to give his extra legs to unfortunate legless vets. I would war with that freak too, as well-intentioned as he may be, what with his leg donations and freakishness. That is not natural, my friend. Laws of nature exist for a reason and who are we to add extra legs to people when spiders have clearly shown us that the more legs you have the more evil your soul becomes. You see what I'm saying.

The other week I was cleaning the bathroom and I picked up a pile of clothes that I had cast aside when getting ready for the shower and I carried it into my room and threw the pile on my bed. Promptly arose from the heap a terrible being and Spiderdick was its name. "This aggression cannot stand," I told Spiderdick in a panicked screamy voice meant to intimidate.

I looked around desperately for some sort of poisonous chemical or smashing shoe but there was nothing in the immediate vicinity. Never bring a tissue to a spider fight is my motto. You bring chemicals and fire and anvils and extra fire made more powerful with an aerosol propellant.

If you've ever warred with a spider, especially one that has laid claim to your bed, you know that one can never, ever take one's eyes off him. You would do so at your peril, for the spider is wily and prone to disappearing into blankets like a ninja into a really big can of black paint.

The only weapon I had at my disposal was my cat, a known spider slayer of the first order, who at the moment was sitting next to my bed dispassionately licking her paw and plotting how to better show me her complete disdain. Instantly I knew what had to be done.

I would, using a blessedly thick copy of In Style magazine, flip the spider off the bed and onto the floor where eons of evolution would kick in and Fangs o' Destruction would do what she did best. How could this plan fail, I cackled to myself as I swiped at Spiderdick with the giant magazine.

Spiderdick had not gotten my carefully crafted memo RE: SPIDERDICK'S IMPENDING DOOM and instead of complying ran across my bed and down between the wall and the mattress. Oh good on you, THL! Jolly great showing there! Now you have to burn down your bed and also your whole room.

Word of Spiderdick's victory spread through the arachnid world and soon I found that Spiderdick2 had taken residence on the ceiling of my shower. Well played, spider foe. Spy on me, naked and defenceless, and plot your next attack.

Have you ever taken a shower, usually a time of great relaxation, with a spider leering over your shoulder like Joe Francis salivating over a pile of underage trucker hats? It brings about a feeling quite the opposite of relaxation, a feeling some people call "hopeless dread."

The Return of Spiderdick has stayed in the same unreachable ceiling corner for days. We eye each other warily at every run in but as long as I know where he is, I know he can't kill me.

The other morning I shuffled into the bathroom for morning ablutions, bleary-eyed and half-awake, but not so asleep that I didn't first check to make sure Spiderdick Numero Dos was where he was supposed to be. Waiting for the shower to warm up, I lowered the toilet seat lid and sat there, and then noticed a pile of clothes I had left on the floor from the previous night's shower. I picked up the t-shirt and that's when I was ambushed by the unexpected Spiderdick Number Three, The Spiderdickening, WHO PROCEEDED TO RUN UP MY ARM OMFG. And Spiderdick Two sat in his ceiling lair and laughed like a Bond villain, with the pinky to his pursed lips and everything.

At least my cat, excited by the early morning fracas, came running and heeded my cry to battle, which sounded a lot like, "FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKGETITOFFFUCKFUCKFUCKKKKKK." She ripped Spiderdick 3 to pieces as Spiderdick 2 watched and I hoped it was like in the movie 300 when Captain Artemis' son Astinos was killed right before him. I hope Spiderdick3 was Spiderdick2's beloved eldest son. You hear me, Spiderdick2??????? I HOPE YOU SUFFERED A GREAT PERSONAL LOSS.

From this experience I've learned one thing: Never move a pile of clothes. So basically I plan to leave everything on the floor until it's just a giant teeming hive of spiders and I will find new lodging. Did you know there is an old Quaker saying, "If you want to live and thrive, let the spider run alive"? Yeah well that just proves the old adage "Never trust a Quaker".

I am doing ladies' things right now

2010-11-08T14:29:00.000-08:00

My coworker has been mad at me for a week and I couldn't figure out why. I asked her what was wrong and in typical fashion she said, "Nothing!" which I recognised as being one of those "lies". But since you can't punch things out of a coworker, I had to let it be. Turns out, unsurprisingly to me, she was mad. At me, of all people. Because she thought I left her a note for her on my desk when she came to cover my lunch.

Frequently I write myself notes throughout the day, things I find funny or things I want to write about, because lately I seem to have the memory of whatever animal has the worst memory - I forget which animal that is. Which is also why I don't remember what I was going to do with the post-it note that said, "SOD OFF." My coworker thought it was a message to her and said, "I had to look up what it meant and then I knew it was written by you because it's foreign." Ooo, foreign intrigue and insults! My specialty. I told her if I was going to insult her I would do it to her face, in her very own language.

You know what name is cool? Lincat. I helped someone with that name today. Frankly I think that name was made up but I couldn't prove it. I had to take her word for it. I'm keeping my eye on her though. I will try not to tell her to SOD OFF, unless I decide to do so.

Do you ever wish you could break out into maniacal laughter in a crowded but silent room and then quickly put your head down and continue working as if nothing had happened? Yeah, me either. What kind of weirdo would do that.

So my mother has fully discovered the internet and the world of blogs this past week. It was just a matter of time before she discovered that the internet was more than Yahoo mail and adorable Youtube videos of praying dogs. She's decided to help me by sending me links to blogs about people who are similarly cursed with gluten allergies.

It's only a matter of time before she finds me, right? I have a low level of terror always coursing through my veins at that thought, a level which could spike immediately as she slowly begins to connect the dots ..."Oh look dear! This girl has celiac disease and is a librarian also! With blonde hair and an insane older sister and...wait a minute. This couldn't be you because of the foul language and the (whisper) breast references...but...that's a picture of your dog, and your cat..." and then she would trail off as she dropped the phone and booked herself the first flight to straight up smash my face into a jelly.

Quick housekeeping note: somehow I was included on a list of the Top 5 Funniest Amateur Blogs on the Web on a very cool website called makeuseof.com. I am definitely an amateur who appreciates being included on that list. Check them out, if you promise not to ditch me for the other probably funnier people on that list. Hello and welcome to any new readers, and a huge thank you to all my old readers who have stuck around for a long time. I love you in very inappropriate ways.

Libraries are a good place to meet babes who wear glasses or contacts

2010-11-05T14:46:00.000-07:00

Favourite things said or written to me lately:

You're funny, for a librarian.
You're quite eloquent but also sadly an idiot.
My husband and I have a list of people were allowed to have sex with and you're on both of our lists.

It's true, librarians are not known to be jesters in the court of the king. I used to be funnier before I became a librarian but little know fact: When you graduate with your MLIS degree and they issue you a hair bun, your prim cardigan, your eye glasses on a chain, and your shushing finger of judgement, they make you turn in your sense of humour and also your will to live.

I am, sadly, an idiot. I've done so many foolish things I can't begin to argue with that one. I once ate a corn and mayonnaise sandwich on gluten-free bread for god's sake. My latest idiocy involves breaking my foot in two places by simply running at the gym. But I got Vicodin for my troubles so it was all worth it. After this foot heals I'm looking into lesser-needed bones I could break.

My coworker, she of the 1980s stirrup pants and the sellotaping together of cigarettes, she of the incessant carrot crunching and the wearing of her husband's letterman jacket from high school even though she is age 48, is the person who informed me of my status as "OK To Fuck" on her Cheating Exception List. After I shot myself with a snubnosed .38 I keep in my desk for just such an occasion, I smiled wanly at her and prayed for a Harry Potter invisibility cloak for my escape.

Today I had a conversation that involved the phrase "ample amounts of semen" and for once I wasn't the one saying it. I can't really tell you what the conversation was about, mostly because I wasn't listening and only thought that's what my coworker said. It was actually not what he said at all, which led to an interesting Three's Company-style misunderstanding.

I find it hard not to laugh when a man puts on Chapstick.

Mark my words, this day will end in a Götterdämmerung

2010-10-27T13:04:00.000-07:00

People are really pushing the hell fuck out of my buttons today.

1. Someone brought a yippy dog into work. I love dogs but the constant yipping is wearing at my soul. Yippy dogs could be used for torturing people. Don't waterboard terrorists, yippydogboard them. Just dunk their heads in a vat of little barking dogs.

2. No one listened to me when I said something was going to be a problem and now it is a bigass assbig problem. For me, basically and mostly and pretty much only. Mmmm...yay!

3. Two douches that constantly harass me decided to come in on the same day. Yeah double-team harassments! So amazing. So fun for me.

4. I ate all the orange and yellow Starbursts. AND WHY DID I DO THAT. I still have Smarties but I think the sugar is eating away the roof of my mouth and I should probably stop with those. I guess this isn't a people problem as much as it is a candy problem. Unless we count "me" as the problem and we won't be doing that unless we (you) want swift punches to the jaw.

This probably arouses Communists.

5. Want to hear my idea for the book I'm writing? It's going to be called "Adventures in Sexual Harassment: What Assbags Think Is OK to Say to a Woman That Sits at a Desk". Here are just a few of the gems you will read:

a. "I'd like to paint your pumpkins!" (ostensibly because I was wearing an orange t-shirt and BOOBIES LOOK LIKE PUMPKINS TEEHEE).

b. "I wish I had your job, you just sit there!" Yeah it's so weird how I was so dumb I had to get a Master's degree in SITTING. How do I buckle my belt in the morning? I probably have help. Yet it's so cool that they pay me just to sit here. I'm must be the bestest sitter in all the land.

c."Work work work work work work HELLO BOYS have a good night's rest, I missed you!" Which made no sense to me until someone told me about Blazing Saddles.

Besides all of that, everything is jolly with me. I watched the movie Splice this past weekend solely because of this hilarious review and let me tell you jaw + floor until the end of time for days, Adrien Brody, FOR DAYS it was horrible.

The creature they spliced together was called Dren and looked like this:

U KNOW HOW SEXY TEENS CAN BE!

The ending clearly left things open for a sequel, so I turned to Mr. Smith and said, "Next up, SPLICE 2, THE SPLICENING," and he goes, in a Super Mario voice, "That is one SPLICEY meatball!" and I died and simultaneously pictured a Splice-y meatball in my head.

"I AM NOT A DOUGHNUT."

Those are supposed to be wings coming out of my SUPERMEATDREN but I'm sure you think she has some spaghetti stuck to her arms or whatever. Whatever man. They're fucking wings. Fucking menacing ones.

Can you fall asleep with a panic switch?

2010-10-22T13:36:00.000-07:00

I need to invent a word for the dread one feels the second after sending a naked photo of oneself to someone else. Did I choose the right name from my address book or did I just send my tits to Grandma? Did my iPhone yet again fuck me over via auto-complete and accidentally send my ass to a stranger? That wild fear is better than five tons of caffeine shot directly into the carotid.

There should also be a word for the desperate shamealarm one feels when one loses one's phone somewhere and, when realising it's gone, then pictures whoever has found it looking through all the photos stored on it. "I didn't know someone could...bend like that!" Oh yeah. Someone can bend like that. And someone can never shop at this grocery store again. Never ever ever ever ever. Actually, who am I kidding? That someone should strut proudly around that store. That someone has world-class knockers and is gymnast-flexible.

Not that I know about any of those things.

You know what bothers me? When the word "featuring" is abbreviated "feat." Like, "Liberace and John Denver, feat. Lil' Wayne". I always read it as "feet" and I just don't like it. Featuring is a weird word anyway. Say it a lot, you'll see. Americans say it like "feeeechurring". FEECHUR FEECHUR FEECHUR.

I almost apologised for my latest spate of disjointed ramblings but then I decided I am tired of apologising. I spend too much time apologising. Part of the reason Apology Disease exists more in women than men is most girls aren't inoculated against it. They're infected at an early age with the subtle and not-so-subtle cues that they should be sorry. Sorry for speaking up, for being too provocative, for talking too loud, for being too angry, for hurting people's tender sensibilities, for not smiling enough, for being too attractive, for not being attractive enough, blah blah blah.Who gives a shit anymore. I'm weary of caring.

I'm sick of saying sorry for things I'm not sorry for. If I should be sorry, I'll be sorry. I'm trying to stop apologising for things I'm quite glad to do. I would be sorry if I sent my tits to my grandma, however.

I'm working on my resolutions for the new year and not being sorry is one of them. The upside of not sleeping much is I've discovered the joys of not shutting up and feeling no regret over it. It seems my civility is just an illusion created by a well-rested state. Or maybe keeping my mouth shut is what keeps me up at night.

That's all John, sweetheart.

2010-10-21T15:09:00.000-07:00

I hope someone can help me understand something.Why is this look, as described by that beauty website, considered a "sexy librarian" hair and makeup look?

Is it the glasses that make you a librarian? Or is it the bows in the hair? What is librarian makeup anyway? According to these pictures if you want to look like a librarian (because you think... that's a good thing?) you need to make out with Jenna Jameson, mug a dirty hipster for his eye wear, and tear some bows out of a random kid's hair. And then look totally insane in a plaid blazer.

Sexy.
It's weird how I thought I had to get a master's degree in order to be a librarian when it appears all I really needed to do was borrow glasses from Elvis Costello, style my hair like a primary school student, and use Pamela Anderson's lipstick (which I don't actually advise you do unless you want a nasty virus). Don't forget your snappy plaid blazer. If you want to be a senior librarian I think all you have to do is put your hair in a bun and wear glasses on a chain around your neck. Instant promotion! Cardigan over the shoulders=Queen of the Librarians. Being a librarian - I'm doing it wrong.

Glasses on...librarian. Whip them off...normal person. Magical, powerful glasses! Just like sunglasses have the power to turn David Caruso into the lovechild of Columbo and Sherlock Holmes. The biggest mystery to me is why someone would want to look like a librarian. I work with librarians. Overall it's not a look you want to emulate. How many other professions besides nurse and teacher are fetishised like this? Ooo look at me, I have some overalls on and a plunger in my purse, I'm a sexy plumber! I don't want to imagine what 'sexy plumber makeup' would consist of.

So I bought apples and healthy fucking food yesterday and then promptly forgot all of it at home so this was my lunch today. Mmmm, nutrition.

Fruit-flavoured things count as fruit, right?

Do you ever get interesting email? I do. Por ejemplo:

"Hi

I seen your blog and you wished for people to e-mail you, here I am, and you are hot.

yes and my coch is 7"

norm"

Everyone has a weakness. Superman had his kryptonite, Ronald Reagan had his jellybeans, and me? As Norm intuitively sensed, my weakness is 7" coch. It was a weakness I thought I had cleverly hidden but Norm wasn't fooled.

I don't know what to call this. Sorry.

2010-10-19T15:54:00.000-07:00

If I had dick I would probably feel self-conscious about it after glancing at my spam folder:

1.Make your dick longer than the Great China Wall with Penis Enlargement! Hey, I love cock as much as the next girl but I think a dick you can see from outer space might be a little much. Unless you plan to make love only to Chilean mines and sinkholes in Guatemala.
2. Anything less than 6 inches is shameful. Well that's mean! But sort of true if we're talking about four inches or less.
3. Small penis? So long, dillweed. If something bad happens and for some reason I need to start dating again, I'm using this line on a blind date. Trust me on this.

Nothing will make you fear for your job more than walking into a room and seeing several coworkers huddled around a computer monitor and when you yell, "Y'all aren't watching HORSE PORN again, are you?" having them not laugh but instead glare at you because they're actually reading the obituary of a former coworker. That was an uncomfortable silence.

In other related work news, someone just asked me if we did recycling here, which we do, and handed me a bunch of garbage to recycle. Um...no. Walk your happy ass down three hallways and do it yourself. What do I look like, someone who does things for your dumb ass? Wrong.

In even more exciting workplace news, someone left a plastic bag containing PRUNES and a piece of PIZZA in a study room. Don't believe me? Check this shit out.

You know these aren't mine because I would sooner hug Nixon's corpse than eat a prune, and though I dearly love pizza, that's obviously a pizza crust that has gluten in it. You can tell by how delicious it looks.

I like where your head's at, man.

2010-10-18T16:02:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of problems today, problems I'm solving with the liberal use of Halloween candy. The healing powers of Halloween candy have not been fully documented by science yet, but they will. Oh yes, they will.

So what are these problems I have, you (don't) ask (but I'm answering anyway)? Well first of all, the demon gluten has once again found it's way into my system as evidenced by the way I can't sleep at night and the way my lips are chapped and cracked and the way one of the cracks is so deep it looks like my mouth is trying to form another mouth, which is, by the way, as gross as it sounds. I don't mean to consume gluten but that shit is everywhere and despite my due diligence I'm pretty sure I am being poisoned. It wasn't the Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick after all! It was GLUTEN all along. So that's a problem. It's not a problem on par with say, having no limbs, but it's a small problem in my personal life since gluten can kill me. Slowly, painfully, cripplingly. You know, the way soulless broads try to kill men.

My second problem is connected with my first problem, in that lack of sleep is making me very unlikely to be nice. I guess that's not a problem for me as much as it's a problem for everyone else, but I feel as if I should care about it, even if I'm too tired to do so at this present time. In the past, when actually minding my own business, I've been accused of being a bitch so many times I've decided to just go ahead and be that, but when I'm tired I take bitchiness to a level requiring a response far beyond Defcon 1. We're going to need a new word for the level of defensiveness people are going to need. I propose "superwary vigilianceguard 3000".

The bitch level is elevated today and there is high risk of attack. We're talking beyond the red level that usually indicates imminent attack. Is puce a colour? Does it give you a sensation of warning even greater than red? This is the level we are at today. Activate your superwary vigilanceguard 3000 because we have reached puce. Puce is a gross word.

I've already unleashed annihilating invective out my window at several cars I deemed worthy of it, and I even asked someone on the phone if they were "for real". IN A WITHERING TONE. Yes I brought out my withering tone and once you've been withered by me you won't soon forget it.

I feel a digression coming on. Oh no.

Speaking of withering people, ladies have you experienced this phenomenon? Former boyfriends, or guys you dated briefly, whom you've dumped (or guys who just thought they were dating you even though you weren't really actually doing that) who come back constantly to try to rekindle a relationship, sometimes years later? What is that all about?

There has been only one man I've dated who hasn't tried to get me back (and he is breathtakingly dumb so I'm not sure if he's even found his way out of a paper bag yet, much less figured out how to contact me again) and I don't understand the phenomenon at all. I've been dumped only once (and he didn't even fully dump me, just cheated on me and then offered to let me join him and his new lover) and I would sooner lick a beehive filled with black widows than to ever set out to try to get him back, or even to look at his execrable face.

Do you ever wonder what makes someone become obsessed with someone else? I do. Is obsession born when the desired is unattainable? Or do obsessed people never really see the object of their obsession as a real person but rather merely an idea they've constructed out of little else than misunderstandings and wishes? What makes that person believe there are no other people on earth who can satisfy them like the person(s) they're consumed with? Ah, questions.

It's always fascinated me that a person who inspires outpourings of the loftiest romantic idealisation can just as quickly bring out the darkest emotions in someone. I've never understood how someone can say they want to hold you close and then whisper they want to fucking tear you apart.

If you're the person being pursued you might wonder what you did/do to inspire this feeling in someone else, and you might blame yourself for it. Perhaps it's not your fault. Maybe the other person is Patrick Bateman. Maybe he hides his cold gaze and you can shake his hand and feel flesh gripping but really he simply is not there. Maybe he is looking into your living room, wondering what it is he did to make you move in across the way from him.

I got an email from a guy I dated ten years ago telling me he's never stopped thinking about me and how he knows we'll get back together one day and how his friends tell him to stop talking about me all the time and I haven't even thought about him once in 9 years and 9 months. He was a giant dick when we dated. He left me at 1 am in a parking garage, running after him begging him to stop as he drove away. On my birthday. He says he'll never be happy without me.

I might be insane. I need to sleep tonight. I can tell how tired I am by the way I'm not shutting up. In conclusion, here's a dolphin hunchback with a mullet and lightsaber fins. For Chappy.

Let the following serve as a cautionary tale of the devastating effects of insomnia and gluten-poisoning.

2010-10-13T15:12:00.000-07:00

Lately I feel like I'm going insane. That's not hyperbole, I really feel I've driven several miles down the highway leading straight to the town square of Mental Illnessville. Oh sure, part of the reason for that feeling is because I'm a woman and everyone knows that all women are cracked. We know this because men have scientifically discovered that vaginas are the factories where crazy is made. And no one, least of all a woman, can argue with such things as science. The other reason for my crazy can probably be chalked up to the fact that I haven't slept for days and I'm probably totally gluten-poisoned (what? it's a real thing) right now. Or perhaps, just maybe, it's because most people are horrible and my face is really dumb. Does it really matter why, though? I feel like I'm losing my mind.

Feeling insane when you very desperately need to keep it together isn't as enjoyable as you, sane person, might imagine it to be. Sure it looks all punk rock and romantic when Edgar Allen Poe (who allegedly died of "brain congestion" which is a perfect description for what I'm feeling right now) and van Gogh did it, but in the throes of the mania it feels different. Less awesome. It hurts when you cut off your own ear, for one thing, and the wave of immediate crushing regret that washes over you like an alcoholic's bile is also less than pleasant. After the thrill of I CUT MY FUCKING EAR OFF I AM A GOLDEN ONE-EARED GOD! you're just ear-less and alone in a cold world where people look askance at ear-free people. Plus you hear like 50% less sounds.

The problem is even if you have a legitimate reason for feeling crazy and you know what that reason is, it doesn't change the fact that you are still going insane. You can tell yourself all day long that what you think you see isn't actually reality, except what you see sort of is your reality even if it's not real.

This inevitably leads you to start thinking that the loved ones who tell you what you're seeing isn't true are the real loonies and only YOU see the truth. The beaten but not yet down for the count logical part of your mind will then step in to tell you the most likely explanation is you're the certifiable one, not everyone else. That's when you have the sickening realisation you are possibly as mad as a March hare. How March hares got the reputation for madness is a story for another day.

Once you've accepted you're the wacky one of the bunch, you have to try to ignore the hateful thoughts that burble up inside you like bat stew in a witch's cauldron, boiling up in your face at the most inconvenient times such as when you're supposed to be polite to the patron you would rather beat with his own shoe and you must instead pretend everything is A-OK! but inside you want to hurt yourself or someone else or just break everything breakable you can put your hands on, or cry until you hate yourself for crying.

Then as an extra 'fuck you!', your brain has a brief moment of sense and you will look at yourself and wonder what the fuck, just what the fuck is wrong with you??? You're not a Chilean miner, for fuck's sake. You live on Easy Street. There are people with real problems and you aren't one of them. That's when the shame comes in, which makes you continue to want to throw things at your own face, just for different reasons now.

And you get up the next day from yet another sleepless night and the horrible thoughts start again and you just want to run away from your life. But instead you write down this embarrassing shit and hope people won't laugh at you/be frightened of you/hate you/have you committed.

Whilst writing out your feelings (gag) you also try to cheer yourself with little two-piece Halloween fun packs of Starbursts until you tear open 50 packets only to realise that every godforsaken candy is RED OR PINK WHEN YOU ONLY LIKE THE ORANGES AND YELLOWS. So you crumple to the floor and lie there surrounded by Starburst wrappers and you contemplate making someone pay for this insolence. Then you pick yourself up and draw an MS Paint picture instead to make this all seem silly so people don't think you are going to jump off a bridge.

An Insomniac's Gluten-induced Delusions Expressed in MS Pain...t

This is a face on insomnia and gluten. Note the moon-like quality of the head as it threatens to lift off into space and enter Earth's rotational pull. The atmosphere around this moon appears to be made of pure frizz. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul and these windows show us a blood-shot soul filled with frazzle and many desires to punch. Did this poor soul, in a sleepy fog, put purple eyeshadow under the eyes instead of on the lids? No, it's just that when the Sandman decides not to sprinkle sand in your eyes so you can blessedly sleep, he instead applies a rifle butt to each eye just to let you know he fucking hates you. And then you wake up and squeal with glee when you realise you have to go to work looking like a drunken Irishman's wife after being taught a lesson for yelling at him for losing the rent on the pokies. (That's a slot machine to you poor unfortunate non-Aussies.)

Haha see because all Irishmen are wife-beating drunks that gamble! It's okay to make up untruths about the Irish because they are pale and have a high incidence of gingers.

When one isn't sleep deprived, one's eyebrows seem even and approximately the same, but not on Day 3 of No Sleepageddon. Oh no. They're like two totally different eyebrows, as if one brow was unceremoniously ripped from someone else and then sewed to your unfortunate face and TOO HIGH AT THAT, FRANKENBROW. Way too high. Which makes one seem inquisitive and surprised, but only on one side. Which frankly comes off more as merely "unhinged".

Let's not even talk about the eyelashes. They're like...whatever.

What moon is complete without craters? On a normal day you would remember that everyone has pores and that they're supposedly beneficial to skin or some such nonsense, but today they look like you walked through a meteor shower with your face. Who needs a hot tub? Just boil some water, pour it in and hop into a luxurious spa made entirely from a pore. Bring friends and Bud Lights. Do it up right.

Don't worry, if you don't sleep for days it's not going to turn your nose into a triangle. I just can't draw.

If you have Celiac Disease and somehow have eaten gluten, your lips will be chapped. As hell. The dead skin can actually form the word CHAPPED, as you see there.

You'll get the idea to draw your moon face lying in a pile of Starbursts filled with red and pink candies but your lack of drawing skills coupled with your lack of any semblance of patience mixed with constant interruptions from people who think you are supposed to do work will cause you to draw one Starburst package, realise it's too small to even fit the word Starburst on it, which has the effect of making you progressively and angrily write the letters bigger and bigger instead of erasing and drawing the package over again. You do this in lieu of hitting yourself in the head with a brush.

You can't solve all your problems by shooting someone or setting a stranger on fire. Sadly.

2010-08-30T11:49:00.000-07:00

Is there a better way to describe my Monday mood than an MS Paint picture? Words are sometimes impotent.

Yes, my head blows up like an apoplectic pumpkin when I get mad. One of my eyes begins a sneaky slide sideways from my great expanse of peevish face. My neck goes into the Witness Protection Program leaving my incensed arms to jut out irately from my fractious tomato head. My hair flies up in a furious electrostatic cloud as if an unseen fan is supporting it. My nose leaves my face altogether, bound for happier lands. What, you don't get a Bert from Sesame Street unibrow when you get angry? Well bully for you.

I do not like my sinuses today. I don't want to talk about it but that's the main reason my face looks like it's been stepped on by a jackbooted Neo-Nazi. Pardon me whilst I throw staplers at passersby. Dear god, coworker, are your thighs sawing lumber right in my face or are you the proud owner of the World's Loudest Pants? Bloody facking hell.

I once woke up in the National Air and Space Museum with a revolver in the waistband of my jean shorts

2010-08-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

I used to lust for Paul Walker until I realised he was deformed:

I did not realise Paul Walker's career was at such a low point that his contract now required him to photoshop his own movie posters.

Totally unrelated to Paul Walker, but I distinctly remember inventing this:

except in my invention the wheels of individual cars could lift up so you could drive over other cars in bad traffic situations. But it's basically like the same exact thing as this. I would link you to the post where I wrote about this IF I COULD ONLY BUT FIND IT. But I cannot. Yes I will be suing the Chinese government at some point over this.

Do you think anyone would notice if I wore this at work? I really want to wear this at work. I really need to wear this at work.

Happy Friday!

Look how drunk I am and how full of cheese my mouth is!

2010-08-26T16:11:00.000-07:00

Let's jump right into this, shall we? I disappeared again for a long time. I sure did do that. I have reasons, most of which included such things as "it's summer and there was drinking to be done", annoying work responsibilities, sadness due to having to put my dog to sleep (not Claudine but Lucee), and other various and sundry things. Let's not not dwell on the past though, okay? Because it makes me feel bad. You don't want to make me feel bad, do you? Eh, don't answer that.

Don't think you haven't been on my mind during my absence. I can prove this by the existence of emails I've sent myself, emails filled with ideas of things to write about once I had a chance. The problem is, much like in the past when I've done this, my notes make little sense to me now.

Note #1:
"Nothing Iron John did seemed to affect the outcome. He was wary, he rose and scurried off along with another human footstep. Midgets, the growl of straining motors as it started to open, twisted a bit further. It looked as though even the stolid Captain was..." EVEN THE STOLID CAPTAIN WAS WHAT? I AM ON TENTERHOOKS.

"Midgets ...twisted a bit further"? How? No, why?? (Is there anything more unnatural than the idea of a twisting midget?) What does "the growl of straining motors" have do with the midgets, and what do we make of this part: "as IT started to open" - what is the it that is opening? Who the hell is Iron John? I think this was a spam email. Even so, I really wanted to know what the stolid captain was about to do.

Note #2
"That porn - he washed his wang before the BJ and IT WAS SO DARK, like UNNATURALLY DARK compared to the rest of his skin OMGOMG"

Okay, I do remember a bit about this. I watched an amateur porn this guy filmed of himself getting a blow job, but before the shenanigans started he filmed himself washing his flaccid wang in the sink. Why? WHY? It's called editing, sir, you should try it. And the wang, my god the wang - it was four shades darker than the rest of his body. Decidedly unsexy, Dark Wang Man.

Note #3
"pants buffalo sausage"

I really wish I remembered what this meant.*

Note #4
"I entered her secret garden and banged her while her guy waited."

I think this was spam, or maybe it was an entry from my private journal recounting the night I went over and banged your girlfriend whilst you waited at the Appleby's. Sucker.

*I just remembered what pants buffalo sausage was! This guy came into the library and said, "Do you want to taste some of my sausage?" which is a question I hear more often than you would think, and before I could punch him right in his sausage, he pulled out a huge baton of actual sausage from his pants pocket and, with a dirty penknife, cut off a slice and handed it to me. "It's made from buffalo meat," he said, waiting expectantly for me to taste it. Now I am a lot of things but one thing I am not is a girl that eats a slice of a stranger's buffalo pants sausage. I made that abundantly clear.

Don't ask*

2010-06-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

*All I'm going to tell you about this is that it's a MEATBALL.

Meth, handbags, and thievery*

2010-06-27T13:03:00.000-07:00

*It's not what it sounds like.

I have a lot of things on my mind today. First and foremost, how am I going to come up with $539? Keep in mind I will sell methamphetamine if it comes down to that. No of course I won't! That would be wrong, I think. I have heard there might be a bit of a frowning upon when it comes to that activity.

It's just that I need a handbag and the one I want is $539. Well, I want other ones that are quite a bit more but I'm trying to be realistic. Except $539 isn't really realistic either if I'm supposed to also keep eating and paying bills, which society keeps making me do. Stupid society.

Another thing causing me consternation is as follows: I wish I had never heard the word "vuvuzela" because I can't stop saying it in my head. It's even worse than the time I couldn't stop saying "Mephistopheles" to myself, which was terribly annoying and also frightening because I thought I might one day summon Satan out of sheer repetition of his name. That would be quite a rude surprise, I think, to open one's eyes after a night of saying "MEPHISTOPHELES" over and over to see a demon goat covered in blood and sin and horns and flames, looking all irritated and shouting, "WHAT DO YOU WANT." At least now I'll only be summoning a giant, annoying plastic horn that sounds like a distressed hornet.

Another thing I've been thinking about is someone who is copying my writing. Why do you do that, copytwat? Don't you think it would be very much better if you came up with your own thing? It's not that I think I've invented words or writing, but I do believe one knows when one is straight up copying someone's ideas and style, except to add insult to injury the person copying me (and I believe they know I'm talking about them since they seem to hang out here a lot) does it really terribly.

Oh CopyTwat, at the very least you should try to do your idea stealing well, if you're going to do it. Apparently your parents decided not to teach you to "do one's best". Perhaps that was the same day they decided not to teach you to come up with your own original ideas and instead decided to concentrate on thievery.

Oh but anyway! Cheaters never profit, they say. Except that they do pretty much all the time. Well I have my ideals, at least. And an old handbag. So I...win.

I don’t know, she’s kind of a loose cannon and I like to surround myself with people who don’t try to stab me

2010-06-24T15:00:00.000-07:00

Oh hello! Whatever have you been up to? WHERE DID YOU GO? Hmmm? It's been simply ages since you've read me, hasn't it. Why would you just go away, you terrible wayward person? Sort of rude, don't you think? What? I was the one who disappeared for simply ages? Oh. Ooops. Well, I'm terrible, Muriel.

Where have I been and whatever have I been up to is most likely the question before us. I'm extremely tempted to tell you a very elaborate and super true story of intrigue and sexiness but then I would have to hunt you down and I would have to eliminate you and that would be a bit of a bother for me and rather unpleasant for you.

I was summoned for jury duty, an angering situation that almost resulted in fisticuffs and neck stabbings. Up until last week I had never made it to the jury box to be questioned and judged as to my suitability for being on a jury, so I was not acquainted with the tricks of getting out of jury duty, something I desperately wanted to get out of, being that it was a Friday and I have a very low tolerance for boredom and for being held against my will and forced to do civic duties.

The case was a stupid case of a stupid person who wanted to stupidly claim he/she was asleep whilst somehow simultaneously driving, the sleeping which would serve as the stupid yet convenient excuse for the speeding and the running of several people off the road and the driving on sidewalks and shoulders and the hitting of curbs, and other such things that off-duty cops, I get the impression from testimony I heard, frown upon.

The judge and the attorneys ask you if there are any reasons why you might not be able to be fair and unbiased in the case - any sort of circumstances in your past that might lead you to have problems being able to serve on the jury. My mind promptly became a barren wasteland of memories.

I was questioned and I somehow FORGOT that my cousin was KILLED BY A RECKLESS DRIVER. Had I remembered this in a timely fashion I would have most assuredly been dismissed. Why didn't I remember that rather gigantic event? Yeah, that's a good question. I remembered it the second they moved on from me and went to the next person. And I couldn't really think of any way I could believably interject: "Excuse me, Judge, your Majesty, I just remembered...my cousin was killed by a reckless driver so I would like to change my answer to 'I am very biased and cannot be fair.' Is that cool with everyone? I'm just going to collect my things and get on out of here, if that would be lovely? Thank you in advance, your Highness."

Blessedly it was a short case and to me it was rather clear as to what the verdict should be; I had not accounted for the fucktwats that would be my fellow jury mates. When you go into the deliberation room (a room with no windows and no hope, just a table and chairs and a few idiots), you might believe that the other people on the jury would have heard the same testimony as you and would come to the same conclusion, and quickly at that, but you would be very wrong.

I was soon filled with dread as three stupid motherfuckers decided they just didn't think the person was guilty, I mean, people fall asleep all the time whilst driving for ten miles and that's totally normal and not at all reckless because if you're asleep you can't mean to purposely drive dangerously because you're not awake, after all! So let's discuss this for an hour and a half, complete with totally irrelevant personal stories and let's request maps of the area because that will somehow prove or disprove something and also let's just babble on endlessly to hear ourselves talk because who cares if it's Friday?

I caressed my pencil and looked about for something to sharpen it because I greatly desired to plunge it deep into the neck of the person next to me. I then had a long and elaborate fantasy about holding the pencil shiv to someone's neck and taking them hostage so I could get out of the court house. I didn't end up having to do that - it was touch and go for a while - but if I did this story would have ended very differently and more interestingly and with 100% more stories of my upcoming trial.

Scenes From Today

2010-04-15T15:22:00.000-07:00

One
I helped someone named Crystal Cream, who was not, to my knowledge, a stripper. I found this out after trying to stuff dollars in her bra and leering, "SO IS CREAM YOUR STAGE NAME???" No but seriously I'm just saying - her parents really dislike her.

Two
I started a new game between myself and my coworkers, who incidentally do not know they're playing a game. In this game I give them giant, toothpaste-commercial-fake smiles when they're looking at me and the minute they turn around I make a super-exaggerated angry bitch face. This is also known as my "usual face." The game is fraught with danger as I've been caught in mid-bitchface several times by coworkers who turned around abruptly.

Three
I have added another allergy medication to my arsenal! It's the kind the hillbillies use to make meth. You have to sign out for it at the pharmacy and they swipe your driver's license to make sure you didn't just purchase 4000 packets at the pharmacy down the street. I wanted very badly to ask, "So hey...is there a limit to how many of these babies I can get?" whilst picking at my face and twitching nervously with darting eyes. I didn't only because I didn't want them to decide not to give me the Sudameth. I have no shame unless it messes with my ability to procure drugs.

Four
I'm having a lot of thoughts today. I wonder if it's bad for me to take all these allergy medicines at once? I'm probably stopping and restarting my heart a million times a day. How could that be bad? OMG I CAN TYPE SO FAST.

Dancing Bananas and Possible Road Rage

2010-04-14T20:31:00.000-07:00

I'm on a lot of allergy medication right now so please take that into consideration whilst reading. I must put a disclaimer on anything I do these days because I don't want to be held responsible for any of it. If someone asks, "My God, what is wrong with her?" I want us all to be able to say (breezily), "Oh it's just all the allergy medicines she's on, you know!" This will make us more comfortable in awkward situations, I think, and absolve me of any responsibility.

So there I was, heavily medicated on three different allergy medicines, driving (ill-advisedly but I had no choice) when I saw a great dancing banana on the side of the road. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again, fully expecting the giant dancing banana to be replaced only with chilling doubts as to my sanity, yet the dancing banana remained. "Oh, this is a nice turn of events! I am not insane," I said to myself.

The dancing banana was holding a sign that said "Honk if you love Jamba Juice!" Well there's nothing I enjoy more than a frosty Jamba Juice so in my mind I said, "Yes, Banana Dancer, I will honk for you," and I began to honk with enthusiasm. My gaze being quite fixed, as I think only makes sense when one sees a dancing banana on the side of the road, upon the sight of the large yellow lad, I neglected to notice the car in front of me had stopped to allow someone to turn into a parking lot. This man did not take kindly to my profuse honking, believing it to be directed at him, so he completely stopped his car in the middle of the road and got out.

Now stopped myself, I must confess I became rather excited at this point, for what had seemed to be a rather dull day indeed had quickly turned into something quite extraordinary. Dancing bananas and possible road rage! Things were looking up. If nothing else I would have a bloodied nose and a story to tell.

The beefy man (complete with short neck and surly brow) stopped at my bumper and threw up two impudent middle fingers at me. Through my open window I tried to explain the reason for my copious honking (whilst laughing - not a very effective way to believably explain something to an enraged person, as it turned out), which only served to exasperate him further.

At this time the Banana Dancer, feeling responsible for the situation we now found ourselves in, tried to mollify Mr. BrowAnger with a little jig and a smile and a wiggle of his sign. This did not have the intended effect. Bananas may be delicious frozen and covered in chocolate but they do not soothe a savage beast.

Mr. ShortNeck ran up to Banana Dancer, fists clenched as if ready to punch. I held my breath and reached for my door handle, ready to fly out and defend, of all things, a banana. Instead of punching Banana Dancer, however, BrowNeck just shook his fist in Banana Dancer's rapidly yellowing face, turned abruptly on his heel and stomped back to his car and drove away in a huff.

Banana Dancer and I stared at each other wordlessly before I waved and honked one last time as I drove into the sunset. (Complete disclosure: It was actually mid-morning, but it doesn't make much sense to say "as I drove into the high, mid-morning sun" now does it?)

I AM A STABBING ROBOT. I WILL STAB YOU.

2010-04-07T15:06:00.000-07:00

Random notes to myself I recently found:

1. Kidney beans can go straight to hell. They should not pass go or collect $200 because their money will be no good in hell.

2. Hairless dog armpits

3. Found out why GF bread doesn't toast

4. You look stupid here.

5. Nobody wants this? Oh people.

6. Seems you like it all!

7. Teaching a robot how to do the robot.

Here's what I remember about these notes:

1. I really really hate kidney beans and people put them in shit where they do not belong (like anywhere outside a dumpster). I assume yet again someone put kidney beans in something I wanted to eat, rendering it inedible.

2. I had plans on writing about my dog's hairless armpits. I even had pictures of them but I deleted them because she was very angry when she heard about my plans. She was all:

3. I did find out why gluten-free bread doesn't toast but I don't remember the reason now. I guess I should have written that down. It had something to do with science.

4. I don't know what I was talking about here but that phrase could be the caption of 99% of photos of myself so I'll just imagine that's what it was about.

5. No idea but I think I'm going to start saying, "Oh people," in a disappointed, world-weary way.

6. No clue.

7. I think this was a dream I had.

Did you take an Ambien with your Franzia and sleep walk here?

2010-04-02T13:20:00.000-07:00

As I've stated before, dreams are interesting only to the dreamer. No one wants to hear about the dream you had where the toast came alive and put you in the toaster, saying, "WHO IS GOING TO TOAST WHO NOW?" (Actual dream I had once.) That said, let me once again tell you about my dreams.

I take sleeping pills so I don't stay up all night playing Peggle on my iPhone and sending texts to people that make increasingly less sense as the night wears on into morning. Supposedly people don't like insane texts sent at 4 AM that say, "Ehbleurghhhhhhh". Oh I am sorry, were you sleeping. Prickish sleeper.

Oh! Let me tell you something I've discovered; I'm quite sure I'm the first to do so. I've found if you mix alcohol with the sleeping pills they work even better! But you should not do this for it is bad. But it's also completely awesome. But don't do it.

Since taking sleeping pills I've found I actually enter REM sleep, enabling me to dream again. And oh what dreams I've been having, these booze-and-pill-fueled dreams. They've been so good I had to get some paper to leave by my bed so I could write them down, because all the sleeping pills and alcohol have destroyed my memory.

Last night I had a dream I was jumping on and off my bed when an unknown person entered my room and said, "I need to introduce you to the man who will change your life. His name is Hugo but he goes by the handle 'American Penis'." And Hugo walked in and said, in a Ricardo Montalban accent, "I am American Penis, and I'm here to change your life." And I said, "You're really just Hugo." He shook his head sadly at me and walked away.

Let me digress for a moment to tell you there was a time when I wouldn't say the word "penis" I hated it so much. (The word, not the organ - I, of course, loved that very much indeed. And still do. But not all of them because they aren't all good. Not that I've seen them all! Oh no. Hahahahanervouslaughter.) I was in high school when I hated to say the word, so of course people would yell it at me so much I became known as "Penis Girl" which is hard to explain to one's mother. I just wanted you to know how much I've grown since then as I now use the word with impunity. But back to talking about my dreams, as I know you're gagging for it.

Another dream I had recently consisted of me thinking I had written the best joke in the world, and I was so convinced it was the best joke in the world I kept repeating it over and over to myself in the dream so I would remember it when I woke up because it was going to be the joke that changed my life - it was just that funny. This was the joke that was going to make me millions and allow me to live in a hut made of Vicodins. So THL, what was this knee-slapping, life-changing bit of humour ? The best I can tell from my scribbled hieroglyphics it was, "Do you ever think the group "Simply Red" uses the cleaner "Simple Green" and becomes a "Complicated Purple"?

The fuck?

The next morning when I read that I was so disappointed my mind created that "joke" and furthermore that I had thought it was so hilarious it warranted writing down that I considered hitting myself briskly in the face. Then I remembered it's more fun to hit other people.

Before you want to slap me briskly in the face I will stop talking about my dreams and end with some award-winning photo journalism from my recent trip to Whole Foods.

1.2.4.

1. "Dr. Kracker", Uncle Kracker's lesser known cracker-making brother.
2. Charcoal crackers, which try to make you buy them by claiming to be "stylish and black". But don't forget - they aren't just beautiful, they're also suitable for all types of cheeses, not just your Velveeta shames.
3. (Yeah the one with no number is #3. In a related note, I hate Blogger)William Shakespeare's preferred gluten-free drink is now at Whole Foods.
4. A drink from my birthplace!

Last but not least:

Am I the only one who finds this sexual.? Also- today only? I think every day calls for hot-n-glazy.

Did he just talk to me like I'm ugly?

2010-03-17T12:16:00.000-07:00

I just noticed that my deodorant has a sticker that says, "If your socks almost match, you're a Mitchum man." HELL YEAH! I didn't even know I was a man, much less a Mitchum one. This changes everything! I will fuck people up as the Mitchum Man. I will be similar to the Michelin Man but not as large and with less puffiness and also with 100% more Bad.Ass. I will be the complete RDA of your badassery needs. I will be of the barrel-chested 50s-era Robert Mitchum badass mold. I will take cannon balls to the stomach and I will run on contempt alone. I might even get paid the same amount as real men make, for the same job!

So I've had an idea - tell me what you think of it. The way I've decided to deal with my allergy-puffed face is to smear Vaseline over all my mirrors. I think this will fool my brain into thinking I look less like the actual Robert Mitchum and more like I do in the allergy off-season. Do you think it would be too much if I also smeared Vaseline over everyone's eyeballs? It will only be until June. It's a win-win for everyone, because everybody will look better with a little Vaseline! The world needs more of this type of thinking.

I almost made a Vaseline masturbation joke but I refrained. Awww, I'm growing up.

You have the boldness of a much younger woman

2010-03-16T15:37:00.000-07:00

It might seem as if I'm an angry person but really it's only an illusion. It appears as if I'm angry a lot because nothing stirs me to write more than anger does. Who writes when they're happy? Only irritating people, that's who. "Oh look at me, I'm going to the Bahamas! Yes, again, Madge! And I'm going to drive there in my new Bentley!" Who the hell wants to read what those jerks have to say.

I don't have a lot of time to write anything but I realised I had, yet again, ignored this place so I felt obligated to do something.

MY FACE IS MAKING ME MAD

Just so you know, my hair is stuck on his (that's Chuckanucka) ear. I do not have shoulder gigantism. (Also I am reminded that I need a haircut, which is another thing that is angering me - my stylist had the gall to move away from me. I get irritated at people who think they have the right to have lives outside my needs). But back to my face - the reason I hate it is because of these dumb bitches:

THE TREES OF DEATH death death deathLet's all sing for joy for it's allergy season again. These trees are pretty, certainly, but beneath their burgeoning beauty lies a sinister heart that brings only doom, doom in the form of sinus explosions. I blame these trees for my allergies even though I don't know if it's truly their fault that right now my eyes appear to have received several bracing punches. Perhaps it's some other horrible mold or seed that is causing me to never want to be seen in public, but I blame the trees.

A Graph I Made Instead of Working:

This graph was based on my actual experiences as an Aussie in America. Crikey and g'day, mates, I'm off for a Fosters. I hope I don't drink and drive my kangaroo! That would really blow my didgeridoo.

Do these look like wizard nipples to you?

2010-03-15T23:40:00.000-07:00

Things I did today:

1. Answered the phone by saying, "Lmao!" I actually said LAH-MAO. In my defense, I was typing "lmao" at the time. What? It was a business lmao. It was an incredibly work-related lmao. Related tangentially perhaps, due only to the fact that it occurred in my work place, but related.

2. Nothing else of note. I tried to do something interesting at one point in the day but I was foiled.

Close calls someone may have had:

1. When someone was sending sexy photos of themselves they should not have trusted a hope that auto-complete would choose the correct name from said person's contacts, as hope had abandoned their phone. All would be lost but for the blessed Gmail "undo" feature. I relate this story on the behalf of someone. Else.

2. I can't say the other thing.

My thumb hurts for no discernible reason.

I wrote this whole thing on pills.

Now that the secret is out, I might as well come clean.

2010-02-15T22:29:00.000-08:00

Oh yes, we'll just see how things go when his money runs out. Prediction: Not well.

BTW, Paul Walker is gay.

2010-02-11T15:36:00.000-08:00

Best comment I just received on a post I wrote oh...four years ago:

"Stupid bitch... yah da da da da da da stupid bitch, another materialistic, ice queen, drop your panties for a rich man whore, we all love you ^_^ , I hope you're happy when you have that money baby, because if you're ever seen a picture of rockefeller or jp morgan you'll know that money CANNOT make you happy

man, you say that WE'RE bad at checking girls, out, "eyes up here please," that is away from the pocketbook, baby, y don't you get a human sized dildo that dispenses money, you'd prob fall in love with it

btw, paul walker is gay" - Yo Daddy

You heard it here first, Paul Walker is gay and Yo Daddy is the source. I love that parting shot, like he was thinking, "YEAH this will show HER, the uppity bitch!" Well, I'm off to find a human sized dildo that dispenses money. It is almost Valentine's Day.

In the words of my friend Mr. Poon*, "UH OH..."

2010-02-10T13:44:00.000-08:00

*Yes I have a friend named Mr. Poon, and yes, you should be jealous.

Did you know that there is a new MS Paint in town? Apparently MS Paint is so totally over now, duh. It's all about the Radiohead of computer painting, the cool kid Sketchpad. You know what this means, don't you? Oh yeah. It's time for "Super Rotund Neon Kraken Attacking Gluten"!

My name is Kris Krakenstofferson and I am not a fan of gluten

Housekeeping, you want mint for pillow?

2010-02-09T23:14:00.000-08:00

1. I used to hate Haloscan.
2. Then I got this new commenting system because Haloscan committed suicide.
3. I quickly found out that ol' Haloscan? Wasn't that bad.

I'm sorry to everyone who has commented on any of my posts lately. Even though I said NO to comment moderation a bunch of comments were stuck in moderation. I got zero emails to alert me to this, even though I checked that option. So in conclusion, I'm sorry.

If you feel so inclined, can you help me test out this stupid commenting system? Just leave a comment, of any sort, so I can make sure I have the right options checked. You can say ANYTHING, you can be Lloyd Dobler and this blog can be your boom box. Hold it up and shout something at me, I will be Diane Court and be sort of irritating yet still vaguely arousing to you. You can remain anonymous if you want, or I suppose if you feel really gung-ho you could make a PROFILE. Then you would be too legit, too legit to quit.

Also, thank you for all the times you've commented because it makes me feel less crazy for continuing to write here because sometimes I feel pretty stupid for continuing. You are all the wind beneath my magical Pegasus wings. Yeah, I just said that.

Blame it on the rain

2010-02-09T11:43:00.000-08:00

I know we "need" rain but could it simply stop? Rain is that dick at a party who boozily wheezes, "You know what I'm saying? Eh? Eh? You feel me dawg?" over and over whilst everyone else is thinking, "How about you put down the tumbler and get to the Great Fucking Off?" That's what I want from rain: A hearty GettingTFO.

Do you know how hard it is to karate chop rain? I threw my shoulder out trying. I do not advise it. Additionally, rain doesn't seem at all fazed by amateur karate moves.

Rain brings out the anger in me (YEAH YEAH MORE THAN USUAL) and anger makes me want to tell stories about my coworkers...coworkers from another time that is not now. Any resemblance to anyone I write about here is purely coincidental and all in your head because I don't write about things from now! Oh no! I would never.

I had a coworker once upon a different time who I referred to in my mind as The Mule. I called her that because her response to almost anything required of her was a hearty "HEE HAW." She was known to kick anyone with her enormously powerful hind legs should they dare ask her to do something she didn't feel was her job, which amounted to pretty much anything anyone would or could ever ask.

In the Mule's mind, her job was to order from home shopping networks, to spam people with email forwards that were debunked by snopes.com in 2004, to randomly put quotation marks "around" "words" that did not require them, and to bully her meek, cowed desk mate (let's call her Patsy) into throwing office potlucks, to which the Mule would contribute nothing (time-wise or monetarily) but of which she would take all of the credit. These duties apparently needed overtime as well, because you do know that putting together the perfect Quacker Factory order is an art and an exact science. Not everyone can do it whilst simultaneously complaining about how their coworkers "never".do.anything.

The Mule used to be a supervisor in one of her past (unrelated) jobs and subsequently found it difficult to change her bossy ways. Because her new job had her working with a gaggle of weak women afraid of confrontation and frightened of the Mule's roundhouse kick, this propensity worked out exceedingly well for the Mule. She managed to slough off most of her duties to Patsy and the remainder to whomever she hated the most that day - a target that shifted as frequently as Egyptian sand.

Being entirely unaccustomed to being bossed around by someone who is not my supervisor and who has also been at a job for less time than I have and who also smells like yeast, the Mule and I were not simpatico. Our extremely rocky dealings mushroomclouded one day over her heehawing some order at me which prompted me to yell, "You're not the boss of me!" and throwing a book down on her desk. She never bothered me after that (aside from taking every opportunity she could find to insinuate I was getting fat, which was pretty hard to take seriously coming out of her 300 lb. mouth. It made her very angry when I didn't crumble under the heft of her criticism and instead laughed.)

What does this all have to with rain? Nothing besides me hating the rain just a little bit more than The Mule. Just a very very little bit, though.

Do me in a submarine, Space Bear

2010-02-05T09:24:00.000-08:00

Over here, someone asked me a question.

Original question: "Write me a haiku containing the following: Submarines, space-bears, and the mentioning of delicious waffle fries. All of it must rhyme, all of it must be sexy. Go."

My answer: "Haikus don't rhyme and are supposed to be about nature. Also all those things you want included = 8 syllables which is almost half of my allotted syllable usage. I AM NOT A MIRACLE WORKER. That said, I'll still try."

Space bear strokes your thighs,
tells phallic submarine lies,
licks slick waffle fries.
[and he does all of the above very sexily]

or

Spacebear, tight and lean,
he rubs his pants submarine,
waffle fries and peen.

or

Spacebears! Submarines!
Waffle fries are good for spleens!
One shouldn't bang teens.*

*It's not allowed.

I wish I was a baller I wish I was a little bit taller I wish I had a disco ball helmet

2010-02-01T18:40:00.000-08:00

This is me trying to defend myself against gluten:

We don't get along, gluten and I. Gluten is constantly trying to attack me and force me to eat it, so my solution is to make some eggs and a Long Island Iced Tea, hollow out half of a disco ball and turn it into a helmet, and then get into a bathtub with a frying pan. I find this works best to repel the demon. Your mileage my vary.

(This is not actually my photo. I wish I knew who took it because they are a kindred spirit. The bottom of the photo says "merkley???" so...a CLUE.)(Mystery solved, the photo is from this person, who has a freaking TON of awesome photos. GO LOOK.)

This entry is going to be totally disjointed because I SAID SO. The next story has nothing to do with gluten or even disco balls worn on heads. I'm sorry in advance, but I'm not actually.

There is a silent war going on in my house right now. Everyone is actively ignoring a piece of dog poo, walking casually by it as if it weren't right in the middle of the stairs, pretending it hasn't been there petrifying for days. I'm sorry to bring up this topic because I get it, it's gross, but I have tell you, my dear darling secret friends, because I have no one else to turn to. No one else but you. You are my everything. But don't worry, I won't stalk you. I'll give you space, oh yes I will, just listen first to my dog poo story.

There are three schools of thought on the poo. They are:

School #1 believes that even though they were the only person at home at the time of the poo and they were, by their own admittance, the finder of the poo, they feel very strongly they should not have to clean up the poo because it did not come from their dog.

School #2 believes that even though said poo came from their very own dog, they should not have to clean it up because they were gone at the time of the incident and it's ludicrous that someone would leave a poo for hours in order to make Person #2 clean it up when Person #1 has perfectly good poo-cleaning arms and hands.

School #3 are the rest of us who are neither #1 or #2, so why should WE have to clean it up? Clearly one of the other two should do it, obviously.

School #3B consists of just me; I subscribe to the teaching of School #3 with my own twist wherein I put on a disco ball helmet and hide in the bathtub. This is sort of my plan for pretty much every problem I encounter.

All the schools gingerly step over the poo 500 times a day rather than pick it up because it has become the Principle of the Matter. I would like to pick it up (well I wouldn't like it, it's POO, but I would like it to be off the stairs) but I feel like if I do I will be rewarding malfeasance. And I'd like to use their malfeasance to establish leverage. Otherwise, it's just malfeasance for malfeasance's sake.

In conclusion, why did you make the moon cry?

Was it your masturbating? Shame on you.

(That moon is a shirt that I want.)

Little known fact: Insomnia was invented by Hitler's balls

2010-01-26T14:35:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make: I want to punch at least one sheep right in the snout, and if I had my druthers it would be a LOT of sheep. Do sheep have snouts? Whatever they have I want to punch them in it, and but hard. Why, you ask? STFU, is what I answer. No, I'm sorry. Come back. I'm just a little on edge. I want to punch sheep because counting them doesn't seem to work when one has the dreaded disease of insomnia. I don't know if it's an actual disease but it might as well be because I said so and if you disagree I will slice you in the snout.

For the last oh, I don't know how many but too many nights, I have been unable to fall asleep. For hours. Last night it was 3 am. Now I am built for a lot of things: excessive alcohol consumption, multiple shots of other people's prescription cough medicine with codeine, marathon sexy times in the shower and pretty much anywhere else, fooling around on my iPhone with photo apps that have unicorn horns or cats or Legos, and etc, but what I am NOT built for is a thing called Not Sleeping. Mark me down as Officially Not a Fan.

I do not enjoy waking up with a puffy face where wakefulness can find no purchase. Plus it's hard to work when I stare at people unable to find the words to respond to them because all I hear coming out of their mouths is "AHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAHBLAH WAHH WAH WAHBLEEEEEEEEEUFFFFFFFF."

Also as the night wears on and I'm still awake I start doing things that seem, in the cold light of almost dawn, to make sense but are actually not advised. Things such as: getting three giant pickles out of the refrigerator and taking one bite out of each of them before throwing the plate they rested upon onto the floor in a fit of anger because it seems pickles don't help one fall sleep. Not even at all.

Because I am an addict and will try anything once I went to the store to buy every herb and sleep aid known to man. I don't plan on taking all of them at once but also I make no promises whatsoever and I probably will.

I have a bunch of MS Paint pictures I need to do, like a Kraken attacking gluten and pubes protecting people from grizzly bears, but I cannot be expected to make my art in my current state. And my art is the best art. I need to be rested and fresh to create my masterpieces. My MS Paints don't draw themselves even though you are going to say something horrible like "LOOKS LIKE THEY DO!" God, you really are mean.

In the mean time I give you just a few other things I'm doing on the internet because I sure don't have enough irons in the fire already:

My Twitter which, to warn you, = me bitching a LOT. If you don't like anger you might want to go somewhere else because YEAH. I am angry.

My tumblr which = photos that make me laugh or say WTF.

Here you can ask me any question you want, anonymously. I'm sure I'll regret this.

Moments From A Forum

2010-01-14T11:29:00.000-08:00

As seen on a forum I frequent:

Person A: "Dr. Oz says that hair down there protects you; its not good to be bald."

Person B: "Protect me from what? Grizzly bears?"

The mental MS Paint picture I drew in my mind made me laugh for a good ten minutes. Also - is Dr. Oz going down on me? Until then his opinion can GTFO.

*This is only sort of a kitty post!

A new thing I'm buying my cat

2010-01-14T09:20:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, briefly, I feel bad that I don't write here for ages and then when I do it's all cats, and cat balls, and look at these cat balls and this other cat that is totally high...it doesn't really give an accurate picture of who I am. I'm not all about cat balls and drugs. I am more than that. Ostensibly.

Having said that:

this is a real thing

Best pizza place mural ever? Don't bother trying to argue. It's cats, on scooters, on a wallpaper border, in a pizza place, next to a sex shop. It's as if it was all made expressly for me.

Cheeseburger the Spartan Cat

2010-01-12T11:21:00.000-08:00

I guess I should write on this website once in a blue moon. You know the old saying: "When you don't have anything to say you should type some bullshit on a website. Just any old stupid thing." What...that's not a saying? Well it clearly should be.

Where have I been? I've been having pneumonia and snowboarding, and exacerbating my pneumonia by snowboarding. It's kind of just a thing I do. I exacerbate, sometimes whilst boarding. Sometimes I exacerbate just by lying around because I'm extremely talented.

Another thing I've been doing is buying my cat, Cheeseburger, toys and furniture she won't use. Ever since the day I became her mother I've been on a mission to make her love me. And she does love me, in her way. It's just that her way is frequently from a distance and doesn't appear or feel particularly loving at all. The last time she sat on my lap was the day I got her, when she was so traumatised by the journey and my dogs' desire to snort her bodily into their brains that she passed out on my lap for three hours. Now I can hold her as long as I'm moving, and only if she wants me to do so and also only if I do it correctly.

I've been forced to various forms of trickery to get her to spend time with me, because I will be damned if I sift crap in a box and receive no love in return. I have limits. Even treats don't work; she'll eat one or two and then amble away to have adventures unrelated to me. Therefore pretty much every week I try to buy some new shiny thing, or a comfortable thing, or a loud jingling thing, to entice her to stay in my room. This has led to a giant pile of things I plan on giving away to people with cats who like things, because Cheeseburger says no, I do not want your many things.

When she was tiny I bought some catnip, since the prevailing opinion is that cats enjoy a nip of the nip, SUPPOSEDLY. Plan A: I would just rub catnip all over myself and my room and she would be forced to see me as the Giver of All Good Drugs and Good Feelings and then, much like a skeevy roofie-peddling date raper guy, I would manipulate her into being with me, except with catnip instead of roofies and of course with no RAPING.

Apparently kittens up to a certain age are not only not affected by catnip but many have an aversion to it, so Plan A resulted in her actively avoiding me and my room, which was sort of not at all what the plan was intended to do.

Plan B: Wait until she was older and try again, with better catnip. Result: No.

Being a quitter, I gave up on catnip. But not on the buying of toys and furnitures, oh no! I kept trying that. I just kept going and going, until the last thing I bought that sat there, actively disdained and glared at, and then I said, you know what - I'm out. You live your spartan life, Cheeseburger. You live it well. I'm done.

And then I bought one more thing because I frequently say I'm going to stop doing things and then continue doing those very things. The newest purchase is like a chaise lounge/scratcher for cats. And I laughed to myself, acknowledging I probably threw some more money at Target for no reason. Ha ha ha good bye hard earned cash. And I laughed again, heartily, at the small bag of catnip attached to the lounger, knowing Burger would throw up a middle claw to it. Much like Charlie in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I spent my last pence on the hope of a golden ticket I was sure would never come.

Well call Willie Wonka because before I could even open the little baggie of catnip, my little drug fiend Cheeseburger had, in an award-winning performance, done five somersaults across the floor so she could hug my hand. And when I opened the bag she did an Olympic routine around the room until she passed out for an hour in some kind of heroin-like stupor unrivaled since Sid Vicious walked the earth.

Now she just spends most of her time in my room, alternating between inhaling her drugs, watching cartoons (aka her "stories"), and passing out on my bed.

No one gives a shit about your stupid Aussie problems

2009-12-04T15:08:00.000-08:00

I'm working on something new and it's taking forever but I haven't forgotten you. Oh no. I fantasize about you all the time. You've been looking really good. Have you been working out?

In lieu of having anything to say at this present time, please accept this gift:

MY BALLS. LOOK AT THEM.

The Three Stages of Monday Enacted by Toys In Photograph Form*

2009-10-26T11:19:00.000-07:00

*Photos are blurry and cropped horribly because it's fairly difficult to take and edit pictures of toys whilst one is supposed to be working. It seems such activities are somehow not on my list of job duties and therefore frowned upon.

Much like the six stages of grief, every Monday has stages. Stage One is Utter Forlorn and Abject Sadness. Sometimes looks like a "hangover". May or may not be accompanied by profuse vomiting.

I am cast down
[On this one, it kind of looks like I wrote "WHY, GOP, WHY" which is a good question as well. The G.O.P. has a lot to answer for.]

Stage Two = A Furious and Smoldering Anger. May resemble "the middle finger". WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW.

And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to make me work!

Stage Three is Sweet and Delicious Apathy when you realise there is no escaping your foxhole. Best dealt with a heaping helping of denial and, if you're a lucky bitch that can dupe your doctor into giving you some, Xanaxs (Xanaxes? That looks like the name of an ancient Egyptian Pharaoh.)Oh Great Xanaxes, let your people go...from work.

If your Monday is particularly dragging, you might make it through Stage Three, wake up with paperclip indents on your face and Post-It Notes stuck in your hair, and move to the ever-elusive but always fun Stage Four - Total Lunacy - wherein you will post photos of unrelated sausages.

Part B to Stage Four: Semi-related Grenades, to be saved for next Monday's anger phase.
You can tell I got tired of writing in MS Paint here at the end where my handwriting becomes illegible. Also I was very nearly caught.

TAKE HER FROM ABOVE

2009-10-22T10:31:00.000-07:00

Nancy Flapsticks briefly becomes interesting

In some weird turn of events I cannot explain without going into the stupidity of my paycheck-giver, I received an email at work that appeared to be from a coworker but was actually spam. I was so disappointed when I found out that Nancy Flapsticks (not her real name) didn't actually send me an email with the subject line "TAKE HER FROM ABOVE!" This may or may not surprise you but I am extremely interested in helpful hints on taking women from above. I'm rusty.

I spent several humorous minutes imagining someone trying to take another from above. I pictured them perched nude on a dresser, silently plotting and grinning, ready to fly at their significant other as soon as the unsuspecting fool walked through the bedroom door, landing around their shoulders. And then the person taken from above would start twisting violently and screaming "GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF!" And then the dresser percher would get all offended and pouty, "Look I was just trying to spice up our love life. If you haven't noticed it's gotten a little stale lately. I got an email at work and I thought you would love it." And the other person would start crying, "Our love life is stale? You think I'm fat, don't you." And then Take Her From Above Person would start making up the couch because that's where they would be sleeping for a good week.

However I never, ever, ever want to imagine Nancy Flapsticks taking anyone, in any way, in any position. In my mind she has the genitals of a Ken doll. Smooth, baby. There's nothing there.

Halloween in Ohio

Okay, we need to discuss this. My father lives in Ohio for some bizarre reason I can't explain any more than I can explain why Jessica Biel ever thought Justin Timberlake was a sexual being worthy of love. I mean if they are playing beard to each other she needs to realise this is 2009, furthermore not necessary, and just date me.

Ohio is cool I suppose (but really...if you live there, God I am ever so sorry) but seriously Ohio, you need to stop some nonsense. Apparently several towns in Ohio just arbitrarily decide when they are going to celebrate Halloween. For instance, even though Halloween falls on a Saturday this year, Ohio decided Halloween will be celebrated on October 29th. A Thursday.

Ohio? Who the fuck do you think you are? No. I want to know. Halloween is October 31st. This is the way the rest of the USA celebrates it. But Ohio decides every year to change it and I am serious. Every year they change the day Halloween is celebrated. What the fuck you assholes. This actually really makes me mad. This is no mere hyperbole you read. I just punched my printer over this. What did my printer do to deserve that? None of your business but it didn't agree with me, if you must know.

What kind of sickening hubris is this? Can Idaho just decide that Christmas will now be on December 14th? Can Montana just decide the 4th of July will now be celebrated on August 1st? This sort of thinking will promote anarchy, my friends, anarchy, chaos, and fucking overbearing presumption and overweening (haha ween) supercilious arrogance and I'm just not going to stand for it. I've declared war on Imperial Ohio. So you might want to get out if you live there. It needs but one foe to breed a war, and those who have not swords can still die upon them.

Real men = balls

Why, when someone does something gutsy or brave, is it still described as "ballsy"? "You've got balls son!" Any man can have balls. Balls are not really something I would use to describe something awesome like bravery. [Lest you think I'm a moron, I do know the real reason - it's sexist. Men are brave and have balls so ballsy=brave=awesome and women are weak and have vaginas and are never brave so therefore ladies=pussy=weak blah blah fuck off sexists come into the now etc]

I'm just saying, balls are funny.

Further proof I am actually a teen boy

2009-10-21T15:04:00.000-07:00

I bought this face powder because it looks like:

Yeah, a boob. But it's actually a nice face powder as well, so bonus points to me. I win yet again at the game of life. Boob-resembling face powders make me spend my dollars.

Other things that make me open my wallet? Xbox games, fine tequilas, movies with Jessica Biel in them which I invariably have to fast forward to the good parts (Powder Blue, I'm staring expressly at you), and assorted other things I best not mention in polite company.

I almost died in the bathroom but I am not Elvis

2009-10-20T15:26:00.000-07:00

Warning: do not read this if you have a problem with the idea of girls peeing (you know who you are).

Since quitting caffeine I've been imbibing rivers of water. (If you're currently experiencing a drought in your area- terribly sorry for my involvement. If you ever had dreams about visiting the Nile - I do apologise, it's gone.) Consequently I sometimes have to, you know, use the loo.

Spending so much time in the W.C., of late, I've developed a Favourite Stall. It's probably for handicappers and therefore I'm reprehensible for using it but my god it's so spacious. It's luxurious. The one stall is twice as big as my home's bathroom. Plus the toilet is higher off the ground which eliminates the OHMYGODI'MGOINGTOHITTHEGROUND feeling one gets when one is forced to free fall 20 feet just to make ass contact with those loathsome toilets designed for Lilliputians. I dislike that sensation and I certainly don't need that kind of fear and stress in my life. Not in the bathroom, at any rate.

This is only PARTof this glorious stall. Pure luxury. Look at the leg room.

So I was in there, moving in to sit, when I somehow, magically and totally, missed the toilet. I'm not sure how it happened but I'm just going to say: Rude Fucking Awakening. Cold tile met ass as bare as Baby New Year, delicate tailbone met ground harder than the heart of Russell Crowe, dignity met the door as it sprinted away from me with the alacrity of a dumb gazelle after it has accidentally strayed into Lion Town.

I don't even know how it happened, nor how I managed to fall not on the super luxurious and roomy side:

SOMUCHROOMOVERHERE
but on the side with no luxury whatsoever:

here I laid, splayed, yet cramped
but as is my custom that is precisely what I did - the most difficult and simultaneously humiliating thing possible. This is how I operate, this is how I have rolled in the past, this is seemingly going to be my custom and way in the future.

Answer to your unasked question: It's the Nyquil

2009-10-15T16:24:00.000-07:00

I'm so excited because after a week of trying unsuccessfully I'm finally getting a free poster of a drunk Kraken. I'm not entirely sure my life can get better than this, unless I become rich and famous and rich and also famously wealthy.

Thales of Miletus, this is for you

2009-10-14T14:47:00.000-07:00

I didn't feel well yesterday and since it was monsoon raining out of doors I thought, "Fuck this shit I'm staying home and furthermore I am celebrating not being at work with the liberal use of Netflix and Tivo and Xbox and the reading of trashy things on the internet and the taking of long, hot, soapy showers." Instead the power went out. Damn you, seasons, damn you, you damn dirty weather. Damnit.

It is decidedly cold, dark, and quiet without 800 electrical gadgets whirring at all at once, and the silence that then descends is an unseen but creepy hand winding mummy's gauze round your head. And then you cry because there isn't a flipping thing to do without sweet electricity, plus you have a creepy invisible hand floating around your house but you can't see it because for one, the hand is invisible and two, no electricity... and also you have mummy's gauze all up in your face.

Things became problematic. The shit got real. And I couldn't even drown my sorrows in caffeine because some a-hole called me thought it would be a great idea to quit it.

I sat hunched by a window trying to eke out enough thin grey light from the window to read by. That lasted a few chapters before I threw the book across the room and started swearing, possibly because I was recently informed that I am "mercurial". Knowing I can't even handle a few hours sans power without turning into the insolent child of a wayward salty-tongued sailor who never spared me the latest electrical gadget made me even more swear-y and mercurial-ish.

I was thusly forced to spend the day sleeping and swearing and falling back into angry sleep and then waking up only to swear some more and one time just to kick a wall I could barely see because simply it was very dark. When the power finally came back on ten hours later I celebrated with an orgy of electricity. I turned on every light, every gadget, every appliance I could get my greedy hands on. I ran the washing machine and the dryer and the dishwasher, laughing maniacally all the while, my hands filled with now-charged phones and 40 remotes for various things. I'm not necessarily "proud" of this but I can only record what happened.

To sum up, I found out yesterday that I have a burning passion for Coulomb and Ampere and Ohm, Ben Franklin and Edison and Nikola Tesla and especially Alessandro Volta. Thanks for everything, electrical dudes. I'll never get mad at static cling again.

I lapsed into rude

2009-10-07T14:23:00.000-07:00

Today I invented a new reality show. It's going to be called "Hi! You're a rude fucker!"* Here's what it will entail: Someone will walk around with a hidden camera on their person waiting for strangers to say rude, unsolicited comments. Then the victim of the mannerless twat will respond in a humourous but pointed way, calling out said twat.

*Title is a work in progress

For example, Rude Dick will, as rude dicks are ever faithful to do, say something they have no business saying to a stranger. The victim will have funny but equally rude comments to give back. Such as:

Stranger: "Wow, you sure look tired today!"
Victim: "Wow, you sure look chinless and ineffectual and big-nosed today! What? Are we not sharing first impressions? I thought we were. You went first, then it was my turn."

Stranger: "You look pale, are you sick?"
Victim: "You look like a tool, are you an asshole? Because you have that look. I hope you're okay. I'm concerned for your well-being."

Stranger: "When is your baby due?"
Victim: "Probably around the same time the Cock Fairy delivers you a visible wang. What? I thought we were just trading our innermost thoughts here."

Stranger: "Smile! You look mad."
Victim: "Oh I look mad, do I? Well that's because I am mad. Mad at your gigantic gut. What? Why are you mad? I thought we were in the trust tree, with the nest. Were we not?"

Stranger: "Whoa, you sure are tall! Do you play basketball?"
Victim: "Whoa, you sure are cross-eyed! Can you look at two different people when you talk? COOL."

Stranger, grabbing: "I'm just going to use your pen for a second."
Victim, grabbing back: "Sure, I'm just going to use your Visa card for a second. BRB."

Stranger: "Is your purse one of those fakes?"
Victim: "Was your forehead replaced with a wax candle or is it Botox?"

I have more ideas for shows, don't you worry. I can tell you were worried. This is needless. I am a fount of ideas.

I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat

2009-10-02T11:16:00.000-07:00

Things I should be doing today:

1. Working

Things I won't be doing today:

1. Working

I know it's wrong to get paid for something you don't do, but what am I to do? Besides work, I mean. I've reached the end of a frayed rope dangling over a tank of sharks. The weary recesses of my brain have closed up shop for the week and much like lazy teenagers refuse to reopen no matter what I threaten them with, which has included such things as "no alcohol this weekend" and "no buggery tonight". But not really to the last one, buggery is for the British.

I blame the flu shot for today's malaise. I have never considered a flu shot before but it was recommended to me, being all immuno-compromised and deficient because of fucking celiac disease and anemia and low platelet count and such, and though I've never heeded this advice before I decided to do so this year because lately I've become responsible. Stop laughing. I get my oil changed regularly, my tires rotated, I work out, I've (um...sort of) quit caffeine (okay, cut down consumption) and I deep condition my hair every week. I'm almost a productive member of society if you discount the tequila and pills and video games and generalised naughty and/or shady behaviours, and I hope you will.

The flu shot hurts, if you were wondering. It's no quick jab and you're out the door. It's more like "stab giant needle deep into muscle and hold, hold, hold, inject burning disease into muscle and hold for 800 minutes longer". Which is fun-don't get me wrong- I love pain. I love the feeling of being roughly manhandled, which is how my arm feels this morning. I feel like I had very rough sex with my flu shot giver. I really enjoy the feeling of being manhandled gruffly, it's why I'm dating the man I'm dating. He knows the art of a good manhandle.

To be clear, I didn't have very rough sex with my flu shot giver, mostly because she was a very tiny woman who looked easily mastered. I would totally dominate that poor little lady unless she was ninja-like and wasn't above stabbing me with needles. But I'm not saying I wouldn't have had rough sex with her if she asked. I'm looking for things to write about for a book.

When you are trying to write a book you start thinking "If I'm supposed to 'write what I know' this book will be terribly boring unless I start right away having rough sex with tiny women who work in the Target pharmacy". These are things that actually go through your mind when you want to be a writer. I know I'm letting you look behind the wizard-y curtain of Oz by telling you that, but it's true. This is the writer's process.

Other thoughts: "What if I shoved a drinking straw up the urethra of that annoying boy with gelled hair? Just to see if he got mad and then I could record the face of that angry abyss if he did," or "What if I throw melted Nutella in the faces of strangers? Perhaps their response will enlighten me as to how people react when you cover them in a delicious but lava-hot hazelnut spread. Then I will write about it. Step 3. ? Step 4. Profit and watch the Pulitzers roll in." A lot of people pay to go to seminars for this advice and here I am giving it away. Do not say I've never given you anything.

The first draft of anything is always shit

2009-09-29T16:05:00.000-07:00

Interesting-ness, A Descending Scale:

People who are interesting no matter what they do.
People who are so cool and popular they don't even have to be interesting.
People who try too hard to be interesting.
People who will never be interesting.
People who participate in internet memes. Bonus points if the meme is so old it's actually been out of circulation for years.

That said, look what's in my wallet! Everything you need to know about me is in there.

Let's start with the wallet itself. The zippers have the effect of vagina dentata because I like to use my wallets as cautionary tales warning of the dangers of sex with strange women and to discourage the act of rape.
That's not a knife, this is a knife-I wield it in the event my wallet doesn't scare away undesirables, and to generally threaten people, and also for my sexy times.
Lip gloss. Proper lip hydration is important, doubly so when is one is stabbing. Nothing worse than a wan smile.
My other phone, because one phone is not enough for me. Indeed, I am that important! My iPhone is for taking pictures of the contents of my wallet when I should be working. My Blackberry is for Business Time.
Let us conduct the business!
Not much money, but lots of credit cards I can look at but not use.
An Xbox memory unit because someone might challenge me to an enthusiastic game of Peggle. I do not leave those challenges unanswered, my friend. If I lose, which I DON'T, the knife again comes in handy.
His name is Bjorn and he wants to play with you
A flash drive filled with explicit photos, not of my cat. Or...well. Yes. Not of my pet cat. If I lose that flash drive and it's found by anyone I know I would like to take this opportunity to say it's been nice knowing you and I'll be somewhere you'll never find me.
A fake pen that's really an acid-tipped blowdart.
Coin purse. Or condom purse? Coindom purse? Naaah, just coins. Sometimes I need to buy gum.
My keys, beating a hasty retreat. Camera shy and all.
I forgot to include these, but everyone should just carry them. Dental health is one of my passions, after Peggle and knives and glossy lips.

Do you feel like you know me better now? I do so want you to know me intimately. You deserve to know.

AN UNRELATED STORY:
A gentleman came in the other day whose surname was "Humpage." I have the business card to prove it because I know you're doubting me. It's hard to see, but please do laugh that his email address is "humpage@----.com". I know I did.

Hump is here for your xeroxing needs
Was I immature enough to point at him whilst thrusting my hips and winking sleazily when I heard his name? Only Master Humpage knows for certain. Let's just say I did. I wish it had been "hump day" so I could have really gone to town with the joking. I would have made my fingers form a fake gun that I would have shot at him, making gun sounds with my mouth. That's when you know a joke is good.

I suppose I should be sorry that the above story has nothing to do with my wallet contents, beyond his business card being in it, but I just wanted to tell you that story very badly. Life throws a Humpage in your lap you don't just keep it to yourself.

Do you ever make jokes you know are very disgusting and inappropriate but instead of stopping before it's too late you just keep taking the joke further until your joke consists of Macho Man Randy Savage, a Slim Jim, and someone's ass? I don't. But ew that you do. Sick freak. What the hell is wrong with you?

Things You Don't Want Peering In At You Whilst In The Throes of Passion (Self or Otherwise), Part One

2009-09-24T18:52:00.000-07:00

A Potpourri of Musings

2009-09-23T15:47:00.000-07:00

I do not like potpourri of any kind, and I hate when people muse, especially randomly.
I like that one of my post labels is "forceful wanking". I generally love the word "wanker"; it pleases me on a couple of different levels.
One of the professors here calls me "Phalanges." I don't know why and I'm scared to ask now. I don't even have any hints as to how I incurred that moniker. I mean, I do have phalanges but I didn't think they were particularly noteworthy or nickname-inducing.
A patron tried to draw a mustache on me today. I found out later it was because I told him to do something and he didn't cotton to it and thus considered me a "little Hitler".
Another patron called up to request his past due fines be refunded to him. From ten years ago. I can't stop wondering why it occurred to him to think of this today, ten years later, not to mention why he believes he's entitled to a refund at all. Wanker.
I just found out yet another lipstick I like is being discontinued. If you want a lip product to be discontinued just get me to like it and it will never be made again. Unfortunately no one considers this a worthwhile or bankable talent.
How do people get their hair to look the same every day? My hair has a theory and it's called "THL? You aren't the boss of me." Working with my hair is like working with volatile chemicals - if you get the measurements exactly correct you'll have the cure for cancer. Make one false move and Chernobyl Hair. What I'm saying here is this: Depending on the day my hair can either cure you or give you two uteruses.

Since I'm randomly musing I think I'll end this with a bunch of excerpts from unfinished posts I have in drafts. Random posts! So you may muse about them.

It's been a month since I've written last? Oh my. That means I've been sick for a month. Am I better? NO. As a result of my prolonged languishing, do I want to kill people with lasers? Not that I will admit here, for that would be very wrong indeed. I would, however, very much like to maim some people with lasers and bayonets and maybe mortars. Just lightly maim.

I've done such shockingly small amounts of work these last few weeks I would be ashamed of myself if I could but muster the energy necessary for shame. I feel like my bones have been replaced with yawns and boredom and my red blood cells switched to packages of ennui.

Sometimes the internet makes me feel like I have the worst life ever. That is until I pay attention to people with actual problems and realise I'm a bloody wanker..

I enjoy dogs. Not in that way, you sick twist, in a companion-y way. You might also like dogs (and it better be in a companion-y way, freak), you may have a dog or two in your possession, and you might even think your dogs rule, and they just might, in their own way, but they are not as awesome as my dog. Why?

1. My dog ate two (TWO) full pans of gluten-free brownies she macgyvered off the back burner of the stove
2. And did not die.
3. Ate a moldy pumpkin bought November '07. In March of '08.
4. Still alive.
5. Ate a few balloons, evacuated them in a colourful pile and
6. did not expire.
7. Ate some compost potatoes from who knows when... 2004 or so
8. yet she lives.
9. Routinely eats burning charcoal from the grill
10. still kickin'

I'm not saying I won't kill you with my laser eyes, but thousands of people have already been straight up murdered by them

2009-09-22T14:48:00.000-07:00

There's a commercial on the radio for this product called the Smoke Assassin. It's a fake cigarette that is supposed to help you quit smoking. In the ad they say "We're not saying you'll stop smoking, but thousands quit every day! We can't say it's a healthy smoke, but you do the math!" What does that even mean? I want to use those lines as my own all purpose Get Out of Jail Free phrases:

"I'm not saying I remembered to take my birth control pill, but thousands of people remember every day!"
"I'm not saying I finished that report, but thousands of people finish their work every day!"
"I'm not saying you're ugly, but thousands of people get radical plastic surgery every day!"
"I can't say that car accident wasn't my fault, but you do the math!"
"I can't say that check won't bounce, but you do the math!" (Or don't do the math, thanks.)
"I can't say you have a big penis, but you do the math!"

I'm quitting caffeine. Yes, again...tra la la. I can't say I won't shiv everyone in the lips, but you do the math. I'm battening down my hatches in preparation for waves of anger and headaches such as the world has never seen before. Here we are at Day 2 and already I am the Gordon Gekko of angry headaches. Anger is good! This anger clarifies and captures the essence of things and it will probably save Teldar Paper and the floundering U.S. banking and housing markets.

So where is a Caffeine Assassin when I need it? I'm in dire need of a drink that isn't saying it will help me quit caffeine and that they can't say is healthy, but which will allow me to do the math. I want to do the math. I need to do the math. I need to drink a liter of soda. I need to chainsaw people's nips off. I'm not saying it's a healthy choice, but thousands of people who still get to have caffeine make me angry every day.

Les Liaisons Dangereuses bibliothèque-style, but with food used as a weapon of humiliation, not sex

2009-09-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

Working in a library isn't interesting in the slightest and if you think it is you need to immediately go out of doors and try your hand at actual interesting things. Exciting occurrences live solely between the covers of the library books. I've stopped trying to liven things up around here with various instigating behaviours because it makes people think I have too much time on my hands. For that reason I'm reduced to watching and recording the assorted machinations of the library elite.

I don't understand these people but I don't belong here anyway, for they are not my kind. I can only study and recount my findings as a Jane Goodall of the bookshelves. This library troop hasn't quite accepted me as its own yet but perhaps if I sit very quietly and seem non-threatening they will one day let me into their special world.

That will be the day I drive into a river, by the way.

Being a fucking boring lot, there are fewer librarians carrying on drug-fueled sexual shenanigans in the private study rooms and more librarians conducting food wars amongst each other. A lot of librarians like to eat, very seriously and very passionately, gluttony seeming to replace genuinely fulfilling and sensible vices such as the drink, the illicit painkiller, and the makings of the sweet love as depicted in the Kama Sutra.

As indicated in the past, the stealing of food is a time-honoured tradition in the Book Jungle. Rather than provide for themselves, many librarians would rather allow others to hunt and gather for them, later asserting their dominance by passive-aggressively plundering the communal food storage whilst certain librarians-in-disguise are doing real work. This is accepted and even encouraged by the top librarians of the social group, much to the chagrin of this researcher who spent her preciously scarce personal time and meager funds to procure a lunch for herself only to discover in dismay she had been relieved of her SPECIAL AND VERY EXPENSIVE FOOD WHICH SHE IS LIMITED TO DUE TO A MEDICAL CONDITION.

Ahem.

During the times when the librarian-in-disguise becomes disgusted and goes on strike by refusing to bring in food to subsidise the whole group, the alpha librarians are forced to find their own sustenance, a turn of events which horrifies and angers them greatly. To teach the beta librarians a lesson the elders bring in the most offensive foods they can find and proceed to heat them up in a microwave, nasally assailing their underlings with wave after wave of stench. A bit of kimchi here, a dab of sulphurous broccoli there, a giant aged onion chopped directly on a desk over yonder...no one is safe.

[Presently I can hear someone forcefully pummeling the body of our mercurial vending machine. I will not be surprised if very shortly I'm called upon to contact emergency services because my coworker is pinned beneath the recalcitrant snack machine. It seems my very extreme and vigourous kicking taught that machine nothing at all. My extremities may be losing their touch.]

When forced, the elderly grey Librarian Maximus Goliath will impel weaker librarians to fetch her fast food. She is known to order the supersize, as she's deemed it her birthright, but will only provide enough money to finance a regular meal.

Right now on her desk is a drink from Burger King. The cup says "YOU COULD WIN A TONY STEWART EXPERIENCE, or $10,000." The $10,000 takes second billing to this Tony fellow.

How do I know a Tony Stewart Experience is better than $10,000? I don't even know who Tony Stewart is. Should I? He's not on my radar so I can only assume he's done nothing of import. I'm a bit skeptical about the whole thing. How do I know a Tony Stewart Experience is better than a Jon Stewart Experience? Or a Patrick Stewart Experience, for that matter - it's sure to contain 90% more baldness. Maybe a Tony Curtis Experience is more to one's liking. Who is Burger King to say?

Furthermore the word "experience" isn't very specific. For all we know experiencing Tony Stewart could consist of watching him compost whilst he postulates on the migration pattern of the Thraupidae Paroaria . Then again the experience might be watching him knock over a liquor store with only a silverback gorilla and his wits about him. Bit of a pig in a poke.

More reports from the field to come.

It's not safe to be around me

2009-09-16T16:18:00.000-07:00

For months now a muscle in my stomach has been twitching, like a twitchy eyelid that won't stop. It's how I imagine it feels when a baby kicks, not that I would know, and not that it's an actual baby because it's in the wrong place and anyway BABBY IS NOT BEING FORMED. No babby. Whatever it is, it's slowing making me insane.

I emailed my boyfriend to complain, looking for love and understanding, compassion and guidance. Instead I got:

"Jumby wants to be born now."

If you've seen The Unborn, you know how wrong this is. It's very wrong.

I don't really look at dirty pictures, I've just heard things

2009-09-10T09:56:00.000-07:00

I don't usually look at porn but I... know people who do, therefore by osmosis I've formed strong opinions on the topic of people taking amateur porn photos of themselves and then posting them on the internet. My opinions are so strong my stumps have been stirred to form a list.

Dear Amateur Porn Photo People:

1. Can you please pay attention to the background of the allegedly sexy scene you're setting? I know your business goods are supposed to be the main focus of the photo but come, let us reason together. Sir, you seem to be under the misguided impression your crank is so breathtaking no one will notice the cat behind you grimacing disapprovingly at your (horribly flat) ass and tribal tattoos. This isn't so. Ma'am, your breasts aren't spectacular enough to perform clever acts of misdirection that would put Copperfield to shame. The Swiffer duster is still visible, as are the Taco Bell wrappers sitting next to your Bon Jovi feathered hair. At minimum you could have swiffered those wrappers out of the frame.

The living room of your duplex looks like it's auditioning for a part on the show Hoarders, which is a show that makes one feel as if 90,000 insects are crawling in one's hair, aka "an unsexy feeling". The kitchen looming in the background has every cabinet open as if directly prior to taking the photograph someone ransacked them for drugs and coffee can money. Bags of garbage, mountain ranges of dirty laundry, shoes one can almost smell through the computer, your kid's blanky: these things could rightfully be categorised as Not Setting The Mood.

2. Too tight stockings that bisect your thighs like grub worms, worn with gigantic white tennis shoes not seen outside an 8th grade P.E. class, were a mistake unless your target audience is comprised of pervert P.E. teachers, though to be honest based on the P.E. teachers of my past that might not be much of a stretch.

3. Another miscalculation: white satin pumps from your first dance, long since turned grey, the coverings on the heels peeled back to expose a bare nail. Put those out in the dumpster with the tennis shoes. And your whole apartment.

4. Either you are at your grandmother's house for your photo session or you decorated your own apartment as a tribute to her, but could we agree that doilies and afghans and tea cozies tend not to hit anywhere in the Top 1000 when making a list of Arousing Things? Even the people at Sunny Fields Assisted Living were hoping for a bit of fantasy.

5. A little skin care never hurt anyone. Absent that, perhaps look into overexposure as a technique. It could be your "thing".

Nine Rejected Rock Band 2 Band Names (and one that made it)

2009-09-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

1, Gimli's Beard
2. The Alice Wonderland Experience
3. Glass Case of Emotion
4. The Filling Burritos
5. Straight Shot to the Babymaker
6. Sky Rockets in Flight
7. Fat Guys in Little Coats
8. Captain Limpwrist and Your Mother's Kiss
9. Ray Zalinsky and the Auto Part Kings
10.Les Grossman and the Big Dick Playas

I don't know what to call this but yeah... I am sorry about it

2009-09-04T14:52:00.000-07:00

As you may or probably don't know, I have an eyebrow fetish. Not in that I become sexually aroused by brows, not exactly, but sometimes I do. Conversely I despise bad brows and am decidedly unaroused by them, unless you count aroused to anger. If you have bad eyebrows you need to get away from me because sometimes I will hit you. Surprisingly this isn't considered justifiable battery as I found out one day.

After you start a post with eyebrow fetishising there comes a big question "Where do I go from here?" A question more easily answered is where we're not going. What we will not be doing is continuing to skip merrily down the Path of Fetishes for that is a dangerous path filled with the jagged rocks and stones of TMI and Do Not Go There and Ew That Is Not Natural. We'll all end up dead and bloodied at the bottom of Fetish Cliff if we proceed and we do not want that, do we? Not on a beautiful long weekend filled with promise.

You know when you don't do something for a long time and then you start doing it again and you think to yourself, "I thought riding a bike was something one never forgets so why did I just flip over the handlebars and why is my spine poking out of my skin?" That's what writing feels like. It feels like gravel and asphalt in the gaping wound where your spine once was. It feels like the movie Saw. It feels like washing your face with hot tar. Super mega fun, is what I'm getting at.

In absence of content, a list!

2009-09-03T15:08:00.000-07:00

1. Writing lists isn't as easy as you seem to think it is.
2. Having no topic for one's list means bullet points quickly became problematic.
3. I'll start with this- I wish I could draw and also I wish I had some (any) computer design skills.
4. "Painting with words" doesn't really make a website look any better.
5. If I had such skills I could dazzle you with html kapow and you wouldn't notice I can't really paint with words either. I can't even paint with all the colours of the wind, or even a colour of the wind. I failed paint.
6. Lacking artistic skills it becomes painfully obvious there isn't much here beyond dick talk and alcoholic beverages, which by the way are awesome things.
7. Hey bud! Guy who just blustered into the library on a billow of his own self-righteousness and protest signs! Let me tell you something...
8. Just because I'm the first person you ran into doesn't mean you get to attack me with your list of grievances.
9. You are labouring under a heavy pile of delusions if you think I:
a) care;
b) have any power to fix them;
c) like you as a human being.
10. Sorry to be mean but I'm not actually sorry.
11. Just because I have a vagina doesn't mean I'm going to stand in for your mommy and make things all better.
12. This is because you are not that important:
a) to me
b) to anyone
c) to your wife
d) Your mother also called and she said to shut up.
13. People who hold signs go on to hold many things.
14. What are you, on your way to a dick meeting?
15. I'm adding you to MY list of grievances.
16. There, consider yourself added to the dick list.
17. The bad kind of dick, not the good kind, by the way.
18. Way to go, my man.
19. What was I talking about again before I was rudely interrupted?
20. Oh yeah, art.

Get ready to live

2009-09-02T15:49:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows the lowest form of blogging is pet blogging, "lowest form of blogging" being an entirely redundant phrase of course. All blogging is low and stupid and pretty much the worst. No one cares about your animals or your breakfast or your dream interpretations. We can all agree pet photos are akin to being forced to look at a coworker's vacation slide show.

Oh yeah? Well guess what - you're going to look at photos of my pets and make me believe you love it. You will look at my scrapbook filled with photos of my animals going down Niagra Falls in a bucket and feign enjoyment! Actually that would be sweet and you know it. Sadly I lost those photos due to Niagra Falls spray and extreme drunkenness.

My cat believes herself to be a celebrity. Maybe I encourage this line of thinking by constantly playing paparazzi to her Kim Kardashian but I can't help myself. She powders her nose and prances so - what does she think is going to happen? She's asking for it. When she gets irritated with me it makes me want to photograph her even more because I enjoy the discomfort of others.

To be honest my cat is less Kardashian and more Sean Penn/Tommy Lee in that when photographed she has a keen desire to smash my camera and maybe my face. Yet I forge ahead as I always do. I remain undaunted.

She has a cat condo she likes to treat as her own personal club, complete with techno music and mind-altering substances such as her very special (and nearly destroyed) catnip mouse. She tries to present an innocent image to her public so she finds it very problematic when the paparazzi take photos of her partying ways.

YES CATNIP MOUSE SWEET GOD THIS IS THE GOOD SHIT

Oh yeahhhhhhhhh is the room spinning

wtf paparazzi i will kill you with my eyes

Take your camera and kindly leave or I will be breaking your pelvis

I SAID NO PHOTOS, BITCH

omg catnip coma I am now to passing out

Look, I'll call her a cab but I am not holding her fur when she pukes.

Wait a minute, whoaaaa. I can taste the air!

Okay... my animals don't really do drugs. I don't either but that is merely because I used up all my ear infection Vicodin. That was a sad day my friend. If hospitals didn't believe in such things as laws and caution and health I could have gotten a supersized Vicodin bottle and this post would slightly different. Still nonsensical, of course, but with more "wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"s.

Since I'm posting photos of creatures, let's just talk about this for a minute:

What the fuck and hell?? No, you tell me WHAT THE FUCK AND HELL. You explain to me how I'm supposed to live in a world with those sorts of things crawling around in my shower. Well, I'm waiting! And you know what? I don't hear you explaining anything.

I'm sorry I swore just then but c'mon. Come the hell on. If that sort of monster doesn't inspire you to speak in tongues well...I don't get you on any fundamental level. I don't even want to know you because you don't understand the basic rules of a civilised society which are: 1. Spiders belong in hell, 2. Pills are good, 3. Jane's Krazy Original Mixed-Up Salt is delicious on potatoes, 4. Whoever is trying to make harem pants happen again needs to realise the devil wears them around his hellish lair of evil and he dresses his spider minions in them as well.

Exhibit A Heinous

If you like these then you obviously love spiders and hell.

does not approve

I'm Batman, I demand reply!*

2009-09-01T10:54:00.000-07:00

Of course you are, and of course you do. It makes sense, when one is the goddamned Batman, that one would demand reply and most likely get it. I certainly would reply because I do not mess with superheroes. Anymore. I did once and that's how I got this scar. Oh sure, it's a cool story when entertaining your drunk friends but in the cold light of a sober dawn you realise you're hideously disfigured and Aquaman doesn't even care, as evidenced by his frolicking with dolphins.

*That was the subject line to some spam I received and I loved it so much I wanted to respond to the spammer just to say "kudos for the creativity, thanks for the laugh" but I stopped myself. I'm not that insane. But no really, I'm insane.

I have things on my mind today so I took to my computer to share them. I feel like possibly there are people on tenterhooks, waiting on them as it were (how uncomfortable), breathlessly (tenterhooks apparently push on the lungs), wondering "Now what is on her mind today?? I simply must know!" No really, I know no one is doing that. Is it so hard to let me have fantasies? You never let me have anything.

The most pressing matter on my mind (and body) today is my shirt. I bought this plaid thing and I like it muchly but it is with great sadness I must admit I might have eaten (okay, DRANK) too much this weekend and now I'm all "Oh Richard, what's happening?" in this shirt.

Oh Richard why is this happening?
No but really I just bought the wrong size shirt. I hate when hangers have the size on it and you trust the hanger size and then you get home and your shirt is a size small and your breasts laugh at it and then you're twirling around and someone is saying, "Take it off, dickhead, I'm serious." I hate that a lot this morning.

The second thing on my mind today is I am officially giving up on painting my nails. I am not cut out for the life of a fancy lady. I have tried - oh how I have tried - to maintain a beautiful, ladylike manicure but today is the day I must come to terms with the fact that I have longshoreman's hands. Somehow I'm doing things with my hands that no other ladies are doing, things such as digging holes for power lines and clawing out of multiple graves.

Other women have nails which are perfectly shaped and shined. Mine look like they were gnawed by a few disgruntled beavers then painted with a rusted chainsaw by a speed-addled Courtney Love and then stuck into a rock tumbler to dry. And they look like that immediately after I carefully paint them.

When attempting a manicure I will sit, immobile, daring not to talk or even to divide on a cellular level, and three seconds later I will look down and every single nail will be ruined. Each nail will be replete with smudges, fingerprints, fuzz, dings, and sometimes a beaver, stuck on his back in the rapidly drying polish, his legs kicking helplessly in the air. It doesn't matter what polish I use, if I try each and every "make your manicure last!" tips, if I wear a full body cast to limit mobility - it always ends the same. I quit. Could someone get me out of this body cast? Much appreciated.

So here I sit, stuffed into my shirt like a blood sausage in a too small casing, hands looking as if I use them to dredge the ocean with the purpose of gathering up bottom sediments and disposing of them at a different location, and I am wondering - why do I not have a job writing screenplays? Because I saw an absurd and grotesque joke of a movie this weekend and honestly I could write something better without chipping my nail polish, and I chip nail polish for breakfast.

I'll admit, my Netflix queue is a little embarrassing. I don't have a lot of standards for it, mostly violence and nudity, sexual situations and drug references. I'll put up with ridiculous dialogue, unbelievable plot twists, no plots whatsoever - just show me some attractive boobs and some attractive nude men grappling with them whilst throwing huge knives at nameless henchmen and I will be chuffed.

If you promise me a breast grappling and you don't really give it to me and you also give me no plot I will get angry. I'll accept a good plot in exchange for a chest grappling if the breasts are just not going to happen, but can't we have both? I want it all and I'm here to say I could provide it ALL, so it bothers me there are people right this moment being paid to write horrible screenplays with absolutely no tit seizing whatsover and I am sitting in a shirt that might, at any moment, split down the back in the manner of a hotdog cooked in the microwave too long.

I say all this to say life is unfair and demoralising and infuriating. This feeling is intensified when one feels as if one is in a straitjacket made of plaid cotton and one's fingernails look as if they were used to chop wood yet one has no wood to show for it. At least if one had a wood pile one could say, "Look at my wood! It makes all these ragged nails worth it, to have a pile of wood." Absent a wood pile, one just looks unkempt.

I (most likely foolishly) entertained the idea of allowing comments again on my posts, because I like to hurt myself, but even though I've told Blogger I'm allowing comments, they don't show up. I'm sure this has to do with templates and html and my utter ineptness at such things, but perhaps the universe is trying to help me in spite of myself. God knows I won't ever help myself. I am a gluten for punishment** as evidenced by my straining shirt, which is about to explode a la The Hulk's shirt when he gets angry at the injustices of the universe.

** This comes from my all time favourite forum moment, where someone posted that they were a "gluten for punishment" and I laughed myself silly. Gluten is a punishment for me so the saying has an agreeable symmetry in my mind.

Carl Sagan would totally be in on this.

2009-08-28T11:36:00.000-07:00

You should, if you're so inclined, keep your eyes on the important scientific journals of the day. I believe shortly they will be announcing a big discovery, complete with scientific proof (which we all know is never wrong), that discovery being that I work with the worst people on the face of the earth.

Super smart scientists, using the scientific method and blind studies and double blind studies and expensively delicate scientific instruments, will show that unless Hitler, Stalin, Nero, Caligula, and Idi Amin (after first accomplishing the not so insignificant ability to rise from the dead) get some money thrown together to create a little social networking start-up in Silicon Valley, my workplace wins The Place With The Worst Coworkers Like Maybe Ever.

Things Coworkers Have Done To Me, This Week's Edition:

1. Purposely tiptoed up behind me to "catch me on the internet" (something incidentally we're allowed to do here), then smashing his knees hard into the back of my chair to startle me (giving me an adrenaline rush akin to surprise buttsex) (not that I know about that, per se), then asking me if I was a lesbian because I happened to be looking at a picture of a woman in a bikini when he launched his surprise attack.

2. Stole my lunch. For not the first time.

3. Had bathroom "issues" so loud I could hear them through two closed doors 100 feet away from my desk. I know that might not technically be her "fault" but come on. I can't even look her in the face now.

4. Sighed loudly and smashed books down on my desk to get me to pay attention to his Very Important Need whilst I was on a business phone call. When I turned my back to him and held my finger in my non-phone ear so that I might actually hear the person on the line, he moved around to be in front of me again, complete with even more aggrieved sighing and book smashing. When I was forced, through inability to hear over the passive aggressive sigh smashing, to stop my conversation to ask what the fuck was so important, he asked me to get him some packets, packets I do not have, create, or work with in any way, which he should have known seeing he's worked here for 20 years, packets that at any rate were in no way an emergency that involved anyone needing to stop anything they were doing.

5. Ordered me to smile (whilst not smiling himself as he barked the order). Confidential to Das Smile Führer: I can't smile because you are a twat - I hope that helps clear up this matter. Thank you in advance.

6. Ripped a pen out of my hand (as I was writing something) (on a form, said ripping causing me to mess up the form and necessitating a complete start over) in order to take down a personal message she was getting about her sailboat, all the while screaming loudly into her cell phone. Apparently her private office was out of pens and doors. As for myself, I was out of forms, and extra money for sailboats or even just pocket change to purchase a replacement lunch for my stolen one.

7. Shuffled by thirty (yes 30) times in one day to get a drink out of the water fountain by my desk. It seems he's totally unaware of such inventions as cups, water bottles, walking without shuffling, and common sense.

Oh, a list! Hurrah! I love lists yet I grew weary about half way through that one, and depressed, but let's just say it's a mere sampling of the daily indignities I suffer. And yes I'm grateful I have a job, in this economy or any other. I feel less gratitude for manner-less assholes. Perhaps I'm weird that way.

Make up your own title

2009-08-26T15:48:00.000-07:00

My lip gloss tastes like cilantro. I haven't eaten cilantro since buying the lip gloss so this turn of events leaves me with an unsettling feeling - did some cilantro-lipped person use my lip gloss in the store and then put it back to be bought unwittingly by a cilantro-free person? Uncool move, Cilantro Lip. But wait... maybe my lips always smelled of cilantro and I've only discovered it today. That would be disturbing and not at all very sexy. Or is there a new cilantro trend in the lip gloss world of which I'm unaware of (and if so how did I miss this)? So many questions, so few answers. All I'm left with is an overwhelming craving for salsa.

I was tempted to stop writing after that paragraph, to leave it hanging in the ether along with the sound of you yelling "who gives a fuck about your cilantro problems?" but then I thought ...no. I won't be intimidated by your shouting. I'll make you give a fuck.

So I'm trying to stop swearing, not because people think it's uncouth and coarse and makes one sound uneducated, because who really cares about the opinions of those humourless fucks? Not this fucking girl.

No, I wanted to stop because I know a lot of humourless fucks and I'm just tired of the judgement already. I'm weary of it. If I wrote a book 75% of people I know wouldn't read it because it would have "WARNING: this book contains crude humour and rude imagery and swears" on it and they would immediately succumb to vapours and fits and fall writhing to the ground as if Dorothy tossed a bucket of water on them and then they would glare at me from the melted puddle on the ground that was them. Judgey puddle glare - like I need that in my life. I've got enough problems, chief amongst them a possible cilantro-scented lip issue.

But it's not going so well, this quitting of the foul language, because what am I supposed to do when I get a lip gloss filled with cilantro? Chuckle softly and murmur gently, "Oh fiddlesticks! What a bother!" I mean, in that case I might as well wear capri pants and carry a tiny leather backpack.

If someone ever pays me to write something for public consumption, to certain people it won't matter how good it is if it has swearing in it (or even worse, adult situations), it will just be "SHE SAID 'OH FUCK' GET OUT THE STONING STONES". 500 pages and they'll focus on the tits and the Oxycontin "abuse" and the cockrockets. Because of course there will be cockrockets. There will be a character called Cock Rocket, people setting off cock rockets, people calling each other "cockrockets" - it's just what's going to happen. It's called serious literature.

If you've ever started a post about cilantro-flavoured lip gloss and moved on to your swearing, you'll find yourself at a point where you can't really tie the two together in any meaningful way because really, how? Plus you'll have a headache from cilantro fumes which will only make you want to set off a cockrocket or six.

Time for some fucking whimsy!

2009-08-24T15:25:00.000-07:00

I kind of hope no one checks this site now because that will free me up to write whatever I want whilst suffering no repercussions - I don't enjoy those. As a matter of fact I despise repercussions as they frequently get in the way of my good times. With no readers I can, without guilt or fear, stuff as many commas as I desire and can into one puny little sentence, which is a substantial amount. And no one will be here to stop me! I am already drunk on the power of excessively extraneous comma-ing.

Where oh where have I been, you ask? I can't believe you just asked that, you fucking cheeky bastard. Nosy, nosy, nosy, you are - eh? Presumptuous too, it seems. As if I owe you a thing. Oh just joking, I can't wait to tell you what I've been up to. Here's a list, because I love lists.

1. NOTHING.

There, that was easy. Admitting one has no life is the first step to...running one's car off a bridge. Or change. Perhaps the second option is a bit cheerier and more conducive to living.

Can we start over? This isn't going as I had planned. You know, people say writing is akin to lifting weights and if you don't do it like every day then you'll be minding your own business and some meathead named Larry will kick sand in your face, right in front of that prim priss with a princess complex, incidentally named Nancy, who will smirk smugly as Larry chokes you with your own beach towel. This is what happens when you don't write every day, kids. You will be humiliated and someone will break your glasses. Plus you'll be choked. You're too good for Nancy anyway, stop crying you pansy. At any rate, that's what people say. About writing and exercise.

No I haven't had any Vicodin today, why do you ask? Though I did have some the other day because of my second heinous ear infection in a month. So really, this is whole post is all the fault of science and ears.

What have we established thus far? I've been gone for a long time, obviously not practising writing, and I've had a lot of ear infections and Vicodin. Really I can't blame you for the searing jealousy that is this very minute coursing hotly through your veins, jealousy of me and my life. It makes sense.

Oh! Something exciting did happen the other day. It inexplicably doesn't involve anyone giving me a million dollars merely because I know my way around commas and Vicodin, but it did involve me accidentally sending a text to my father, with my bottom. Which isn't really exciting in any way at all, but because of the iphone auto correct, I managed to send some real words, albeit real words mixed in with some nonsense. Here was the text:

"On I. MI. M mmmpplmll. LI. Loom. LIlllllm opposed ml. L."

To which my father responded, "What?" which made me laugh, so pure was the response in its simplicity and confusion. But come on! LOOM. OPPOSED. You try to type that with your ass and get back to me. My ass just wants people to know that opposition is looming. And when it happens, it's not going to be pretty. Just remember that. You were warned.

The other day something else happened. I didn't eat breakfast, which is generally a mistake for my delicate flower-like constitution, so by 10 am I was in full bitch mode and tongues were wagging and eyebrows were waggling and I needed to remedy the situation. We have a vending machine here (just recently reinstated after a banishing - don't ask, long story that boils down to "I work in the stupidest place on earth") and because I still have celiac disease (sadly it did not go away in my absence from here) I'm limited in what I can get from the machine. So my choice was basically "chips". These were emergency chips.

The chips were $.80. I only had dollars, so I put in a dollar and pushed the buttons and:
Did I get my $.20 change back? No I did not. Did I get any chips? As you can see, no. So I kicked the machine and broke my toes and cursed the sun and bread and shook the living daylights out of that fucking thing, disobeying the very clear picture on the sticker on the machine because my heart is filled with rebellion and grim anger.

Did I care about that warning? I didn't care. I was going to end up pinned under that heavy machine just to prove a point. You don't take my money and give me nothing in return! Not if you don't want to be kicked and cursed at and also shook. I don't care if you smash me until lightning comes out of the top of my head, you don't mess with my breakfast.

Now hungry yet invigorated with anger, I came up with the brilliant (to my chip-starved mind) idea that I would put more money into the machine, thus tricking it into pushing out the original bag of chips. I'm sure you see where this is headed but you probably had breakfast.
Oh, and did I get change from the second transaction? NO AGAIN. Instead I was without chips and down two dollars but in exchange I did have a broken foot and a keen desire to strike something down with great vengeance and furious anger.

Never one to learn any lesson at all, I put another dollar in, just to make it really awesome when, after spending $3, I still had no chips. (see Chip Pic 2 because that's exactly how my chips remained).

Chips, why do you elude me? That's what I said, in my head. And with my foot (the other unbroken one) and furious shaking. My chips remained unmoved, yet full of taunts. Oh brave chips behind the glass! Just you fucking wait. Because we are not done, not by a long shot. Said I.

I brought in some muscle to really give that machine the what for and damnit I got my chips. Oh yes I did. Don't think I didn't. I have photographic evidence that I will always get my chips in the end.
Yeah so I've been busy.

Posing with vampires

2009-02-20T11:43:00.000-08:00

Worst. email. ever.

"what are these butterflies? i thought those cocoons had long since
succumbed to the stagnant acids in my tummy. and yet i feel uneasy,
unexpectedly concerned to be liked.

her dichotomy casts spells as she makes seamless transitions between
performance and brilliance. she incubates mystery, unravels riddles in
addicting doses, only to scramble the answer again before i can take
hold. she feeds my interest to her beautiful demons. i fumble with
words, as if each of her dimensions directed spotlights on dormant
insecurities.

she engenders all that is still good in gender, leveling me with the
inflections and slenderness of the more graceful sex. the easy
breakables begin to orbit around her nova eyes, caught, as i, in the
gravity of their grandeur. her youthful energy galvanizes an unchecked
magnetism.

but did i break more than just the ice by staring? disarmed and
enchanted, i wished i had artistic capacities, just to capture her
face temporarily by permanent medium. she already poses with vampires,
perhaps some association of nocturnal rhythms and allegedly
transparent skin."

And all the while you're just really wondering, are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions? All signs point to yes.

2008-12-18T12:15:00.000-08:00

Mirepoix (No, Roommate, mirepoix is not pronounced Myer-PWOX)
Not giving a shit
The Knight Rider theme song*

*What are: topics I won't be tying together in any way

Sometimes I come up with wild ideas, where wild frequently equals ill-advised and insane.

Among them: white eye shadow (can something that is white as snow even "shadow" something else, lacking the most important element of shadowing which I believe is at least a smidgen of darkness? at any rate it was a disaster), blogging, cutting my own hair to give it layers*, running backwards down the stairs [if you were wondering what the recipe for a broken ankle was it is thus: take one staircase, set idiot at top, dare idiot to run down stairs backwards and as fast as said idiot can stir her stumps, wait, warm up the car to a comfortable temperature because you are all going to the ER], thinking a corn and mayonnaise sandwich on gluten-free bread was a creative and edible lunch option, and cutting an apple in half and then trying to cut it into fourths but not setting the halved apple down flat side to the cutting board, as is the custom of cooks, chefs, and people with sense of the common variety, but instead putting the rounded side to the cutting board, creating a wobbly seesaw** apple that, whilst much more exciting and frankly PUNK ROCK to try to slice then a boring, stable, flat-side-down apple, tends to glance knives off its surface and into things less desirable to slice, such as fingertips.

*
**Americans - what is this "teeter-totter"? Teeter-totter? Go on, say it out loud! It's ridiculous! I mean, "seesaw" doesn't make a whole world of sense but at least it sounds marginally less absurd.

One of my recent wildly bad ideas was choosing the theme song from Knight Rider as the notifier for incoming emails on my Blackberry. I had no idea I received and wrote so many emails (because irritatingly Gmail sends you a copy of every email you send as well as the ones you receive, which is simply unreasonable in that it's nigh unto impossible to turn off) but thanks to Glen A. Larson and Stu Phillips (Stu - bwah!), I know now I get a lot of emails and also that I do despise an 80s synthesiser. Ugh, and that plodding bass line - duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh [wait] duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh ...I WILL hassle the Hoff with a bass guitar to the taint and that song will be the reason, and my defence.

Mirepoix is a bunch of chopped up veg. I just like the word. Mirepoix. I heard it on Top Chef. I don't actually like mirepoix, because I don't like carrot or celery. And thus shall end the least interesting paragraph I have and possibly anyone has ever written. And you have to deal with it! I wash my hands of this matter.

On not giving a shit, I have this to say: I really don't now! I do not give a shit. All my cares have been beaten out of me in various ways and I am free of care and I'm going to tell you something - it is lovely. It is freeing. The difference between saying one doesn't give a shit and actually not giving a shit is as vast and deep as the sea. From someone who has taken the plunge into the ocean of not giving a damn, I am treading water and urging you to join me for the water, she is lovely. The world looks so wonderfully peculiar from this angle. Instead of such feelings as hurt and anger when one is wronged, one feels a delicious curiosity. Interesting that people behaved that way again, and so predictably! I would wonder why but I don't care! All I feel reverberating from my soul is MEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I will be over here doing what I want and enjoying it. You are free to continue being a mythical a-hole, I have some bad decisions to make.

Don't be concerned, I'm stopping myself before I create a LOLcat

2008-10-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

I'm home sick right now but don't worry about me because I have a superhero taking care of me:

Don't worry, Superkitty is on the case!
BACK OFF GERMS! Back away slowly or I'll...
zzzzz zzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Superhero work is extremely taxing, I'm just zzzzz sayingzzzzzzz...
I'll be with you in a second. Really.
I believe I said ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Fuck gluten in its skull*

2008-10-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

*alternative title = I got a cat**

**titles not related***

***I like using *'s in an annoying manner, I hope it bothers you deeply

So here's a list of probably totally unrelated things:

1. I now own a cat. I like animals, usually ones that don't slice me up, and as such I've generally been a (trained) dog person. I wasn't against cats, I just wasn't necessarily for them. But then I got a cat and realised that my cat, unlike all the others, basically rules. She's just that good, my kitty.
Does she love tequila just like her mother? Clearly, but only the higher end brands, like her mother.

2. I got an email from someone that said "Fuck gluten in its skull" and I wanted it as my life motto and t-shirt slogan.

Actual gluten:

My very artistic interpretation of gluten, which resembles an angry piece of popcorn only IN YOUR HEAD, and my preliminary t-shirt design:Don't mistake its gargantuan skull for a large brain, because gluten is dumb.

3. A girl who looks like Audrina from The Hills but without the vacant bovine eyes and giant veneers is interested in me. In that way. Today suddenly became interesting.

Wow, they feel really nice. Real orb-like.

2008-10-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

I used to think tales of this sort of behaviour were a bit of a joke but it seems there might be a walking cliche skulking 'round the old 'brary today:

Man: "Ah there's the lady with the pretty eyes!"

Me, not looking up yet: "Aw, thanks. How are you?"

Man: "Better now!"

Me, finally looking up: "..."

[Man? Not looking in my eyes so much as gawping at the chestal region]

Me: "QUICK, WHAT COLOUR ARE MY EYES??"

Man, spluttering: "Uh uh uh... a b.....rooooown...blue...[Man finally makes eye contact]
...GREEN! A...A... BROWNISH BLUEISH GREEN!"

Me, but not actually out loud: "Same colour as the bruises I'll put on your nuts!"

Me, in reality: "Did I catch a niner in there? Are you calling from a walkie-talkie?"

[Some random guy at a nearby table snickers]

Man: "I like your shirt?"

Eh, who am I kidding, I'm not mad! Come back! Look at my boobs. LOOK AT THEM.

This day is dragging like a motherfawker.

POWERPASTE! NOW WITH TEN TIMES THE TOTAL ADVANCED WHITENING FRESHENING KAPOW!

2008-09-25T08:22:00.000-07:00

One day it occurred to me in the shower (where many things occur to me) that I was in the middle of a toothpaste crisis, or at the very least, a dilemma. For most of my life I've used the same toothpaste merely because I had always used it. But I began to think perhaps Close-Up toothpaste, whilst cheap and very refreshing, might not the best for the health of my teeth. Close-Up seems to work by the power of pure cinnamon burning and good wishes alone, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable betting the health of my teeth on a cinnamon burn.

Afterall, I told myself, I use the power cleaner that is the Sonicare toothbrush, and the most elitist and most powerful version at that, guaranteed to chisel away my very enamel if not used properly, so why would I use a toothpaste which sets my tongue on fire but might possibly do nothing else? I would not, I told my naked self.

Ages ago I had gone to some giant warehouse and purchased a pallet of toothpaste and I really liked my choice and lo my teeth were healthy and they gleamed and I had so much of this toothpaste that it was a year until I needed to repurchase any. The good times finally came to an end and I had squeezed the very last bit of minty greenish-goodness from my gigantor tube. It was time to get some more, a quest I believed would be quite simple.

HAH. Things had changed in my year away from the toothpaste game.

I stood in the toothpaste aisle of my local grocery store and came to some realisations. First of all, was my desired paste Crest or Colgate? They both start with the letter "C", and that was as much as I could remember about my beloved tube. And to take it even further, which one should it be? Will one brand make my teeth more diamond-like in hardness and twinkling? Because I needed that one. Then again, I was very happy with the toothpaste I was already using so it seemed ill-advised to take the chance of getting the wrong brand and then being stuck with sub-standard choppers and an unfulfilling oral hygiene experience. I finally decided it was Colgate I was seeking after spending a few hundred minutes staring at the tube designs and rolling them around my brain for familiarity.

Issue two was thus: Now that I had settled on Colgate, which freaking iteration had I purchased a year ago? Because here's the thing - there are 800 kinds of Colgate. There's Total, Advanced, Total Advanced, Fresh, Advanced Fresh, Total with whitening, Advanced with whitening, Total Advanced Fresh with and without whitening, Total CLEAN and then Total ADVANCED CLEAN and Total ADVANCED FRESH...and let us not even mention the pastes versus the gels. At least on that front I was sure; I do not do paste. I require a light greenish-blue gel. It's what I demand.

I'm not even getting into the Colgate MaxFresh series which I had ruled out due to tube shape (it comes in a funky bottle) but I paused...MaxFresh, eh? So the Advanced Fresh...is it less fresh than Max? Why not put all the maximum freshness into every type of paste?

Another path I dared not walk down was the Colgate Tartar Protection path. But I stopped briefly at the crossroads to wonder what the difference could possibly be between "Cool Mint" and "Crisp Mint". How does a mint attain coolness yet avoid a crispness? This seemed to me to be a subtlety akin to wine-tasting, with its hints of woodiness and suggestions of berries and leather. Did I need some sort of sophisticated palate just to figure out what I was brushing with? And I shuddered to think that perhaps my Total Advanced Super Max paste might not protect me from the heartbreak of tartar. Did I need 100 toothpastes to make sure I was covered for every potential mouth disaster?

Lest you think I'm done with the Colgate pastes, silly fool, I am not even close. Dare you dream of visiting a shimmering place called Colgate Luminous? I briefly did, for who amongst us doesn't want to be luminous? I sat down to ponder, troubled. If I chased luminosity would I sacrifice totally advanced maximum cleanness? Or totally advanced maximum freshness? I wondered if this was a style over substance thing, a glamour versus a workaday paste. Would I have a mouth filled with microscopic plaque but which was tarted up like a painted whore if I used the Luminous, and conversely would I be free of plaque but have teeth that looked like roof shingles if I chose some other option? I did briefly fall under the spell of the Luminous flavours, however. Crystal Clean and Paradise Fresh, like a vacation in your mouth! Though yet again you must make Sophie's choice - will you be clean or will you be fresh?

If you find your mouth a disturbingly oxygen-deprived place where germs multiply insidiously and you also enjoy the foul taste of baking soda, don't despair for there is a paste for you. It's called Colgate Baking Soda and Peroxide Whitening Oxygen Bubbles, you need only decide if you're a Brisk Mint person or a Frosty Mint person. Maybe you're Brisk during the week and Frosty on the weekends only, because you're generally a responsible chap.

If you're mainly concerned with the colour of your teeth, be prepared to become woozy with adjectives. There's Simply White, for you simpletons, but it is Advanced, so do not despair. There are several SPARKLING White choices, for you bobby dazzlers in the crowd. You get the flavours of Mint Zing, Cinnamint, and Caribbean Cool which is only for the hipsters. If you have to question whether or not you're cool enough for CC, you're not.

And then there's Ultra Brite, which brings up the question - is Ultra > than Sparkling? Regardless, you'll have a lot of flavours to choose from if you go Ultra, including a bubbling baking soda, an Advanced White, an Extra Freshening, and the puzzling All-in-One, which one can only assume is an advanced concoction of extra freshening baking soda and peroxide which also whitens and possibly gives you self-esteem.

[God help you if you have sensitive teeth.]

Dizzy, I had to breathe into a paper bag just to continue. I decided my paste was some sort of Advanced or Total, and I was fairly sure there was some whitening thrown in. My head was swimming and I briefly entertained the idea of employing an eeny meeny miney mo method of choosing.

Which was better, Colgate Advanced or Colgate Total? Common sense dictates that Total should be better, by virtue of its name, but what if it was merely the sum total of oral technology UNTIL Advanced came onto the scene and...advanced things? Was Colgate Total Advanced the combination of Advanced and Total, for some super totally advanced oralgasm??? Would I rather be totally and advancedly CLEAN or totally and advancedly FRESH? What if I wanted to be both? It was almost as if all the toothpastes were exactly the same save for colour and flavour and all these choices were some sort of advertising gimmick!

Who would help me? I looked frantically up and down the lonely aisle.

No one.

I grabbed a tube, I went home, I broke it open, I discovered I had chosen poorly. My new toothpaste wasn't green and gel-y, it was white and pastey, it was Total but not Advanced nor Fresh and

It sucks.

Only two giant tubes to get through before I do this all again.*

*For help, Colgate has a quiz so you can discover your very best toothpaste!

Curiouser and curiouser

2008-09-23T13:42:00.000-07:00

I just watched a woman take a pack of gum out of her purse and carry it into the toilet with her. And I asked myself, "Why?" Was she trying to eke out every last productive minute of her day by dovetailing her toileting with her breath-freshening? Would it take too much time to open the gum just before going to the restroom, or right after? Must it be done concurrent to the restroom activities, which we can only hope merely involved NUMBER ONE?

Sometimes it's a curse to be this curious. And also to sit this close to the bathroom.

Interesting

2008-09-22T11:53:00.000-07:00

Whenever I spend time with my family the backhanded compliments and not-so-subtle digs I collect and keep like baseball cards in a mouldy basement never fail to leave me feeling worthless and sub-standard. Pleasantly, this weekend the insults seemed to run off me like drops of oil down a wet arm, leaving an interesting pattern but no lasting effects that couldn't be eradicated with a swipe of my hand.

If this new turn of events has something to do with the two Oxycontin I took before the party, I foresee trouble.

Hold your children tight tonight

2008-09-19T13:31:00.000-07:00

One of my coworkers went to Disneyworld and brought keychains back for everyone; they each have our initials on them. My coworker couldn't find one with my initial so this person got a "T" to represent my last name, telling me it was in "lowercase". Except it's actually the letter "J". These are your librarians of today! And Dewey wept.

Your Top Five Questions Answered!

2008-07-21T15:00:00.000-07:00

1. I had a family situation.
2. It seems to be resolved.
3. Then I went on vacation.
4. Then I got a BRAND NEW TV, aka My Darling.
5. Monkeycorn.

Hmmm, it seems your top five questions for me were:

1. Where did you go?
2. Oh, that's too bad, everything ok?
3. Why are you still gone then?
4. Are you still on vacation, you dumb slattern?
5. What is the best mythical animal on earth? [MONKEY-UNICORN HYBRID. Duh.]

So I got a new TV and thus entered into the 2000s with the rest of the HD-flat-paneled universe. Wow...things sure look different than how I was seeing them in non-high-def. I can see details on actors! Like their faces.

My old TV was from 1999 and weighed approximately 100 lbs. and had to be kept at least 2 feet from the wall because it was so thick and also had a tendency to scorch the wall. I know that sounds really cool but when your room is the size of a shoebox those two feet are precious. As are unscorched walls.

I went to Best Buy to purchase My Darling and I was in the TV section by myself (which...how come every time you're at a store, armed with money and ready to actually purchase an item, the shop help scatter like seeds in the wind n'er to be found again but if you are "just looking!" they won't get off your back?) staring at the bank of unbelievable high definition goodness, when a gangly teen stood next to me, pretending to also look at the TVs. Two seconds later he snickered and left to join a friend, who also started snickering. And then I smelled it.

It was the worst smell in all the history of smells. It was as if all the bad smells in the universe congealed two million years ago and were then compressed, fermented and covered in black mold and dead woodchucks to simmer until the fateful moment when that foul vial of death was unleashed on Best Buy. At first I thought it was what you're thinking right now, but it lingered and then grew stronger, threatening to wipe out all life as we know it. It was a stink bomb.

I desperately wanted to leave the place but I wanted a TV. So I slowly lost consciousness all alone in the HD section instead. It was 100 degrees in the store which added a scorching layer of steamy fun to the process. Another customer joined me to stare at the TVs and immediately crinkled up his nose and glared at me as if I was responsible for the stench. Which is impossible for many reasons, chief among them being my ass is just for show.

I realise after writing all of that there is no more to the story. Sorry! I thought I was going somewhere with all of that and maybe I was but it's gone now. I'm really out of practise with this writing shit.

Basically a Best Buy employee helped me, I reported the stink bomb boys and they were escorted out of the store, and shortly thereafter I left with pure awesomeness in the form of a very large TV, which I'm proud to say I moved and hooked up (basically) by myself. If you saw how many cords and devices I have, and how utterly inept I am at technological things, you would understand how amazing this is. Well, it speaks for how easy the TV's setup is, at any rate.

Brad Hamilton does some food shopping

2008-06-12T14:48:00.000-07:00

alternate title: Doesn't anyone fucking knock any more?

So I was walking out of the grocery store today at around 10 AM and I saw this guy sitting in a van next to my vehicle. He was shaking something energetically, something I believed to be a bottle or can and errr noooooooo, that was not a bottle so much as that was his penis.

He was wanking forcefully in his front seat, very very forcefully and with much conviction. He seemed to be of the belief that if one is going to wank, one puts one's back into it. He was masturbating the way a baseball player should hit - he followed through. He wasn't tenderly making love to himself, he was truly punching clowns.

The very best part of this story, besides the boon of unexpected penis, is the van he was sitting in was emblazoned with the logo for some sort of hot dog business named Genie's Weenies. This is when my day turned from meh to BWAHAHAHA. The only thing that would have made this any better would be if he had been wearing some sort of weiner costume at the time.

Odds & Ends aka A Whole Mess of Links aka Monkey Grandmas, Lingerie, and Ninjas

2008-06-04T10:22:00.000-07:00

1. This face transformer can turn your photo into a famous artist's painting, a manga character, an ape, and can also age you, change your race, and turn you into a monkey. I had 500 hours of fun with it. Here are some of my results, some which look very close to what I actually look like and some that make me look like Paris Hilton, which I do not appreciate in the least. This is as close to posting my photo here that I will ever get.

a)Me as a Modigliani:
This picture shows my eye colour the closest, but my real face is 98% less long.

b)This is me as a Mucha. I think it looks the most like me, though I'll have to ask people who know me if that's actually true:
Different picture of me, as a Mucha:This also looks a lot like me, but I sure do need to tweeze! And wash the swirlies from my face.

c)Me as a Botticelli, which somehow makes me look like Paris Hilton, which makes me seethe:My brows are the worst! Also, remind me to get a new face, because I want nothing to do with that Hilton person in any way, shape, or form.

d)Me as a manga character:Somehow my eyes became purple, which is awesome.

e)Me as an apeman:Oh yeah. I'm about to do it cavegirl-style, like on the Discovery Channel and shit. Look out, chimps.

f)Me as my own Grandmother, I look just like her and it's scary:GILF? My nose is the worst here. Remind me to get a nose job when I turn 70. Also I'm very frightened that someone is going to recognise me from these pictures. ESPECIALLY THE APE ONE. This was probably all a very bad idea, as most of my ideas seem to be.

2. I adore this so much.If I had a spare $350, it would be mine. It reminds me of a specific scene in my favourite book (The collection is The Complete Claudine, the book the scene is in is Claudine Married. This is something Claudine would wear, and she is my hero.)

And the matching bloomers.Aaaaah! So cute! I NEED THESE! For seduction purposes.

3.These are more affordable, but not quite right.

4.This game is made of ninjas, which as we all know, ninjas = awesome Suntory times:
I would freaking love to live in a Ninja Town. I would nunchuck so many effers, you do not even REALISE.

5.For the beach/pool, I like this:or this:

6.Want:

7.Want!!Maybe for once I could have a plant on my desk that didn't look like a burnt out refugee from a nuclear mushroom cloud. I'm sorry, Mr. Fern!

8. I NEED this dress. I'm not a fan of Sienna Miller but I love that dress for summer. Her booties are a joke though.

That's all the links I have for now. I have a ton of a dog photos I want to post but I don't have time at the moment due to such irritations as "bosses" and "work".

Like licking honey off a knife

2008-06-03T15:11:00.000-07:00

I have an unhealthy relationship with my Xbox, and specifically the game Call of Duty 4. I'm okay with that; other people might say I'm "ignoring" them or I'm "obsessing" over the game or I'm "a total nerd", but those people are "dumb" and "don't understand" and "suck". Consequently I shoot them with my M16 with deep impact, stopping power, and bandolier. I empty entire clips into their lifeless bodies and throw grenades on their corpses and sometimes I finish with an RPG-to-the-balls flourish. I don't, however, teabag them because I'm not an immature owner of a bag with which to tea and also that behaviour is unseemly.

I wasn't very good at the game when I started playing online but because I loved to play anyway I quickly became a fairly decent player. I have a profile picture and gamer name that indicate I own equipment not of the penile variety, and let me tell you something - boys do not like being being beaten by a girl. To which I say, "Hahaha! You got beaten by a girl! LOOSER." [sic]

If you have an Xbox 360 and play games online, you know about the section on your profile that has your reputation rating based on other people's estimation of you. Other players can prefer you as a player if they enjoy your stylings or avoid you if they think you're a nobody chick. People can also rate your gameplay if it's aggressive or unsporting and you seem to be insufficiently apologetic for the sins you've committed. You can view your rep on your profile and see if people have rated you unfavourably.

I was a 100% preferred player for a while and then I had an epic game which I finished number one out of both teams and wherein I repeatedly killed a few guys who were stupid enough to continually come a way they should not have come because I had a superior position. But hey, if you keep coming to my evening rodeo, you'll be messing with the bull and you'll be getting the...well, you know how the saying goes. I mean, you can get a good look at a T-bone by sticking your head up a butcher's ass, but then..no. It's gotta be your bull.

The guys I beat probably called me a "camper" which is what some people dismissively call players who watch a spot and constantly beat others as they try to come through that spot and it's considered unfair play by those who fall prey to this tactic (though it's plenty fair - sir, if you are dumb enough to keep doing the same unsuccessful thing then I'm smart enough to keep killing you there), and to which I also say: I'm sorry I'm not sorry. I'm not going to run and gun elsewhere and leave a key area unprotected so your team can overrun my favourable position on the map just to avoid being called names by someone who wants to come up and shoot my ass anyway.

The boys did not like tasting my bullets over and over and then losing (to a lower ranked female, which is the ULTIMATE INSULT), so now I am rated "15% unsporting", one of the many aspersions in my life I now wear as badges of honour, soulless blonde that I am.

I like to listen to music whilst I CoD. I have a specific iTunes playlist set up for playing and I like getting headshots as I hum, "running towards nothing again and again and again".

Let shiver after boorishly crushing

2008-05-21T13:27:00.000-07:00

Alternate title: Le Gaston, Le Gaston, HEE HEE HEE HON HON HON

I adore this recipe, found here [best parts are bolded]:

Fried mangoes in salt vanilla butter
by Alain Passard

Ingredients (Serving Size : 4)
4 small mangoes
50 grams of salty butter
dragées
1 pink grapefruit
1 soupspoon of honey of lavender
a vanilla pod of Tahiti

In a wide pan and on very light fire, gild by turning them 40 minutes to a bottom of salty (generously vanilled) butter the bald and whole mangoes. Reserve them in a dish of service by strewing them with some boorishly crushed dragées. Pour into the jumper of cooking the juice of a pink grapefruit, a soupspoon of honey of lavender and add some chiselled leaves of mint. Let shiver and slightly reduce this small sauce, serve it syrupy by recovering every fruit on the dish of service.

I love the way French people cook. Bald mangoes are strewn wildly about, dragees crushed as if by a lout, leaves are chiseled, things are poured into jumpers of cooking, and then the whole concotion is left shivering on the counter to recover until it is contemptuously tossed into a dish of servitude. The sauce? It is SMALL. Like your weiner. The food must know who its master is.

You make me touch your hands for stupid reasons*

2008-05-19T13:50:00.000-07:00

*alternate title: Dear Loser, you ain't my boyfriend anymore

Person A: Whoa, these are some song lyrics.

Person B:"Wow. Want me to sing that at our wedding?"

Person A: Oh my god, that would be hilarious.

Person B: Or maybe read it in a dramatic style? [make sure you have your speakers on for this]

Person A: You made me just snort at work. BASTERT.

Failmeister of Cakes

2008-04-28T14:22:00.001-07:00

I decided to bake this weekend! I used to think I could bake, back in the golden days I call "pre-celiac", but ever since the doctor gave me my diagnosis and these directions:

1. Eat no gluten
2. Try to find meaning in your life without it
3. Good luck with all that

...baking sort of fell by the wayside, since 99% of deliciousness in baked goods can be traced back to the demon gluten.

Then came the discovery of gluten-free mixes, and how could they possibly go wrong? It's a mix, for goodness' sake! Oh...I don't know:

No, as a matter of fact that is NOT a giant, grey, ill-looking Cheerio. No, I didn't try to make a Bundt cake, nor did I use a Bundt pan. No that's a cake which first totally collapsed in the center and then revealed a mostly raw middle. So I thought I would just scrape out the middle and frost the hell out of it, thus fooling myself and pastry chefs worldwide.

Roommate: What's with the giant doughnut?
Me: It's my patented Cheerio cake.
Roomate: I'm putting a photo of this cake on my computer desktop.
Me: Because it's so awesome?
Roomate: ...because it will never not make me laugh.

Sadly I can't even say "At least it tasted good!" because, nay. I added some extra vanilla extract into the mix for some reason I can't properly explain now and I don't know if it's related but the cake is so sweet it gives anyone who looks at it hyperglycemia. Go get your blood sugar checked, is all I'm saying.

I just caoleod to say I loev uy

2008-04-24T14:51:00.000-07:00

One time I got very drunk (at an office luncheon, no less, for I am very professional) on many Chimays (which I shouldn't even have been drinking, not only because it was a work lunch but also because Chimay = replete with gluten) and my boyfriend text messaged me to call him and I text messaged back:

"Okay, caoleoing uy!"

...which is drunk for 'calling you', it seems. He thought that was funny so he made me a t-shirt:

Now this has become a catchphrase amongst us and my friends use it too. We say it so much that I accidentally just said it on the phone to a co-worker. "I'll caol uy!" The weird thing is, she didn't even respond with surprise when I suddenly broke into nonsensical phrases, which means either she is used to my strange ways or she was ignoring me.

This story has no point, in case you were waiting and/or wondering. It's just that I felt compelled to write something and this is it. I'm not proud.

How to have a stimulating conversation whilst at work, Part 1 of ?

2008-04-16T13:24:00.000-07:00

Step 1: Start with GPS, end with ponies

Person A: I really wish I had this GPS. You have to pay for a monthly service though. But it gives you up-to-the-minute traffic and when there is a problem on your route it gives you up to three ways around it.

Person B: How much is the service?

A: It depends on which plan you get - it's cheaper if you commit to two years or one year - somewhere around $9.99-12.99/month.

B: That's not too bad.

A: I guess not, IFFEN YOU'RE BIG -N- RICH.

B: Well, you're neither of those things.

A: I know. That's why I don't have that GPS. But my GPS works just fine.

B: You need a better one!

A: I want a better one. Do not need. I also want a pony even though I know it will bite me.

B: Ponies are cool.

A: They are so free! I mean, not literally. In their hearts.

B: Yes. Best restless and vengeful. They will harm you if they can.

A: Their beauty hides a sinister desire.

It's freaking hump day, you'll getting nothing better from me than this*

2008-04-09T15:10:00.000-07:00

*I refuse to call these "random musings". Don't you dare.

1. My deli has a sandwich club called TASTEE & MEATY. Why is it tast'ee', but meat-'y'? I desire equivalence in my deli club adjectives. As I waited in line for my tastee, meatee order today, I wondered if there were any hazing rituals involved in joing a sandwich club. Does one have to slam pickle juice shots or circle the different cuts of meat on the diagram of a cow? Or does it just go to a vote by the TASTIE & MEET-T sandwich club members? Do members have wacky nicknames like Ball O. Knee and Mort Adella?

1a. Yes, the line for the deli was very long.

2. For most of today I've been writing March instead of April every time I wrote the date, and I also thought it was Thursday until just recently.

2a. I think I make a compelling case for the necessity of that bitter white crystalline xanthine alkaloid that acts as a psychoactive stimulant and a mild diuretic discovered by that freakin' hottie, German chemist Friedrich Ferdinand Runge.

2b. A reduction in serotonin levels when caffeine use is stopped can cause anxiety, irritability, inability to concentrate and diminished motivation to initiate or to complete daily tasks; in extreme cases it may cause mild depression. Together, these effects have come to be known as a "crash".

2c. I'm worried and depressed and I've pretty much lost interest in finishing this fucking p o st

What's it like to have a gun? It's like having two cocks. If one of your cocks could kill someone.

2008-04-08T14:16:00.000-07:00

After conducting a fairly unscientific study this afternoon, I've concluded that assholes not only look and talk like assholes, they even open doors like asswipes. I didn't know it was possible to open a door in such a way as to let others know without even looking up that it is indeed you, Assholio Extraordinario, but now I do know. It is 100% possible.

I went 10/10 guessing that The Cock (not to be confused with FootShamblinWaterFountain Guy) was coming into my area by his invisible yet all too tangible "It's me. Me! Bow down!" aura that was so powerful it caused the door to swing on its hinges until it smashed loudly against the opposite wall.

Your mozzarella sticks are everywhere, screaming infidelities

2008-04-07T14:01:00.000-07:00

I was doing some major cleaning over the weekend and found an old messenger bag of mine. Inside it was a note I wrote to myself after my ex-boyfriend dumped me in a Chili's. Yeah, I said it! Dumped in a Chili's! And no, there isn't a more humiliating way to be dumped, thanks for asking. If you're writing a book called "Ten Humiliating Ways to Leave Your Lover" make that number one. Sure if it happens to you you'll laugh about it (years) later but you'll still secretly shoot lasers at the face of Tyler Florence every time you see him on TV just for being associated with the place. Except I just realised Tyler works with Applebees*. Eh, same restaurant, different flair. He still deserves the lasers.

At the time I wrote this list I still had to see my ex every day and some days were so hard I thought about setting myself on fire, and by myself I mean mostly totally him. The note said:

REASONS I HATE [fuckhole]:

1. Is a dick
2. Can't spell
3. Is rude
4. His chewing
5. Is not smart
6. Is fake
7. Is dumb. DUMB!!!
8. Is minute man
9. Has a small piece
10. DOESN'T SHAVE BALLS ENOUGH
11. Uses people
12. IS A DICK
13. & an asscandle
14. & a tool
15. Sometimes has camel toe
16. Wears Stetson Man

I laughed, but it brought me back to a time when I was desperate to find reasons to stop loving him despite the fact he treated me like most people wouldn't treat a rented stepstool. I can't relate to the person I was back then - not the person who ever loved him nor the person who thought her world was ending because he moved on. Now loving him seems as ludicrous as wearing shoes made out of corned beef. You try it once, sure, but quickly realise for every one good idea you have there are several less stellar ones.

I've since found the best man in the world and he's the opposite of all those things. He chews and spells properly, isn't deficient in the pantaloons nor in stamina, is neither fake nor a candle made from ass, doesn't smell like a pine tree covered in douchebags, and I'll just leave his #10 status to your imagination, as his brother reads here. Let's not make this awkward.

*Speaking of the Applebees, once Mr. S. and I were watching one of those Skinemax soft core "porn" shows and it centered around a searing love triangle between a bartender, a waitress, and a patron and from the interior and exterior shots it was clear they used an Applebees for the set. Several "eatin' good in the neighbourhood" jokes may have been made.

Blame it on the rain, blame it on the stars, whatever you do don't put the blame on you

2008-04-04T08:59:00.000-07:00

There are embarrassing situations that are funny and secretly not that embarrassing and maybe even a little charming in the retelling, and then there are embarrassing situations that are the opposite of that.

I once bought a tube-toppish thing from the children's section of a store because the adult-sized shirts were too big. It fit fine everywhere except the chestal region where it was just a little tight but not enough to make a difference, so I imagined. However, each time I wore the shirt all was fine in the morning but as the day wore on the shirt would begin to annoy in the same way a headband or hat can irritate your head. Things are copacetic and then all of a sudden you're rubbing your temples and wondering why your head is in a vice. Except I wondered why my rib cage was in a vice and instead of my temples I rubbed under my arms.

After wearing the top about five times and hating it every single time, I caught on that maybe the top should be a no-go. I learn faster than I drive. I relegated the top to the back of my bottom drawer and forgot about it.

The last few weeks have been crazy for me and also I've been lazy so my laundry has built up into the Tower of Barad-dûr, complete with the Eye of Sauron on top. I've been frightened to go near it for I know what hunts me. I was also sort of hoping some sort of wash warp would occur wherein my dirty clothes, having sat in a pile for so long, would somehow become clean simply by the miracle of air and time. This was wishful thinking, I'm sad to report.

In delightful synchronicity, today I ran out of clean clothes and woke up late, my alarm piercing my skull with an ENGH ENGH ENGH ENGH ENGH ENGH sharp enough to slice through a conversation with Ben Stein. Apparently if you ignore my alarm, which starts off with a gentle engh... engh... engh..., it proceeds to the Engh engh, Engh engh, Engh engh level, and if you dare ignore that it turns shit up to one louder with an ENGH I ENGH WILL ENGH NOT ENGH BE ENGH IGNORED ENGH DAN. ENGH ENGHboiledbunnyENGH.

Bleary and sullen, I scrambled around desperately looking for an outfit. Pants I never wear because you are ugly and ill-fitting? Yay, I found you! What's this at the back of the bottom drawer! Hi, children's top! There's no way you'll be uncomfortable today, is there? You are cute and will distract people from my ill-fitting pants. I will pair you with a cute hoodie.

On my drive to work, things went from "this outfit isn't too bad" to "get this fucking iron lung of a shirt off me, stat" alarmingly fast. By the time I was walking/ok, running into work, the shirt was Hiss (the snake from Robin Hood) and it was cracking my ribs and trying to hypnotise me to my death. "Hypnosisss can cure you of your psssychosssis... ssso easssy..."

I quickly formulated a plan so as to continue living. I would remove this body cast of a top, zip up the hoodie (hoodie is a damn stupid word), and breathe as a free man again. Because I was late, I had no time to carry out my plan in the bathroom like normal, decent folk. Filled with foolishness and dumb, I thought I could, at my desk, simply zip up the hoodie and quickly slip the tube top down my body and step through it with no one the wiser.

This plan had a danger potential of +1000 being that my desk is out in the middle of a busy library, but I shot for the stars and reached for the moon. I should have reached for a gun and shot for myself instead, but sadly I was gunless.

I looked around furtively, waiting for planets to align and everyone to be looking down or away at the same time. In my mind, at that moment I would, in one seamless motion, slide the tube top down my body. This became the thing that I failed.

The moment came and everyone was looking away. I knew I had mere milliseconds to make this happen, so I grasped the bottom edge of the top and pulled hard, simultaneously forgetting my a) ill-fitting pants and b) the fact that if the top was snug around my rib cage it was probably also going to be equally snug around my hips.

I got the top to my hips and realised things weren't going to flow seamlessly but rather were going to require firm yanking. People's heads began to turn slowly towards me. I pulled harder, briefly triumphant as the top slipped past my hips just as a man approached my desk. I didn't have time to get it all the way down before he arrived at my desk, a look of unamusement splashed across his face like a bad date had thrown an appletini in it.

"What are you doing?" he said, not with a tone of "Oh how cute!" so much, but more the tone of "Tell me again why am I forced to view this disgusting display?".

That's when I realised my ill-fitting pants, which of course were ill-fitting not in the direction of being too small but rather clownishly too big, had been pulled down when I yanked the tube top past my hips, and my pants were now resting daintily below my Super Girl knickered ass. The offending tube top sat with brooding ill-humour around my ankles like a malicious word spat out during an argument.

Sort of like this:

If the stranger had found this scene adorable I might not want to die right now, but I really can't explain the look on his face except to say it was as far from "How adorable!" as a look could be and was planted as firmly in "Ugh" as anything ever was.

And now for a brief emotional state that is the result of experiencing an unexpected event

2008-04-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

Is there anything worse in the world than biting down on a candy thinking you know what's inside and finding out SURPRISE! LEMON! you were wrong? I mean, besides murder and racism and fatness.

Slow, Speedracer, sloooooooooooooow

2008-04-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

I recently got a speeding ticket. I was only going 80 mph, on the freeway no less, which I think is reasonable, nay, necessary around these parts to keeping up with the flow of traffic and not getting straight up murdered by angry drivers. It seems that police officers with radar guns think differently. It seems they think they can hide on freeway overpasses pointing their little radar guns down the road, whispering to themselves, "I AM A GOLDEN GOD," whilst oiling their copstaches and sniggering. They think this is acceptable.

My ticket cost me $320. Many times a day I realise anew that when contemplating careers and areas in which to have said career I chose poorly, because I don't have a spare $320 ever. This has led me to do something I thought I would never do: No, not sell my body for ca$h - worse:

Obey the speed limit so I don't get any more tickets.

I always thought of speed limits as quaint suggestions for other people, a ballpark figure if you will. How I've gone this long without getting a ticket seems like a miracle to me now as I crawl along with the weak and elderly, our hands at the 10 and 2, driving at preposterous speeds that are supposedly "the law" and "safe".

I realised just how infrequently I had obeyed speed limits when I found myself having no idea what the speed limit was anywhere along my frequently driven routes. Apparently the speed limit most places is butteffing slow.

Now I'm the recipient of The Finger and staccato honks, shaken fists and tailgating and many derisive glares, all because I won't go more than four miles over the limit, four being some magical number I've decided won't get me a ticket. I don't drive in the fast lane, mind you, I know all too well to keep my slow ass the hell OUT, but even in the slow lane people heckle me.

I want to put a sign on my door that says, "NO SHIT I'M GOING SLOW - if you pay for my tickets and insurance increases I'll speed right along with you straight into morning" but instead I must swallow my pride, get behind someone most likely named Bessie, and drive at a speed I could probably run. This makes me unpleasant.

Being that I am in a permanent state of unpleasantness , forced to drive at speeds Mr. Hoke would find absurd, I thought it would be a great time to also stop using caffeine as my drug of choice. If I'm going to be filled with fury I might as well take it to the max! I'm hoping if I make it through the caffeine withdrawals without dying or (more likely) being arrested (for murdering/maiming, not for speeding, obv), I will be filled with monk-like calm once my heart rate slows to the level of "extreme tachycardia" (down from "imminent myocardial infarction") and driving the speed limit will seem a little less like a punishment for all my mortal sins.

I'm easing into this posting thing slowly.

2008-04-01T10:10:00.000-07:00

Do you ever wonder, whilst getting a hair cut, where the cut hair goes after it falls to the floor? It gets swept up and thrown out - duh - but did you know it doesn't go right into the bin? No, it gets swept into the Hair Closet. My friend works at a salon and she showed me the Hair Closet. It was just a closet filled knee-deep with hair. You think you've seen the devil? Not until you've seen that, my friend.

My hairstylin' friend works next to a man named Francois, who named his curling iron 'Brutus'. He used to feel my boobs without asking but he stopped one day without explanation. I never asked why.

Besides this entry having no point whatsoever, I just realised I've already written about the Hair Closet like four years ago. Well, this is a different Hair Closet. Same idea though, still as horrifying.

Look Betty, don't start up with your white zone shit again. There's just no stopping in a white zone.

2008-03-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

Person B: This shit is getting ridiculous.

Person A: You obviously haven’t seen what I can do with a nipple ring and a packet of pretzels. I take planes DOWN.

B: I’m sure you do. It irks the shit out of me that some fuckhead can decide without any authority that a person who is wearing jewelry is not allowed to board a plane. And you can’t even question or debate these TSA morons because you’re likely to get tasered or worse if you do.

A: I’m sorry you’ll have to remove your Prince Albert next time you fly!

B: I’m sorry that I won’t.

A: DON’T TASE ME, BRO

Five Easy Steps to Appearing Super Professional

2008-03-28T08:13:00.000-07:00

1. Sleep late
2. Have the only clean clothes available be mismatched
3. Tell yourself "I'll put on my bra in the car"
4. Realise that's easier said than done, decide to do it at work
5. Walk/Run into the lobby with your bra hanging out of your bag

In lieu of real writing, an email conversation

2008-03-27T09:49:00.000-07:00

Person A: I hate my job. I can't wait to tell you about the fight that happened this morning! It's better told than written. The bottom line is I work with buttwats.

Person B: I'm sorry. I hate my job too. We have to come up with a plan! We have to get out of here.

A: My plan has you writing an award winning something or somehow making my revolutionary porn site idea into a money-making reality! That's my plan. I'll contribute by playing Rock Band and Zuma and being generally creative.

B: How will I fit that in between all my sessions of Call of Duty and Rock Band?

A: Your problem! I'll contribute regular sexin', if that helps.

B: That certainly won't hurt!

A: I wish someone would just hire me as their muse or as an idea person. I swear I could come up with ideas that would make millions all day long. I just lack the skill and ambition to make them a reality. I know this doesn't make me a particularly admirable person, but it's nonetheless true.

[some mushy stuff mercifully redacted]

B: I am the luckiest man since Lou Gehrig.

A: And he had a disease named for him!

B: Exactly!

A: Boy did he have it made.

B: bwah

A: I heart dry humour.

B: I heart your butt.

A: It can make a mean gallow humour joke.

A: I mean gallowS humour. whatever

B: either way

A: Either way my butt has very British sensibilities.

B: I'd say so.

A: It loves tea and crumpets and bangers and mash.

B: And hates gingers.

A: Goes without saying.

B: And yet I said it.

A: That's because your ass is American - it states the obvious, hates terrorists, and is loud.

B: Yeah, 100% U.S. Choice rump roast. Obvious and cheap.

A: But patriotic and generous.

B: To a fault.

Blogging is dead. I am not.

2007-11-13T15:25:00.000-08:00

Before I start writing again, and I'm going to*, I feel it is incumbent upon me to say a few things to anyone who is still here, and I don't know if anyone is because I haven't checked since April, but to anyone who has stuck around this long, you deserve some sort of award. Unfortunately I have nothing to offer you but a loud and entirely heartfelt, "Damn! You are very optimistic and/or related to me in some way. Good on you, mate."

I'm going to keep writing here but I will not be "blogging" again, ever. I'm over the bloggin' phenomenon, totally done with it. I was done with it at least six months before I stopped writing last but I've just finally got round to admitting it to myself as I am an unforgiveable procrastinator.

I hate blogs, blogging, the sphere which encompasses blogs, the very word "blog", memes (oh dear god, MEMES), delurking days, blurry picture with my daily outfit days, Flickr, Technorati, Blogger, Typepad, Myspace and all its Facebook bastard offspring, the vicious hounds of hell that are Sitemeter and Haloscan most especially, and 98% of all bloggers. But not you. You're in the 2%. Unless you're that one person. Boy do I fucking hate you.

For me, blogging is dead and frankly I'm embarrassed I ever participated in the whole sordid affair. Like when one takes too many Ambien and then tries to stay awake on purpose and fireworks start shooting out of the smoke alarm on the ceiling - in the morning one feels as if the whole thing was ill-advised and vaguely unsafe.

If it makes you feel any better, I don't only hate blogs. I also loathe myself in ways that I cannot even begin to go into just yet as I do not have the time, but I can throw you a bone and mention one way: I routinely watch the show The Hills. Of my own volition. Last night I watched the same episode twice. Yeah...but the second time was merely because the episode repeated and I couldn't find my remote, which was mostly due to being too lazy to look for it, my laziness being another reason for my self-loathing. And my penchant for digression and incomplete and run-on sentences, all of which are ugly things. Let me attempt to derail this derailment; there is plenty of time for self-loathing.

I've spent many hours (actually minutes) wondering how I could say this better, but at certain times it's best one comes right out and says things plainly. I love writing. I despise blogging. I started out writing (not well, mind you, but blissfully unaware of blogging) and then began the slow, inexorable sink into the sucky, boggy pit that is the blogosphere and now I'm out. I am out like Seacrest.

99.763% of blogs are unreadable. They say nothing, they mean nothing, they entertain the smallest of minds. Nothing is new under the sun, as that one person once said, and boy do blogs drive that point home in a painful, spike-to-the-cerebral-cortex like manner. The whole act of blogging has become unbearably tiresome to me. Moderating comments, bestowing reciprocal links, advertising -y/n?, blogging-to-get a-book-deal, making LOLCATZ, even Chuck Norris - it all makes me want to lie down for a spell.

I'm going to keep writing here, maybe even more than I did before, but I won't be blogging any longer. There will be no more comments, no more sidebar, no caring about traffic or numbers or being afraid of pissing people off. You can think I'm a big asshole just like you always did but now you will have to rail impotently to the skies about me because you won't be able to do it here. Of course you can still email me your grievances but you're too much of a cocksucking fuckstick to do that, aren't you? And if you get some keyboard courage, don't you worry, I'll post and mock your email. Not with a link though!

Just because I'm dropping out of the game doesn't mean you can steal my writing. I might not be checking things out in the blogosphere but Mr. Smith has my back. So try not to pilfer my writing and my life and then post it for your fake life on Adultfriendfinder, dicksmack.

*Haha, I know, I've said it all before...but I am, with the caveat that I make no promises about writing daily, or weekly, or on any schedule whatsoever. You know, business as usual.

Did you carve up any ice...with your weiner?

2007-04-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

You got big dreams? You want fame? Well, fame costs, and right here is where you start paying. IN SWEAT.

2007-04-23T09:02:00.000-07:00

My thumbs hurt. I realised one doesn't think about one's thumbs hardly, well...ever, that is until one's thumbs are injured. Then one thinks of them quite a bit more. Poor neglected thumbs, I'm sorry I've thought not of you. Please stop punishing me!

How does one injure one's thumbs? Well, it's an embarrassing story that involves me playing Nintendo's Super Mario Strikers soccer game non-stop all weekend. It's addictive! And it has mild cartoon violence. So, yeah. I am kind of dumb and immature, also I have a case of Nintendo thumb. I've proven once again that pressing really hard on the controls doesn't make your team run any faster but in fact cripples you.

Besides breaking my own thumbs to teach myself a lesson, this weekend I talked to a famous person on the phone. Well, he's semi-famous. Actually, he's very questionably famous. Okay, he's MTV-reality-show famous. Still.

I would tell you who he is but it's inconsequential to the story and I'm sure lots of people would think I was making it up, so I'll take the wind out of their sails and not bother to say who he is. However, if you're really interested in his name I guess you'll have to friend me on myspace, because I name him there on my SUPER SECRET FRIENDS ONLY BLOG OMG. Yeah, that's right. That's where all the good stuff is.

At any rate I, through means I am not at liberty to say, received the phone number to a dubiously "famous" young man (whose father was a very famous athlete and whose stepfather is a famous producer) and I didn't really believe it was his phone number so I called it. Because I'm that way. Give me the phone number to a questionably famous person and I'll ring it just to call your bluff!

Dubious Fame Boy didn't answer the phone, however his best friend who is equally dubiously famous but perhaps a little more infamous because he's seriously the biggest douchebag in the history of douchebaggery answered the phone. The second he started talking I knew it was him because he has a very distinctive and douchey voice, but I asked just to be sure and he said, "Yeah, that's me."

I started laughing because I wasn't really expecting ever to talk to Dubious Fame Boy or his Douchebag Sidekick, much less on that Saturday night. I was at a loss for what to say, so I said, "OMG I love your show." Now, Douchebag Sidekick was on a show but it wasn't really his show. He started laughing and said, "You love my show, huh? My show isn't on yet, it comes out in September. (I guess he has a show coming out in September? -ed.) You mean you love [Sorta Famous Girl's] show." And I said, "Oh, I don't think of it as [Sorta Famous Girl's] show because you OWNED that show." Which he did, through douchebaggery.

He laughed again and started chatting and wanted me to come out and meet him and Dubious Fame Boy and their other friends at a famous club. He asked me where I was and I freaked out and my mind went blank and I said, "I'm...uh...I'm in the O.C.!" (Jeebus.) He said, "You're in... the O.C.?" and then I got scared and hung up.

I know, lame. Well, what did YOU do this weekend that was so cool? Eh? EH??

National Poetry Month: Anger Edition

2007-04-20T09:45:00.000-07:00

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
I'll fuck you with a rake.

author unknown

You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Margaret Atwood

SOMEWHERE A SEED

Somewhere a seed falls to the ground
That will become a tree
That will some day be felled
From which thin shafts will be extracted
To be made into arrows
To be fitted with warheads
One of which, some day when you least expect it,
While a winter sun is shining
On a river of ice
And you feel farthest from self-pity,
Will pierce your shit-filled heart.

Michael Fried

The Message

Send home my long stray'd eyes to me,
Which, O ! too long have dwelt on thee ;
Yet since there they have learn'd such ill,
Such forced fashions,
And false passions,
That they be
Made by thee
Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home my harmless heart again,
Which no unworthy thought could stain ;
Which if it be taught by thine
To make jestings
Of protestings,
And break both
Word and oath,
Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know, and see thy lies,
And may laugh and joy, when thou
Art in anguish
And dost languish
For some one
That will none,
Or prove as false as thou art now.

John Donne

You Didn't Lose Your Girlfriend OR Your Turn Since You Can't Lose What You Never Had, Asshole

unlikeable you,
striped wrinkled shirt, no ass
and bald at the crown - your hair beats a hasty retreat
you think it's age or because you spill and overflow with mantosterone
actually your hair, like the rest of us, wants to get away from
unlikeable you

i'm not your princess

cocksucker

author unknown

I'm going to find it and I'm going to destroy it. I don't know how yet, possibly with dynamite.

2007-04-18T14:53:00.000-07:00

Dearest Allergies, PLZDIE. If you don't have allergies, here's a visual aid illustrating how it feels to go about your day, having allergies:

I know, there's a lot going on in that drawing. Let's discuss. Allergies make you feel like you are walking around with a heavy copper dive helmet on your head. You can't hear anyone, you can barely see, and breathing is laborious. Also somehow you are dressed liked Steve Zissou in The Life Aquatic. (Actually I just drew the hat because I couldn't draw my hair.) And also you want to kill the universe and de-ball its men. Living with allergies is an ignominous cross to bear.

Yes, those are supposed to be epaulets. Yes, you can tune in Tokyo. No, I cannot draw under normal conditions, so imagine me trying to draw myself in a dive helmet and epaulets when I am simultaneously IN a dive helmet and epaulets and also at work. I defy you to do better. Except if you're an artist, in which case no one asked you, smug artsypants.

This is what I am currently on:

1. Benadryl
2. Claritin
3. Mucinex (I KNOW, GROSS NAME)
4. Flonase
5. Zaditor eye drops
6. Some kind of inhaler

You would think those would do something, yet I cannot see, hear, breathe, or hold a civil tongue in my head. My head is an anvil stuffed with gold bars covered in elephants. Heavy.

Here's something else that's been on my mind, here in my dive helmet: As women, we are not allowed to see penises on film unless it's porn, Harvey Keitel, or so quick it's like a penis drive-by going 100 mph, a blur of a penis, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it member. Consequently, it sucks to be a woman and also I frequently find myself surprised that, when thanks to the magic of the internet, I finally and actually get to see a famous man's penis, how much ado about nothing it often turns out to be. (Most awkward sentence ever? Possibly.)

I believe Hollywood and all men on the planet got together in a super secret roundtable meeting and said "We don't want women to be happy or to see our wangs. So how's about we show a billion naked women in our movies and approximately zero weens save for a few ugly ones which we will allow in order to scare the ladies. This way women will remain under our control forever. If we allow them to see our rods they will steal our power and our very souls." And then they laughed evilly BWA HA ha and then looked at some chick's boobs and pointed out her imperfections.

So yeah, I saw Daniel Craig's package. And I thought...big deal. Or not that big, as it were. Oh yeah, and I saw David Beckham's, possibly. And frankly I want more. I'm going to go on record as supporting wangs and the film and photographic exposure thereof. Sign my petition, won't you? Oh, and women? Please don't go, "EW, penises are ucky." Because they are not, and by saying that you are just playing into the hands of men. It is high time we exploited men as women have been exploited. We must turn the tables and either reward or shame them according to their gifts.

Heh, I have only two things on my mind and they both involve helmets.

My dog is a cockblocking prude.

2007-04-16T16:00:00.000-07:00

I never believed in reincarnation but lately certain events have conspired to get me to change my mind. In my sidebar there is a picture of an adorable puppy but be ye not fooled by her limpid pools of melted chocolate eyes for I believe behind them lurks the soul of a bitter puritan who never got laid in life, who has now been reincarnated as my dog (and who incidentally is no longer a tiny puppy but a very large, horse-headed girl). Seriously, my dog Claudine has the biggest head ever. I'm not kidding, her head is like Sputnik; spherical but quite pointy at parts! I hope she doesn't read this or she'll be crying herself to sleep tonight on her huge pillow.

One time I was sleeping and I woke up suddenly to find her perched on my chest, her giant head floating above me as she just stared at me with inscrutable eyes. I'm not going to lie, it made me nervous. It was as if she were measuring all my deeds, there in the dark, and finding me in need of serious salvation. Which, okay, yes. But still. I don't need that kind of judgement from my dog.

Claudine loves Mr. Smith, he loves her, she loves me, I love her and Mr. Smith. We are smitten; we are deep in smit. Sounds like a big circle of love, doesn't it? Except, no. Claudine loves Mr. S and me separately, not together. She prefers us at opposite sides of the room, ideally opposite sides of street. Any attempt at displays of affection between the two of us is met with indignant prudery in the form of ear-shattering barking, shovel snouting*, body blocking, paw stamping, and rulers to the backs of our hands. Sometimes she makes us stand in the corner with gum on our noses. That is no ordinary dog we own.

Observe the Six Inch Rule at all times, says Sister Immaculata.
Is it a coincidence that her fur is black and white? No, because that is her habit, because my dog is a reincarnated nun, and one who does not tolerate shenanigans, thank you very much. I can't believe the first dog I picked out myself turned out to be Sister Claudine the Pure, Ruiner of Intimacies, Stopper of Hijinks, the first all-natural method of birth control, no side-effects, no artificial hormones, 100% giant horse head (it's a huge noggin, a virtual planetoid).

The minute we attempt to hug, kiss, or touch, Sister Claudine is at attention, glaring and barking, snout at the ready to shovel under our defenses. She can sense the very hint of Sexy Time in the air and when she does she is not inclined to look the other way. If we don't immediately separate she will commence Operation Stop The Sexy Time At All Costs, which basically involves her bodily shoving Mr. S. from me and then flopping heavily across my body to form a living, growling chastity belt.

Sister Claudine has her own martial arts, it's called Fuck You. It's mostly just head butting and then kicking people when they're on the ground.
In order to get some physical affection, Mr. S. and I have devised diversions in the form of peanut butter smeared on chew toys, toys which are then flung like grenades as far away from us as we can manage in order to buy us some time to hastily grope each other whilst Ol' Horse Head the Judgey (it has its own weather system!) glowers at us, trying to look menacing but merely achieving hilarious as she tries to lick the peanut butter from the roof of her mouth.

*Shovel snouting = method by which Giant Horse Head (it's like an orange on a toothpick!) weasels her way into the defensive security ball** formed to keep her out, in order to prevent sexual contact from commencing.

**Security ball = method of defense us humans have been forced to adopt to keep Sister Prudey the Chaste from separating us whilst we are trying to make The Love That Is Very Sweet.

Hi, you've reached THL, if you can dream it, you can do it!

2007-04-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

Well, technology has failed me yet again, in many super new ways. For one thing, I can't seem to put a youtube video on here and also write a post to go with it. That's too much for me, apparently. My knowledge stops at can opener, it seems. Who knows where this "dumb blonde reputation" comes from. I can't imagine. I have three youtube videos I wanted all in the same post with commentary, but you know what? I have not the patience.

And then there's myspace. Myspace, myspace, myspace - oh you have fucked me but good and deep. People warned me not to get one and I held out for so long, a stone carving of resolution in the face of unyielding pop culture pressure, and in a moment of supreme and ugly weakness I crumbled like a house built on a sand foundation and got a myspace and promptly, accidentally invited the wrong person to be my friend. I have a friend who has a similar name as someone who is in my email address book but isn't my friend (thanks gmail, for saving that email address) and I was looking through my address book for the friend's email address and I copied and pasted it in a hurried fashion and ... picked the wrong person. Which is just so unbelievably cool.

And then I have another issue. How would you take this? Some guy was talking about me to someone else (in front of me) and he said it was too bad I had a boyfriend, and someone else (I'm being deliberately obscure about who said it because...well, just because) said, "Well, you know what they say, you don't lose your girlfriend, you just lose your turn!" WTF? He was calling me a whore, right?

I am in a very bad mood. You know what would cheer me up? Patches the horse. Please see the entry below for Patches, as I am too technologically special to figure out how to combine videos and words.

I am a technological buffoon, Part 4

2007-04-12T13:28:00.001-07:00

I want this horse, right after I kill youtube and Blogger.

National Poetry Month! Good Friday Love Edition

2007-04-06T09:04:00.000-07:00

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Yeats

Touch

My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body

Octavio Paz
(translation by Eliot Weinberger)

No one must know

You lean to my side
tickling my desires.

Below my clothes
I quiver in infinities.

Others lean towards us.
Do they sense

your exhale is my inhale,
your out, my in?

We sit motionless
but betray ourselves,

glancing around
to see if anyone is looking.

Judith Pordon

Upon Julia's Clothes

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration each way free,
O how that glittering taketh me!

Robert Herrick

You make my hair shine like the Belt of Orion

2007-04-05T10:05:00.000-07:00

Like I mentioned last week, I did something I said I'd never do, something I'm vaguely ashamed of doing. None of you has guessed what it is yet(and frankly I don't think you've really even tried very hard, you lazy cows). And guess what - I'm not going to tell you to try to guess what is. I won't beg you to play my reindeer games.

I've been sick for over a week and I'm on a lot of pills - Nyquil, Dayquil, TheraFlu, some cold pill whose name currently escapes me, assorted allergy meds, and such. I just wrote an email that made no sense and I don't even really remember writing it. That's not good, is it. Kind of like this post.

We have a set of public bathrooms here in the book depository and a set of private ones for staff only. One of the patrons came to me and said, "Do you have any other bathrooms here?" in a very surly tone. I thought it was a strange question and I wasn't 100% in love with his attitude, so I asked, "Why, is there something wrong with that one?" as I gestured over yonder. He glared at me and said, "No!" as he stomped off. What was that about, do you suppose? Shy bladder? Coy bottom? An overreaching and inappropriate sense of entitlement? I am filled with wonderment.

On the subject of work stories (which I generally try to avoid as I am currently not in the position to be fired over this inane drivel - what a slap in the face that would be), remember Stirrups? She of the proclivity to shout out "OH FUDGE" when in distress and to wear pants from an 80s Sears catalog whilst chomping loudly on baby carrots? She's a darling. Today I was sitting there, entering data, which is sort of what I'm forced to do in order to collect my paltry pay, when Stirrups walked by (humorously not wearing stirrup pants today, but a jaunty peasant skirt) and said, "You know, I don't tell you this enough, but I like the cut of your jib!"

It was so weird because I was actually sitting there, merely pretending to work, whilst really thinking, "Why does no one appreciate my jib? Eh? Why don't they vocally express this to me? My jib is so lonely." And then, just in time, Stirrups ogles my jib and enjoys it. And tells me about it. That was close. What's even weirder is at first I thought she said, "I'd like to cut off your jib," which would have made the whole exchange end a lot differently. Luckily I understood what she said right at the last minute and put my knife away.

Paging Dr. Human Growth

2007-03-29T14:04:00.000-07:00

I want my (future) children and/or pets to have very unique names, but it seems all the good names are taken. And then I realised there is a mine, a veritable treasure trove of unique names in my spam folder. Names such as:

1. Beaver Russell
2. Sanders Pat
3. Flossie Blount
4. Abdel-Rahman Blacksheer
5. Human Growth
6. Opal U. Faulk
7. Bugre Life
8. Esteban Langston
9. Erectile Tom

So now I can cross that worry off my list. I will refer to little Opal as "Opal U. Faulk" at all times. I might even say "Opal U. FAULKIN' ROCK!" a lot. Bugre Life will pronounce her name "Boo-GRAY LEEF" and she'll be an ultimate fighter who will beat down anyone who pronounces her name "booger", and Flossie Blount is going to be a super annoying asskisser. Abdel-Rahman Blacksheer will wear bow ties every day, Beaver Russell will smirk a lot and throw dodgeballs at people's heads (even when he's 30), Sanders Pat will be world-weary and change his name to Haiku one day when he's 18 and high on 'shrooms, and Human Growth will grow up to be a puny doctor. Esteban Langston is going to be a conference bike salesman and Erectile Tom? She'll be president. (Even if they're pets, the same bios will apply. What? Dogs can be doctors!)

[Something keeps bugging me, I feel like I might have seen someone else do this on their site. If so, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to copy your idea. I blame my allergy medicine for clouding my memory. If someone already did this, let me know and I'll link you for attribution.]

[update: Thanks to a reader for finding the link to the post at Miss Doxie. Sorry Miss D, I didn't mean to copy!]

Daddy, I want one!

2007-03-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

Miles of smiles, bitches!

You have to watch the movie. It makes it seem as if the Conference Bike has the power to jettison us back to the 1950s. You know, when people used to ride giant bikes together whilst wearing kerchiefs over their curlers and mothers stayed in the home where they clearly belong and husbands controlled their wives! I don't know about you, but I'm pedaling furiously to get back to there.

Yesterday I did something I'm very ashamed of, and if you can guess what it was, you...are really awesome. And no, it wasn't "buy a conference bike." I'm waiting for Christmas!

Build a system that even a fool can use, and only a fool will want to use it

2007-03-27T09:58:00.000-07:00

Apropos of yesterday's conversation about the how weirdos are drawn to libraries like a hypnotised Mischa Barton to Cisco Adler's pendulous balls, I give you this:

The Law of Libraries

(books) + (a building) x (people) = big effing freak convention

That last link? There is so much there, I beg of you, just go to it, go read and watch. It's old but it's just so good. It's about a Buckeye fan, his inability to not touch his genitals in public, his "GETOFFAMYLAWNI'MACOMBATVET" father, and a library in the HEARTLAND. It's a tale of lust, betrayal, and humiliation; the story of a reporter with a very dire tone of voice and an ill-fitting trench coat, and a young man with a bad mustache who just "made a mistake." Don't judge him!

So, I don't know how you're feeling today, but I feel better now that I have closure on the cause of death of (as I heard her referred to on the radio this morning) America's Rose, Anna Nicole Smith. Britain had Princess Di and Elton John to send her off to heaven, we have Anna Nicole and maybe an American Idol "Candle in the Wind" spectacular to say goodbye to our sweet flower. She was too good for this world!

Honestly, are we almost done talking about Anna Nicole? I'm almost done hearing about her. A bunch of drugs, a bunch of dads, a bunch of boobs and money. Whose life isn't like that?

Don't read this.

2007-03-26T15:01:00.000-07:00

Why is it if you love the scent of something you can only smell it for approximately two minutes before it fades into obscurity but if there's something nasty afoot you smell it all the live long day? Is there science behind this? How do we stop it? I'm going to lobby Congress. I don't want to get into my perfume thing again, so I'll just say I love it and I can only smell it for about 45 seconds in the morning before it fades away like an 80s child star. However I just put some Aveda Hand Relief lotion on and why will it not stop torturing me, this smell of disgust? Also, I smell someone's Dial soap and it needs also to die; it's consuming my every thought. That's why this post is going to suck and don't tell me I didn't warn you in advance.

You know what's weird? Most people don't face many angry mobs in their lifetime, unless the lifetime they are living is a fascist dictator's one, or they are Ray Liotta's liver (okay, that makes no sense, I grant you that, but I couldn't think of anything due to the DIAL SOAP). I believe the average person lives a quiet, almost boring existence - every day the same, every interaction predictable. And then there's me.

I've actually faced two angry mobs so far in my short life, that I can think of off the top of my head. One of them was in Morocco and it's a really good story that I need to tell you but I don't think I have time right now. The second angry mob I remember is more clear in my mind because it was a couple of weeks ago.

On a scale of dangerous things, I think most of you would rank libraries next to retirement homes and knitting circles in the "perceived dangerous places" category. We're not Fallujah, of course, but you'd be surprised at what goes on in libraries. I've had people show their asses and wangs to me, I've been yelled at, followed, puked on, and we've had people arrested here - more than one. I've had to wrangle dogs and children (I accidentally typed "chicken" instead of "children" which would make a better story but where is this library - Iowa?) and I've seen a few people jerking it. I'm not even mentioning the science nerds who challenge my library-fu every day! I hate those smart, smug fuckers.

Where was I? Mobs, right. Yeah, apparently a bunch of people were told they needed to be in the library to use one of our rooms for some sort of testing, but it turned out the testers gave them the wrong date, so people drove from very far away only to find out the test wasn't until the next day and when I called the testing people, they were all, "OH WELL!" and I had to tell the irate people that message and those people? Did not like that. And then they yelled at me.

The above story would have been a lot more thrilling if I had written it right away when the terror was fresh.