Monthly Archives: June 2009

Of Front Yards and Bone Shards

My neighbor is a lawn revisionist.

He must plan all day long, painstakingly dissecting a blueprint layout of his yard, adding flowers and small trees and calculating the best sunlight at certain times of day.  He must work on it all night long, when it’s not as hot out, rearranging shrubbery and tossing day-old geraniums into the trash like rejects from the bakery.  I say this because I go home after work, and the yard looks one way.  I go out at night, I come home in the dark, and he’s always out there with the hose, lurking in the shadow of the hedge, but not in a menacing way.  In the morning, I leave for work, and the lawn has been reinvented.

I think perhaps “lawn” is not the right word for what this is.  The man’s home is squooshed between a three story apartment building and a dilapidated church.  I think that he is somehow affiliated with the church, because I’ve seen him locking and unlocking the front and side doors, going in and out.  I’ve watched him dump garbage cans full of pieces of wood and dusty window coverings into the dumpster in the alley.  I’m not sure what else he has time for between maintaining the brokedown house of God and revising his yard, and I would like to know how one goes about making a living from cleaning up after a nonexistent congregation, because there is yet another abandoned church right across the street from the one my neighbor has laid claim to, and another just a block away, and I would be happy to quit my job and care for either, if that’s all I would have to do.  I would live on a street of dead centers of worship, pour rat poison along the baseboards once every week, and live happily ever after.

Anyway…what?  Oh yes, well, my neighbor lives in this little cottage-style house between the big deceased church and the apartment building.  It looks squatty and small in comparison, but it really is very shady and cute, and it has this path that runs along the side of it, over which he’s built an arbor of sorts for vines and roses (although he sometimes clears the arbor of all natural growth and starts over again, just the bare wood showing).  The front rectangle of lawn is what he spends the most of his concentration on.  He has outfitted the perimeter with a tiny fence.  The fence holds flower boxes, which sometimes contain transplanted strawberries, and other times African violets from plastic grocery store containers, and neither for very long.  Most of the patch of lawn is shadowed by the overhang of the little house, which provides extra shade as it’s covered with growth.  There are a few small trees lining each side of the lawn, and all do their part to add more secrecy to the center.

Last summer, the neighbor got rid of the hippie-style wicker chair that consisted of a base, a bowl-shaped center that settled down into it, and a pink pad that went into the curved center.  By “got rid of,” I mean he turned the seat parts into planters and threw out the pink padding.  He purchased a small black iron loveseat type of thing, with a shade over it, and a wrought-iron fire pit contraption to go in front of it.  The back of the seat faces the street, the front faces the fire pit, and beyond that is the giant picture window, the shade for which is always, always open, so that I sometimes see the neighbor and a friend playing a silent game of chess behind the glass on my way here or there.

A few days ago, the seat had been accented with a long, red satin cushion that looked like it was straight from Suleiman’s garden.  Not only was the fire pit blazing, but there were about seventeen mini tiki torches sparkling with tiny flames all over the place.  I couldn’t help but stop for a second and take it all in, it was very pretty.  The fences were spilling over with blood red flowers, flat pillows with sparkling gold threads lay on the ground next to the fire pit, glittery gold curtains line the sides of the loveseat and the edges of the picture window.  The tiny trees held mini strands of yellow lights, and the concrete path was overflowing with yellow and red flowers, bursting color like split arteries.  The weird thing was that nobody was sitting in the yard, the house was dark, and I got the distinct feeling that my neighbor was not even home.

And the next day, it was all gone.  Flowers, lights, cushions, curtains.  The ground along the path, the dirt in the fence boxes, it all looked like it had been dumped out and poured back in.  The fire pit basin was overturned on its stand, holding a giant Jif peanut butter can with a sick-looking sapling in it.  A rat darted out from behind the fence and across the street.

Meanwhile, my other neighbor is training her toddler in persistence.  I lay out in the sun, pretending to read, watching them in their yard.  She drags the plastic baby pool out of the shed and sits back on the swing, watching while the baby wobbles to the rusty spigot on the side of the house, struggles to turn it on, fills his plastic cup with water, which always overtakes him and splatters all over him.  With his cup half full, as the force of the water usually blasts off from the bottom and empties the cup, he strains to turn off the spigot.  He wobbles across the yard to his baby pool, pours in the few drops that have survived the journey, and returns, slowly, to the faucet.  Every now and then, she takes pity on him and puts the hose on a slow trickle and sticks it over the edge of the pool.  But most of the time she just watches and smokes and smiles at passersby.

The booze closet.

I haven’t had a drink in 27 days, and from what I can tell, it doesn’t do much but allow you to see all of the fine details on everything flying out of the unhinged archives in your mind.  I suppose that is the point.

Tomorrow I will have completed my self-imposed rehabilitation period.  I almost didn’t notice it, the absence of beer.  Sometimes on my evening jogs I will see a band of hipsters on their way to some lawn party, carrying black plastic bags from the liquor store, and thirsty and hot, I will think I’m going to die if I don’t get a freezing cold shot of Patron as soon as is humanly possible.  But I think that’s just because I drink that so cold, and it’s more like water than alcohol on its way down, which is all I want on mile 2.

Unfortunately, I am not sleeping any better, and the 4pm panic that hits daily still carries the same intensity, and goes from “I am not doing enough” to OH MY GOD I AM NOT DOING ANYTHING.  It’s the feeling of inertia that flattens me to the wall and sends me into a daily tailspin.  I have the constant thought of I should be more than this, now, which does nothing but answer the question of “Who are you?” with Not enough.  That’s enough self-inflicted pressure to drive anyone up the wall.

For instance: I feel extremely guilty for sitting here, on a Saturday afternoon, in the shade on this patio, analyzing the breeze and the human traffic and receding into my head, while there are people to be called and haircuts to be gotten and research to be done and emails to be written.  In between each sentence I read or write is a repetition of You lazy fucking asshole!  Get a job!

There is one change between my sober self and my actively drinking self, which is the amount of caffeine I take in daily.  This, you could say, would be the reason for my insomnia and rapid-fire panicked thoughts.  I basically swapped alcohol for extra caffeine.  I drink it in the morning to avoid a day-killing headache, and again in the afternoon I will allow myself a quad espresso so that I can function properly, maybe even positively.  I drink them all the time, but I don’t understand why quad espressos are legal.  They should not be.

My mother told me that when I feel my thoughts dragging toward the negative, muddling my brain, I should try a little trick she read about in some women’s magazine.  You’re supposed to snap yourself out of it by “thinking faster,” that is, speeding up the tempo of your thoughts.  I suppose the point is to get them over with in a hurry, or blast them out of your head just by multiplying them until they cancel each other out, but I think I must be adept at this already, too good at it to trick my thoughts into being positive.  If I sped them up any more, I’d be splattering everyone with gray matter and skull shards every five seconds, which is about the rate at which I remind myself that I need to be doing more, better, faster, sooner.

By the way

It’s not that I hate carefree or positive people, I just think they’re stupid.  If I ask what you’re doing, and you respond that you’re “chillin’ and hustlin’,” or something to that effect, I am just going to think that you’re dumb.  I wasn’t asking because I wanted to be entertained.  I was asking because I genuinely wanted to know.  This means either that you did not want me to know, or you do not want to know yourself.  If I ask you what’s up, and you respond “You know, I’m just workin it, bangin it out,” you are catching your ankle on that trip wire in my brain that makes me think, “Ugh” and not want to talk to you anymore.

Maybe I’m just bored with endless niceties and meaningless conversation.  Or maybe most people are just douchebags filled with cherry-scented antiseptic ointment.

At least it’s cherry.  I don’t think I could deal with vanilla.

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Friday Dance Party III

I had something else in mind for today’s dance party, but recent events changed the lineup.

This Friday Dance Party is dedicated to Agent Ventura, who really loves Michael Jackson and is very sad today.

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The Autobiography of a Couch

Lately I’ve been in this mood.  I’m not sure, actually, if I should be calling it a mood, which would imply that it’s something short, temporary, on its way through, like storm clouds or birthday parties or fingerless carnival ride operators.  I find myself hoping that it’s not a mood because it feels like something more important, deserving of some type of status that is less than fleeting.  But it settled on me like a mood, and it’s hanging around in that weird and wavy way, so for now that’s what I will call it.

I was thinking the other day that I’ve lost a lot of books by loaning them to people who lose them, or forget to pack them when they move, or just sort of dissolve out of my life until it would be kind of weird for me to call them up on a Thursday afternoon and ask if they know where they put that copy of The Virgin Suicides.  It’s something that’s occurred to me before, because there have been times when I’ve been proud of my bookshelf, and annoyed at the fact that something is missing from it.  So when this short list of loaned and lost books came up in my memory the other day, I surprised myself by not really giving a shit.  Instead, my next thought was how can I get rid of the rest of these???

This mood makes me want to sell all of my things, and all of the things I’ve had to buy to hold my things up off of the floor.  I feel the need to live as simply as possible.  I feel the need to be lighter, to be able to leave easily.  I often have the feeling that there is nothing for me here, in this city, that this is definitely not where I’m supposed to be.  But now it’s stronger than ever, and I just have to find out where the fuck I am supposed to be.  I need to do everything I can to avoid taking root in what I know to be the wrong place.

I know that this is what old people do before they die, and that creeps me out a little.

So, I walked around my apartment and mentally marked everything to sell.  I got to my couch and realized for the millionth time that it needs to be thrown away, that only an idiot would pay money for it.

When I was sixteen, I got it into my head that I wanted to redecorate my room.  I put wall paper on the ceiling, painted furniture, re-arranged my Tori Amos posters, and bought a futon.  It was this deluxe model with an innerspring mattress and a blue cover that matched my ceiling cloud wallpaper.  I paid $300 for the futon and the frame, and my boyfriend and I drove out to pick it up and pay the guy at the warehouse, who wouldn’t accept my check.  I gave him cash and left without a receipt, and my mom freaked out when she heard because she said I could “get screwed over.”

I put it together.  I slept on it quite comfortably all through high school.  I covered it with pillows to lean against so I could sit up and stay awake for each instalment of Anna Karenina on Masterpiece Theater at 3am, every morning, for a week.  I read all seven Harry Potter books on it.  It’s where my sister and I cuddled to watch The Last Unicorn one more time before I moved to the city.

I took it apart.  I put it in a truck and took it out of a truck and put it together again.  It has been disassembled and reassembled at least five different times, losing more little pieces every time.  At least three boys have “helped” me reassemble my couch from scratch, and each time I have let them give it their best shot before asking them to stand the fuck back while I build it from memory, thank you very much.  It has been nicked with screwdrivers and spattered with nail polish and all of the parts have been dropped separately.  I have made out with a few different boys on it in the last eleven years, and slept with a couple of them on it.  (If you have enjoyed sitting on my couch and think that’s gross, well, I don’t ask you what you do on YOUR couch, Princess.  If you have enjoyed me on my couch and thought it was a good time, well, you’re right on the money.)

Travelers have come from Seattle, the Quad Cities, St. Louis, New York, and various parts of Southern Illinois to sleep on my couch.  It has been voted Most Comfortable by all (with the exception of Seattle, quite possibly…due to the couch being quite literally on its last legs by then…).

At least two people I do not like have sat on my couch.  I did not like it.

At least one artsy, blurry, black-and-white photo shoot took place on my couch.

One fateful Laundry Day, I accidently left a giant bottle of laundry detergent lying on my couch, with the cap only half on.  The result was a big puddle of bright blue laundry detergent, which soaked through the cover and onto the black cushion underneath.  My best friend was visiting and when he saw what I’d done, he exclaimed my name really loud, and like he was sorely disappointed in me…like a father would be disappointed in you if you drove the car into a ditch or got a dumb pink heart tattooed onto your ass cheek.  And I didn’t think his reaction was weird at the time, because I felt bad for doing it to my couch, and for proving myself once again to be completely absentminded about things like lids and leaky fluids and a surrounding world of thirsty fabrics.  (Also, my best friend has always had a special place in his heart for furniture and rugs and wall art and lamps, so to commit a crime against a futon was to commit a crime against someone in his family.)

The detergent left a large, soapy, Mountain Breeze scented stain, and he would look for it every time he visited and slept on the couch.

I have taken countless naps on the couch.  I have watched endless epic television on the couch, and endless crappy television.  I slept on it when I was mad at my boyfriend or when I was just too lazy and sleepy to get up and go to bed.  I have stayed up late on the couch, and gotten up early on the couch.  I have sat on the couch while thinking about how great the couch is.

Last fall, the couch uttered a plaintive creak beneath me, more than once, as I innocently curled up on it.  I ignored it for as long as possible, but it’s hard to ignore your couch when it crashes to the floor in pieces under you.  I tried to fit the parts back together.  I got new screws that looked a lot like what I remembered about the original ones.  I used duct tape, Superglue, nails, stacks of crappy books, and rope…and still the whole thing would clatter to the floor, creating a fluffy mattress slide that would just roll me down onto the rug, gently, but firmly, as if the couch was telling me to move on.  Not one to let go of something I love without a bitter fight, I borrowed a power drill and bought a bunch of bracket sets at the hardware store, and though the parts of the couch that were meant to fit together do not even touch, meaning that the only thing holding the couch up is little skinny brass bits, the damn thing has held on and allowed me to enjoy it for just a little longer.

But in September, it will have to go.  And I will miss it, but I will be happy to have one less heavy thing in my life, and I will not buy anything to replace it.

At work on Wednesday night, I looked down at a to-do list someone had left on the desk.  All of the to-do’s were crossed out, so I’m pretty sure that the dog got food and copies of keys were made for the new apartment, but the last one was left un-crossed, and it said, in all caps, “SELL COUCH!”

It is quite possible that, out of all the stuff I own, this couch will be the one thing I miss.

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Git yo money, kill somebod-day

I think I dated this boy:

He didn’t wear that black hat or have those pubic hairs on his chin, but he definitely talked like that when he drank too many Miller Lites, and he answered the phone “Yo” when his friends called, said “Peace” before hanging up, and called them “my boys” and me “my girl.”  He wore a Cubs cap all the time and once referred to his “boys” as “my pimps and my nargles.”

I said, “What does that mean?”

He paused.

I said, “You don’t know what that means, do you?”  And I left the room.

He was from Rockford, Illinois.

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Friday Dance Party II

You knew it was coming…

Nineteen OH one!!!

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The Wet Dildo Brains Book Club

As I was leaving, Mung Face asked me what book I was reading.  She leaned exaggeratedly around my right breast, where I was holding the book with one arm, trying to read the title.  I told her the title.

“Ohhhh.  What’s it about?”

If there’s one thing I hate it’s small talk.  If there’s another thing I hate it’s small talk with people who have wet dildo brains.  Especially when they’re acting all interested in something they’re going to forget within ten minutes, and you’re just trying to get the fuck away from them.

I also hate telling people what books are “about.”  Especially when they’re idiots like Mung Face who read action adventure paperbacks about sea voyages.  That kind of shit is easy to sum up: look at the fucking cover where there is a picture of a boat on water and you GET it.

This had to be written by two people because it was too much "riveting" for one person.

This had to be written by two people because it was too much "riveting" for one person.

(The weird thing is that Mung Face is clearly in the middle of her action adventure paperback, because that is where she opens it to start reading, but then she talks straight, pointless bullshit to whoever will listen while she holds the book in front of her.  THIS is why people think I’m open to conversation when I’m reading, because when dumb motherfuckers “read” a book they don’t even pay attention to the letters and words and sentences within it.  They just sort of, you know, hold it out, turn the pages.  I don’t understand this.  I wish they would stop, so that people would understand that silent reading is not an activity that should invite idiotic conversation.  I’m not open to it.  I consider you coming up to me and starting a conversation about your new flip flops from Old Navy to be an interruption of a very important conversation I am having with my book.  Now fuck off.)

So, yeah.  It’s dumb to try to explain the plot of Bel Canto, winner of the PEN/Faulkner Award, to someone who reads Clive Cussler paperbacks.  And I’m not even saying that just because she’s a total idiot and I’m a smartypants.  I mean, that factors in, of course, but I don’t see why I should waste my breath on someone who doesn’t even really actually care what I’m saying.  So here is what I say:

“Oh, uhm, it’s uh, it’s about a dinner party.  And some terrorists take everyone hostage, and they’re hostages for a long time…”

And here’s what Mung Face, that fucking pleasant piece of dumb shit, had to say in response to my answer to HER FUCKING QUESTION:

“Oh uuhhhh, WEIIIRD!  Whatever!”

Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.

So, I wanted to say, “Eat fucking shit and choke on a rotten, diseased cock, you twat from Hell.”

Instead I just smiled and told her to have a good day.  Sometimes my tongue hurts from biting it.  So. Hard.

Today I got my new dress in the mail.  It’s super cute:

This girl is not in the dress, I am in the dress.

This bitch don't look half as cute as I do in this dress.

I didn’t have a date for Agent Balboa‘s upcoming birthday celebration, so I bought a new dress to wear instead.

I have decided that it is best to throw money at my dissatisfaction with my late 20s until it goes away.


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Der Hasselhoffen, Maschine von Hits

More from Agent It Won’t Suck Itself

Apparently, a certain David Hasselhoff the Hit Machine (you may not know about him…he’s big in Germany) spent some time on New Year’s Eve in 1989 atop the half-demolished Berlin Wall.  It appears that he pranced about in a jacket that had to be plugged into a car battery in the crotch of his jeans, singing a song about freedom.

Hasselhoff considers this, the moment when he sang “Looking for Freedom,” to be “the first time Germany had been unified,” and complains that his role in the end of the Cold War has been overlooked by history.  Hasselhoff believes that there should be a photograph of him in his light bulb jacket hanging in the Berlin Museum at Checkpoint Charlie.  It’s only fair, right?

Too bad even the president of the Munich-based David Hasselhoff official fan club, Sascha Tauber, doesn’t see it that way: “No, I think this is just a joke.”

Apparently the person who threw that sammitch at 3:22 also thought it was a joke.


(It’s my theory that the food flying through the space near Hasselhoff’s head was actually traveling through time to become, in fact, the sloppy hamburger he would slobber all over on the floor in 2007, while his daughter filmed him to show him how drunk his drunk ass could get.  I am working on an illustration of the hamburger’s flight through time and space so that you can see what I mean.  Should be ready soon.  The point is, if it had hit him in the face, WHAT would he have eaten in the drunk video??  A salad?  I don’t think so!  The whole continuum would have been thrown off and the world would have completely been flipped on its head.  I, for one, am happy that little flying space burger made it.  I LIKE having two arms and two legs.)

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Lolita is Back

I am at the library and it is cold and rainy outside and I have a sunburn on my left ear and the left side of my neck because I changed my mind and put my hair up at the last minute and sat outside in the sun all day on Sunday.

My ear huuuurts and my neck looks like someone tried to strangle me.  Or rope burn, it looks like rope burn.


I can’t wait to see this…Yaaaay Music Box!

I wish I had some kind of drug to keep me focused at every waking second of the day.  I also wish I did not have a shitty part time job.  I also wish I could hold on to some kind of feeling of accomplishment that I had not too long ago…but I guess it’s best not to have that all of the time, because then you’d just–stop.

I’m at the library because I went looking for Kyle Beachy’s novel.  Every copy is overdue.  I don’t know why I want to read it, but I want to read it.

I walk around with this overwhelming feeling that he’s going to jump out from behind trash cans, from around corners, pop out of moving cars, or just lean out a window and scream at me.  “IIIIIDIIIIOOOOOT!!!”

He apologized to me, I know, and our conversation was one of those things that makes me feel really good for a few days, like maybe people aren’t the assholes I usually make them out to be.  He said some very nice, encouraging things.  The fact that we shook hands and put everything down was really nice, and while it made me wrong about him, I didn’t mind so much.

Somehow, in my mind he’s become the mascot for all of my failures.  It’s his picture in my head that’s telling me I’m an idiot, it’s his voice making a list of all of the ways I suck.  It’s worse in this gray and shitty and most un-summery weather, with this downward spiral of crap I began on August 26, 2008, and continue to this very day.  I had this dream where we were sitting at the kitchen table, and I was telling him about everything that’s happened since that day, and he laughed like I was a silly kid who’d gotten sand in her pants.

I take full responsibility.  I know it’s all me.  This is nothing he’s done, and he was probably right on track when he called me an idiot.  I am never at my most intelligent when I am interacting with men.  I’m cold and flippant and rude, especially at first.

So, I mean, I know it’s my fault that every time I see a guy with a dog on Logan Boulevard, I am almost certain it’s him, and he’s going to tell me to give up.  I know it’s my fault that his face is over my shoulder while I work, telling me that every word is pointless, meaningless, heartless shit.

Whyyyy does that face have to look so good?

Oh, I know.  My psyche is telling me to go fuck myself.

Dan Savage today:

“If it’s a penis enough to make me happy, it’s a penis enough for the both of us.”

(That was an unrelated note.  I swear.)


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Pop, whirr, no thank you, sir.

Dear Mr. Buford,

Yesterday I was cleaning my apartment when I opened a drawer and pulled a strange little white box out from under all of the clothing in the drawer.  Inside the box was this:


I’m sure you recall your 2005 invention, your (hopefully) one and only contribution to the arena of adult massagers, The Happy Kitty.  And how did I come to own this, you might ask?

In December of 2005, my boyfriend at the time came across an article in Wired, in which the reviewer raves about the revolutionary nature of this vibrator, and you make a list of tried and true sex toys which the Happy Kitty, without a doubt, tops.  This was all very interesting to my boyfriend, who showed me the article, and then presented me with my own Happy Kitty less than a month and a half later, on Valentine’s Day.  I never asked how much he spent on it, but I knew from the article that you were planning on accepting about $100 for the toy in the States.  At this point, it doesn’t really matter how much he spent on it, but I have to tell you, sir, that when I found that thing in the back of a bottom drawer, shoved back into its box in pieces, I remembered its failure on Valentine’s Day 2006, and our disappointment in it.  That made me angry, and that made me wonder just how much cash you got from my boyfriend.  That made me think about all of the other things he could have bought for me that might have been cool, that might not be sitting at the bottom of the dumpster behind my house right now.

Let’s talk about the design, shall we?  Have you ever used a vagina, sir?  You can’t actually just make a vibrator in the shape of a vagina and expect it to do its job.  I mean, that’s like banging two donuts together to start a fire.  You need a MATCH if you want to set a donut on fire.  And let me tell you, Mr. Buford, the Happy Kitty has never, ever, not once, set this girl’s donut on fire.  This toy’s amazing list of failures makes me wonder if you’ve ever actually pleased a woman.  I highly doubt it, sir.  However, the Wired article contains a note to the opposite:

“Jonathan’s girlfriend is as involved in this invention as he is, having the very difficult job of testing prototypes and sending Jonathan back to the lab time and time again.”

Well, sir, your girlfriend is a damn liar.  I hope you dumped her ass and found someone who wasn’t too emotionally invested in your feelings of success to tell you the damn truth about whatever you’re mashing into her cooch.  Either that, or your lady friend has some kind of space-age freak vagina that nobody else in the world has, and this toy was created just for her.  Clearly, that is the answer.

While I’ve noticed that your website is no more, and that Happy Kitty toys never made it to a second run, and are not being sold by any major adult toy retailer at this time, I’ve decided to give you some pointers on where you went wrong with the Happy Kitty, just in case you plan on improving it in the future.  (In that case, I expect a freebie, because of the crap one.  Only fair.)

1.  The thing sounds like a goddamn baby rattle.  Seriously.  LOUD as SHIT.

2.  It looks like a vagina gun.  As in, a gun that looks like a vagina.  Or a vibrator that looks like a vagina that looks like a toilet.  Not cute.

3.  What did you think I was going to do with the backpack carrying case it came with?  Carry it around with me everywhere?  Like, on my back?  The fuck is wrong with you?

4.  Please do not name vibration speeds after dances.  It’s so fucking annoying I can’t concentrate.  And I don’t really know the goddamn difference between a samba and a cha-cha.  As far as I’m concerned, they both suck because they don’t get me off.

I hope you take all of these notes into consideration, Mr. Buford, before you attempt to design another product for special lady parts.  Also, I hope this letter inspires you to give me a refund for whatever my boyfriend spent on this stupid piece of shit.  And send it to me, because I’m the one who really suffered.

Don’t be a twat.  Just learn how they work.


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The Norwegian Queen

I am in a shit mood today.  Here is my mood in cupcake form:



I just turned on my TV for the first time in about a week.  “Win A Date With Tad Hamilton” was on, and I only saw about four minutes of it before yelling “OH GIVE ME A GODDAMN FUCKING BREAK.”

Now I remember why I stopped watching TV for a week.  It’s not even entertaining from an anthropological standpoint right now.  I either have no idea what’s going on, or I just don’t care.

Why do these dumb ass movies always have gag reels to some kind of Sugar Ray song?  I don’t want to hang out with these people, anymore, or ever.  They’re not funny.

Live action is much more entertaining.  Last night I watched a bunch of drunk girls in their party-dress finery attempt to dance to this trance-funk-hip hop fusion on a wet concrete floor.  They were doing that drunk-girl-in-heels dance, bopping back and forth, holding beer glass nonchalantly, stepping side to side on bent legs like big floofy swamp birds.  It was all fun and games before one of them misplaced a stiletto and belly flopped onto the floor, sending her glass flying and shattering in front of her.  As the crowd in the back yelled a simultaneous “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” she lay there, pretending to laugh, then rocketed back up as cutely as possible, trying to play off the floor slam like it was nothing.  Her friend ran to her aid, and they had a momentary embrace in the middle of the now-deserted dance floor, painfully aware that everyone was still staring at them, and would be staring at them until they made a move.  They mashed their faces together, and the one who had fallen suddenly got verrrrrry serious and said, “I canNOT believe…”

She attempted to make her exit, but not without slipping on her little silver heels and hitting the floor once again on her way around the corner to the bathroom.  Oh, the humanity.  It was way funnier than anything I have ever seen on TV ever.  Ever, ever.

Why is it so funny when people fall down?  I shouldn’t talk.  I haven’t fallen for a long time, so I’m probably due for a good one pretty soon.  I guess I shouldn’t say under my breath “please fall, please fall, please fall” every time I see drunk girls or people on rollerblades.

Oh, hey!  Here is a boy I like to look at:

Let's kiss!

Let's kiss!

If I had a poster of him in my bedroom, it would be on my ceiling.  Right above my bed.  Aww yeah.

If I were the queen of Norway I would make him be my slave.


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