Monthly Archives: November 2011

November 14, 2011 · 5:48 pm

Monday Survey: Butt Poker

If you woke up as the opposite sex, what’s the first thing you would do?

Come on. You and I both know I’d be obligated to play with my balls for about fifteen minutes. That’s the first thing I’d do and also the second thing and the third and on and on from there. I’d just play with my balls, all day, forever, because that’s just about all dudes do. I looked up from my book on the train the other day and there was this loud frat boy standing there in those thin shiny basketball pants, yelling into his phone about what he was gonna do that night, and the whole time he was looking off into space and absentmindedly fondling his balls, just rolling them back and forth in his hand like a nice little ball of dough he was gonna put on top of a pie. I just could not stop staring at that. Another time I saw a guy dig at his balls and dick for about thirty seconds straight while waiting for a light to change so he could cross the street. Then he switched things up and formed his hand into a claw and dug at his asshole for the rest of the wait and half the trip across the street.

I told The Pants I wished he could have a vagina for one day so he’d know what it was like and he said “Yeah! I’d play with it all day!” and I can’t say I was surprised.

Are you addicted to anything?

For a while it was coffee, then it was Arizona Green Tea, then coffee, then for a couple of weeks it was Goose Island root beer? Now it’s coffee again. Because, by “addiction,” I’m assuming you mean “afflicted with a day-long brain-splitting headache if you go without,” right?

What do you see in a guy/girl?

A guy/girl? Like both at once? I saw some of those and they were mostly chicks with dicks in this video that popped up after I watched the Danielle Staub sex video. They were boys with mannish chins and stubble and little sad excuses for dongs and floppy boobs. But you hardly ever see guys with a vagina. So I guess what I’ve seen in a guy/girl is, quite simply, a penis and some boobs that each leave something to be desired.

Do you find piercings/tattoos attractive?

God, no. Everybody has the same ones, to0. Girls always get birds on their collarbones or stars on their necks and stupid shit on their wrists and feet and guys always get something on their upper arm meat and it’s interesting for about five seconds and then it’s just not worth the cool points they thought it would be, so it’s awkward for everyone who’s been made to look at it. My apologies if you have a tattoo, though, I really like yours.

Also there’s something about facial piercings that really bugs me: it’s the fact that people who have them on or near their mouths are always gumming and chewing on them and they basically walk around looking like gigantic drooly idiots. Some girls can pull off nose rings and it’s cute, but some can’t, and boys almost never can. I do like a nice healed ex-pierced ear on a boy, though. That’s nice.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever licked?

Uh. What? Oh, hello, I didn’t see you there. I was just trying to get this frosting off these beaters…yes, I know they don’t detach. See, that’s why I was uh, down there. But now that I am down here…

Do you actually believe Alaska is covered in snow?

Why?? Is it not true??? And do they really not go everywhere on a little sled pulled by dogs?! And are there not igloos? And can I not see the chimney smoke from Santa’s house from the highest point in the state?! WHAT LIES.

Are you ever purposely irritating?

Well. There’s always a moment where I’m accidentally irritating. But then when I discover that what I did was irritating, I am filled with an ungodly desire to do it again and again and again. Just ask anyone who’s ever spent more than an hour with me why their buttholes are sore. There is nothing funnier than poking someone in the butthole with any sharp object that happens to be nearby! Over and over and over, until they cry and say “I hate you! Go away!” Oh, we have fun.

If you could make someone disappear, who would it be?

Myself! Fuckin A. Then I’d go around saying things like “I HAVE MADE MYSELF DISAPPEAR.” And people would have to believe me because I’d still eat nachos and walk through snow and shit. It would be obvious I was invisible and I’d win Magic Person of the Year and I’d buy 30 KitchenAid mixers with the prize moneys.

Look behind you, what do you see?

Five volumes of the Library of Congress Subject Headings, and about thirty dusty binders full of classification schedules. I’ve never opened a single one of them. I’d probably only open one if a piece of candy fell in there or something.

What’s your fave thing about the opposite sex?

You can do it backwards!

What’s the most important thing to you?

I’m not sure but it’s definitely a thing. I mean, as a kid I used to make lists in my head of what I’d take with me if the world exploded or the house imploded or the Big Earthquake hit Southern Illinois and I had to run outside in the middle of the night for some reason. The lists were organized in order of priority and I don’t think any people were on it.

What would you be doing right now if you were kicked off your computer?

If someone came in right now to kick me off my computer, I’d wipe the browser real quick, then toss up the policy manual I’m working on, then start crying because, look, I really need to get that policy manual done, man! Also I just real quick like wanna Google image search “demi moore’s bush.”

How do you spend your weekends?

Sleeping late and eating giant breakfasts and going to the farmer’s markets and buying presents for people’s unborn babies and skipping the hipster indie skank den (even though they have better coffee) because the line is a million people long and everyone is knitting (why? WHY), going instead to Starbuck’s down the street. Eating pizza and watching movies and making fancy drink concoctions with whatever we can find and TRYING NOT TO LOOK TOO WHITE AS I GO ALONG.

What country would you love to visit?

Norway. I heard that’s where Erlend Oye lives and I’d hump his leg. Plus there’s whale watching every day and it’s free. I’ve also heard that everything is lovely and clean and pretty and it’s the most pleasant place in the world. Then I heard some other stuff that happened in Norway but we’re going to say that’s a one time occurrence and it damn well better be.

What’s on your mind right now?

Howwwww am I going to get all this onion dip out from under my K, H, and I keys?

When was the last time you went to a good party?

Halloween was pretty fun because I ate about a million of these chocolate and coconut covered yellow cake things and got all kinds of sugared up and THEN I thought it would be a great idea to pour vodka and red bull bombs on top of that, and danced around waving my tiny doll hands and tried in vain to pick up carrots off the floor with them. And on the way home we pulled up next to the Congress in the shitty Halloween traffic and I made faces at all the Sexy Bees and Sexy Witches and Sexy Dead Girls lined up outside after whatever bullshit show had gone on and they did not like it, no, not one bit.

Can you lick your elbow?

No, but I can poke you in the butthole with this yardstick.

If you jumped out your bedroom window right now, how injured would you be?

Well if I could teleport to be in my room right now, I guess it would be stupid to jump out when I could teleport from the window to the ground, now wouldn’t it? But technically if I teleported home right now and jumped out of my window I would not be hurt at all because I live on the first floor, which is only one floor above basement level but still sort of on rape level.

What would you do if your bf/gf cheated on you with your best friend?

Well I have no room to talk if I have a bf AND a gf, do I?

Do you like anyone you can’t have?

If I can’t have it, I instantly hate it, and that’s how I know nobody else has anything I want. Easy!

Do you dance even without music?

The last time I did that, my sister told me I looked like farm equipment. So, YES!

If a blind guy/girl started hitting on you, what would you do?

I’d start singing “Jeeepers, creeeeepers! Where’d you get those peeeepers!” No. Kidding. I’d run away, then come back and be like “What are you talking about? I’ve been here the whole time.” No, hold on, I’d take them to bars and have them lip read everyone’s conversations for me. Wait–dammit! That won’t work. This blind person sucks, can I get a deaf person or someone with a real nasty cleft palate?

What was the last concert you went to?

I think it was when we saw Menomena. I remember because a certain person talked through the entire set and then the singer came down and stood behind us to “cool off” and he was wearing the deepest Deep V from American Apparel I’d ever seen in my life, it was a total fucking joke, like a negative of a dickie. And he just kind of hung out there and then the certain person talked to him for like 45 minutes and we couldn’t leave because they were just jabbering about music and beats and bullshit and all these girls in Salvation Army “finds” that still stunk like moth balls were standing around moony-eyed pretending they were checking their phones when really they were OBVIOUSLY waiting for that Deep V to come off and the certain person to shut up for a second so they could strike up an awkward non-conversation with the singer. Blerg.

Do you speak your mind?

Yes, and I should do it less, because I’ve come to find out that most people like to be lied to and fellated into believing whatever they want about themselves or the situation.

What would you do if someone random on the street came up to you and started hitting on you?

I’d ask them which specific blog post pissed them off. Ha!

Ever been caught naked?

Not fully naked, but sort of, about 3 apartments ago when I was standing in the kitchen doing dishes in a tank top and stretched-out, cruddy-looking day-off panties and I turned around and the maintenance guy was STANDING AT MY BACK DOOR STARING IN AT ME.

Ever been in a fight?

No, but I ran from one once! There was this girl in high school who tried to hit me with her hair brush so I went into the principal’s office (I mean, why are you going to try to throw down right outside the principal’s office, girl?!) and calmly asked if he had time to see me.

If so did you win?

Well. It’s been ten years, and she works at Wal-Mart and is dating someone who’s still in high school, so you tell me.

Name the most stupidest thing you’ve ever done?

“Most stupidest?” How bout we let you answer this one?

But seriously, I stupidly keep thinking I don’t have any cumin and now I have seven stupid bottles of stupid cumin in my cabinets. How stupid is that? Nobody makes THAT much goddamn chili.

Would you talk to someone you don’t know on the internet?

BOY WOULD I

Ever been in trouble for something you didn’t do?

Nope. I almost always did it.

Ever done anything stupid towards a cop?

I pretended my headlights weren’t on because they wouldn’t work when actually I’d just forgotten to turn them on and I was embarrassed to admit that so I pretended to flip the switch over and over and then I was just like “They were working earlierrrrr!” He let me go. WITH NO HEADLIGHTS.

Would you send money to a starving family in another country?

No because I’ll probably just buy them a goat they can eat and keep their young warm inside the carcass. Over there, in other countries, they don’t have the fantastic banking system that we do, and if I gave them money, they’d be like whaaaat do we do with this? Deposit it in our checking account? Thanks a lot, our “checking account” is a guy with a machete who drops by every 2 weeks.

If you could speak another language, what would it be?

Farsi, so I could look up that stuck up asshole I ran into last year who listed “Fluent in Farsi” on his CV and start a conversation with him, then say, in Farsi, “Bull SHIT you know Farsi, you dumb mother fucker!”

One word to describe yourself?

“Awkwarful.”

What’s the last present you’ve received?

A little Hello Kitty in a nurse uniform. She went directly on the Shelf of Cute Things in the kitchen.

What would you rather have as a name?

Klarnzorg the Destroyer. Also my arms would be guns that shot fists. But when I was ten I wanted to be Nicole or Kelsey. Just ask my brother, whom I told to tell any cute older guys we ran into at Lake of the Ozarks that my name was Kelsey.

Any siblings?

The aforementioned brother and two sisters, one of which might now actually think my name is Kelsey.

Are you a sporty kind of person or do you like to lay around and do nothing but watch tv or sit at the computer?

What’s amazing is that now we have this invention known as the Wii. The Pants owns one and you can use it to do nothing, sporty nothing, watch TV, and also do computer-type things. All at the same time! I am Every Kind of Person.

Could you outrun a bus?

Sure, if I push a small child in front of one, I’ve found that it usually stops for at least a couple of hours and I can get a pretty good head start in a couple of hours, man!

You and your friends are bored. What do you do?

Hit each other! No? You guys don’t want to do that? Why won’t anybody stand up? I promise I won’t poke your buttholes anymore. See? I’m putting my old piece of TV antenna down.

Who hates Twilight as much as I do?

This girl for sure:

Wait, shit. It’s the other way around, I don’t think she hates Twilight actually.

What would you do if the world were coming to an end?

Where did I put my list of things to save? I don’t know. Oh well. I’ll tell you one thing: I’d go around punching everyone in the mouth who said things like “you guuuuyyys this is just like that movie Melancholia you guyyyyys” and I’d also eat a bacon cheeseburger pizza from Domino’s, dipped in sour cream, and then a whole quart of mint chocolate chip ice cream then go out in the street and be like KING KONG AIN’T GOT NOTHIN ON ME and then the world would end.

Biggest regret ever?

Going to school for writing. Though it was a good way to waste the time and it gave me something to do between retail shifts and it did give me lots of good fodder for really lame, overblown, self-assured characters in case I ever write anything later about stupid people who love themselves.

Would you have given into peer pressure?

If anyone had bothered to peer pressure me! I wasn’t cool enough, dammit. And the only party I went to in high school where someone encouraged me to drink, there were already so many girls there pretending to be drunk that it seemed like one more would just be a pain in the ass, and also a lot of unnecessary competition.

If you could see your future in a movie, would you watch it?

Only if it was starring Kirsten Dunst and I was getting married and then the world ended!

Do you regularly indulge in drugs? If so, what? i.e Dope, Ectasy

Are you a cop? Because I haven’t heard anyone say “dope” for a long time. Not even to call someone a dope. But, since it probably won’t get me in any legal trouble to state my intent, I’ll go ahead and say that I’ve been checking out these Darren Aronofsky meth ads and I think I’m gonna give it a whirl because no matter what I do I can’t seem to get my eyeliner to look like that without drugs.

Three things you would want if you were stranded on an island?

Man! All the stuff you can’t do here in Camera Land! The only lame thing is that I wouldn’t have internet access so I couldn’t do all the web sleuthing and peeping and stuff I’d wanna do if my IP address was some remote location in the middle of the sea.

If you won a holiday but had to choose either a cruise ship or resort, what would you choose?

If I won a holiday, I’d choose Thanksgiving, and I’d have everything non-stuffing molded out of stuffing. Also, why would I choose to be stranded on a cruise ship with a bunch of assholes and their kids, surrounded by a high ledge with certain death below? I’d go with a resort because it’s probably not going to sink and kids are possibly not allowed and also they might have free sushi for breakfast. I will take my chances there.

Favorite color?

Tits. HAhhahahha kidding! Not really, it’s tits.

What annoys you?

Ugh, being misquoted for the sake of bullshit drama:

“I broke down this morning and got all philosophical on some indie chick’s ass and commented on this.”

Of course, “got all philosophical” doesn’t sound as mean and hateful as “go postal all over,” so you’d have a hard time getting anyone to believe I was hating on you if you were telling the truth. And you need everyone to believe it because it’s better than the thought that someone might not hate you, at all, might just disagree with something you wrote. Siiiigh.

If your best friend and boyfriend needed you, honestly who would you choose?

Judge Judy. I mean, hellooooo.

One thing that annoys you about your best friend / boyfriend?

THEY ARE ALWAYS TALKING DURING JUDGE JUDY. NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU.

If you could ask someone any question you want, what would it be?

I’d say “Why are you such an asshole?” then I’d compare their reasons to mine and have a good benchmark for whether I’m normal-asshole or extra tasty crispy-asshole.

If you won lotto would you still work?

Prolly. Like on dried flower wreaths and building a gift wrapping station in my mansion’s work room, stuff you see old people doing in ads for rheumatoid arthritis medication.

Random crazy thing you daydream about?

I had this weird daydream that Thom Yorke made me a little change purse thing and I felt really bad because I thought it was stupid but I wore it around anyway.

Do you prefer a beer or spirit mix (vodka, bourbon)?

Lately I prefer White Cake infused vodka:

Current obsession:

See above.

I’m worried about:

See above.

Next thing I want to buy:

See above.

What’s your fav type of music?

Oh, I don’t know. Let’s not talk about music, okay? That’s the gateway to pretention. Also, hearing what someone else thinks about music won’t sway my opinion either way. Does it work like that for you?

Have you ever met anyone famous?

Oh sure. I will now proceed to drop names nonchalantly while you envy my second-degree fame status from over there in your Lame-Z-Boy.

Any ideas for your wedding?

Ewwwwww shut UP

Song that has the best memories to it?

I guess that graduation song by Vitamin C. I remember sitting there laughing and everyone was crying and we watched the goddamn Powerpoint of all our baby pictures 1000 times and they kept PLAYING THAT SONG and those are good memories because life is so much better than that now, for me, anyway.

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November 10, 2011 · 6:14 pm

Laundromat of Souls

I’m in a laundromat right now. So I can say for certain that Way #1 to get rid of lewd stares, nasty comments, tailing, and general feelings of uneasiness from creepy men on the streets and in various establishments is: push out a hacking, disgustingly sick-sounding cough, OR rip a giant fart. I can usually produce a cough more reliably than a good fart, but sometimes I manage a twofer which is actually a foolproof way to get a weirdo to leave you alone and stop following you and talking about all the things he and his 4-foot 5-inch frame are gonna do to you, giiiiirl.

This morning I met this awful girl, and the moment she walked up to our group to say hi to the person in the group she knew, I got this nasty feeling like not only did I not want to meet her, and hope that she didn’t reach out and introduce herself, but I also wanted to get as far away from her as possible in that very moment and never see her again. For almost no reason whatsoever! I mean, she hadn’t even had a chance to DO anything stupid, she just walked toward us and my entire being went ARRRRGGHHHHBLERRRF!

Her name is Sally. She has straight blonde Barbie hair down to her shoulder blades. She was wearing black sunglasses and just about enough foundation and powder to make her face look like an art experiment or a crime scene that had been thoroughly dusted for the rapist’s prints. Her voice was crusty and deep like she’d heard someone make fun of a deep voice once and and just re-created it constantly to be funny, but it wasn’t funny anymore! Not to me, anyway! She was over-layered in leggings, some kind of stocking that went over her ankles, ankle boots with snappies and clips all over them, a skirt, a long shirt, a coat, a hooded thing under the coat, a scarf, and fucking black leather bike gloves. When she reached out to shake my hand, “HIIIIII I’m SAAAAALLYYY,” her tone condescending somehow, quickly looking away from me and to the next person in the middle of my introduction of MYSELF, I cringed because I had to touch her bike-gloved hand. And I thought, “Well, of COURSE you’re wearing a bike glove you don’t need to be wearing. Fuckhead.”

I found out she’s this art student from the most expensive and notoriously snobby art school in this city, a school this city is just about known for. I’ve never met anyone from that school that I’ve been able to stand for more than two seconds, who hasn’t managed to make my skin crawl with their thick stink of pretention. I mean, there’s this guy, who I ripped to shreds in the comments because I couldn’t fucking STAND that there are people in the world who get paid to regurgitate the pile of steaming shit this guy’s spraying (comments have since been deleted, THANKS INTERNET POLICE). Then there’s this guy who read a story I published and proclaimed it shitty and proceeded to try to hit on me by telling me I owed him a meet-up since he was pretty sure it was based on his life, then changed his story and called me an idiot and reminded me the story was crappy, all because I called him on his ass crap. Now we’ve got fucking Deep Throat Sally who, I’ve heard, submitted as her master’s thesis an art installation that was only 8 screens lined up, the same girl getting fucked in different pornographic ways on each. That’s fucking art. No, really, it’s fucking, and it’s also art, WHATEVER YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND BECAUSE IT’S SO VISCERAL. We’re 0 for 3, shitty art school. Things aren’t looking too good for you.

I’m totally over the fact that people pay any fucking attention to these ass fucks. Author dude gets a STUPID amount of pussy. I mean, every time I turn around, some chick I know is just slobbering out her hoo-ha, trying to get in his bed. And Deep Throat is one of those girls that nobody seems to like and everybody says that nobody likes but their excuse for paying ANY attention to anything that comes farting out of her stupid face is “Yo, you don’t want to tell that girl you don’t like her, she is fucking CRAZY, man.”

Let’s remember, for a moment, that people usually think a woman is crazy if she talks, at all, about anything. So naturally Deep Throat, who cannot shut her stupid mouth about how “visceral” things are, naturally fits that category, possibly through no fault of her own. But I wish we lived in a world where people would fucking be honest with these stupid assholes. Stop fucking them and stop listening to their fucking bullshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Walt Dick-me

I stayed home on Saturday night and heated up the ol’ TV TUBE because I was behind on about a million years of housework. How lame is that? Anyway, I have been staying over with The Pants for just about three weeks so every time I’ve dropped by my place I’ve just dumped shit on the couch or the floor, or just opened the front door for long enough to toss stuff inside. Umbrellas, jackets, half-slips, bags of Cherry Sours. It was time for a major cleanup.

So I turn on the TV and holler like my neighbor does when there’s some kind of sports on TV, because TBS is showing Disney’s Beauty and the Fucking Beast! YES. This delights me to no end because I only watched it about 60 million times as a kid so I know every word and distinctly remember every single cell of animation. So I’m running around vacuuming the drapes and spreading potpourri in the drawers and other stuff that fancy ladies do, and I’m singing along to the chirpy giggle-pated Disney melodies. Then I’m stricken by a very Adult Thought.

Okay, know how all the ladies in town are all about Gaston, and he’s clearly a piece of crap on his inside parts, where the feelings are? Imagine how jealous they were after the horrendous, ferocious Beast gets turned into a hot dude? Because he hasn’t been a normal dude for a long time, he’s been basically a gigantic wolf/lion/dog man. Superhuman strength and all that. And judging by the fact that he can stand immediately after his transformation, his muscles haven’t atrophied or been harmed in any other way during his human-to beast-back to human metamorphosis. So he’s probably got some pretty good strength and muscle tone, amirite?

Look, what I’m getting at here is how awesome it must have been to get your bones jumped by a supermodel who was very recently a full-time werewolf. Just think about it for a few minutes. If you need a Kleenex or two to ball up under your bathroom area, go and get them now. I’ll wait.

Man. Belle really got the nice end of the deal. Hot beast on-all-fours lovin’ with Disney’s version of Alcide from True Blood, and a whole library of her own. The kind with rolling ladders. GIVEN TO HER. Like, this is your library. One can only hope that the royal collection policy from back in the day included some good YA and that Belle didn’t pay for the library in beastly urinary tract infections.

Could I trouble you for a more accurate description of a stillbirth?

When I was in college I had this creative writing class with a girl who was like Narcissus when it came to her own writing. She was pretty much convinced it was the greatest poetry anyone had ever written and she COULD NOT BELIEVE it came out of her. Here’s how the class went: either 3 poems or 1 short story were passed around to the class every week. The next week, we’d all be ready with positive feedback, as well as any constructive criticism we had for the story/poem. So we’d go around the room and everyone would talk about what they liked (which was sometimes so painful, “I really loved the cover page you made for this! It’s so SNAZZY! Do you use Corel WordPerfect?”). Then we’d go around the room and everyone would pretend that they didn’t have anything negative to say about a short story called “The Pool” or “The Fountain” or “The Pool by the Fountain” that basically consisted only of a girl who died of cancer and a guy who vowed to never marry another person…you know, the kind of story Boyz II Men would write if they just put their lyrics into paragraphs instead of stanzas. So the instructor would start us off on that part every week by offering some really polite criticism that could be taken or left and usually ended with “didn’t work for me but maybe it worked for someone else.” Then we’d all meekly take turns with our gentle, easily ignored, well-masked non-criticisms.

So about halfway through the course, the cellar doors got blown way the fuck off this little organization and the shit pretty much hit the fan when this girl brought in her poetry. She had made it clear that she’d been writing poetry for a really long time and reading e.e. cummings pretty much all her life and so she was actually a PRETTY good poet so if we could just skip to the compliments part, please. She gives us the customary reading aloud of her work, the week after it had been given to us to take home. Then she sat there almost pooping her pants with excitement, wriggling in her seat, pushing her hair behind her ears compulsively, clicking her pen, waiting in dire ecstasy for each next polite little gem of attention to trickle out of someone’s mouth.

As for the poetry, it wasn’t that good. It just wasn’t. The ones that weren’t straight-up parodies on the cummings style were just failed attempts at really deep, aching love poetry that just swirled down the toilet of cheesiness the moment she brought her boyfriend into them. That’s because her boyfriend was this wheezing, zit-encrusted sack of dung who delivered pizzas for Domino’s and she chronicled their love affair by making silly little plays on words and cutesy references to him as her “knight with white pizza boxes.” I mean, the poems were just hilariously bad. And it was sad because I think if she hadn’t taken herself so assfucking seriously, they could have been really good. Fuck yeah, write a poem about a guy who delivers Domino’s pizza and has zits. I’d read the hell out of that. But there was something about it, her demand to be placed instantly on the level of Walt Whitman & Co., that was just really off-putting. It all stunk of little effort and great expectations.

(I also wrote some really horrible shit in that class. Partially because I was also taking myself very seriously, and I thought I was hot shit because I wasn’t as bad as Narcissa, Queen of Pizza. So on my week I submitted a story I’d written in 3 hours, a fact I thought was a testament to my excellent ability as a writer, in the week before I’d started my period, when I was experiencing some of the weepiest, whiniest, most sentimental pre-menstrual syndrome I’ve ever experienced in my life. Anyway, my story was about this girl who got knocked up by her boyfriend and her mother wanted to force her to have an abortion and she wouldn’t, so she ran away (waaaaah!) and hid from her evil mother, and her mother made her think her boyfriend didn’t love her anymore (aaaaaaaagh!) and then he came to rescue her and then she gave birth to a stillborn and they hugged it and later got married. The End. I would like to say I have never written anything that crappy again—as I deserve to be punched in both eyes for making people read that schlarbage*).

So after the initial round of friendly “I like the, ummm….title!” comments, during which everyone took what you were going to say so you didn’t want to puss out and be like “Oh I agree with everything that’s been said, ” we started in on the negative. Nobody really needed a prompt, but we got one from the instructor. I don’t have the copies of this girl’s poems (which I kept because I kept everyone’s work because I keep everything), but I remember that one from that week went something like this:

I am

in the garden

r-e-s-t-r-i-n-g-i-n-g

my mother’s purple necklace

that she gave

to me

…and so forth, and so on. So the instructor was like, “I just don’t really feel like you’re using your own voice, and that’s a shame because you have such a strong voice,” and of the other poem, which was the famous pizza delivery lover one, she said “It just feels at the end of the poem like it’s more of a limerick.” To Narcissa’s horror, people agreed with this sentiment. That it seemed like a cutesy little fart about a relationship that would probably better fit in a prime time sitcom. Of course, she told us why every last one of us was wrong for feeling the way we did. She basically said we just didn’t get good poetry. It was just so far over our heads, we couldn’t understand a word of it. Her poetry was going to stay that way and that was THAT. And the next week she emailed us all a poem she’d written about our criticism, a meta-poem, which basically re-iterated everything she’d spat at us in class that day, but this time, it rhymed! Also, she made a point to say something truly crappy to each of us on our review day, just because. (On my big day, she said “And I don’t know if anyone’s bothered to like, tell you this? Or if you even bothered to do any research? But your description of a dead baby is way off. That is SO NOT what a dead baby looks like. My mom’s had two stillbirths, so I know about this.”) So that was the end of the polite orchestration.

Maybe that was for the better, as it was my last taste of honest criticism. I went on to get a writing degree at an arts school where I hated everyone (save 1 or 2 women) and just about broke my teeth from grinding them every single day, surrounded by people who were just like Narcissa Princess of Pizza in that they thought they were great, their parents thought they were great, and then they came to school every day at this open enrollment arts institution and they were told, yes, in fact, you are great, possibly even the greatest that ever lived. So they’d just walk around shitting out of their mouths and writing down every goddamn thought that ever crossed their minds and you’d have to sit in a class and listen to them being filled with sweet-smelling smoke, purchased with tuition dollars and pumped right up their fancy little b-holes. It was during this time of my life that I came to be really uncomfortable with praise. There were absolute clowns in my classes who were just fallen all over and assured that they were THE shit. Like this guy Patrick: he couldn’t be bothered to spell his name correctly, and wrote “paTRtiCk” in pen on the tops of all of his short stories. He complained about things like how he’d been telling his mom all morning that he was going to puke, and she kept saying he wasn’t going to puke, and then he PUKED! So the teacher would nod politely and then tell him how impressed she was with his work (which was about a girl who got cancer so her boyfriend brought her a stuffed cat and his mom threw it at him, the end), then she’d tell all the rest of us how much she loved our work. I mean, how could anyone trust that logic?

I started to really want someone to rip into me. I felt like I was ready for it. Tell me I’m crap. Tell me what doesn’t work. Tell me who I’m trying to be when I write this! Make me find my voice! THROW THE STUFFED CAT AT ME FOR CHRISSAKES.

Where was I going with all this? Oh yes.

I mentioned my own idiocy in commenting on a blog post last week, which I knew was a bad idea because the post was written in this glib, flippant tone, a tone that just suggested to me that this person didn’t want to discuss, just be agreed with. It was a tone I should have recognized since I’ve read so many of Narcissa Pizza Princess’s poems! JUST NOD AND THINK I’M COOL FOR THE WORDS I SAY GODDAMMIT. But I offered my two cents, which were that marriages that end are not all failures, and that when we’re sad about things that happen to others, it usually means we’re sad about something we fear for ourselves. That’s all. So my reply spiraled into, I think, the writer taking offense with me even bothering to suggest that, so she followed up with this post, which was meant, I think, to express that you’re a dummy if you think she gives a shit about anything that comes out of her own head:

I didn’t think it’d be necessary to say this but here it goes… Sometimes, when I write about something, it’s because it’s a noteworthy occurrence. This doesn’t mean I necessarily care about the item at hand.

That annoyed me. Sorry to bother you by prompting a discussion on your post! I didn’t realize you didn’t give a shit. Just tell me that, then! In the comments! Where I’m trying to talk to you! “Oh, actually? This was all some crap I wrote but don’t really, like, CARE about.” Why start a whole new dramatic post and tell the wooorld? Then I looked over the rest of the site. I saw a lot of that thing I don’t like, that thing my old supervisor Turdburger used to do: he’d say things like “Well I’m rockabilly so I like this and that” or “I’m rockabilly so I’m totally not into that.” He’d call himself out as part of a group and tell you to your face that his personal style, which he’d absconded from masses of other people with the exact same personal style, dictated his choices in music, movies, cell phone carrier, and every other goddamn thing you could possibly think of. So here I saw a lot of the same thing: indie this, indie that, hipster, indie, hipster blerrrrrrf. Band name, music style, band name band name band name, music style. One of the tags for the post was even “unpopular opinions in indie,” which is pointless because what does “indie” have to do with anything? Nothing! It’ s a buzz word. There’s also lots of self deprecation (“I’m a slut!”), and lots of talk about how much drinking, etc. the writer does. Oddly enough, the exact same shit I used to write back when I was 3 years younger and single and just drinking and fucking around and writing about it in grand detail just to titillate and tease and attract and push the envelope and be this carefree, don’t-give-a-fuck, hardcore, badass version of myself that I now realize probably annoyed the bejeezus out of a lot of people. I mean, to the letter I wrote this stuff. (Except the “I don’t actually care about what I write about” part.)

Now I could probably write a paper about the phenomenon that is Young People Who Feel The Need To Discuss Their Use Of Alcohol and Sexual Experiences, Completely Unprompted By Others. And I’d be the first one to submit data to my own study: if you could read my old blog and somehow not know my favorite kind of beer and how much vodka I’d consumed on a particular night, and how badass that made me, woo doggies, you must not have read my blog. You must have just looked at all the pitchers of me in tight clothes!

Are we all destined to be forced to watch copies of our younger selves flap around in the same ways we did? In five years, will I read something like this that someone else has written and be like, “Oh, you stupid twat.” It’s like getting a Delia’s catalog when you’re 35, I’m sure. What the hell is all of this polyester crap and why did I ever buy it?

Also, on another note, if there’s one thing I can’t stand more than people who label themselves, it’s librarians who label themselves. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen “punk rock librarian” or “super nerd librarian” or “hot librarian” or “snarky librarian” blah blah blah used as a personal description for speakers in conference flyers, About Me’s on professional blogs, or every fucking where else some younger generation dipshit librarian is told to describe him/herself. Then you meet these people who fancy themselves the hot one that everybody wants to fuck and also have intellectual conversations with, and they have mustaches and wear Twilight t-shirts with pit stains and kilts (for the irony, not for the heritage) and they stay at home every night petting their cats and blogging about the ice cream they made and how it was the bomb. And because they are a stark contrast to the older generation of librarians, who have mustaches and wear sweaters with apples and schoolhouses and candy appliques and stay at home every night petting their cats and reading, they are suddenly, immediately cool, and they christen themselves “Indie Librarian.”

There’s this one librarian who refers to herself as “punk rock,” and she’s quoted on just about every librarian’s blog, and she’s totally smart and knows what she’s doing, but what rubs me the wrong way is that she tries to come off like she’s Iggy fucking Pop or something. Then I met her once in the real-worldosphere, outside of the blogosphere, and she’s fucking bald and 6000 pounds and wearing a pilled, saggy dress shirt with a scooped front and snowflakes embroidered around the waist (in March), and it goes so low in the front that one of her wide, flat tits is hanging out of it. She was just this big slob who spent more time writing about the image she wanted you to have of her than she did just being her whip-smart fucking self.

Oh, it’s just a mirror image of real life, isn’t it? If someone cannot stop talking about how cool and different they are, they’re just pissing themselves inside, just all over their insides, because they’re boring even their own brain. And it just goes to show you that you should not trust an internet presence, especially when a person has a lot of things to write about what they’re like and what they think of themselves.**

*schlock + garbage

**Case in point: I am a cyborg.

5 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as assholes, cartoons, cunts, interwebs, writing

November 5, 2011 · 6:22 pm

Seriously, though.

And the hits just keep on comin.

WHYYYY. I HAVE SO MUCH MORE TO GIVE.

Back Door Has Fisis Behind It

I’m annoyed by burlesque. I’m annoyed by the shellacked, rubberized, pink, squishy, edge-of-raunch, hand-over-mouth-like-Bettie-Davis burlesque. My sister used to say it’s just “stripping for fat girls.” And that’s pretty much what it is! If you’re too chubby to be objectified by men in the more-nekkid way, you might as well strap on some vintage underwear and embrace the good old-fashioned way, when women with bigger butts and wider hips were the norm.

Nothing against fat girls or sexy vintage underwear. That’s cool. I personally have a gigantic 60’s ass. And even in the 60’s they would have thought it was a big ass, probably. They would have said “She’s a lobster…all the meat’s in the tail! Hot-cha cha cha chaaaaa!”

I do have a problem with burlesque girls looking at chicks who dance at the Admiral Club or Diamond City and go “Ewww what a whore.” It’s all the same thing. Maybe you’re covered up about 27% more than she is at the end of the night, and you and your burlesque troupe friends have to split the door price instead of getting your own tips, but come on. It’s all just dancing around in panties, isn’t it? And for some reason, the girls who do burlesque just always happen to get on my very last goddamn nerve. It’s an annoyance that’s separate from my hatred of burlesque, they’re a dipshit first, an old-timey stripper second. I just can’t say I’m surprised when some bitch that has annoyed me to no end for all the time I’ve known her tosses out there “Oh, here’s a flier for my burlesque troupe, we’re doing a show this Friday night.” You don’t say.

Halloween is the day when girls wear skanked-out lycra straps over their nipples and call it a costume. Burlesque is the nonstop Halloween for the jiggly-fleshed girl, because “It’s not skanky because it’s art, okay?”

I think it’s really exciting and interesting. It seems (with) this revival, women are embracing this style and want to have fun with it and they want to embrace their inner bombshell and get really..you know have fun with dressing up and feeling their own ..like..confidence and sexual power. They are seeing a different version of sexy other than a blonde bikini babe, tan, and natural running down a beach in slow motion. You know, this is a different kind of sexy and I think there is a lot of women who can relate to this style. . .”–Dita Von Teese, aka Heather Renee Sweet, to Katie Couric, who you know does not give a shit.

ick.

Oh, tell it to the fucking Pussycat Dolls.

Anyway. I had this boss once when I worked in retail who was a tooootal cocksucker. No, really, she sucked a lot of cock. And it was weird that she did that because she also hung out around groups of boys and did the whole “Hey, hey dudes: I’m a lesbian. What do you think of that? Does that turn you on, that I’m a lesbian? Because I’m SUCH a lesbian. WINK WINK!” Meanwhile, her girlfriend, a Filipino art student who was like 6 years younger, stayed at home all day babysitting her son for her. I always felt sorry for that girl, but not too sorry, because hey, you chose to do that to yourself. I had a friend who called my fake lesbian boss the Faux Lesbeaux, which, over time, translated itself into the name everyone used for her eventually: the Flezboss.

This woman was stupid. I’d wager she still is.

The Puma store where I worked had a back alley, where The Homeless liked to congregate at night. This alley had a dumpster that was strategically placed to hide the back door from street view. There, in the shadow of the dumpster, The Homeless would unleash their bowels. It just so happened to be right in front of our back door. So, the Flezboss created a Support Ticket! to have someone come clean the alley. On it, she wrote, in her cutesy “Aren’t I just a little airhead? Hee hee hee!” way, “Back door has fisis behind it.” Fisis. Because in her mind, it’s cute when you spell things majorly wrong. She then took that piece of paper around to everyone and said “Look! Look how silly and stupid I am!!! Is this how you spell feces? Hey, does anyone know how to spell feces? Teehee!”

She pretty much hated women, but her lezzy cover-up served to dispel that rumor, because “I love women! They’re totally hot and they turn me on and I go down on them. Does that, uhhh…do anything for you??” She constantly made bitchy comments under her breath about women customers or coworkers. If a male visitor, customer, or coworker talked to anyone but her, she squeezed herself into the conversation, flipping her hair and batting her eyelashes and mentioning her sexual orientation as casually as possible. Her only attempts to socialize or connect with her female coworkers was to feign idiocy over her menstrual cycle every month. She’d announce that she had to go to the bathroom because of “Girl issues!” She’d ask us for tampons, all the while shoving the tampons she’d bought that morning deeper into her purse so we wouldn’t see them. It was so we could bond, you know? Like women bond over their periods in shitty movies and brainless burps of television.

She tried her damnedest to get myself and like four other women fired for arbitrary shit like “Your tone this morning was negative” or “I could tell from your facial expression while you were reading the week’s numbers that you were being negative.” One day I came in, she brought me into the office, sat me down, and handed me a piece of paper to sign. The piece of paper said that she had been the only witness to me saying something derogatory, to myself, in another room, about a manager. And that since she witnessed this (through a wall), I was on my Final Warning. I think, on that day, I just kind of wept at the futility of it all, how fucking stupid it was that fake lesbians with fat asses had the power to yank my crappy ass retail job out from under me. She was just an asshole. Why in God’s name would you fire ANYONE from a shitty job in a basement of a Puma store? Isn’t there something else you could be doing? This comment she told HR she overheard never happened. I’d shout it from the rooftops right now if I’d said it. And I didn’t.

I’m pretty sure she just didn’t like that I was smart, and I could see through her bullshit. People haaaate to be around someone like that, someone who knows when you’re being a stupid asshole on purpose. That’s probably why she had another piece of paper sent down from Retail HR On High to tell my favorite manager and friend that she was “being too clique-y” with the staff. This was like a day and a half after she tried to win cool points with the staff by going around with her bad-assery badge on her sleeve, saying that just the night before she and another member of the staff had driven around in her car with open PBR tall boys.

Here’s some old blog posts about her, which I wrote under my own name and threw out there on the interwebs for all to see, too young and stupid to realize that she’d find them and my work life would be even more hellish than I ever thought possible:

So when the Flezboss stopped me, at 5:01, from clocking out and running directly into traffic so that she could lean into my face and stage-whisper “DO YOU HAVE A TAMPON?!?” like it was the first time she’d ever asked me that question, it was actually very hard not to just lean into her face and scream my fucking head off.

I wish I had exploding tampons with nails wrapped around them. I’d give her one of those. Because she asks me every fucking month–and I think I’ve blogged this before–if she can have one of my tampons. Like she’s completely taken by surprise by the fact that she needs them at the same predictable time every fucking month, the fat fool. I guess they do use double the amount over at the Lezzie Borden she calls an apartment, and maybe it’s harder to stay stocked up, but Jeeeezus Christ on a cracker. Buy the big box, you fucking asshole. You and that oily little catfish you call a girlfriend couldn’t use that many in a month.

Anyway, I’m going to start drawing up plans for exploding tampons. Then I’ll give one to her and if she’s smart she won’t ask for one again.

And of course I have a giant box of them in my locker, but I always give her the same doofy look she’s giving me, shrug, and say, “Nope!”

Then one day she got a new job:

You know what also lifts a girl’s spirits?

When the fucking white-trash skank whore thorn in her side gets loosed and falls out. That’s right: the Flezzboss, the famous, hated, shitty excuse for a leader is being banished to an outlet in Florida, where she will rot for all eternity beneath piles of rejected Made in Vietnam shoes. By August 1st, she’ll be gone, jettisoned from Chicago just as fast as the plane’s fuel can carry her fat ass.

I keep having to take a moment for a deep breath and a wave of calm realization that the bitch is almost wiped out of my life for good. Ugh.

Now I can buy cute scarves and jeans and not have to worry about someone going out and buying the same one, then wearing it the next day, and then pointing out that she bought the same scarf or pair of jeans as me.

Of course, she just went out and got her hair cut like mine, after telling me she was going to. But she can have whatever haircut she fucking wants, as long as she stays in fucking Florida and gets eaten by the monster we call A High Volume Outlet.

And I won’t have to worry about getting written up every time I breathe wrong, and I won’t have to worry about whether or not my fatty boss is comfortable with my facial expression during the morning meeting, and I won’t have to listen to her screeky voice ever again while she talks shit about everyone on the phone. It’s like I had a giant tumor of fakeness in my life, and it’s being removed.

And here’s a little clip of her being a total suicide pig:

I totally agree that I'm a good person. I just wanted to talk real quick about how amazing I am now that someone is dead.

Sometimes when I think about her, I get really angry. I get mad that I was under the direction of a person like that, who basically had carte blanche to do whatever the hell she wanted to me. When people like that are in power, even if it’s just a management job in a shoe store, you basically have to sit there and smile stupidly and stay out of their way and never EVER let them think for a second you might be the slightest bit offended by their racist/sexist jokes, which they tell with their eyes blinking stupidly, pretending not to know that what they just said is totally inappropriate. You’re supposed to laugh along and be just as much of an asshole as they are because people like that are fucking bullies, and if you stand up to a bully who manages a shoe store, get ready to be fired from A FUCKING SHOE STORE.

I swear there’s a point to all of this.

The point is this: recently my anger and annoyance, deeply rooted in the past and lying sideways somewhere under my liver like a little rock, flared up a little bit. See, I go all over the interwebs looking for pictures of cupcakes and cupcake recipes and fun stuff that makes me feel good, which usually means that I do lots of Google searches for things including the word “cupcake.” It’s unfortunate that Safe Search would never have protected me from what I found not too long ago. It appears that, aside from getting arrested, my former boss has been spending her time having her photo taken in such a way that darkens the word “cupcake” and all its positive connotations forever:

No...please stop...

Ohmygod.

These images come to us courtesy of “Cupcake Pinups,” a photography studio that is so serious about its love of sugar, rockabilly, tattoos, and strappy underwear, that it’s actually invested in a real Facebook page to promote its business.

Upon seeing these, I wanted to douse my brain in lighter fluid and set it on fire. And don’t even think I take any satisfaction in the death imagery above: I don’t wish this woman dead and that wouldn’t make me happy. What would make me happy is if everyone quit talking to her, forever and ever. All I see here is a tubby bitch lolling around in a fake cemetery with her mouth open like she’s saying “HEYYYYYY How do you spell feces?!?! HAHAHA LOL!”

And why…whyyyy did they have to use a cupcake for this asscrappery? That’s what made it possible for this cunt from the fake graveyard of Hell to haunt me, years later and now that I no doubt make a better salary than she ever did in the shoe store management circuit. She has reached across time and the deep web to torment me with this horrifying example of Rockabilly-burlesque fusion with a cherry on top.

And yes, that is a fake cupcake tattoo splotched on her arm. For the sake of the art, you know.

Happy Fucking Halloween, indeed.

5 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as cunts, cupcakes, suicide pigs, white trash, whores

November 3, 2011 · 1:08 pm

Indie Graveyard

So the Indie Interweb is shrouded in thrift store finds and plodding down to the indie graveyard in their limited edition Toms cordones and Anthropologie dresses to begin their mourning period. Because Zooey Deschanel, America’s sugar tit, is getting a deevorce! And people who refuse to identify themselves as “indie” or “hipster” are trying to distance themselves from it, like “I don’t really care because I don’t really like her singing? I haven’t really listened to the last Death Cab albummmm? Also I don’t wear black shoes with black tights? But like what does this say about the future of marriage?! That is something I totally care about because I watch TV so I know for a fact that divorce sucks and is horrifying and life-changing and also bad for America.”

Here’s some examples:

In which some poorly paid intern at MTV has pieced together a playlist and analyzed the lyrics as morose warnings of the failed marriage.

In which someone with really awesome Photoshop skills has illustrated what a breakup looks like, inserted a bunch of shots of Glam Zooey, and a couple paragraphs about depression over the divorce of two total strangers.

In which a bunch of losers from the u-bend of the Internet toilet (message boards…yes, people still post to those) basically repeat what everyone in the rest of the world is saying, “She’s so pretty/she’s so annoying/he’s so ugly/it’s so saaaaad.”

I broke down this morning and got all philosophical on some indie chick’s ass and commented on this. I realize it’s totally futile to even bother talking to anyone who thinks their feelings on celebrity marriage and divorce are actually feelings about The Future Of Marriage and not really a reflection of their fears about their own life/relationship direction. I know that. But since I started reading and commenting on Stephanie’s blog and Facebook, I’ve become less of a drive-by “Fuck you, you dumb bitch!” commenter and more of a thoughtful “I respect your opinion, and here’s what I think, you dumb bitch” commenter. That is, I think, a bit of an improvement. Here’s what I said:

I read something once about how it’s a tactic of Scientology to recruit as many famous people as possible because, as a culture, we are so focused on them that our brains immediately make the connection that if SO MANY famous people are scientologists, then, naturally, SO MANY normal people must be, too, since famous people only make up a tiny bit of the population. Right? RIGHT? I think the same line of thinking may be employed here with the “…everyone gets divorced. Especially famous people!” line.

It’s been suggested that loving, tender feelings between partners tend to go downhill after about 4-6 years. Incidentally, that happens to be about the amount of time it takes to raise a child to the point of being able to fend for itself. I found that really interesting in consideration of all of the short relationships and marriages I’ve heard about. It may just be our human nature that causes our feelings to change the way they do. We’re just big mammals, after all. And I’m sure it’s the more human side of our human nature that keeps us trying to find ways to compromise and stay together with our mate if that is what we want.

But why does it have to be sad if that’s not what we want? What makes you sad about Zooey and Ben? Why does the time a couple has spent together have to be considered a failure if they divorce amicably? Assuming that they didn’t take the Kardashian route and set up an elaborate scheme to boost their publicity, which I do not think they did, what I see are two people who probably loved each other very much, then decided that they didn’t want to be bound together for the rest of their lives. I don’t see that as a failure at all. I think it would have been a failure if they gritted their teeth, stayed together though neither wanted to, grew to resent one another, and brought up a couple of celebrity kids in that tense atmosphere. A relationship that doesn’t work out isn’t a failure: if you learned something about yourself and about the other person, and both parties can walk away changed for the better and happy about who they are, I’d say that’s a success.

We tend to project ourselves, our own fears about our own lives, onto celebrities, and the characters they portray. My friend told me about seeing the first Sex and the City movie and hearing a girl say, near the end, “Oh no! It can’t be over, I don’t want Carrie to be ALONE!” There was real fear in her voice. Because, for her, that meant something very real and very scary about the future: “If someone as great as Carrie can’t get a man…”

So we need to stop glamorizing celebrity relationships, especially those that are marketed to us as cute and innocent, like Zooey and Ben’s. We need to look at why we really feel what we do about news like this: what does it mean for us?

But overall I think Zooey Deschanel can suck it.

It took me an hour to make this. Not one lesson!

Speaking of drive-by comments, my blog has been getting over 200 hits per day because of this post. Within this post, I discuss the weirdness of a certain popular set of dolls that are made up to look like, uhh, something that rhymes with “blonsters” and go to a school that is the opposite of low…the one you go to after middle school…I’m trying really hard not to mention it again because apparently droves of tweens Google the name every single day and land on my blog. I don’t want to be held responsible for their disappointment. Oh, hell, I guess I could say it like Snoop Dogg: Mizz-onster Hizz-igh. Yeah. They’re creepy. Anyways, go away, Tweens! Go read these.

And let me be clear: the misdirected tween hits are the ONLY misdirected hits I want to cut down on. Perverts with racing heartbeats who Google something obscene and land here, only to find nothing but WORDS! DAMMIT!, who then leave me another “you must be fat/ugly” comment, typing with one hand because their sweaty dick’s in the other, well, I want you guys to stay. Keep it coming. HEY-OHHHH!!!

dork love

Yesterday on the train, I spotted a couple of major thirtysomething nerds. Like dorky in the way that it was beyond dorky, the dorks who don’t even know how majorly dorky they are, they think everything is fine and they don’t try at all to be anything but what they are. The Superdork of dorkdom. They were standing, facing one another, in the little vestibule just inside the train doors. I only noticed them when I got up and walked to the vestibule because my stop was next. And I’m sorry that I had to get off the train so soon, because their conversation was SO AWESOME.

One dork was wearing a sweatshirt with a wolf on it. A WOLF. AND NOT IN AN IRONIC WAY. Also, it was a sweatshirt. As in, not a hoodie. No zipper. Just a good old-fashioned Hanes pullover sweatshirt that had been washed so many times, the majestic wolf and the pale moon behind him were flaking away. The dork’s stonewashed, off-brand jeans bagged around his waist and might as well have been tucked into his white hi-tops. The other dork, also wearing stonewashed jeans, was covered up top in a fully buttoned green army jacket. Both dorks carried sensible, cheap backpacks, the RIGHT way (a strap over each shoulder, none of this cavalier, tossed-over-one-shoulder-Andrew-McCarthy-in-Pretty-In-Pink crap), with brand names like “Rock Tarp” and “Downs Sport.” Dork #2 had cut himself right above his upper lip somehow, and was sporting a thin flesh-colored Band-Aid there, so close to his lip it looked like a part of his actual lip. The blood from the cut had seeped through the gauze part of the Band-Aid and looked like a giant scab in the middle of it. The Wolf Dork had a skinny black mustache tracing his upper lip, patchy, scraggly hair that seemed to have forgotten to grow in a couple of places.

And here is what was said:

Wolf Dork: “I believe in you.”

Band-Aid Dork: “…” Looks at floor.

Wolf Dork: “I just don’t think that you believe in you. You have to believe in yourself.”

Band-Aid Dork: “…” Scratches at edge of lip Band-Aid.

Wolf Dork: Reaches out and awkwardly pats Band-Aid Dork’s shoulder with his fingertips.

It was pretty much the most awesome thing I saw all day. I couldn’t even bring myself to laugh at them, they were so heartfelt in their dorkery. I will forever wonder what challenge was facing Band-Aid Dork for which he needed a pep talk from Wolf Dork. Perhaps he was going to give shaving another try? Oh, that was mean. But seriously, I wonder.

Nasty Self

The Pants and myself are moving in together in May. Which is cool because he’s a good boy and he gives me a boner and doesn’t kick too much in his sleep. Also our relationship is of the age where we’ve each pretty much acknowledged that we both poop and we share the coffee-making duties and we don’t bug each other too much. So it’s all romantic and shit. Also we’re both pretty into puppies and the idea of raising one together, like as a puppy team, and if that doesn’t make you want to vomit everywhere and then eat it, I don’t know what will.

Part of me isn’t scared because hey, I’m on drugs! And it makes me not scared of anything! I ride my bike real fast without a helmet on! I spend too much money on leggings! I’ve been driving a CAR, regardless of all of the horrifying car accident scenes that flash through my mind when I do it! WHO CARES. But, of course, part of me (Nasty Self) thinks I should be scared, so maybe I’ll sit down and devote 20 minutes to every day to be scared about moving in together. That part of me goes “Ohhhh remember LAST TIME you did this? And it didn’t work out? And he brought home a 12-pack of Bud Light every night and turned his cap around backwards and drank it all on the couch then drunk-emailed all the girls he thought were hot then barfed for an hour then fell asleep on the bathroom floor?? Remember that?! Remember how you couldn’t EVER get your hairbrush out of the bottom drawer in the morning because his head was always in the way!?!?” Well. Yes, Nasty Self, I remember that, but I really don’t think that’s going to happen this time. The Pants is a social drinker and doesn’t wear caps and sleeps in a bed.

“WELL. WELL. What about…okay, what about other stuff you failed at, you failing failure!? Know how you don’t write anything anymore? WHAT ABOUT THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT??”

You can't hide.

You can't run.

Sometimes Nasty Self is just a tailgating cocksucker.

But. The Pants would like to live with me, me and Nasty Self both! Score! And I would like to live with him but no so much with Nasty Self. But what are you gonna do? I mean, the prescription interference makes Nasty Self shut up and cool the fuck out at least enough to let me stop crying all the time and asking “Why don’t you hug me while I’m sleeping?! You don’t love meeeeeeeeee!” Also it’s kind of nice not to have to budget an hour of my time each day to lie on the bottom of the shower sobbing about nothing and using up all the hot water.

I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna keep buying vintage Pyrex from Etsy like it’s going out of–well, like it went out of style in the 70s.
Because that shit is the best when it comes to pie crusts and cupcake batters, both of which I come up with like every single day because I’m actually kind of domestic. I’m going to make an honest effort to come up with names for our puppy-child that aren’t appliances (“Microwave”), foods (“Cheddar”), or just weird made-up hybrids that you’d forget how to say before you had a chance to teach the dog to respond to it (“Snofflebugs McGilliwubbles”).

“Yeah, well you’re going to FAIL. I mean, how can you even expect to be able to have a SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP when Zooey Deschanel is getting divorced?! ANSWER ME THAT, KNOWITALL.”

Monthly Archives: November 2011

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Sprinkles!