Tag Archives: cupcakes

March 8, 2012 · 5:51 pm

Burn It In A Trashcan Bad

Troll 2

If you have some kind of vitamin deficiency, your thumbnail will grow a little bump. That bump will annoy you to death because you’ll constantly be rubbing your index fingernail up and down it. So you’ll Google to find out why you have a bumpy nail and what you’re supposed to do about it. “Oh!” Google says, “Just file it down!” Google, you are fucking full of good ass ideas.

So you file your nail bump down, and about five minutes into the filing operation, you think “This is making my thumb kinda sore.” You look down, wipe away the nail file powder, and to your horror, REALIZE THAT YOU HAVE FUCKING FILED A HOLE THROUGH YOUR NAIL AND EXPOSED YOUR NAIL BED. Fucking shit. Then you realize that you’re me and you’re amazingly bad at doing your nails and fixing your hair and accessorizing and wearing the right shoes with the right belts because you’re just really bad at all the stuff girls know how to do when they’re born. (But I’ve seen Bourne Ultimatum about five thousand times so I’m fairly certain I could kill a guy with a book, a towel, and a candlestick if I had to.)

Yeah. So. The nail with the hole in it FUCKING FELL OFF and now I have a tiny sliver of half-nail at the bottom of my thumb and exposed nail bed all across the top. It hurts like hell and it’s ugly and it eeks everyone out, you probably skipped over most of the story up there ^^ or maybe winced to yourself and started rubbing your thumbnail. I bet you did. The Pants calls it “the troll nail” and can’t stand to hold that hand right now and looks away while I try to cover it with one of those horrible Sally Hansen stick-on nails, which is an adventure in fake ladyness in itself.

Lord almighty. I am ready to just have my arms cut off and replaced with robot arms now.

Unnecessary.

: Check out this motherfucker of all ATMs.

Wanna see this sombitch in action? There’s a fucking VIDEO in which some Beverly Hills assholes talk about why–or something that…you know what? Sorry. I am just getting used to living in a world where cupcakes come out of a machine if the cupcake store is not open and you forgot to buy confectioner’s sugar for frosting. I couldn’t actually pay attention to the words being said in the video.

Holy big bad diabetes! We’re all gonna die and it’s gonna taste unreal.

Now eat your potatoes.

Therapy is weird. It’s just WEIRD. To quote Stephanie, “It’s such a weird thing to confess all these things to a stranger and cry in front of them and then there’s a cash transaction!” And really, there’s no other way to put it. We sat down and made all these agreements about money and health insurance and missed appointment charges and overhead, and then I had to sign a thing saying I understood that if she thought I was going to kill someone she had the right to tell the cops or whatever, and then I had to agree that I’d pay her and shit. Then we got down to biznass. Then time was up, and it was like, Well, bye. No hug or anything!

Yesterday was my second visit to Our Lady of Psychotherapy’s tiny alcove office, and during this visit she pretty much only wanted to know about my relationship with The Pants. She wants to establish my current environment and what’s working/not working, but I sat there thinking I hope she knows I’ve got a whoooole bag of shit with her name on it rolling around in here. Anyway. She wanted to talk about all of our relationship problems that have ever possibly existed, and it was hard for me not to start cracking up and tell her about the fact that things are just DIFFERENT once you’ve both just started blasting each other with farts. Different good, but also different like something’s gone missing after you’ve marinated your boyfriend in your gas. I find myself sometimes nostalgic about the days when we would pretend we never farted. But there is also something really comforting about it. Aaaaand there’s also something really disgusting about it. Like the other night when I farted at the dinner table. I couldn’t believe I had let myself go that far. I’m sitting there eating potatoes and I lean over and just rip a loud one. And the response was kind of like, Wow, that was really horrifyingly disgusting. Now eat your potatoes.

Anyway. I did NOT talk to my therapist about farting.

She asked me why I don’t write anymore and I didn’t know what to say, but really it comes down to this: If I write something, and it sucks, I might die. Really! I might! Because I would never be happy living a life without writing, without writing that was good and made some kind of a difference, no matter how small, in a single solitary person. But there is a very large chance that I could write something and it could just suck balls all the way to the sewers in the racist part of Hell and back, suck worse than anything I’ve ever read that sucks, and that realization would probably kill me. Because:

No one can advise or help you — no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

–Rainer Maria Rilke, 17 February 1903

I would have to die if I were forbidden to write, and the forbidder would be myself, so bad work would be, for me, suicide.

The other possibility would be that I wrote some kind of really horrible popcorn drivel, and a whole lot of stupid people loved it. Then I’d be in the same boat on a river of poop because I hate stupid people and I know popcorn drivel when I see it and I’d really rather not add any to the canon. Everybody would be like “oohhhhh it’s goooood…” but they’d look off to the left when they said it and wouldn’t make eye contact and MTV Books would print copies of it that came with a CD soundtrack taped in the back and the characters would just be Polaroid representations of random people I’ve seen on the street, the main character would be a spiced up representation of myself, including addictions to all the drugs I’m too scared to take and a better set of tits and nicer teeth. God, that would be awful. I’d be invited to writing studios to give people my insights on writing and characters and place and mood, I’d be invited to bookstores to read sections of my book to a small gathering of family and friends and whatever other weirdos read about it in the local paper and thought it might be a good way for a random weirdo to spend an evening in the middle of January. Photos of the event would make it look like there were a lot more people there than there actually were. Dipshits on Amazon who can barely be bothered to spell their own name or their state correctly will rave about how it’s the best book they’ve ever bought on clearance at an Urban Outfitters before.

Then there’s this: what if the answer is No, you would not die if you were forbidden to write. Well, then I’d just want to die out of sheer boredom with myself. There’s got to be more to my existence than this.

The fears about my capacity to produce a horrible novel are completely valid and feasible and so are my fears about what would happen with that horrible novel. Know how I know? Well, I’ll tell you.

There’s this person, who went to my undergrad and wrote two completely popcorny and Polaroidy novels, and has ever since been lauded as a literary success in certain circles (ahem, Amazon, ahem, undergrad university fiction department) because she’s been, to a degree, a financial success due to her literary efforts. Now she spends her days blogging about writing and about how haaard it is and about how people just love her ideas and her agent is all about publishing more…and bunches of tips on “how to be a writer” that they used to stuff our heads with in undergrad and at that horrible writing studio where I worked, how to stay focused! Software for staying organized! Drink coffee! Fun writing exercises and prompts! WRITER STEREOTYPES! Hahah you know how us writers love our coffee and Tazo teas and chocolate and wine! Oh I just never could have written this shitty book I’ve worked on for a million years without my Godiva samplers? Amirite, other writers?!?!

#2 on the list of things that bug the hell out of me has got to be writers talking about writing. SHUDDER. Nothing else makes me want to beat my head against the desk as much as this does. And that’s exactly what I did after I went home the night I had to make a name card to put on a table where this particular writer would sit the next morning in the middle of the studio where I worked to talk to other writers about writing. I banged my head against the table until I felt better.

On this blog, we’ve got that self-designated musical-definition label thing I HATE, “I’m a punk rock girl from the Midwest.” So, check. Who the fuck told you you were “punk rock”? Who told you that you were “indie rock”? Who goes around saying these kinds of things? Or did you just decide for yourself that, based on your hair color and style of dress, you’re This Type of Person? Sweet Jesus, on the list of things that bug the hell out of me, this has got to be #4 or 5.

Here’s what the Amazon crowd has to say:

This was one cool book. I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone is probably on of the most down-to-earth books I have ever read. It isn’t full of fairytales and other. Stephanie did a great job of making the book very realistic. The plot was also great, sometimes something would happen that I never suspected but then there were times when something would happen that I knew was going to happen. Which in some books I don’t’ like figuring out what is going to happen but I didn’t mind it at all in this book. The characters in this book were stupendous; they all had their flaws, which is great because in life everyone has flaws. I also enjoyed how big of a part music plays in the story. Which is probably because I am a big fan of rock but I think every one who reads this book will be able to envision Emily rocking out on the stage, like I did. I also introduced to some great rock bands while reading the wonderful story. I recommend this book to every teen out there, especially if you like listening to rock bands. Also some adults might enjoy the story too.

I don’t even know where to begin. Nothing I could say would do this book justice. It’s one of the most raw, heartbreaking, and touching novels I’ve read. Ever. Yikes. The thing I admire the most is that I think the author really wrote from her heart. You can tell just by the way the story is told that she cared deeply about what she was writing about which is the key to any good book; an author who is connected to her story. What’s amazing is that this is Stephanie Kuehnert’s first novel. How someone can write something this fantastic on her first attempt in the published world is…can I use the word amazing again? The characters are deep, detailed, and flawed.

For Emily Black, music is everything. It’s what made her parents fall in love way back when. It’s what her mother Louisa was following when she left baby Emily. It’s what Emily has to stay in control of her life. Music draws her from her dreary life in Carlisle, Wisconsin to River’s Edge, an abandoned warehouse where rock bands play. River’s Edge is where Emily got her fill of sex, drinking, and rock `n’ roll, and where her dreams of being a punk rock goddess began. So she and her best friend Regan form a punk band named She Laughs, and Emily can’t help but hope that by playing music, she’ll bring her mother home.
Soon, her band is swept up in the dangerous world of rock music. Her band has a lot of talent, but so many ups and downs in Emily’s life lead her away from the music. There are the bad boyfriends, the death of her grandparents, the involvement with drugs and self-medication, and a year wasted searching for her mother. But eventually Emily finds her way back on track, and her friends are still waiting for her to come back and pick up her guitar. And so she does, because music is all she has.

And just to cleanse your palate and offer some perspective, here’s what the Goodreads crowd has on their minds:

“Not since high school dating have I felt so tricked and empty. The main character combines the collective whining powers of Twilight’s Bella and My So-Called Life’s Angela…..and then proceeds to try and trick the reader into believing it’s “punk”, when really, it’s a V.C. Andrews novel minus the incest (and the plot suffers because of that glaring omission, by the way.) I was suckered in by the Joey Ramone name drop, the Sleater-Kinney lyrical reference, the Doc Martens on the book cover. I admit it. I chose the glittery vampire, and I’m ashamed of it. Since I couldn’t find a hair shirt and kneeling on lentils is just a waste of good legumes, I read it all the way to the end, periodically stopping to shove a spork into my ear in hopes of creating the brain damage necessary to enjoy the “plot twists” and reminding myself to never ever stop submitting my own writing because, hey, if she can get a book deal, anyone can. So in that sense, it did serve a purpose, as motivation, but it also was penitential, because I was, in fact, paying for the sin of choosing the book based on its alleged “hipness” (which, like long haired boys in high school…….I never learned my lesson from.)
Oh plot, you ask? Only that a girl who’s been abandoned by her mom in the middle of bumfuck, Midwest becomes the biggest punk band since Nirvana, gets on the cover of Rolling Stone, survives domestic abuse and drug addiction, discovers a ZOMG FUCKING DARK RAPE SECRET that means her mom didn’t abandon her, she left to protect her! ……a cross-country motel search ensues. Oh, and she reunites with the long-lost mom who’s been gone her whole life in the middle of Penn Station. Of course she does. Did I mention her “punk band” is called “She Laughs”? Oh. Yeah. There was probably a reason I forgot to mention that.
“Favorite” bit of dialogue: (I would like to remind you that the author would like us to believe this is a street punk talking, by the way)
“His brilliant aquamarine mohawk….” I will spare you the rest. Anyone who has ever in their life met a punk knows that those words can’t, don’t and shouldn’t ever happen together.

I actually relate to Joey Ramone more after reading this book… he suffered through cancer, I suffered through this book.

So. So bad. Like, I want to burn it in trashcan bad.

terrible. rang completely untrue and cliche. i wanted to like it – i grew up in a shitty little wisconsin town close to the illinois border and went to punk shows in rural vfw halls and crap run-down buildings, just like the main character, but i really didn’t see anything authentic, realistic or even very likable about this book. really bad writing. so thinly-veiled (i love the diatribe about why the main character is living in the burbs, all defensive and “but the train is so close!” – and then you read in the author’s extensive bio that she lives in the chicago suburbs, too! you don’t say). the thank-you chapter is so barfily self-congratulatory. makes me angry that i didn’t go get an MFA, because apparently you can get published through connections alone.

OK. Props for use of the not-word “barfily.” Why does it make me feel so much better to read these negative reviews? Well, partially because they’re so well written and witty when compared to positive reviews. Though it’s not hard to outdo a review that’s more like a quick recap of all of the events and then a statement about how it “totally resonates with me!” because I totally went to high school and shit.

I guess it makes me feel better because I know there will always be people there who aren’t afraid to call me on my shit. I can see how someone who attended the same fiction writing program I did would have a hard time believing any negative reviews. The way it worked there was you basically pay them money and they fill your butthole with smoke and encourage you do to your MFA there so they can have more money and fill your butthole with more smoke. Then you write some smoked-out manuscript and they have the writer-in-residence (ahem, Irvine Welsh, who also lent his brief blurb to this stunning piece of steaming turd written by the son of the professor emerita of the program) and it gets picked up by MTV Books and people tell you it’s crap and you’re like–wait, I think you’re mistaken. Everyone else likes it.

I won’t do that. I find it extremely easy to believe every negative thing people say about me and let it stop me from doing things. Ha!

Oh, anyway. I fear sometimes when I write a sentence that I’ll end up like the above described wang princess: lost in shit and in love with myself, thanking every writer who ever visited my school as a personal savior in my acknowledgements, and basically being the figurehead of a pile of crap that I will represent for the rest of my life. And then I stop writing.

If you want to get down to it, there’s also this character, who, if you’ll remember, I ~~got into a discussion with~~ attempted to get into a discussion with on a blog post she wrote. You probably remember the idiotic shit that ensued to cover up the fact that her “writing” is really just verbal diarrhea meant to make her look like a Certain Type of Chick and entertain that part of one’s brain that responds well to stereotypes (if you don’t remember, it’s here and here). This person came back into my attention today when she was suggested as a friend I might want to get to know on Facebook, because of our mutual friendships. I clicked on her page and lo and behold, it appears that my criticism was one of the most important events in her entire life. She’s referred to it on her Timeline!!! Behold:

I write profanity laced articles about funny things. Once, this resulted in someone writing a number of “hate blogs” about me.

I wrote “a number” (two, if you’re counting, now 3?) of blogs discussing the poor quality of writing that hides behind a stereotype and reports the attitudes and opinions that the stereotype is supposed to represent. I wrote about how it’s a fucking sham, and part of what bothers me about it is that there are people who toooooootally buy into that sham, and just eat that bullshit up. There are people out there who think this self-obsessed dummy is a good writer. Because all she does is sit there and type cutesy bullshit all day about indie rock and current events and thinks it’s edgy for a girl to cuss (hence her specifically calling your attention to the “profanity laced” side of her writing repertoire). And in the end, she’s a total fucking pussy when it comes to having a conversation about her work, or standing up for what she writes, and can only engage in a dialogue if she’s represented as the victim (as evidenced by the above Life Event, and her frantic Twitter feed on the day of my comments, the fact that my comments are worthy enough to define her experience in this particular blogging job speaks volumes to me). “Hate blogs.” Honey, you ain’t nothin til you’re hate blogged. And I’m afraid what you got was just the tip of an Annoyed Blog. (Yeah, just the tip.) Wait a tick….all of this kind of begs the question: are my words really that powerful?

It’s people like Suburban Punk Queen and Indienet Pussy Blogger that make me just never want to pick up a pen or type anything ever again. Someone asked me why the worst writers are always the most prolific, and I said it’s because they have no idea of the darkness of self-doubt, they’re too stupid to imagine that what they’ve produced is the worst thing anyone could imagine, is actually detrimental to the craft, to the reader, to the world at large. They think themselves a great contribution to the planet, instead of what they really are: white noise in stereo reverberating off the metal walls of the fucking flaming trashcan. What more people need is mental illness, crippling self-doubt, a tsunami of fear each time they even think about expressing any stupid little thought that farts through their brain. That would do it.

And what I need is way more bravery, way less worry about being as completely ass crappy as my contemporaries. So does that come in a pill or what?

Anyway, now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about some different kinds of shit, shall we?

The women who use this bathroom are terrible.

I should know, because I’m forced to use it after they leave. Based on the aftermath I have seen in the bathroom on this floor, the following is what women are doing in there:

1. Removing tampons and swinging them around by the string, splattering threads of menstrual mucus all over the walls of the stalls.

2. Taking giant shits, standing up, walking away (no flush attempt).

3. Using the toilet, flushing, then turning around and shaking their heads vigorously over the toilet seat, covering it with long, loose hairs.

4. Squatting to piss and practicing hula hooping techniques in the process.

5. Inserting tampon, dropping wrapper and applicator on the floor, walking away.

6. Removing completely soiled and soaked pad and leaving it on the top of the toilet paper dispenser, at exact nose-level with the next unfortunate person to use that toilet (That next unfortunate person happened to be me.).

7. Removing sandals and washing each foot, one at a time, in the sink (Witnessed this.).

8. Leaning over the sink to hoark a giant wad of phlegm, walking away without so much as an attempt to rinse it away (Witnessed this, too.).

9. Playing mischievous cat games with the toilet paper, i.e., unrolling stacks of it onto the floor and leaving it there.

10. Sleeping. We got an email the other day that there would be regular hourly “bathroom checks” on this floor because it’s become socially acceptable between these twats to go into the stall, lock the door, sit on the toilet without dropping pants and SLEEPING.

11. The kicker: somehow they are sharting all over the wall. Sharting. All over. The. Wall.

How do they do it? I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. But I have some photographic evidence for you. BEHOLD:

Really brings new meaning to the word "overflow," huh?

This monstrosity of menstruation occurred within a few hours. Only a few hours–I KNOW! It seems impossible that a few women could bleed that much! I guess you could attribute part of it to the fact that there seems to be a “favorite stall” in the bathroom, the first one on the far right. I don’t know why it’s a favorite stall, but in an otherwise empty bathroom, it’s the only one that’s always occupied. So this is where all the period garbage ends up. This is where it overflows in a matter of hours. (Someone should really do some kind of scientific study on why everyone wants to bleed in that particular stall. Someone who is not me.)

Sure, just wipe your hands there. No one will ever know.

Aaaaand here we have an example of period blood smear that’s been on the lower wall of the first stall on the right for about as long as I can remember. I bet that dirty bitch goes back in there from time to time to visit with it. Maybe it tells fortunes? Maybe it’s just fucking gross. Probably it’s just fucking gross.

Well, here’s an example of a wall shart:

This is to the right of the toilet. How did it get there?!?!

And THIS is the horror that awaited me as I was writing this very post and attaching these very pictures, when I had to stop for a moment and go pee. THIS is what was staring back at me when I went into the stalls of which I write:

Hon, you missed.

So uhh, this is what I do when I get bored at work. I become a bathroom ethnographer. And I have concluded in this field report that WOMEN ARE FUCKING FILTHY.

I was going to talk about a chocolaty caramel-y cupcake I made last weekend, but upon further consideration, I think I’ll find another time to post pictures of that.

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Tagged as cunts, cupcakes, the crazies, The Pants, work

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.

2 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as cupcakes, drinking, surveys

November 4, 2011 · 1:13 pm

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

January 28, 2011 · 5:52 pm

Unicorn Butt Meat

My stomach has been gurgling out of control all day. I’m at the point where you’d be yelling “What do you WAAAANT?!” at it if it was a small child screaming its head off. I really wouldn’t mind my stomach screaming its head off, but the thing is: it sounds deep and heavy, like a wet fart pressed against a leather jacket under a pile of blankets. And it seems to be activated by my surroundings, i.e., people. So everybody I’ve talked to today thinks I’ve been trying to control wet farts, and failing.

We’re friends, in that way that we’re not, at all.

I found this girl on Facebook I used to be friends with in real life, or “face-to-face book.” I said hi to her (on Facebook), told her how good it was to see her, and asked her how she’s doing. That was like 2 months ago and I still haven’t gotten a reply. Either:

1. I am way too invested in Facebook, and so fail to realize that other people are not, and so fail to realize that other people do not consider the total ignorance of a wall post equal to ignoring someone who’s just said hi to you in front of a room full of people,

2. She has reasons not to talk to me that I don’t know about.

The last time I talked to this girl was like 6 years ago. She called me and asked me if I wanted to go out that night. I was 600 miles away, something she would have known if we had talked recently. So I said I couldn’t that night, we’d have to schedule for another night when I got back into town. I told her I was happy to hear from her and that I really couldn’t wait to see her. I left her a message when I got back to town, but she never called back–and it was one of those things where you kind of knew that the person wouldn’t.

Imagine my surprise when I’m getting my hair cut and the guy doing the cutting is like, “Oh yeah, we had to reschedule your other appointment because I was at a baby shower.” Turns out it was for my friend/notfriend.

Five years into the future and we’re officially both on the opposite side of a fast-moving river. She’s over there with those mystifying girls from high school who are already grandmothers, people I worked with in fast food joints who lost their minds and stole cars and disappeared during the Juggalo weekend, people I worked with in retail joints who lost their minds in a more regular sort of way, and family members who are certain you killed your grandma by thinking gay is A-OK. I just hate it when there’s people I LIKE over there.

Actually, one thing I hate more than that is when uninvited creeps come dragging back across to my side, sliming over in their little turd boats, powered by their disappointment in their lives, failed relationships, and fast-sprouting gray hairs they’re sure weren’t there a minute ago. Maybe I’m the uninvited creep for this girl. If so, she should have followed my usual tack and not accepted my offer of friendship.

Countdown to Pitiful

I could set my watch by ex-boyfriends, I swear.

First they run right out and date someone else because they couldn’t give a shit about you, then they do their best to make you notice that they’re dating someone else and they couldn’t give a shit about you, then they want to know what you think about the fact that they couldn’t give a shit about you. Then their girlfriend tries to get a bunch of her friends to let you know that her boyfriend doesn’t give a shit about you. Then, god dammit, you bitch, why won’t you REACT to how HARD we’re not giving a shit about you while we’re busy being in LOVE OVER HERE?

Then they break up because maybe he not only gives a shit about you, he might have sent you a couple of text messages suggesting otherwise, to which you did not respond, but still, you’re a BITCH for getting them! You homewrecker!

Then they get back together because really, when you think about it, stunted emotional growth and complete denial are things that most men in their 30’s struggle with, so what can you do?! Hahaha! That’s life! LOLOLOLOLOL

Then they break up again, and what the fuck do you know?

Hi Ex Girlfriend,

It’s time for me to suggest in a chirpy, upbeat way that you and I work on our friendship because I’m lonely, gray-haired, I hate my job, I just got dumped because I never appreciate what I have when I have it, and I’m basically a big old goopy emotional wreck of a person right now and I think it would be helpful to me, I mean you, haha! if we start to be friends again four years later, and you listen carefully to my complaints and distract me from all of my woes. Other than that, EVERYTHING IS COOL AND I’M REALLY HAPPY HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA YAY

No? You refuse to do this for me?!

Well then FUCK YOU, bitch! I couldn’t give a shit about you!

I mean, I’ve always said no to this same request. It’s one thing to be friends with an ex, it’s quite another to be friends with an ex who can only seem to put aside his vitriol when he’s not sure he’s going to get his cock sucked sometime soon. But this time around, last weekend, when the most recent request came in at 3:54am on a Saturday morning…I said no in such a way that suggested that a certain person’s testicles might be removed from his groin, baked in a tart, then ridiculed for their post-roasting size if I’m ever approached again.

Why do my ex boyfriends have such awful track records? What does that say about me? I think it means I’m a total idiot. The evidence:

One of them is bankrupt and living with his parents.

One is building up a lovely collection of sobriety tokens. 196 days and counting!

One was nearly bankrupt and should totally be in rehab.

One of them clearly invested in Ed Hardy hats.

One of them buys electronics at Target, or did at least once 2 years ago when I saw him there with his girlfriend, the kind of girl who does her hair and makeup before she goes to Target, which made her match him really well. Which is absolutely 100% right with the world, in my opinion.

One went off the map doing the fucking gaywad young Che Guevara motorcycle tour of the safest places in the world for white men that still kind of look dangerous in pictures. There is very little that is more horrifying than having to read about how spiritual and amazing and life-affirming it is to touch a goddamn near dead elephant they’ve dragged out for the whitey tourists to prod, when that person has touched your vagina and never said a fucking WORD about how great THAT was. Shit.

(And one kind of went off the map when his dad got caught getting blown by an 84-year-old woman in a local nursing home last year, which was first an alleged rape, until they came out to everyone as having been a secret couple for the last 30 years. Which I think is amazing, but the guy’s wife and his son didn’t find it as interesting as they did devastating. So it goes.)

Typographical Errrrs

I mean, I know that there are people who probably think I just did this to be an asshole:

To Whom it May Concern,

I’m writing to let you know that the cover of one of your films includes a serious typographical error. The film is “Chocolate Sundaes presents Live on Sunset Strip” (featuring Katt Williams, Kevin Hart, and Aries Spears). The banner across the bottom of the cover reads “Comedy At It’s Best.” Unfortunately, “it’s” represents the contraction of “it” and “is,” so technically the cover of the film reads “Comedy At It Is Best.”

I noticed this DVD on the shelf at my local Blockbuster, and I thought it wise to point this out since this film could possibly still be in reproduction, and this error could be corrected in the future. If that isn’t possible, at the very least this is notice to the graphic design or copy editing department at Cinevision International: using this word incorrectly appears careless, unintelligent, and uneducated.

Thanks for your time.

COMEDY AT IT IS BEST

I didn’t do it to be a jerk! I just don’t think it’s healthy for anyone to be misusing contractions, especially on the cover of a DVD that people already expect to be stupid. Then they see that and they’re just like, “Oh, yeah, of course they fucked that up. Just check out the look on that guy’s face. It’s saying ‘I ain’t be lissnin in school when we be talkin bout contranizzactions. Bitches! Weed! Gun jokes! HAHAHA!'” And that’s racist.

But don’t worry…John Krashna at Cinevision International has assured me that it’s going to be taken care of:

Thank you for your comment we will forward to the appropriate people.

Best

John Krashna

I mean, pay no attention to the fact that John missed a comma in the above sentence. I’m sure that’s why he’s forwarding a typo notice to another party. He knows he’s not the best to handle these matters.

cancer pants

Let me see if I can get out of the valley and up on the hill again.

What’s new with you? Nothing? Well that’s stupid! I’ve been busy doing some baking:

Rainbow Cupcakes

Steel Magnolias Cupcakes

I made the rainbow cupcake by being awesome and also by mixing food coloring into the batter and pouring it in bit by bit. But mostly by being awesome. It was like biting into a unicorn’s butt meat. Then, a work friend requested what he thought was the impossible in asking for a movie-themed cupcake. He got pumpkin cake with pink icing and Steel Magnolias references on top.

So I baked. And I knitted. And I started writing down every food that I ate. I also started making these really crazy lists with arrows going in every which direction, branching out into sub lists and sub sub lists. And I’m not talking about lists of sandwiches! Hur hur hur!!! I started reading a free subscription of Self Magazine and based on Self’s advice I even whipped up Heidi Klum’s signature salad: which consisted of a whole head of fennel (or ass of fennel, as it’s kind of a root) which has been chopped up “into little choppies” (according to Heidi Klum’s directions). That’s mixed with olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper, and it’s FUCKING GROSS.

The article was about how much Seal loves it when Heidi’s up in the kitchen chopping choppies of fennel, and I thought, I really need to make that salad.

Me: I need to go to the grocery store for some fennel.

My sister: Why?

Me: I want to make Heidi Klum’s Fennel Salad from Self Magazine.

My sister: Shut up

**my sister has gone offline**

At the end of the day, you can’t rely on Seal’s taste in salad. The man is married to a supermodel and has a jacked up face. Something about that says, “Oh well of COURSE he loves hard crunchy roots that taste like puked-up licorice.”

I read in a book once that there are two types of depression: depression caused by inflation, and depression caused by deflation. Well, that makes sense to me. Sometimes you get too high and then everything seems shitty in comparison. And sometimes you just feel like your insides were scraped out and you can barely move. Of course, this book was read over the shoulder of a person on the bus (which I try to NEVER DO and also try to give the shit-eye to other people if I see them doing it to someone). But that’s why it took me a while to realize that this book wasn’t about emotions at all, it was about finance. It still applies though, so yeah.

At the end of July, I went to the doctor for routine checkup stuff. She left me a voicemail three days later about “abnormalities” and diagnostic procedures, and the whole thing was said in that “Gosh darn it, you hurt your little finger, didn’t youuuu!?” way that your grandma says things. (Unless your grandma is my grandma, who yelled SON OF A BITCH when you got stung by a wasp and broke open one of her cigarettes and licked up the tobacco and stuck the tobacco spit wad to your sting because that’s what they did in 1944.) At any rate, I showed signs of stuff that COULD BE other stuff that HAS BEEN KNOWN TO develop into CANCERRRRRRRR AAAAAGGHHH OH MY GOD but don’t panic, stupid. So I had to freak out for a month and a half, waiting, then I had to go in and basically do backflips for some nurses in Baby Phat scrubs and they had to cut out parts of me and put them in jars and mail them and test them and then tell me

“Meh. Not as bad as we thought. But…IT COULD GET WORSE. Come back in six months and we’ll see if it’s grown its own teeth and hair. That’s pretty fucked up, huh!”

Yeah. Huh.

So a smudged bill of health later and you’d think I’d be having fewer panic attacks. Instead I started baking and knitting and writing down every food I ate.

Anyway, it’s a shit excuse, but when you’re pretty sure you’re going to die every single day (and you have a tendency to be a bit dramatic about these things anyway), it’s REALLY hard to imagine that a blog has any point. Special thank-yous to the kind souls who think that it does, and told me as much.

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as big scissor, boys, cupcakes, the crazies

July 28, 2010 · 11:37 am

Cupcake Shout Out

Lady says all men have a monopoly over gettin’ off on porn. Dan suggests that women instead get off on cupcakes–something erotic that men aren’t that down with.

Cupcocks

Way ahead of you. But it’s nice to have my cupkink validated.

Wipe That Fucking Frosting Off Your Cake

Last night I left my filing cabinet key stuck into the lock on the filing cabinet in my office. The filing cabinet key unfortunately shares a ring with my apartment keys. So imagine my distress when, after my hour and ten minute commute home, I realized that I couldn’t get in.

So The Pants came to get me, like good Pants do, me and my bag of frozen stir-fry shrimp. I collapsed into a little heap in his car and started crying like a big twat because it’s the worst when my brain, which I’ve considered to be a pretty good one before, doesn’t work the way it should. It’s a wonder that I remember to put on shoes in the morning. I once had a series of Post-Its on the back of my apartment door telling me exactly what to do that day. And not just like “don’t forget your lunch,” but more like “write a list of things to do.”

Is there a way to rinse your brain off? Because sometimes I’d sort of like to take off the top of my head and clean all of the barnacles out of my brain matter. So I could remember my keys and get into my apartment after a long day of work and shit. That would be so refreshing. Maybe the canoe trip next month will be like a brain cleanse? I hope so. Because eventually there is so much shit going on in my head, and no discernible way to organize it, that I start to forget things, then I start to think that Bad Things Are Going to Happen pretty much all the time, then I just go to sleep and don’t wake up for a few days.

To: Target Stores

Attn: Customer Complaints

Hello,

I just thought I should let someone know that I don’t appreciate the way your check-out girl looked at me last night. I was purchasing a fresh set of clothes, underwear, some makeup essentials, a toothbrush, and a six pack of beer. Now I don’t know what kind of nastiness this young lady had in mind, but I was just trying to make it through my evening. I don’t need to be judged by chirpy, red-shirted cashier girls who seem to have nothing to think about other than the possibility that complete strangers may be preparing for a pre-walk of shame. How dare she?

I locked myself out, you bitch!

Sincerely,

C. Cake Jones

500 Ways to Suck

Everybody went to see that movie 500 Days of Summer last summer. I went to see it and some of it was good but most of it was bad. Anyway, everyone’s favorite dream girl was in it, and she was costumed in such a way that swept the young female nation, and made every girl want to be her, and every boy want to fuck her while she thought about maybe breaking up with him.

I ain’t gonna lie, I thought she was cute, too. Her little outfits were pretty fucking adorable. It was inspiring to think that maybe it’s that easy to just walk into a thrift store and find assloads of cheap clothes that are your size and your budget and look super cute and effortless with all of the other thrift store finds you have going for you and they don’t smell at all like thrift store, ever. Sure, it gave me the whole “fashion is easy and will make you feel better” vibe for about two days until I realized that I just can’t seem to motivate myself to put out even the tiniest bit of effort to Be Cuter. Sure, if someone wanted to come along and dress me, I’d wear something besides my Harry Potter t-shirt and ripped jeans from last year’s Gap sale. If I felt like getting up earlier or staying up later to steam my Peter Pan collared shirt and find the brooch I want for my vest and make sure my patterned tights were clean and laid out, I’d do it. Instead I say hell with it and wear the pants I wore on Monday and some flip flops.

So I was talking about this phenomenon with someone, saying that I don’t know how some girls do it, how they ended up always knowing what goes together, how they have A Style, one which makes other people say “that’s her Style”. Maybe there’s some kind of guide they follow? Maybe someone sat around and wrote up a guide for a wiki and maybe it includes a mention of a book you should “try to read” because it’s the book Favorite Dream Girl was reading when she met her husband. Maybe that makes me puke a little and maybe the person who sent this how-to list to me, with whom I was dumb enough to have a conversation about a Zooey Deschanel dreamy dream girl character, should be killed and eaten by rapists.

And maybe I should have worn different shoes with this outfit because I have this sinking feeling that my life will never be like a hit summer indie rock movie and I think with different shoes I could ignore that feeling.

My Little Crazy

When I was eight I asked my mom if I could have a horse, with the promise that I would clean out a space in the basement for it. I swore that I would go and find hay for it and build a pen for it in the corner by the water heater. It made perfect sense to me. I even had a horse picked out, an aging ex-race horse featured in the Pets section of the Dollar & Sense that had been turned out to pasture and was only $600 to the right owner. “This horse would love our basement,” I told her when I showed her the grainy photo. “It’s not too tall.” My mother, of course, said no to the whole horse idea, but only because, she said, “race horses are too high-strung.”

I didn’t know what that meant at the time but I thought it had something to do with their legs, like maybe their legs were too long to fit in our basement. But now that I am an adult, and have been referred to as “high strung” by pretty much everyone who has known me in a personal capacity, I know that it means “bat shit crazy” and also “easily pissed off by everything.”

I have been pretty high strung lately.

*Exhibition Opening*

Exhibit A.

Drunk dude walking two filthy little floor mop dogs down the street the other night, allowed both unleashed dogs to approach me and the people I was with. Both dogs, of course, proceeded to do that weird dog sneeze thing where they splatter you with their spit, through their nose, over and over again. Both dogs made runs for my bare feet and ankles, which, for some reason, dogs love to lick…and one of the only things that grosses me out is for dogs to lick at my toes, feet, and ankles. I mean really grosses me out. Like makes me want to peel off my skin and have it bleached while I beat myself in the head with a hammer to drive out the memory of cold dog tongue on my skin. I’ve got that pre-puke lump in my throat right now just writing about it. Both dogs crowded around my legs, scraping at my tights, trying to get me to pet them. I backed away. Repeatedly. Waved my hands at them. “Go on, no…go on now…don’t…no…”

So the drunk dude finally started talking to his dogs, who, I am sure, understand English perfectly well, especially slurred Tequila-stink English. “Come on, she’s scared of you…come on now, she’s scaaaared.” And, wouldn’t you know it, for some reason the dogs had lost their translation skills at the moment, and paid absolutely no heed to his half-assed commands. He finally grabbed both of them by their slimy little collars and pulled them away.

“They should be on leashes,” I said.

“Oh well thanks for letting me know,” he said.

“Well,” I retorted, “it is the law?”

“Then CALL the POLICE ON ME.”

“Just put the dogs on leashes, and I won’t have to.”

And that’s when I basically got told to shut the fuck up by a member of my party. The rest of the group I was with had been, for some reason completely lost on me, enjoying the presence of the animals. Then I went and ruined it with my Strong Opinions About Strange Dogs. And my Confrontational Methods of Communication With Strangers With Strange Dogs. Then everyone was pretty much weirded out and pissed at me for being such a senior citizen about it.

I do not hate the dogs. I hate the owners who fail to put them on leashes because they assume that everyone will love them. They prefer not to see their pets as possible risks to other people (allergies, bites, holes snagged in tights, basic fucking preference to not touch weird animals), and will quickly ascend to a level of unholy anger if you even dare to suggest that you don’t necessarily want their dog’s company as much as they do. Dogs are cool, but people fucking suck. And when they have dogs and don’t train them, it’s annoying as fuck. Like when you’re dating someone who’s mom has a bunch of little anklebiter Scottie dogs, who she allows to put their paws in your lap and reach up and lick the food on your plate when you come over for dinner. Then you’re expected to still want to eat the fucking food that the dog managed to lick. Or when you sit in a chair at her house and are politely told that the reason the fattest of the Scotties has sat on you and scrubbed dried dog shit from its exposed asshole all over your white skirt is because “That’s Smoopy’s chair, he likes to sit there, hee hee hee!”

Well guess what? SMOOPY’S A FUCKING DOG AND THE FLOOR IS WHERE DOGS SIT. PEOPLE SIT ON CHAIRS.

I’m not a total asshole about dogs. I love them. They are good animals. When I was a kid, my dog was my best friend and I cried for months after she died. (Then my sister drew a chalk outline of the dog on our front porch and I cried for a few more months.) But my dog always knew it was a dog. It didn’t crowd people who came in the front door, jump on the couch and sit on their laps, put its paws on their clothes, lick at their feet. It didn’t sit by the dinner table slurping at the edges of plates. I walked it on a leash and even off a leash it didn’t run up to people like a retard. What it did do was let out a low growl when strangers approached, until it was told everything was OK. It ate food out of its own bowl and ran to get my mom if any of the kids fell and hurt themselves. My dog was like a big, loving Lassie.

Dogs are like kids, in a sense. I don’t see why people hate on me for not liking obnoxious animals (i.e., obnoxious owners) but will roll their eyes and express distaste with obnoxious kids (i.e., obnoxious parents) in Target on a Saturday. Nobody says “Awww, c’mere!” and gives big hugs to sticky, messy little shoeless children when they run into you and knock a bunch of shit out of your hands. They look at the parents like “Can’t you handle your fucking kids?” So why am I a jerk because I won’t allow someone to let their pets claw at me and climb on me or even fucking approach me? You wouldn’t be happy if a pantsless three-year-old climbed up onto your lap and wiped its ass on you. So why is it okay if a fluffy little dog does it? “Well doggies don’t know any better!” you could say. Maybe not. But neither do three-year-olds. Kids and dogs don’t know shit until you teach them. And if your drunk ass is too lazy to teach them, that’s what leashes are for, pendejo.

However, I probably could have politely asked Drunk Man to get his dogs. I do have the capability to be polite, you know.

Exhibit B.

I was crossing the street on my way to work yesterday, and a man in a van was, of course, edging out over the crosswalk, looking the opposite direction from where I was crossing on MY LIGHT, trying to pull out in between bursts of traffic and run a red light. I looked up just in time to realize that he wasn’t looking in my direction, and didn’t see me, and that’s why there was a large green van creeping up in front of me, barring my way across the street. I stopped with my toes about an inch from the guy’s front fender, and when the shock wore off, my toes were about an inch from his front right tire. So I said “HEY!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sorry about that!” he claimed as I crossed the street. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, but I crossed the fucking street as fast as I could just to get away from him.

I don’t know about other humanoids, but almost being hit by a car really revs up my adrenaline and makes me a bit nervy. And it happens from time to time because people are too stupid to walk in straight lines, let alone drive cars properly, and I have to cross streets often because I walk and jog everywhere. And I know there’s a lot to think about when you’re driving, but holy fuck, there’s a lot MORE to think about when you’re driving and trying to do something illegal just to save yourself some time, isn’t there?

So anyway. The dude was apologizing and I was walking away and THE SECOND I made it across the street around the front of his vehicle and my back was to him, he ceased his apologies and said “Now wipe that fucking look off your face.”

I guess the “fucking look” he was referring to is the look of someone who’s almost been hit by a van, and is understandably a little jangled. I guess I was supposed to giggle and smile and say “Oh, no problem!” and skip along my merry way. I guess I was supposed to be pleased that I wasn’t dead and just wink and smile like someone without a thought in their head.

So I turned around and yelled “LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU DRIVE ACROSS THE FUCKING STREET.”

Because I don’t think that’s too much to ask. He looked a little surprised. I can’t figure out if I would be happier person if I just smiled at stupid people and pretended that my guts weren’t boiling. I mean, normal people deal with this shit by being like “Ohhh it’s cool, thaaaanks” to the offending driver, then mutter “Wow, that guy was a douchebag” under their breath.

Normal people wouldn’t stand on a corner and yell back at him. Okay, okay, I get it.

Exhibit C.

A certain Starbucks on a certain corner in a certain neighborhood of this city is the most depressing place on the planet. That’s because I was in there this morning, and this loud woman in expensive jogging/yoga fusionwear was hollering her 4 espresso orders over my head from where she stood behind me in line. I had to say “What?” twice to understand what the guy at the register was saying to me, because this bitch was obviously on crack, and was going on and on about “the great synergy you guys have going on behind that counter! Look at that! Look how he takes my order and he makes it and he rings it up! What great synergy! Don’t you agreeeeeeeee about the synergyyyyyyy!?”

I mean, what the fuck.

But I guess that the real mistake is going into a Starbucks in that particular affluent neighborhood and expecting something other than a bunch of totally bored, pilled-out, rich-piece-of-shit gaywad housewives in workout wear jostling for the position of Most Memorable Visitor of the Day. Again, my fault.

*End of the Exhibition*

So there are three examples of my crotchety nature, which have all occurred in the span of the last three days. Here are three examples of why I will end up alone, living on a hilltop behind the motel, pulling the curtains tighter every day and filling the downstairs bathroom with used adult diapers until the floor rots out. It’s because nastiness and confrontation and sheer annoyance with the constant yap of other human beings in my path don’t make for cute anymore. Maybe it’s one thing to read about it, maybe people think it’s funny when I write a Facebook status update about how I yelled at my neighbor for borrowing my mixer and failing to wipe off the red food coloring before returning it 2 months later. But I think that’s where it ends, and lately I feel like people are sick of it. Or they’re just really polite, positive, happy people, who don’t necessarily want to be around someone who’s always like “I don’t like the way you order your coffee, WANNA FIGHT?!”

“I don’t like your dog, WANNA FIGHT?”

“You almost ran over me, WANNA FIGHT?”

So this counts of Day 1 of my new experiment, wherein I force myself to be goddamn fucking positive about every annoying thing that happens to me until I don’t notice annoying things anymore. At least, that is the outcome I hope for. I will try not to be so affected by society. I am going to relax and smile like a jackass when people almost run over me. I am going to stand there and coo while strange animals lick at my feet. I am going to block out the annoying sounds of other people in chain coffee shops. I will not let hipster cunts at house parties get under my skin. I am not even going to write about the hipster cunt at the house party over the weekend who got under my skin!!! See? I am already making progress!

Thus begins the Summer of My Ignorance.

I am officially not bothered by anything.

…..

sooooo…

what’s been going on with you?

4 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Tagged as bitchin, complaining, cupcakes, shopping, The Pants

June 16, 2010 · 1:07 pm

Fear and Writing in Lost Fakeness

So I’m back from the dead, and stuff. Maybe not dead exactly, but definitely done with grad school (as in “finished”) and now having daily panic attacks about finding a job, paying back the retarded amount of student loans I took out so I could buy stupid shit, finding an apartment I can afford without assurance of said job and with assurance of said loan bills, and basically keeping my life together so that everyone I know doesn’t start to label me as Clinical and also Totally Fucking Crazy and stop calling me. I mean, I spent all last weekend convinced that I was going to have a heart attack. Like honestly thinking, “Welp. Here it comes. It’s been real, World.”

Lucky for me, I’m well aware of my body’s ability to manufacture symptoms of cancer and heart disease every time my brain is in turmoil. I mean, if I get mad enough about my job or certain websites or anything else, I can pretty much make myself puke or make blood come out of my ears, because my superpower is psychosomatic illness.

But for now let’s talk about more of the things that make me puke the natural way.

Oh, and hi, Blog. I missed you!

Rich Cunt Documentary Hour

My new favorite show is called Rich Cunts Arguing. Ok, well, no, that’s not actually what it’s called. But they should call it that. I didn’t watch it for the longest time because the title has something to do with real housewives. My fundamentalist Christian aunt is a real housewife, and she bores me to death. So I think they really could increase their viewer and fan base if they just changed the name to describe the show a little better.

But anyway, what they do is they set up all of these foundations for Poor People. They all seem to have some kind of foundation. They all go to bat for some kind of Poor People Cause. Then they show up at each other’s Poor People Events wearing dresses that cost about four times what I pay in rent every month and argue and tell each other they can’t believe Rich Cunt X had the audacity to show up and raise this kind of hell at an event for Poor People! Then they say, “Can you believe her, Poor People?? What a total lack of class!”

How dare you make me call you a bitch, Bitch?!

The other episodes are these complicated webs of the five or six of them (you can never count how many of the Rich Cunts there actually are on the show) calling each other and asking to get together for quick talks. One of them says to the other “Look, I called you and asked you to come here because I want you to know that I don’t like you anymore and I don’t want to talk to you because you? You have problems. And everyone else thinks so.” Then they all have separate meetings and every 3rd episode is like an episode of Survivor, except with cocktails and pills and facial injections, and whoever they collectively vote off one week is invited back into the circle the next because they were all pretty fucked up when that argument started, aaaaanyway.

I watched several episodes of Rich Cunts Arguing last weekend, because when The Pants is out of town I tend to indulge in awful television. I treated myself to 3 episodes and a reunion special, where the Rich Cunts argue in one place for a whole hour without drinks in their hands. They watch video of themselves arguing with each other from the previous year’s show, then they argue about that some more. It usually ends with somebody saying they’re done, and then America votes (or at least, somebody claims that “America voted”) on one of them to get their own TV show. This year’s prize goes to the one with a jaw like a steam shovel, which constantly flaps in defense of her class level because of her whirlwind marriage and almost immediate announcement of a “surprise” pregnancy.

Even Rich Cunts gots Poor People problems, yo.

In other exciting TV news, there is a new show out as of yesterday which is all about cupcake baking. But not regular old from-the-box-mix cupcakes, those crazy as shit gourmet cupcakes that people put all kinds of crap in, like beer and rock salt and tortilla chips and mustard and shit.

This is goddamn amazing. Why didn't I think of a cupcake tank!?!

Some of these people know what the fuck they’re doing, and the other ones are just kitchen retards who happen to know how to pipe icing and stuff. They bring their families on there and scream at them and tell them what to do. Like this one bitch who made some kind of pineapple squash cupcake monstrosity, but she made it in the “Presentation” round, which is all about, yeah, presentation, ya turkey. She barked orders at her brother all the way through the challenge, and ended up failing in the end because all she did was pipe some real nice turquoise frosting on top and then stab a cocktail umbrella into it.

This is the real thing, Carol Sue! You wouldn’t bring a bucket of turds to a county fair pie contest would ya? Oh, you would? Well.

So then this other lil Barbie impersonator (and, apparently, fellow appreciator of Things That Are Dollhouse Sized), who ended up winning, had sugar sand, fondant starfish, and fucking edible pearls on top of hers. EDIBLE PEARLS. Like a sugary beach. A sugary, edible, heavenly beach.

Unfortunately, watching this show has reawakened my deep, dark desire for one of these.

Sigh. When’s MY turn, KitchenAid?!

Booger T. Kindle

The other day on the train, I watched a girl reading from a Kindle as she repeatedly dug in her nose for fat, slimy wads of snot, which she would look at for just a moment on the tip of her finger, then reach over and smear onto the wall next to her seat. I seemed to be the only person in the train car staring at her in complete horror. As I am a daily train rider, this disgusted and outraged me. “ExCUSE me,” I wanted to say. “Can you NOT do that??” Instead, I sat there staring, mouth-open, as she covered the wall with pale green smears of thick snot and boogers, then took to wiping subsequent chunks onto the front of the seat by the inside of her knees. All the while totally engrossed (hah) in her Kindle.

My brains were on fire, screaming SOMEONE ELSE IS GOING TO SIT THERE, and then, do you know what happened? Booger Kindle got up and marched off the train, and a very large, very tired looking woman got right on and sat down, and LEANED AGAINST THE BOOGER WALL. I almost puked into my purse. What do you bet if I’d done that, someone would have said, “Excuse me, can you not do that? Puke grosses me out.”

The whole time, I was IM’ing Agent Ventura on the Blackberry device. She remarked “at least she’s not eating it,” and I replied that I’d rather someone eat that shit than wipe it all the hell over the places I might end up sitting someday. Just put it right back where it came from, jerk.

Really it left me thinking about the rise in popularity of this Kindle business. I mean, here we have this electronic book readery-thingy. You load books in there with electronic magic and read from a skinny little rectangle that is supposedly lighter than a feather. The world has advanced technologically enough to threaten the total eradication of print media, here we are on the verge of the digital revolution, people will pay $260 for this machine, yet, for some reason, those same people who are buying into the future of electronic inventions are STILL PICKING THEIR NOSES AND WIPING THEIR FUCKING BOOGERS ON EVERYTHING.

What the fuck.

A list of completely unrelated things.

1. I’d like to know where the hell Cedric the Entertainer gets off calling himself “The Entertainer.” He should be calling himself Cedric Antonio Kyles. Because that’s that smiling fuckwit’s real name. And also because he’s never entertained me in my entire life. Oh and I bet he’s got some obnoxious story about how he got that nickname, too. Some kind of Tori Amos bullshit where someone told him he should be called that and he was just like “You know what? You’re right!” and now he doesn’t look like a self-assured dickwad for appointing himself “The Entertainer” all the time.

2. Sharpies are neat. So neat, in fact, that someone made one out of fondant and squished it onto a cupcake.

Unfortunately, they made all that other packing and shipping themed crap, too.

3. I might quit Netdix. I haven’t decided yet. It feels like a bigger decision than it actually is, though. They’re stressing me out by constantly sending me glossy pieces of mail and e-mail “alerts” (ALERT! MOVIES!) just to let me know that I can watch instantly on my computer or on the Wii any time I want. What’s depressing is that I say “OK, Netflix! Thanks!” and then I go look at the movies they’re gonna let me watch, and what do I see? Oh. Fried Green Tomatoes, which was on TV last week. And The Breakfast Club. And The Shawshank Redemption. But how many fucking times can you watch The Shawshank Redemption before you shawshank yourself in the face? It’s like they look up all the movies that are going to be on cable that week, plus they get a list of movies that most, if not all, Americans have on VHS somewhere in the basement, and they give you those, and they say “Look! For free!”

Oh, I forgot, they also offer to show me 1-and 2-star rated documentaries that have similar cover art to other documentaries I have watched at some point. If they recommend one more goddamn movie to me that involves a picture of french fries being manipulated in some stupid way, I’m going to quit. That should put an end to the problems they seem to have with deleting my ex’s movies off my account.

4. A Facebook friend commented on the status of one of his friends today, and for some reason, even though I am not friends with that person, Facebook feels the need to alert me of this activity. And here’s what the status message was:

$130,000,000,000,000. Say what you want about Bush but we weren’t this far in debt w/ him.

Which makes absolutely no sense. It’s not like the Obama administration did all of this. And this is the kind of shit I wondered about at the beginning of his presidency, which was at a time when we were headed down the fucking shitter anyway, no matter which way you sliced it. I had the sense at the time to know that Obama wasn’t going to make any miracles happen, what was more likely was that he’d get a bad rap no matter what he did, because this country is so far fucked anyway. No matter who took office, they’d be dealing with the mess of this war and all of the other shit Bush dipped out on. But, of course, so many people prefer to think of it as entirely Obama’s fault instead of carryover shit from Bush, now snowballing us into a Pit of Total Despair.

And lately, Obama is being kind of lame. Lame in the way that I’m glad gay men are standing up and screaming at him, calling him a liar when he waffles on repealing DADT. He needs to be yelled at and knocked about when he’s caught backing out of campaign promises. He needs to clean up the goddamn ocean, because it’s soooo fucked. And we need to keep him in line. All of us, not just half of us.

Or I guess you could just sit around and update your Facebook status with some bullshit fact taken out of context. Or you could start an angry Republican Christian conservative blog, wherein you claim to have read a lot of research yet fail to cite any of it.

But there’s got to be some kind of compromise here. And I think, and hope, it should and will be on the Republican Christian conservative side. I mean, what do you care if some fags get married? How does that bother you? Just keep going to your church and believing what you believe and doing what you’re doing. It’s a bigger inconvenience for them to live in your America than it is for you to live in a free America.

Are people really that stupid?

I guess they are.

DJ D-Bag on the ones and the twos.

DJ D-Bag up there is, I happen to know for a fact, an avid young Republican Christian conservative, who wrote this:

*I’m reposting this in it’s original context, but notice that it doesnt say you should speak up if you DON’T support gay rights, but rather simply ignore it. That’s the very reason this is posted to begin with, we ignore it. Nice try.* (inside the asterisks are my comments)
__________________________________________________
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“Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?”
– Ernest Gaines

*Mostly because two men holding hands manage to currupt the society in which they are in, far enough to the point of accepting them even against current religion and prior cultural prefferences of THAT society. They also drive the culture in question to the point of making inane and asinine comparisons like this one stated by Mr. Gaines. There is no logical comparison in it and there is absolutely no reason to even question the notion.*

I would like to know who really believes in gay rights on myspace. There is no bribe of a miracle or anything like that. If you truly believe in gay rights, then repost this and title the bulletin as “Gay Rights”. If you don’t believe in gay rights, then just ignore this. Thanks.

Be who you are *(who you want to be they mean)* and say what you feel *(based on who you want to be)*, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind *(then my notes don’t matter either)*.

FYI – National Coming Out Day is October 11, and October is GLBT History month. 😀

__________________________________________________
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*Please don’t lecture me on any half-minded notions involving “who you are”. You are who you want to be, just as you do what you want to do. Any argument based in-between is, merely, an excuse.*

Homosexuality is wrong.

Some of you might remember this back from the days of the great MySpace debate over this, which ended in me completely losing my mind and blocking this asshole, who, when I argued with him, sent me this:

lol Ok. I guess knowledge of proper ‘syntax and grammer’ usage makes up for the loosing of the bulletin message’s original context in an attempt to mire the intelligence of the writer by picking at the irrelevant? That’s usually the stereotypical way of defending eminent error.

Because that’s what you get when you point out to someone that their argument might be stronger and more compelling if they didn’t misspell every 4th word and come off sounding like your run-of-the-mill backwoods retard arguing against buttfucking: said backwoods retard misquotes you (I would NEVER spell “grammar” with an ‘e’! How dare you?!), then pulls out his thesaurus and gets to work letting you know you’re the stereotypical idiot, not him.

Anyway. I enjoy the irony of the “JUST LIVE” scrawled across his fingers. Just live…unless you’re gay, in which case you’re just choosing to live in a way that doesn’t align with my religious beliefs and you shouldn’t be allowed to because it creeps me out. Just live, if you’re like me, straight as the day is long with the douchey facial hair and the screen printed dress shirt to prove it. Just live the way I think you should.

I can’t wait to hear the fat beats you’re preparing for this month’s Rave for Him at the Holy Basement Teen Center. Mix on, Christian soldier.

Bullshitty Crap

The Bird Cage

So the guy with the unfortunate task of being on the office birthday celebration list opposite the program director accidentally slept in this morning. He arrived late to work empty-handed and sat dopily at his computer for half an hour before realizing why the buzzards were sloooowly slinking past his office door, giving him the eye. It finally dawned on him that they were going to spread mayonnaise packets from the break room condiment slush bucket all over his ass and eat him for breakfast if he didn’t do something, and quick. He ran out and bought four entire cases (CASES) of donuts from the bakery down the street, and two boxes of cupcakes. He spread them on a table in the library, assuming there would be no students or resource needs for the entire morning, I guess. The birds settled in and began picking at the boxes of sugary dough wads, laughing and yapping noisily as they joked about having seconds, hahaha, wouldn’t that be funny if I had a second? But I won’t, oh no, I won’t…wait, are you going to? I will if you will hahahahhahahahahaha. But really…

No sooner had the birds flapped away than the power turned off, and the wolves descended. Literally moments after my screen went dark, the shadows of the ten-ton bitches from Admissions darkened the doorway. Guess who wanted to sit in the library and talk about minivans and eat donuts? One of them even looked at me and said, “We’re looking for the food…is the food here? We heard it was here.” I pointed toward the darkened corner where the trays of donuts lay, a fatty dream: to eat a globule of shimmering fried dough in the dark. They sat and sat and talked and snacked and joked about seconds and ate seconds and thirds and the moment the lights came on, they were gone like those black pterodactyls in that space movie about how it’s not safe to be in the dark because your ass’ll get eaten by black pterodactyls.

The allure of the donuts was lost on me, they smelled weird and looked like they’d been sprayed with glue and raped by everyone in the entire building. So I picked up a chocolate cupcake with white frosting and crumbled up Oreos all over the top. I struggled to bite through the chalky outer surface of the cuprock only to discover that the inside cake wasn’t halfway worth the effort, it was just as dry and crumbly as if they’d put a turd in a toaster oven for thirty-five minutes. So basically what I had in my hands and all over my face was one of those horrible, poorly-baked pieces of shitty cake with a really fancy topper, made yesterday and left overnight in a bakery case and called a cupcake. For shame. I mean, does the coroner go around putting fancy hats on people who get splattered all over the road in traffic accidents? Well, maybe he does, I don’t know, but he shouldn’t, because they’re still dead and splattered and nobody should have to look at them.

Well what if the poop looks like a cupcake, hmmmm?

I hate *everything* lately.

….everything.

But that doesn’t mean that the things I hate haven’t been worth hating.

For instance, I do realize that I’m hard to get along with. I totally understand that I’m not the easiest person to be around. For real. That’s because I am very open about it when I don’t want to be a person that people be around. And I’m hard to get along with because I hate crap, and I see no reason why I should keep my mouth shut and sit around and withstand bullshitty crap because that’s the friendly thing to do. Well, who said I wanted to be friendly? You suck. Go away from me. Let’s not be friends.

It’s just the worst when you’re around someone who cannot stop using your attention as their sounding board for who they think they are. Someone who not only talks about themselves constantly, but who obviously spends hours every day reading celebrity gossip news, announcements of new works of fiction, film, and theater, every article on Wikipedia, and also has their ear to the ground on whatever it is that you’re interested in, and not only knows more than you do, but can’t wait to tell you just how much more. And why it’s stupid that you’re into it.

I hate being interrupted. I hate being one-upped and talked over and eye-rolled because I like something or don’t like something else. It got to the point recently where I just have to go completely blank: I refuse not only to look this person in the eye, but also to state anything that could be relatively construed as anything resembling an opinion. I tried not to make it sound like I knew anything at all about anything ever, because if I did, well oh boy, I’d be stuck in a corner with this asshole barfing everything he knew all over my face. And it’s not as if I’d be stupid enough to come out swinging and challenge someone like this on anything they think. It’s the simple act of breathing that sometimes sets it off.

Ick. And it’s totally the type of person who listens solely to a very streamlined and specific group of musical artists, and knows eeeeeeverythiiiing about those artists, and carries around their fucking CDs, for chrissakes. Who carries CDs? The last time I saw someone carrying CDs, it was this forlorn, overweight, Nirvana-identified pre-Goth kid in high school who was desperate for everyone to know he’d just purchased that gaywad mini box set that the Smashing Pumpkins released with their singles in it. He carried that goddamn thing like a purse. Now I have to put up with this son of a bitch who actually knows SO MUCH about MP3 players that he has decided they’re a useless technology and is going to stick with compact discs.

Really, I’d like to make a game out of it. I’d like to sit this person down with a panel of people who know what’s up. You get points for getting him to talk about certain things. Not like that’s hard, but it gets interesting when you get to the point in the argument (for every conversation with him becomes an argument) when he starts citing fake sources to support whatever claim he’s making (opposite of yours). And holy mother of Christ, whoever wants to challenge him to a battle of early 90s music knowledge wins the fucking trophy. Game over. Now just try and shut him up.

I’ve always wanted to ask a certain five people I know if they realize just how much of a character they are. I mean, you know that all of the characters from The Office are based on real people, right? How does that make you feel, you shitbag? You do realize that you are that annoying, yeah?

The bottom line is that some people are all around users: they’ll use your tab for some drinks, your coat pocket for some cigarettes, your car for rides, and worst of all, your ear and feigned attention for their sense of self. And what’s worse is when they do all of the above and you’re expected to suck their dick for it, and if you decline, well, you’re the asshole.

So maybe I don’t hate everything. Maybe I’m fucking exhausted and I need a sabbatical from people and how fucking…overwhelmingly…constant they are.

Maybe if I turn off my phone and pull the covers over my head for the rest of the day and night, I’ll be able to bite the inside of my cheek enough to hold onto a fake smile for fifteen seconds the next time I’m being told why my favorite author isn’t that great, actually.

Things That Are Currently Making Me Want To Have My Head Smashed Like a Berry Between Two Massive, Sharp Rocks

Volume 1

I went to undergrad with her and endured her listless slumping about in the hallways, her outdated, comical green chunks of hair, ironic nose ring, and overall punk rock prom queen attitude, and now I have to look at her books on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and read her horrible blog.

When one of our classmates died, she waited for his birthday to come around to post this on his MySpace:

Happy birthday. I got the advance copies of my book yesterday and would have loved to give you one as a birthday present. You really didn’t have enough birthdays. I’ll have a drink in your honor tonight. Miss you much.

Well.

How…thoughtful. “You’re dead. Let’s talk about me, though.”

Commence the smashing, please.

Mail Room Gang Rape – A Christmas Story

Jesus Hearts Shrimp Salad

What’s totally fucking gay about the holidays is that everyone at work gets this stupid fucking friendliness disease. It makes them all want to spend a lot of time together. So much time, in fact, that the ladies in this office have organized a Crochet Circle and a weekly meeting to recap all the events of So You Think You Can Dance. And that’s not enough, we also have to have constant fucking holiday parties. It’s inappropriate to NOT go. It’s inappropriate to sit here in the office while everyone else is AT the party, and it’s also inappropriate to go home early while everyone else is getting drunk in a big awkward crowd.

So I stopped working at midday on Friday and went over to the conference center and ate weird butterscotch pudding stuff with white chocolate sticks stabbing it. The whole room smelled like fish because most people cannot help but equate luxurious food with crabby lobstery shrimpy things. So there was crab or lobster or shrimp in goddamn everything, from the “gourmet” macaroni and cheese to the “gourmet” papaya dip. Apparently, to make something gourmet, all you gotta do is make it smell like a stank old pussy.

Anyway, there was a giant gingerbread house and a penguin made out of wasabi. There were also quite a few unhappy looking catering employees. There was also a splattery puddle of broken glass and seafood macaroni on the floor by the door. There were also several employees from the mail room, and you can imagine what happens when mail room employees have access to an open bar. “Wassup shawty how you been doin? I been lookin atchu fo like two munfs, giiiirl. When you gonna lemme holla atchu?”

Ugh. So I snuck out early because if I’m going to take time away from work, I think it should be spent with the people I WANT to spend it with. Or with the television shows I want to spend it with. Not with a room full of awkward IT department freaks and gang rape mail room dickheads.

You know what else is totally fucking gay about the holidays? I would sort of like to know why I got a crappy picture frame and my coworker got $300 in American Express gift cards. I mean, it’s totally not the holiday spirit for me to be asking that question, but fucking A, even Christ himself would be like, “What the hell? A picture frame? A picture frame. Awesome. Thanks, but it would be nice if I could pay my goddamn heat bill.”

The gayness here is that now I have to buy my boss something, and it will probably be of the same value as the picture frame. So I’m actually losing on this deal because I just bought myself a picture frame I didn’t want, if you think about it. Yet, my coworker is skipping through the office, $300 richer than she was last weekend. And yeah, maybe we shouldn’t have opened our Christmas presents at the same time, because they are so obviously different (mine being in the minority here). But still, holy shit. One thing that’s gay about Christmas is that people do all kinds of dumb stuff that’s not only offensive but also probably a little bit unethical.

I am reminded of the time in second grade when I brought a Hello Kitty stationery set for the mandatory gift exchange, and what did I get in return? A dollar store Barbie knock off with a rat turd in the box, courtesy of the girl who ate her own hair and was obsessed with pulling everyone’s pants down.

Can we just not do the gift and card thing next year, you bunch of shit eating motherfuckers? I could care less what you do with your free time, we only work together. And someone will inevitably get a torn-up coupon for a Lean Cuisine with a half-assed holiday message scrawled on the back, while someone else gets a solid gold replica of God’s own gleaming cock. So save me the fucking Christmas spirit dick shit and give yourself the ass-crappy pair of socks you so carefully selected for me at Walgreens because you pulled my name out of a fucking basket.

What’s kind of funny, though, is that I wasn’t aware that when newspaper delivery people give you a card, which is both in an envelope and contains an envelope, you’re expected to put a tip in the second envelope and leave it for the paper guy, like OH! Surprise! Here’s the tip you didn’t know we were going to give you in the envelope you gave us to put it in! It’s dumb as hell, this tradition, this straight-up asking for a handout because it’s the hollllllidayyyyys crap. So the guy who delivers the papers to the library (of which there are like 6 every day) left us not one, but SIX ENVELOPES. No doubt in the hopes that he would be getting six tips. What the fuck is that? I thought it was kind of hilarious that his last name was Ortega, which immediately made me think of Ortega chips and salsa. I thought about writing him a nice note that said, “Dear Mr. Ortega: Thanks for the awesome chips and salsa products.”

Poop.

The mouse problem is really starting to piss me off.

Apparently, the little green poison balls that the exterminator left all over the apartment are actually candy for mice. Because now there’s little gnawed-down nubs of green poison everywhere, and then there’s little mounds of green poop, and there’s just as many mice as ever. When I came home on Friday, bearing my crappy picture frame and an even crappier attitude, I was greeted by a tiny mouse who had accidentally attached his stupid little fucking face to a glue trap in my bedroom. So, yeah, I had to get a trash bag, pick it up, endure its screaming and struggling as I did so, and throw it in the dumpster to die a slow death. It was awful. Why won’t they just go the fuck away?

Ugh. Unfortunately, this week will be spent pulling out and going through every pile of sweaters, every bit of storage stuffed into closets and under beds, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, without the reassurance that this will be the only time I’ll have to do it. Oh, no. The mice will just love a clean apartment to shit all over again.

Not the best way to spend the first week after a fall semester ends.

So, yeah. The fall semester has ended. I was up late Sunday night at the kitchen table, screaming and crying and pulling out my hair because Microsoft Word “encountered an unknown error and closed unexpectedly,” and would I “like to report this error?” I’ll tell you what I’d like to fucking report.

So what’s funny is that the paper was about personal digital curation, i.e. the steps individuals should take to both avoid losing important digital records and to preserve them for future use. Kind of funny that Word should shut down, refuse to re-open anything but an early, 2-page draft of what had become a 22 page document replete with bibliography. So I slung myself around the kitchen, screaming NOOOOO NONONONOOOOOOOOOO!!! PLEEEEASE! with only an hour until the paper was due. Then I relaxed and accessed everything I’ve learned about digital document management, and used that knowledge to successfully restore all 22 pages of the paper, and turn it in on time.

THAT deserves an A, nevermind the paper. Yeesh.

SUPER HAPPY OK YEAH FUN DAY FROSTING PARTY YESSSSSSSS

On a more positive note, do you know what day it is? Do you!? It’s December 15th, and apparently, that means it’s National Cupcake Dayyyyy!!! Woowoo!

I don’t currently have a cupcake in my hand. I don’t currently have one in my life, and I don’t foresee one stopping by at any time in the near future. I’d really like one. It’s a national holiday, dammit! But I’m broke as hell, so I think I’d better just look at some pictures of cuppycakes.

Have a look at these shits:

How about some coconut?

These totally look like a white lady's titties.

These are some ass-nasty looking turkey dinner cupcakes that came straight out of Paula Deen's butt. I would totally eat them.

That link up top will hook you up with the Huffington Post article on this most amazing and happy day. I strongly suggest you peruse their cupcake pictures. They got some cupcakes on there that I’d fuck for sure.

No, really. I would fuck them.

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Tagged as complaining, cupcakes, work

November 13, 2009 · 1:29 pm

Hold me closer, tiny diner.

Today’s bloggerating was interrupted not once, but twice by one of the library’s most famous patrons, last year’s Asian Idol.

I mention her again not only because she happens to be annoying the shit out of me at present by asking me dumb questions with a whiny slant because she’s doing her project at the last minute which means that it’s my responsibility to take her hand and walk her through every step of her research. No, it’s not just that. I mention her again because I think her life is kind of amazingly tragic. One minute she’s an Asian superstar, the next she’s in a shitty suburb in the U.S. and she’s changed her name to Cecilia.

That’s like being forced to move from Emerald City to Craplakistan and change your name to Dong.

I guess I’d act like a dumb bitch, too, if that happened to me. Shooooot.

Oh well. On with the bloggerating:

I am now a proud collector of miniatures, which I prefer to call “tiny things” because “miniatures” suggests that I subscribe to The American Miniaturist which I DO NOT and anyway when I did it was an accident which they fixed and then accidentally kept sending me the magazine, as magazine companies usually do because they’re stupid and anyway I’d like to see what kind of magazines come to YOUR house so shutup.

So, yeah.

I bought these the other day:

MS_07 MS_05 MS_04

They’re called PuchiPetites. They are very tiny, handmade, Barbie-sized foods for you to fuck around with when you’re bored with normal sized foods. Every tiny jar opens, every lid comes off, every tiny little piece is movable and comes complete with a teensy label with poorly translated Japanese all over it. The Sn0-Cone says “Cold: it is a time.”

I am not going to tell you where I got these, because then you will be unable to resist going and buying a bunch of them, and you’ll have them, and I won’t, and why the hell would I give you something for me to be jealous about? That would be dumb.

I will tell you, however, that the nice lady who sells these saw them at a Barbie exposition, as they are imported by Barbie fanatics all the way from Japan to play special roles in Barbie dioramas. (She notes on her site that a diorama without any PuchiPetite in it has absolutely zero chance of winning a contest at a Midwestern Barbie expo these days…FYI. They are just too perfect.)

I’ve got my eye on the Birthday Set, and of course, the Cupcake Set.

OMG.

I’m really not sure why I paid money for these. But judging on the variety of exactly what is available for purchase from the PuchiPetite people, I predict that I will be in serious stone-cold debt by 2010. Just look at this shit:

I don't know what the fuck is going on here but I like it.

Why does this get me so excited? And by “this” I don’t mean all the colors and crazy writing up top. I mean MINI STUFF. I mean STUFF THAT IS TINY. Why do I love it so much? Why do I get more enjoyment out of a candy apple I have to pick up with my fingernails than I get out of the real thing?

My sister and I had a dollhouse when we were kids. My grandma was all into dollhouses–like seriously, she spent hours in her garage in the winter carefully attaching tiny stones to the chimney with hot glue, layering tiles onto the roof, slicing tiny bits of thin carpet to fit the little dolly rooms of her two 3 story doll mansions. Then she’d dig through craft stores for tiny spoons and forks and matching plate sets, paintings for the walls, little chairs, sheets for the dolly beds. The dolls themselves were nothing to write home about. They were pretty much just a bendy wire frame with little plastic hands and feet at four of the five ends, and an empty plastic head at the top. Their central wire was wrapped with nylon strips so when you took off their old-timey clothes they looked like mummies. I used to hijack all of their Victorian dress and pile them all in the teensy bathroom together, nekkid as jaybirds. “Why did someone do this to us!” they would scream. “Our dignity is destroyed! We are all NAKED!” Eventually one of them would have to use the tiny toilet, because there was no sign of rescue, and the rest of them would politely face the wall.

So based on the fact that my grandma’s appreciation for dolly-sized things was pretty serious, you would think that the dollhouse, and its components, she bought for myself and my sister would be equally serious. You would think. NOT SO. We got the crappiest little duplex you could imagine. The stairs were plastic, for chrissakes. The picket fence was painted onto the outside of the cardboard wall. And I don’t recall exactly but I bet the place came with dollhouse-sized rats and a dollhouse-sized group of Latin Kings down the street. And the dollhouse dumpsters were right by the kitchen window, filled with dolly sized syringes. It was a bad place, and they gave us so little crappy ass furniture to go with it that we were reduced to using the plastic lid spacer thing they used to put in the middle of Pizza Hut pizzas as a kitchen table. Our doll family had to share a bed. All four of them, one bed. Yeah, they were a pretty skanky family.

Am I obsessed with tiny things because I am a girl? Or because I’m making up for the tiny tragedy I faced as a child with a sub-par dollyhouse?

(And what are you supposed to DO with tiny stuff, anyway? Know what I did with my first three official sets of PuchiPetites Mini Sweets? I tore into the boxes with my teeth and carefully set up all of my mini food sets on my desk, where I should be doing work. Then I just, you know…looked at ’em. I can’t think of a whole lot else to do with them.)

So when I was ten, American Girl decided to cash in on the fetish for tiny-ness shared by most girls in the 8-12 range. They busted out the Illuma Room, which was basically a white box with magnetic walls, a drawer underneath, and an electrical cord so you could plug the whole thing in. Not only did it light up, but the things you put in it would make sounds and do all manner of other amazing stuff. The idea was that you bought the light box and the drawer for like $100, then you bought one of the themed sets and went apeshit with the details:

3849788431_2797e6971b

3849801497_87afc19f51

So yeah. As a pre-teen I salivated over the diner, the horse stable, the New York loft apartment, and the Purple Room. I couldn’t have them at the time because an entire set would run your momma about $200. And I can’t have them now because an entire set (all played with and missing pieces and scratched up and only half-working) will now cost you around $500.

Except for this bitch, who had amazing luck and got the whole diner set for $1.50 at a Goodwill. Fuck that whore. I hope she gets twat rabies and leaves me the tiny diner in her will.

I hope someone out there shares my mania over tiny things that look like real things. I hope that someone isn’t a total weirdo. Then I will have hope for my future.

But either way I am still buying this and this so mehh.

Hell on wheels.

Last night I dreamed that I was at the Skate Palace in Muddy, Illinois. It’s this warehouse with a smooth floor and a snack counter and a skate rental service and a dark hall full of benches covered with cum-soaked carpet where you change into your fungus-filled rented skates. It’s a real place where I spent many hours on the sidelines as a kid, nursing skating injuries on my face, hands, and knees. Anyway, in my dream, I had gotten there just in time for Skate Limbo, but the original limbo song was replaced with a My Chemical Romance cover. Then I lined up all of my friends, but denied them the pleasure of going through the limbo line and instead lectured that they should appreciate me more. I have never wanted out of a dream more in my entire life.

Sparklepants

I was a cupcake for Halloween and it involved pink glitter tulle. I don’t know if you know as much as I do about tulle, but it’s hard for a tulle to hold a glitter. So I am still finding pink glitter everywhere. Yes, even there.

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