Tag Archives: work

God, butt sex, weight lifting, cooking.

My apartment is such a shit hole right now…half of it is in boxes and the other half is a bunch of crap I MAY or MAY NOT want that is on top of boxes.  I was packing stuff I might need in the next week, thinking ohh I’ll remember which box that is in, but now everything is in boxes and there are not windows in the boxes and I don’t know where my underpants are!

That said, I am sitting here at 6pm with the biggest cup of coffee in the universe, waiting for it and the three extra-strength Excedrin to kick in and demolish the headache that is blinding me, and has been blinding me since I woke up this morning.  I had been doing this thing where I really really tried very hard to stop drinking so much coffee, swapping it again for strong green tea.  But it doesn’t work.  I get a stabbing headache that is followed by a horrible, morose mood.  I go out in public and hate everyone.  I went to Target today to pick up the aforementioned Excedrin, and I thought it would be a good idea to stop in at the Target Starbucks and get a gigantic espresso thing.  Well, guess what?  Those motherfuckers broke their espresso machine and couldn’t make any coffee drinks.  I almost threw myself to the floor and rolled around kicking and screaming.  So I ran over to the painkiller aisle and wouldn’t you know it, there were so many people blocking it with their carts that I actually, seriously, honestly considered yelling at the top of my lungs IF YOU FUCKING PEOPLE DON’T MOVE YOUR ASSES OUT OF MY WAY I AM GOING TO KILL ONE OF YOU.  LIKE SERIOUSLY.  Instead, I just stood there and waited, my face all red, breathing really hard and pulling at the neck of my hoodie.  It felt really tight.

Quitting coffee does not work.  It does not.  And the moral of this story is that Agent Ventura really wants a blog to read when she wakes up in the morning and even though I feel like someone is filling my skull with broken glass, I would hate to disappoint her.  Even so, this mood is nasty and evil and the Excedrin is not going fast enough so I HATE YOU.  Not really, but come on.  I got a text message blow off last weekend, spent the week in Southern Illinois, tried to quit drinking coffee, tried to pack for a move, and you wanna know why I haven’t written a blog?  BECAUSE I AM IN A STATE OF DESPAIR.

Not really.  I mean, packing is gay, but it’s almost done.  I have coffee now.  My sister reminded me that I didn’t like the guy that much and was only pissed off that he didn’t like me either.  Oh, and I got the best picture ever in Harrisburg, Illinois:


Fried bologna!!!

My mom makes her coffee with a French press.  I don’t know if you know about this but it’s very exotic.  You boil the water in a fancy teapot, then you grind the coffee beans in a fancy grinder.  You dump them into this glass pitcher, pour in the water, and stir.  Exactly (EXACTLY, YOU STUPID) four minutes later, you put the lid on the pitcher and push the middle down, which makes a strainer thingy squish through the coffee bean/water mixture.  In all, it takes about four hours.

There is no measuring system to speak of.  There is also no milk or sugar in my mom’s house, as she suffers from healthfoodrexia.  I could only find plain organic soymilk, which I mixed into my fancy unmeasured ratio of coffee and water.  Holy fucking shitballs it was terrible.  And it made me so crazy I thought I was going to die for about twenty minutes after I drank it.  Unfortunately, Mommy was at work and could not help her adult daughter make coffee.  I thought about calling her to have her direct me around the kitchen, but I figured she might get mad at me if she was busy explaining to a student that yes, you CAN take a library book home with you, that is what a library is for.  It’s totally weird when you realize that you don’t know where the spoons are in the house where you grew up.

I’m going to go ahead and admit that while I was at home, I ate McDonald’s, Hardees, Taco Bell, Sonic, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Denny’s.  I’m also going to go ahead and admit that three of them were in the same day.  Whatever, shutup!  I don’t care what you think!

Actually, I feel kind of disgusting.  I had three giant bottles of water today and I still feel like there are cheeseburger-shaped amoebas in my veins.

what is this?

Does anyone know what the hell kind of frosting this is?  I want to know.  It goes on cupcakes and it’s flat.  It’s so you can make cute designs on the cupcake.  I guess, anyway.

This is so shitfucking cute.

This is so shitfucking cute.

Also, who the fuck spends their time making cupcake batter, pouring it into cupcake pans, finding tiny stuffed animals, and arranging them with the batter so that it looks like it’s the stuffed animal that’s happily making the cupcakes?  I want to know because I would like to meet them, and maybe talk to them, and fine, okay, yeah, I want to fuck them.  You happy?

WHO is responsible for this??

WHO is responsible for this??

Okay, a boy in Australia took this next picture for me.  Not to mention the fact that there is an entire week dedicated to cupcakes somewhere in the world, I was unbelievably touched that aforementioned boy saw this sign and thought of me.  In one half of my brain, I am packing all of my stuff because I am moving to Australia to be his lover forever and ever because he is the most awesome guy I have ever NOT met and fallen in love with anyway.

Let's kiss.  NOW.

Let's kiss. NOW.

match dot bomb

Okay, so fine, yeah, I am now back in the online dating scene.  And not for any other reason but that I WANT TO GO ON A GODDAMN DATE.  Especially if it’s with someone I don’t know, who doesn’t know me, whose friends do not know me and think I’m a big ole bitch.  But you know, this means that I am now receiving emails from guys whose interests are “God, butt sex, weight lifting, cooking.”  In that order.

Today is my first day back on the online date pony, and already I’ve gotten an email about how I must be “a pretty sexy librarian” and been approached by a guy who just wanted to let me know that he is “an adventurous lover, wink wink.”  Do you fucking have something in your eye?  And what do you mean, “adventurous lover?”  You wanna do it in the Everglades or something?  Because nothing’s shocking anymore, boyo.  Not after the last six months of my dating life.

Anyway, I totally expect to meet a whole lot of the same pigfaced pussytwats I met the first time around, this time last year, but this time I’ve decided to be nicer to the boys who laugh at my jokes and buy me Sharpies and bring me candy on our first date.

And I will say that at least this website has a gigantic crop of those rugged, corn-fed, Midwestern boys I like to look at.  Woowee!

planes, trains, fuck you

So last night I began my journey back to the city from the Southern part of the state.  This meant that I had to catch an Amtrak train in Carbondale, Illinois.  Due to a car mix-up, I ended up finally securing a ride to the train station a mere eleven minutes before the train was supposed to leave the station.  So naturally, faced with the idea of being forced to spend another night in Southern Illinois and another $50 on another ticket, I freaked out and basically stopped breathing.  Luckily, they held the train for me when they saw me tearing across the parking lot, waving my reservation information in the air like a battle standard, almost crying (ALMOST) because I was sure they were just going to high tail it out of the station without me.  But they held the train, and everyone on it gave me shitty looks when I finally collapsed into a seat so I could put my head between my knees and breathe.

All eyes ceased to be on me when we hit Centralia, Illinois, and the train was immediately filled with the prisoners who had just been released from the Centralia Correctional Facility.  So everyone was paying a little more attention to their personal belongings than they had been before.  Look, if that’s offensive, I don’t care.  Because when a bunch of loud-ass motherfuckers in correctional facility uniforms, with tooth brushes and underwear in plastic bags, yelling about all the week they’re going to smoke when they get home get on your train, we’ll talk about it some more.  They wouldn’t leave anyone alone, as they weren’t allowed to purchase alcohol on the train, so they were hitting up anyone and everyone to buy it for them.  They were also very interested in using people’s cell phones, and I turned down four of them who had to make “real important phone calls.”  The guy who sat in front of me had those retardedly long and pointy and gross fingernails and set about befriending the two kids sitting across from us, who were traveling alone.  The kids went to the dining car, and the next thing you know, the little boy couldn’t find his cell phone.  “Oh, lemme help y’all look,” the ex-prisoner said, and proceeded to go through all of their things with them.  “At least my Nintendo DS is still here!” the little boy said.

“You know what you should always do,” says Ex-Prisoner, “is lock your phone so people can’t use it.”

“Oh, I do!” said the boy.  “I lock it all the time!”

“Oh, really?” says Ex-Prisoner.  “You got like, a code on it?”

“Yep!” says the boy, pleased as punch that he’s taken the necessary precautions.

“Oh, that’s good.  What is it?” asks Ex-Prisoner.

The boy smiles hugely, proudly, and says, “It’s the last four digits of my phone number.”

“Oh, that’s good, that’s real good,” says Ex-Prisoner.  “You should probably give me your phone number so I could call you if I find your phone.”

So they look through their stuff again and again.  They tear the train apart looking for the phone.  Finally, they decide to check the bathrooms.  Ex-Prisoner offers to watch their stuff for them while they look.  At that point, I was just like hey, kids, seriously…come on.  But they walked away, and when they came back, I heard the boy say, “Wait…wait! Where’s my Nintendo?!”

And the whole process started over again.

We finally landed in the White City, over half an hour late.  I finally caught a Blue Line, which sat in the station for ten minutes before chugging forward one stop, where it sat for another ten, after which an announcement was made that this particular train would not be going any further, and that a shuttle bus would be provided…a shuttle bus which was, of course, outside in the rain, and connected only to the Blue Line a few stops away.  After which I would have to walk home.  In the rain.

So I transferred to the Red Line and immediately found myself in the midst of six sorority girls on an outing, who were arguing over, and I shit you not, the fucking lyrics to Single Ladies.  You can imagine how I felt about that.  And, of course, the one who was their fucking tour guide was telling them all the great bars, and proceeded to list all the douchebaggiest places imaginable.

Look, there’s nothing wrong with having stupid conversations.  I’m sure that some of the things I talk about when I’m a little drunk and a bit too loud and stupid are annoying to those around me.  But I was wet and tired and rattled and sick of fucking train delays and I wanted to go home really really bad.  So I pretty much wanted to kill all of those girls.

Also, I was not prepared for it to be sixty degrees and pouring rain in the city.  So I was wearing a tank top and shorts.  And I ended up standing on a corner at midnight, weighed down by all of my shit, freezing my ass off, and THAT is why I kind of maybe possibly snapped at the guy in the swirly velour-covered gigantic Dr. Seussian top hat and sunglasses who leaned into my face and said, “Well at this time ‘o night ya can’t tell if people are starting their night or ending it!  Hyuk hyuk hyuk!”

I was nice about it.  I mean, I don’t understand why the freaks come crawling out of the fucking sewers in their Halloween costumes at 10:30 every night in the city.  I’ll never understand it.  And it’s a bit of culture shock every time I come back from a visit at home, in rural nowhere, where the only sound is the neighbor’s dog and a million jazillion crickets, to be greeted by some weird lonely motherfucker in an outfit purchased at a Six Flags gift shop.

I think I said “SHUT. UP.” and left it at that.  Because that’s when I decided to splurge and got into a cab, because the other freak at the bus stop was whining about how it was Obama’s fault that the bus was late.

bye bye, stinky!

Well, you may or may not know this, but last Friday was my last day in retail EVER.  I am so excited to start my librarian job on Monday that I am peeing a little bit.  I am peeing in my non-uniform pants.

I won’t miss any of the shit that came with that job.  What I will miss are the co-workers, the partners in crime, and, sometimes, inebriation.  One of my favorites, Agent It Won’t Suck Itself, put together a video that was pretty much the most awesome thing ever.  It’s unexplainable.  It’s amazing.  If you want to see it, you should add me on Facebook.  Because, of course, it’s got my name in it, which I’d rather not disclose on this here bloggy blog, because that’s what got me into trouble with the last bloggy blog.

Anyway, the video was very touching, and it made me happy and sad. Plus it had Hitler in it (of course).

So, Miss Agent Ventura, I hope this blog has filled your blog hole for the time being.  I hope you know that I start school AND my new job on Monday, that I move a week from Monday, and that I will probably go for a couple of days in there without internet access, so this blog may have to hold you over for a bit.

But I’m sure I’ll come up eventually with some sort of schedule for my complaints and bitchery, which I will be sure to puke all over this blog whenever I get a chance.

Also, please punch me in the face if I ever mention cutting back on coffee ever again.  This stuff is great!  YEAH!


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This vanilla chai tea tastes like hot pee.

Like hot alcoholic dad pee.

And I’m sorry I’m drinking it.

This is my next to last night at Job 2, and so far, the following has happened:

-A door-slamming man slammed the front door, waved his hand in my face when I tried to tell him which room his class was in, walked into the wrong room, slammed door, walked out, slammed door, walked into right room, slammed door.

-A member complained about not getting his member gift after watching me show another member her gift options, and when I said “Okay, well then which gift would you like?” he pulled his glasses to the end of his nose and stared down at me through them, then responded, “Well WHAT ARE MY OPTIONSSSS??”

-A co-worker copied the wrong page for an instructor, and I had to figure out how to make GoogleDocs recognize an image as a document and print it.  It was not easy and it was also kind of dumb.

-A woman reported a terrorist attack because someone left a cart with some boxes on it by the front door.  “And there’s NO ONE around!”  I promised to get “Maintenance” on it right away.  In my mind, Maintenance is this bald guy in a blue jumpsuit with an eye patch who just waits in this closet down the hall that says “Utility Sink” on the door until I call him on a special phone.  Which I have no intention of doing.  (Because he is not real…did you get that part?)

I gave my notice at Job 1 this morning.  My boss looked genuinely shocked for just a moment, then quickly masked her feelings with falsity, as she is apt to do, and her mouth just hung open in mock surprise for an uncomfortable amount of time.  So I said, “Sooo…” to jerk her back to reality.  She pushed hard for me to tell her exactly where I’m going and what I’m doing.  I gave her a really rehearsed answer which told her nothing at all, which pissed her off.  She told Veggie Tales the Dickless Wonder that I had just resigned, and he immediately began digging for information on where I was going.  I gave him the same story, and he continued to prod me.  “So, is it like, a lateral move, or what?”

So, do you know like, how inappropriate and unprofessional you are, or what?

I’m not trying to be a bitch, I just don’t want them to know because I know they’d immediately want to tell me exactly what they think of it.  And I don’t want to hear it anymore.

I’m at the point in the job-leaving phase when I feel like I deserve to say “No” and “I’m not going to do that.”  Fire me, you dick shit.  Fire me and go fuck yourself.  So basically this is the part in the job leaving where I burn the bridge, just to be sure that I can never go back.  So the snarky side is showing a little bit more at work.  Which is always fun for my co-workers.

I have a really bad habit of looking up and to the left when people ask me a question and I’m trying to answer it.  It keeps me from getting my thoughts all tangled.  I’ve been warned that it’s a bad thing to do, by the folks at Job 1, mainly, who are all about improving communication by pointing out what’s wrong with yours and “coaching” you on stopping it.

The problem is, I don’t know how many times I’ve sat down for a conversation on my performance or my development, and I’ve used the wrong word (“but” instead of “however,” because “but” is “more negative sounding”) or broken eye contact for a moment (makes the other person feel like you’re not being honest), and I have been stopped, mid-sentence, INTERRUPTED, only to be told exactly what is wrong with my communication skills.  A ten minute diatribe about the use of the wrong word or the wiggling of a foot or a facial expression ensues, and at the end of it you are supposed to remember what the fuck you were talking about.

How about I tell you what’s wrong with your listening skills?

It’s called a Sexy Mooch

Is it inappropriate to call someone and ask them if you can come over and make out with them and then watch their TV?  Because I would really like to.  He could even stick around for the TV watching if he wanted.  That would be kind of nice.  Because it’s cable.

(It might be inappropriate because I told him a lot of dead baby jokes in the middle of a Panera and he might not call me anymore.  MIGHT not.)

TV Ride

There’s this one channel on my freak television that is kind of like a TV guide.  It’s actually called TV Guide Network, and it’s actually on two channels, 4 and 5, but 4 is a little fuzzy.  Anyway, TV Guide Network gets its jollies from showing really old reality shows and then placing a hot model on a runway somewhere and having her talk about “ooooh what’s going to happen on Big Brother Season II?  Stay tuuuned!!!”  Lately they’ve been showing nonstop episodes of Punk’d.  Remember that show?  It’s basically where Ashton Kutcher would leap around and poop in his pants and talk to a camera in some backstage area while a nearby celebrity would be stepping into a practical joke set up by Ashton and about 12,000 other individuals who should probably have spent their time in some other way.  The practical joke usually involves the celebrity messing up in a way that will really be a PR nightmare, or indirectly messing up in some way that will cost a lot of money.  It’s funny, though, that every time a celebrity is accused of doing something really crappy, they first deny it, then try to blame their assistant, then try to buy their way out of the mess.  Or if they’re Ashley fucking Simpson, they beg their friends to say they did it. 

So I’ve been catching glimpses of these episodes of Punk’d, and I’ve begun to wonder what one has to do to actually get punked.  Do these celebrities know each other in some circle outside of going to the same awards shows and buying drugs from the same guy?  Do celebrities hang out with each other?  If they do, I’m going to puke right now.  I guess I just wonder, while watching these shows, who the hell would ever want to play a practical joke on Hayden Panettiere?  The girl has the personality of an empty trash bag.  Why don’t they just spend less money, go to her house, and ask her to do her “disbelief” look.  She’d do it, I bet.  Just shine a big light on her and holler “DISBELIEF.  ACTION.”  Done.

But I guess they’ll take any excuse to put her on TV because everybody watching the TV pretty much wants to ride her face.

I have been told that in Ye Olde Ancient Roman times, a “punk” was a young boy who served an older man, both as an apprentice on all things manly, a house servant, and a cum dumpster.  To be on the level of “punk” meant that you were being auditioned for upscale, polite society, and if you were a good punk to your master, you would one day have a punk of your own.

In that sense, to be “punked” was to be owned and screwed by an older man.  Basically you were in a very low position of servitude, the lowest, just above slavery.

I’d like to watch someone punk Ashton Kutcher.  Oh yeah I would.  You just got punked!  And punked again, and again, and again…


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Post-It Dumpster


Tonight my task was to continue separating all of the duplicates of copies of short stories out of the files, marking any short stories that had doubles, putting originals back in the files, then re-filing (?!) all of the piles of duplicates, only not in a filing cabinet: in a fucking copy paper box, inside which I am expected to reorganize them alphabetically by author and label them with yellow Post-Its that stick up a little bit so you can see the author’s last name.

Is it just me, or does this seem like an enormous amount of pointless busy work?

My boss was nice enough to ask me, when she was contemplating aloud the benefits of a “new filing system,”

“What’s your archival training tell you to do?”

I hesitated to answer her question, because I knew she wasn’t going to like the answer.  I said, finally, timidly, “Um, my archival training says to keep originals with their duplicates, and just organize them neatly…there’s no need to create a second filing system for the same items.”

Yeah, anyway.  I spent the night separating duplicates from originals, filing, re-filing, stuffing things into a box so that the original files would “look better,” even though if you wanted anything from that box you’d have to go look for it in the filing cabinet, read on the Post-It affixed to the original copy that the duplicates were now located in the box, find the box wherever the hell out of her way she decides to stash it that week, flip through the Post-Its for the author you want, find the story, then put the box back.  All so everything will “look better.”

You can imagine how I feel about that.

What don’t people understand about proper filing?  It’s beautiful, when done correctly, and will make your life easier.  I seem to only encounter people who want to dick their lives up with the help of a messy, disconnected filing cabinet.


I’m just a little bit embarrassed to realize that I forgot to take down all of the yellow rectangular Post-Its of ideas and blurbs and sentences and words from the back of my bedroom closet door, and from all over the mirror behind my bathroom door.  It’s a little embarrassing to realize that every stranger who checked out my apartment in the last week got a good, long look at the weird shit my mind burps out, which I consider worth recording on a Post-It note and sticking in one of the two places where I collect those weird ideas and stunted thoughts.

I remember catching a glimpse of the ones in the bathroom and thinking, Oh, I have to take those down, it would be embarrassing if strangers read them.  Well, I forgot to take those down.  I can only imagine what the girl who used my bathroom was thinking while she sat there on my toilet, reading them while she peed, like I do every day.  I guarantee that the two of us were not on the same page.

Well.  The Strangers did not seem to agree with my decor, anyway.  One guy looked at the framed print of Van Gogh’s self portrait over my couch and said, “Is that Mozart or something?”

I said, “Oh, it’s uh, Van Gogh.”

He said, “Cool…”

I said, “Yeahhh, I think he’s…kinda weird.”

He said, “Naw, you’re not weird.”

I said, “No, I said…uh…”

When you live alone you become snow-blind to your own madness.


A good thing about tonight was that I left late, and the building was mostly empty and quiet, and I got a chance to go dumpster diving on the docks.  I opened the recycle bins (because that’s where all the clean trash is) and, eureka: some asshole must have been getting rid of his entire office, or maybe got fired, because an entire bin was full of newish paper goods.  I got a desk calendar for 2009 (it’s not too late, pal) that was still shrink wrapped!  I got a 75% full box of resumé paper!  I got folios, hanging folders, tabs, and Post-Its, all still wrapped or only sticking half-way out of their packaging.  But the best, best part was a desk-sized pad of graph paper.

That’s when I got nervous.

I love graph paper and think it’s the best thing in the entire world…so I don’t understand why anyone in their right mind would throw away a giant tearaway pad full of it.  I figure someone probably died on or around these office supplies.  And I can totally deal with that, all right?

So I dragged all my loot back through the deserted halls off the docks, and I passed the security camera, where I always do a little middle finger ninjutsu show, or exaggeratedly adjust my underwear, pretending to be oblivious to the camera, which I have been told is aimed at the dock door and is only checked if a crime is reported there.

I was told not to tell anyone that.

Hello, Internet!


There was a minute today when I thought that all I had to do tomorrow was make some phone calls about apartments, wait for a package, and meet my new roomie for dinner tomorrow night.  I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have any plans that annoyed me.  But then I remembered the Post-It on my table, where I have written exactly what the director wants (black and white photos of Chicago and New York highways circa 1970 and 1980 with gas station signs if possible).  I have to go to the museum tomorrow and fight with the museum bitches to get them to help me find this shit.

Because when Herr Direktor says he wants it done, Frau Kuppcake does it.

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Vanilla Bullshits

Last night I had a dream in which my entire family, even the weirdo Tennesseean outback ones who don’t love me because I think there’s gay bars in Heaven, was in the car with me, and I played my favorite song for them and they all LOVED it.  It wasn’t my favorite song in actuality, it was a John Martyn song that I hold pretty dear and I think is a great song, but the point was that my whole family like the song a lot and thought I was awesome for bringing it to their ears.  They were all clapping for me and showing their appreciation when the alarm on my phone went off.  The phone was on vibrate, and was in a drawer, and was buzzing against something in such a way that did not exactly wake me at first, so in the dream the sound translated as an earthquake.  So the dream version of me yelled from the back seat of the car, “Oh COME ON.”

It seems that I am always having these dreams where I’m in a car with my family and there’s some kind of natural disaster but the family member in the driver’s seat simply refuses to drive away from the tornado/acid storm/earthquake epicenter, and the whole family is kind of like, Meh, let’s just wait it out, see what happens.  Jeez.

I have the BIGGEST zit today.  It’s like a nipple on my chin.  I might as well draw a little smile and a pair of sunglasses on it.  And it WILL NOT GO AWAY.  And it hurts a lot.  Good thing the chin strap on the mask for my cupcake costume covers it.  I wouldn’t dream of going out and terrorizing Gotham City with a shiner like this on my jaw.

When you order an “Italian Soda” from the menu at this Starbucks/NotStarbucks, they give you a Pepsi in a Starbucks/NotStarbucks cup.  I know because I SAW THEM POUR IT OUT OF A PEPSI SODA PUMP.  Italian soda, my ass.  Really?  Really?  What are they trying to pull?

I should have ordered a Vanilla Bullshit.

Now that I am a part-time employee, I am no longer eligible for hour-long lunch breaks.  I am told that this is the law, but whatever.  I have calculated that it takes approximately 17 minutes to order, pay for, and receive food on one’s lunch break, plus or minus two minutes walking time, depending on where you go.  This means I end up with 10-13 minutes to slam whatever I’m trying to eat.

I really miss having an adult job, with a desk and an office and an ass load of little green office supplies to make me smile all day long.  But mostly I miss being able to decide when I am hungry, where I want to eat, and when I want to come back.  I miss being treated like a 27 year old who can handle herself.  I will come back to work, trust me.  I will be reasonable about my unpaid lunch time.  Fer chrissakes.

It’s winter in Chicago still…right now it’s only 62 degrees and overcast, and the only good thing about that is the metal eaves of the sushi restaurant across the street are not reflecting the sun’s rays and fucking blinding me everytime I look up.

Here are some cupcakes:



They are really cute but they look like they are the kind of icing that is really sugary so it hardens all crunchy on top of the cupcake, so you peel it off and throw it out so you don’t get a toothache.  What a buzz killington.

Who the hell would post a missed connection like this?!  Gosh, I don’t know.  Sounds like a crazy bitch.

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