My Epidemic

Have I ever mentioned that I grew up with all brothers? Even my cousins are guys. I was the first girl born to my large Midwest family since...my mom.
The issue doesn't normally come up. The worst case was actually in the unfortunate living arrangements of my first year in my college dorms in which I was assigned three other crazies to my 4-vagina sweet.
Oh sure. It went fine for a few weeks and then all hell broke loose. Something about dried macaroni on plastic dishes and Catholic school. I don't know. I lost interest after one roommate threatened to kill the other and didn't.
Who can keep up with college catfights? I can't.
Anyway the whole hormonal mess (I'm convinced it was hormonal) climaxed when one of the Catholic girls was videotaped peeing in another of the roommate's muffins (One more reason not to be a Catholic) and then getting kicked out. The other got arrested shortly after for substantial drug use. I was at work that night and had to actually restrain myself from visiting her in lockup so I could point and laugh.
So when a friend of mine was complimenting me on my overall "togetherness" and maturity, I tried hard not to preen and get too wrapped up in the absolute truth of her compliments. Until she suggested I apply to the BigBrothersBigSisters program and become a mentor.
I pondered the idea for some time before agreeing to apply. After all, I'd only had experience being a big sister to little brothers. Never little sisters. And what do you know, I was accepted and handed my own Lil Sister.
So now that I have her I'm just wondering what the hell to do with her?
She can't afford to spend more than $5 everytime we hang out so it basically limits us to free activities. We've gone to the museum, we've gone to the park(where she whined about the heat the entire fucking time), we've gone to lunch (I paid), and we've went bowling (I paid).
I finally dragged her to Boyfriend's swank apartment clubhouse and let her run amuck last week. We stopped for TACOBELL before hand and sat on the pooldeck, munching.
I had a taco. That's it. A taco and a pepsi. The 10-year-old chunk next to me demolished her own 3taco meal.
When she was bored with swimming (free), bowling (free), playing pool (free) and playing in the FREE arcade, (I told you his apartment rocked.) She set her sights on the pretty impressive gym.
"We should work out," she says to me.
I stare back. "I've already worked out today."
"But we need to work out."
"You're ten. You're job is to play, not worry about weight. You have plenty of time for that."
"Don't you want to work out?"
"Nope." I relax back into my pool chair. Contently sunbathing.
"But you ate an entire taco."
I lift my sunglasses slowly to eyeball her.
"You don't want to get fat."
At this point if she were a boy in my family I'd have dropkicked her. But seeing as 1)we weren't related and 2)I'd get arrested for accosting a 10-year-old, I tried to ignore her by sliding my glasses back in place and going back to my sunbathing.
The sly little demon that she is, she stood over me whispering, "An entire taco. You'll get fat. Fat. Fat. Fat." Over and over again.
As if a college girl needs any more people judging her weight. Fiend. Finally I caved to her psychological assault.
I set her on a treadmill at nearly a completely upright angle and put the speed as high as it would go. I watched her struggle uphill on the treadmill for a few minutes and tried hard not to laugh evilly until our time together was through.
Was this negating my mature mentor status? Who the fuck cares.

Labels: All things Vagina

1.) My Meat has apparently accepted his replaceable status. (As long as he's the one I'm ruthlessly using.)
2.) Sunshine and D.C. are "seeing eachother." Which she won't explain to me if that translates as "fucking" eachother but whatever. Bitch.
3.) The Scotland trip is being molded into a semester abroad as part of my Masters program.
4.) Chris is STILL not boning the guy from work.
5.) And now she is emailing me pictures of pirate bandannas as I type this.
6.) I still love kilts.
7.) Gonna get drunk this weekend...and Monday night...and Tuesday. Yes. (Awkward cough.) Just generally alot of drunken behavior being had this holiday weekend...er, week...summer. Yeah. Summer.
8.) Still haven't heard a peep from Coach. Why would a guy want someone who will lie to them about their overall lameness? That's boring.
9.) Went to THE BOSS' daughter's wedding this weekend. Very quickly became (Insert not-at-all-subtle big boob hand gesture) "The Girl in the Green Shirt"
amongst the groom's henchmen.
10.) Chris and I did the flowers and decorations for the aforementioned wedding. We did such a fabulous job (Yeah!) that people are starting to take interest in our talented (all be it fledgling) skills. So we're thinking of starting a bit of side business assisting those who need it in planning and organizing parties (mostly showers). We do the bitchwork. They get the credit. We get paid. Hooray! Hooray for Parties! And bitchwork! And money!

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

Somebody needs to get me these for Christmas.
I'm adding them to my list.

Labels: Penis

Labels: Penis

Boyfriend had an emotional breakdown this weekend.
Basically he announced that he's just a "piece of meat" to me and I can just use him and throw him away whenever I want.
I agreed.
He fucked up a four-year-relationship in many cruel ways (that I’ll try not to rant about but probably will anyway) and I ended it. That's that. I dumped his ass.
I told him I was diagnosed with depression and I'd been having scary thoughts of hurting or killing myself and he disappeared for about two weeks without a word. How's that for 4-years worth of love and sympathy?
Then he gets all upset when I tell him to go to hell and leave him crying and blubbering.
Months later he comes crawling back saying he was under a lot of stress what with going through the Police Academy and some nasty confrontations with his old roommate and family troubles and blah blah blah. Don’t care.
Sad thing is, I didn’t really want our long, fun and crazy relationship to end with a, "I love you. But I hate you more. Goodbye." (Which I thought was slightly better than the "You are the weakest link" line.) So a few months ago we started talking again. Just keeping in touch. Then he asked if we could hang out sometime. And slowly we fell back into the casual stage, which led to the comfortable relationship stage we were used to but hadn’t officially moved back into.
But throughout the last few weeks of casual bliss, there was that anxious feeling that the other shoe would drop and squash my happy daydreams of a slow but thorough reconciliation.
This weekend (Unlike my over-dramatic reaction to the spat we had last week) truly threw any truce we might of had out the window to land in the middle of the street and be ruthlessly crushed by a passing semi hauling mounds of cow manure.
My friends and his met up to have a drink Saturday night. There we were, chatting away when one of Boyfriend’s new little GAY friends I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting, when he asked who I was. I quickly adorned my classic coy smile while I debated how to answer the question.
He said, "Oh so you just started dating Boyfriend?" Hah! I laughed (really loudly) directly into his confused expression.
"No. You really don’t know who I am?" I was curious b/c Boyfriend swore up and down that all he ever did with his friends was pine away for me. Several of them had confirmed this and yet here was one that must have escaped his pitiful mooning.
Boyfriend arrived at that point to interrupt us and introduce me as his girlfriend. Sunshine and Chris, my companions for the night, gave each other the look that is known internationally as the chick’s signal for "Interesting. Noting this for future reference when we collectively retire to the bathroom."
When New Gay Friend seemed to realize I was "that chick," he started trying to intervene on Boyfriend’s behalf and interrogate me (kind of abrasively) on why I wouldn’t just take Boyfriend back.
Boyfriend tried to intervene but at that point I’d started to get pissy. Hey New Gay Friend with incredibly tacky thin facial pubic hair you’re trying to pass off as a mustache! Don’t you fucking judge me!
Boyfriend defended my dumping decision in the typical guy way: Admitting he fucked up but completely belittling the entire situation with a cliched chauvinistic catchphrase, "I wasn’t paying enough attention to her."
At that I laughed. Hard. I laughed so hard people were turning in their seats to see the girl that was ready to piss herself.
New Gay Friend got defensive, "Hey. He’s pouring his heart out here and you’re laughing at him."
"You’re damn right I am." I laughed harder.
Boyfriend was a little flustered but not deterred. He tried again, "I did screw up. Bad. I was really stressed out and just wasn’t giving her the attention she deserved."
At this point Chris snorted, adding to the humiliation of my howls of mirth.
And that’s when Boyfriend gave up and stomped out.
I spent the rest of the night trying to not ruin the mood for Sunshine and DC, who had suddenly sparked their own fledgling romance on the other side of the table. And trying to keep Boyfriend from having an emotional breakdown…which he had anyway.
I tried explaining that he deserved to be laughed at.
I explained very carefully that he in no way deserves for me to ever speak to him again.
I told him it would have served him right if I had killed myself when he left and then came back as a PMS'ing ghost that haunted and guilt-tripped him for the rest of his life.
I tried very politely not to get mad as he apologized and cried. But in the end I did get mad.
Righteous fury is actually a much better phrase for how I felt. I shook my little fists at him and told him everything I had felt when he left. Everything I had wanted to do to him (in vivid detail). Everything I had wanted to do to myself and that it was only fair he be miserable now.
I owed him absolutely nothing.
He is just a piece of meat. Until I’m ready to take him back, until I’m ready to actually have a relationship with his scum-sucking-ass, he is exactly what he thinks he is. Replaceable.
No pretty lies. No sweet promises.
I never told him I would take him back.
I never said I wanted to.
I did however tell him that until he earns back atleast some of the trust he lost when he walked away, I would just assume he’s lying to me.
He cried some more. Which made me ever more mad for dating a pussy for 4-years, while he ranted on and on about how the girl he loves with every part of his heart can’t even pretend to love him back.
And then I repeated the words I said to him on the day I broke it off,
"I do love you. But I hate you more."
And then I said I was tired. He could call me when he’s through with his hissy fit. And went home.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

I've already established that lesbianism is not for me. (See Why I Stick With The Penis) There are many reasons why, but the biggest is that it's just not how I roll. Sorry. All you lesbians out there lusting after me, I'm just not into pussy.
But for some reason the topic keeps popping up.
Chris and I (who has returned from her exile) spent our entire Saturday causing trouble. We visited a Renaissance Fair --Yes, I know it's a very lesbian thing to do but we go to make fun of the chubby goths in leather and to lust after guys in kilts -- when we stumble upon a beer garden. Hooray! Beer! Instantly the entire event was vastly more entertaining.
I nursed an Ultra while underage Chris had to settle with a Dragon's Blood smoothie, and watched a bunch of guys in kilts beat on drums and dance traditional...jigs or whatever they're called.
The young, mildly handsome lead of the entire production was making eyes at us the moment we wandered in. If you've ever been to one of these things and seen the vast array of chubby teenagers and old ladies in Xena outfits, you would know that the KiltGuy's attention was not only expected but understandable.
Chris and I, being hot and in our street clothes tended to draw a number of eyes. Ofcourse we were also probably two of ten girls at the Fair under 150lbs.
Anyway, throughout the performance Kilt-Guy blew kisses in our directions and managed to flash us a few times. Unfortunetly, he wasn't actually Scottish and wore a pair of boxers under his kilt. Sigh.
When the show was over we said hi and got a few pictures taken with him. Everything was peachy. Guys in kilts rock my world.
But later, as we resumed our wandering, we kept getting hit on by creepy boys dressed as everything from pirates to trolls to bondage experiments gone wrong. One guy even asked if we wanted to ride his camel. His camel.
That line just seems lame compared to the ones we received at the biker bar in Vegas. "Hey Baby, ever had a 200mileperhour vibrator between your legs?" Now that's classic. The camel is just lame.
Soon enough we decided there was only one thing to do. We pretended we were lesbians. I'm not proud of it, but a girls got to do what a girls got to do.
The reason I told this story was not only because of my obvious love for kilts but to point out that it was really easy for Chris and I to pass ourselves off as lesbians. Not because we're butch. (We're not.) Not because we were all over eachother. (I've got personal space issues.) But because guys want us to be lesbians.
They want two cute college girls to start necking in the middle of a Renaissance Fair. Hell, it's probably the closest to any play most of those guys have gotten in a long time. Which just makes me sad.
Case in point:
Chris has been shamelessly throwing herself at this guy from her new workplace. He appears to be interested but has thusfar resisted meeting up with her outside of work. They spend all their time at work together. But he just hasn't mustered the balls to ask her out. She, the big-fat-pussy that she is, refuses to step up also. So they're at an impasse...and I've had to hear about it every fucking day for weeks.
Last night Chris called, giggling like a crazed cheerleader on speed about how WorkBuddy confessed that he thought she was a lesbian...with me.
Ofcourse!
Two chicks are close friends. Known eachother forever. Hangout all the time. Lesbians!
Well ofcourse we are. How can we not be? Why didn't we figure it out sooner?!
It took a guy I've never met, who's known Chris for about three weeks to enlighten me on my sexual tendencies. Great.
I officially hate this guy. Never met him. Hate him.
So here I am again defending my right to NOT be a lesbian. Hooray for lesbians. More power to the pussy-lovers. That's just not how I roll.
Got that? All you assholes out there who are just praying for some girl-on-girl action, NOT A LESBIAN.
I am completely Pro-Penis!

Labels: All things Vagina, Penis

1. I would ban Ben Affleck, Kevin Federline, Paris Hilton, Richard Geere and all other douchebags from the entertainment industry.
2. I would have color coded minions so I wouldn't have to remember all their names.
3. I would bitchslap any religiously-crazed nutjobs who think to clense their little piece of MY WORLD. (That includes you Bush. Watch yourself.)
4. I would make it okay for fat models to be on tv and in magazines.
5. I would personally fund the making of an Underworld 3,4 and 5
6. I would make it so all hot men had to walk around with their shirts off between 9 and 5...to make the work day more enjoyable for all of us.
7. I would not work the night shift so I could enjoy the hot, shirtless men.
8. I would put all the people I don't like on one island so they can rip eachother apart for my amusement.
9. I would put more money into the development of new energy sources...you know, so the entire world economy doesn't crash when we run out of fossil fuels
10. I would put more money in the space agency so if the fossil fuels do run out we'll just find another planet to destroy.
11. I would take all those God-damn reality television shows off the air and put quality cartoons back on for kids.
12. I would also impliment a rule that every adult must watch atleast 1hour of cartoons a week so the rigid tight-asses in the world learn to loosen up.
13. I would kick all the richkids that have never had to work for a living out of Mommy and Daddy's house and make them live on the streets a couple years so they see what life is really like.
14. I would put to death who ever came up with the idea for that damn MTV show 'The O.C.' TO DEATH!
15. I would donate atleast 15% of each stockbrocker's, VP's and wealthy buisnessmen's overblown paychecks to all the firefighters, policeofficers, servicemen and the rest of the underpaid emergency responce personel in this county so our kids would have oportunities for jobs that actually serve our country rather than chop it up and sell it off in pieces.
16. I would outlaw mullets and tummy shirts if you're over 150 lbs.
17. I would make sure bluecolar criminals are put on the same cellblocks as the men that were never even given a chance to earn a bluecolar.
18. I would make it mandatory that if you make over $60,000 a year you must put in atleast 6hours of community service every three months.
19. I would take atleast 6 husbands. Three of which would be from Scotland.
20. I would pool the international community's resources and spread them more evenly.
21. I would put all those really smart people on three seperate teams. The green team. The blue team and the red team. And make them compete against eachother to see who can find the cure first for: cancer, AIDS and stupidity.
22. I would make my Dad, Oprah, Angelina Jolie and John Stewart my advisors.
23. I would make every community center in the world have: a. driving simulator to make old people think they're driving thus preventing old-people-caused accidents, b. a STD testing room and c. a jacuzzi...cause eveyone who works hard needs access to a jacuzzi
24. I would legalize prostitution but make all streetwalkers get tested every week for STD's and have a license they'll need to carry
25. I would legalize pot b/c it just isn't worth the trouble anymore of enforcing laws nobody really pays attention to.
26. I would make a law that forbid the marriage of two parties under the age of 25. AND that anyone else wishing to get married (regardless of race or gender) has lived under the same roof for atleast 6months. Thus decreasing the rising rate of divorces.
27. I would make the NewYorkTimes include atleast one Cosmo quiz in every issue.
28. I would make Astrology a major.
29. I would make it so no clothes (no matter how "hot" or "couture") cost more than $50. That includes shoes.
30. I would have already built the Freedom Tower at ground zero.
31. I would Knight the guys that write Southpark.
32. I would impliment a law that any man that has two or more children with two or more different women and cannot keep up on the child-support payments, be castrated.
33. I would put an end to arranged marriages...'cause comeon...that just sucks. And PS, Daddy doesn't always know best.
34. I would make blogging a national pasttime.
35. I would change the name of American Football to "Pigskin Humping." So as to avoid confussion with European Football...which actually involves the sole use of your feet.
36. I would make it cool to have braces. (I've never had them but they're so cute.)
37. I would outlaw THE VIEW. Die View, Die!
38. I would put Star Jones on the aforementioned island of people I don't like.
39. I would encourage the building of cool treehouses as residential homes, like the one in The Swiss Family Robinson.
40. Chuck Norris would be my bodyguard.
41. I would require random drugtesting in all movie sets, recording studios and sports arenas.
42. I would personally produce a Ms. Drag USA pageant.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings

Apparently, Boyfriend and I's truce was not shattered as I so dramatically thought it to be.
The weekend came. I spent it mostly with a friend causing trouble in various arenas (a bar, a restaurant, a faire, my house, a clubhouse) and then swung by Boyfriend's very late Saturday night.
He'd invited over some man friends of his and none of them felt like drinking (I told you they were gay. What guy doesn't want a beer at a pokerparty on a Saturday night while watching college baseball. GAY!)...so Boyfriend decided someone had to drink atleast one of the 24-packs sitting in his fridge.
So by the time we reached the penis-fest, he had just finished his 17th beer. He was drunk. Really drunk.
In all my years of dating Boyfriend, I have never actually seen him drunk.
Pretty quickly the rest of the guys cleared out when the chicks were drinking more than them (for shame). My friend's ex was among the guys (ofcourse) so they strayed out onto the patio for a "talk." That left me sitting on the couch polishing off some of Lesbian's leftover Boonsfarm and listening to Boyfriend babble about his face hurting.
"You can still feel it?"
"No."
"Then how does it hurt?"
"Cause I got punched in the face."
"That would do it. Who punched you?"
"That guy!"
"That guy...which guy?"
"The guy in my class!"
After a few minutes of deciphering his babbles I came to the conclusion that his Sergeant had him and another guy box each other during training on Friday.
"Did he break your nose?"
"No. Fucker. I broke his though! And his eye! I broke his eye!"
"You punched him in the eye?"
"Damn right! Fucker."
"But why's the rest of your face hurt?"
"Cause that other guy hit me with his stick!"
"Say again."
"His big stick!"
"What?"
He sighed one of those DMV sighs. The one's that clearly are meant to say, 'God you're such an idiot.'
"The. Guy. Hit. Me. With. His. Big. Stick."
"His baton?"
"No. His STICK!"
"What stick?"
"The hockey stick."
"What hockey stick?"
"The one he was playing with. Duh."
Boyfriend plays hockey in a full-contact league. "Oh. You had a game today."
He nods like a bobble head.
"Did you do good?"
"That fucker hit me with his stick."
"What fucker?"
"That one," he said menacingly with his eyes all squinty and his fists shaking at the heavens.
"Oh...Did you hit him back?"
"Hells yeah, baby. Your man's a man's man."
"Wait. Don't ever say that again. So you got your face pummeled yesterday and got in a fight today."
"Yup."
"With some guy's stick."
"No. The stick started it."
"Did you hit him?"
"The stick?"
"The guy."
"Oh. Umhm. Alot."
"Did you hurt him?"
"Yup."
"How bad?"
"His fucker friends had to carry him off."
"The ice?"
He nods again while I gape at his drunkenness.
"In a stretcher?"
"Nah."
"Was he bleeding?"
Boyfriend grins. "Yup. A. Lot."
"Well aren't you a badass."
"Yup." He visibly preens forgetting about his swollen nose and cut lip for the moment.

While I have to admit guys who can take care of themselves are a huge turn on, I'm slightly worried that Boyfriend is suddenly starting fights.
As long as I've known him he's only been in one fight, with his old roommate who had it coming. (Shit, Boyfriend peeled me off the guy a few times.)
Boyfriend is one of those people that doesn't take things seriously enough to care if someone is trash talking him (I do) or someone screws you royally (I care). In fact most of the time I'm the one bitching out his friends and threatening to sever their manhood if they don't walk away.
I'm the tomcat. Not him. I'm the crazy one.

Boyfriend is supposed to be sane! What is the world coming to?!

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, Drunken Adventures, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

So Sunshine and I went a-bar-hoppin' tonight afterwork.
I'm just a little tipsy, not much though, and I had a thought I wanted tp jot down before I completely sober up.
Every single time I go to a bar and have more than 2 drinks, I meet someone new in the bathroom and have my own mini adventures. Every single time.
Last time we went out, I met some 60-year-old woman in line for the toilet and was telling her all about how I work with a bunch of cops with big guns until Sunshine caught me and drug me back to our table.
That same night I met a nice young lady in a QT bathroom and had a lengthy conversation with her (while we were both relieving ourselves in our respected stalls) about sugar daddies. I believe it went something like this:
Her - "My Dad is my Mom's sugar daddy. He's twenty years older than her."
Me - "Yeah. I want one of those. Where do you find sugar daddies anyway?"
Her - "I don't know." I think I remember a thoughtful pause right about here. "But if you find one, point his brother in my direction."
Me - "Totally."
Tonight, I wasn't nearly as drunk as I was on both those occasions but I still managed to make some friends on my solo trip to the porceilein god. There was like...a gagillion scantilly clad chicks standing in line around me when this one girl with a zebra head-band said something to me about using the guy's bathroom instead. I full heartily agreed. We rationalized that not only would we probably be welcomed in the penis arena but would probably earn ourselves a few drinks as well.
The drunk chick (who was seriously fucked up) on the other side of me started talking really loudly about the people currently using the only two stalls in the restroom "taking for fucking ever." Me, I agreed but I wasn't about to start yelling about peeing like a speeding bullet like she was.
Instead I started yapping with Zebra-Headband again about how we could probably turn our Oh-God-I-Have-To-Pee squirming into the hottest new dance move and still earn more drinks for it. Then Drunk Chick behind me shoved her drink in my face.
"You have to try this."
I stared from her to it to her again.
"What is it?"
"Sex on the beach."
"Always wanted to try that." I giggled 'cause in my mind the double meaning was hilarious.
But outside of my head it apparently wasn't that funny 'cause Drunk Chick just stared at me until I carefully took a sip of her drink.
In retrospect I could have contracted about a gazillion diseases, but in my almost drunk state, I didn't really know what else to do. (Don't try this at home kids.)
"It's good."
"It's fucking awesome. I mean I like beer but this...this you know is like...I just like it more."
I nodded sage-like as if she'd just said the brightest thing I'd heard since the Tao of Pooh and very slowly turned to Zebra-headband so as not to attract DrunkChick's attention again.

Someone once told me I am flypaper for freaks. While I agree on some levels, I think amending the observation to "flypaper for bar bathroom philosophers" would be more accurate. But hey, I'm not complaining.

PS
We spotted this guy tonight that looked like that William Wong dude from American Idol. The one that butchered that Ricky Martin song so freakin' badly.
Sunshine didn't want to get our picture taken with him. But I'll get you next time William Wong. I'll get you.

Labels: Drunken Adventures

I don't even care how fucking corny it sounds. I love Josh Hartnett. I've loved that man since my middleschool days and will die loving him.
I mean the fact that I still worship Hartnett despite having been in a movie with Ben Affleck is the truest form of love I've ever heard of.
I also love any movie/book/whateva that has vampires and werewolves and just gruesome shit in general. So the fact that Hartnett just signed onto some movie with vampires is the hottest thing I've heard all week.
I'm getting excited just thinking about.
I don't even care that its supposed to be set in Alaska, (Which is probably the lamest thing I've ever heard, what kind of vampire goes to Alaska? Blah. Lame.) if Josh Hartnett is going to be kicking ass (and possibly taking his shirt off) I'm there.
Hollywood Gossip Whores: Josh Hartnett is a Vampire Hunter#links

Labels: Guest Appearances

In honor of Crazy Bob and I being the only two in the office tonight, I've decided to go ahead and tell the story that made Crazy Bob crazy.
Ya see, I've been working here going on...two years. When I first started I had just completed my freshman year of college. I was one of three students picked to work part-time (Thanks Mom) and the only female college student on our shift. Unless you count Big Gay Al who worked C-shift also. But he wasn't technically a chick, he just acted and dressed like one.
Anyway, so I had just completed my training and was still trying to get used to working in an office for 8hours a day with a bunch of people I was convinced were crazy, when my Boss (Who will just be called THE BOSS from now on b/c she likes to think of herself as affiliated with the mob) decided I should be trained in sorting.
Sorting is not as ominous as I'm making it sound I just don't like doing it. It's alot of going through reports and deciphering illegible cop-handwriting and making unnecessary copies to go in trays that are all marked the same but are somehow different and if you get it wrong you're going straight to HELL!
So I'm standing at the copy machine sorting, minding my own business, fantasizing about unicorns and rainbows and peace on earth, when THE BOSS looks over at me and the oddest expression crosses her face.
I'll never forget it. Horror, disgust, fascination, humor and fury all crossed her flushed expression in a matter of moments. It was like in a movie when the hero walks in on her enemy doing something totally nasty and unforgivable with his hostage.
Like a trainwreck of emotions just splattered across her face, and for the life of me I had no idea what had caused it, but I couldn't seem to work up the courage to look behind me. Because of course it was something horrible standing behind me. It always is.
Finally, THE BOSS snapped herself out of the catatonic state whatever it was behind me had put her in and screeched, "Bob get the hell away from her!"
My own catatonic state slipped away with those words and I flipped around to see Crazy Bob leaning over me...sniffing my hair.
I say again, SNIFFING MY HAIR.

Two years later, Crazy Bob has yet to live down the "Sniffing Incident" as it is referred to.
Whenever a new person is brought onto the shift they are indoctrinated into our little crew with stories of office mayhem, hellish sorting and pervey sniffing.

Labels: Workin' Hard or Hardly Workin'?

It's official.
The fragile truce Boyfriend and I have been pleasantly existing under for the past 2weeks has been broken. The shit has officially hit the fan and splattered all over my happy-ever-after truce. He broke it! Bastard!
A few minutes ago we were having a friendly conversation about how our days were going and plans for the weekend, when he mentioned (for the third time) that he is having people over Saturday night. I'd already informed him I had plans with a friend but that we may stop by.
And that's when I made my critical mistake. In my mind when I say "I may stop by" that means there is a good chance that I'll totally forget. In Boyfriend's mind "may" means "I am so there! I'll even bring salsa!" A rookie mistake. I should have known better.
So later in the conversation when I mentioned my friend may be inviting a guy from work (That she's been throwing herself at shamelessly! That's right you know who you are!) Boyfriend was all like, "Oh. So ditch them and come hang out with us."
"Can't."
"Why?"
"You still don't understand the concept of 'chick backup,' do you?"
"That's stupid."
"You're stupid."
"I don't get why you have to be there if she's got a date."
"Because it's not yet a date."
"Stupid."
"Shut up."
"Just come over to my house instead. You said you were coming. I want you there. You said--"
"I had plans with her before you--"
"She invited some other guy!"
"Look, you! This has nothing to do with you! My plans. Not yours. Back. Off."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"I'll talk to you later."
"Fuck off."

If Sunshine hadn't brought cake to work today I'd be throwing something.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

Chris says I talk about her too much so I’ve decided to pretend she’s on some exotic vacation without a phone for awhile. Farewell, Chris!

There was a thunderstorm last night. I know this not from actually hearing the thunder, nor from actually seeing the lightening or even from opting to watch the news instead of my cartoons, I instead know this because I was woke up extremely early this morning by a 45-lb Boston Terrier sitting on my face.
Not a pleasant sight. Trust me on this.
To make my rude awakening even worse, it was like 7 AM. I know. I know. Not that early, right? Well it’s really fucking early for me. I work the night-shift, baby. My 7AM is like everyone else’s 3AM.
So there I am, pleasantly snuggled into my blankets, snoozing the early morning away, when I realize a big black doggie ass is firmly planted over my nose. We were cheek to cheek, if you know what I mean.
I pushed him off, swore a bunch of mangled profanities in my grogginess and then rolled back over and fell asleep on my face (to prevent further butt-planting attacks).
What felt like moments later, Fatty was scratching at me to get under the covers. I accommodated the big shaking wieney and fell back asleep.
Minutes pass. I’m slipping blissfully back into a REM cycle when I feel Fatty scratching at me again. I nudge him towards the edge of the bed thinking I could just roll him off and go back to sleep, but he keeps scratching at my stomach under the covers.
I cursed something about hating him with the heat of a thousand suns and roll over until he can wedge himself between my lower back and the bed. I slept the rest of the night curled with my back around him like some torturous yoga position.
Basically I was his shelter from the storm. Which would have been sweet if I hadn’t woken up not being able to feel my toes.
I’m pretty sure I hate that dog.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings

Well, I'm bored at work. The goddamn phone won't stop ringing (It's not my job to answer it so don't panic.) and I'm trying hard not to let today's Cancer revelations drag me down into my own pathetic puddle of self-pity.
So I've decided to pick a topic and let the creative juices flow...
Let's see...topic...topic...oh. Okay.
Boyfriend. (An issue that has plagued my life for years.)
I realize I've mentioned him mostly in passing until recently, but that's kind of how our relationship has been lately, "in passing." If you'd have caught me last month I'd probably have described it something more like, "the relationship that just won't fucking die already!" But for some reason it's different now.
Don't know why.
Don't know if I should really care.
The way I see it, if some thing's working don't fucking poke at it. Wait till its dead to do that.
Thing is, before we started hanging out again (about 2weeks ago) I laid down the don't-need-or-want-a-relationship-right-now-so-don't-push-it-or-kiss-this-ass-goodbye law. And all has been perfect since.
We hang out. We chat like old buddies. We don't feel obligated to ditch our friends on the weekends so we can have "couple time." Perfect.
But now he wants to ruin our perfect arrangement. He wants to get back together.
So here I am, assessing a 4-year relationship and debating whether to just flee.

The Boyfriend's Goods:
*Comfortable
*Stable
*Looks sexy as hell in his uniform
*Determined not to fuck up this time around
*Knows all my favorite movies/comfortfoods/positions
*My family loves him
*He's like an institution amongst my friends
*He has the quirkiest way of looking at things
(example: Me - "I have no ass." Him - "Don't worry, Babe. You'll grow one some day.")
*He makes friends every where he goes
*Has no problem with my friends and I discussing his huge penis right in front of him

The many Aspects of the Boyfriend's shittyness:
*Comfortable
*Has the weirdest thing against thongs, cheese and American-made cars
*My family loves him
*He is crazy possessive. He's incredibly insecure about other guys being in my immediate vicinity.
*He talks to complete strangers like they're old friends...and they actually talk back!
*When he's stressed he takes everything that's wrong in his life out on poor little me
*His entire family is completely insane and I'm afraid I'll catch it like an STD or something
*He has this nasty habit of ALWAYS SAYING THE WRONG THINGS at the WRONG TIME!
(There are lots of examples of this but my favorite was when he went into great detail about how a heterosexual guy wishing to dabble in anal sex with a woman is just too "much of a pussy to own up to being gay"...while we're EATING DINNER with my friend and her boyfriend...who enjoy anal)
*No matter what restaurant we're in, he never looks at the menu just asks: "Do you have just a cheeseburger?"
*His best friends are the weirdest/laziest/gayest bunch of fuckers I've ever met

So that's about it.
You know, that list did absolutely nothing for me. Damnit!

PS
I've added a link to a blog article about love that pretty much sums up exactly how I feel about the whole issue right now. It's entitled, "Love Is A Cunt." Amen.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

Lately Mother has been acting even more insane than usual. To the point of calling me 3x’s a day to see if I’ve decided on where to go for my Masters.
Yesterday, during her ritual third call that morning, I unceremoniously exploded. Shouting obscenities (which she apparently did not appreciate at all) about the obvious double standards she has enforced my entire life when it came to Lil Bro and I, and just generally flipping the fuck out.
She did the Mom-guilt-trip-thing (which she has perfected) and said, "Well I apologize for raising you so poorly and making your entire childhood a living hell."
"You should be! Nothing has ever been good enough for you. Nothing!" I shrieked very maturely. "Lil Bro announces he’s not going to college and wants to live with you while he works and you’re all ‘Good for you!’ and I say I might want to take a year off from school to travel and you ride my ass for weeks at a time!"
She denied ever riding my ass and actually said, "I can’t pat you on the back all the time."
"No Mom. But a little slack every once in awhile would go a long fucking way."
The conversation/bitch-match went on like that for some time until she hung up on me.
I was furious. Called Chris. Bitched. Took a shower. Went to work.
I studiously avoided her the entire night until she sauntered on into my cubicle to ask me some b/s question about my dog and when I did little more than nod and growl she asked like the biggest snot, "What’s wrong with you?"
I ignored her until she went away.
Needing some sort of comfort, I called Boyfriend and asked if I could crash with him. I spent the night listening to him snore and wondering what we’d been fighting about for months.
In retrospect the whole serene scene was probably so relaxing only set next to the overly-dramatic foil of being in any place where my mother could invade without preamble.
Anyway, this morning when Boyfriend left for work (Did I mention he’s a cop?) he gave me a big hug (which was actually kind of painful with his kevlar vest on) and told me to stay as long as I want.
I did.
I lounged around his cheerily mannish apartment in a pair of boxers and a tank top the entire day eating Salsa and watching Queer Eye For A Straight Guy: LasVegas. I called Chris when I recognized one of the Caesars Palace guard guys from our trip and babbled about him flexing. I hit the punching bag I bought Boyfriend for our last anniversary and drank more Mountain Dew than I care to think about.
It was fabulous. Like a spa without all the spa-ish things. Without people rushing to grope your feet and critique your pores.
I didn’t think about Mom or Masters programs or anything besides gay guys and palace guards all day. It was the fucking highlight of my week. I was so relaxed.
And then I came to work, got called into Mom’s office, prepared myself for an epic tongue-lashing about being the gigantic failure she seems to think I am and instead was told my Aunt has cancer.
Well shit.
Not to be selfish but…fuck. That ruined my perfectly shallow day.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

So here we are. Another beautiful morning after. No hangover in sight.
Last night, Chris and I had another of our grand adventures, which included:
1. A gay/assman bartender downtown with spiky gay hair
2. A pasta catastrophe
3. Another bartender named Carl who looked alot like the Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force
4. Running into some guys we apparently met a few months ago through some friends but I still don't really remember who they are or why we were talking to them.
5. A drunk dial to Boyfriend.
6. And last, but in no way the least entertaining, our drunken letters. In the back of my Hebrew Studies notebook. Written in big green marker.

I've decided to transcribe these letters b/c evidently that was what I had in mind when I wrote them...or so Chris tells me. There are two that actually have words and several more that just look like hieroglyphics drawn by toddlers. I will relate the two with actual words as is, but beware most of what is said makes little more sense to me today than actual hieroglyphics.
Enjoy.

Letter 1:
Dear me! Hello! Chris and I are writing from da bed! We had a great time! We met Tim & Silent Scott. They suck! Do Not talk to them eva again! We hate them.
(Insert scribbled heart)
Love Me

Letter 2: (Apparently scribed by Chris at my drunken bidding)
Dear me, I am really drunk. If I were a lesbian, I would not screw you. Because that is how drunk u are. Too drunk 4 a lesbian! (See Why I Stick With The Penis for the inside-lesbian joke...I AM NOT HOMOPHOBIC!)
Tell me that I got hit on by Tim la douchebag w/ chew-teeth, which is bad...Righteous FURY.
J is for Gigilo...Jiggle.
Our crossword puzzle rocked hard-ass. Our crossword puzzle is where we made up words. Women are puss in boots and men are man-childs.
My drunkenness has expanded the drunken world. Carl is my favorite, like Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
Chris is going to be my narrator.
I'm not going to touch you because I'm going to poke you in da eye! Good job. I caught the cap between the teeth. Chris is my favorite narrator.
(Insert an incredible drawing for how drunk I was of Puss in Boots from Shrek & a doodle of Meatwad from ATHF)
Puss in Boots! That's hot like a chihuawa!

Also, I vaguely remember working diligently on the aforementioned crossword puzzle I'd found at the bar. Did you know that a four-letter word for a country in Africa is "Lima?" I did.

Labels: Drunken Adventures

In light of recent horrible events (See The Return of The Asshole & Alas, No Ball Snipping) I've decided to cheer myself up by giving something back to the world...a nice ass. (It always cheers me up.) Enjoy.

Labels: Penis

In my mind, when Chris finally confronted Asshole, the scenario went something like this:
Chris comes marching in to the agreed upon location in thigh-high boots with spiked heels I could never wear, in the hottest outfit she owns. Glances around the restaurant, spots Asshole and marches over to the table with every guy in her path turning to watch her strut on by.
She sits. He sputters out some long list of reasons why he did what he did and why she should take him back. Then she compiles her own laundry list of how he mistreated her for the years they were together and that she would never take him back.
Asshole's jaw drops. He sputters some non-intelligable dribble about how she doesn't know what she's saying.
She simply answers, "Of course I do. You're a pig. Goodbye."
He nearly screeches, "But why?"
"Why," she glares at him. "You don't get to ask me why!" And throws her drink in his face.
The whole restaurant turns and stares. He jumps up and grabs her arm, pulling her back to the table.
"No, Asshole." Chris says low and menacing. "You don't get to hurt me anymore."
Then twists her arm from his grip and pushes him back into his own chair before she throws down some cash on the table, carefully replaces her sunglasses and dramatically marches out to the overwhelming applause of the entire restuarant.
Asshole is left behind in disgrace.

In reality, the event wasn't nearly as dramatic. Despite my pleading that she atleast throw her drink in his face. But, I'm proud to report, Chris stuck to her guns and told him everything she'd been mulling over for months. From her account of the lunch, he took it too well for her to continue hating him. Damn.

Sigh. And now all we can do is wait till the dust settles to see what happens next.

A few minutes ago, a really cute cop came waltzing on in. I was the only one in the office and was actually trying to balance a few calls while helping him.
I should also make clear that I was told by my boss (my mother's lackey) yesterday, that I don't dress appropriately.
"You need to dress your age. You're coming up into the real world, girly. Better start dressing like an adult."
Ahem. I was wearing a shirt I'd stole from my 48-year-old mother (my boss' boss) and jeans. Granted, they were the "worn" style of jeans, but I'd been wearing them to work for nearly 2 months now without a negative comment.
So I was sitting in the office all by my lonesome, in a jean skirt that shows off my legs beautifully, a blue collared form fitting shirt, and heels. I have to admit. I looked hot.
Enter cute officer.
I helped him. We chatted. He started asking about work and school and my fellow employees. Made up another reason to look for something else while he was down there. Got my name. Gave me his.
When in walks Sunshine in all her glory. She takes one look at me and Officer Cutey and marched her ass back into the adjoining office. From there she announced at the top of her lungs, "Our little hoochie mamma's over there flirting her ass off!"
Officer Cutey turned bright red. He laughed a little nervously and then said he had to go.
I would have killed Sunshine if I hadn't already gotten his name...and wasn't laughing just as hard as she was.

Labels: Workin' Hard or Hardly Workin'?

I keep forgetting to update the news on Coach.
Our emailing correspondence came to an abrupt halt a few weeks ago when he went on a rampage about Lil Bro not playing summer ball.
I, being the awesome sister that I am, defended Lil Bro in saying that he was just over the high school thing. I was over the high school thing before my Sr year even started. I couldn't blame him for being ready to move on right after he graduated.
Coach apparently didn't like this answer, or the blatant insinuation that he is a loser for hanging out with high school students, and hasn't emailed me back since.
Oh well. The heart is far from broken. Very far. Extremely far.
It doesn't really help that Chris keeps referring to him as the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle" since he slouches so horribly.
He does though. Look like a turtle.
But don't tell him I said so. He already hates me.

I was leaving work a few nights ago when I received a text message from Chris. It was two sentences: Asshole called me. I’m freaking out.
Frankly, I wasn’t surprised. We all expected Asshole to come crawling back when he realized he isn’t nearly as hot as he seemed to think. AND that Chris is way too good for his pig-ass. I call him a pig for several reasons: 1) he’s pigheaded, 2) he’s chauvinistic & 3) he’s fat.
I was thoroughly upset for her but didn’t really see anything I could do about it. So, I headed to the gym.
Walking into the gym 15 minutes later, I received another message: Don’t go into the gym. I’m on break in a few. We have to talk. I’m freaking out.
Okay. A hold on the gym then. So I wandered to Blockbuster. (See previous post for Blockbuster adventure.)
Two hours later, she called to tell me the whole horrible story.
Asshole had showed up at her new job. He shouldn’t have even known where she was working. But he did.
Stalker? Probably.
And when she didn’t answer his calls, Asshole marched up to the front desk of the secure building and told the security officers he was Chris’ brother and there had been a family emergency.
Chris flipped out when she got the message, ran to the front expecting to see her older brother and instead saw Asshole.
At this point (I informed her very vividly later) she should have spun on her heels, told the Security Personnel that Asshole was an ex who had been giving her trouble and to have him escorted out and banned from the premises. However, she didn’t.
Instead, she agreed to meet him on her break (when she should have been calling me!) and listened to him apologize and whine and moan about how so sorry he was and lonely and in love with her and any other bullshit he could whip out of his plump ass at the time.
How dare a guy that thought sending tampons in a Fed-Ex package was an acceptable way to break off a 2-year relationship come crawling back saying he’s always loved her!
What?!
Tampons = Love!? What kind of fucked up equation is that!
Someone PLEASE explain to me what the hell Asshole is thinking. PLEASE!
And then everyone else pray that Chris does the right thing and cuts off his balls. Spare the rest of the female population the trouble.
Hell. If she doesn’t do it I’d be glad to step up and take one for the team.

Check back for ball-snipping updates.

It's already happened five more times while I was on break with Kelly. I was checked out by two guys while getting dinner. One at the local QT. And two more while walking back into the station...one of which was bellowing catcalls from across the goddamn street.
I have a different shirt on. Did a nipple check before I left the house. I've taken a shower. Check for funny smells that may attract creatures of the opposite sex. Applied new makeup. New bra. New panties. Everything.
So what the fuck is going on?!
When posing this question to Chris she answered, "It's pharamones. They can smell it. It's like dogs. You're just a bitch in heat."
"I think its horny for people."
"In heat. Horny. Whateva. It's all the same."
"You say poe-tay-toes, I say pa-tah-toes."
"Exactly. Horny bitch."

Labels: All things Vagina

Setting: The local community college campus in a small out of the way conference room
Time: Early evening
Goal: Endure a pointless introduction to a crap class I'm taking online
So there I was, one of the first to arrive, blissfully enraptured in the latest edition to one of my favorite series, when a seemingly aimless student pops his head in the door.
"Is this for French," he asked in one of those suave sounding accents.
I looked up and nodded with a "look-I-got-a-new-book" grin. "Yup." And then tucked my face back between the pages, completely ignoring him as he worked his way into the seat directly across from mine.
Minutes pass by. The teacher appears. More students filter in. The meeting starts. My eyes wander dreamily back toward my purse and the book I left off at page 37. The teacher starts babbling about who-knows-what on some page in some syllabus I'm supposed to be studying but can't seem to find the energy, when the suave foreign student raises his hand and asks a question about French being related to Russian. I smoothly turn an unlady-like bark of laughter into a "help-I'm-choking-on-my-gum" fit.
He glances over at me as I recover. I, like some newbie to the dating game, actually make eye-contact. Big mistake. He smiles, his eyes drifting from my face to my boobs back to my face and then back to my boobs before they lock like some sort of tatta-seeking missile. Then his seemingly friendly grin turns into some hot, promise of foreign lust. It was the most blatant case of eye-fucking I have yet to encounter. I nearly dropped my pen. His smile clearly said, "What are you doing later? Are you occupying anyone else's bed in oh, say, 20-minutes? I'm free. Are you free? For sex. Lots and lots of sex? With some foreign kid who's name you can most likely not pronounce?"
I quickly looked away hiding my sudden urge to flee the room with my books firmly covering my chest.
I called Chris on immediate departure from the class with only one short message, "I just got eye-fucked. Hard."

Setting: In transit. Returning from 1st Eye-Fucking-Adventure.
Time: About an hour after initial Eye-Fucking
Goal: Get the hell back to work before I get lost
While putzing along in my sweet little ride, I was busily dialing a friend when I happened to glance over my shoulder at the total piece of shit stalling next to me at the red-light. There, perched in a hatchback the size of one of those plastic race-car beds, is an aging Hell's Angel reject with wrap-around Oakley knockoffs.
Not only was he the atypical "wrecked my Harley had to take Mom's ride to work" kind of guy, but he also was oh, I'd say a good twenty-years my senior. A tattooed Mr. Clean with a jail-bait fetish. He gave me one of those feisty, "I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off-but-I'm-going-for-the-sophisticated-Bond-look" smiles and then promptly through his chin up in the air in the classic racer, "Whazupppppppp!"
My jaw dropped. The asshole actually had the balls to sit up in his seat so he could do the once over. Which, when you're sitting down and partially concealed by the side of a CAR, means he got to about my boobs and stopped. What the fuck!
I stepped on the gas as the light changed and cut the asshole off. That's right. See if you can ogle the boobs from back there. Bitch.

Setting: Blockbuster
Time: Late
Goal: Pick out a movie without being raped!
Wandering harmlessly through Blockbuster looking for the newest Underworld (another obsession I'll probably babble about later) when I turned the corner to nearly run over some helpless fellow patron in my quest for nearly naked werewolves. Guy looks up from the back cover of some piece-of-crap chickflick (he probably didn't think I noticed but I so did) then glances back down absently.
I'm working my way past him when he suddenly jerks his head back up and rotates it on his neck like an owl so he can watch me pass. I turned to glare at him and he grinned back completely unabashed. But I will give him credit. He did keep eye contact while I was glaring.
He did however follow me to the counter without another glance to the movie he was carrying. Good. I hope he's stuck explaining that movie to all his male friends.

Setting: Blockbuster counter
Time: Minutes after initial confrontation at Blockbuster
Goal: RENT my movie without being raped!
I won't go into the details because I've suddenly developed a killer headache right between my eyeballs. But needless to say the little guy at the counter who looked just old enough to drive was shamelessly trying to flirt with me. Thankfully, the Blockbuster account is under both I and Boyfriend's names. I did the, "Oh. That's my boyfriend. He's really big. And manly. And over protective. He practically pees circles around me."
And then I cutely tossed a few more exaggerated facts towards the creepy grinning man who'd followed me from New Releases and was now standing directly behind me.

Setting: HyVee Grocery Store
Time: About half-an-hour after the Blockbuster fiasco
Goal: Walk my happy-soy-eating-ass out the automatic doors
With my arms weighed down by two, crappily packed (Thanks HyVEE!!!) grocery bags, and slightly preoccupied with a minor-Chris-crisis, I was making my way toward the OUT door when this big guy came barreling though the IN door. Like any animal sighting some large mass heading directly toward them I had two options: A) make myself as small as possible or B) try to stabilize for the imminent impact. Me, I apparently try for option B, which at the moment meant throwing my arms out in both directions and planting my feet like a football player pushing one of those padded things across the field.
Mr. Guy suddenly seemed to realize he was about to commit non-vehicular-homicide and jerked to a stop inches from my nose. He then (I SWEAR TO GOD I'M NOT MAKING THIS UP) looked down the front of my body, which was impressive considering his nose was nearly pressed into mine and his hair was itching my forehead, and then looked back up at me (by which I mean my face) and smiled.
"Ello, senorita. Hows are u's doing dis evening?"
My arms plopped back down to my side, the rush of adrenaline completely failing to keep my groceries suspended any longer, and shouldered him aside.
I stomped out the double OUT doors and spotted a little old woman working her way in the opposite direction. I marched up to her in all my righteous fury and demanded to know if my nipple was showing.
Her mouth fell open so wide I could tell she wore dentures. She didn't answer. Just stared up at me.
I asked again, "Well is it?!" She shrugged, not even glancing down to my boobs.
Obviously she wasn't going to be much help. I stomped back to my car, feeling thoroughly manhandled.

Eye-fucked 5x's in one day. The math alone is staggering. I'm exhausted.

Labels: All things Vagina

Have I mentioned my parents are fucking crazy? They are. They're suffocatingly over-protective, which may stem from the fact that they both work for the very same Police Department I do. I'm like the fucking golden child down there. Everyone knows my parents. They remember when I was this tall. They remember when my mom got pregnant. They remember when my Dad oh-so-suavely walked up to her for the first time and asked if she was Filipino. (Which she isn't. She's Japanese for God's sake.) Everyone downtown knows everything about me, my parents, and everyone of my embarrassing toddler stories. So of course, my parent's manipulated my sort of twisted celebrity status to their advantage and have set up an elaborate network of spies to keep an eye on me. That’s how crazy protective they are.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents. And I fully recognize that:
A.) I'm their only daughter.
B.) They can’t stand the thought of losing another child
C.) That having cops for parents is never an easy thing anyway
But what I don't understand is why my parents have to be fucking crazy on top of everything else! Shouldn’t the rest of the stuff be enough without my parents being clinically psychotic!
For example, I'm about to graduate with four years of a good full-ride scholarship under my belt. Granted, my degree isn't in what I'd initially planned, but I'm happy with it. It's not a boring bachelors in business where you can go right out and find a job, but it's something I enjoy and doesn't make me want to scratch my own eyes out just to get out of class. AND THEY DIDN'T HAVE TO PAY A FUCKING DIME FOR ME TO GET IT! That small fact seems to constantly elude them when they’re critiquing my life choices.
But for awhile now I’ve just felt this itch to run away. My odd degree gives me the chance to either continue my study with a well-known program here, or study abroad in programs not as well known. I would love to study abroad except for the fact that I just don’t want to study anymore. I’m sick of it. I’m over the whole college thing.
I love my friends and family more than anything but if I have to stay in this city with them for one more year, I’m going to hurt someone. I’m glad I stayed to get my degree but I’m slowly going crazy. And not like regular stir-crazy. Oh no. I’ve skipped that stage and jumped directly to the ax-wielding, "Here’s Johnny!" crazy-cabin-fever-mother-fucker stage.
So when I stumbled across some info about Work Exchanges for college students, a light bulb went on in my head. Hell yeah! I could go work in a restaurant or pub for a couple months while exploring the UK. That would be fantastic.
Of course when I ran this past my mother the first thing she said was, "I thought you were getting your Masters?"
"I was thinking about it but this is the first thing I’ve been really excited about in a long time."
"But it could be a gimmick. A scam."
"I realize that, I’d do all my homework but I think doing this could be so much fun. I’d get to explore without worrying about my grades."
"You need to speak to your father about this. I don’t think it’s a good idea. They could sell you into white slavery."
At that point I walked out. I was on the verge of throwing something or crying. I couldn’t decide which. For the first time in four years I really saw something I wanted. Something that looked exciting and fun. Something that I wasn’t completely ambivalent to.
I want this.
So now what to do about it…I could go of course without considering my family’s feelings on the topic, but frankly I’d pay for it as soon as I got back. They’d never let it go. That’s how our family works. Especially regarding their little girl.
On the other hand if I do end up going to get my Masters over seas, I’m not sure I’d have the will to actually follow through and finish. But if I stay here for another three years to get my Masters in the Midwest, I’d have wasted the opportunity. If I stayed I’d buy a house and get a full-time job while I finished school and never again be able to just pick up and go to another country for 6-months.
I’m at an impasse. But the truth is. I want this. And that’s all there is to it. I want this. Maybe if I keep repeating it they won’t be able to talk me out of it. I want this. White slavery be damned.

Labels: Scholarly Articles of Interest

And I am one romantic mo'fo'.
Whoa! It feels so good to finally get that off my chest!
I only recently realized I'm a closet Romantic. Up until a few months ago the word was almost dirty in my book o' vocab. It ranked right up there with 'pleather' and 'camel toe.' I mean there's not much room in today's world of jaded divorcees and single parents for people of the dreamy breed. Especially at my age.
Most 20-somethings are only out to get laid. And while that's nice. (Really nice some nights.) It doesn't really float my boat to find myself with a bunch of clothes I don't remember buying and names in my phone I'm itching to erase but am afraid to in the event that they call I don't have my friendly skull & crossbones to pop up on my screen and ward me away from evil.
But while Romantics are mauled regularly in the dating world (I've seen it. Trust me. It ain't pretty.) they endure. And against my own better judgement, I find myself aligning with those people who are drawn to a world of happily ever afters and manly heroes who aren't just bar sluts...and maybe wear sexy kilts every once in awhile...
Anyway, one of my favorite writers right now is MaryJanice Davidson. She writes quirky romance novels that sometimes venture towards twisted. My favorite series is about a ditzy blonde who dies and finds herself foretold as the undead Queen of the Vampires.
It's funny and sexy and addictive like literary cocaine. If you have a couple hours to burn pick up 'Undead and Unwed.' It's a relatively quick read.
And if you already know what I'm jabbering about, here's Davidson's blog. --->MJ's Musings
Enjoy.

So, I have this thing for kilts. I know this. My friends know this. The guy that vacums around my cubicle knows this. Everyone seems to know this. And I have absolutely no problem with that.
One day I will find a sexy Scotsman with a deep brogue and great dick, who will drink smoothies in bed all night with me while we watch Anchorman and randomly quote the movie.
"Mr Burgendy, you have a massive erection!" or "Scotch. Scotch. Scotch. I love Scotch. Down in my belly."
Then we'll have great sex two, maybe three times, before we fall asleep sweaty and totally content. Sigh. One day.
Until that day, I will just have to dream about kilts. Kilts Gone Wild...Kilts on Parade...Kilts on Trampolines!

Safer in the Kilt from www.realmenwearkilts.net
A new (British) safety report confirms what every real Scot knows. Donning the kilt instead of trousers is good for your health. Department of Trade and Industry determined that putting on trousers poses a serious risk of injury because people lose their balance and topple over hurting themselves. The critical and most dangerous part is pulling up the second leg when the first is still at half mast. The yearly home accident report by the DTI estimates there were 4400 trouser victims last year. Another 400 injured themselves putting on their underwear. Kiltmaker Gordon Nicholson of McCalls of Edinburgh seized on the report as evidence of what he has been preaching for years. He said: "If people would only wear traditional costume, all this pain and injury would be prevented. "I have never heard of anyone injuring themselves putting on a kilt. I've heard of people injuring themselves once they've got it on," he added. "I would think if there were any injuries linked to kilts then they would be from dancing or drinking."

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings

It seems like whenever I get drunk, I inevitably end up debating the benefits and disadvantages of being a heterosexual female in today’s society versus a lesbian. As my friends can vouch for me, whenever I have problems with the Boyfriend or men in general I tend to rant about how being a lesbian would be so much easier but have not actually tried exploring that avenue of thought any further. So today my topic is: "Why I stick with the penis."
The fact is that the inevitable questions that run through my straight-girl mind when it comes to changing teams are almost too complicated to even be worth the crossover. For example, if I did become a lesbian what kind of lesbian would I be? Would I be butch? Girly? A candy bisexual? Would I still dress like a girl or would I try and pass myself off as a guy with small hands? Are lesbians allowed to own vibrators? Do we have to have a rainbow bumpersticker? Will I constantly be hounded by drunk guys to make out with my friend? Do lesbian couples make better parents? Are gay bars actually better than straight bars? If I slip up and go home with a really hot, Eric Bana looking guy can I still be a lesbian?
Even if all my questions were answered by some sort of lesbian Yoda, there are even greater reasons why I could never actually turn my Down-With-The-Penis rants into anything more than eloquent bitching, the biggest of course being that I don’t actually find women sexually appealing.
I mean, let’s face it, women are generally more attractive than men but you don’t usually find yourself wanting to rip a girlfriend’s clothes off just to get to her washboard abs. And dear God, can you imagine if you and your girlfriend were on the same menstrual cycle? It’d be a bloodbath…no pun intended. Not to mention the fact that women are naturally more catty than men, by this I mean we’re all fucking crazy.
We tend to see things that aren’t there and blame it on women’s intuition like, "I saw her give me a look in the meeting. I mean she was all smiles and jokes the rest of the time but that one little look negates it all! It’s probably because my ass looks so much better than hers in these jeans. That’s probably it…She better not get in my face about this or I’ll fuck her up! Anorexic bitch! I know she was eyeballing me. I know it! See if I’m her Maid of Honor ever again!"
But while women are fucking crazy, men are dogs. Literally, if they’re not sniffing at your ass they’re sure as hell sticking their nose in someone else’s. The list of reasons not to become a lesbian is extensive, but while the list of negatives for staying heterosexual is short, it’s thorough: Men are douchebags. That’s it. That’s all she wrote…literally. I’m not adding anymore to that list because it covers all the basics. Heterosexual men are generally pigheaded, egocentric gluttons, who are either hungry or horny. Not to mention that most men are hugely homophobic except in the case where they spy two "friendly" women sitting close together at a bar. Then…"Lesbians are so awesome!" Let’s face it, the only males you can trust for anything more than the occasional use of their penis are our Daddies and our dogs. So, to sum up, Men are douchebags.
Usually this is where I’d end this tirade but it’s come to my attention that a new breed of men have emerged. They are known only as, "Metrosexuals." These men seem to be a cross between male and female. They have the bodies of men, but the grooming habits and personalities of women. Personally, I think they should even get their own little blue silhouette sign for bathrooms. But while you’d think this would be a nice compromise for women in my situation, who can’t stand men or women but are inevitably drawn toward the penis, it really isn’t.
Why the hell would I want to date a guy who dresses better than me? Why would I want a guy who has just as many cosmetic products sitting on his side of the sink as I do? Why in GOD’S HOLY NAME would I want to be the one to kill the spiders? The one to check on the creepy noises in the kitchen at 3:30 in the morning? The one that argues with the mechanic about some "necessary" $300 part for the motor in my automatic windows?
Why would I want a man that doesn’t fulfill his manly purposes? It’s like having a really shiny sporty coup with everything automatic and a stereo that is nearly painful on your eardrums it’s so loud, but it doesn’t actually drive. It just looks pretty sitting in your driveway. You can sit in it, wave at your neighbors and glory in their jealous glares…all from your driveway. But not anywhere else. What’s the point in that?
Inevitably, what all this ranting boils down to is this: When all is said and done, would you prefer A) a lesbian who understands way too well your psychotic feminine episodes, B) a pretty man who dresses well but is not in anyway fulfilling the macho duties God handed to Adam, or C) a walking, talking penis who sits on the couch and watches tv all day but fucks your brains out at night…
(Insert pitiful sigh) I choose option C.

Labels: Penis