It's the end of the world as we know it and frankly I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Oh goody. Not only did one of my coworkers find me on Twitter and therefore start reading my blog (sorry, but it makes me uncomfortable to have to deal with that at work), now my step-dad has found my blog. Which means, apparently, even though I told him that I didn't want him to read it because it wasn't really for family and I was uncomfortable enough with the thought of my aunt reading it, that he's reading it. AND SHARING WITH MY MOTHER.

I'm not sure there are words to describe the feeling in the pit of your stomach when you tell your mom about falling in the shower and she says, "Yeah, I heard there are pictures of it on the internet."

Oh. Crap.

If someone would like to share the link with my grandparents, now would be the time to do it. Oh, and while you're at it, go ahead and tell them I'm an atheist. My Nana's heart-attack is on your head.

I don't know what to do here, folks.

Part of me wants to just scrap it all and start over in some little anonymous hole where no one I know can find me. That's just sad because part of the fun of all of this was sharing it with some of my friends. But now I feel so claustrophobic and censored.

The other part of me wants to say a loud "FUCK YOU" and just keep writing without giving a damn what anyone thinks. Except that this is my MOM we're talking about, yo. We're only just starting to have a relationship. We don't have one of those tell each other everything without judgment kind of things. At all.

This blog is my home. I want to feel comfortable here. My heart is pressed between these internet pages. I put it out there for anyone to read, and I didn't hide it very well, but my parents are a little more audience than I would have chosen.

I'm aware that no one really cares and that life will go on whether I write or not, but I love this blog. I love that it is 100% me. I love the people who read and comment and share their stories. I've made friends. I've laughed and cried and thrown up in my mouth a little at all of your stories.

But this is my MOM we're talking about. Help!

It's Friday, we should break up - Beer Commercials

Real Men of Geeeeennnnniuuuussss…

Bud Light, I’m going to take it easy on you because some of your commercials have been not only entertaining, they’ve been downright clever. But if you make even one more of these real men of genius things I’m going to stop drinking your beer. Well, I’m not going to start drinking your beer. Since I think it’s shit anyway. This is serious. You could lose a (really unlikely) potential future customer. Dude.

Miller Lite, “The Commish” sucks, and that makes me sad because I like that guy who plays “The Commish” when he’s on Scrubs, or really any other time. I think. I don’t remember him in anything else, but I remember thinking he would make a great Clark Kent. But he’s really annoying in your commercials. Also, just for your information, most beers are “triple hopped” and “cold filtered.” Stop trying to act special because those guys who were doing a beer sampling thing (ahem, and gave me free beer that tasted good) told me you’re not. I’ll take the High Life, thank you (if I have to drink crappy beer). At least I’m keepin’ it in the family.

Coors Light, your beer sucks. Large, hairy ape balls. I have to give you props for making one of the more honest commercials I’ve ever seen in which your beer is used to fight off snakes. That’s about the only thing I’d use it for. Who says there’s no honesty in advertising? But these sports commercials? Have got to go. Now. Or I’ll stab you in the fermenter. (I don’t know what that means…)

Dos Equis, you are not the most interesting beer in the world. You are not even one of the most interesting beers in the world. Your commercials aren’t that bad, I suppose, but they’re getting really old. It was a good idea. The first time. Version 37.5 kinda sucks, though. Be more clever or cut it out. I have to hand this to you, though: I appreciate that you think it’s acceptable to only mention the product name once. Don’t worry, I remember it.

Tecate Light? I WILL NEVER DRINK YOUR BEER. I’m even pissed off that I just typed the name of your beer since you say the name of your beer 137 times (this might be an exaggeration) every commercial and I want to rip my radio out and throw it into the street and then get back in my car and run over my radio twice and then pick my radio back up, put it back in my car, drive it to an Olympic-sized swimming pool and drop it in with a plugged in toaster and a plugged in hair dryer and possibly your Aunt Myrtle. FUCK YOU. That is all.

I went to the Denver Zoo!

See?



The giraffe didn't even try to molest me. Even though I've clearly gotten my lips injected with butt fat or whatever they put in your lips these days. And I think I'm smoking. That's probably what kept him from sticking his head in my enormous boobs (Thanks Joanna!).

Also, I need supervision. Like all the time. Any takers?

Be warned, I probably won't like you very much if you try to supervise me all the time despite the fact that I've said I need it.

Oh oh! And I promised I'd share my sad, lame attempt at a comic in MS Paint with you guys, so here it is: (seriously, it's lame, don't look!)



Get it? No? I didn't think so. I'm not sure I do either.

If you're going to advertise a girdle, at least find a person who needs a girdle to model it. Oh, and you get to see my ass.

Generally speaking, I'm not a big fan of the girdle. Sure, I've got some lumpy parts or whatever, but most of the "shapewear" out there tends to just smoosh the fat you're trying to conceal out somewhere else. For instance, let's say I think my ass looks fat in these pants (and no, I would never ask the question. Because if I'm even thinking the question, I probably already know the answer). So I go out and get some "shapewear" to make my ass look slimmer. That's just going to push all my other fat out the top. Ew.

But the thing that kills me the most about this stuff is that they always have some skinny chick modeling it. Because, you know, she needs it. No.

Perfect example? While I was getting ready this morning, I saw this:



Yeah, yeah, I know. There are fat people in there. But the main model? Skinny. In no need of a girdle. Has perfect thighs. I hate her.

Also, my favorite part? The little cartoony re-enactment of what happens when you, dear fat person, put on the girdle thingy. You could look up to 20 pounds slimmer! Notice how the cartoon girl's fat just...disappears! That could be you! No.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way and that model can shove her girdle where the sun don't shine, I'm going to show you my ass.

See, yesterday, I was on my way to meet my climbing buddies, but I really needed a shower. I hopped in and lathered up. As I was shaving my legs, I guess some of my body wash was still on the floor of the tub and I slipped. Hardcore. I was sliding and my ass landed on the soap dish. Now I have this:



Yes, that's a picture of my ass. Don't ever say I don't love you guys. It hurts like hell to sit down.

I'm the opposite of a Puma because I'm not preying on anyone.

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It's Friday, we should break up - Donte Stallworth, Michael Vick, Plaxico Burress, Terrell Owens, and pretty much anyone who's ever been a Raider.

Here's the deal. You play football. It does not mean that you are somehow fucking immune to the laws of society. Despite how it may seem right now considering you, Mr. Stallworth, will only serve 30 days (and probably not even that) in jail for KILLING ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.

I know that accidents happen. I know that nothing is ever black and white.

The thing that gets me is that there was enough time for you to realize there was a person in the road and flash your lights "to warn him," yet you still couldn't stop or swerve or do anything to avoid him.

And these other "punishments" would only be punishment to a regular person. One who can't afford to have everything brought to him on a silver platter. And a driver to drive him around since he can no longer drive because when he drives it results in fatal injury or death (like the warning on the keyboard). And you know, I am a Browns fan. I was even a default Donte Stallworth fan. But now? You can suck it. May you not be able to find a driver.

Mostly, though, I just don't understand what it is with you pro-football players. Is it really that hard to keep your shit in check? I do it.

Michael Vick? I don't have anything else to say to you. Except that I'm fucking tired of everyone acting like, "Oh, he paid his debt to society, we should definitely pay him millions of dollars to play football again." Because no. We shouldn't. Sure whatever, you've "paid your debt to society." But does that mean that you should just, boom, be right back where you were? No. You think that when a doctor gets sued for malpractice and he resolves the issue they just let him practice medicine again? Yeah, that's not how it works.

Plaxico Burress? I'm pretty sure you're just an idiot. But I kinda like your name. Please stop carrying loaded weapons around with you. You're obviously not smart enough to use them.

I know Terrell Owens doesn't really fit in here, per se, but I am so sick of him I could scream. So I'm breaking up with him, too. Shut your face. Before I make you shut it. Oh wait. You have all those muscles. Please shut your face? Or I will spread rumors of your venereal disease. Or your sex-change operation. Don't kick my ass. I'm too pretty for that.

The Raiders. What can I even say? Al Davis, congratulations for putting together the biggest, most useless band of assholes on the planet. Aside from the cast of Jackass (you guys are funny, though). Do you even know how to employ a player who isn't a felon? I'm so looking forward to another season of you bitches falling on your asses. That thing you do can barely even be called "playing football." How about this season you all dress in drag? At least then I'll get some entertainment out of your games.

Don't even get me started on college football players.

So it's over, dudes. I know you're sad to see this end. Here's to hoping you all lose your dicks in a "sex with a hooker" incident.

Maybe I'll just start my own English Fail Blog.

Dear People Everywhere,

Be less dumb. Kthx.

Kisses with tongue,
shine

Just a few gems I picked up around the internets or on various products. I thought you might enjoy them. If you don't see any problem with the following statements, please stop reading my blog. Wait. No, I'm kidding. Don't leave! I love you!

On a website that sells cases and accessories for iPhones:

"The greatest guarder for LCD screen. 100% High Quality.

Show off your new iPhone 3G without the risk of scratching it. Our 3G iPhone screen protector are keep you an original color, protect against any dust and scratches and to eliminate glare. Precision made for and 100% fit on iPhone 3G. Comes with a free cloth to be used for swiping the screen clean before attacking the protector.

Prevent Peeping Design

Think about your privacy, everyone don't want to disclose your personal things to others. Think about a "prevent peeping" and "black voguish" design... then you won't be hesitated to have it!"

"Hard Plastic case is a miracle between Toughness and Luster, which gives a brilliant appearance, with high flexibility and durability, the shiny materials offer an excellent protection for your iPhone 3G."

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Let's have a party! Bring this 'bloody' sparkling case with your iPhone! You definitely will be the most extraordinary person in the venue!"

To be fair, I suspect these people are just the victims of a really bad translator. But it cracked me the FUCK up to read "bring this 'bloody' sparkling case with your iPhone!"

On my keyboard (years and years ago):

"Please read directions for proper use. Misuse of this product could cause fatal injury or death."

A couple of things. One, it's a KEYBOARD. Death seems unlikely. Two, fatal injuries usually involve death. Hence the whole use of the word fatal. Just sayin'.


This isn't about English, though there are a few bumps and bruises. I'm just wondering...who still FALLS for this crap? This one doesn't even make any sense to me:

FROM: MR. PHIL COLE
Dear Friend,

My name is Phil Cole, an oil merchant.
I have been diagnosed with cancer.
It has defiled all forms of medical
treatment, and right now I have only
few months to live, according to my
medical doctors.

I have not particularly lived my life
so well, as I never really cared for
anyone (not even myself) but my business.
Though I am very rich, I was never
generous, I was always hostile to people
and only focused on my business as
that was the only thing I cared for.

But now I regret all this as I now know
that there is more to life than just
wanting to have or make all the money
in the world.I believe when GOD gives
me a second chance to come to this world
I will live my life a different way
from how I have lived it.

Now that GOD has called me, I have
willed and given most of my property
and assets to my immediate and extended
family members as wellas few close friends of mine.
I want GOD to be merciful to me and
accept my soul, I have decided to give
arms to charity organizations and
research organization, as I want this to
be one of the last good deeds I do on earth.

So far, I have distributed money to some
charity organizations in the Peru, Brazil
and Malaysia where I made my money.
Now that my health has deteriorated
so badly, I cannot do this myself anymore.
I once asked members of my family to
close one of my accounts and distribute
the money which I have there to charity
organization in Eastern Europe and South
America, they refused and kept the money
to themselves.

Hence, I do not trust them anymore, as
they seem not to be contended with what
I have left for them.The last of my money
which no one knows of is the cash deposit
of Five Million US Dollars (US$5,000,000.00),
currently placed under the management of
my Fund Manager based in Europe.

Acknowledge this message so that I can
introduce you to my fund manager who will
handle the transfer of Trust Receivership
to you of the said funds as my Estate
Administrator.

I will want you to help me collect this
deposit and dispatched it to charity
organizations and Research Organizations
for research purposes.

God be with you.
Regards
Phil Cole
=

All right, I need your help because I can't figure this out on my own.

In the last couple of months or so, my life has been a bit...ridiculous. I'm single for the first time in a really really long time. I'm even happy about it. It's nice to be out there living my life for me. My last relationship/breakup was a rough one, as you may know if you've been hanging around here for a while. But two months ago, the clouds lifted and I realized just how much better off I am. And just how great it is to be me. I've never really been one to mind being alone (as in not in a relationship) because I have a whole slew of wonderful friends to love. Suckas. I'll lick your faces.

Um.

I've gotten completely off-track. And no, I'm not using the delete button. I like being off-track. Sometimes the most interesting information is there.

Anyway, the point of all of this is, that I accidentally ended up on a date without really realizing it was a date. And now I wonder this: What is a date, exactly?

Here are the answers I've gotten. Some are more obnoxious than others:

"He pays." - Who does this any more? Everyone is gainfully employed and besides which I don't want you thinking I owe you something because you bought dinner. I don't.

"A member of the opposite sex asks you to do something." - Really?!? Anything? Um...I'd rather not be the idiot who thinks I'm on a date when I'm not.

"I don't like to put labels on things." - Well, that just screams "I have commitment problems because I can't even commit to calling this thing we're on a date, much less anything else." Although, okay, there are some labels I can live without.

"Any guy who is talking to you is trying to get in your pants." - Yeah, I really hope that's not true. I also really hope that this doesn't work in reverse because I talk to strangers all the time with no interest in getting in their pants. Hmmm...

"I don't think you kids go on dates any more." - Thanks, Mom.

According to my mother, a date is when a guy calls a girl on the phone (no, texting is not allowed. Actually, I agree with this one for the first date) and asks her to do something (I'm assuming out in public. I don't think my mom knows anything about the booty call). He then comes to pick her up at her place. And he pays. For whatever it is. At the end of the evening, the guy takes the girl back home and they part ways. I'm not sure if a kiss is acceptable or not. Plans to hang out again should be scheduled at the end of the date, if both parties are interested.

Yeah, no. This doesn't really happen.

According to Dictionary.com, a date is "a social appointment, engagement, or occasion arranged beforehand with another person." Which means, if that third date rule still exists, I owe a lot of friends some booty.

I think the date status has something to do with intentions. And I guess if there's a kiss at the end of whatever it is, it's kind of a date. Maybe.

There are just no circumstances under which I can say, "Oh, right. That's absolutely clear. It's a date." unless the guy says, "Hey, do you want to go out on a date with me?" And who says that?

So I'm putting it to you, dear readers. What's a date and how do you know when you've been asked on one?

Madlibs!

So I was reconnecting with MadLibs a while back, and this is what I came up with. I think it rocks. The words I added are bold, so you can identify them. Truly, these are words to live by:

Here's to the Cuddly ones, the Oranges, the Shoes, the Men.
The Sexy pegs in the Ridiculous holes.
The ones who Fuck things differently.
They're not fond of Cans, and they have no Dogs for the status quo.
You can Schedule them, Be with them, Jump them, Catwalk or Suck them.
About the only thing you can't do is Eat them.
Because they Drink Boobs.
They Fondle. They Read. They Lie.
They Clean. They Burp. They Dance.
They Play the Bag forward.
Maybe they have to be crazy.
How else can you Poke at an empty Folder and see a work of Penis?
Or sit in an Eye and Lick a Box that's never been Copied?
Or Stroke a red Glass and see a Flower on wheels?
We make Desks for these kinds of people.
While some may see them as the Moons, we see Planets.
Because the ones who are Fucking Conservative enough to change the Ocean, are the ones who Crash.

Serendipity

This post is something I wrote about my last apartment complex. My new apartment complex is nothing like this. Yay!

According to Dictionary.com, serendipity is:

1. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident.
2. good fortune; luck

According to me serendipity is:

A horrible place to live. (And a not-so-great chick flick starring John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale.)

My apartments are called "Serendipity." I have to disagree with the naming, unless horrible smells, unfinished floors, missing drawers, horrible tasting water, constant loud music, people, and parties, and unfounded threats to turn off your electric bill "desirable discoveries by accident." I do not.

My apartment constantly smells of pot and Mexican food. I know what you're thinking, could there be a better combination? Yeah, I don't smoke pot, and I only want to smell Mexican food if I'm at a Mexican restaurant. It's not at all appetizing while I'm taking a shower. I asked them to fix it. I don't even think they ever came by for a whiff.

When I moved in my kitchen cabinets were missing two drawers. There are only three drawers total. It took almost three months to get the missing drawers. They tried to act like they had to order them...like I have custom cabinets. Please.

When I moved in, the floor under my dishwasher, stove and refrigerator was unfinished. Unpleasantly unfinished. That was nine months ago. The floor is still unfinished. I was told it was because when they have to move the appliances in, they needed that room. And I get that. But every other builder in the world has figured out how to finish the floor after installing the appliances. Why can't you? It's not like you're going to take them out and put them back once a week.

They decided to be cute and have all the light fixtures, with ceiling fans on remote controls. It's a great idea. Unless, of course, you don't bother to think out the fact that there are only so many codes for the signals, and my remote can work the fixtures in about 100 apartments. So at 4 am when I'm sleeping, but the girl downstairs is just getting home, you guessed it, she flips on my lights with hers. They came around a month ago and "fixed" the problem. In one room. It still happens in all the others.

When I moved in, my door was unpainted with no peep hole. My door frame consisted of several raw pieces of plywood. Stylish, eh? About three months or so after I moved in, they came by and painted my door frame to match the walls. Then a month after that, they came over and painted my door. Shut. They painted my door shut. I literally had to get assistance to get in my apartment. Then, a couple of weeks later, they came by and painted several splotches of a lighter color on my door frame. It has been that way for 4 months. They did install a peephole, though, so I guess I shouldn't complain.

Most of the other tenants in my building seem to know each other. One of them works for the apartment complex. He's the guy who gave me the brilliant explanation for my unfinished floor. He and all his buddies have a party every Friday night, in which they all stand outside, blocking various exits, shouting at the top of their lungs, and smoking. It's vile. And no one calls them on it because dude works at the apartment complex.

You know those drainage pipes that lead down the building from the roof, so that the water all comes down in an organized fashion? I'm sure you know what I mean. Well, at the bottom of those pipes, people often put these little...I don't know what to call them. Slanty pieces of concrete so that the water will run out and not just stop and puddle all in one place. Theoretically. You know the things I mean, I'm sure you've see them. Well, the dudes at my complex installed them backwards. So the slopes are facing toward the foundations of the buildings, rather than directing the water away. The cherry on that cake? They also left all the stickers with the pictures that show exactly how those things are supposed to be installed. Go Team!

Nearly all of the maintenance guys are skeezy and make nasty comments when I walk by, while looking at me as though I have no clothes on. It's lovely to come home.

I'm posting this because today, when I got home from work, they had put a notice on my door threatening to turn off my electricity. Why, you ask? Because I have an outstanding balance! Apparently, when I moved in, they didn't credit me for paying my pet deposit. I paid it. They just didn't record it. So I go in there, and the lady in the office says, "Oh, you didn't pay your pet fee." Like hell I didn't. She's currently going through her files, because they're not smart enough to see that when I make my monthly payments they're for my rent and my utilities. So I have a huge rent credit, but it looks like I've never paid my electric bill, save for once or twice. Plus, they never recorded my pet deposit.

See, every month, I get this notice on my door telling me they're going to turn off my electricity because I haven't paid my bill. Assholes that they are, they decided it would be really cute to have my electric bill due two days before my rent every month, so instead of just being able to make one payment, I'm supposed to make two. I refuse. I'm not fucking doing it. I will make one payment. It will include both my rent and my utilities, but I'm only doing it once. Fuck you.

My suggestion to you, friends, is that next time you're looking for an apartment, you think long and hard before deciding on Serendipity.

It's Friday, we should break up - My Middle Finger

Here's the deal. My middle finger and I have had some great times. I've pissed people off, made people cry, and gotten myself into a lot of trouble with my middle finger.

But now? It means nothing. It's completely ineffective. I flip people off and they just smile. Or laugh. Or turn the other cheek (thanks for that philosophy, Jesus. Though in my head, it's still about butts). It's so lame.

I guess these days unless you take a blade to someone's balls or pull out your loaded shotgun or have sex with a toaster, no one is going to pay any attention.

Is it just me? Or have your middle fingers lost their power, too? Maybe I should add spikes. Or sex toys. Thoughts?

Is it bad that this sort of made me think of David Carradine?

I'm sorry...



But I laughed.

Go to Cyanide & Happiness for more funny. Just do it. And feel free to send me a T-shirt or a naked plushy doll.

Closets & Basements

When I'm really down (or really up, for that matter), music really speaks to me. This song describes perfectly (and far better than I ever could) how I felt and feel about...well, everything. It brought tears to my eyes this weekend to think back on things and realize that over time, this song still feels like it's about me and only me.

It was written by Davida (Davi) Something That I Can't Remember (I looked! I can't find her) in a local band called Something Shiny that no longer exists. Music (that you can't hear) by Brian Davis.

Closets & Basements:

Been standing so long in this moment
It seems time's forgotten to move
I thought what I wanted was everything
Turns out all I needed was you.
In my life there is so much that's common
The rest is what you do
How can you blame me for bein' so crazy to live for these pieces of you?
How can you blame me for bein' so crazy to live in this memory around you?

I'm tired of lookin' in mirrors
And knowing the parts you can't see
I've never believed that I'm perfect,
But I just might be everything you'll ever need.
In your eyes, I can see every faith
That I've ever had in me.
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live in this place that you would leave?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live for your return to me?

Been trying so hard to move forward
To swallow my heart, hold it all in.
It gets harder to keep on believing
Until you're finally convinced you never did.
Over time I've turned longing and anger into
Something's wrong with me.
How can you blame be for being so crazy to give away hope meant for me?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live in this place called empty?

A year and a half and I'm finished
Completed my trip, I'm back home.
I've cleaned out the closets and basements
And counted only things that are my own.
All this time to learn one simple lesson
Your last gift, I cannot keep.
How can you blame me for being so crazy to rip off this blindfold to see?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live past this blame-seed in me?
How can you blame me for being so crazy to live beyond you to love me?

Damn it, they caught me!

So they caught me before I could destroy the entire infrastructure of the United States to smithereens with my...archaeology report. Oh, wait. That doesn't make any sense, does it?

Last week, I put a report in the mail to someone at the Army Corps of Engineers office in Fort Worth, Texas. Today it came back in the mail with this message:

"We regret that your mail was not collected or is being returned to you due to heightened security requirements. All mail that bears postage stamps and weighs more than 13 ounces MUST be taken by the customer to a retail service associated at a Post Office."

So they weren't worried about the fact that my possible terrorist device was in the mail twice as long as it would have been if they had just sent it to Fort Worth as requested. As long as I personally bring my possible terrorist device to the post office (does that really have to be capitalized? I'll admit I'm not sure of the rules in that case) they'll send it anywhere I want it to go? Huh.

So I'm warning any and all potential accidental terrorists out there, DO NOT PUT STAMPS ON YOUR HEAVY POSSIBLY TERRORIST DEVICES.



Take it to the post office. They'll help you out. Though not with a smile. Those people are pissed. Probably because Homeland Security now makes them deal with a person every time a package over 13 ounces runs through the mail. Go figure, we're more worried about terrorist activity than angry postal workers these days.

The thing about blogging.

Yesterday, I was having a conversation with Grief and he asked, "so is blogging an honest form of self-expression, or is it just another form of narcissism?"

My answer? Probably a little bit of both.

Blogging, to me, is like...a social diary. Mostly, I just write about ridiculous crap that I can share with random strangers on the internets. But sometimes, sometimes, I can write something true and personal. It's amazing how people I barely know will come and share their own experiences. Or just tell me that I'm not crazy or alone. And if someone else comes across my blog, and that person is going through the same thing, maybe he or she won't feel so alone.

Yes, I like to think I'm entertaining. Yes, it makes me feel good to think that people I don't know read my blog and enjoy it. Yes, I like the attention or whatever.

But that's not why I blog. I love to write. My blog was kind of a challenge for myself. To see if I could produce something worth reading. Regularly. Some posts are certainly better than others. But I try to bring something new to the table every weekday, may it suck or not. (Seriously, sorry about the sucky posts, guys.)

I'm kind of proud of my little blog. (Narcissism alert!)

Putting my personal stuff out there doesn't really freak me out. My mom asked me a few weeks ago, "But aren't you worried about what people will think of you?" And you know? I'm really not. This is me, for better or worse. This blog is who I am. And if you know me, you know that's true. Why would I be worried about what people will think of me if I'm just being myself? If someone chooses not to like me because of things they've read on my blog...well, I'm okay with that.

Blogging can be a lot of work, though. If you want people to read your blog, you have to read their blogs. So you read and comment and read and comment and write and read and comment and comment and write. It takes time. I can see how easy it would be for it to feel like a chore. And once it does, once it's no longer fun, what's the point? That can only mean one thing...

Blog Break.

And with bloggers sort of...dropping like flies right now, I was just wondering. If you have a blog, what does it mean to you? If you don't have a blog, why not?

Sexual Harassment, Geriatric Style

Let's all think back for a moment. To the stories I've told you about my dear boss. Like this one. And this one. We can't forget that one.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned the sexual harassment issue, but, well, there is one.

This morning I guess my neck was itching. Which it has every right to do. So I scratched it. Which I have every right to do. And I guess there was a big red mark on my neck from the scratching.

Boss thought it was completely appropriate to stroke the red mark on my neck when I leaned over to put something on his desk.

It wasn't.

I jumped about ten feet in the air, as I always do. This doesn't deter him at all, by the way. The other day, he reached out to grab my arm and I twisted it out of his hand. Didn't even slow him down.

Actually, Climber and The Mole came up with possibly the best suggestion I've ever heard. Just make a weird noise. Every time he touches me. Something bizarre and obnoxious.

It might actually work. Of course, I would feel a little ridiculous. But it's better than being fondled all day.

Also, it sparked an MS Paint, by request from Grief (a previously unmentioned person in my life, who now will get his OWN BLOG POST. Should he ever do anything interesting enough to warrant one). Drawn by Cam at the office:



I think I'm starting to fall in love with Cam's MS Paint renditions of me. I'm pretty adorable.

Since he was MS Painting, I wanted to MS Paint. My inspiration came from elsewhere.

In which Maxie rocks your face off.

So, okay, I haven't actually watched this yet because my boss is here and thus I can have no sound.

But I hear it's awesome.

Maxie, over at i hate so much, has written, directed, produced, and starred in this cover of Lady Ga-Ga's Pokerface. Which, actually, I don't think I've ever heard.

Spread it around!



UPDATE: I have watched. I have laughed. I have been in awe.

Yeah, I said it.

A collection of random crap I've said this week. Most of it to the same person, actually. I'm shocked that anyone continues to talk to me.

UPDATE: According to a friend talking to me is akin to the whole train wreck situation. You just do it to see what I'll say next. But in a good way. Or something. I don't know, it was kind of confusing, actually.

1. You just...pulled a hand...out of your ass?

2. In my head, you are totally a large-ish black woman with questionable fashion style. A la Jackee. (Said to peterdewolf go read his blog because it's awesome)

3. All I want to do is shout "LEGO my vagina!"

4. It's possible though that he who sucks at Twitter may actually be better at life.

5. I'm not sure how you say "Dude. Your mom? Is kind of a whore..."

6. Dude. The cake is always truth. That Portal game is a lie.

7. My periods keep to themselves. Because they know I want to murder them.

8. I can't spin when I've just grabbed a stranger's ass. I lose all concentration. Oops! I just grabbed your ass!

9. Checking the sexual predator list is always a good time.

10. I heard they were in your backyard on the regular. Look, why wouldn't you look for 1st century civilization in your backyard? If you don't do it, who will? And just think if you found something...It would be really exciting and I could do my dissertation on it even though I don't want to be an archaeologist. So really, it's all about me.

11. How long before it gets weird that I have no idea what your name is?

12. I know. I'm basically Obama. But whiter.

13. Bad grammar is not racially specific. Unless stupid people are their own race.

14. Fish have legs. (I feel like there must have been a reason to say this, but I have no idea what it was...)

15. I'm not old enough for this. Back off. (Said to the 60-year-old man who tried to hit on me.)

16. So that "0" key? On my number pad? Does not function as a space bar. Like ever.

17. Plus, see...your Twitter is like the small, intimate, unplugged venue. You can really cater to your followers. Whatever that might mean. I'm pretty sure it has to do with presents. Personally? I'll take ice cream.

18. Mouthful is pretty kick ass.

19. Oh. Wow. They're subliminal. I just built them right in. (said about exclamation points)

20. I prefer pro-wrestling where the hugging is choreographed.

21. Do I have to eat the baby? Cause that could get awkward.

22. Personally, I think you seem like more of a manscara dude.

23. It's hard to believe, but pretty-ish men on reality television may actually be dumber (and wear more makeup) than pretty-ish women on reality television. Oh Daisy!

24. This chicken was into some kinky stuff.

25. I got a little turned on when I felt my back muscles today. Seriously. Check out my biceps!

It's Friday, we should break up - The Internets*

UPDATE: THERE IS NOTHING SFW ABOUT THE LINK IN THE COMMENTS SECTION. NOTHING. (Sorry, Travis, it's a little late for you...but did "Peepgina" really seem like something that was SFW?) Also, I take no responsibility for what happens to you when you Google "Cake Farts."

Basically, this is how it is, Internets. You're making me dumber.

I can't remember how to spell or do arithmetic. I just had trouble spelling arithmetic. I can't go even five minutes without checking my email. Well, when I'm at work. Oh hell, when I'm just about anywhere (iPhone? You better be on your best behavior or you'll be next**). I know more things about how a cat would speak if a cat could speak than I possibly should (but hardly anything about how a woodchuck would chuck wood). I now know that the cake is a lie when I always thought the cake was truth (I found out about this on the Internets).

Yes, any time I need information, you're there for me. However, the reliability of the information you provide is always questionable at best. I could walk around for years thinking that Christopher Columbus "discovered" America and never be the wiser. Or that the earth is flat. Or that pop rocks and soda will actually explode me if ingested together. What a fool I would be.

I have seen something called a Peepgina and been the witness to cake farts. What is wrong with people? There are no links because...well, there just aren't. I'm breaking up with the Internets, here. I can't link you to the Internets. Except, okay, I guess I'm using the Internets to break up with it. Now I feel like a bitch.

So Internets, this is it. It's been a good run, but I'm going to have to let you go. You've provided me with a lot of laughs and we've had a lot of good times. But, after seeing Two Girls One Cup, I haven't really been able to look at you the same way and I think we both know it. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone else.

*Internets, if you're still listening, this is all a cruel joke and I love you. Please don't leave me. Let's make out.

**We both know this is a lie, iPhone. I love you so much. Never leave me. Or break. Or get lost. Or stolen.

Toilet Paper, Punctuation, Then and Than, and Why Things are Always Better MY WAY.

I'm pretty laid back. Generally speaking, I care too little about most things to get all worked up. Oh wait. I just defined "laid back."

There are a couple of things, though, that really just must be my way.

1. If the toilet paper runs out while you're using it? REPLACE IT. I really don't need pee dripping down my leg while I look for another roll. At work.

Contrary to popular belief, there is only one correct way for the toilet paper to be placed on the holder (which, you understand, doesn't involve sitting it on the back of the toilet). The roll must roll over the top. I don't want to spend precious seconds of my time chasing the end of the toilet paper down. I just don't. Then people will think I'm taking a morning poo. And I'm a lady (I use this term loosely. Like my hips).

2. I like to match up the silverware in the little cups in the dishwasher. With the used end up. That means big forks go with big forks, little forks with little forks, etc. It's just easier to unload that way.

3. Please learn about this crazy thing we call "punctuation." It's not just for English majors.

4. The words then and than are not interchangeable. Then is about time (And then he wanted to put ice cream on my toes!). Than is about comparison (My ass is so much better than Susan's face). I promise you can figure this out.

5. Apostrophes: They don't make things plural.

Just follow these simple rules and we'll get along just fine.

My way is probably better than yours anyway.

I don't even know how to title this blog because this cannot be my life. Seriously.

This is a conversation, verbatim, that I had with my friend Joanna (of MS Paint art fame, formerly and currently also known as Toanny)on the googly chat this morning. Because I don't even know how to begin to tell you about last night.

Also, if you're reading this story and you think you might be involved, you're not. Or maybe you are. I don't know. But try not to get all sensitive about it. I'm going on no sleep and a lot of uncomfortable here. Kthx.

me: Please tell me you're there so I can tell you that last night Motorboater asked me to meet his MOM. And when he bugged the shit out of me* and I finally agreed to meet him out, HIS MOM GAVE A STRANGER A BLOW JOB IN THE [REDACTED] BAR PARKING LOT.

Joanna: hahahahaha why is your life so cool?

me: Um, what, exactly, is cool about that?

Joanna: This shit never happens to me

me: He called himself the guy I'm dating** and wanted me to MEET HIS MOM after the second date.

Joanna: You have to move. Now. So he can never find you.

me: He called me THREE TIMES yesterday.

Joanna: I have an air mattress

me: In addition to texting.

Joanna: Holy crap. He's a bit insane, then?

me: I think I'm going to have to kill him.

Joanna: what the hell, his mom is a hoor?

me: Okay, to be fair, I think mostly he had just been with his mom for like four straight days.
But still...
And he like...kisses me like I'm his girlfriend.
You know, like kiss hello, kiss I'm going outside, kiss I'm going to the bathroom.
That kind of shit.

Joanna: Oh, damn.

me: And yes, it sort of seems his mom's a whore.

Joanna: Yeah, cut him loose.
He's clearly in love with you.
your mom's a whore

me: Also, the reason we know that his mom was GIVING A STRANGER A BLOW JOB is because he walked out there and saw it.
Ahem.

Joanna: Oh, jesus

me: Yeah, he was pretty traumatized.

Joanna: awesome

me: I felt bad for him.

Joanna: Like, totally unexpected***?
That sucks.

me: Well, I mean, THEY WERE ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.
I'm not sure what they were expecting.
When you do that shit IN PUBLIC, sometimes your son might walk out on you GIVING A STRANGER A BLOWJOB.
THEN.

Joanna: Wow

me: Bartender (the bartender at [redacted] bar) asked me to go to dinner on Saturday.
And we might have hung out talking until 3 am.

Joanna: I can't keep up! Is he cute?

me: I think I need to move.

Joanna: funny
?

me: Well, he's cute. But he's...older than my mom.
Ahem.
He's hilarious.
Not [Insert name of guy who is inappropriate to date here] hilarious.
But hilarious.
And pretty much a total gentleman and nice guy.

Joanna: Older than your mom.

me: Um.

Joanna: Uh huh
me: Yeah.
Actually older than my mom.

Joanna: Are there no boys your age left in Dallas? :P

me: MOTORBOATER IS MY AGE.
As is Inappropriate Guy.
As was THE EX, if I can remind you.

Joanna: Oh, okay. And they are clearly not ideal.

me: Plus, I don't do well with younger.
As evidenced by the child I went out with last weekend.

Joanna: Argh. Tony crisis. I must go find a bank and keep him from killing cats****.

me: Yep.

Joanna: I'm sorry! I feel so fucking rushed, things will settle soon

me: I can hear you laughing at me all the way here.

Joanna: and we'll chat more

me: Of course.

Joanna: I'm not laughing at you. Except the blowjob thing, because that's fucked up and doesn't actually happen to people.
:D

me: OH MY GOD.

Joanna: I'll catch you on some electronic device later!

me: Also, she apparently had naked pictures of a 41 year old Navy Seal she was fucking on her camera. Which Motorboater also saw...
Later!

Joanna: Holy shit. It's like bad tv.

me: But worse.

Joanna: Okay, bye!

I can't make this shit up people.

*By "bug the shit out of me," I mean he called me three times, texted me several times, and made me feel guilty because his mom was "talking to the guy she picked up" at the last bar and he didn't have anyone to talk to.

**To be fair, he actually called me "the girl he's dating." But I think the point still stands.

***The one question I regret not asking? How in hell could this be "expected"?!?

****I have no idea what these two things have to do with each other, but this? Is why I love Toanny. And by Toanny, I mean the both of them. Please come back guys!

Please Re-enter Your Password

Has anyone else noticed how you don't really get to pick your own password any more? I mean, you do. But there are so many parameters for them now, it doesn't feel like I'm picking. It frustrates the hell out of me. If I'm stupid enough to make my password "love" or "sex" or something, do I not deserve to get hacked? Can I not be trusted to come up with my own secure password? And frankly, I'm hoping someone steals my identity and gets saddled with my student loans. (Yes, I know that's not really how it works. A girl can dream, right?)

At work the other day, I came across a doozy. We were trying to get online access to a museum in another state. Here are the parameters for the password I can request:

Enter your desired login password. DCA Computer Security Policy requires that any new or re-set password must be at least 8 and no more than 16 characters in length, begin with a letter, and must include at least one number and one special character.

Not so bad, right? Yeah, I'm not done:

Allowable special characters are: # _ $ (pound sign, underscore, and dollar sign). No other special characters can be used in passwords. Your password cannot be the same or similar to your username, and re-set passwords must differ from the previous password by at least 3 characters. Your password also should not have any personal significance (e.g., your birth date, the make of your car, etc.) or be a word that appears in the dictionary. Optionally, you may leave this field blank and we will supply a password for you.

Seriously? It can't even be a word? How in hell am I supposed to remember this jumble? Oh, I should write it down and put it next to my computer, right? That's safe!

I'd also like to point out that all of this is being said because they want you to write down your password on their form and fax or email it to them. Thus, showing it to everyone in your office, everyone in their office, and possibly everyone in the entire world. That's secure.

Not to mention, um, you're a museum.

So after you come up with this jumble of letters, numbers, and those three special characters (why only those?), you also must change your password every six months. With three characters difference between each change. And it can't be the same as the last three passwords you've had.

Is this really making things more safe?

Yes, that was a 23-year-old boy who came out of the ladies' room. Yes, I did make out with him.

Don't worry, I'm not going to give you a weekend recap. Unless you want me to tell you that on Friday night I stayed home and went to bed at 10:00 pm (and rs27, I blame you for the fact that I watched not only The Duel 2, but also Daisy of Love. Daisy of Love is like crack! I can't wait to see what happens next! Ugh). Or that on Saturday I went to the gym (where I made my calves so sore I'm still hobbling around like an old lady) and did some rock climbing (where I bit it so hard I now have rope burn up my arm and I nearly yanked out my belly button ring). Because you don't want to hear about that crap.

Saturday, I hung out with my friend Dee Dee and her neighbor, Peaches. Where I was told one of the most awesome bad sex stories I've ever heard (it definitely competes with Maxie's soft-serve story). You'll have to check back later to read it. Hopefully she'll give me permission to tell it, since she's told the entire state of Texas and I won't even give up the guy's name.

Anyway, after the first bar, Dee Dee and I bounced to another place. Peaches doesn't really have a lot of going out stamina yet, so she took her lame ass home.

I am doing a horrible job of telling this story. Just ignore all the other crap.

I had to pee really bad, so I headed off to the ladies' room (what? That isn't what you do?). There were two girls standing in front of me, waiting. Ugh. Why do we all have to pee at once?

So the door opened and out walked...a boy. Um. It says "Bush" on the door, dude. You get what that means, right?

Anyway, the other two girls go in together. I'm sure they stripped down to their panties and had a water fight in there.

You're welcome.

I said to the boy, "Uh, you get that you were just in the women's restroom, right?"

He said, "Yeah, but I really had to go and there was someone in the men's room."

"Yeah, but now I really have to go and you made a line for my bathroom."

He said, "Oh, sorry. You can just go in the men's. I'll stand out here and guard the door."

Now, I really had to pee. But my experience with men and restrooms is this: Ya'll are all about 12. Not only do you frequently piss on every available surface BUT the toilet (I used to work at Whataburger, trust me, this is a true statement), you also tend to try the door handle when you know there's a girl in there (happened to me no less than two years ago at a Halloween party). So I was a little wary.

"Okay, but I'm locking the door and when I come out if you're not still standing here, I'm going to be pissed."

And apparently, it was love. Or something. Ick, ew, ugh. I just freaked myself out with the L-word. For the rest of the night, he was attached at my hip, talking to me, trying to be clever.

After my third blueberry vodka and cranberry juice (seriously, it was DELICIOUS), it seemed like a really good idea to give him my phone number when he asked for it. I even thought it was kind of cute when he immediately called me to make sure I hadn't given him a fake number. Which, frankly, I do all the time to those retail people who ask.

Me: Um...how old are you, exactly?
Him: 23.
Me: (Looking over at Dee Dee, who is CRACKING UP) Oh no...
Him: What? How old are you? Like 21, 22?
Me: Oh no...(much laughter)
Him: What?
Me: 29.
Him: That's not that old.
Me: (juice is now coming out of my nose because I have choked on it from laughing so hard) Uh huh...

He said he "really liked my personality" (read: boobs), and he'd "really like to hang out sometime" (read: make out).

He asked if I wanted to hang out the next day, and I said okay. And boy was that weird. He is...so 23. And I am...so a puma (look, I'm not old enough to be a cougar and besides, HE picked ME up).

My favorite moment from the "date"?

Him: Blah blah something about movies, blah.
Me: Have you seen the new Star Trek movie?
Him: No, but I really want to. Have you seen it? What did you think?
Me: I've seen it. It was okay. The characters were good, blah blah, but I didn't really like the story, blah blah blah...
Him: Oh, I just found this out, but did you know that there were like two other Star Trek movies before this one?
Me: (blank stare)
Him: I don't know if they were any good.
Me: (blinking)

...

Me: Um, you're kidding, right? If by "two" you really mean "ten."
Him: Really?

Oh geez.

But he has very good manners and seems to think we should "do this again sometime."

And yes, he has a job. Something about inventory logistics. And no, he doesn't live with his parents. At least, I don't think so. Oh no...