Sparkle Monkey-on-Payday Crack-Whore Steroids

Once upon a time, writing used to be a way that I released tension, worked through distress, and unearthed the perpetually delighted part of my soul from day-to-day drudgery. Sadly, I am so deep into the stress-worry-shame-guilt-worry-stress spiral  that I can barely move mentally. (Why yes, imaginary friends, I DO feel shame and guilt for feeling stress and worry, then worry about the shame and guilt. Thank you for asking. It makes a lot of sense, I know. Helpful, too.) Sine I can't actually write anything, I thought I would just vomit thoughts for your reading indifference, and hopefully that will lead to just enough movement that maybe I can write something soon. (Maybe I should write a treatise on precisely how--to the best of my knowledge--my particular brand of crazy works. I pull off some impressive mental contortions sometimes.) Also, the google searches leading to my blog have ceased to amuse me, so before the end of this I am going to have to try and toss something skull-fucked up in that title box. (Don't ask me what the skull-fuck is up with skull-fuck. I nunno. My brain has decided that skull-fuck can and should be inserted anywhere the word fuck is used.)

I think we will go with bullet points. Because they are fun. And they cut down on my need for mental organization. Paragraph bad. Colon good:

• I am trying to sell my house. It is showing like crazy, but no offers. (Even if I do get an offer, I may not be able to afford to sell it. [That is a really stupid sentence. I should've made the smart move.] I'm not underwater, but real estate agents want a lot of fucking money I don't have. But that shit is boring and I am not looking for this to be a bitch-fest. Unless it is the kind where it is just a festival of hot bitches, but the kind that are only bitches because they are bad-ass, not because they suck.) The point is, if WHEN my house sells, I know exactly how I will celebrate. There is a $2.50 bottle of cheap-ass nail polish at the grocery store. For whatever reason, it stole my heart. It is precisely the right shade of balls-to-the-wall red and it is glitter-as-fuck. So when my house sells, you will know because I'll be the sassy bitch strutting around with $2.50 sexy-as-a-monkey-on-payday glitter nails.
• Random note: I was once interviewing a crack-whore (I apply no judgement here, that was just her job [whore] and preferred means of payment [crack])--it happens more than you might think--and she was telling me about how she "never did it for less than five" except for one really odd time when she did it for "three-sixty." Now I am not a naive duck, and I was not then either, but for some reason (probably a desire to maintain some shred of respect for society) my brain said, "Wow she's not bad looking for a 40-something crack-whore, but who in the hell would pay $360 to fuck her?" My brain spent a few seconds wondering if she had extra holes or tongues in places I hadn't heard of before it crashed in on me that she meant she once fucked someone for $3.60. And it made me sad. And kind of amazed.
• But, really, who am I to judge? I just give that shit away for free.
• In my defense, I only have the standard issue holes and singular tongue (in the normal spot).
• Even more in my defense, I also really like to fuck--so waiting for people who will pay for it isn't practical.
• Also, I hear that if you turn your hobbies into work, sometimes they become less fun. That would blow. And not in a good way.
• Also, I have a different kind of job. People pay me to do other stuff. I gotz skillz.
• What the skull-fuck? Apparently blogger thinks it only needs three levels of bullet-points before it can just use further indenting. It is like they don't even want me to ramble on senselessly. Assholes.
• But not you. It's totally cool if you don't want me to ramble on senselessly. You are in the exact wrong place, but it is still totally understandable.
• Too far?
• Not yet.
• Too far.

No. THIS is too far. Scary pageant children of the corn. Because I can.

• Sometimes a Russle Stovers assortment box can teach you valuable lessons. Lessons like, "Sometimes you don't know what the fuck you want, so maybe just try random crap sometimes." I was in the store a couple weeks ago and boxes of chocolates were on sale. I was having an annoying day so I decided to get myself chocolates in the hopes that I would put out, and that would make me feel better. The majority of the box is now in my office. (If several week old chocolate grosses you out, you really need to buy some big girl panties. Aside from the knowing the science of how long chocolate lasts, I also have the Science of my own damn opinion based on my own damn experience.) So earlier I waited way too long for lunch, but then when I went to the kitchen there was a co-worker I really didn't want to talk to--especially while all sleep-dep-and-low-blood-sugared out--so I high-tailed it back to my office. Looking for a snack before I passed out, I decided to have a chocolate. Russle Stovers really just doesn't have much to offer in the first place, and the best ones were gone. What to pick? Surely not a molasses chew. That shit sounds gross. No one would ever ask for that. But nothing else sounded good, so why the fuck not. Guess what? Delicious. Seriously. The kind of tasty surprise that makes just enough of a positive shift in the trajectory of your day that you can still feel it hours later. Good stuff. The moral: I have no idea what in the skull-fuck I am doing. But sometimes I get it right anyway.
• Random note: The reason (one of the reasons) I know so much about how long chocolate lasts is that I am a candy hoarder. Not like the "Hoarders" kind. I don't have a ton of it. But at any given time you can bet your boots I have about 2-3 candy bars worth of candy in my office, and 5-6 candy bars worth of candy in my home. I hide it (harder in the office, but it can be done...do I file that under "D" for delicious or "H" for hidden?), because no one can stand to see my candy sitting around, so then they eat it, and I get more candy, and they eat that, and then they get pissed at me for making them eat candy. You'd be surprised how many people do this. Anycow. I hide the candy. Because the thing is--I don't really want to eat it. I eat candy pretty rarely. I like candy that comes in small pieces because I only want 1 or 2 bites at a time, and I only want that once every 1 to 2 months. But when I want candy? I WANT IT NOW OR THE WRATH AND THE DOOM OF ALL YOUR WORST FEARS WILL BE MAGNIFIED BY THE FIRE OF A THOUSAND SUNS AND AND SHALL DESCEND ON THE EARTH AND CLOAK IT IN IMPENETRABLE MISERY FOR ALL OF ETERNITY--AND THAT SHIT WILL BE LOOOOOONG! So, having candy on hand ensures that I don't have to suffer that feeling on the odd chance I want candy. Hiding it means it will be around (because trying to predict when I want candy is like trying to make sense of what I say when I get need-to-go-the-skull-fuck-to-sleep-but-gonna-cry-a-bunch-instead-drunk: nigh on impossible) when I need it, but don't have to get yelled at for making people eat candy. And the fact that I rarely eat it means it stays hidden for a long time. Hence, I know a lot about how candy ages. Wow. I think I have reached the seventh-circle of rambling. Shitsome.
• Hidden candy is also good, because sometimes people are all gloomy-gus or sad-face, and you want to cheer them up, but none of the stupid voices you make or the silly things you say help. So then you can be all, "TA-DA! Magic candy present from nowhere!" And that makes most people surprisingly happy. Just don't tell them it's been in your [I'm not telling my hiding spots!] for the last three months. If you don't tell them, they'll never know. Pinkie-swear.

This doesn't fit here, but it made me laugh.

• To follow-up on the fantastic success of "dayrinking," I recently invented "morunking." Morunking is harder to get away with. Fortunately, JSun says it is only morunking until 11am, then it's dayrinking until 4 or 5. After that, it's just cocktail hour. And a good hour it is.


Sounds good.


• So, the other day my mouth randomly decided to become incredibly painful and my lips swelled up until I was making involuntary duck-lips. 'Twas seriously suckage of the bad variety. So I go to the doctor and say, "I think I am having an allergic reaction to pineapple." I ate some, the skin fell out of my mouth, my mouth became painful as hell, and now my lips are swollen and itchy. I realize this is a bit of an extreme reaction, but my body has a track-record of "freaking-the-fuck-out" over minor insults or injuries in times of great stress. (I once had to go to the doctor, then the ER on doctor's orders, twice--and almost was hospitalized--because I scraped my gums with my tooth brush and my body decided to try and kill me in response. Lesson: Don't brush angry.) My doctor did give me the appropriate steroids for an allergic reaction, but also decided to come up with a bunch of other crazy-ass shit it could be and tests that needed to be run. Helpful. Adding imminent demise from ebola to my list of worries is helpful.
• (Like I said, I don't want this to be a bitch fest, but if my imaginary friends are curious: moving, selling a house, watching my financial resources evaporate and hoping things fall into place before I am literally out of money, transitioning jobs, negotiating contracts, starting a new business, and navigating the fall-out of a sexual encounter with friends that ended badly. Nobody's fault but my own--these are all choices I made--but I just couldn't help it. If it works out, my life will fall so neatly into place that I will be delirious with glee. The stress is hard--but big rewards are worth big risks. Except the last thing. That was just a lark. And a poor decision. Ah well.)
• Anycow, so the reason I am telling you this story, dear imaginaries, is so that I can tell you that ONCE, in ONE place, at ONE time...WebMD convinced someone they WEREN'T dying of ebola-brain-cancer. My doctor scared the shit out of me, and then I go to WebMD and it says, "Ummm...no. You are having an allergic reaction. Also, you may be dehydrated." I decided to go with WebMD on this one. Turns out, apparently aside from the normal "fucking ow!" reaction some people have to pineapple, there also seems to be a correlation between strong oral allergic reactions to pineapple and having an existing allergy to latex. (Guess what I'm allergic to?) Also, this can be made worse with exposure to sodium lauryl sulfate. (Guess what was in the mouth wash I started using the morning this started--which I also suggested to my doc as a possible cause [just the mouthwash, because it was new--I didn't know about the sodium lauryl sulfate]?) I realize that was quite a text wall, but I wanted you to know that it is possible for WebMD to make you feel better. That way you have a means of justifying looking up your symptoms the next time you want to but your brain says, "No! Don't do that! It will just tell you that you have ebola-brain-cancer and then you will feel worse." You can retort, "Shut up brain! Sometimes WebMD makes you feel better and tells you that you AREN'T dying! So I have heard it told!"
• I am doing much better now. Damn close to fine the steroids cleared it right up, though they do make me feel thirsty as fuck.

Because I am a romantic at heart.

Wow. So this turned out to be really long. I don't know if it was worth it, but maybe it will get something that is worth it percolating.

UPDATE: Oh fuck. I forgot to name this monstrosity. I just want to reclaim the joy of people finding my blog after searching for things like "fuck me in my bathing suit." (I don't know why you would search that, or how it would bring you here, but I love it.) I try to leave the word fuck out of titles, though. I usually don't give a leper's dildo, but I try not to be a total dick-nickle to people whose blogs I comment on that might. I think we get collage title.