It's like peeing on stuff, but with tassles.

I still have fantasies of proper posts...but for now we will stick with random facts.



That's a lot of peeing all over your boyfriend's house.
Source
(Who interestingly asserts you can never have too many throw pillows...so clearly we have different feelings on the matter.)

 FACT: Throw pillows are the girl equivalent of peeing on stuff to mark your territory. Seriously. Think about it--if you walk into some guy's home and he has throw pillows, you know there is a highly involved woman in his life. Whether mommy is still a bit too involved, there is a friend who doesn't realize she wants to be more than a friend, or there is a flat out girl friend or wife. Or, he's gay. Regardless, it lets other women coming into the space know that they should not count on this gentleman as a viable partner. It is one of those gender stereotypes that tends to pan out. (And I hate those, because I hate to think of myself as in any way stereotypically feminine. I'm not saying that makes sense, but just that it is my gut reaction.)

Also? No one really likes throw pillows. I am pretty sure. I don't. I have them, I put them around--but for the most part I find them vexing. Which is another way they are like peeing on stuff to claim it. While an effective method, no one really enjoys it. So the next time someone pisses you off, just rub a throw pillow on them and know that, secretly, it is just like you are rubbing piss on them.

From Toothpaste for Dinner

 FACT: Cucumbers are nasty, but tsatziki is delicious. I don't know how this works out, but I was reminded of it over the weekend when I made super delicious tsatziki (to go on the spanikopita and dolmas I also made) from super-nasty cucumbers. (I just mean that cucumbers are super-nasty, not that there was anything wrong with the ones I used. They were perfectly good, as cucumbers go.)



From Toothpaste for Dinner

 FACT: This comic is both hilarious and accurate. Also, if you did not already know about Toothpaste for Dinner, you should go check that shit out. How could it not be? The little neurotransmitters look like dinosaurs!

A day in the monkey-trucking life...

Good morning imaginary friends! I am in a super-cheerful mood today. Last few days actually. Believe it or not, I think the blog-vomit of my last post may have loosened up my mental constipation. (I so deserve a prize, puke and poop metaphors in the SAME SENTENCE!)

Anycow, for whatever reason, people occasionally think they should argue with me about my choice not to have children. Now I am not saying you would ever do such a thing, because you are all kind, decent people who only ended up here accidentally because you were googling asshole tattoos or "fuck me in my bathing suit." I am pretty sure swanky people like you understand that arguing with someone that they should have children when they don't want to is among the stupidest uses of time ever imagined. (Incidentally, if you have a more stupid one, I'd love to hear about it.) Some people do this, and to them I offer up "A Day in the Monkey-Trucking Life of Messy." (Incidentally, this is actually from Monday.)

5:45 am Smack phone repeatedly because you're a bit hung-over and there is no way in hell you're getting up, plead with JSun to feed the dogs so you can sleep more.

6:15 am Realize it is actually Monday, and that "one last drink" last night did nothing to change that fact. Hit snooze.

6:20 am Realize you need to leave for work in 10 minutes. Engage in some morning snogging.

6:25 am Drag your ass out of bed and thank "before" you for making sure there was clean laundry. Get dressed, brush hair, put in contacts, and brush teeth.

6:30 am More light snogging (Yes. All of the getting ready, responsible morning stuff happened in 5 minutes)

6:35 am Go downstairs. Pray to Jeff there is Diet Pepsi in the fridge. Thank "before" you again when there is. Thank "before" you for grabbing something out of the freezer for lunch. Remember you are supposed to eat breakfast with the steroid you had to take this morning from the time pineapple tried to kill you. Decide to eat cookies.

6:40 am Time warp where the clock magically says it is later than it could possibly be.

6:50 am Leave the house, a mere 20 minutes late. (This actually isn't too bad for me.) Commence with a big blah, blah, blah of work, errands (mostly going to 4 grocery stores so you can get the sparkly nail polish that you have decided will bring you the magic luck that will sell your house--never mind that you won't actually paint your nails until it sells--though I did get a couple groceries while I was at one store, and some booze), and 3 hours of commuting (seriously, we are not talking about that now--probably won't until it is over--but it is some crazy-sauce).

I think we can actually just stop here--it is clear that there is no room for children in here. The evening part of my day is a hell of a lot more fun, but it is NOT child friendly. Booze, blow-jobs, and cookies for breakfast. That's how I like my life. That's why I live it this way. I guess when it comes down to it, that's what bothers me about people arguing with me about the choice to never have children: It feels like they are implying I am incapable of figuring out what makes me happy and then living my life in a manner that achieves that. It implies that they believe they are more knowledgeable about what will make me happy or content than I am. And that's just rude.

P.S. I am sure I don't have to explain the concept of "before" me--many people talk about it--but just in case: There is the me that is now. There is this other person that is me "before" and yet another person that is "future" me. Now refuses to accept responsibility for before, because before is often an asshole. And now fails to recognize that I will eventually be future, so often fails to make necessary arrangements. Hence why before is such an asshole. There is even some science (not just Science) to the idea. One time I worked really hard to be as nice as I could to future for the following day. Laid out clothes and packed snacks and planned and went to bed early and didn't drink too much that night. It was really awesome. I have never loved before so much in my life. Usually now is too busy, though. Just monkey-trucking along. So now, before, and future live in uneasy amicability--each doing the best they can. Now is getting more considerate, though--both in terms of looking out for future, and forgiving before.

P.P.S. No. I am sorry. I don't know what my deal is with monkey. You are not the first to wonder. A few weeks ago at brunch I just yelled out "MONKEY!" When my friends looked at me with the standard, "Please tell us what the skull-fuck you are doing" look, my only explanation was, "I thought we were just saying stuff." It is a fantastic word and the animal conjures so much whimsy. And if you don't have room for more whimsy in you're life, you're probably doing it wrong. (See what I did there? I was rude.) Also, I think I have some form of voluntary Tourette's.

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.

This shit is gold. Or just shit. Whatever.

Still busy as fuck with moving and other insane life crap, but I thought I would share a glimpse with you of why you are glad you don't get emails from me. This is why:

[Actual email I sent on facebook yesterday. Except for the orange parts. I edited those. Because I can.]

Sorry. I suck at correspondance. It is on my list of things to work on about myself...but it hasn't made it to the top of the list yet. I am just a cad like that, I guess.

Thank you for the "no pressure" email. It's much better than a "put out or I'll never speak to you again" email. I've never gotten one of those, but I bet they're awkward as fuck.

I do not have an ANTI-tomfoolery policy. I am a big proponent of hanging out, having fun, and seeing what seems and feels right in the moment. In part that may be because when I make sweeping broad statements, I usually end up contradicting myself. (My god I am immature today: as I was just typing that, some part of my brain started snickering at "broad" "-dicting." Really brain? Penis jokes from that? Whatever.)

So why are you so all over the place lately? I gather it is for work, but I guess I did not realize you travel so much for work. Is this an abberation, or sort of the norm?

Do you guys know when you are coming down? No big deal, JSun and I just realized we didn't know.
Later, it was a seriously lack-luster conversation (on IM) with JSun:

1:10 PM me: Do we know when [innocent people who really shouldn't be subjected to my blog] are arriving/leaving?

1:14 PM JSun [who also probably shouldn't be subjected to my blog, but is not at all innocent]: nope

1:53 PM me: we should totally figure that out at some point...

2:10 PM JSun: yup.

So you can see, we are pretty up in arms about it. (What the skull fuck does that even mean? "Up in arms." It is weird how much shit we say that we have no idea what it means. Especially me. Or perhaps only me. I dunno. I find myself saying at least once, almost every day [in response to the question "what does that mean?" or, more often, "what in the hell does that mean?"] "how the hell should I know? I just say stuff." And it's true. And it almost bothers me/sounds like a bad idea...but not quite. It works for me. I just say shit and see what comes out. Like this message. Which is long and rambly and seriously tangential and rapidly approaching the "too long" point. It is probably already too long. But I'm not erasing it. This shit is gold. If gold were long rambly fb messages. I wish it was. I would be fucking rich. And this message would be an awesome gift. From me to you. So, in that awesome alternate universe where long, pointless email messagas are gold: You're welcome. And don't worry, I'm pretty gracious in that alternate universe too, so no need for a thank you note. BAM! Saving you time. And stationary. Point of fact: this is a run-on paragraph. Or, really a run-away paragraph. And all of it except for the first sentence is in parenthases. I bet you forgot. I didn't. Well, okay, I did. But then I remembered again. Because I am a bad ass mamma-jamma, and I don't forget close parentheses. Which is why I would make an excellent computer programmer. I am pretty sure that's all it takes.)

I think I am getting punchy and tired of being at work. Good thing I get to leave soon.

Yours until bacon strips,
Messy [How bad-ass is it that even my alter-egos have nicknames? Seriously bad-ass. Or seriously suggestive that this is turning into multiple personality disorder. Whatever. Potato, potato.]

And THAT, my imaginary friends, is why you are glad I don't email you. It's even worse if I've been drinking. Yeah...those people who contacted me on Craigslist about furniture I was selling probably didn't see that coming... 

Some things just need to be said out loud, like "dick-nickle"

So I actually have two Sciencey thoughts I came up with recently.

1) I bet that crap about needing to brush your hair 100 strokes a day goes back to when everyone had those natural/boar bristle hair brushes. They are kind of awesome (my hair is super fragile and easily breaks with other kinds of brushes), but you have to give yourself a repetitive stress injury in order to accomplish the task of actually getting all the hair brushed and detangled. I bet back then, if you didn’t brush your hair 100 strokes a day you looked like a matted yeti. If you were lucky. That is totally Science. Yetis = Science. Yetis iff Science. I can go all day people. I don’t know why I would, but I totally could. Merry Christmas, I’m a freak.

2) Shit. I forgot. THIS is why it is useful to have an attention span. Thanks a lot TV. You’re a dick-nickle*. (I don’t know haven’t made up yet will explain later what that means. Suffice it to say, I don’t want to be called a dick-nickle, so I suspect it works as an insult. It kind of reminds me of ass-pennies. If you don’t know what ass-pennies are, you might want to spend some time pondering why you are so sheltered. I suspect that if you don’t know The Upright Citizens Brigade, unlike me you probably have the attention span to spend time doing things that would qualify as pondering, because you haven’t eroded what tiny bit of focus you were born with by watching exorbitant*** amounts of ridiculous—if awesome—sketch comedy. I can help you with that. And help you get the edge that ass pennies provide.****)

Upright Citizens Brigade
Get More: Comedy Central,Funny Videos,Funny TV Shows

*YES! That is how it is spelled. SCIENCE SAYS SO!**

**It is possible that I misspelled that on accident but took the attitude, “Fuckit. I’ll leave it, and then maybe it will add to the entertainment when I get around to making up explaining the meaning of it.” And it could have transpired that I then looked up “nickle” and discovered that it is an alternate name for the European woodpecker and thought, “Fuck yeah! A dick-woodpecker. That shit makes itself up!” Plus, I like saying “dick-nickle.” But I’ll only admit to that last thing.

***Holy crapknuckles. I have been saying “exorbinant” my whole life, but there is no such word. It is exorbitant. I feel like a bit of a dick-nickle now. But you know what is a word? Shitsome. I know because I just made it up. It is when something is kind of awesome and kind of shitty. Here, I’ll demonstrate its use in a sentence:
Writing this post was shitsome: on one hand I learned something new, but on the other hand I made myself look like a total dick-nickel.
This shit is educational. You should be paying me tuition right now. By the by, where is my cut of the pee-ramid profits? I’ll assume the check is in the mail. Thank you.

****By educating you about ass-pennies. I’m not gonna shove pennies in your ass for you. That would be weird. Plus it probably diminishes the edge provided by ass pennies. See educational again. You’re welcome, from Science.*****

*****This asterisk thing has seriously gotten out of hand. I think I got them all, though. There are few things that churn my butter (in a bad way) more than an asterisk in text without the accompanying explanation. I suppose I could write normally (as in, without all the asterisks), but I’m not sure I know how to do that—SO STOP BEING ALL JUDGEY AT ME! +

+I’m sorry I yelled. To make it up to you, here’s another video. This one is from Viva Variety, with my Cool-Ass Pal Johnny Blue Jeans!




P.S. Thanks to this comic I sometimes think of Johnny Blue Jeans as my Cool Ass-Pal. Which is just different.

Random MONKEY-trucking!

Okay...so there are a half-dozen partial posts (by which, I mean pictures with at least half-interesting titles, if not decent text...or any text...) in my drafts folder, but instead--I think I will post some bullshite stream of consciousness cram. (That was a total accident, I meant to say "crap," but it made me think of the cramberries and giggle--so I am leaving it. We have covered the stubborn bit. Plus, until someone else is reading this, I figure I can be a self-indulgent ass...Like I usually am.)



Alright, so not related to anything: “Toddlers & Tiaras” is one of the most messed up things I have ever seen…It is almost enough to make me think booze and Netflix is a bad thing. Almost. My only consolation is that it is not the kids who look nutso in the buttso on the show. That--and apparently it is educational. I will admit to being 3-deep tonight (I always giggle when I say that, but I mean drinks), but I am LEARNING shit.

A) There is/was a little 6-year-old girl in West Virginia simultaneously participating in wrestling and pageants. Each is creepy to some. Some find both creepy. But still--it shows breadth. At age 6.

B) According to this documentary (that sounds SO much classier than “reality show”), I have discovered that child pageants are a gathering place for gay (or pseudo-gay) men in West Virginia. It isn’t anything pervy! I want to be clear on that. But, apparently, they aren’t allowed to gather elsewhere in the state. As a result, they seemingly marry, have children, then coach those children in pageants, so they can finally achieve a more comfortable social setting.

C) The word “personality” is said no less than 24.78 bajillion times per pageant. “Personality” is a stand-in for everything from physical attractiveness, to expensive clothing, to dance skills.

D) Apparently, it is legal to dress a small child up as a dominatrix, have her dance provocatively in front of an audience, and then televise it.

E) Competition has become this bizarre mélange of speaking well of the competition, trying to cut everyone else down, taking any advantage you can buy, and awarding everyone a prize regardless of performance. My cow. I find this shit confusing, what the hell do little girls make of this? “Stab her in the back, but then give her a ribbon for taking it like a champ!’?

I don’t really have any Science. (But neither do most of the people who claim “Science”…one more shampoo telling me it is “Scientifically improved” and I am going to make some ad executive out there a shampoo pudding for dessert.) Here is what I do have: How many of these lessons have we not already learned from Disney? (How do I make the “registered trade-mark symbol”?)

Wow. I was going to tell you about how awesome mint juleps are…but clearly I need to go to bed. Insomnia (last night) is a bitch, and I will cut that bitch the first chance I get. (But I’ll give her a present if she takes it well.) In the mean time, I will publish this nonsense, take a shower, use my partner’s armpit as a hair-styling tool (I will explain later…maybe), and go the fuck to bed. Which is good. Now I have to have a mint julep again soon, so I can explain how awesome they are.

P.S. That picture is of a mint julep.

P.P.S. My initials are engraved on that cup.

P.P.P.S. Yes, I am a bad-ass-monkey-trucking-madam of an imbiber.