Ummmm...Stuff. And things! And this little mark: ~

I hate posts about how sorry bloggers are they haven't been posting. So I am gonna skip that. (You either know or you don't care.) I also hate lack of context: So I will tell you that in the last year I have moved in with my partner, started a new business, quit an old job, and made a lot of life changes. (This, you already know. Or...You don't care.)

The thing is...I need to vent. I am boiling over, I want to be crazy and destructive (see: younger me). I think this is a reasonable alternative. So. I had great plans for my return to blogging. I have pictures. I have stories. I have idea on top of idea. I hope you get to see them. Apparently, I am doing this first.

So. (Apparently, I do that now, too. Treat "So" as a reasonable sentence. I also, apparently, now use the word "apparently" too much. We will discuss my obsession with ellipses at a later date...)

Let us say I have a..."friend." We will call her...Roxy. She is dear to me. A piece of my heart. Damage to her will mar me forever. With pain, with guilt, with sorrow, with anger...with so many things I cannot describe. There is not a name for our relationship. It is simply true that she lives inside me, always.

Roxy called me tonight. And I failed.

I failed: utterly, completely, and totally.

My phone died earlier in the day. It was charging in the other room. I thought I might have heard it ring...but I thought nothing of it. I thought it was another telemarketer...my mom with news I didn't want to hear...guilt from a neglected friendship...Fact of the god-damn-matter is...I KNEW I should have checked, but I didn't.

Well...Not for about 15 minutes, at least. And then I did. And I found that Roxy had called me not once, but twice. I would have run if I'd known it was her. I promise. I swear. On anything, on everything.

So. (Again. Ugh. Learn English, self.) I have a voice message of Roxy sobbing to me. About her current sorrows. About feeling "out of control." About "not knowing what" she is going to do. It isn't good language.

I only missed it by 15 minutes, but now she won't pick up my calls. She just texts to say she is "fine."

Rumor has it, she is addicted to heroin. Rumor has it, her boyfriend has had her hooked on pills for years. Rumor has it, she kicked him out today. Rumor has it, he is hiding her property from her--trying to hold her financially hostage. Rumor has it, he has hit her--Rumor has it, I have seen mild versions of this and done everything I could not to call the cops/hit him/shriek at him/make his life hell because she asked me not to. Rumor has it she changed the locks and is scared he will break in tonight. Rumor has it she won't let any of us who want to keep her safe near her (even if I am 3000 miles away) tonight.

Part of the problem is, I know the statistics. If he is abusive, now is when she is in the most danger (from him). If she is an addict, now is when she is in the most danger (from her use). If she is as alone and terrified and depressed as she sounded, now is when she is in the most danger (from herself).

And I can do nothing.

I am impotent. I am useless. I can do nothing.

Except say: I am sorry. I am sorry I missed your call. I am sorry I am 3000 miles away. I am sorry I told you to always have cab fare home, but forgot to tell you what to do when you hit rock-bottom. I hoped you would never get here. I hoped you would never need to know. Roxy, I have failed you (yet again, but that is an apology for another time. I am still haunted by the sound of your voice drifting through my wall...)

I really hope you make it through. No one knows where you are. Your excuses are...just that. Please live through tonight. Please. Please. If I had a god, I would beg him: Please.

Live through this experience. Live through this addiction. Come out the other side. I am so scared for you. I hope I get to show you this some day. Because you are okay, and we can look back on the dark times. We won't "laugh" exactly, but we will smile the grim smile of amusement and experience that comes from living through dark times and finding the good stuff again.

I REALLY want you to have the good stuff.




And, if you are not Roxy, thank you for bearing with me...or at least skipping over. The number of tears I have shed writing this convinces me of the necessity. I will try to get back to the drunken fun soon...



Come back Roxy. Even if you can't be Chow Lee anymore, or my Honey Bunches of Oats, just come back safe. You are so very loved.

Fucked up bitch, reporting for duty!

So this is the obligatory "I am sorry I am such a lame ass and forgot how to blog, but I really miss it, and you, and blogging, so I am gonna come back and try again, and I really hope you still like me" post. But rather than telling you all that stuff, I am just going to think it and expect you to know it. (The holiday brings it out in me. Passive-aggression always makes me think of home...)

Speaking of which, happy bunny/shagging day! Not much on the jebus, but I like getting down--so to celebrate, I got laid this morning. And then I made eggs. I know you wanted to know. That's why I told you.

Alright, so I think it is obvious I lack a coherent thought or the ability to organize the dribbles of thoughts currently eminating from my brain hole. As such, I am gonna stop. BUT. I did want to let you know I will be in NOLA this week, and so I anticipate some REALLY terrible-awesome pics for next week.

P.S. When I came back to my blog today, it said the top recent search result that led people to my blog was "fucked up bitch." I thought that was kind of appropriate.

Victoria's Secret is touching my cocktail where it's bathing suit covers...

I found this in my drafts folder. Apparently I made this in February...and then had enough drinks that I forgot to post it...

There are some drinks I am proud of. This is not one of them...



This is pink lemonade vodka and diet lemon-lime soda. It was fucking delicious, I can't lie...But it left me feeling ashamed and dirty. The walk to throw the little bottle away could definitely be classified as a "walk of shame." I tried to capture the color, but that feat was beyond my phone and the poor kitchen lighting. Suffice it to say, it made me think of the line "Pink" from VS. And I think that fits well with the drink.

The "Pink" line is essentially trying to repackage skanky lingerie so that it can be marketed to underage girls in a manner that they will still be able to convince their mothers to let them wear it (or even buy it for them). And that feels a lot like this drink. An adult idea that has been inappropriately modified to suit the tastes of underage girls, while not totally offending the sensibilities of those adults who may happen to see them.

Take home message: Don't tell frat boys about the pink lemonade vodka. Or underage girls, for that matter.

P.S. Don't think I am hating on the skanky lingerie. I'm not. I am not a big fan of VS, but I have drawers and drawers full of corsets and stockings and the like. I just find it creepy when lingerie is marketed towards girls in their mid-teens. They already have WAY too much of a skank-urge. You do not need to be leveling lingerie marketing campaigns at them.

Narsty Mystery Moisture

Am I the only one who overly distresses herself  by wondering about what new sponges (fresh from the package) are moistened with? It creeps me out. Why can't they just sell me a dried damn sponge? It would be lighter and smaller (and therefor cheaper) to ship--and then I wouldn't have to spend time sniffing and poking and feeling disturbed as all get out.

I don't care that it came sealed in a package...it is similar to the feeling I get when someone hands me a moist dollar bill, or when I rest my arm on a table only to discover there is something sticky on it. It is not as bad, however, as accidentally touching the underside of a public table to find a variety of crusty "treasures." And not nearly as bad as plunking yourself down too fast on a public toilet, only to feel unknown moisture seeping through that flimsy paper to your tender rump region.

You know, just in case you forgot any of those gross feelings. So, what about you? Sponge moisture creep you out? What is your least favorite unexpected substance experience?

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!

Science is spicy (Also known as, "Really, me?")

Spicy food digests easier. It's Science. If I eat eggs, I HAVE to eat hot sauce, or else I feel sick for hours. I prefer to chase that with some diet Pepsi, which I also believe helps kill the food in my stomach. If I have a nasty hangover, I can treat it like a pro: 2 ibuprofen and a glass of water, followed by a bloody mary or beer consumed with eggs, melted cheese, and LOTS of hot sauce. Follow that up with 2 hours horizontal in front of crap tv or movies and I am ready to drink take on the world again.

_______________________________________

Found this in my draft file. Not really sure how in the skull-fuck I thought this was going to be an actual post, as it is crap, pointless, and short....Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now I'm posting it. I blame it on the bossa nova rain moving. Honestly, it is like I am trying to scare away the few of you that are here. Sure, most of you are here by accident, but that's not the point.

Seriously, though. I am getting really curious: Could whoever is coming here after googling "the question" PLEASE tell me what the hell it is you are looking for? I could not be more curious. There is more than one of you. Or you are a creature of habit.

Okay. I am going to try to make this slightly less sucky with a 1-minute anecdote:

When I was about 10 my best friend and I were eating top ramen together. We were being silly and trying to make each other laugh. I thought I had totally won when I got her to laugh scalding broth out her nose, but then it was so funny that I laughed scalding broth AND a noodle out my nose. Which of course only made me laugh harder. Hurt like hell, though.

I will be back with real posts soon, pinkie-swear. In the mean time, what is the most awesome thing you have ever laughed out your nose?

Itty-bitty-titty-committee

Hello imaginary friends! That title is kind of irrelevant. Which means it mostly to completely is. I love that saying, though. It is just terribly satisfying to say. I have a tiny notebook computer named the itty-bitty-computer-committee (aka, babybot). Which is as bad a name as the title of this post--but almost as relevant. All of this to say: Short Story Time! I want to come up with an alliteration that uses "anecdote," but it didn't really work. All I came up with was Abbreviated Anecdotes Anon (which sounds like there won't be any drinking) or Abbreviated Anecdote Hour (which really only works when spoken). So! In the absence of a real post (due to ongoing chaos), random short stories!

I had totally forgotten about this movie. As I recall, it wasn't fantastic--but it definitely had it's moments. Source

• I was gonna tell you that the reason the title phrase just amuses me but doesn't offend me was that I was never teased about having small boobs. But that would be a lie. I was just never teased using that phrase. I was the first girl in my school to get boobs (at around 11-12), and as a result was constantly teased about how flat chested I was. While at the same time the boys kept trying to touch the boobs they said didn't exist. People are confusing. Particularly middle-schoolers. They are also assholes. Particularly middle-schoolers.



This comes up on the first page of images if you google "middle school assholes." I think middle schoolers are evil, but hippos rock my socks. So I went with this. Source

•  When I was about 5 or 6, I got in trouble for some damn thing (it was always something) and my parents sent me to my room. I tried to argue with them, to no avail. I felt this was a terrible injustice. I brooded and stewed in my room, until finally I stormed out to the living room to give them a piece of my mind. I apparently delivered some wee tirade about my rights, only the conclusion of which I recall. I summed up my point by saying something to the effect of, "You can't just treat me like that! I have rights! I am a human bean, you know!" My precociousness was no match for the hilarity of calling myself a "human bean," and so of course my parents burst out laughing. Not realizing my error, this only enraged me further. My efforts to have them brought up on charges in The Hague were unsuccessful.



This is NOT what I MEANT! Source

• The only time I have been to Honolulu (it was just overnight, on my way back from Samoa) I had a very hung-over breakfast drinking a li hing mui margarita listening to the two prostitutes at the table next to me talk about the guy that got thrown out of a 5th story window that morning at the hotel where one of them was turning a trick that morning. Her nipple kept popping out of her shirt, and all I could think was that I would be really pissed if I was a prostitute and had to work the morning shift. I can't imagine it helps with tips.

This really was the sexiest (and most photogenic) part of the story. Source

• I ran a 5k Saturday morning, but then basically spent the rest of the weekend getting smashed on vodkarade and watching/hanging out at a bike polo tournament. I have to say, bike polo is kind of the balls.

Hopefully I will get around to finishing the post about the pimp I was drinking with later this week. But, seriously, who the fuck knows!? (Damnit. I need and interrobang. Where is an interrobang when you need one!?)

P.S. Speaking of interrobangs...THIS just makes me laugh too hard. I have done my fair share of "walks of shame," but I think having specific clothing for that really takes the fun out of it. I never really saw the "shame" in it, either. But I suppose if you make it a regular enough occurance that you need a special wardrobe...that is probably outside my area of expertise.