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.

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.

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.

Naked Insecurity. Well, at Least It's Naked...Everybody Likes Naked. Everybody.

This post is about revealing a list of my secrets as a blogger, and was inspired by Lauren from Filing Jointly...finally and is an attempt to address #B1 (or B#1? #1B? Or should it be HL#1? Whatever...I think I am stalling...hey, did I ever tell you about the time I broke my foot playing frisbee?)

Okay. I am going to do an easy list first, and then try and work up to a list of more challenging secrets. Deep breath. Here we go...

First the super easy list:

1. Methodique Boisson is not my real name. She is a persona (both in the virtual world and the real world) that I adopt to express a part of myself that cannot be associated with my professional life. (Though I would add the caveat that this is really me—the me I am with friends and family and even complete strangers—just not a me that I can have a google-able record of floating around for professional adversaries to have. I feel slightly embarrassed about the use of a pseudonym, because I am a pretty open person—but pragmatism dictates I pretend to be more inhibited than I am. But I suppose that is more affecting a level of inhibition that is more stringent than I am comfortable with, rather than pretending. Hmmmm. This wasn’t as easy as I thought.)

2. Redacted. In it's place I will confess this: I ruin stuff all the time. It isn't "intentional," exactly, but in hind sight it sure looks like I did it on purpose. I am not sure if this is the clarity of hindsight, denial about my culpability, or a combination of the two.

3. I am simultaneously convinced that I am “too much” and “not enough.” I am too loud, too smart, too needy, too distant, too independent, too intense, too emotional, too vibrant, too complicated, and too strange. (Holy shit the word “too” looks dumb after you use it that many times.) I am not smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough, strong enough, fun enough, kind enough, friendly enough, a good enough daughter, a good enough friend, a good enough employee, a good enough professional, or a good enough partner. And the fact of the matter is, I have a lot of objective data to dispute all of that. But sometimes, I believe it anyway. I used to believe them all at once (as amazing and contradictory as that is—the brain can pull off some amazing contortions), and I have gotten to the place where that only happens once in a very great while. But they are sneaky, these thoughts, and they have split up so as to better infiltrate my defenses. They pop up just one or a few at a time now. But I am calling that progress.

4. I have really horrible nightmares. Some of them are just scary in the normal sort of way. Some of them are really gruesome. Really. The other night I spent the entire night sinking in and out of sleep, and every time I fell asleep I was in the middle of being stabbed and tortured. Sometimes I just have to watch the gruesome stuff happen to others. My brain has come up with some bizarre terrible things. How terrible you ask? Meat hook roller coaster. That is all I have to say about that. As a result, I do not like horror movies or really gory films (unless it is intentionally campy—then I sort of like those). I see enough of that crap in my nightmares. Plus, I think I am afraid of making it worse. I have had these nightmares in some form or another since I was a kid. When I was in high school, I had dreams about any person I was dating killing me. Fortunately, those have stopped. Other than me, (nearly) everyone in these dreams is a stranger now. I have started writing some of them down with the notion of trying to flesh them out into short stories or a horror novel. Maybe putting that shit on paper will get it out of my brain.

5. Related to #4 (as well as some stuff from my past), I suspect, I hate going to bed. When I was a baby, I apparently slept 8-12 hours a night and napped as well. When I was a kid I was a serious insomniac, I remember not sleeping at night as far back as about 5 or 6. Sometimes I just couldn’t sleep, the rest of the nights it was really difficult. In my teens, 4 hours of sleep was a good night. This came in handy in college, as a 20 hour day was old news to me.

Then, in my mid-20’s, I got really sick. I actually got a couple of kinds of really sick at once. As in, aside from doctor’s visits I didn’t get out of bed for 3 months (except to use the bathroom) or leave the house for 6 months. As in, my family started taking pictures of me in my sleep because they thought I might be dying. As in, doctors sent me to the ER several times a week, and no one knew what was wrong for months but everyone agreed it was serious. It sucked. I slept 20+ hours a day and was in constant pain. Even my dreams were about how tired I was and how much pain I was in. Dreaming of being gruelingly exhausted is one of the cruelest experiences I have had. Eventually I got better. I had to sleep more for a long time, but I learned to respect my body better. I slept better. Then I went to grad school, and apparently forgot every last damn thing I had learned about my body. I worked as many as 12-16 hours in a day and then read/studied at night. Sleep has been a problem again ever since. I can’t fall asleep. I can’t stay asleep. A few years ago I went 2 ½ months without sleeping more than 2 hours in a night, and most nights I got no sleep. I was hallucinating and had trouble functioning. I was barely able to scrape by at work.*

So all of this background is to say, between the nightmares and the insomnia, laying down to go to sleep is a daunting task. As a result it is difficult to get me to go to bed. (This in turn likely contributes to why I so enjoy sex that is anywhere but bed.) There is an extent to which the more tired I am, the more I need to go to bed, the harder it is to get me to go. Any number of friends and relatives can attest to this. It is not conscious avoidance, though. In the moment it just feels like I am having too much fun or I am too busy to be bothered with sleep. I just keep going…and then I collapse. I wake up on the sofa sometimes because I refuse to go to bed, but then just pass out.

I think it is getting better, though. I have a great DRP (pronounced “derp,” and standing for domestic romantic partner**), and he actually holds me all night long. That all but eliminates the nightmares, and the few I have are milder and I don’t feel scared when I wake up. It is also a really great time when we talk and connect, so I love going to bed with him. It is far from resolved, though. I am still working. Writing about it has given me some new ideas…so, I guess, thank you.

Well fuck. That was supposed to be the easy list. That was not easy. And I had a hard list and everything! How about this: Because that wasn’t easy, I’ll only post the hard list, but not explain. Deal? Deal. (Is this emotional exhibitionism? Is emotional exhibitionism a thing? I think I just like to really tackle a challenge if I am going to take it.)

The hard list:
1. I really want to be a writer and want people to read this blog, but also am embarrassed to share it with anyone.
2. I sometimes throw temper tantrums. Not as many as I used to, but I do.
3. I reflexively eavesdrop.
4. I used to use a lot of drugs.
5. I have been assaulted multiple times and by multiple people, and secretly (irrationally) worry it is something about me that caused this.

Just like ripping off a band-aid.

*Interestingly, this episode was resolved by my first visit to an acupuncturist. She said it was no wonder I could not sleep, I had flaming bucket loads too much yang (as in the component of yin and yang associated with speed, fire, masculinity, and aggression). I don’t know if it was the acupuncture or not. That night I had a huge bonfire (not recommended—seemingly coincidental), and it was just so appealing. I stood so close my face was stinging from the heat. That night I fell straight to sleep and woke 9 hours later. The streak was broken.

**There is no good word for this. We settled on derp because it is short and easy to say…and just god awful. If it can’t be good, embrace the crapiness.

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.

Ectoplasmgasm

I don't think this post worked out so well. If you are new here (which everyone is--if there was anyone...which there isn't), I would try this, or this, or maybe this. Hmmm...Maybe you should just come have a drink. Then you would know I am funny. I am much funnier with a lot of context...and the ability to use hand gestures...and facial expressions...and to flash my boobs at the audience if the whole thing goes south...

I...don't exactly remember this. Not that I was so drunk (possible), but it was just awhile ago and I found this picture I forgot to write about (true).



My biggest question is, why is there no damn cherry in there? We were putting limes on goddamned everything for awhile, all the colors of the rainbow--why not a cherry when the drink is green? Or at least a damn lime? Or some curtains...Or SOMETHING! Though perhaps I should just be thankful there was nothing on the drink to stab me. Even though the last drink stabbing made me exquisitely happy. So I shouldn't be thankful after all. Great. We are right back where we started, and the journey wasn't even entertaining. Unless you've been drinking. Which, of course, I have not. I don't go in for that sort of thing.

Oh yeah. I was going to say something about this picture. (I swear, I have the attention of a chimpanzee on crack.) So, it's defining characteristic is generic, store-brand Kiwi-Watermelon soda. To be honest, I didn't want to get involved...BUT THEN IT WAS ECTOPLASM GREEN!!! I still didn't want to drink it, but I sure as hell wanted to watch someone else drink it. That is the best part about making drinks for a lot of your loved ones: You get to see people drink shit that fascinates you, but you don't want to drink.

I don't know what booze was in there, but does it matter? Let's call it vodka. Who cares. Unless you are offering. Then I totally vote for vodka. Unless you have bourbon.

I think it may be time for bed again. DAMNIT! I WILL DEFEAT YOU ONE DAY, INSOMNIA! AND THEN I WILL BE FUNNY AGAIN!!!


P.S. I am stupidly watching "Toddlers &Tiaras" again...I like the "crazy," but it has gone well beyond that...I think this may be the last time I watch it, as it now seems a bit evil...A mom is pitting TWINS against each other, and is obviously on the side of one over the other...I am seriously debating whether I need to call DSS...I don't/can't...but some people are evil bitches. Just saying.

P.P.S. I may be sensitive to this...My little sisters (twins) used to insult each other as "ugly" or "fat"--even though just about anyone looking at them would call them identical. Breaks my heart, and always had.

P.P.P.S. Damnit! That isn't fun! How about this: I just took my top off. Topless blogging.

P.P.P.P.S. I was just going to say it--but I couldn't. I don't like to lie. Especially about nudity. NUDITY IS MY FAVORITE!

P.P.P.P.P.S. (I just said "pee-pee" more than twice! *giggle*) This post is a total patchwork--if that wasn't obvious--I totally jumped from beginning, to end, to middle, to middle of the end, to end of the beginning, to end of the middle...and so on. There was a lot of variance in...um, carbs? Does that cover it? (We all know I am drinking, I am just trying to find a good euphemism...)


This was clearly GASMIC.

(new) P.S. I once tried to get the license plate "ORGA" on a custom state plate that had the automatic suffix "SM". No dice. Party poopers. I went for "MIA." I found it hilarious, but I spent the year explaining that my name was not "Mia" and that I did not have an acquaintance in the military who was "M.I.A." Apparently no one was familiar with the concept of the miasmic theory of infection...and thus did not get why it was HILARIOUS to call my car a "miasm."

What I learned that year: No matter how funny you find a joke, if you have to explain it to EVERYONE--maybe it isn't all that funny.

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.