Don't ask where I've been 'cause you totally don't want to know. Let's just say hibernating. And ruminating. And reevaluating. And overanalyzing. No, I wasn't in rehab with LiLo, (but I would totally give you the dirt if I was) I was just having (another!) quarter life crisis. Adaptability is the name of the game, peeps.
I looked at my life (well actually life decided to give me a good and thorough mindfuck, so I really didn't have a choice in the matter), put my thing down, flipped it, AND reversed it. Oh, and I finally remembered that I have a blog and thought I'd get off my ass and actually use it. So, I'm back to bitch to no one in particular about shit that doesn't matter so I can distract myself from all the shit that does. Check back for random ranting.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Today is Weird
Today is fucking weird. At this very moment, there is a young man dressed as a generic biblical character standing outside my apartment building waving and shaking his staff at the traffic driving by. No, that's not a euphemism for something dirty, but I like how you think. Should I feel bad that I don't know the correct terminology for his biblical garb? He's got some kind of head cloth with a braided fabric headband type thingy and a white shorty robe that's about thisclose to showing his biblical junk every time a stiff breeze kicks up. Oh, and a belt and a wooden staff. Maybe he's supposed to be one of the wisemen? I really don't know, but it's fucking weird.
I would assume he was just another rando homeless dude, but seriously, we only have 2 homeless dudes in my 'hood and they're both present and accounted for. We have headphones wearing Tourette's guy (whom I love). Call me biased, but one day after getting my hair cut last summer, he actually stopped his random beat boxing to call out to me, "Your hair looks nice, miss." Love. That. Guy. Shit, my own mother didn't notice my damned haircut. That dude is always getting my spare change. Then we have the homeless dude who always tips his imaginary cap to me and wishes me a pleasant morning/afternoon/evening. I love that guy, too.
Oh, reason number two I know he's not a rando homeless guy: he's very well groomed and wearing brand new neoprene Teva sandals. Tevas? Really? Is that what Jesus would do? I think not, my friend. I'm pretty sure that even the son of God decided they were ugly and too cliche to wear in Seattle anymore.
Anyway, in conclusion, next time get a sign or something to let people know what the fuck you're trying to tell them with your erratic behavior. Remember: crazy homeless people are funny. Stupid college students conducting sociological experiments in front of my goddamned apartment are just tools. Love, me.
In other news, I finally got my got-damned corporate card today so I can stop trying to avoid being asked to pick stuff up for the office and just "expensing it" because although I get that the company will pay me back, does the company get that I don't have the cash to front them for their supplies and stamps and microwave and coffeepot? Does it? Does it?
So, first order of biz was to head to Costco to pick up all kinds of shizz to make the office livable and functional for people (read: me) who need to bring their sad little leftover lunches to work because they can't afford to go out for every meal. I loaded up my cart with all kinds of swag. Microwave, cups, plates, napkins, coffee, creamer, you name it. Well, guess what I found out when I was at the register after all my stuff had been rung up and put in boxes for me to take back to the office? Oh, my corporate card is a Mastercard. Costco doesn't take Mastercard. They only take debit cards or American Express. I'm sure everyone else in the entire world knew this but me, but seriously people: I live alone. How often do you think I shop at Costco? How many fifteen gallon buckets of canned tomatoes does one girl need? And the one time that I shopped there in the last year I paid with my debit card, so I wasn't made aware of their discriminatory credit card acceptance policy. What about us po' folk who don't have a gajillion dollars in their bank account so they can't buy ten thousand rolls of toilet paper, fifty pounds of Italian seasonings and a two-pack of flat screen TVs with their DEBIT card????
I understand that Costco has the more, more, more consumer-driven American society by the balls and they can do whatever they damned well please. Still, that is fucking ridiculous. American Express? Are you fucking kidding me? Nobody takes that shit, but that's the only card you take? Sweet. Why don't you just ram your industrial strength, economy sized, wholesale priced, gigantic 25-pack of fists up my ass, Costco? Do you realize that I have used my personal Mastercard such various and sundry locations as: the super sketchy Teriyaki shop/mini mart/payday loan/pawn shop in South Central near my old office, Taco Time, Pike Place Market produce stands, and a jewlery-making street vendor who was selling her wares at the farmer's market on Kauai. Kauai -- where 70% (or something, don't email me!) of the land is uninhabitable. Yet Costco: one of the largest and most well-known companies in this god forsaken country can't be bothered to accept major credit cards (I know Amex is considered "major," but seriously: who are they kidding)?
So, thank you Costco, for that enormously humiliating experience of having to stand there while the cashier announced that all of the stuff I'd just attempted to purchase would have to be returned to the shelves, because I didn't have a way to pay for it. Rad. Today is weird.
I would assume he was just another rando homeless dude, but seriously, we only have 2 homeless dudes in my 'hood and they're both present and accounted for. We have headphones wearing Tourette's guy (whom I love). Call me biased, but one day after getting my hair cut last summer, he actually stopped his random beat boxing to call out to me, "Your hair looks nice, miss." Love. That. Guy. Shit, my own mother didn't notice my damned haircut. That dude is always getting my spare change. Then we have the homeless dude who always tips his imaginary cap to me and wishes me a pleasant morning/afternoon/evening. I love that guy, too.
Oh, reason number two I know he's not a rando homeless guy: he's very well groomed and wearing brand new neoprene Teva sandals. Tevas? Really? Is that what Jesus would do? I think not, my friend. I'm pretty sure that even the son of God decided they were ugly and too cliche to wear in Seattle anymore.
Anyway, in conclusion, next time get a sign or something to let people know what the fuck you're trying to tell them with your erratic behavior. Remember: crazy homeless people are funny. Stupid college students conducting sociological experiments in front of my goddamned apartment are just tools. Love, me.
In other news, I finally got my got-damned corporate card today so I can stop trying to avoid being asked to pick stuff up for the office and just "expensing it" because although I get that the company will pay me back, does the company get that I don't have the cash to front them for their supplies and stamps and microwave and coffeepot? Does it? Does it?
So, first order of biz was to head to Costco to pick up all kinds of shizz to make the office livable and functional for people (read: me) who need to bring their sad little leftover lunches to work because they can't afford to go out for every meal. I loaded up my cart with all kinds of swag. Microwave, cups, plates, napkins, coffee, creamer, you name it. Well, guess what I found out when I was at the register after all my stuff had been rung up and put in boxes for me to take back to the office? Oh, my corporate card is a Mastercard. Costco doesn't take Mastercard. They only take debit cards or American Express. I'm sure everyone else in the entire world knew this but me, but seriously people: I live alone. How often do you think I shop at Costco? How many fifteen gallon buckets of canned tomatoes does one girl need? And the one time that I shopped there in the last year I paid with my debit card, so I wasn't made aware of their discriminatory credit card acceptance policy. What about us po' folk who don't have a gajillion dollars in their bank account so they can't buy ten thousand rolls of toilet paper, fifty pounds of Italian seasonings and a two-pack of flat screen TVs with their DEBIT card????
I understand that Costco has the more, more, more consumer-driven American society by the balls and they can do whatever they damned well please. Still, that is fucking ridiculous. American Express? Are you fucking kidding me? Nobody takes that shit, but that's the only card you take? Sweet. Why don't you just ram your industrial strength, economy sized, wholesale priced, gigantic 25-pack of fists up my ass, Costco? Do you realize that I have used my personal Mastercard such various and sundry locations as: the super sketchy Teriyaki shop/mini mart/payday loan/pawn shop in South Central near my old office, Taco Time, Pike Place Market produce stands, and a jewlery-making street vendor who was selling her wares at the farmer's market on Kauai. Kauai -- where 70% (or something, don't email me!) of the land is uninhabitable. Yet Costco: one of the largest and most well-known companies in this god forsaken country can't be bothered to accept major credit cards (I know Amex is considered "major," but seriously: who are they kidding)?
So, thank you Costco, for that enormously humiliating experience of having to stand there while the cashier announced that all of the stuff I'd just attempted to purchase would have to be returned to the shelves, because I didn't have a way to pay for it. Rad. Today is weird.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Ooh girl, you da bomb!
Ok, so we've all got one. The coworker who is really genuinely nice and friendly and in all other ways awesome to work with and a pleasure to be around except for one thing...She tries to slip into her misguided middle-aged idea of "street" slang every time she sees our receptionist, who just so happens to be, you guessed it: black and the situation is embarrassing for all involved. Well, maybe not for me since I just sit in my office and laugh and laugh about it, but it's almost embarrassing to listen to. Almost.
Every morning when said coworker arrives, let's call her Turtle, she throws out an exceedingly loud, "Hey, girlfrieeeeeend!" to our receptionist. Just so you can recreate it for yourself, just pretend the "girlfriend" is from that one line in the oh so awesome song "Things That Make You Go Hmmm." While I'm on the topic, good Lord that song always annoyed me. And now it's stuck in my head. Fantastic. If the receptionist has changed her hair or is wearing a cute outfit, Turtle will undoubtedly reward us all with a, "You go, girl!" She even snaps her fingers a la Antoine Merriweather sometimes. "You go, girl"???????? Dude, even Ricki Lake stopped saying that shit in 1997. Time to move on to a new token "black" phrase. Hand to God, I once heard her tell Recep she needed to "ax" her something. I had to disguise my insanely loud laughter with a faux coughing fit to rival any sufferer of whooping cough.
Now, if this were the way that Turtle talked to everyone, cool. I'd totally still make fun of her for sounding like X-tina when she thought she was all hard and shit about 5 years ago (as a side note, I think Christina Aguilera fucking rocks and I love how she totally has her shit together now and has stopped wearing assless chaps to the grocery store and seems really happily married). But alas, Turtle talks like your typical middle-aged, extremely white bread suburban mom to everyone else. Everyone except for Receptionist. You know, 'cause Turtle is down. She knows black people.
I guess all I'm saying here is that I understand Turtle's attempts to relate to Receptionist. I actually like how personable Turtle is and I'm sure this is just her way of trying to be on Recep's level. Unfortunately she is getting all of her terminology from old reruns of Martin or something. And that's whack.
Every morning when said coworker arrives, let's call her Turtle, she throws out an exceedingly loud, "Hey, girlfrieeeeeend!" to our receptionist. Just so you can recreate it for yourself, just pretend the "girlfriend" is from that one line in the oh so awesome song "Things That Make You Go Hmmm." While I'm on the topic, good Lord that song always annoyed me. And now it's stuck in my head. Fantastic. If the receptionist has changed her hair or is wearing a cute outfit, Turtle will undoubtedly reward us all with a, "You go, girl!" She even snaps her fingers a la Antoine Merriweather sometimes. "You go, girl"???????? Dude, even Ricki Lake stopped saying that shit in 1997. Time to move on to a new token "black" phrase. Hand to God, I once heard her tell Recep she needed to "ax" her something. I had to disguise my insanely loud laughter with a faux coughing fit to rival any sufferer of whooping cough.
Now, if this were the way that Turtle talked to everyone, cool. I'd totally still make fun of her for sounding like X-tina when she thought she was all hard and shit about 5 years ago (as a side note, I think Christina Aguilera fucking rocks and I love how she totally has her shit together now and has stopped wearing assless chaps to the grocery store and seems really happily married). But alas, Turtle talks like your typical middle-aged, extremely white bread suburban mom to everyone else. Everyone except for Receptionist. You know, 'cause Turtle is down. She knows black people.
I guess all I'm saying here is that I understand Turtle's attempts to relate to Receptionist. I actually like how personable Turtle is and I'm sure this is just her way of trying to be on Recep's level. Unfortunately she is getting all of her terminology from old reruns of Martin or something. And that's whack.
Monday, March 12, 2007
If I Die Before I Wake
If I die before I wake, somebody please call the cops because I'm pretty sure I just met the guy who is going to murder me in my sleep and stuff a pillow with my hair and/or make a leisure suit from my skin. I mean, he didn't throw me in a pit and spray me down with a garden hose every time I failed to put the lotion in the basket, but that's only because I didn't give him the chance. You may think that due to my penchant for hyperbole I am exaggerating. I say nay, my friend. Nay. I have an eyewitness and she will attest to the fact that this guy definitely killed small animals as a child and even odds say he has a human head in his freezer.
I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood with one of my friends with the idea that we'd get some air and scope out available apartments while we were out there. We came across an older building that was a little rundown, but I live in a historic neighborhood, so the buildings are old and you can't afford to judge a building by its exterior because it may be hiding some charming apartments. This building sort of resembled a dormitory or motel, but the location was good and I thought, what the hell? What the hell indeed.
As we approached the front door, we noticed a handbag sitting on the stoop, completely unattended. Weird, right, because nobody leaves their shit unattended in the city unless they are totally stupid. Or dead in a Dumpster, but we'll get to that. I pushed the button labeled "Manager," but there was no response. The call box made no noise, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing, so I thought it wasn't working. I tried pressing the button again.
Just as I turned to my friend to remark that I thought it was broken, I found myself staring directly into the dead yet queerly alert, sociopathic eyes of a total nutball. He was wearing a dirty sweatshirt and tapered jeans and had that bland, almost but not quite normal look of every serial killer in the history of the world. His Manson lamps raked over my body from head to toe as my flesh crawled in revulsion. He stared at us through the glass door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before finally poking his head out and greeting us warmly. And by greeted warmly, I mean he barked out, "Yes?" in his angry monotone. I told him I was inquiring about the apartment he had available and that's when the interrogation began.
"What are you looking for?" he demanded.
"A one bedroom," I replied. "Do you have any availab-?"
"Smoker or non?" he blurted out before I even had a chance to finish my sentence
"Uh, non."
"Pets?"
"Yeah. Wha-"
"What is your min, max and desired rent?"
"What do you have available?" I countered, totally thrown off guard by the barrage of questions. I mean, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions here?
"Tell me your min, max and desired rent," he droned.
"Well, why don't you tell me what your one bedroom is renting for and I'll tell you if I'm still interested," I said, starting to get weirded out and pissed off at the same time.
"$950 and up," he scoffed giving me a disgusted glance as though I was a dirt and excrement encrusted street person who was clearly wasting his time.
"That's fine," I said, "Can I see an apartment?"
"What color panties are you wearing and do you moisturize regularly?"
Okay, he might not have said that last part, but he may as well have. He was obviously thrown off his game when I didn't flinch and asked to see an apartment. Clearly he's used to running people off with his atrocious manners and crazy, crazy, crazy eyes. He whirled on his heel and walked inside. We followed and the foul stench of serious body odor, frustrated masturbation (and let's face it, dismembered bodies) wafted out from his "office," which he carefully used the door to shield from our view, probably so we wouldn't see the blood splatter.
He thrust a "survey" in my face and told me I'd have to fill it out in order to see an apartment. A cursory glance revealed that the "survey," included income, credit rating, social security number and all kinds of other stuff you should never have to give out unless you are actually applying for the apartment. The most I have ever been asked for is my identification and it's not like we're talking about some sweet ass apartment in a gated community or some shit. Chances are, the apartment was probably barely livable.
"Oh, I'm not sure I want to apply, I just want to see what you have to offer," I said. I mean, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I don't have to fill out shit for you to show me an apartment. I definitely wasn't going to give this freak any information about me that would facilitate his hunting me down, tearing me limb from limb and drinking my blood. I knew the second I laid eyes on this psycho I would never ever live there, even if they paid me $950 and up, but I wanted to see the damned apartment out of curiosity.
"Every prospective tenant must fill out this survey completely in order to assure my safety, your safety and the safety of our residents. You may not see an apartment without one."
My eyes began to water from the stench and I was done playing his game, so I just thrust the clipboard back at him and said, "I don't think so."
Anyway, I'm pretty sure he was trying to get rid of us because he was busy exsanguinating the unfortunate owner of the abandoned handbag. And I'm also pretty sure I'm next.
I'm off to wedge a chair under my doorknob and buy a shotgun. Pray for me.
I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood with one of my friends with the idea that we'd get some air and scope out available apartments while we were out there. We came across an older building that was a little rundown, but I live in a historic neighborhood, so the buildings are old and you can't afford to judge a building by its exterior because it may be hiding some charming apartments. This building sort of resembled a dormitory or motel, but the location was good and I thought, what the hell? What the hell indeed.
As we approached the front door, we noticed a handbag sitting on the stoop, completely unattended. Weird, right, because nobody leaves their shit unattended in the city unless they are totally stupid. Or dead in a Dumpster, but we'll get to that. I pushed the button labeled "Manager," but there was no response. The call box made no noise, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing, so I thought it wasn't working. I tried pressing the button again.
Just as I turned to my friend to remark that I thought it was broken, I found myself staring directly into the dead yet queerly alert, sociopathic eyes of a total nutball. He was wearing a dirty sweatshirt and tapered jeans and had that bland, almost but not quite normal look of every serial killer in the history of the world. His Manson lamps raked over my body from head to toe as my flesh crawled in revulsion. He stared at us through the glass door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before finally poking his head out and greeting us warmly. And by greeted warmly, I mean he barked out, "Yes?" in his angry monotone. I told him I was inquiring about the apartment he had available and that's when the interrogation began.
"What are you looking for?" he demanded.
"A one bedroom," I replied. "Do you have any availab-?"
"Smoker or non?" he blurted out before I even had a chance to finish my sentence
"Uh, non."
"Pets?"
"Yeah. Wha-"
"What is your min, max and desired rent?"
"What do you have available?" I countered, totally thrown off guard by the barrage of questions. I mean, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions here?
"Tell me your min, max and desired rent," he droned.
"Well, why don't you tell me what your one bedroom is renting for and I'll tell you if I'm still interested," I said, starting to get weirded out and pissed off at the same time.
"$950 and up," he scoffed giving me a disgusted glance as though I was a dirt and excrement encrusted street person who was clearly wasting his time.
"That's fine," I said, "Can I see an apartment?"
"What color panties are you wearing and do you moisturize regularly?"
Okay, he might not have said that last part, but he may as well have. He was obviously thrown off his game when I didn't flinch and asked to see an apartment. Clearly he's used to running people off with his atrocious manners and crazy, crazy, crazy eyes. He whirled on his heel and walked inside. We followed and the foul stench of serious body odor, frustrated masturbation (and let's face it, dismembered bodies) wafted out from his "office," which he carefully used the door to shield from our view, probably so we wouldn't see the blood splatter.
He thrust a "survey" in my face and told me I'd have to fill it out in order to see an apartment. A cursory glance revealed that the "survey," included income, credit rating, social security number and all kinds of other stuff you should never have to give out unless you are actually applying for the apartment. The most I have ever been asked for is my identification and it's not like we're talking about some sweet ass apartment in a gated community or some shit. Chances are, the apartment was probably barely livable.
"Oh, I'm not sure I want to apply, I just want to see what you have to offer," I said. I mean, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I don't have to fill out shit for you to show me an apartment. I definitely wasn't going to give this freak any information about me that would facilitate his hunting me down, tearing me limb from limb and drinking my blood. I knew the second I laid eyes on this psycho I would never ever live there, even if they paid me $950 and up, but I wanted to see the damned apartment out of curiosity.
"Every prospective tenant must fill out this survey completely in order to assure my safety, your safety and the safety of our residents. You may not see an apartment without one."
My eyes began to water from the stench and I was done playing his game, so I just thrust the clipboard back at him and said, "I don't think so."
Anyway, I'm pretty sure he was trying to get rid of us because he was busy exsanguinating the unfortunate owner of the abandoned handbag. And I'm also pretty sure I'm next.
I'm off to wedge a chair under my doorknob and buy a shotgun. Pray for me.
Monday, March 5, 2007
On Drunken Ramblings
Wow. I just reread my post from last night/early this morning. Wow. Shut up, me. Talk about whiny. I attribute it to beer and lack of sleep and the fact that not one single aspect of my life is nailed down right now. I don't know where I'll be working, I don't know where I'll be living, I don't know who Anna Nicole's baby daddy is...It's all just weighing on me and magnifies other issues that normally wouldn't be enough to get me down. Forgive the wallowing in self-pity. I'm fine. Really. Boys suck, but I'm much happier on my own anyway.
In other news, I think I lost my phone last night. Fucking great. Now I have no phone numbers and no way to contact anyone as my landline apparently doesn't work. Good thing I'm paying so much for it! If I haven't returned your phone call or text, now you know why. I'm an idiot.
Tomorrow's a big day for me. Big scary interview. Any good vibes you can put out are much appreciated. Okay, my next post will be funnier. I hope.
In other news, I think I lost my phone last night. Fucking great. Now I have no phone numbers and no way to contact anyone as my landline apparently doesn't work. Good thing I'm paying so much for it! If I haven't returned your phone call or text, now you know why. I'm an idiot.
Tomorrow's a big day for me. Big scary interview. Any good vibes you can put out are much appreciated. Okay, my next post will be funnier. I hope.
It's Not You, It's Me
At some point, you have to realize that maybe it's not that there's something wrong with everyone else you encounter. Maybe it is you. That's where I'm at. Maybe it's me. There has to be a reason every single guy I date either stalks me and totally creeps me out or treats me like a piece of shit. There is no in between. Maybe it is me.
My options have always been: be completely alone or settle for some guy that treats me like shit. The stalkers are never an option because my independent streak takes over and I will literally gnaw off my own arm to get free if necessary. For a long time, I was with one guy in particular that made me feel like I was unworthy of anyone. After him, I decided to be alone for a really long time. We're talking years here. But it's difficult when every single other sentient being in the universe is coupled up and you're not invited to shit if you don't have a date. So, here I am: settling for less.
It's embarrassing to tell my friends about the way that I have been treated and the way I still allow men to treat me. The way they degrade my sense of self worth and make sure I know that I'm not good enough for them to spend time with unless they have nothing else to do. That they like me enough to not want to see me with anyone else and will beg me to stay if I try to break things off, but not enough to actually become a real part of my life. That they have no compunction about canceling on me, disappointing me, and hurting my feelings. It's humiliating to tell people about how the only dudes who seem to want to date you are the ones that are sure to let you know that you're not even worth a moment's consideration. The rejection I have learned to take, but the humilation is freaking unbearable.
I either don't put up with their shit and am alone or I just struggle to accept the fact that what I want doesn't matter to anyone else and I'm crazy to think things will ever be different. I'm pretty fucking tired of being asked why I don't have a boyfriend. What is the correct answer to that question? Um, obviously I have some wicked personality flaw that keeps any guy without a severe hatred of women/mental disturbance at least 200 yards away from me at all times. It's like my own restraining order against normal relationships! After a while it wears you down and you learn to take what you can get. The disappointment hurts so much that I don't dare to hope for anything better. But I'm not quite ready to give up hope altogether. I feel so lost and completely alone right now. I can deal with that, but the prospect of feeling like this for the rest of my life is eating me alive.
Wow, this is really fucking depressing and self indulgent. I think I'd better go to bed now. Hopefully I'll be in a better mood tomorrow...
My options have always been: be completely alone or settle for some guy that treats me like shit. The stalkers are never an option because my independent streak takes over and I will literally gnaw off my own arm to get free if necessary. For a long time, I was with one guy in particular that made me feel like I was unworthy of anyone. After him, I decided to be alone for a really long time. We're talking years here. But it's difficult when every single other sentient being in the universe is coupled up and you're not invited to shit if you don't have a date. So, here I am: settling for less.
It's embarrassing to tell my friends about the way that I have been treated and the way I still allow men to treat me. The way they degrade my sense of self worth and make sure I know that I'm not good enough for them to spend time with unless they have nothing else to do. That they like me enough to not want to see me with anyone else and will beg me to stay if I try to break things off, but not enough to actually become a real part of my life. That they have no compunction about canceling on me, disappointing me, and hurting my feelings. It's humiliating to tell people about how the only dudes who seem to want to date you are the ones that are sure to let you know that you're not even worth a moment's consideration. The rejection I have learned to take, but the humilation is freaking unbearable.
I either don't put up with their shit and am alone or I just struggle to accept the fact that what I want doesn't matter to anyone else and I'm crazy to think things will ever be different. I'm pretty fucking tired of being asked why I don't have a boyfriend. What is the correct answer to that question? Um, obviously I have some wicked personality flaw that keeps any guy without a severe hatred of women/mental disturbance at least 200 yards away from me at all times. It's like my own restraining order against normal relationships! After a while it wears you down and you learn to take what you can get. The disappointment hurts so much that I don't dare to hope for anything better. But I'm not quite ready to give up hope altogether. I feel so lost and completely alone right now. I can deal with that, but the prospect of feeling like this for the rest of my life is eating me alive.
Wow, this is really fucking depressing and self indulgent. I think I'd better go to bed now. Hopefully I'll be in a better mood tomorrow...
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Resistance is Futile
Things I am powerless to resist:
Haribo Gummy Bears
You know, the REAL gummy bears from Germany in the gold bag. Not the sweaty, mushy, waxy shit they sell at convenience stores.
Sarcastic People
For obvious reasons. If I haven't gotten sick of sarcasm in 25 years, I don't think it's going to happen. Plus, sarcastic people think I'm funny and that's all that matters to me.
Watching Movies I've Seen a Million Times on TV
I really don't know what is up with this, but I own tons of movies and rarely watch most of them. But, if I am flipping through the channels and catch a movie that I own, say, Dumb and Dumber (as was the case last weekend), I will sit down and watch it. I won't just break out my copy of the damn movie with all the dirty parts firmly intact and no commercials. Nope, I'd rather watch the edited version on TV. I guess it feels like less of a commitment or something. I don't know...
Buying Tons of Grooming Products I Don't Need
I can't not buy every new lotion, hair product and lip gloss I see. I must have it all! Not only am I a drugstore whore, as Sisterson calls me, but I'm also Sephora's bitch and, as I found out a few days ago, The Body Shop's prag. Luckily I have a bathroom that's approximately 2 square feet, so I have nowhere to store it all. It's a disease.
Celebrity Gossip
I like to pretend I'm above it all, but I must know what is going on in Hollywood. Or else I'll die, apparently.
Jake Gyllenhaal
I recently sat through Proof in which Gwyneth Paltrow blew ropey goat chunks, but I enjoyed it because of Jake. He's not empirically the hottest guy ever, but he is still gorgeous. He is built like a brick shithouse, can grow 5 o'clock shadow like nobody's business and seriously has the dreamiest. eyes. ever. Plus, his man love with Lance and Matt is so cute. And he loves his sister. Adorable.
Giving Every Person I See a Once-Over
I have to know what everyone is wearing. I have to see their shoes. I have to check out how their butt looks in those jeans and whether that sweater is flattering. How else will I know what I absolutely have to have next time I have money to spend on clothes (which will probably be never the way things are going)?
Cheap Drinks
How many times have I drank WAY too much just because I found a rad happy hour or a cheap bar? I don't remember, but $2 for a pitcher of beer? Hey, I've got 2 more dollars! (BTW if you know of a good spot for cheap drinks, holla at your girl. Please?)
Real World Marathons
Luckily I no longer have cable, so it's kind of a moot point unless I stop being too cheap to pay for it, but I cannot look away from a Real World marathon. Gimme some Diet Coke and a blanket and I won't leave my couch for a whole day. For real.
Morgan Freeman's Voice
I could literally listen to a reading of the phone book so long as it was recorded in the smooth, dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman's melodic voice. Love it.
Babies
I love babies. They're so cute and innocent and for whatever reason, they tend to like me, too.
Animals
I love animals. Which is why I can probably never visit another animal shelter because last time that happened, I was racked with guilt for weeks because I could only take two of the cats home with me. In the last week I almost adopted a stray cat that was wandering the halls of my building and kidnapped a freaking adorable bulldog from a coffee shop. I have a problem.
Baby Animals
'Nuff said.
Things I can totally resist:
Beyonce
Her music is atrocious and her acting is laughable. Sure, she's gorgeous, but that's not much of a "talent." That Irreplaceable song makes me want to jump out of a window. Actually, I think all of her shitty songs provoke the same reaction except for Naughty Girl, but they hardly ever play that one on the radio anyway.
Cover Charges
Wait, you want me to give you money just to enter your lame ass bar or club when I could be spending my hard earned money on drinks to distract myself from said lameness? Bite me. You should be paying me for denigrating myself enough to actually be seen in your crappy bar. What is up with Seattle? Their clubs are laughably horrible and the bouncers never let girls in free. In Vegas I paid not one single cover charge because they understand that cute girls bring in the boys. Oh, and Vegas clubs are effing rad. WTF?
Yellow Teeth
Nobody likes 'em.
The Sonics
Get the eff out of my city because you guys suck my left one and you must be on crack if you think I'll give you one red cent for a new arena.
This Ad:
Haribo Gummy Bears
You know, the REAL gummy bears from Germany in the gold bag. Not the sweaty, mushy, waxy shit they sell at convenience stores.
Sarcastic People
For obvious reasons. If I haven't gotten sick of sarcasm in 25 years, I don't think it's going to happen. Plus, sarcastic people think I'm funny and that's all that matters to me.
Watching Movies I've Seen a Million Times on TV
I really don't know what is up with this, but I own tons of movies and rarely watch most of them. But, if I am flipping through the channels and catch a movie that I own, say, Dumb and Dumber (as was the case last weekend), I will sit down and watch it. I won't just break out my copy of the damn movie with all the dirty parts firmly intact and no commercials. Nope, I'd rather watch the edited version on TV. I guess it feels like less of a commitment or something. I don't know...
Buying Tons of Grooming Products I Don't Need
I can't not buy every new lotion, hair product and lip gloss I see. I must have it all! Not only am I a drugstore whore, as Sisterson calls me, but I'm also Sephora's bitch and, as I found out a few days ago, The Body Shop's prag. Luckily I have a bathroom that's approximately 2 square feet, so I have nowhere to store it all. It's a disease.
Celebrity Gossip
I like to pretend I'm above it all, but I must know what is going on in Hollywood. Or else I'll die, apparently.
Jake Gyllenhaal
I recently sat through Proof in which Gwyneth Paltrow blew ropey goat chunks, but I enjoyed it because of Jake. He's not empirically the hottest guy ever, but he is still gorgeous. He is built like a brick shithouse, can grow 5 o'clock shadow like nobody's business and seriously has the dreamiest. eyes. ever. Plus, his man love with Lance and Matt is so cute. And he loves his sister. Adorable.
Giving Every Person I See a Once-Over
I have to know what everyone is wearing. I have to see their shoes. I have to check out how their butt looks in those jeans and whether that sweater is flattering. How else will I know what I absolutely have to have next time I have money to spend on clothes (which will probably be never the way things are going)?
Cheap Drinks
How many times have I drank WAY too much just because I found a rad happy hour or a cheap bar? I don't remember, but $2 for a pitcher of beer? Hey, I've got 2 more dollars! (BTW if you know of a good spot for cheap drinks, holla at your girl. Please?)
Real World Marathons
Luckily I no longer have cable, so it's kind of a moot point unless I stop being too cheap to pay for it, but I cannot look away from a Real World marathon. Gimme some Diet Coke and a blanket and I won't leave my couch for a whole day. For real.
Morgan Freeman's Voice
I could literally listen to a reading of the phone book so long as it was recorded in the smooth, dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman's melodic voice. Love it.
Babies
I love babies. They're so cute and innocent and for whatever reason, they tend to like me, too.
Animals
I love animals. Which is why I can probably never visit another animal shelter because last time that happened, I was racked with guilt for weeks because I could only take two of the cats home with me. In the last week I almost adopted a stray cat that was wandering the halls of my building and kidnapped a freaking adorable bulldog from a coffee shop. I have a problem.
Baby Animals
'Nuff said.
Things I can totally resist:
Beyonce
Her music is atrocious and her acting is laughable. Sure, she's gorgeous, but that's not much of a "talent." That Irreplaceable song makes me want to jump out of a window. Actually, I think all of her shitty songs provoke the same reaction except for Naughty Girl, but they hardly ever play that one on the radio anyway.
Cover Charges
Wait, you want me to give you money just to enter your lame ass bar or club when I could be spending my hard earned money on drinks to distract myself from said lameness? Bite me. You should be paying me for denigrating myself enough to actually be seen in your crappy bar. What is up with Seattle? Their clubs are laughably horrible and the bouncers never let girls in free. In Vegas I paid not one single cover charge because they understand that cute girls bring in the boys. Oh, and Vegas clubs are effing rad. WTF?
Yellow Teeth
Nobody likes 'em.
The Sonics
Get the eff out of my city because you guys suck my left one and you must be on crack if you think I'll give you one red cent for a new arena.
This Ad:
"Boyfriend season is right around the corner"? Yeah, me getting reaquainted with my breakfast is what's right around the corner, bitches. Like boyfriends are a particular kind of game like elk or something. I don't know about you, but I don't have a boyfriend 'cause they're just not in season right now. I'd better invest in some new fuck me boots and push up bras and cram on my Cosmo Guide To Trapping A Man articles because I didn't realize hunting season was just about to begin! Besides, don't you think, oh, say the holidays and Valentine's Day (or VD, as I like to call it) would be boyfriend season? That is the most insulting ad I've seen in a while. Nice try, "True," but no fucking advertisement could make me feel badly enough about myself to search for potential man meat online. Oh, and I'm sorry, but that guy's not even that hot. Like, nice gold chain and weird pecs, cheesedick. Give me a break.
Leggings
Listen, having grown up in the eighties, I have worn a lot of leggings in my day. I already know they look good on exactly two people. I also know that I am not one of them. Some people need to learn this through experience. God bless. Just don't expect me to ever sport them again.
Meat With Bones
Um, I know it sounds dirty but I'm actually talking about food here. You will never catch me gnawing on a drumstick or tearing the flesh off a rib bone with my teeth. Granted, I'm not a vegetarian, but I pretty much stick to eating fish and chicken (boneless and skinless only), but I don't really like thinking about ripping a limb from an animal and going to town. It just seems so savage and disgusting to actually wrest the sinew from its bones. Sick.
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