Monday, July 31, 2017

I'm not OCD but please don't touch my crap!

When I was child I was obsessed with the idea that aliens would break into my house. I wasn't afraid of them in the traditional sense; no tractor beam was gonna pull me from my bed and into the sky. No little grey man was going to teleport into my bedroom at 3:23 am. Don't ask me why that time is relevant, I have no clue. Most days I'm lucky if I've put my underwear on correctly. 

Every night I would have to get out of bed to make sure the door was locked. This was not an option. I couldn't sleep without doing this. Back in the day we lived on a cul-de-sac in a super white part of town; we always left our doors open. Crime was relatively unheard of. If shit happened though, my Grandfather "handled" it so we never worried. He was a tough Mexican man that always had a swagger in his walk, urinated in the rose bushes for convenience purposes, smelled of Tres Flores (Mexican hair gel for our Caucasian friends) and threatened to take out my braces for me with pliers if I complained about them hurting. He was our provider. We talked shit, were terrified of him and loved him fiercely. May he Rest In Peace. Any how, my best thinking was that locking the dead bolt would keep out the damn aliens. I had no problem with a fat man in a red suit lumbering down my chimney to shove gifts under my Christmas tree, but a higher intelligence coming to shoot the shit and maybe play some air hockey? No fucking way! Consumerism is a big green light, intellectual exchanges; no thanks! Every night, same thing: get into bed, get comfortable, nearly fall asleep....damn it! Door......

I have followed this thread over the next 30 years in several areas of my life. There are certain things that have to be just such a way if I am to be happy. Hell, if I'm being honest (I can do it, I can be honest! I can almost hear you assholes snickering) there are certain things that need to be a certain way just so I can move forward in life. Certain things will just paralyze my ass. Don't mistake me, I am not so messed up that I need to lock and unlock my front door a specific number of times before I can pass through it. I feel for folks who go through that. Honestly. I'm not even being a bitch right now. First time for everything. I try not to pick on debilitating illnesses. At least not until I have 20 solid blogs under my belt, then all bets are off. I do rearrange stuff on my desk though; sometimes up to 7 times a day. Do they actually move? Probably not. Do I feel better? Damn right I do! 

A sure fire way to fuck with me is to hand me some jacked up sandwich you made me because I don't feel well, but you cut it all off center. Now I feel crappy because I can't eat your shitty sandwich, but you set me up for this. I know you did!!  I've had partners in the past who like to play with my silverware while I've stepped away to use the restroom. I'll come back and my place setting is all messed up. I'll set it back to normal and while I'm not looking again, because I'm a Facebook whore, they'll move something again - slowly driving me crazy. I have these plastic toy trucks on my desk that aside from playing with, I also align perfectly with one another and the stapler at least three times a day. My closet is arranged by clothing type and hung accordingly: dresses, skirts, pants, shirts. As seasons change so does the wardrobe. I'm anal retentive. It's not OCD. That's what I've just stumbled upon this very second; it's not OCD in my case - it's anal retentive. I'm an asshole! 

I'm an asshole and I'd prefer it if you didn't touch my crap. I know where all my stuff is when I'm in charge of it. That yearbook from 1998? Yep, I know where that is. That instruction booklet for that IKEA bookshelf? Yeah, that's in the garbage because I don't do instructions and I certainly don't read IKEA. Assholes don't read or build things, we arrange the existing things until they fit in our lives they way we want them to.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Han Solo

Started out today much like any other day, cursing the sunlight and fumbling for coffee. This is usually followed by a fairly formulaic routine: bowel movement, eyebrow plucking, tooth brushing, and gym. During these gym sessions I usually let my mind wander into what I think would make a funny webisode of “Take that, Bitch,” like Tina mad dogging people in the gym and then masterfully eating shit on one of the machines. I play things out in my head so thoroughly that I often make myself laugh out loud. I play air drums and “walk hard” through the gym with some puffed up sense of self. I am truly terrified. I have a shirt that reads “A fun thing to do in the morning is not talk to me.” The truth of the matter is I am so incredibly awkward that if you stopped to say hello to me I would probably respond with “yes” or “happy birthday.” Walking away from that situation I would curse you for being friendly and outgoing; why you gotta be so nice? I am also completely destroying my own self-worth and mentally inhaling a pint of Hagen Daz coffee ice cream. This particular morning though, instead of practicing my resting bitch face I am brainstorming ideas for my next writing. I want to write on something we can all relate to on some level. It’s clear what I need to write about; our first sexual experience. I say “our” because we’ve all had one. If you haven’t, you should probably stop reading RIGHT now.  You’re likely to stay a virgin forever and I don’t need that shit on my conscience. I’ll take a moment to make clear that “sexual experience”  is not that time you were 12 or 14 and found the dirty channel on your parents TV and desperately tried to unscramble it or make heads or tails of it between the snowy pattern and jumping screen while you masturbated or dry humped your pillow. This is not that.  

*The following are actual events. They actually happened. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. We will call my partner in this act Han (might as well have been solo in this act) *

I can’t remember if I was 15 or 16 when my first sexual experience happened. If I say 14 does the slut shaming begin? I honestly don’t remember. I have a hard time remembering what I ate for dinner the night before last or what I said yesterday, but I will remember exactly what you said three years ago at a party with live music that pissed me off and you seemed not to notice. I will carry that little gem around for as long as it takes too. It must be played at the right time. I can be patient; calculated even. You should take note of this and be scared. Digression, I do that a lot. Ok…for sake of argument we’ll say I’m 15. Han and I have been “going steady” for all of 2 months now. Eternity!! We are for sure getting married. I can feel it. He’s the one. This dude even held my hair (I had hair down to my waist at the time, this was no easy task) while I puked into his toilet after drinking 40oz Mickey’s wide mouth malt beverages. Aren’t all Mickey’s wide mouth bottles? God, I was so sophisticated. The puking wasn’t the worst part - it was the toilet freshener his mother had attached to the inside of the toilet. 1000 Flushes blue! I became closely acquainted to it. Vomit and beer and 1000 Flushes blue; some things you can never forget. I was also wearing a very fetching ankle length flannel nightgown. So hot! I’d fuck me. That however was not our night - I’m just building our relationship. This dude, Han, was obviously the man that my acne ridden 15 year old, know-it-all ass was going to spend the rest of my life with. Obvi!

 It was summer and I was in a band at the time. I had converted my actual room into creative space and moved my queen size mattress into my walk in closet. My mother thought I was an odd girl, I thought I was odd too. I liked it in there. I now had two doors that had to be passed through before I could be reached; bedroom and closet. I felt warm and cocooned in there. The bedroom space was guitar, amp, art, etc. The main space is where all my creative crap happened. It’s where I gave life to a Chia-Pet, and then killed it. Painted a face on a pet rock, named it, and then lost it. I wrote a shit ton of horrible poetry in that space, smoked a lot of weed and dropped a bunch of acid in there too. I miss that girl. I think she and I are playing hide and seek again, maybe just without the drugs this time. Hopefully my son doesn’t end up like my Chia-Pet and pet rock.

Han came over one day and I’m pretty sure I thought: “well, I guess we better do this, right?” This is where the details get kind of fuzzy. Maybe I’ve chosen to scrub them from the databanks. I wasn’t traumatized or anything, but I wasn’t impressed either. Needless to say it was not like ANYTHING in the movies. It never is and I TOTALLY get that shit, but what went down was a combination of depressing and funny. I remember it being incredibly hot so we propped a fan in the doorway. I remember he left his socks on. I would never let that shit happen now! I had no standards then I guess. Socks?? Really?? For real?? You got some sandals you to wear too? There was some awkward groping, zero foreplay (who the hell knows how to do that at that age anyhow) and I think I was still wearing a top. Between Hans’s socks and my t-shirt we almost were completely clothed. I don’t think he even had his pants all the way down. My adult lady parts are drying out and dying for my teenage girl parts. The whole 3 minutes that Han seems to be really enjoying himself and I am still trying to figure out when this whole “penetration” thing is supposed to happen; I have my hands behind my head and am thinking about what else I could be doing at this very moment. Sock drawer could use some re-arranging, new issue of Guitar Player should be in the mail, and I missed the episode of Beavis and Butthead last night where they meet Killer. Damn!

That was it. He was done. Han collapses. WTF?! That’s it? Aren’t I supposed to bleed? I heard mention that there were supposed to be cookies? I don’t see any damn cookies! I like snickerdoodle cookies! Peanut butter would suffice. Goddamnit, I want a cookie! Screw it; guess I’ll rearrange my sock drawer as previously planned. That however would not be the case either…
Just as Han is pulling his pants back up, my mother has made her way through the first of my doors and as was previously mentioned, my second door is ajar to let air from the fan in. “Oh, hey mom! Cool, you’re home. That’s so…cool.”

Said no teenager caught in the act ever. Not ever!! I don’t think she or I have ever fully recovered from this experience. She was able to pay me back some years later when I walked in on her. I was an adult. I am still suffering PTSD. This is where I publicly apologize for all the shit I put my mom through. While I hope she isn’t reading this one, I know she is – love you mom. Sorry I was just such a wild bitch. Photostat. 

Image result for chia pet Why are Chia-Pets so much cooler now? There is Lionel Richie Chia-Pet too!! 

Friday, July 28, 2017

It just doesn't get any more real

The inside of my mouth is going to explode, I can’t go see the Violent Femmes tonight and I am fucking bleeding. Oh, and I hate everyone. It doesn’t get much more real than that. Seemingly separate issues, but we’ll explore. Hang on to your tights.
I had some oral surgery done recently because I’m a masochist. Not really, I am in the process of having an implant put in because I’m a superficial, shallow bitch. Yeah, that’s right. For years I have lived without dental insurance and a nasty candy habit. Fast forward 12 years, some shitty hygiene practices and presto, you have a tooth extraction. Being the self-conscious woman that I am, with the self-esteem of teenager with budding breasts and an acne problem (accurate even at 37,) this missing tooth thing is debilitating. I’ve wanted this corrected for a long time. It’s only taken me 4 years of bitching and moaning to finally to do something about it. After 4 long years my mother is FINALLY taking care of this shit for me! About damn time too. The prospect of said tooth has filled me with much joy and contentment. It all went to hell after the procedure however. Mind you, we are only in the beginning stages and I am already certain that the dentist is someone I douched over somewhere and I just can’t place him yet. Maybe I said something to him about his comb-over, maybe I was openly hostile, perhaps it was a classic case of fashion Tourette’s. All of these are possibilities. It’s just too hard to tell. My face is throbbing all of the time and while I enjoy pain meds as much as the next guy, I also enjoy pain meds as much as the next guy! It’s a slippery slope – or so they say. Next thing you know I’m wearing rain boots and a bicycle helmet with a rainbow painted on the side in 80-degree weather and talking to tree people. Laugh. Go ahead. Been there. Done that.
I had planned on seeing the Violent Femmes tonight at the Del Mar Racetrack. Let’s be clear about a few things: I have never seen the Femmes and would LOVE to see them. It’s a cheap show. I too am cheap, so this too is PERFECT!!! I typically do not do well in large groups of humans. It’s like all of the synapses in my brain start firing at once. Sensory overload. Johnny 5 is alive!! After about an hour, my shit completely melts the fuck down. “Disassemble Stefanie!” I seriously need to go home and be alone. The crazy in me sees the crazy in you and feeds off that shit. It’s all bad. It’s also the Racetrack. I expect to get stepped on and beer spilled on me; this is usual behavior. What I do not enjoy and don’t find acceptable is when people bump into you and say nothing. Jack shit. Nada. I get accidents happen, but when you bump someone is it not customary (or at least kind) to say something like “I’m sorry” or “excuse me?” WHERE ARE YOUR DAMN MANNERS??!! People suck and I have trouble not telling them so when situations like that arise. I also will have trouble not getting my ass handed to me. My mother did not just spend 3k on an “almost tooth” so that my aloof ass could get it knocked the fuck out because some twat didn’t say “excuse me.”
I am bleeding. I normally don’t share about such issues, but what the hell. I am like Artax in the swamps of sadness. My concert is a no go, relationships around me are failing, I am in pain, OJ is free… I mean the list goes on people. Swamp. Sadness. Let’s add, shall we? So I start my miserable period and I am not sure whether I want to stab someone or hug them. It’s terribly confusing. My fists are constantly ready to throw a punch but I’m also ready to “hug it out.”  Anyhow, in the middle of the night I am awakened in one of my fits of pain from the oral surgery and that’s when I realize that I’ve also started my period. Like any good Girl Scout, I am prepared. I reach under my sink to grab a tampon. I just need one. Just one. Only one. The entire Costco size box (exaggeration because that would be some apocalyptic shit) dumps over in the furthest reaches of my cabinet. FML! I just wanted one, damnit!  I spend the next 3 minutes cleaning up tampons one at a time because apparently this is all I am capable of.

It should end there. But it doesn’t. After the OB tampon spill of 2017, I managed to inadvertently knock one of my rings down the drain while straightening up the counter. Now I’m pissed. I stumble into the kitchen to get myself something to drink to wash down the ibuprofen that I need to take for my mouth and now these infernal cramps when it happens. I feel something warm and with some density squish between my toes. I have just stepped in still warm cat puke. Swamp. Sadness. Artak. Doesn’t get realer than this….

Image result for artax swamp of sadness

Thursday, July 27, 2017

It's not safe in my head

How many forms of self are there? How many personalities does it take to drive someone crazy? In my experience it really depends on the person. Just how crazy is the dominant personality to begin with? It is also my experience that it takes exactly two personalities to fuck with someone so hard that they pack their shit and exit stage left. I’m pretty certain that there are a boat load of alter egos battling it out in my head like Mad Max, Thunderdome style, but two are holding fort and making sure that the lesser dignified ones stay in the shadows. The ones that pick scabs, laugh at children when they fall, throw sticks at the spokes of passing bicyclists, and spit gum from moving vehicles; these heathens are kept at bay by Christina and Tina. These two ladies are remarkable in their own way (we will discuss them momentarily) and are equally fucked up. Engage at your own risk!

Christina can usually be found socializing with small groups of friends. She feels comfortable here. Christina feels like she can blend in and somewhat absorb the color of the group. Not so striking is her glaring awkwardness. For the most part Christina is a rule follower. You won’t catch her hopping lines at BART (Nor Cal Thing) or sneaking into a second movie at the theater. You are more likely to find her talking to stray pets and wayward souls. Christina once brought a homeless man back to her own home; her mother was not amused. She often tries to give away her internal organs to those in need, because….why the fuck not?! They’re just organs, right? Christina spends a lot of time in her head though. Normally this is only a detriment to the person carrying that burden, but Christina is so generous she likes to share! Often, if you are close enough to her, you get questions like “do you think {fill in the blank} meant to say {fill in the blank} or do you think they mean to be hurtful? If they meant to be hurtful, what do you think I should do? Is it passive-aggressive to do this {fill in the mother fucking blank}?” Now – does your head hurt? It should! That shit goes on all the damn time. Bless her heart, she’s real sweet and all, but SUPER insecure. If it weren’t for Tina, the rest of the crew would rip Christina apart and serve her for dinner.

Tina is much more calculated than Christina. That shit should scare you. She is still awkward, but doesn’t really care and uses it to her advantage. Where Christina makes mistakes and feels silly, Tina sees opportunity. The birth of “Take that, Bitch,” Tina’s fake webisode dedicated to inflating her ego around her gym experiences has paved the way for countless other fictitious business ventures and provided solid work for a marketing manager and several other underlings. This is her way of giving back to her community – because really, she don’t give a fuck! Tina is often spotted alone in public. She may still reach out to the wayward souls; most likely because that connection is still there - that feeling of being lost and needing to connect. Tina is responsible for ranting. Don’t cross this one, she will cut you! #2 pencils are not permitted when she is PMSing. Have you seen John Wick? In the neck, bro!
In. The. Neck.

Imagine having these two in your head at the same time on any given day. Now, also remove drugs and alcohol. Do not pet or feed the animals… 

Monday, July 24, 2017

It's super ok to leave your kid in my care, but also probably not advisable

I love children, especially ones that don't belong to me. Not for creepy reasons. Not for vans without windows reasons. Certainly not for unexplained excellent vegetable garden reasons. Kids that don't belong to me can be handed off when I get tired and need a nap or they become an embarrassment - temper tantrum aisle 9. Children are wonderful, innocent little angels full of awe and hope. Giggles and laughter. I could soak that shit up. Could....maybe....if the planets were aligned just right, it was leap year, I had an alicorn in my back pocket and just for shits and giggles there was a rainbow with a pot of gold waiting for me next to said child. I am steel! I am impenetrable! I am playing telephone with a two year old and her Fisher Price plastic phone. "Hello? Nope, sorry didn't catch that, can you repeat that?" Fucking jello.

I am so good at playing with kids. No joke, I am a pro! We play hard-core - wait - that came out all wrong. I will tire your child out. No....still not right. Hmmm. I am a giant child myself and enjoy playing games as much as they do. There, I think I got it right that time, yes? I prefer spending time with little humans rather than their full-sized counterparts. 

You can also totally count on me to never ever leave your little one in a hot car either; learned my lesson the hard way that time in Tucson. That El Camino still smells "off." 

I'm good about feeding children wholesome snacks too. Pizza and beer have been at the top of my food pyramid but I know better these days. Pb&j is ok (unless your kid has allergies) and coca-cola and flaming Cheetos are probably a bad idea. 

I will have your tiny tike tuckered out and calling me Aunt Tina by the time I drop them back off - in one piece I might add. Score! Why then might it not be advisable to leave them in my care??? If you've gotten this far, it should already be abundantly clear, but in case you're extra dense; I'll lay out a few bullet points as to why I'm unfit. 
  1. Your child is likely to come back with song lyric knowledge well beyond their maturity level
  2. Beastie Boys License to Ill  
  3. Your child is likely to return with a few new choice words added to their budding vocabulary like: douchebag, asshat, dick nose etc
  4. They WILL return with a host of coping skills you did not anticipate and do not want them having (full list available upon request)
  5. "Mom, can we get a dog? Aunt Tina said we should ask for a dog, we were really good today!"

And that was about the time the handoff happened....

Friday, July 21, 2017

Andre fucked up my pour over

I was never going to be one of those snotty blogger whores. You were never going to catch my ass at a coffee shop writing a review of the latest pop or folk or punk album while sipping some pour over that the barista stirred with his finger because I was a bitch or couldn't control my facial expressions yet again. Nope. Not me. Did you know that Company of Thieves is touring again? This Ethiopian pour over is bitter, make me another one Andre. So here we are. Kinda fun, right? 

As someone who's relatively new to the whole process, I have questions. How many of these bad boys am I supposed to bump out on the regular? Is this like bowel movements? Am I supposed to have one daily? Is it bad to have more than one? If it's difficult or strenuous - like vein popping in my forehead type shit, is it safe to step away? I mean what if I lose that thread? I am putting effort into this stuff. Well, kinda...What if I go days without? Emotional constipation. Then there are repercussions right? No one wants the shit that lives inside me erupting all over them. Straight Ghostbusters yuckage! So these are very serious questions for this novice writer. 

Between messing around with my writing today and doing the work they actually pay me to do, I was trolling Facebook and looking at a friends page whose husband is presenting at Comic-Con. So many cool costumes! I got to thinking about who some of my heroes are/were!  All my heroes are white trash beer guzzling swearing machines. Maybe "all" is an exaggeration, but not too far off the mark. There's these shows; you may have heard of them: My Name is Earl and Shameless. Yep. High standards. Andre, is my fucking pour over ready??!!!
Image result for my name is earl joy

Image result for shameless

Aging is Bullshit

I hate happy couples today. Couples walking hand in hand, smiling, laughing - seemingly on the same wavelength. Fuck you! I'm happier with myself than I have been in years and still so far from the mark, it would seem. I am much more comfortable picking apart this couple sitting out front of the coffee shop masticating their ginormous avocado sandwiches as if it would be their last meal. I'm having a hard time figuring out if they truly enjoy each other's company or if they are biding their time so that this afternoon they can go about doing what or who they really want. Grotesque open mouth smacking...fucking cows. No resentment. 

Watching people out in public makes me think I would rather be alone. It also depresses me and makes me think I'd rather not be around to age; I'm not a fine cheese and I'm certainly not vintage ANYTHING. Who says aging is natural? Did some asshole write it down somewhere that it's a progression that is mandated, necessary and required? Am I going to jail if I decide not to adhere to this holy scripture? What if I feel natural kicking my own bucket over at 65? Maybe I'm having a good run and decide to push my luck to 70. Shouldn't that be my choice? Maybe I don't want to spend the last few years of my life arguing the merits of one brand of adult diaper vs. another with an orderly who is likely to be wearing headphones to drown out my voice in an over-priced "assisted living" development. Like maybe one year I just decide I'm tired of the hassle that Curran must have with worrying about what's he's gonna do with my wrinkled ass in my old age. Let's face it, I'm not having more kids so my geriatric bed sore riddled ass falls in his lap. Reality bro! Who wants that responsibility?? Nope, I reserve the right to Thelma and Louise my still pristine ass right off a cliff wearing something fabulous with a piece of cake in hand and good tunes on the radio...

Hocus Smokus

Usually when people say that they "talk with the dead" they mean that do some seance shit around a table to hustle people out of their hard earned money. Or maybe they have a Madam Cleo act they do over the the 900 lines for $1.75/min - or whatever the fuck the going rate is. Maybe they even get into character and wear some shit on their heads and impart a fake accent. More power to you. Today I stumbled upon (or fell into) the depths of my crazy. It's deep in there ya'll

I'll keep this brief as the hour is late and honestly I think I just scared the piss out of myself.

As I was sifting through my friends list on Facebook, like a 13 yr old deciding who was "cool enough" to invite to 'like' my brand new shiny blog page, I ran across an old friend. Don't get excited, about your own invitation, I invited a dead guy. At first there were people that I thought "I might piss them off" and passed them by, but not this dead guy. That's saying something. I never even met this man, but he held a place in my heart. Still does. Always will. There are days that I still think of him - like today. As I type this, I imagine that he would be ever so proud of me. I can see him sitting at his desk in front of his little computer too, staring out that window and watching the planes go by. Fuck LA. Randal, I miss our talks; even if I was hammered and pissed you off. I miss you bitching at me about what the fuck I was going to do with myself and then asking me to edit your shit. I miss your telling me what to do for stomach aches then telling to "straighten up and get my shit together." I may not have my shit together, but I'm straightening up and I invited you to the show.

All you other twats got invited too, but only because the Facebook assistant told me it was a good idea. I'll play nicer next time, my heart just hurts a little right now....

Going Belly Up

                Back by UN-popular demand, my crappy rantings about the shit that goes on in my mediocre existence. I live to suck up your oxygen and complain while doing it. As some of you know, I attended a concert last night. Of course you know! That was all I talked about for days or you weren’t paying attention. Ok, maybe there were intermittent sprinklings of what I ate for dinner, which muscle groups were sore from gym work outs, and of course shitty cat photos – because I’m “that” girl.
                So this is how it went down…
                I am alone, which is typical these days; I tend to piss people off and honestly my own company is most comfortable because I lack the ability to control my facial expressions and if I’m going to get in a fight, I’d rather no one see me get my ass kicked. I walk into the club like I own it – with my hands tucked in my arm pits, shuffling my feet, staring at the floor and stiff as fuck. AWKWARD!! I’m so freaking cool. I gravitate towards my normal space because it’s like rental property: I consider it mine - I don’t own it, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone else squat there. For reals people, I have let fools bump me, grope me, spill beer on me and generally be douche bags all in the name on NOT losing MY space. Not like myspace and Tom @ Myspace…whatever happened to that dude? Probably making little voodoo dolls of Zuckerberg while watching Single White Female on repeat. I would. Digression… Typically this is when I begin people watching, you know, before the show begins. I need to assess the situation – find out where my true alcoholic friends are, because this is where the show inside the show is going to happen. But then it happened. The fucking Miami Sound Machine walked in.
                Suddenly the crowd parted and in walked this broad in a white summer dress which was cut much too low for her very very weathered torso and this magnificent hot pink bouffant hat complete with white fleur. This bitch had swagger. She didn’t deserve it, but she had it. Lady, it is 90 degrees in here with 80 percent humidity! Your hat could double as a beach umbrella. Are you trying to grow bananas under there, smuggle drugs, or both?? If it’s the latter, how do I get in on the cut? My first thought was that if anyone of her entourage was going to be sick off the countless gin and tonics they were sipping, it would be into that hideous hat they’d heave. Again, I digress. I finally came to realize that the reason for the massive hat was that it occupied area on the floor. Once the rest of her crew showed up she could take it off. Standing room 12 immediately available. One of those people we’ll call Man-Bun, which leads us into our next story….
                A fight broke out to my immediate left when Man-Bun and Computer Programmer Man got into a heated conversation over why talking at a concert was unacceptable. Oh, the irony!!! My hands are still tucked in my arm pits by the way, but now I’m thinking to myself “I wonder if they can smell my sweat?”  Why does it smell like Corn chips in here? Dude! Corn chips sound so good right now. Way better that the onion rings and extra marital affairs that permeated last time. Also, cheese dip and chocolate milk would be great. I don’t know why chocolate milk and cheese dip sound good. Oh yeah, cuz LACTOSE!! Lactose and I have a special relationship but that is an entirely different story and probably better left for a medical blog. FML!!! Computer programmer man is named this because of his pressed chino shorts, perfectly coifed hair and hands that look manicured and softer than mine BTW. Anyhow, these two start going at it Scott Pilgrim vs The World style. I half expect them to chest bump and for gold coins to fall from the sky. But alas they go outside and I am left with their girlfriends. AWKWARD!!!

                Now that I have lost all but one person’s interest, I will say thank you for your attention. There was so much more fuckery that went down, but ain’t no one got the attention for that. These are just the highlights. I will tell you that there are still some good experiences to be had. I’d like to give a very special shout out to Kim. Kim, I’d like to thank you for tucking the tag to my dress back in for me. Good looking out! 

Expiring Internally

Do my internal organs have an expiration date?

I’m pretty sure that at this point in my 37-year-old life I have consumed enough Sweet n Low, Splenda, Equal, Stevia, Cocaine, and LSD to preserve all of my organs and tissues much longer than is natural. I may even become a medical marvel. I’ll be studied, poked and prodded – like that one time with the aliens. Still trying to convince the Feds about that one. But just in case…on the off chance…I was having a discussion with a friend. I have a tendency to get a bit morbid – don’t act surprised, you assholes know this shit by now. Facts are facts, and there is a strong likelihood that I will not be pushing any more small humans through my vagina. There is an even stronger likelihood that any doctor with any good sense upon hearing that it would be my intent to do so, would strongly advise against it. Not because of any physical limitation, but because I’m – well…me. Can you even
imagine growing up under my supervision? Dear lord! We’d both be eating crayons for dinner and I would have that little human reciting Beastie Boys by age 2 while mean muggin fools on the Avenue for wearing socks with sandals. CPS in sobriety.

So this individual and I got to talking…no we didn’t, because no one talks to one another. We were texting, and they sent me a picture of a Dali painting. The melting clock. My immediate response was. “That is an actual representation of my uterus only the Crypt Keeper is missing. He
should be perched on top.”  I need someone to Photoshop Crypt Keeper up there for me, as a daily reminder. Goals. Carpe Diem…or some such shit. Maybe just more Splenda.