Friday, September 29, 2017

How It Should Have Ended

I want to spend a day in a ‘How It Should Have Ended’ universe of my creation. A full 24 hours spent in my very own utopia. For those of you that are unfamiliar with HISHE, do yourselves a favor and google that shit. There is an entire nerd following associated with this. In a nutshell, it’s taking a film and re-writing the ending; usually in comic book form. The alternate endings are meant to be funny and sarcastic. Usually they’re pretty dope; sometimes they sink like dead men with cinder block dancing shoes. They can’t all be winners.

This might be a good time for you to check one out to make sure you fully grasp the awesomeness. I’ll wait here *Jeopardy theme song plays*

Great! You’re back and have educated yourself on HISHE. My geek is showing again; I try to keep it tucked in for the most part. Sometimes it sneaks out – like a rouge boob. I’m not ashamed of being a geek, it’s a badge I feel I have earned. So many school dances I sacrificed so that I could stay home and watch anime. So many date offers that I turned down so that I could play Doom. True sacrifices made. Just fucking with ya! I was fat and emotionally unstable as a teenager, nobody wanted to dance with me or be seen in public with me. I’m still unstable as fuck, I’m a pretty big nerd to this day, and if you put Doom on the PlayStation – old Doom, not the new shit – I will tear shit up. Off topic again…sorry.

I was driving to work this morning and I was thinking about incidences in my life that haven’t exactly panned out the way that I wanted and what things would look like if they had; but not in a realistic way because that shit is mad boring. I created some incredulous – ‘never happening in million years’ type bullshit. Some true HISHE crap. You’re probably saying to yourself: “Christina, that all sounds great, but I need help visualizing this. Can you give me an example?” Of course I can!

Actual events of last year – Paraphrased
Tina: Hey, James I’ve been doing some research on mean incomes for my position here and I’ve compiled data and a detailed list of my responsibilities and why I think I’ve earned a raise. When you have time will you take a look at it and we can discuss it.

James: How much do you want? [does not look at my work]

Tina: *states salary request*

James: *not looking up from his work* OK

HISHE Universe

Tina: Hey, James I’ve been doing some research on mean incomes for my position here and I’ve compiled data and a detailed list of my responsibilities and why I think I’ve earned a raise. When you have time will you take a look at it and we can discuss it.

James: How much do you want?

Tina: *states salary request*

James: *not looking up from his work* OK


James: *looks up* Huh?

Tina: Don’t be a rude asshole! I’ve worked for you for 3 fucking years! Show me some courtesy. I did research! I worked on this! I spit in your coffee!

James: *looks at coffee cup*

Tina: *getting heated and standing up over James while he sits in his chair looking bewildered* In the past 3 years I’ve done all the shit work here, taken all the bullshit phone calls, evaded all the dodgy fuckers that come in here looking for you – so the least you can do is hear me the hell out.

James: *gulps*

Tina: I want [desired salary] and you’re gonna start paying it or I’m leaving and not training the next bimbo you get in here. Oh, and I’m not writing the Craigslist ad to hire the little twat either. Think about that one for a little bit. While we’re at it, I would also truly appreciate some new office equipment i.e. a new chair and phone headset unless you’d like to pay my chiropractic bills.
James: *opens mouth to speak*

Tina: Shut the fuck up, James. Shut the fuck up! It’s my turn.

*Birds gently fly in from the outside and start circling the room around Tina and begin singing softly*

Tina: Some stuff is going to change around here; do you understand? Nod if you understand.

James: *nods*

Tina: Raise?

James: Got it.

Tina: Change?

James: Happening

Tina: Great! Glad we had this little talk.

---Tina turns to leave---

James: *relaxes breath*

----Tina turns back around---

Tina: Hey James?

James: *stammering and clearly rattled* Um…yeah?

Tina: The coffee pot sucks. Get a new one by Monday, ok?

James: Got it.

And THAT my friends is HISHE! The possibilities are endless! What does one of yours look like?

Below is a link for How It Should Have Ended - Have fun!! 

Thursday, September 28, 2017

#halldark - Happy Valentine's Day


        I can’t remember a time in my life that I’ve been happier and more fulfilled. These last few weeks you have shown me what true love is. Let’s spend the rest of our lives together! You’re the one!!

Happy Valentine’s Day to my one and only! 
#halldark - for when you care enough to send whatever!

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Don't message me

If you don’t know me at all, please don’t send me private message photos. I will not answer them and furthermore, I will laugh at them and share them with other people. We live with the digital world at our fingertips; that doesn’t mean we have to use it every chance we get and certainly not every time the thought crosses our mind. Call me old fashioned, but if you want to talk to me – try sending me a message with words. The photo of you in a tank top or engaging in some sports activity is doing nothing for me. While using big words like “I think ur real pretty” is charming, at the end of the day it still leaves me wanting something more substantial.

It is a regular occurrence for me to open my messenger [Facebook lizards I’m talking to you] and find notifications in there from complete strangers.  Some are innocuous and some are downright lewd. My question to the folks that do this shit is this: where do guys purchase those balls that you’re carrying around? Has anyone ever told you that they’re too big for you? Sending me random photos is creepy. If we’ve never had a conversation and you just take it upon yourself to open the lines of communication with a photo of yourself and some cheesy recycled line about how beautiful I am, I am going to assume that you play Dungeons and Dragons, live with your mother, have skin issues or a gluten intolerance and have a rare arachnid collection. Seriously, sending chicks messages – especially repeatedly is the equivalent of flashing her your nasty little naughty parts while out on a walk in the park. Don’t do it. We don’t like it. We are laughing and we do share it with others.

Ladies: Don’t respond. It gives hope. I’ve made this mistake. Even asking why they’re sending you messages in the first place gives the message of hope. TRUST ME. I encountered this recently with a gentleman in a professional capacity. We’ll call him Water Boy. I could not get it through this man’s dense ass skull that I was not interested. I wanted to be nice and not hurt his feelings, but I’m afraid that in some cases where feelings should be, they have been replaced with pure sex drive. I can’t pretend to understand how the male brain functions. I will say that I give men credit for having HUGE egos… I guess. My self-esteem is certainly not as resilient. God bless you guys for getting the shit kicked out of you and continuing to suit up; you poor bastards.

In closing: men please stop making asses of yourselves. It’s really sad. If you want to talk to a woman by all means do so, but please try talking first. Lead with your good foot – not your face. Think BEFORE you do this too. Maybe talk to a trusted female friend. She can help you.

Women: practice patience…just kidding. Carryon. 

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Vengo by Ana Tijoux - with translation

I love this song and have provided the translation as copied from the web (best version I could find) because I'm too lazy to type it all out. Listen. Love it. I do.

I Come

I come seeking answers
with a hand full and veins open,
I come like an open book
eager to learn our ancestors' untold history
with the wind our grandparents left, which lives in each thought
of this beloved earth, earth
The one who knows how to care for it is the one who truly loves it.
I come to look again to deduce it and awaken the blind eye,
fearless, you and I
let's decolonize what they taught us
with our black hair, with marked cheekbones,
with fugitive pride in the tattooed soul.
I come with the glance, I come with the word,
that spoken word, I come with no fear of losing anything.
I come like the child who seeks in their dwelling
the origin's entrance, the crusade's return.
I come to seek silenced history,
the history of an inhaled earth.
I come with the world and I come with the birds,
I come with the flowers and the trees, their songs.
I come with the sky and its constellations,
I come with the world and all its seasons.
I come to the starting point grateful,
I come with wood, mountain, and life,
I come with air, water, earth, and fire.
I come to see the world again.
I come with my ideas like a shield,
with human feeling to live this world
where the new man seeks harmony,
I come, hand,
I come like you, seeking the remnant of the piece of tree
and its bark that it keeps in its memory, the victory song,
when we see the earth we cry against euphoria.
Now we see this way, our arms so dazzled,
if we curl up to the origin of the times at the source of the universe,
where the feeling of living this beginning lies.
I come with red blood
with lungs full of rhymes in my mouth,
with torn eyes, with earth in my hands,
we come with the world and we come with its song.
I come to build a dream,
the shine of life where the new man lives,
I come seeking an ideal
of a world without class that can lift itself up.
I come with the world and I come with the birds,
I come with the flowers and the trees, their songs.
I come with the sky and its constellations,
I come with the world and all its seasons.
I come to the starting point grateful,
I come with wood, mountain, and life,
I come with air, water, earth, and fire.
I come to see the world again.
I come, I come to see the world again.
I come seeking answers
with a hand full and veins open, I come...
I come seeking an ideal
of a world without class that can lift itself up, I come...
with our black hair, with marked cheekbones,
with fugitive pride in the tattooed soul,

Monday, September 25, 2017

Water Boy

The guy that delivers water to my office is shady as fuck. When we first met I was completely convinced he was gay and I had a new best friend. We were absolutely going to go shopping together and he was going to be on speed dial for fashion emergencies; like whether or not I should be wearing heels or flats with my dress - or if in fact I could pull off a dope pair of sneakers.

Before you all get pissed off and up in arms about how insensitive I am…nah …I don’t care; you’d have thought and done the same if you were in my position. I pictured us walking side by side happily swinging shopping bags from our wrists as we sipped on smoothies while laughing at other shoppers as they passed by. My new BFF would foot the bill for most of my purchases because along with not having any taste, I also have no money and he’s a computer programmer on the side. He just delivers water to stay in good physical shape. Obviously!

He was a beautiful specimen of a man; 5’11” of dark flawless chocolate chiseled manhood. He had a perfect smile and the cutest little dimples. He would come into the office and after a period of getting to know one another we would joke around and spit lyrics to old 90’s Hip-Hop songs. He really was more flamboyant than my Uncle Hector and that very fine man dressed in drag at least twice a week. I have bonded with him. We are going to go dancing at some point, I just know it! I’m so excited. Maybe he’ll do my makeup.

I want to make sure I’m painting this picture appropriately: I have waged war with my co-workers - convinced Water Boy is gay and defending my Gaydar. I have planned excursions and concerts, sleepovers too and have considered letting my hair grow just so that he can braid it; I’m committed to this friendship. It’s real, yo! Remember those friendship necklaces in the shape of hearts? One friend takes one half and the other friend takes the other? Ok, so that shit was never going to happen because I’m not 13 yrs. old anymore, but it was like that. Swoon.

It came to be that one day at his behest we became Facebook friends. It seemed a natural progression at the time. We were already hugging goodbye when he came into the office. I’ll stop you guys before you say some dumb shit like: “why would you hug the water guy?” I hug everyone. I warn people when I meet them that I am hugger. If you have issues with needing personal space, you need to tell me that shit because unless you stink or you’re an asshole, chances are I will hug you. It’s just how I roll. So the two of us end up friends on Facebook and that’s when I decide I want to know what his shoe collection looks like. What kind of adventures can I expect to go on? Are there any pictures of him and his man? Maybe there’s a how-to on eyeliner application because for real, that shit has always stumped me. I inevitably always end up looking like someone with Parkinson’s disease tried applying it while in a moving vehicle [just having the disease isn’t enough to convey my ineptitude]. To my dismay and UTTER shock I found nothing of this sort on his page…
Water Boy is married and has children! Hey dumb-shit, if you’re going to hit on women you may want to think about dummying up another Facebook account – one sans family. It was monumentally stupid to give me access to your life information. MONUMENTAL!! You’re so very lucky that I’m not in the business of hurting other people unnecessarily these days when it’s not my business. You ought to be fucking ashamed of yourself!!! You have 3 beautiful children and a lovely wife, numbnuts! When I confronted him about his family I got this: “Well, we weren’t going to stay together, but now I guess we’re working it out.” Oh, you guess you’re going to work it out? I’m sure your wife is going to be thrilled to hear that. It’s people like this that make me want to run around with scissors and cut the crotches out of all of their expensive pants and shit in their shoes. Now, in fairness, I know women can be just as crappy, manipulative, and self-serving but my experience wasn’t with a woman – it was with spineless Water Boy. I write what I know. I know my Gaydar is off.

You would think it ends there. Brace yourselves…

I’m forgiving as all get out, so in an effort to not have it be weird at work [and to be a complete pussy and really just avoid confrontation] I let the whole thing go and tell him he just needs to be professional and I forgive the transgression. A short time passes and I think things are cool. Then I get this message that basically thanks me for treating him like a human in spite of his bullshit. THEN THAT MOTHER FUCKER ASKED ME OUT AGAIN!!! WTF!! Shady ass piece of shit; I feel I ought to have shit in his shoes. He lives far away though and that’s a true commitment. Maybe if we were friends. I guess I really hurt his feelings on this last round because he posted some sad sappy shit about deleting his Facebook account. Oh, so sad…said no woman he ever hit on that found out the truth. I am so pissed! I was so looking forward to French braids and sleepovers. Fucker. He probably deleted it so I don’t contact his wife. I have no interest in destroying marriages, he’ll do that on his own – I’m certain of it.

This is not exclusive to men, ladies do this shit too; we’re just better at it. On second thought, I feel a bowel movement coming on and a 40 min drive sounds just about right. A little wind in my unbraided hair…
 Image result for office water dispenser

#halldark - Merry Christmas

Image result for dysfunctional christmas cards

Uncle Jerry is drunk and hitting on the neighbor’s wife again. Timmy is pissed he got the wrong toy in his stocking and is setting things on fire in the backyard. Aunt Janine is medicating with pills and white wine. Grandma Delaney is praying in the corner and the ambrosia salad still looks like something left over from 1942. Thank God for Xanax.

Merry Dysfunctional Christmas

#halldark - Happy Birthday

I spent 30 minutes picking out a card that wasn’t too sentimental, too religious, too funny and didn’t have glitter and annoying singing animatronics. I’m tired now, the clerk thinks I’m creepy and you’re stuck with this ITunes card.

Happy Birthday!

 Image result for annoyed happy birthday

#HallDark - For when you care to send whatever...

Friday, September 22, 2017


I learned a very important lesson today: I don’t play well with others. Apparently, what sex you are is irrelevant also; I disqualify people equally. I’m an only child, I don’t share, I don’t like you – get the hell out of my sandbox!

It’s Friday and I’m feeling pretty good about things on the whole. I have a little bit of money in my account, gas in my tank and food in my refrigerator. I am looking pretty svelte in a little blue number and some Italian heels; haven’t tripped once and it’s nearly 1pm. Life doesn’t suck. I’m still getting zero love on Twitter, but I’m not political, I’m not a feminist and my profile photo doesn’t show tits; so Zuckerberg is stuck with me. Think it would be creepy if I sent him a teddy bear for Christmas and a sweatshirt with our photos on it? I post more in one day than most families do in a month. Too bad there isn’t some type of reward system other than that surge in endorphins when someone I barely know hits that little ‘like’ button. Sploosh! If there was a reward system in place, I’d have enough points amassed to trade in for a Japanese knife set or a Vitamix blender. You hear that Zuckerberg?!?! I want my rewards points!!!

Around 12:45pm I get the phone call that would end all of my merriment and Friday musings from a woman I am certain hasn’t had sex since the Clinton administration. Now let’s be cool and change her name to protect her identity, and call her Anna from Oceanside [actual name]. Anna [actual name in case you missed it the first time] calls in to our office and wants to speak to the appraiser who worked on her file. There’s a shit ton of bureaucratic red tape around why we aren’t allowed to speak directly to the clients; proper channels and all that jargon. ‘All requests for revisions and reconsiderations of value must be submitted in writing’…yada..yada..yada. All that shit has to go to the Lender, and then that shit comes down the pipe to us. There is a trickle down. It trickles down - right onto our heads. Follow me? Cool. Anna was not cool. Here’s how this shit went down.

Anna starts getting heated when I tell her that any requests for revisions will absolutely be addressed but need to go through her loan officer. She starts yelling at me (YELLING) that her loan officer has done his job and documented all of my appraisers mistakes and it’s my turn to start fixing things because this affects her financial future. First off: Good for you for getting yourself a loan officer that does his job. Hate to break it you sister, but if he was doing his job, that reconsideration of value you’re talking about would be something that I’m having someone work on and not just something your crabby ass is bitching about. Second: Oh, I’m sorry your financial future is uncertain. JOIN THE REST OF US AND QUIT BLAMING OTHERS. Put your big girl panties on [or maybe they already are, maybe that’s the problem] and start acting like an adult. Yelling at me will get you nowhere real fucking fast. If I’m the front lines, it would behoove you to stop being a cunt, right?

I’m really good at staying calm so instead of saying “Hey Anna, take the dick out of your ear for a second and listen to me, honey. You’re being a condescending snatch and it’s not helping. I understand you’re upset and I want to help you – really, I do.  In spite of you talking down to me and generally walking all over me, I’d like to help you, but first you have to shut the fuck up and let me talk.”  I think I said something more along the lines of “I understand you’re upset, but I’m not sure how else I can help you. My hands are tied in situations such as these” If I were to loosely translate this in office speak it would sound like this: “For fuck sake, what do I have to do to get you off the phone?” My resolve is diminishing. Mayday!! Mayday!! I put Anna [still that hoes name] on hold while she was still talking/yelling; finally telling the appraiser he needs to handle this. I don’t get hazard pay and I am not going to jail. I have this woman’s address in front of me. Don’t underestimate me.

Here’s where it gets fucked up – as if it weren’t already. This woman who has been yelling at me for the last 3 minutes and trying [like, really trying] to make me feel ignorant and unimportant [nice try hoe bag, I do that well enough on my own] is now able to speak to the appraiser and once she is on the phone with him; her demeanor completely changes. HOLD THE FUCK UP! No way lady! You do NOT get to change tunes and start singing sweet, sweet songs because Mike has a penis. Do you think you owe him some debt of respect? Do you think that he is in a position that commands more respect, more dignity? Mike doesn’t change the toilet paper roll, has NEVER fixed ANY of our office equipment, wouldn’t know a PDF, TXT or XML file if it slapped him and you are going to roll over and show him your belly? Fuck you! I don’t need to go stomping through the weeds in the Summer time burning our bras together, but I do expect a little bit more camaraderie amongst women. Sociocultural bomb dropping. Bullshit is what it was. I might as well have been mopping the floor at McDonalds.

The absolute best part and finale to this rant: She’s talking to Mike about what her issues are with the report he submitted and she flat out tells him that she submitted all of her concerns to her loan officer and her lender as well. The lender seems to be in agreement with Mikes report. We’re supposed to change the data and the comparable home prices in her area though because the value isn’t what she wanted to see and her financial future is uncertain? Hey Anna, if everyone thinks the report is ok except for you…maybe it’s ok…maybe you have the problem. Might wanna see someone about your issues. You need some referrals? Give me another call, I fucking dare you!


I promise to get back to ranting about shit people. I know you must miss the swearing and train wreck that is my mind.

I did in fact have a situation today that warrants a FULL BLOWN RANT and I promise to deliver; but I am actually trying to be somewhat productive today. I think they pay me for this 8-5 bullshit I do.

Pretty please stay tuned for the mini drama that transpired. It was dazzling. There will be F-bombs, I may use the C word, and we will even talk socio-cultural aspects [I know, I was surprised too].

~Thanks for sticking this mello blogging bullshit out with me. You guys are troopers!!

As always, feel free to email me: - Let me know you're out there and you exist. Drop a line to let me know what's working for ya and what's not. I probably won't give a fuck, but you can do it. :)


I shed you
Your dark caress
A silken gown
Hugging my curves
Spilling down the length of my thighs
Tender flesh, ripe for the searing
God knows how many times I’ve been here
Naked before you
Hands and knees - raw and bleeding
Agony and
The light of morning breaks against my skin
Bruised and cut from battle
I turn to leave; naked and fierce with just my soul
And your last cigarette

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Shadow song

She was magic to him
The way the light would glisten from her lips
Refracting soul
When she sang
The wildness in her eyes
When she danced
She was magic to him
Unbridled joy in her laughter
The way she tossed her hair
When she spoke
Her every movement captured his attention
Burning itself to memory
Creating a legend
She was magic to him
She devastated all of his inhibitions
Crippled all of his command
A potency in her essence unrivaled
To him, she was magic
She was a story with countless endings
The longest night
She was the constant rhythm of a metronome
Until one day she wasn’t
She was magic to him
But she was none the wiser
The music stopped 
No dances to be had nor songs to be sung
Her magic died
Nights become days, days to months, and months to years
He dances in a magicless world
Devastated and crippled
Haunted by her legend

 Image result for smoke shadow

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Monday, September 18, 2017

Last Call

Last call
Down to my last 6 bucks
Got a tear in my pantyhose too
Nobody’s buying
Not tonight
Not anymore
There he is
At the end of the bar
Somewhere between
“I guess so” and “Can’t do another night alone”
Not much time for indecision
Lights will be coming on soon
All the songs are the same here
Night after night
They bleed into years
A fixture, they call me
I remember a time when they lit up to see me
Men stood from their seats when I walked
Into the room
Their boy-like eyes, glued to my ass as I danced away
But here I sit tap, tap, tapping my nails along this weathered bar
Keeping with a time only I know
A song only I sing anymore
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Who gives a fuck about the glass, when you’re living in the bottle?
All the boys and girls - gone and flown away
Left a sad old maid perched on a barstool
Lips painted red
And nails to match
Tapping away
A familiar fixture until someone yells
Last call

Image result for dive bar 

Saturday, September 16, 2017


Words frozen on my tongue
Unable to escape
Seized in a prison of my creation
Thoughts like a dense fog
Hang pensively in the air
Heavy with the weight of good intention
And the shuffle of feet on streets beneath me
Bring quiet and ease; a stillness to my being
A familiar cadence
There’s a gravity pulling me in all directions
Swallowing me whole
Write new chapters to my story each night
By daylight it all looks the same
I’m void again
Sunlight breaking across my face every day
For the first time
Buried beneath a million stories untold and unfinished
Tucked neatly behind all the words I’ll never say
That’s where you’ll find me

AI Sex-Bots

ATTENTION:  All persons in possession of a birth given vagina please step away from those yoga pants and that athletic gear you’re about to purchase. It’s no longer needed. Instead you can find my ass in the men’s section selecting a nice cotton/polyester blend of sweatpants - because here, they’re less likely to have the ridiculous elastic bands at the ankles; what are we 5? That’s right ladies; it’s time to give up. The race is over. We’ve put in our time and it’s finally all over. We’ve lost to artificial women. The robots have come and it’s about damn time if you ask me.

It’s not news or even new that AI has been out there that allows for our male counter parts to enjoy the comforts of home [so to speak] while not technically at home. Or maybe they are at home and if that’s the case then you’re marriage is fucked up and you have more issues than I can address in this little blog. Maybe you didn’t “give it up” enough and that’s why he spent 15k on a life sized Barbie doll that he can stick his dick in. How’s that working out for you now? Personally though, if it means I avoid those awkward 3 am dry humpings and playing dead - I’ll make Barbie comfortable in a spare room; sure why not? I’m not a prude AT ALL and I certainly enjoy sex as much as the next person but at 3 am, I want to sleep because I get up 5 am and for real, it’s super selfish of you to try to wake me up for your amusement; because chances are – you’re the only one coming to this party. I say that not because you perform poorly, but probably because you’ve been thinking about for it the last 45 mins while I’ve been sleeping. You’re primed and ready to go; I’m dead to the world. In fact I’m probably in an active nightmare about what my day tomorrow will entail and how many hoops set ablaze I’ll have to jump through. Maybe you’re doing me a favor. My God, it smells like a fart trapped in a car in this bedroom. I close my eyes tighter against the reality.

I was reading this article in a blog forum I was on the other day on how realistic these little living dolls are. Today I saw an article in the paper about one here in my own backyard; it was the next town over, actually. I made a note of the owner’s name. I plan to jack him for his doll and sell that bitch, or keep her for company; I get lonely sometimes. Realistic my fucking ass! This thing is perfect! I understand that that’s the point. As a woman I guess I’m supposed to be upset that it objectifies women and sets unrealistic standards. Newsflash: those standards have always been unrealistic and they’ve always been there. The advent of these dolls was not the beginning and certainly won’t be the end of it. You can’t blame the men banging these Barbies for that either. I don’t blame Tom for sticking his dick in a doll that doesn’t care where they go to dinner and has perfect tits. I don’t think less of him for keeping his girlfriend in a closet and taking her out when no one’s around. That’s bullshit, yeah… I do. I think less of you Tom. Have you tried Tinder, Tom? All this really means for me is that I can relax at night and eat the damn Oreos. I don’t have to feel bad if I don’t want to fuck you, even if I love you. If I’m single – well, shit…I might as well just throw in the fucking towel. If we all collectively throw in the towel, those of us with vaginas, we’ll eventually drive the price of these little hobby hoes down. Every household will have one and all of us can wear Target brand sweatpants and t-shirts like it’s the style.

What pisses me off is that it’s so damn one-sided. When do we get our fucking dolls, ladies?? Where is Tickle-Me-Timothy or Penetrating Parker?? I would pay good money for a male sex bot guaranteed to deliver. Orgasm every time or your money back. Malfunction? Send it back to the factory if a reboot doesn’t do the trick. A hard re-boot of course, never soft. These male bots should be advanced enough to “detect” what angles and positions work best for each woman and adapt - seems fair. Re-iterate; I would pay good money for this shit. There should be a way to program Timothy and Parker with a handful of typical responses i.e. cuddle time, smoking afterwards, getting up to get us something to drink or handing us a towel. It’s time we got a fucking useful toy too! Anatomically designed to each owners [yes, owner!] specifications. I want to put them away once I’m done too; I’ll dig you up when I need you again. I’ve even thought of a great slogan for the manufacturing company. “If we build it, you will cum”

This is just the beginning ladies, this is going to be huge [and some of your bots will be as well I bet] I just know it. Thanks for reading; now if you’ll excuse me, I have sweats and Oreos to purchase.,amp.html

Friday, September 15, 2017


Related image
Held up against the suns light
Hairline tears blemish 

Image result for abandoned road dark
Matchbook memento
Damp cocktail napkin roadmap
The longest walk home


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Will it though? Will my comfort zone really kill me or will it prop me in front of the boob tube wrapped in a Snuggie double-fisting chicken nuggets into my face hole? Maybe it will kill me if we're playing the long game and we’re measuring cholesterol and triglycerides.  I don’t usually play the long game. I have the attention span of 6-year-old with ADD. Is that not PC? Is it not even correct anymore? Is it ADHD? You know what? I don’t care. Oh, that’s so harsh! Yeah, well I’m a cold and uncaring bitch who just spent 10 minutes arguing the merits of Hot Pockets with someone on the internet until they stopped responding. Presumably to cry. Honestly, if my comfort zone has its way, I’ll rock a pair of sweat pants and a tank top braless for two days minimum without so much as one single fuck given. Wanna know what it looks like when my comfort zone takes over?

When my comfort zone takes a hold of me I start ordering Chinese food to be delivered and tip the dude supa fat because I’ve ordered enough to feed a small village and I NEED for him to keep his mouth shut and leave quickly. When I go to answer the door, it’s clear that I haven’t been outside in a couple days. My skin is pale and my eyes are taking too long to adjust to the sun. Our exchange is taking way too long and he is making me nervous. Take my damn money and give me my Mu Shu and steamed dumplings!! The inside of my comfort zone smells like old pizza boxes and fruity pebbles. When I slow dance with my comfort zone we watch a whole series of something on Netflix, feel guilty about it, clean the house, go grocery shopping [still in sweat pants] make three different meals and feed friends then start the whole cycle over again. Oh, the shame… I never invite my friends over though; they’d see how I live - that would be crazy. On second thought…maybe my comfort zone will be my demise.

As a person recovering from addiction issues, I understand the rationale behind the image. I used to live with the thought that I would die from my disease and I was accepting of that towards the end. Early on I battled you, and her, and him, and them. It was all of you with the problem; it was never anything that I had to address. That was my comfort zone – blame. By that rationale, my comfort zone will in fact kill me. If I were to continue blaming others for my issues, my mistakes, my disease, my atrocious parking, my poor choices…I would surely die. I would meander through life a clueless fuck – the most dangerous kind. The kind of idiot that you encounter in the grocery store or gas station and think “damn, how do they make it through life?” or “they hit their head on every step on the stupid ladder on the way down, didn’t they?” That kind of comfort zone is deadly for me. The kind where I’m blameless, you’re my hostage and I’m downright dangerous.

At some point I think it would be good to sit down and really write about what it was like in my disease. Tragic, disgusting and hysterically funny. Seriously, I have had some ‘piss your pants’ funny situations happen while I was ‘out there.’ Granted, most of the pants pissing happened in blackouts, but hey; semantics.
Comfort zones look so much more like a Pottery Barn catalog for me today than when I was drinking. Back then, they looked a little bit like someone spliced a Fredericks of Hollywood catalog with a Jim Beam Commercial and threw some Carl’s Jr. in there for good measure. Note to self: remember to explain drunken packing and how I ended up with a suitcase full of lingerie and zero suitable clothing.

I’ll end with this because I just got a text from a fellow mother about how my ten-year-old is sharing inappropriate sex jokes with his peers about 69ing. Way to go kid! Comfort zones won’t kill you. What will kill you is your inability to shake yourself free of them and grow into new ones. Comfort is good. Complacency and refusal to grow is what takes out.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

All Apologies

I hope that your self-righteousness keeps you warm at night
That your uncanny ability to never be wrong in any given situation
Is a comfort when you’re all alone
But indulge my curiosity; you owe me that – and I’m quite done playing nice with you
Is it lonely ordering for just one?
Just you. Always you.
You and your pride.
Tell me, when you go to ask a question and see that no one’s there
No one to listen to you chirp
Does your ego swoop in to warm you?
What occupies the space your heart once held?
Oh, how I’d like to score your name from all memory
Chalk you up to some astrological anomaly; Mercury in retrograde, or some shit
Or a terrible hormonal imbalance
Without logic I allowed you inside my walls
Unguarded and without reason I danced the dance
I took you at your word
I let your words become my reality
I bought your bullshit ticket for a ride on your fucked up crazy train
And rode that bitch till the wheels feel off
But you wouldn’t know anything about that would you?
So preoccupied with yourself and your needs
Too consumed with mollifying my unease
Calming my distress
Reassuring me of what a good and solid man you were
In an attempt to keep me around
How’d that work out for you?
You strangled the life out of it
Kicking dirt in my face the whole time
Now you see the wicked side
Of me
As I’ve see the ugly and hollow in you
Care to dance or are you saving this one for your ego again?


Wednesday, September 13, 2017

You have to have a plan...

I demand a do-over on my high school days. That’s right, I want to go back to having acne prone skin, an unhealthy obsession with Robert Smith of the Cure and being virtually invisible to anyone with a penis. I want to spend my days dreading 3rd period (PE - because I’m fat and it’s hard to walk with a book bag let alone run) and the only time of day I’m comfortable is lunch because I spend that time smoking with the stoners at the car wash across the street.
*sings “Working at the car wash (oh oh, yeah yeah) at the car wash, yeah (ooh ooh ooh) at the car wash”*

Why the hell would you want to inflict that kind of torture upon yourself again? Well, sit right back and I’ll tell you a little story…

I was talking to my friend today; we’ll call her Anastacia [that’s that bitches real name too, lmfao] and we were talking about the NASDAQ. I’m fucking with you guys; neither of us knows shit about all that, maybe she should come back to school with me. Anyhow, we were talking about life and more specifically a job she was prospecting. She said that she still didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. It gave me pause but not for too long because that ship sailed for me about the same time that my breast milk dried up. I can get really depressed if I think about it too much. I’ve got a nice little student loan debt and nothing to show for that shit but a record of ‘on-time’ payments courtesy of wage garnishments. If I knew then what I know now; bullshit! I’d probably still be a know-it-all asshole bitching about how I’ll never use fractions in the ‘real world’ and chopping up lines on my desk with my ruler in Geometry. True story.

I was a complete fuck off in high school. The only thing that I really applied myself at was illicit drug taking and concert attendance; both of which I excelled at, I might add. I’ll never forget the time I dropped acid and the poster of The Cure I had on my wall came to life. Robert Smith left the poster and walked toward me; and it was right then and there that my fascination ended. There’s nothing quite like watching his face melt while tripping balls to strike fear in you every time you  hear Lullaby. I remember being told attendance and attention at school was important but I was not impressed. In hindsight, I can say I wasn’t challenged. I was bored. I would give my right tit to go back and be bored as fuck. My options today are limited. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy what I do and my place of employment; I’m honestly blessed and I know it. I also know that I am capable of much more. My earning potential [this is where I don’t tell you how much I make] could be much higher and far cushier. The threat of living off Top Ramen is real should I for some reason lose my current job. If I lose my job, it will be because I’ve forced Tim’s head into a toilet filled with his own urine or because I failed to effectively utilize my inside voice – meaning I’ve said some heinous shit out loud instead of inside my head, unknowingly of course. Of course…

Today’s students are much more disciplined. They are better prepared or maybe they just have a better grasp on reality. Times are changing. The job market is more competitive. 15 yr. old me was certain I could hack it out there as the next Courtney Love. I also thought I could be a freelance writer and photographer. Then I believed I’d be a lawyer. You know what you need to be a lawyer? A mother fucking education! I kept looking in my Cracker Jacks box for my degree but all I got was a joke, a temporary tattoo, and one time a decoder ring. No degree. I never spent time thinking about what I wanted to be when I got out of school, I just wanted to get out – alive. Spoiled little gluten intolerant assholes today get to use me as an example of what not to do. They see how shitty people like me turned out and when I step left, they step right. In all fairness I am probably saving countless young women from abusive and one-sided relationships, unhealthy coping skills, bad habits and practices and financial ruin. Just watch what I did and still do and do the exact opposite ladies! You’re welcome.

Other people may have had some sort of clue when they were in high school about a life plan for themselves. I just wanted to not go to jail, not die, be famous and be filthy rich. I don’t think I was asking too much. Oh, right – I wanted to be prettier and smarter than everyone else too, but not a stuck up asshole. Life plan? No, just some down to earth goals that should have been totally attainable. But here I sit, with a busted up pair of headphones on while listening to music, writing this on a computer that doesn’t belong to me, checking my bank account, making sure that there is enough in there for the Department of Education to take its cut of my paycheck for a degree that I don’t have. So…can I go back to popping pimples and being ignored at Prom???


Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Good enough, smart enough and gosh darn it, people like me

So I just looked at the stats on how many people are actually reading this stuff. Holy sheep shit Batman!! This..that..YOU guys are fantastic!! Thank you so much for all the support! I had no idea I had so many readers and that you spanned the globe. That shit blows my mind - for real!!! I'm really humbled but mostly think I'm getting punked somehow. Like Ashton Kutcher is behind it or Taylor Swift is getting divine retribution for all the shit I talk about her pretty little blonde ass. In any event, I am very grateful to you for taking the time to read my ramblings.

Don't forget you can always write to me:
Find me on Twitter also: @rantsandswears

Legit, so fucking humbled. <3

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