Monday, April 30, 2018

Bedtime stories

Without much explanation, this is the shit that happens in my brain at night. Welcome to my Hell. I wrote this in the bathroom this morning, because as I've stated, all my good ideas happen there. If you thought I was fucked up before, prepare to modify your standards. 

Me: I should fall asleep before Kevin gets home so his snoring doesn’t keep me up.

My sabotaging brain: You should definitely stay awake; what if he never makes it home.

Me: Sssh, don’t say that.

Sabotaging brain: What if he gets in an accident? Wouldn’t that be terrible? You won’t hear your phone ring when the cops call.

Me: Goddammit.

Sabotaging brain: At least it won’t be Curran, right? 

Me: Trying to sleep here...

Sabotaging brain: If something were ever to happen to Curran, you’d drink, right? 

Me: Fuck you.

Brain: Right then. I would. Dude, it’s your child. That shit would kill. Wonder how it’d happen?

Me: Oh, for fuck’s sake! 

[small amount of time passes] 

Me: These socks are hot, I should take them off.

Brain: Yeah, ya should! You talk shit about sock sleepers, yet here you are. You want to be a hypocrite?

Me: Oh my God! I just forgot.

Brain: And now you’ve remembered.

Brain: Hey, while you’re up, did you lock the door? 

Me: I think so.

Brain: You’d better check. You don’t want the aliens coming in.

Me: Aliens don’t stop for locked doors, asshole.

Brain: Theory worked for you as a child, asshole! Besides, how do you know? Ever met one? 

Me: ...

Brain: Right! Maybe they have manners. They are an advanced intelligence, are they not? Who’s to say they haven’t tried breaking and entering and found the front door most effective? Maybe they’ve had dinner and good conversations this way. 

Me: I can’t believe we’re doing this.

Brain: You’re pretty screwed up, for the record

Me: Oh look, the cat’s here. 

Brain: Pet him.

Me: Duh.

Brain: I wonder if the cat knows you’re broken?

Me: Huh? 

Brain: Like, does the cat just humor you because he feels badly for you?

Me: I hate you, I just want to sleep.

Brain: I know, sweetheart. We heard you. 

[keys rattle on door]

Me: Ha! Fuck you! Kevin’s home! 

Brain: Okay, and??? Good luck sleeping now, princess. You gonna take those socks off, ya fucking hypocrite? 

Sunday, April 29, 2018

30 mins or less - dissatisfaction guaranteed

This is the blog on which my fortune will be built. Ha! Just pulling your chain, I’ll put together a half-assed post in no longer than 30 mins so that I can continue preparing for my day’s events. I rarely spend more than 30 mins on these things, but don’t let that be an indicator of how much I care about your experience. Let that speak to how little I care about the quality of product I stamp my name to.

It’s true. I’ll re-read stuff that I’ve written and think: I could have expanded on that thought and made it much funnier and completely fleshed out that idea. My immediate following thought is: Nah. I am the living embodiment of: whatever, I guess this works.

So, once I get off my ass and stop torturing you with this drivel, I’ll go to the gym and run [more on that later] and then get ready for a birthday party later. Normally I hate birthday parties. I fucking hate walking around someone’s backyard pretending to not be weird. Better still, making small talk with people you’d rather see, after a day at the beach, having had their clothing stolen, make the long and embarrassing walk home naked [because in my fantasy their cars don’t work either.]

Not today though. Today I’ll be going to a party where we’ll be celebrating a baby. She’s adorable, with a smile that is infectious and if her mother turns her back on her for too long, I might kidnap her. Legit, she is the next Gerber baby and my fucking meal ticket. No more writing these shitty blogs.

Parties with kids and pets – that’s my jam. If you don’t have those essential ingredients, don’t expect me to show up. If I do, I’ll be in corner next to the smokers trying desperately to inhale second hand smoke while bitching about the weather. It will either be too hot or too cold, too overcast, or there will be too many insects. Kid parties are the best! Not because I’m creepy, but because children are fucking rad. Their innocence is beautiful. They also haven’t formed judgement against me yet. To them, I’m still a funny old lady. A good lady; I dig that shit.

Back to the whole “running” thing and then I’ll close this bitch out because time is a for-real issue.

 Alright, it’s my understanding that some crackheads run because it’s a good cardiovascular workout or the endorphins feel great. Bullshit! I call motherfucking bullshit on that! I’ve never gone for a run and thought: This is going to be great! This is so good for me! I can’t wait to get out there! No, sir! Whether I run on the treadmill, or I go for an outdoor run, I am doing the same thing – I am running away from being a fat-ass. As a former fat-ass, I can say that shit. Those of you that take issue with it can promptly go fuck off.

Having been 240 lbs. at age 16, I believe I’ve earned the right to say “fat-ass” without having 80 of you jump down my throat about how insensitive I am. I was tortured as a child. I don’t intend to go back there, ever. That’s why I run. I suppose I could use the elliptical, but I don’t sweat nearly as much. I’m drenched after a run. Every time my feet hit the ground, every mile I run, I’m further away from the childhood ridicule. I’ve sweat out my anger, my fear, and the intolerance I faced as a child. I have nothing against heavyset people. If it doesn’t interfere with quality of life, health, or your mental and emotional well-being – more power to you. I was not so fortunate. I continue to pay.

When you hear me talk about my running, it’s not because I’m a super athlete or because I think I’m super dope – it’s because I’m super insecure. People who talk about their workout routines all the time are fucking gross. Unless you’re a trainer, or preparing for a competition, I don’t give a shit - save your breath. Vegans are the same. Why would you think I’d give two shits about your choice to omit all things tasty from your diet? Who hurt you? Did I ask? And no, I don’t care to hear about your pineapple-kale smoothie recipe. Sounds like diarrhea to me.
Great! Now that I’ve properly offended overweight folks and vegans, it looks like my 30 mins are up. I’ve got this blog cat in my lap that I’ll have to break the news to: get the fuck up, I’m outta here!  This unfortunate cat loves me. I think he understands what an asshole I am. He seems to care for me regardless. Either that or he’s just bidding his time; waiting for me to die so that he can feed off my carcass. It’s what I would do if I were him.

Friday, April 27, 2018

shower thoughts down the drain

While in the shower this morning I wrote [in my head] a fucking genius blog. This always happens. I write cripplingly hysterical material when I’m nowhere near a computer or a device by which I can record my thoughts. So instead, I present you with this piece of shit.

I can’t say for certain why I began thinking about why I have so few female friends; perhaps I like the masochistic act of itemizing my faults. The perfectionist that I am, I will likely alphabetize them also. There I was though, cataloging reasons why I might not be popular among the ladies. *clarification: I’m very popular with some ladies, they just usually have short hair, wear sneakers, have facial piercings and enjoy being called babe. Or they’ve done time in the penitentiary. *

Self-reflection is a long and arduous process that is not to be taken lightly; this would be no different. Now, being fully enlightened, I put away the coffee creamer I had pulled from the fridge when I started this exploration of psyche. I had come to understand. It’s not that women don’t like me, they seem to really enjoy me. They enjoy me on more than a ‘I want to make scissors with you,’ basis. It’s almost unfortunate. I can’t hang with women though – at least not for very long, and here’s why…

Women are fake as fuck. We all talk about wanting to build another woman up, but the reality is we only want to build that bitch up so that she is level with us. God forbid she gets better than us at something. That’s when shit goes sideways. Maybe not directly. For instance, maybe I’m not a cunt directly to her face, but I definitely start talking shit about her to my boyfriend – because that shit is safe. He won’t say anything. He’s probably not even listening. I’ll be talking to him about my day at work and *oops* slip some shit in like “and then this thing with Mary is pissing me off because she always has to make a point of listing her accomplishments when we’re out at lunch; like she wants to remind me of my place. It’s just annoying. Ya know what I mean? What do you think I should do? Honey? Honey…are you even hearing me?”

If you’re a woman and you just read that, and you didn’t nod your head in the up and down direction - even just a little, you’re fucking delusional. You know you’ve done that shit. Own it. And that’s what I mean, we lie to ourselves. We lie to ourselves to make ourselves seem more wholesome and good-natured. Why? We’re not fooling anyone. If you think you are, you’re scary stupid. Even men, who admit being a bit obtuse when it comes to intuiting things, will be the first to notice a chick that has “major crazy eye” or is “batshit crazy.” If these super-sleuths can detect our BS in these instances, why would we think they’d not see through the thinly veiled ‘Lift a Bitch’ campaign? I don’t even buy the shit I try peddling.

So… I’m honest with you folks here. Do I love my girlfriends? Of course, I do! Do I want to see them succeed? Ab-so-fucking-lutely! Do I want to be better than them and have them look to me for comfort and advice? You’re damn right! Will I try to out-run each one of them if you put me on treadmill next to them? Yep. Will I bow out of social gatherings where I’m not the prettiest? No. That’s fucking stupid and I’m not that much of an asshole. I’ll just limit my time there because my ego is soft and bruises like a ripe pear. I’ll also go home and tell my boyfriend about the whole thing and how I’m never doing that again because Mary wouldn’t shut up about herself. Then I’ll fish for compliments about how pretty he thinks I am. This is what honesty looks like. Therefore, I spend A LOT of time alone.

So, you see, masterpieces are written in the shower when I can’t do anything about it. What’s left is this shit. I’d apologize, but then I’m lying again, and I can only handle so much disappointment in one day. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

a continuous stream of bullshit

I don’t need much to be happy – Take a seat, we’ll be here a while.

Nobody likes to think of themselves as greedy shit-sharks. I’m no different. I used to tout myself as ‘easy to please’ to my boyfriend in the earlier stages of our relationship. Now I’m banging cabinet drawers and theatrically sighing if he isn’t doing what I’ve asked of him in what I deem a reasonable amount of time.

Materially speaking, I don’t need much. I just need the Apple Watch Series 3 to be considered an “accessory” so that I get 50% off at my local AT&T retailer; one of the perks of having a family member that works for the company. The iPhone X and various other electronics we own aren’t enough. I need more, and frankly, I’ve worked hard to spend earned money so that later I can bitch about how I have none.

I own 3 pairs or running shoes, 7 pairs of pajamas, 2 televisions, 1 laptop, 1 iPad, 8 new albums off iTunes in the last 2 days, 17 years of resentments, and an inferiority complex. Essentially, I’m buying my way through the healing process. It’s so much easier this way. I wish someone would have told me about this sooner. I would have saved a shit ton of money on therapists and uncomfortable silences. $250 an hour to cry and stare at each other -  that’s a lot of music, shoes and sports bras that I could have been buying instead. And now I have another resentment.

Size doesn’t matter – Let’s just be honest with each other, okay?

This is the biggest load of warm horseshit I’ve ever tried to spoon feed myself. Let’s dissect this, shall we?
1)     Ever been asked out on a date by a man that is significantly shorter than you? Were you stoked? I, for one, have never in the history of my dating career said to myself “Hey, you’re eye level with my naval, this is going to be great!”
2)     If size truly didn’t matter none of us would go to the gym. I certainly wouldn’t haul my unruly ass onto a treadmill every damn day. Fuck that noise! You can tell me it feels good to be healthy and make good choices for yourself. I will tell you that you’re full of shit. Pizza feels good in my belly right next to Cinnabon and virgin daiquiris. Git da fuck outta here with that shit! If our society wasn’t a physically driven machine, we’d all eat what we truly desired. Some of you may desire asparagus and chicken, but I’m usually feeling something with cheese and sauce. If you can combine the two, we’re in business.
3)     No, I don’t want the man with the average sized penis, I’ll take the smaller one – it’s cute. See how fucking ridiculous that sounds? Even the virgins are laughing. If you have a small penis, I’m not saying that you can’t or won’t find love. It just won’t be with me; clearly.

I don’t need a man – This one is tricky…

This is 50% bullshit. I don’t need one most of the time. I do like to have one for times when: I’m too short to reach things, times when I’m cold, times when I need someone to blame, when heavy lifting or manual labor is required, opening jars with tight lids, and for sex. Have you seen the price on batteries lately?! I have a plug-in model but I’m somewhat anchored with that thing. I'm always let down when I say "pull my hair," and all I get in response is "bzzzzzzzz."

Then again, vibrators don’t leave dirty socks on the floor and dirty dishes in the sink. Come to think of it, they don’t leave bread crumbs from ‘middle of the night’ toast on the counters. They certainly don’t leave beard hair in the sink and I’ve never had to roll one over in the middle of the night because it was snoring too loud. Maybe I ought to do a little more research on this one. Back to the drawing board! 

We’ll leave it here for today. I’ll probably have more shit to say tomorrow. If you’re not busy, stop by and see what goes on in this adorable, warped headspace of mine.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

And other bullshit lies

I’m not high maintenance – Full. Of. Shit. Not. Even. Fooling. Myself.

I don’t take 2 hours getting dressed to go out for the evening, but that’s only because I’ve given hope. Eventually we just accept the reality that we’re not going to leave the house an 8 when we got into the shower a 4. It just doesn’t work that fucking way, folks. Men, if you’re dating one of these women, do yourselves a favor and get out now. Save yourself the headache. Clearly, she’s delusional and it will only get worse. It’ll progress like a cancer, spilling over into all other aspects of your pathetic, one-sided relationship.

“I’m not high maintenance,” I tell myself (and him) as I adhere strictly to a routine that if deviated from, causes great distress and bitchiness. I have zero qualms telling you, or anyone who will listen, about just how bullshit I think a situation is if its uncomfortable for whatever – and I do mean whatever reason. But I’m not high maintenance. I buy generic label shit and never question it. If it’s on sale, it’s in my basket, regardless of whether the product next to it is preferable. So, you see, I can’t be high maintenance. We’re going to completely avoid talking about food and my choices surrounding it. Fuck off. Not. High. Maintenance.

Less is more – Said no one ever, who had anything worth having more of!

This is especially relevant when I’m throwing stones at other women for wearing anything in the clothing department that isn’t a burka or the equivalent thereof. If you’re an attractive woman with confidence, chances are, I’m jealous of you and trying to figure out a way to trip you in public and make it look accidental. There’s also a good chance that I’m fantasizing about you loosing your hair and teeth. I’m not a terrible person, I just have terrible self-esteem and destroying you is easier than working on my own.

The truth is, if I had legs and tits like the women I have taken issue with, I’d flaunt that shit too. I’d wear shorts and tank tops all year long, regardless of the temperature outside. That’s why boyfriends have coats; it’s not because they need them, it’s so we can use them.  

I’m not a bad person, I just want bad things to happen to all the people prettier, smarter, faster, and more capable than me. Does that make sense?

This is a good stopping point because, as it turns out, there are a lot of bullshit lies I tell myself – and you. It’s also 15 mins to 5pm and I have no intention of staying in this shithole country…I mean workplace, any longer than I am obligated to.

More to follow…

Sunday, April 15, 2018

the fucking battle

I caught myself doing some shit yesterday that I find fucking repulsive and desperate when others do it, so I figured I’d better ‘out’ myself.

We all know at least one person that seeks approval by way of coerced compliments. If you don’t, you’re that sorry sack of shit. There’s also the friend that relentlessly discloses unrequested information to anyone with functioning sensory receptors; snapping the necks on already dead puppies. If I’d said something like “hookers” or “crack-heads” dozens of you would be sending me scathing letters about what an insensitive twat I am. “They’re people too,” you’d proclaim all judgmental, forgetting that only moments before becoming enraged, you laughed – and isn’t that what it’s all about?

I like to swing wildly between coercing compliments and snapping puppy necks. For today though, I’ll focus on Fido and how I snapped his neck in the Von’s Supermarket.

I’ve been dealing with plantar fasciitis for a week or two now. This is where all of you let out a collective “ohhhh…”  [insert sad face here]. See how that manipulative coercion works? I mean, sure, I explained it – but even so, you still felt sorry for me, didn’t you? I’ve been telling any asshole who will listen to me about it. I drop that shit in conversation like it’s fucking casual. “Me? Oh, I’m good, but it’s been tough lately. I got the fasciitis,” I say to virtually anyone that asks how I’m doing. It’s a completely manageable situation if I’d just stay the fuck off my foot! That would be entirely too reasonable a response for this chick though. I like to make certain that I take the longest and most excruciating route, thereby giving me something to discuss with others along the way. Lucky you.

Yesterday I crossed the line. The woman in line ahead of me was purchasing insoles for her shoes. They were specifically for plantar fasciitis. Ask me how I know. Ok, I can see that this is a one-sided conversation so I’ll just tell you. I leaned forward and started perusing her purchase items!  Nope, not awkward at all! It didn’t even get weird when I struck up a conversation with her about said insoles. They were for her husband who apparently needs them for his injury obtained while fencing. None of that really mattered though because I made the conversation about me and my obstinance. She told me about how she used to run but the wear and tear on her body forced her into biking and swimming instead. What I heard was “wha wha wa wa wha wha wa wa,” which loosely translated means: If I say I’m sorry, will you go away? Please leave me alone, you’re scaring me.

I hate it when people talk to me about uncomfortable shit, especially in uncomfortable situations. No Debra, I don’t want to know about your heavy flow day while we’re here in the line at Mr. Taco. It kills the appetite, ya know? Furthermore, Jorge here just wants to take our order and doesn’t get paid nearly enough to take your ‘special request’ order AND listen to your bullshit.”  
*true story, name changed for Debra’s protection*

So, in short, I left that store yesterday feeling better for having told another soul about the torture I keep putting myself through by continuing to run up to 7 miles a day on my foot. See what I did there? Overshare with the intent to elicit respect and also admiration. Fucking gross, right? No, I have no intention of stopping. No, I have no intention of buying the insoles I so creepily ogled. No, I have no intention of refraining from chastising others from the same behavior that I engage in at stalker level. Hypocrite? Ok, but I know this and didn’t G.I. Joe say some shit about ‘knowing’ being half the fucking battle? Pretty sure he said “fucking battle,” too.

I’m human and disgusting. I’m going to go eat whip cream straight from container now. Hope you all enjoy your Sunday.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018


Thanks for watching this shit.

Please feel free to add your thoughts below. I promise not to bust your balls. 

Thursday, April 5, 2018

I have a future in television

I’m not famous yet. Like, not even close. I get it, I’m hard for some folks to stomach. Some of you are sick bastards and can’t get enough. My crass nature and propensity for swearing leave you waiting for the next blog like starved anorexic models staring at batches of homemade mashed potatoes with gravy. Shit, that fucked up wasn’t it? I ought to be more sensitive. I’ll get right on that; just as soon as I’m done with my plate of lasagna and slice of cake.

To be clear, I don’t ever need to see my name in lights. That shit is scary as fuck. People are mean and I’m relatively sensitive. All it would take is one douchebag to say some shit to hurt my feelings, next thing you know I’m collecting dog shit from around the neighborhood for flaming crap bags. I know my limitations and honestly, there aren’t enough dogs in my neighborhood for my rage potential. Low bottom, high ceiling.

It got me thinking though; what am I missing? Why isn’t my blog game strong? Then I remembered that in the past – like the way, way past – I used to post videos. I posted short video blogs that were exceptionally crappy. So much so, in fact, that my boyfriend would always criticize them. He’s supposed to love everything that I do! If he wants blowjobs, that’s how this thing works. He would tell me, “You really ought to consider where your lighting sources are, dear” as if adding the affectionate term to the end of an insult somehow made it all better. Hey, I just took a massive shit on your chest, but here’s a wet-nap. We good?  No. We’re not good. Far from it. But hey, I got you a tub of Vaseline and some new gym socks. So, there’s that.

*To my dear BF: Love you. Thanks for putting up with me and allowing me to talk shit. Let me know when you run out of socks.

As far as the lighting in my videos goes - eat a dick! When I get an assistant to make me sandwiches, pick up my cat food from the grocery store, compliment me profusely on my quick wit and individualistic disregard for fashion trends – I’ll make them fix the fucking lighting situation, okay?

Nasim Aghdam, who recently opened fire at You Tube HQ and took her own life, claimed that she was being demonetized by recent censorship. How the fuck was this chick making money? If I post shitty videos and claim to be a vegan [animals are tasty] will I gain viewers? Remember, more viewers would be like a private Hell for me, so this is all rhetorical. I never watched any of her videos. I try not to watch people who quote Hitler. Just feels icky, ya know?

So, what I’m saying is: along with getting back to the basics of being extraordinarily offensive [which I’ve gotten away from lately, and I apologize] I have included for your viewing pleasure, a video of me doing absolutely nothing. I’m certain it’ll go fucking viral. It’s 10x more entertaining than kids choking on condoms. Ok, it’s not as entertaining as kids getting condoms stuck in their noses, but I’m not doing that shit. I have latex allergies and you can go fuck yourself. Literally.