If you could change one
thing about me, what would it be?
Your assumption would be that your significant other would
have the common sense to walk the fuck away from this. I know
I can picture mine tucking his hands in his pockets, shaking his head (without
speaking), doing an about-face, and never speaking of it again. Just because I
can picture it though, doesn’t make it so – that’s another story for another
I can picture myself in size 4 jeans with 8% bodyfat, no
cellulite and a solid C cup – doesn’t mean Captain Frumpy Sweats isn’t the reality
I’m working with. Best to just accept things and make the best of a shitty
Being a self-aware woman, I stray from wearing clothing that
places adjectives (of any kind) on my ass. No “juicy” clothing line or anything
“apple bottom” for this hoe.
Would you mind terribly
Imma just stop you there. The aforementioned query format ought
not be utilized unless the object is to be let down, but you knew this. Think
about that shit. If you must ask, “would you mind terribly,” you know for fuck-all
that that’s some shit you wouldn’t want to do – why the hell would they?
What, now you’re going
to get all butthurt when they take too long to answer? Or perhaps you’d like to
spend the next 40 mins (after you’ve told them you’re cool) haphazardly throwing
guilt around your house like glitter at a drag show.
I’m getting a disco ball to accentuate my glitter. The
handymen (I ordered 3 for shits and giggles) will be here next week. I needed time in the interim to guilt
my boyfriend properly for not handling the ball hanging promptly when I asked, “would you mind terribly if?”
Would you still love me
if I put on a little weight?
I had all the information I needed. Keep it right, keep it
Do you love me more than
you loved your ex?
Whoa! Hold up! I know you guys are thinking that’s fucked up. That’s a loaded question.
That’s completely uncalled for and uncomfortable. How do you expect someone to
respond to something like that? Um…have you read any of my other questions?
Of course, it’s uncomfortable and it’s preposterous. These are my
questions. Go make up your own uncomfortable and inexcusable shit to ask
someone. I’m proud of this one. I feel like this one truly captures the essence
of my desperately low self-esteem and clawing neediness.
I’m also a total mindfuck and followed it up with, “I won’t
get butthurt or anything, but remember she’s completely fuck nuts crazy,”
thereby leaving him with only one viable answer: to put his hands in his
pockets, shake his head, do an about-face, and walk the fuck away.
I have more I could add to this list, but my asshole co-workers
are starting to look at me as though I should be doing something like working.
What a bunch of pricks! It’s not as if they’re paying me. Fuck you, Tuesday.
Don’t worry, Tim, I haven’t forgotten about you. I hate you the most!
4:00 am: Cat begins meowing in my face. I assume this is to awaken
me so that I can feed his furry ass. Fuck that. I shoo him off the bed. Back to
4:12 am: He’s back because apparently, he likes to be shoved.
4:20 am: And again. I swear to fuck, you do this again,
Mugen, and I’ll cut you up and feed you to the other cat.
4:38 am: I’M UP YOU PIECE OF SHIT! I HATE YOU AND I’M TAKING
YOU BACK TO THE CAT ORPHANAGE!!!
5:00 am: I’m dressed in my superhero spandex and out the door
to do battle with the treadmill and spin bike.
6:20 am: My sports bra has fused to my torso permanently with
sweat. I walk back through my front door to find the shitstain of a cat staring
at me from the living room area rug with an odd look. It’s the look a baby
gives when it farts for the first time or you catch your child masturbating. We
cool, cat? Cool kitty…
Nope – not
6:21 am: Mugen pukes all over the tile floor (thank heavenly
fuck) just next to the rug he was dragging his ass across like a dog with itchy
ass. Tile I can handle, carpet is so much grosser. Fuck me! Did you just puke again and why is it coming out like water?!
What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is there so much?
6:23 am: “I can hear you throwing up on my goddamn shoes in
there you little shitbag! Get out of my closet you fucking bulimic flea bag!”
My cat has relocated his purging party into my closet. Apparently, audiences
are too much for him; he does his best work alone. Between him waking me at the
unholy hour of 4 am and now cavomiting (new word) into my boots, I’m ready to
skin him and send him back to the shelter as a message to all the other “would-be”
7:00 am: I throw open the door to my kid’s room and resist
the urge to yell “get up and don’t make me remind you to brush your teeth, I’m
already pissed off about cat puke.
7:15 am: Standing creepy-style over my sleeping boyfriend I
wonder if he can feel the brain waves and malignant thoughts I’m burning into his
skull. A little fucking help here? You gonna sleep through all this shit? Video
games till 2 am again? Check. Snoring? Check. Zero assistance with anything?
7:22 am: Boyfriend goes in for the kiss goodbye. ARE YOU
FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? I know for a fact
that you heard me cleaning up cat puke in the living room. I most certainly
know that you heard the furry butthole come into the room then puke in my goddamn
closet. I’m positive you heard me swearing through the whole ordeal. You aren’t
fooling anyone when you shift in the bed and mumble softly, dickface. You’re
looking at the queen. I invented that game. I know you’re not sleeping. Only
bitches mumble in their sleep anyhow. No, of course I don’t need help cleaning
the cat box or straightening the living room. Why would you think I would want
help with anything? Did the goodbye kiss give it away? Maintaining eye contact
during a limp-lipped kiss with my arms at my sides is kind of a telltale, isn’t
7:32 am: “Yo, Curran, are you ready? Please tell me you
brushed your teeth.” Curran looks at me and asks for a pair of socks, telling
me that he can’t find one solitary pair in his drawer. This is fucking unreal!
I must be in the Twilight Zone. There is no possible way this child has not one
pair of socks in the entirety of his room. It in unfathomable to me. I’m so
close to snapping right now. I toss the kid a pair of mine. I almost handed him
the pink ones, but I still love him. I just want to flick his ear right now.
I’d give anything to go back to just shoving the damn cat off
the bed. Please save your “you can start your day over” bullshit for another
time. I’m quite content living in the hot pink rage that is my Tuesday. With
any luck I’ll get home and the cat will have shit on my comforter too. A final “fuck
Instead of roaring about gun reform when tragedies occur in
our schools, how about we honor the lives that were lost and the families? I'd
like to know what these lost souls were like when they were with us. Does that
make it too personal for some of you to deal with? Good! It fucking should be.
Human lives were lost! Show some goddamn respect for the families and shut the
fuck up for 10 mins unless you have some honest to God condolences to share.
Your good-for-nothing thoughts and prayers are paper ships in a rainstorm and
are headed straight for the drainpipe where politicians are lying in wait. I'm
tired of thinking of creative ways to spew the same useless rhetoric that has
done nothing to ease the pain of parents, family members, and friends who
continue to lose loved ones. Fuck this! Someone tell me about who these
children were and what they loved. Someone please make this about humanity
again. Honor these children and their families.
Here’s the deal…the first few reviews are actual reviews from Amazon
(with witness protection in play because I didn’t ask first) and my response in
the green. I have added my own little review at the end. There are so many ways
that I could go with this, but time is short and so is your attention.
I would like to
inquire about the auditions though. Were people turned away for being too enthusiastic? I mean, it must be
creepy if you’re totally into getting down on this product, right? I guess not
if your hot and a female. What kind of people are super stoked on doing infomercials
for this product? Yes, please sign me up
for the commercial that makes it look like I take it in the ass on the regular.
Its hard to exercise with this product I could not stay in
place. the design is weird and you slip off
I could be wrong, but
if you can’t stay on this son of a bitch, that would make this piece of
equipment particularly dangerous. It’s too close to my rectum for me to not
feel comfortable with its structural integrity.
This is the worst piece of exercise equipment I have ever
purchased, and I have many! It is very unstable. I fell when it flipped out
from under me during the first use. My advice is to not purchase this
equipment. Use a chair or something that will catch you if you lose your
balance. Not worth the price either.
Betcha wish you’d stuck to that
Ab Roller. I think you can still hook yourself up with a Thigh Master. I hear
those things are versatile.
So far so good. I have seen small results by day 3. You will
definitely feel in your legs. I don’t feel so much in the glutes so we shall
see.... don’t give into the discomfort you’ll feel in your legs and follow the
30 day challenge.
Really? In 3 days you
see small results? Must be some slammin cocaine or ecstasy you’re on. Sorry,
that’s not how shit works. I’ll let you get back to petting your imaginary cat
I bought the unit thinking I would be able to use it while watching my episodes
of The Bachelor. To my dismay, the unit was not assembled. I had to assemble
everything from the hydraulic pump to fastening down the seat with allen wrenches;
thankfully those were included. The resistance bands seemed rather cheap upon
initial inspection as well. Once the unit was assembled I sat down and began to
pump, pump, pump my way to a firmer rump.
began to wobble underneath the weight of my 135lb frame. The shitty little
resistance bands buckled under the pressure, shooting off the unit - one of them sailing
across the room nailing my poor cat in the head. He’s never been the same since.
With no resistance bands in play and inferior product materials, it took mere
seconds for the seat to give way as well. The seat dislodged itself and I
crashed to the floor with the unit still tucked firmly between my legs. The seat-less
shaft penetrating my rectum required surgical extraction.
just wanted firmer thighs and buns and now I have a retarded cat and a
crippling fear of anything delivered to my doorstep. Thanks for absolutely
nothing, Squat Magic!
**This fucking thing costs $120 American dollars! What in the actual fuck??!! That's a lot of songs off iTunes I could have purchased instead or whatever you fuckers do with your cash.
My best friend, Jennifer, said it best: “You’re the only
person I know dumb enough, being Hispanic, to choose to get sober the day before Cinco de Mayo.” Truth be told, I
wasn’t certain what day it was as I was dry-heaving the contents of an empty stomach
while on hands and knees in my bedroom at my dad’s house. Bile and Bacardi was
surely going to be the last thing I’d remember. Cinco de Mayo wasn’t even in
Margaritas weren’t really my jam anyhow. Not unless you made
them with expensive tequila, just a splash of mixer and a shit ton of salt. If
you even thought about putting that shit in a blender I would punch you on
principal alone. That’s expensive tequila, jackass. Always serve that shit “neat”
unless you’re with a bunch of assholes who can’t know you’re a hopeless drunk
and they paid for it, and then do
whatever the fuck you want with it.
Caucasians are really the only ones that fuck with this
stupid holiday (yep, I just went there) with the exclusive purpose being the
justification of drinking. I may have this all fucked up but here’s what I see:
handfuls in the Asian communities get super excited and have a few parties. Denim,
pouty lips, and cropped tops are standard issue uniforms for the ladies.
Athletic gear and sideways ball caps for the guys. These parties aren’t raucous
though and typically die down by midnight.
I usually don’t see too many African
Americans getting shit-faced. Maybe I’m wrong, but any time I ever went to the
bar, and I spent a lot of time there, incidents caused were always initiated by
emblazoned white women, angry that their man has been cheating (or at least
thinks he is) or drunk white guys. I use the term “guys” loosely. They’re
really just undisciplined, hurt little boys out past their bedtimes, who got
into dad’s Jack Daniels stash. At least that’s how they act when they think
they have something to prove.
Hispanics will drink whenever and wherever. We don’t give a
single fuck. We’ll drink at your company holiday party in the parking lot
before we go in, at your cousin’s funeral (also in the parking lot), on long
car rides because we’re thirsty and it’s hot out, we’ll take one into the movie
theater and crack it open in the middle of the film, or on our neighbors lawn
while we’re talking (often without a shirt if male). We don’t care where and we
don’t need your white holiday. Keep your shitty and offensive Chevy’s sombrero, you'll need it to throw up into it later, Debra.
I’ve been sober since May 4, 2013. That’s a long time to go
without a drink for a person like me. Not only do I not like many of you, but I
also really don’t like me most of the time. My not liking myself is amplified
when I can’t do simple tasks without wanting to kill one of you. Here’s the
thing though: some of you are real self-absorbed, ass-faced robots and make me
want to break things. I’m not exempt; I come fully loaded with my own factory
setting fault enhancements. Being sober only makes me more aware of them.
Sobriety is great in that it gives you the opportunity to
grow-the-fuck-up and see where you’ve been a jackass, but it in the same breath - it sucks dick. You have to look at your mistakes, where you’ve been less than
adult and where you’ve been downright childish. Then you have to do some shit
about it. What’s more is, it’s not a one-time thing. I have to continue to do
this shit. I have to continue to look at where I’ve been a liar, or a cheat;
where I’ve caused hurt and pain, and then I have to try to make it right. I’m
not supposed to drink either, so now I’m super-duper fucked.
I still find myself prey to knee-jerk responses to emotionally
charged situations. I’ll have to work on that. Not this week though.
Recently I got incredibly bent out of shape when I noticed
that I had not been given the proverbial head nod from a friend of mine
recognizing my anniversary. To my further chagrin, they made a point of giving kudos
to someone else for the same accomplishment. What the actual fuck?! I
scanned my brain to think of what I had done to offend this person. What “friend
crime” had I committed? I came up with nothing, so I’m taking all future celebrations
for that person out of my calendar. I’ll be making those place holders the
skull and cross bones emoji so I don’t forget. I’m such a people person.
When I die, either by some terribly embarrassing freak accident,
or in some pre-meditated shit carried out by someone I angered writing one of
these blogs I wouldn’t line a hamster cage with, I want some basics at my
funeral. Oh, wait, you may require a lubricant before I go in with four
fingers. Allow me to backpedal a bit.
Yesterday I was talking to someone [internet conversation with
a faceless stranger] about how when we self-diagnose on WebMD, other websites,
or apps, [there are no others, that’s the only one in existence] we ought to
just get a jumpstart on our funeral plans right then. To my delight, his
response was that he’d already had his music playlist and t-shirt cannon picked
out. Well, dammit, I can’t allow a total stranger to be more prepared and with
better funeral plans than myself. Here, we find ourselves.
The most important thing for my funeral is that my physical
body isn’t there. I’ve donated all my parts to science, because I’m fucking
awesome. I’ve donated marrow, eyes, skin [I have great skin] and only kept a
kidney on ice in case my mom needs it down the line. Love you, mom. I still got
your back. The rest is about to get funky. I’m about to throw my ideas out
there in random order and briefly elaborate. Judge if you must, it just makes
you a dick.
I want music played. Specifically, I feel like Motown would
be a good choice. The Commodores, The Marvelettes, Rick James, The Four Tops,
Stevie Wonder, The Supremes; are you snapping your fingers or seat dancing yet?
None of that bridge over troubled water bullshit for me. I want my guests to be
happy. Actually, I don’t really give a fuck about you guys. I’m certain I’m
still hanging around, checking things out. This would legit be the first party
I’d be comfortable at knowing I’d not be said hello to. Plus, I want to try
that whole “walking through people” thing you see in the movies. I could
probably entertain myself that way for at least 20 mins. Good music is essential;
I can’t walk through people listening to depressing ballads.
Appetizers must be shit that I would never be caught eating
while alive. You know the kind of shit that tastes really good but that I’d
always be concerned about sodium, fat, or how badly it’d wreck my ass later?
That stuff. On the menu will be pizza rolls and Hawaiian Punch. They can’t be
generic pizza rolls either; they have to be Totino’s pizza rolls. They’re the
flakiest, crispiest, and the ones that burn the inside of your mouth with every
fucking bite. The roof of my mouth has been resurfaced with pizza sauce since the
combination accident of 1998.
At this time I’d like to add Bagel Bites to the menu. I don’t
think they’re palatable at all; I’d just enjoy watching people lose teeth
biting into them. Bagel Bites have a shelf-life. If you don’t eat them within 7.5
minutes of cooking them, you might as well chomp down, with full force, on a
hockey puck. You will lose teeth
eating these cardboard bastards if you haven’t already lost them from the sugar
in the Hawaiian Punch I’m serving. Can you pass me a pizza roll? Never mind, I’ll
get it *reaches through you*
Now, not to steal your idea, internet stranger, but the
t-shirt cannon is genius and I want one too. I’m still working on the t-shirt
specifics, but I was thinking that
guests would get a teabag full of me when they leave. After donating all of my
organs I was cremated; the logical endgame. It makes sense to offer guests a
parting gift, kind of like a wedding favor, but you won’t find this on Etsy. It
might also be hard finding friends - the living kind, willing to shove chunky “Tina
dust” into little sash bags by the spoonful, tie it off with a string and paper
strip, and label the flavor “Tina Grey” or “MintTina.”
Physical activity is important to me, so I’d like to leave my
guests with another gift that will remind them of me and benefit their health. Under each guests’ chair they’ll find a
Shake Weight. This is the gift that just keeps giving. I’m shaking my head as I’m
writing this. You all should know that I firmly grasp the level of idiocy
taking place here. You should also try living in my head for day; you’d have so
much fun! You might find yourself involuntarily committed, but you’d also have
so much fun.
Other Misc. Stuff
Pets are allowed but not if you’re going to whine about it
being a service animal. You’re probably full of shit and I
honestly don’t care. If your pet is a rescue or a stray that you’ve adopted, it
is welcome at the head of my table and should eat before you do. Hell, I don’t
care if you bring your goldfish; you just take responsibility for that shit and
hold on to it. If someone else’s cat gets hungry that’s your problem. *sings ‘The
Circle of Life’*
I’m still hashing out the rest of the details. I feel like
this is a good start and my attention span won’t allow for more writing at this
point. Don’t forget your complimentary “Tina Teabags” and Shake Weights on the
way out. Please don’t throw the Bagel Bites as they are considered dangerous at this point. Thank you for your