Trampoline Vag

So it turns out I know all about my vagina. I’m really proud of myself. I got super bored at work and decided to fuck around on the internet. Below is an actual test from an actual article. These are real answer options here, people. For the purposes of this blog however, my answers and/or input are typed in parenthesis and in blue.

Quiz: How Much Do You Really Know About Vaginas?

What's the best way to clean your vag?

Using the finest Bath & Body works body wash money can buy.

Using a thorough douche.

A mild soap.

(steel wool and Lava soap)

Can you lose a tampon up in there?

Yes, and god knows where it goes. (I wrote a letter to Bill Nye, he never responded. I’m still looking for the one I put up there in 1993. Some science guy he is! Thanks for nothing, Bill)

Hell no. Your vagina is a limited space.

Your vagina doesn't smell that great unless you use a lot of products to make it smell good.

Yes, using douches and fragrances is the best way to keep your vagina smelling great all the time.

No, unless you're having an actual medical issue, your vagina always smells badass because vaginas smell great on their own. (I feel like saying it smells “badass” is a stretch. "Like a bad ass" is more likely.)

(I find the perfect combination of product to be: douche for your “delicates” then shampoo and conditioner followed by mousse and sometimes gel to help give that “wet” look) ß correct answer

The vagina is way stronger than any penis.

No way. The penis is actually super strong.

Uh, duh. Apart from being able to lift weights and have multiple orgasms, your vagina can bring a freaking child into the world. Calling someone a "pussy" should be a compliment, thanks, bye.

(My vagina doesn’t lift weights – at least not that I’m aware of. Now I can’t stop picturing it though and this whole line of questioning is upsetting me. Moving on.)

It's possible for your labia to be way too long.

Yes, it's a very serious issue. ß obviously this is the correct answer see below

No labia can be "too long." Vaginas come in all different shapes and sizes, there's no right or wrong.

(*sings “do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?* I’m sure medically there’s nothing saying your labia have to be a certain size and no one is gonna bust out the ruler before you start bumping uglies, but if it’s by your knees I imagine you’d seek medical attention. Fruit roll up labia? Just saying)

It's possible to stretch your vulva via too much sex or a gigantic penis, and you'll be way too loose.

Absolutely. Too much sex or a too-big penis can wreck it. (Can’t. Stop. Laughing)

No way, your vagina is incredibly elastic and can fit even the biggest wang and will always return to its usual tightness after sex. Once you've had a baby, it might be a different story though. (How is this answer choice any better? The biggest “wang?” I visualize an “elastic” vagina with a gigantic penis crashing into it – rebounding off the surface; like a trampoline. Then you want to tell me that kids might screw that up? Kill joy!)

Those of you that typically read this blog are confused. She’s supposed to be funny…

Here’s the thing: I’m not really feeling it. Normally I’m angry about something or at least jealous and bitter. I got nothing. Humanity sucks balls lately. California is on fire, some crappy mom did some shady shit to get a bunch of money out of folks and made her son a participant. Americans felt sorry and came out to support her case in droves. Turns out she sucks ass. I could go on ad nauseam about what a deplorable act it was, but what for? Honestly all it does is continue to piss me off and draw attention to this Bitch’s heinous (yes, heinous) act of deceit and manipulation.

Instead, I’ve chosen to do good. It’s the only way I know to feel better about the world I’m leaving for my son. We pat each other on the back for narrowly won victories against men and women that would do us harm and call it a day. It’s not enough. I may not be the best mother, the best employee, girlfriend or even the best daughter (I’m kidding – I’m the best daughter) but I know I’m a good human. I’m not feeling terribly funny at the moment, this is true. I am feeling like it’s time for me to get back into action. I don’t know how just yet. It will come to me, it always does. I just know that my heart is big enough, even if it hurts right now.

But…I aced my vagina quiz, so there’s that.

Get your own corner!

[Voice of Samuel L. Jackson] Well hello mother fuckers!

It’s been a while and if I had a heart I’d apologize, but we’re both laughing now aren’t we? For the past week I’ve been moving all of the shit I’ve accumulated [been hoarding] over the course of my unnatural life from one paycheck sinkhole to another - I’m reapportioning my misery. This was a good move and in actuality, I could not be happier. This is me being happy. Do you feel the “happy?”

I discovered during this transition that I had some amazing people in my life and some real douche bags too. This wasn’t an epiphany; I wasn’t sitting on the toilet, was struck with this thought, jotted out to Hallmark to by ‘Thank you’ cards and spent the evening giving myself hand cramps writing to all four friends. It didn’t happen like that.

First I had to be grateful for the friendships I had managed to form in spite of my sour nature, and then I had to come back to planet Earth by being forced to interact with some real jackasses. It really helps put things into perspective. Those friendships which I thought were awesome to begin with are now amplified. They’re like someone giving you the last piece of pizza AND some of the toppings of their slice too. Some day when I’m Scrooge McDuck rich, I’m going to throw a huge party in your honor – all four of you. *numbers subject to change based on mood* To those of you in the “other” category: Fuck off for trying to ruin my happiness.  Eat a dick sandwich with extra mayonnaise – you know who you are.

One of my other recent joys is having run out of my regular prescription sleep aid, I have gone back to using a standby. There’s a reason I stopped using these little crack tablets. There are actually a few reasons, but the one I like the best is that the dreams they create are way fucked up. I’m considering keeping a journal next to my bed and continuing to take these pills [even if unneeded] to probe the most twisted parts of my brain. I’m certain we’d have a screenplay that even Hunter S. Thompson would have been proud of.

Last night Bradley Cooper was a deep sea diver that was good friends with a friend of mine. They were doing a fuck-ton of cocaine while some other-worldly beings chased them around a hotel building. It’s pretty funny to watch grown men try to run in flippers while completely loaded. I highly recommend it. Meanwhile I was in a hotel room that had been converted into a hospital room with some kid I didn’t know that was apparently dying; most likely leukemia by the looks of it.

While I understand that’s not funny at all, I’m just curious how that ties into deep sea diving and cocaine. This boy and I were watching a nature show [probably penguins and maybe that’s where the flippers come in] and snuggling with our matching stuffed animals. At least in my dreams I’m a decent soul. All I remember is Bradley Cooper saved his own ass and ran off with a bunch of drugs and cash and my buddy got his head shaved by the aliens as punishment. They made him look like Julius Caesar. He was pissed. I might end up trying some midafternoon naps just for the hell of it.

Right now I’m sitting at my dining room table, light pouring in from the window, and my coffee cup is steaming to my left; which doesn’t make any fucking sense because I’m right-handed. Life is pretty fucking good right now. I just wanted to take a few moments to check in. A few moments to thank all the special people in my life and few to tell the others to shove a Pringles can up their ass. I am already a negative bitch; I don’t need any help in this department. In fact, this in kinda “my thing” and I take offense if you try to start helping. Think of it like this: We’re both hookers - this is my corner bitch…find your own! If you still don’t understand what I’m saying – well then, you’re more obtuse than I thought. I’m sorry. We can practice our alphabet next week.

Thank you to all of the wonderful people to who continue to love, support, listen and guide me. I talk a gang of shit, but when it comes to you guys – it is fair to say that there isn’t much that I wouldn’t do for you. So much love!!

Fuck yo couch!

The holiday season is so festive and joyful; I’d like to drag my muddy shoes thru its living room and put my feet up on its couch. 

Everywhere I look assholes have antlers and wreaths attached to their vehicles like warnings to other motorists: “You should probably get out of our way, we’re on our way to JC Penny for our annual Christmas photo and then lunch at Red Robin. But first, we’re going to circle the parking lot 15 times in hopes of getting the closest possible spot and wait for the family of 7 that is packing up the global warmer they’re driving – so it’ll be about 13 minutes. You’re good, right?” Maybe I’m the only one that feels that way.

There just aren’t enough hours in the day to catalog the ways in which I’d like to sabotage people who do stupid shit like this, so instead I’ve compiled a few of my pet peeves onto this scented list. I can smell it. You can’t, but I can. It smells like crisp linens, mulberry and vodka. I just miss the smell of alcohol and thought ‘fuck it’ I’m running with it. 

1.     People who can’t be punctual – Fuck you, you inconsiderate twat waffles. If we’ve set plans, there is a good chance that I’ve re-arranged something else in my life. Show up on time – you are not the center of the universe. I am.

2.     People who clip their nails in public – You want to pretend like you don’t know anyone like this. It’s ok, I do too. There’s always one person with absolutely no shame. It’s fucking gross, do that shit at home. 

3.     People who chew with their mouths open – You know who you are. I’ve gotten up from tables and left restaurants for this reason; this reason and this reason alone. We hadn’t even spoken to a server yet, so I had no one to be angry with. The family at the table next to us was obnoxious and we left. Screw not being able to eat your own food because the rhythm of someone else chewing theirs is fucking you up.

4.     Mouth breathers – So basically anything obnoxious with your face will piss me off. Don’t do it.

5.     People who say “irregardless” OMG!! Mother fuckers, it IS NOT a word and I will slap you. Equally offensive to me: “I could care less” and “For all intensive purposes” [even the grammar corrector attempted to fix that shit] My skin crawls. Look, I don’t want to hit you, but that’s where this will go. I have very little control over my impulses – my bank account is evidence of that. 

Five feels like a good place to leave this for now. I’m always complaining about something anyway, so check back with me in a couple of days. 

Bitch, be cool!

Send all hate mail to rantsandswears@gmail.com

Let me clue you in

Alright, I want to clue you guys in on a couple of things. I’ve had to question some shit lately. I’ve run into some stuff that’s really given me some legit concern for you people. I don’t qualify because I would never in a million fucking years partake.

I’m out shopping earlier this week and I run across these potato chips called ‘Turkey and Stuffing’ and their counterpart ‘Pumpkin Pie’. It’s not the first time that I have heard of this nastiness. The first time I remember hearing about it was a commercial for Trader Joe’s advertising their brand, called ‘Thanksgiving Leftovers’.  I’ll admit that there was a smidge of curiosity about what these little MSG bombs might taste like, but it ended there. A fleeting moment of weakness where I succumbed to the white trash side of myself that comes out every once in a while; the one that tells me that a flocked Christmas tree is fancy and canned ham for the holidays is the same as spiral cut as long as you put the pineapple rings on top with cherries and cloves in it.

I began to think about where to draw the line with these chips. How many times can you eat these before actually shaming yourself into hiding? The answer is once. I’m a scientific gal - I’m a fan of research and development, and I often say that I’ll try anything once [applies to food and most sports only, don’t get disgusting ya freaks] so, with that in mind, it seems fair to be open minded about these diabetes inducing trailer park ninja stars. I’m not going anywhere near them, that’s not where I’m going with this. I’m certain that eating one serving will knock 12 years off my life expectancy and I want to be around to see acid washed jeans make a comeback. Once they do, you can be sure to find me on my front porch in those jeans eating a bag of Turkey Stuffing chips and sipping a Pabst Blue Ribbon through a straw that will be resting comfortably in the space where my bottom four teeth should be. I might even be sporting a side pony tail, you just never know.

Walking around the grounds at my new condo complex I was tickled to find a sign affixed to the pool gate that basically stated that if you had the runs in the last two weeks, your filthy ass couldn’t be in the pool. Where do I even begin? Clearly it happened at some point or it wouldn’t be a rule, right? Wonder how that went down. I would have loved to have been there for that one. Sure, it’s fucking nasty, but it’s also a pool and it’s got a lot of room to disperse. People freak the hell out and go ape shit. Pun was unintentional there and I almost went back and deleted it, but decided against it. We are, in fact, talking about shit. Can you picture the faces of horrified parents grabbing their children and screeching [maybe even puking] indignant, like their child has never shit their diapers in public and stunk up a restaurant?  As if somehow we don’t know that they too pee in the pool all the goddamn time?? The next thought I had though was: is there a booty police? Who monitors the rawness of your anus before entering the pool? Do we have to swear on the Bible that we haven’t had diarrhea within the last two weeks or on the souls of loved ones? I’m for real curious. Is it just an honor system?

I have never claimed to be a balanced individual – these are just the things that swim around in my head. If you eat the above mentioned chips more than once, which should be purely out of curiosity, you are part of the problem. If you shit in pools, you are the problem! I’ll leave you with one last thought. I was talking with a friend about what would happen in the event a pool should “accidentally” fill with shit. I’m grabbing the snorkel gear and going for everyone’s ankles. That’s my shade of crazy. Have a nice night folks. Thanks for reading.

Slipping sanity and s'mores

This past week has tested every single boundary that I have and stretched the limits of my ‘sanity fabric,’ creating a fraying elastic-like effect - similar to what happens to spandex on thick thighs after one too many spin or Zumba classes. I think I have suffered some mental chafing as well.

An opportunity presented itself to move out from our current residence and upgrade to a larger place with hard wood flooring, marble counters, stainless appliances and a fireplace. First off, I’m not talking marginally larger – I’m talking about enough sq. footage for another room. I’m also going to be paying less than I currently pay for all this cool shit. Did I mention the hard wood flooring and the fireplace? S’mores mother fuckers! Mother fucking s’mores!  So, all of this sounds fantastic, I’ve put in my 30-day notice at the place I’m squatting in now, [because that’s what it feels like in comparison] and they’ve already found a new tenant for my place [same fucking day] – then the bottom falls out the bitch! As it turns out, the landlord of this particular condo doesn’t allow for pets. Gee, Mr. Acting Interim Property Manager, ya think ya could’ve gone over that BEFORE I put in my 30-day notice that I TOTALLY told you I was doing??? Now, we have 30 days to re-locate and I don’t have a prescription for Xanax.

I spent the better part of the day searching the interweb for places to live in between work phone calls, fistfuls of gummy worms, and various swear words. I came up with a few new ones that I’m pretty proud of; I look forward to dropping them in casual conversation. The more I searched, the more pissed I was at this ass-bag for not saying anything about the pet issue. Fuck you dude! The places I was looking at were either right in the heart of crackville for the right price, or completely out of my league – like not even the same fucking sport. At this point I am contemplating jamming the Xanax up my ass for rapid absorption, if in fact I was able to procure any. Things would get better though; I was getting together with my girls later to go to the Tori Amos concert at the Balboa Theater. This also created a fair amount of anxiety as our plans kept shifting with regard to carpooling vs solo driving and coordinating three women is always easy, right?? Holy fuck ya’ll…I…am…snapping…

Tori Amos is amazing. She is floppy and staccato at the piano with her body. I don’t really know how else to describe her. She lunges into her playing and is also really rigid at times. Sometimes it looks like she’s having a seizure. I just want to sit on the stage in a corner. I never want to bother her. I just want to sit and write. I don’t need to bug her for an autograph or do any weird fan-girl bullshit, I just want to listen and write. In fact, it’s probably best that we don’t converse. We’re both really weird. She’s weird and smart though. I’m weird and competitive. It’s a bad combination. Smart always has the upper hand and I hate losing. To the drunk bitch behind us yelling at Tori like you were at a little league game: ease up on the wine and we’ll all enjoy the show a bit more – even you. Anyhow, it was an amazing event and I was thrilled to be there until she ended with that shitty techno bullshit song at the end and all the little wanna-be rave brats busted out their glow sticks. Hey Tori, can we not do that ever again? Thanks.

What? My cats? You want to know what is going to happen to them? I’ll get there. First let me tell you about Cheyenne.

On Wednesday [the day after Tori and two days after the rental fiasco] a group of friends [I know, I’m always shocked when I use an ‘f’ word that isn’t fuck or fiasco] and I went to dinner and a show to celebrate our Sagittarian birthdays. We didn’t just go to any show; we went to a drag show. I think it was 10 of us that ended up at a sparkly little bar in San Diego for dinner and Divas. “Cheyenne” was our server and entertainer for the evening; she did indeed entertain. That bitch was fierce! The food was “meh” but the music was great because, well, they’re gay men. I laughed hard enough that evening to make up for all the pain and stress I was feeling throughout the rest of the week. As with most other events that I partake in, I found a way to pick up a resentment. Cheyenne has bigger tits than I do. I totally get that as entertainers and transvestites they will undoubtedly be beautiful and crazy glamorous. The skillful application of makeup is enviable. There, I said it – I envy them. Cheyenne though, has an amazing ass, thighs that could kick in doors, and boobs. Real titties. I know for a fact those fuckers are real because I shoved money in there – they’re squishy. They’re squishy and they’re bigger and better than mine. She was funny too. Shit, the more I think about it, the more jealous I get. Fuck that! I have never been more jealous of a man. She was truly something else. I mean that in the best possible way. Thanks for the fabulous show, Cheyenne!

Alright, my cats. So here’s the deal: I was honest on my application. Apparently, I was supposed to lie. Fucking principles always getting in the way of finding my real happiness. I talked to the interim ass-bag again and asked if he would possibly look the other way and he was like “yeah, that’s totally what I would have done on the application”. Go fucking figure! Here I am trying to be honest and this dude is like nope, I would have lied. So after jumping through a series of flaming hoops while naked with nipple clamps on, we finally got approved and dropped off the check yesterday. It was nothing really. I’ll only be destitute and sucking dick for the rest of my natural life in order to pay back the loan I had to take out for first and security. I’m still paying on the current place for a month too. Did I mention the fireplace? S’mores - I’ll keep telling myself about the s’mores as I’m strapping on my knee pads.

So not to end on dismal note or anything, I would never do that – the next month is gonna be pretty fucked up. I foresee a lot of Ramen dinners by the romantic light of a fire. I am also in luck; those blow-job knee pads will come in handy for my impending move. If any of my friends reading this have time over the next month to help me move a couple of things here and there, help a bitch out. No…payment will not be made in blow-jobs, but I can make you a s’more if you want, nasty!

Ordinary Heroes

Maybe it’s just the time of year that has me all sappy, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ll be sharing part of my story with a room of people this evening; but I’ve given some thought to people and things that have influenced me along the way. Public speaking terrifies me and perhaps it is my intent to give credit to these individuals in case I make a fool out of myself this evening and I opt to never come out of my apartment again unless it’s to open the door for Chinese food, pizza delivery, or my Lola organic tampons.

If you don’t find yourself on this list it’s because you don’t mean enough to me yet; keep trying. I’ll also be randomizing this list of events/people. I have to keep you jerks on your toes and performing at peak. I also have anxiety attacks just thinking about the phone calls from my mom that I’ll get as to why she isn’t 1^st place.

Jim S: I’d like to publicly acknowledge you [wherever you are] for cleaning up after my first drunken puke parade. That’s a special kind of person for sure. As I recall, our friendship was still fledgling at that point and I fucking power puked Jack Daniels over the target garbage can. Subsequently afterwards I curled up in what must have been the most angelic sleep ever while you scrubbed the carpet of my stomach contents before your Dad got home. Forever my brother, even if you are a complete asshole.

Carrie K: You taught me how to roll a nice joint. I don’t do it anymore, but it’s earned me my seat at the big kids table many times over and for that I am grateful. It also helped cut down on costs. I had no idea how much I was wasting by rolling shitty, loose joints. There is an art to licking them closed without looking trashy or making it too wet; you were a master.

                             

Homeless Dude #43: I was 17 at the time and withdrawing money from the ATM when I saw you. You had a sign that said you were a veteran of war and needed help. You were sitting in a wheelchair. I gave you $20, which for a 17 yr. old is a lot of hair dye at Hot Topic, and you asked if you could hug me. Being a good hippie, I said yes. You licked the side of my face. Let me first say: FUCK YOU! Next I’d like to thank you for the life lesson. I can’t leap into every situation with my cape in attempts to save everyone; especially when the cape obscures my sight to potential threats. *hasn’t stopped me from doing so almost every opportunity I’m presented with though; I’m really slow to learn*

Mom: For the record: she is cursing me right now wondering what took me so damn long. Where do I start with so many lessons on how to live and so many more on how not to live? *tells herself to keep it light-hearted and not get all weepy and shit* Mom always told me that “if you look good, you’ll feel good.” That’s complete horseshit. I’d be sick as fuck and putting on makeup and no one ever understood why. It’s just one of those things I do. I still do it. Thanks Mom. It’s not that I feel any better physically, but maybe…just maybe I feel prettier than I did with toilet paper hanging out of my nose and that has to count for something. She’d also ask me “What do we do when someone is down?” The normal person would surmise that we help them back up; lend them a hand. In our family the correct answer is “Kick them in the stomach.” I can feel and hear the audible gasp. I know that you guys are making judgements and castings stones. That’s cool, you can do that shit. We’ll still be standing. The point is, it taught me about self-preservation in a backwards humorous way. Think about it. If you still don’t like it, you’re not funny and go fuck yourself.

Dad: Remember that time you attempted to teach me how to throw a punch? We squared off and you told me to check you in the chin. You pointed to the spot and after showing me proper form, said “ok, hit me”. Yeah, I remember too. Good times. First and only lesson; I aced that shit.

Greyhound Bus Driver: I feel for this dude. I really would like to find out where he is and send him a tin of Christmas cookies or a sausage or something. I made a 12 hr. bus ride from Southern CA to Northern CA when I was getting sober. When I say ‘getting sober’ I mean to say I was still fucked up when I got on his ride. I was a sight for sure. I actually wasn’t let on the first bus because I was still too drunk. So that should paint a picture for you. I’m pretty sure I had a concussion, I had a gash on my chin from gently kissing my face with the concrete curb a couple of days prior and I was told that I had urinated in my friends vehicle before being dropped off. I cannot confirm nor deny the last part of that. In any event, I was looking [and smelling] pretty rough. Every pit stop we made, I would steal a can of beer [or whatever] to stall the DT’s and on we would go. That bus driver talked to me most of the way when I wasn’t asleep. I realize now that he was just making sure I was still alive, but it was real human of him none-the-less. Probably wouldn’t have looked very good with a dead white girl on his bus, but I have to believe he cared a little.

K.A: For fencing, the art of the re-write, Psycho Donuts, editor duties on shitty Mac computers, and for reminding me that my words were never in the bottom of a bottle somewhere or anywhere!

                             

Overdue rant - enjoy your Thanksgiving

Social media is a hellscape. Most days I am moderately amused, other days I am forced to contain the urge to heave my computer down a flight of stairs my office doesn’t have or restrain myself from throwing it out the upstairs window of our single story building. That does not, however, stop me from killing the battery on my phone refreshing my apps to see what you guys have posted every three minutes and what bullshit “Marlene” is responding to which usually is none of her business to begin with. It is why I exist.

It never fails, I am always lured in under the guise of wanting to keep up with how my friends are doing; or who they’re doing, and before I know it I’m scrolling through endless cat memes and pseudo inspirational quotes. Come for the friendship; stay for the epic bullshit. It’s a mixed bag - I’ve seen some great stuff; like charitable and heartwarming acts that reaffirm my faith in humanity and I’ve seen underwear that creates the illusion of having “camel-toe”. There must be a tiny market somewhere or it wouldn’t exist, right?  I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I have had to put my head in my hands and utter the words: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now!” We’ve all been there – I’m not special. I just like to re-hash things and take others along on the ride.

I’ve walked away from a lot of toxic shit in my time; why not the internet? It’s clearly fucking with my health. My blood pressure spikes every time I read some twat get involved in a post that clearly has nothing to do with them. Pro-tip: If it has nothing to do with you and the writer is not specifically asking for help; stay the fuck out of it. This is a HUGE pet-peeve of mine; bet you couldn’t tell. If someone is suffering that’s one thing, or if someone has posed a question to the masses that is understandable,  but if you find yourself offering “assistance” in more than 40% of your posts…you ARE part of the problem. If your responses are a paragraph or more…you ARE the fucking problem. Get a hobby. Maybe you should consider writing a blog where you can unleash all those feelings of inadequacy – it’s what I did.

I’m on a few different social media forums; mainly because I don’t want all of you knowing how entrenched I am in my addiction. I keep it balanced between Twitter and Facebook with a sprinkling of Instagram. I’m thinking of adding Reddit but definitely not Snapchat because that’s for cheating dirty whores; or that’s what I heard. I don’t understand the premise. Why do I need to take photos that disappear only to never be found again? Sounds shady as fuck to me. You say Snapchat has cool filters? That’s great! I’m rapidly hurtling my carcass at age 38; I’m way past pretending that an autumn halo is going to fix my shit. Bunny ears and cute pink nose? Get the fuck outta here with that shit! Clearly you don’t know me. I am not sending you pictures of myself that are going to self-destruct; I am not Inspector Gadget. Fucking millennials.

I spend an inordinate amount of time each day scrolling through various feeds. Some of it is hysterical. Some of it reminds me that I am not terribly funny; some remind me that I’m not too dull either. The vast majority of it just fills the space between sips of coffee, telephone calls, and f-bombs. It keeps me safe from having conversations with people that I probably don’t want to, if I am with my nose in my phone or glued to the monitor at work. Downside: it keeps me from ever really enjoying time in the present. Even after I’ve “unplugged” I can spin in my head about something I’ve run across on the internet. I like to play this game when I get home, it’s called: “Oh my God, let me show you this shit I read today”.  I like to make sure that people around me are as miserable and hostile as I am, I guess. What’s that shit about? Is that anything like: “Oh fuck, that tastes terrible, here try this?”

This is where I’m supposed to tell you that for this Thanksgiving I will be unplugging and living in the present. I’d be lying, and while that’s not surprising, it’s also not quite noon yet. I have a hard and fast rule against lying before noon. I just felt like venting a little bit about the shit that really gets under my skin. Mom said there’d be days like these, she just didn’t tell me that I’d have to contend with a million other assholes just like me.

Oh yeah, Happy Thanksgiving.

This message brought to you in part by #halldark ~ for when you care enough to send whatever.

Rant for a cure - mini rant

I’ve it heard it said in song that all you need is love and I dis-a-fucking-gree. I can’t possibly be any clearer on the matter, and yet I will try.

I was in the shower [relevant information] this morning and the most fantastic stroke of genius came upon me. It was as though God himself whispered to me of how to ease the suffering minds of our brothers and sisters. It’s going to revolutionize the way we cope and heal; I just need you all to be open to the experience - embrace new ideas. Here’s my pitch…

Obviously this whole “love thy neighbor” thing isn’t very effective - so instead of thinking, praying, and relying on love to see us through; I thought we’d give drugs a shot. I’m not messing around either; I’m talking drugs on a MASSIVE scale. FEMA has disaster relief, how about some emotional relief? I’m proposing we set up camps with tents and cafeteria style, or buffet if you will, drug banquets. You will have your choice of uppers or downer, hallucinogens or inhalants and just about anything in-between. You will be required to stay on-site until you have successfully comedown from your voyage to ensure the safety of others as well as yourself. Your staycation has no set limit, but routine bathing will be required and you are to provide for all of your own meals. I haven’t quite worked out the details on how to procure the drugs, the funding for said illicit drugs, or where to get tents that big, but I’m sure the answers will start flowing. Remember: rantsandswears@gmail.com

Now some of you are probably thinking bigger picture shit. “Oh Tina, there’s a drug epidemic out there…this is so irresponsible and reckless,” Settle down – I have something for those of us that suffer too. For those of us that are registered chem offenders (suffering from chemical dependency issues for my straight edge friends) I have a solution for you too! You get relief from your sorrows as well! In a separate tent – A VERY SEPARATE TENT – my dependent friends and I will be playing with kitties and puppies whilst viewing the world through old school orange view finders, clicking away our woes and fears. Maybe Three’s Company will be playing on a television somewhere off in the distance and there will be pee-pads for as far as the eye can see. Kitties, and puppies, Jack Tripper…oh my!

I realize this is all a lot to take in at once and very much in its infancy, but I truly think that I’m on to something. Shoot me an email, leave a comment, or a simple thumbs up (even if you mean for me to stick it up my ass) to show your support.

Thanks for your time,

Ranting for a cure

Freddie's Dead and I'm rockin afro puffs

My mom always said that if you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. I’m full of shit. She said no such thing, so here we go…

I’d like to say that I was struck creative today and that I knew exactly what to write about, but that is far from the truth. I caught myself at the supermarket desperately searching for shitty quizzes in even shittier chick magazines at the checkout counter. 20 moves to a flatter stomach in two weeks; to my chagrin there was actual work involved. I thought perhaps I’d find something simple like “stop eating so fucking much” or “you’re hopeless, we we’re just kidding, have another hot-pocket” but there was actual work-out moves complete with steps in there, you guys. Next! I kept searching for the Holy Grail: Is he really into you? These six clues will tell you for sure! There is so much garbage out there though and I have a propensity to throw in the towel at the first signs that I might actually have to put forth a solid effort. There’s a pan of brownies at the house I’d much rather be doing business with; screw those washboard abs! I turn 38 next month and I’m rightly comfortable shopping for sweatpants from now on at this stage in the game.

I spend a good deal of time focusing my hostility at others, and so for today boys and girls, I’d like to flip the script – because if you can’t say anything nice…just kidding; what fun would that be?

I’m the clumsiest bitch I know; my close friends will attest to as much and the bruises on my shins, arms, and feet will back that story up. It’s a wonder I still have 10 fingers and 10 toes. I’ve nearly lost a couple here and there in the kitchen in freak accidents with knives. Somehow that goes wayside when the music starts. For a girl who walks into stationary objects on a regular basis and has broken a toe putting on underwear [true story] I love to dance and don’t even suck at it. Most nights you can catch me in my kitchen getting down while I cook dinner. The type of music doesn’t matter too much; the funkier the better though. Tonight’s pick: Curtis Mayfield. Everyone buckled in??? Fantastic! Here we go!

I’m a visual girl; not in a nasty way, you perverts. The music starts to play and I can almost feel the notes on my skin. I can start to see and feel my surroundings change. I’m not hallucinating either, so please step away from your phones – no need to dial 911. The drums, the horns, and a flute too – then it happens. I bust out in plaid bell-bottom pants and polyester top; mustard colored. I’m black now too suddenly. I’ve got the sickest afro puffs and a rockin booty. I’m scaring the people I live with. It is a live re-enactment of Soul Train in my apartment. To the outsider, I'm an awkward white girl who’s likely to injure herself and require medical attention. In my mind, I am a solid gold dancer and I can’t stop…won’t stop. I identify. I’ve also just dropped the sauté pan lid on my left foot. That's gonna leave a bruise. 

Music has always taken me places that not even books could. Shit, for a moment I was black. I never once read a book and thought “Yep, I could totally put myself in that Geisha’s position – totally relatable.” Growing up I always wanted to be Ella Fitzgerald. I don’t know if many young girls felt about Miss Otis the way that I did. I never gave it much thought until today when my partner watched me doing my thing in the kitchen again and could only shake his head and say “You, my dear are a delight.”

I don’t have a point in any of this other than I like good music, magazines are bullshit, sweatpants are my official uniform, I only injured myself once during the course of all of this, and Curtis Mayfield is the shit - I’ve include a track for your listening pleasure.

Hopefully you can picture me as a black chick in bell-bottoms and afro puffs. I think I’d be pretty rockin. If I’ve offended you, lighten up. Dance, you’ll feel better, ya stiff.