Cat tinder

On a scale from 1-10 how pretty is your pet’s anus?

Don’t re-read that, you read it correctly the first time. I want to know if your pet has a pretty asshole. Not pretty, like you want to thumb it, but is it aesthetically pleasing enough that you’d consider adopting it from a shelter? Is it so disgusting that you’d leave the poor beast to live out its days in confinement, or at least until some other lonely bastard with failing eyesight wanders in and, being unable to stand another night of Swanson TV dinners in front of Wheel of Fortune alone anymore, walks out with a new companion. A new companion with a gaping asshole.

I was talking to my husband last night; I try to do that about once a month. We have sex about as often. Keeps the marriage alive and my name fresh in his mind. That time he called me by some other bitch’s name was awkward and uncomfortable for both of us. We were discussing our none-too-bright cat. We adopted the little bag of shit and catnip from the shelter about 3 years ago. I don’t regret choosing him, I regret not interviewing other cats for the position more thoroughly. Pickings were slim at that shelter, but was I hasty?

We walked through the shelter and did a meet and greet with several potential roomies. Many of them were very sweet. There were a few that I would have taken in a heartbeat had it not been for some serious deal breaker shit. There was a bonded pair; that was unfortunate. One was super fucking cute and I would have snatched in hot second, the bonded cat however, was bonded for a reason. No one was going to adopt that sad sack of shit as a standalone. I’ve seen prettier sewer rats.

Two doors down there was a lovely Calico. I love Calicos but wasn’t fond of the formation of this one’s markings. They were asymmetrical in a way that really bothered my OCD. I wanted to rearrange all the little patterns on its body. The light and dark patterns seemed off balance and it was really pissing me off. I drew a big line through that cat’s name on my mental list.

Then there was the white cat. Soft and perfectly gentle. No asshole in their right mind with a wardrobe like mine adopts a white cat. When you own more black clothing than a Catholic woman in a perpetual state of mourning, you DO NOT adopt a white cat, unless you’re braindead. I told myself that I could make do with lint rollers. I’d keep tape in my car and at my desk, it would just become a way of life. Then the cat meowed. Nope. Fuck off. Get lost. Eat shit and go fuck yourself. If New Jersey had a sound, you, my little furry friend, would be it. I won’t bring that hostility into my home. Next!

The last cat before Mugen.

My husband and I had already visited with all the cats once over. There was one left. I had saved what I thought would be the best for last. I have a fondness for orange cats. There he was. My knight in shining armor. He was going to be our hero of the day. We walked into the kennel to make our introduction. First sniff. Okay, rad…that went well.

I’ve heard him meow. Sweet! He has a tolerable sound. I don’t want to drop kick him. This is going swimmingly! I feel so good about this meet and greet. My husband lets me do my thing. You see, this was my idea and he understands that if I don’t get my cat, I’m going to be a total bitch. I’m talking bitch on an insufferable scale. So, my husband is in the corner watching. I’m playing with the cat. It’s a Garfield cat; a bit on the chunky side. Even chunky cats need love. It’s cool. Garfield and I are talking, and things are well. Then it happens, he turns around. It’s. Fucking. Over.

This cat has the most enormous ass I’ve ever seen. Protruding anal glands are now visible. I back up a full three feet and exclaim “Whoa, what the fuck is that?!” The shelter volunteer looks and assures me that it’s normal. Not in my world, lady. Protruding anal glands are about as “normal” and acceptable to me as a vestigial tail. So, you, lady, can go fuck right off and take me back to the cat with no fur on his hind legs. The one that looks like a bag of bones. I want that one.

I’m shallow as a motherfucker and will not, no matter how much I love orange kitties, bring an abomination with swollen anal glands into my home. I don’t want it dragging its nasty ass all over my furniture. I don’t want to feel its little asshole on my thigh when it sits in my lap. We just can’t do any real bonding that way. No Sir, you can keep your ugly ass right here in this shelter until someone with failing eyesight comes in and with great mercy, takes you home. Remember to be grateful to that blind sonofabitch. I know I am.

Is bleaching your cat’s ass considered animal cruelty? Oh, go fuck yourselves, it was just a hypothetical.

and judgement for all...

People say “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” Those people are a) balls deep in self-deception, b) usually the first motherfuckers to grab the heaviest stones to cast, or c) so busy seeing everyone as equals that they didn’t notice their wallet just got lifted by the unassuming elderly man they were talking to in the doctor’s waiting room. This is real life, not fiction. If you want a perfect society go read H. G. Wells, A Modern Utopia.

I try not to judge too much. I try; doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. When it does, it’s typically funny as hell. I’m human – I won’t apologize for that shit. I’ll also judge the fuck out of you if you look like you’ll beat and rape me on a city bus or if you have a tattoo anywhere on your body that’s incorrectly spelled. The first is self-preservation; the latter is common fucking sense. You paid for that? No one has told you it’s wrong yet? You need friends of a better caliber and to crack a book once in a while.

There is a base level of healthy judgement that is necessary to properly navigate through society. The stuff that keeps you from getting shanked, robbed, or otherwise endangered. Anything beyond that, you’re judging not for perseverance, but for amusement. This is where I’m most culpable. I build entire storylines around the unfortunate souls that I single out. I bet you’re wondering if I might have an example for you. *wicked grin* Silly bitches, you know I do.

Two days ago, at the gym, I saw a CHUD in the flesh. If you’re unfamiliar with this term, a) I’m sorry, and b) now that you do know, I’m even sorrier. You’ll want to watch the film – do so at your own risk. CHUD is an acronym for Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller. There is a movie, it is terrible, you should see it, and they are real. This dude looked like he fell off the inbred truck and then got beaten mercilessly with the stupid stick. Speak up…I can’t hear you. Be more descriptive? Alright…buckle in.

Lurch was about 5’11” and a nice egg shell shade of white. He had long limbs, almost arboreal in appearance. They were much too long in proportion to the rest of his body. He was bald. Bald like he at one point had the Caesar balding pattern, but one night, after too many Coors Lights, he decided to Bic the rest of his head. Now his dome reflects the florescent lights from above.

Lurch is sporting some glasses from 1984, the kind your PE coach wore. In fact, I think I just nailed it. Lurch was your gym coach. He’s wearing the athletic shorts and the basketball t-shirt you’d expect him to be wearing. Even though he’s not got them on today, he looks like the kind of asshole who’d wear black socks pulled up to mid-calf with white shoes. Ladies, are your hearts palpitating yet? Are you wet? Fuck! I almost made myself throw up.

By far, the smoothest thing about him is the way he chews his gum. I can’t stop staring. He’s an open-mouth gum chewer. It’s obnoxious. Fuck that, it’s repugnant. This motherfucker smacks his jaw around in a circular, slack-jawed motion, all the while, rolling his tongue around the inside of his cavernous facehole. I’m torn between being fascinated and wanting to vomit.

Clearly, a mental giant, he has spent two minutes on a broken treadmill pushing buttons. The fucking thing isn’t lit up at all, nimrod. All the other ones have pretty lights on them that make up words like “begin” and “workout,” I wonder what it means if yours is all dark and unresponsive? Was this what the end of your marriage was like? You kept trying to turn something on that just wasn’t having it?

After a painful two minutes on one machine with no success, he moved over one machine. Guess what? That machine was broken too. And here we go again. Pushing a rock, pushing a rock, pushing a rock. I watched Lurch try to will another treadmill to life for two minutes. It’s like he couldn’t remember what had just transpired with the one immediately to his right. I gotta wonder what was in the water that his mother was drinking while she was carrying him.

Don’t judge a book by its cover? Okay, but I’m pretty sure I nailed this one.

*I saw Lurch yesterday and secretly photographed him, just in case he turns out to be the next Loch Ness.

**I’m still fully aware of my reserved seat in Hell

            

a very Maury wedding

When my husband and I first got married we exchanged vows in the hospital room of his father who had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. There wasn’t much time and we made certain his father would be able to witness the occasion. 

We had known we were going to make one another miserable for the rest of our natural lives, we just hadn’t set a date yet. This was God telling us, “Here’s your sign.” We decided that when we got back home, to California, we’d have a separate celebration for friends and other family members who weren’t in attendance the first time around. Here’s how I want this shit to go down.

I’d enjoy it very much if one of our friends would perform the “ceremony.” Bear in mind, we’re already married, so this little performance is just for shits and giggles. Preferably more giggles than shits. In fact, I’d like our officiant to roast us. Perhaps draw some attention to Kevin being my last resort. No one else will put up with my bullshit attitude and increasingly droopy ass, or my laughable excuse for breasts. We can all have a laugh at my idiosyncrasies and some of my complete failures.

Once we’re done with me, we can focus our attention on Kevin. We don’t have the time for all of that today though. I’ve promised to not write for longer than 30 mins. a sitting. We could be here a while and I’m just not that dedicated. Doesn’t bode well for our marriage if I’m not “dedicated” to writing for longer than it takes some places to deliver a pizza.

Guests should be comfortable, so please, wear superhero attire of choice. If superheroes aren’t your gig, fictional character of preference will do just fine, but for God’s sake, don’t show up as yourself! Nobody wants that. You don’t even like yourself, what makes you think any of my guests will? If you truly insist on coming without costume and ruining everything, you’d better have a dog with you; something we can all focus on instead of your glaring defects.

I would typically invite our asshole friends out to a nice sit-down dinner somewhere, but I just remembered – I’m poor. So, we improvise. I bring my Grandma down from the Bay Area and have her cook for all of us. Why? Because she will, and I can yell at her that there’ll be time to cry about her arthritis later - flip those damn tortillas!!

This is a good time for me to whisper to my husband that I plan to get fat. Super morbidly-obese fat. Beyond that type of fat. Like, I looked that classification of fat in the eye, winked at it, and rang my little bicycle bell at it as I rode past it chasing the ice cream truck. It’s a dream of mine. I want to have a talk show dedicate an episode to me. They’ll live film a crew of first responders coming in to rescue me from my home. Then, months, and maybe even years later we’ll do follow up episodes. The initial episode will be enthralling though. The jaws of life will be needed just to wrestle the pork chop from under my arm and the bag of sour cream and cheddar Lays from my right hand. I tell my husband all of this slowly and deliberately then take three solid steps back to examine his face. Priceless. My whole life has been leading up to this moment.

I’m a terrible person for the shit I say. I’ve made peace with it. Apparently, you have too, or you wouldn’t still be reading this crap. Anyhow, my 30 minutes are up. My wedding is going to be great…again. It was perfect the first time, this time it’ll just have attitude, cosplay and pets.

Ms. Tina's Neighborhood

“That looks dumb,” is what my 11-yr. old son said this morning of the grown ass man walking around our complex’s parking lot at 7:45 with sunglasses on and can of beer in his hand.  

I like to take it a step further and build a story. You can’t do that, you might say. You can’t assume things about people; you don’t know what they’re going through. Can’t I though? I can, and I did.

"Tanked Thomas" is meandering through our parking lot this morning trying to avoid the bustling within his household. His wife, a nurse, is getting ready for work. She’s passive-aggressively banging shit around the house to ensure he’s awake and aware of her state of unhappiness.

See, Thomas was up late again last night putting away beer after shitty canned beer, becoming increasingly frustrated at the television and most other electronic devices he owns.

Thomas crushes beer cans and leaves them where he stands, or swerves. Like a trail of bread crumbs in Hansel & Gretel, they litter the floor to the bathroom and kitchen, then to the back patio where he furiously smokes and curses his shit luck and his stupid life. Someday people are going to respect Thomas. Some fine day, but not today. Today he’s just pissed in the back corner of his patio.

Poor unemployed and pathetic Tom was fired because of his alcoholism. He has some rage (he prefers to call it an attitude problem) issues also. Thomas fails to see how putting your fist through drywall at work on a few occasions while actively hung over could land you in the employment demographic. He’s gonna slash his former employer’s tires.

Now Thomas shuffles around our apartment complex at 7:45 am in sunglasses and shorts, carrying what I’m certain is a lukewarm beer. I know this with near certainty.

My overactive imagination is so much fun sometimes, and others it’s pretty fucked up. The reality is: I don’t know dick about Thomas other than he drinks crap beer and wears cheap sunglasses. Neither of those things makes him a bad person. What makes him a bad person are the socks he was wearing with his sandals this morning. Not in my hood, bro! You can be a drunk but obey the dress code! I’ll be taking that shit up with the HOA. Watch your back!

And now you know where I draw the line…

simpleidiot

Do idiots know they’re idiots? Seriously, do you folks wake up and go “Fuck, I better stay inside today, I’m a dumbass.” Do people who hang their personal drama out on social media like freshly washed but still skid-marked undergarments know that they’re pitiful?

I already lack in the patience department, so when I run across these assholes, the restraint it requires to keep me from tossing chairs ends up knocking 2 months off my life expectancy. 2 months a pop! In another couple of weeks I’ll be working backwards. I can’t wait to be 23 again; that was a good year.

Let me be clear about a couple of things: I understand the need to share personal struggles and get feedback and/or reinforcements from faceless strangers. Okay, that was a dig. We all have moments when we need to hear kind words from our “friends” [oops, did it again] to help lift us up, but if I see your shit blasted daily on social media in some desperate act of attention fishing, I will set up a Go Fund Me for some therapy sessions for you. Clearly, it’s needed and I’m not paying for it. I’d just as soon get myself a boob job and a few pairs of shoes; we’re probably talking about the same amount of money to see results – for either of us.

I don’t take issue with the occasional post about struggling with something, but how about not hitting me daily with bullshit vague posts implicating someone else and their part in your miserable situation? If you’re going to whine daily and publicly, have the balls to put the other person on blast. Use their name, quit being a pussy. We’re unfortunately subjected to your posts, so at least make it worth our time.

Also, by using their name, you give them the opportunity to speak up for themselves. They deserve that. You give their friends and family the opportunity to come to their defense as well. You obviously don’t mind getting the attention, but are you willing to back up the actions you took to get there? If not, maybe you ought to confide in a special friend and do the rest of us a favor.

If you’re an idiot, you probably don’t know it. It’s not like when you’re fat or ugly. You know that shit. We have mirrors for that. I won’t leave the house if I’m wearing something that I feel is unflattering to my thighs. These bitches are in charge! I’m not fat, but my thighs are commanding, for sure. Thankfully, I have a mirror in my bedroom that prevents me from leaving the house and committing crimes against humanity.

I do the same in the morning when I pluck my eyebrows. Sure, there is a mild gratification derived from pulling hair from my face, but the driving force behind the action is to prevent retinal assault. If I let my brows grow out, I may end up being mistaken for Sasquatch and shot at and tagged. Bigfoot: the myth, the legend, the woman with a unibrow.

Imagine if you awoke and the mirror said to you: “Get your ass back in bed; you’re too stupid for today.” How many lives would be saved? Stocks on stress balls would plummet and no one would need a fucking Zen garden at their desk. No one really likes sand at their desk. This isn’t 1994. I would spend good money on a mirror that fed it to me straight. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the dullest of us all?  

Simplehuman is a privately owned designer and manufacturer of kitchen, bath, and beauty tools. I own one of their sensor-activated vanity mirrors. I use the shit out it! I use it to pluck my unruly brows even though my husband dropped it and cracked the mirror. I’m not buying another one because those things are crazy fucking expensive. *disclaimer: I didn’t buy first one, my mom gave it to me*

What I’d love to see happen is for Simplehuman to design my mirror; the one that tells you when you’re too much of a tool to join the general public for the day. If they can further work on narrowing it down to your major faults, that would be even more amazing. I know this can work. Let’s see some action, guys! One asshole at a time, let’s simplify this shit.

Society's quivering bitch muscle

Which came first, the quivering bitch muscle of society or our current President?

I’m legitimately trying to figure out if some of you assholes have always been this fucking clueless and sensitive or if Trump really is the cause of the bullshit commentary I’ve been getting on my social media posts lately.

In no way, shape, or form, am I a Trump supporter. I have trouble supporting a man I cannot fully identify as human. There is no evidence to substantiate that claim, to the best of my knowledge. Look at his fucking wife, that bitch never looks happy unless she’s around another man, or woman for that matter. It’s as if she’s silently crying for help. Can’t blame her. Just the thought of his puckered face and wispy hair make my vagina drier than 10 ruptured silica gel packs jammed right up center street. Melania always looks like she’s about to walk into a waxing appointment; that look of pinched annoyance but submission to the plan. Complete defeat. God bless that hoe for taking the dick that the rest of us want nothing to do with, unless you’re a paid professional, apparently.

So, like I was saying, huge Trump supporter. Bigly.

Recently I’ve been scaling back my social media presence. It’s bullshit, but I feel like I’m not safe saying shit without some fucker turning words against me out of scared ignorance on their end, then neatly tying it up in a political bow. 9 times out of 10 what I say has jack shit to do with politics, I’m just not savvy enough for all of that, but leave it to Todd or Glen to add commentary to make it seem that way.  Now I have to I have to pray for their idiot souls too? It’s too easy to jump on the liberal or conservative car of the train and ride it into your vision of victory, or the ground, which ever stop is first on the line.

The other day I posted a picture of a spider in the men’s restroom at my work to a social site. The spider had given birth to a mess load [technical term] of baby spiders. I captioned the photo: “we’re well past catch and release.” Some uninvited individual decided to comment that I was beginning to sound like Trump. I’m sorry, what the fuck?! Spiders are not political. I see no correlation and you can just fuck right off.

Why is everything an opportunity to bring politics into play? It’s just a sea of assholes volleying blame and bullshit accusations back and forth. It’s one thing to be in the political arena and have this monkey shit flung around, but I’m just some chick who minds her own business and writes what’s on her mind. Why do I get the full experience? Can I get a little lube and foreplay before you jam your fist up my ass? Up until now, I’ve kept politics out of my blogs. This isn’t even political, this is just a rant about people being entitled little douchebags – using any excuse at all to hear themselves speak. I see it everywhere. It’s disgusting. I don’t need, or even want, everyone to gather around a big circle and share what we like about one another. There’s no need to start sucking each other’s dicks, but for fuck’s sake, quit being little bitches!

Maybe we ought to start implementing an added voice option for all commentary added to social media sites. Record your comments in your own voice so that the viewer can hear you. No misunderstandings. We’ll know if you’re joking or if you’re a legitimate jackass. We can then take that data and decide whether we’d like to send you thoughts and prayers or flaming bags of dog shit. I’m super mature, in case you hadn’t noticed.

If you have questions about some shit I’ve written or posted, for the love of God, don’t embarrass yourself – ask me.

Dora the 7-11 explorer

In the week or so since I last wrote anything I’ve decided I don’t want to be around humans anymore. I’m going to take up a dog collection, increase my existing cat count, sell my child, get some houseplants to talk to, and keep my husband around for household handiwork and sex. Everything else can fuck off.

People are horrible. I’m no better, I just don’t have to see my own bullshit for what it is - usually. Even when I do, I can choose to ignore it or blame it on some other shit, like how I was raised, or menstrual cramps. I’m a shitty human being because my uterus is seizing up and it clouds my judgement, forcing me to act like an asshole. Sounds legit.

Riding around town with my offspring in the car, you know, the kid I’m going to sell, and he says to me: “Did you hear about Pres. Trump uniting No. and So. Korea? That’s a pretty cool accomplishment, isn’t it?” Like a “normal” mom would react, I said: “Yep, I guess it’s cool. I mean, it’s cool until you weigh it against taking children away from their parents and putting them in camps. Not like “cool” camps either, these were shit houses. Remember the year you went to the YMCA and it was 1000 degrees outside? They made you stay outside on the tarmac without cover? Yeah, like that, only much worse because the food made everyone sick, so they were throwing up and shitting everywhere and then had to sleep on the floor too.” Completely normal reaction, right?

My 11-yr. old stared at me, not really knowing how to respond. I hope he took that information straight home to his father. There’s no earthly way my child would come to me with Trump propaganda if it wasn’t filtered through his InfoWars father. I’m just making sure my kid knows ALL sides of the issue. I’d like to say I handled it well, but it’s clear, I didn’t. My approach has always been, and will remain, to allow for my child to come to his own conclusions. I just need to encourage his monkey ass to do his own research on issues. I support his right to choose, and yours too, even if conflicts with my beliefs. Just don’t be a douchebag.

On the topic of douchebags…

This morning I was aggravated while at a well known convenient store. It was 11 minutes past 7 am. An older Hispanic woman had come into the establishment. She was purchasing coffee while her companion was outside pumping gas. I’m toward the back of the store shopping for my daily lunch of carbs and sugar, health fanatic that I am, when I hear the clerk mock her in his best Hispanic impersonation. He sounds like Speedy Gonzalez, “Rapido, arriba!” I hear him say. I stop short. What the fuck just happened?

Why do white people feel the need to impersonate fictional Mexican characters when they encounter Latin Americans? I would have been impressed if he had done a Desi Arnaz impersonation, but it’s so calculable that Speedy is the go-to. Shit, I would have settled for Cheech and Chong, and that’s 80% stoner! This shit is insulting as fuck! The only time I mock an accent is when I am directly trying to draw attention to our differences. So, when I’m being an asshole. This was not  an episode of The Simpsons’ - Apu is not the clerk, Homer is not the politically incorrect and incorrigible character we know and love, and this shit really did  just happen in my presence.

[DREAMSCAPE]

I stop cold. I turn around, point at the clerk, “You knock that shit off! Is that half-assed impersonation the best you could come up with? Get your ass back into the stock room and come back when you have new material. That shit was tired as fuck. She’s little and Hispanic and you didn’t even try  a Dora the Explorer joke? What the fuck? That cartoon is half English and half Spanish, you at least had a fighting chance with that one. Way to think outside the box, Steven. Guess they don’t pay extra for originality here, do they?”

By this time, I’m walking up and down the aisles, knocking crap off shelves. “Steven, how old do you have to be to legally drink?” I ask with a bottle of Miller High Life in my hands. I wait for his answer and before he opens his mouth, I say “Never mind, Juanita here probably isn’t legal. Are ya, Juanita?” I release the bottle and let it crash to the ground, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces. “Oops. My bad, Steven. Maybe ya ought to get to cleaning that shit up. ¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Ándale”

[END OF DREAMSCAPE]

Wow, it’s super easy to get carried away and fly off the handle. One minute I’m talking about Cheech and Chong and the next I’m fantasizing about destroying a convenient store; must be my uterus again.

Anyway, my point is, people are fucking assholes sometimes. Don’t be one. I’m tired of writing shitty blogs and I really can’t afford any more pets. Don’t contribute to my need to do either. Thanks for reading.

Crafting happiness out of horseshit

It’s rare that I wake up and turn all my hostility inward. Normally, I like to direct it at you sorry sons of bitches. I relish catching you off guard with a well-timed insult or some other form of comic relief, usually at your expense. Today, however, I’m stuck in some time loop where I keep putting my own boob in the vice grip for some twisted home mammogram where the results always come back terminal and the doctor makes fun of my tits and my outfit.

I’m not sure what happened or what caused this piss poor mood I’m in today, but I wish it would find someone else’s ass to crawl up. If it could find Stacey from 6^th grade, that would be amazing! She was super fucked up to me and I’m still resentful about some of the friendships that bitch stole out from under me. I’ll pack a little food poisoning snack and maybe even a yeast infection treat in a gift bag for my bad attitude to take along with it; I think that might cheer me up.

I woke up this morning dull. Not dull like stupid, so shut your face! I mean dull like lacking the brilliant shine that I’m known for. My sparkle was gone. [I’m laughing even as I type this. I wish you could see this.]  I searched everywhere for glitter before realizing that I don’t DIY craft ANYTHING and I’m not in any off-Broadway plays. I’m also not a stripper, so there’s that. It appears I’m fucked in the glitter department. I need to create my own shine. Not easy to do for someone whose wardrobe consists primarily of black clothing, pajamas, & workout apparel. I’m either going to bed, the gym, or I’m in mourning; there’s very little in between.

I settled on a skirt. A very long, black skirt. I thumb through my closet for anything that doesn’t scream “cutter” or “Marilyn Manson fangirl,” and there between my onesie pajamas [yes, I hang them] and my 49ers jersey is this cute little pink blouse with black cats on it. It’s cheerful, I think. This ought to work. I throw the outfit on, blow-dry my hair, make a half-hearted attempt at make-up application, and I’m out the door. I’m dressing my way into happiness, or so I thought…

What I hadn’t counted on was that it would be hot and humid today. I’ve also managed to run over this piece of shit skirt no less than 5 times with my desk chair, getting it caught in the wheels twice. Now, I’m not in the best frame of mind, so when I start sweating, and my thighs start sticking together, I begin convincing myself that it’s because I’m a fatass and if only I hadn’t eaten that piece of steak last night, none of this would be happening to me. The steak is to blame for all my troubles today. Hell, maybe the steak is to blame for that shit that went down with Stacey in 6^th grade, fuck that girl! I hope she chokes on a piece of steak while sweating in her living room wearing a pair of shorts and a Marilyn Manson t-shirt. Or, maybe a Creed t-shirt. Oh…I’m starting to feel better. I should keep this up.

So, while the backs of my knees are sweating, my thighs ARE their own slip-n-slide, and my bra has become a super absorbent maxi-pad for my boob sweat, the work phone rings. This is just what I want to do right now. I want to answer the phone and talk to someone, anyone really, while I uncomfortably try to wipe away moisture when the dudes I work with aren’t looking. Ever try that? Inconspicuously tend to your unruly body with others’ present? It’s hard as fuck, you guys.  

The lady on the other end of the line is pushing all my buttons. No, lady, I don’t automatically know who you are. I introduced myself when I answered the phone. Looks like you have the advantage here. Want to reciprocate, or nah? This is just my day job. I make mad grip afterhours playing with crystal balls and tarot cards, reading the fortunes of drunk college girls and lonely housewives. How about you tell me your name and where you’re from and I’ll decide if I want to help you, or if I’d rather just listen to you rattle off your demands while I twirl my hair on the other end of the phone like some kind of moron. Hold please, boob wiping in process.

What did she just say? *scrolling Amazon for pet products*

I’m pretty sure I didn’t hang up on her, but I’m also certain that was not my best customer service call. That’s okay, she can call the office manager and get it all straightened out tomorrow. Oh yeah, that would be me. Good luck with that shit, lady. Go take a seat next to Stacey.

So, in closing, I’ve learned the following today: When I feel bitchy, I probably just need to write. When I feel fat, I probably should wear something that prevents my thighs from saying hello to each other. When I feel like I deserve a raise, I ought to revisit this blog entry. Finally, I seriously need to purchase *and keep* glitter on hand in my home. All this bullshit could have been avoided.

I'm not sure why I needed this glittered ass in my blog, but I figured it couldn't hurt my case any. Throw that glitter around! 

eat a carton a day

That’s very kind of you sir, now will you please stop smiling at me? You look like you eat a carton of cigarettes every day and have been doing that for at least a year.

I can’t say if the clerk at my local 7-11 is a smoker, if he hasn’t brushed his teeth since he was 14, if he’s from Flint, MI, or if he eats dirt in his free time -what I can say is that his grill is jacked-the-fuck-up!

He has a sparkling personality and I’m sure he can skin a fish, or any other kind of animal, with nothing but a pocket knife and a paperclip in 2 minutes flat. I wish he’d not smile so toothily at me when we chat in the mornings, however. I have great difficulty focusing on anything other than the mangled mess inside his facehole. I also don’t like having to acknowledge what a gigantic piece of shit I am for seeing him for his teeth. Well, his teeth, his camouflage baseball cap, his heavy accent, (probably from LA) and the monstrous armpit stains he’s sporting. Quite an accomplishment considering it’s a black work shirt with some peek-a-boo belly action happening.

Now that I’ve painted a vision of a stereotypical redneck, let me tell you what a sweetheart he is. He’s a sweetheart. There, better? Am I redeemed? Hardly digging myself out the grave I’ve dug for myself, huh? It’s cool, it’s comfy in here. I’m going to call him Clive. Clive is a nice guy. Each morning I buy the same thing and he never pokes fun at me: bag of pretzels, gummy worms, gum, and coffee. I’m predictable as a motherfucker.

He always seems surprised that I’m on my way to work though, this baffles me. Dude, I get here the same fucking time every day. Every day you ask me if my day is just starting. One day I’m going to look directly at him and say, “No, Clive, I pulled an all-nighter whoring and I’m on my way home right now. It was a doozy, so I’m just picking up some refreshments and I’m headed home to get some shut eye.”

I really ought to practice not being such an asshole, but what fun would that be? Most of what I write are “inside thoughts,” that I have only in my head. The shit that is wildly inappropriate and sure to get my ass handed to me if I let it slip in public. Some of it I share with a select group of other assholes, who I know won’t judge me because they don’t have a leg to stand on. The rest of it I accidently blurt out at completely inappropriate times, like funerals and birthday parties.

It’s understandable why I’m able to count the number of friends I have on one hand. It’s not that people don’t think I’m funny, or enjoy my company, it’s just they’d rather not risk getting caught in a situation where they’ll have to defend themselves because of some stupid shit I say.

Back to Clive…

Talking shit about Clive’s mangled grill got me thinking about my own time spent as a smoker. I was the type of smoker all the other smokers' wanted to beat up in a darkened alley – I could always walk away from it when I wanted. Imagine me – my shitty personality; now add a cigarette affliction. Smelly hair and stinky hands. I’m already foul, add to that an addiction that required a program of maintenance and allowed for feelings of entitlement. I was an absolute pleasure to be around!

You don’t see ads for smoking like you used to. Smoking is fucking gross. I won’t get all soap-boxy about it. I smoked, and can’t, with total certainty, say I won’t ever do it again. But, it’s fucking gross. There, I’m done with that mini-rant…

I went digging for smoking propaganda. I’m pretty stoked at some of the shit I scored. Far and away, Benson and Hedges was pimping cancer sticks in the most fashionable way for the longest time. Virginia Slims, aka Vagina Slimes, did a great job marketing their demographic. They targeted women and their most vulnerable weakness; their waistlines. A lot of the ads talk about women being slender – giving women the idea that smoking will make you thin. Hey, so will crack cocaine, but I guess smokes are cheaper.

Anyway, kick up your feet, light up your smoke, and enjoy some marketing genius.

From hot to cold in 2 minutes flat

The quickest and most surefire way to kill my sex-drive is to begin talking about financial affairs. You will effectively throw my libido into full reverse without slowing down. The engine will drop out. Way to go, tiger! Killin’ it…or not, as the case may be.

For most of the day I’ve been looking forward to going home. It’s been hellishly hot in our area, and our air conditioning unit took a shit God knows when. We never use the damn thing - until now.

It was 97 degrees inside my apartment when I went to turn on my central air the other day. Much to my dismay, I found the fucking thing was broken. It dribbled lukewarm air from the vents with all the enthusiasm of a teenager mopping the kitchen floor. So, for the last four days I’ve been sitting in an upstairs, well furnished, oven. Why then, you might ask, have I been excited to go home? Well, you see, my husband fixed that shit! That’s right, there’s cold air pumping through my apartment right now.

As soon as I was informed of this delightful turn of events, I mentally closed all the blinds in the house, grabbed the coconut oil (because it’s trendy as fuck now and I hear that shit is amazing) and queued up the romantic “mood” music. Strike the music, my kid isn’t home this week, so I don’t give a fuck if the neighbors hear us. It’s been a while and I’m really looking forward to this.

Just when I think I’m going to punch out early, change my gym plans and surprise my man, we begin to text. And that’s when all the pieces to beautifully constructed sexscape came crashing down. Never EVER talk money before you’re about to get nasty. Like ever, ever! Within a mere matter of minutes, I went from We can be in any room we like  to I swear if he doesn’t answer that last text Imma be pissed. I became the Mojave; the angry Mojave Desert. Dry and hostile.

Now, I’m not saying that my mind won’t change again. We ALL have needs. But men, if you’re reading this, and you have even an inkling that you’re going to get lucky in any way, shape, or form, do yourself a favor and steer the fuck clear of any talk of sensitive topics. I’ll do you a solid and list some to stay away from.

Don’t engage in talk about the following (either verbal or text *especially text*)

·        Money

·        Money (just need to make sure you get it)

·        Religion

·        Politics

·        Her weight

·        Her family

·        Her friends

·        Her ugly pet

·        Her work (unless you can offer comfort and support NOT advice)

In fact, you should probably just stick to compliments and very little else until you seal the deal. Just my two cents, but what the fuck do I know about this shit?

Oh hell, it’s 5’clock. Time to go home, sit around in my nice, cool apartment, stare at my phone until dinner time, and then watch tv until bedtime.

Not all is lost, at least I’ll be cool. It’ll be nice to get a good night’s sleep; a hot and bothered, good night’s sleep.