Wednesday, April 22, 2009
After a good 24 hours of feeling completely out of my mind - I'm talking bat-shit-ass-shave-my-head-and-beat-people-up-with-an-umbrella-Britney-style kind of psycho - I'm feeling almost normal. ALMOST being the key word since I'm sure I'll be riding out this manic state for quite a while and I keep finding myself saying things in my head like, "I'm free from the man!" and "The world is my oyster!" You know, shit only crazy crackhead hippies say...
Monday, maybe three hours after I figuratively took it up the ass from my previous lying bastard employers, my day consisted of me gallivanting with my dog through the mud of a nearby park, swinging on the swings, which I'm pretty sure scared the mothers and their children, walked through some more mud and sprinted across a soccer field all while intermittently sobbing. I'm surprised I didn't take off my clothes and cartwheel across the damn thing. Then I walked around Target with my mom, which used to be therapeutic, but now only made me want to slit my wrists since who knows when I'll be able to buy anything again. The boy went to the mall yesterday and I later asked him to describe the smell to me. This is going to be bad...
Later on, I got ready to go out and visited my vag wax lady for probably the last time for a long time where we said 'fuck' a lot back and forth, which is always fun (plus she had pity on me and gave me a good discount on my wax) then I headed to Kelly's for, yep, you guessed it, some lovely Jameson. Kate met me out at some point, I proceeded to get shitfaced, cried and screamed some more, but only after I got back to my car (which I did not drive, nor did I attempt to drive) then Kate drove me back to her place where I passed out with the dog in the spare bedroom.
Now that the urge to drink myself retarded is out of my system, I feel better. I filed for unemployment yesterday, updated my resume and began the hunt all while thinking of other options in the back of my mind like - do I really want to get another job I don't particularly care for just to have an income or should I use this opportunity to figure out what I really want to do with my life? Back to school perhaps? Some sort of other training? My plan of attack is still TBA.
In the meantime, I'm enjoying spring in Kansas City because we totally have the best springs. My mom and I took my niece Remi to Deanna Rose Farmstead, a little petting zoo, today to look at animals and it was actually hot outside. Mom used to take my sister and me here when we were little and we barely recognized it since it's changed so much. The bastard goats are still there and you can still feed them, but only through the fence now instead of actually being able to get in the pen with them. It's probably a good idea since one of them tried to eat my mom's straw purse one time and another one butted me in the ass when I ran out of food a different time. Goats are greedy little dicks.
Remi didn't like them anyway and covered her eyes when we brought her up to the fence, so most of our time was spent on the playground and since I'm the young, spry one, I was forced to squeeze my fat ass down plastic slides made for toddler butts with the kid. I wormed my way through this barn to get to this tall slide, set her down on my lap and since the kid before us apparently had pants made out of waxed paper, we rocketed down the slide and got spit out onto our asses at the bottom - cute when a little kid does it, pathetic when a grown woman does it. Mom cracked up, Remi cracked up and yelled "again!" and I, being the cool aunt that I am, crawled back into the barn for another go.
Tomorrow at this time, I'll be enjoying the sites and sounds of Jazz Fest in New Orleans. It was an unknowingly well timed vacation when it was booked back in January. I just hope I can fully enjoy it with these shitty circumstances hanging over my head right now.
Monday, April 20, 2009
I will be 26 in exactly one week and I just received the most fabulous news - I will be joining the millions of other Americans - in the unemployment FUCKING line. YAAAY!
FUCK. SHIT. ASS. BITCH. MOTHERFUCKING WHORES!
I was just trall-la-la-ing about my day when I was called into the office maybe an hour ago and given the "we're just not doing very well and we can't afford your position anymore" speech out of the blue. I sat there and listened, got up and left the office, sat silently and gathered my things while people tried to "explain" and left without even screaming "FUCK YOU!" or firebombing the building. I'd say it was a fairly successful first lay off.
I had a perfectly good job six months ago - stressful and crappy paying, but still sustainable job - that I left voluntarily for these fucking assholes and now I'm completely fucked. Why in the fuck did they even hire me in the first place? How many times can I use the word 'fuck' in one paragraph?
Then I went straight to my parents' house where I wailed lots of 'fucks' and 'goddammits' at my comforting mother.
Is it bad that I can't stop crying? I'm such a pansy.
Tonight, Jameson Irish Whiskey is my friend. Tomorrow, my finances, Career Builder, the unemployment office and my resume will hopefully be my friend too, but they'll probably fuck me as well. FUCK.
No, it wasn’t as ghetto as it sounds. It was actually a nice, relaxed rehearsal dinner at the Westport Flea Market who boasts the best hamburger in town. Anyway the boy came and picked me up from Kate’s nearby house after he got off work and we settled in at the outside bar of Harry’s when one of his old co-workers commented on a band-aid on his hand.
“Oh yeah, I put my backpack under these stairs by a woodpile outside of work, so I could go pick it up later and not have to carry it around since I have the scooter, then I came inside and noticed that my hand was bleeding.”
Then he pulls off the band aid and I was all, “why is your ‘cut’ surrounded by a creepy red ring? Gross dude.” So then I grab his phone and start researching brown recluse spider bites because they are rampant in this area and make your skin rot the fuck off when they bite you and why you would stick your hand in a goddamn woodpile in Kansas City is beyond me. Then the damn phone Internet is being the slowest piece of shit ever and the stylus won’t work and I’m about to scream and throw it at the bartender because you pay bajillions of dollars for these phones and they are so tiny and pissy and slow so what’s the point?
Then his hand starts feeling all weird and he kind of starts to freak out, so we leave. He drops me back off at my car and shortly after I arrive home, he calls me and says he puked three times (another symptom of the dreaded bite) and is going to the emergency room. Oh happy day.
Before you call me a crap girlfriend, I was ready to sit with him in the E.R., but he refused since he knew I had a long day of wedding-tastic the next day. A shatty night of sleep later, I find out he got home from the E.R. around 9 a.m. with a confirmed poisonous spider bite, antibiotics, muscle aches and nausea, which worsened throughout the day, so I would be at the wedding…stag…again…and worrying that my boyfriend was going to die why I pranced around boozing and eating cake in a pink satin dress.
I’m pretty sure the entire wedding party thinks my boyfriend is pretend already anyway since he’s never come with me to any of the pre-wedding events since he’s always working on the weekends, but this just solidified their notions that my boyfriend is actually faux…Yeah, sure, he’s not here because he got bit by a spider…sure, we believe you…
So I spent the day telling the spider story over and over again – sipping on mimosas while having my hair done, getting my overpriced make-up done (thanks lady, but I could have spackled my own face with Maybeline foundation from Wal-Mart for FREE – where the hell is the MAC and B) and tromping through the mud in heels for photos.
One of the bridesmaids had the make-up lady cover up a bunch of her tattoos which was a waste of time since it rubbed off all over her dress and the bride’s backseat as we drove around town for pictures. Awesome.
Then as we were wandering around in alleyways for urban pics, one of the groomsmen randomly wanders off to get beer and cigarettes in the middle of pictures. When he reappeared, he openly drank his beer while the photographer snapped photos and I’m going, “What the FUCK dude?” I mean, I’m sure the bride appreciates you trying to incorporate props in the pictures, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want cans of Bud Light in her formal wedding photos. The bride commented about this several times and while she was such a laid back bride throughout this whole process, I think that would have been my breaking point. There would have been ripping of the wedding gown as my human body quickly morphed into a 40-foot, fire breathing dinosaur that destroyed all disobeying and inconsiderate wedding party attendees in my path. This is why women turn into Bridezilla – because people are assholes – and this is why the courthouse is looking more and more appealing if I ever find somebody I can stand long enough to want to marry.
Then during the reception, two cougary ladies cornered me by the wedding cake to first tell me I looked great in the bridesmaid dress and I’m going, ‘well I had to stand naked with my arms and legs spread out while a perfect stranger sprayed me with stanky ass bronzing spray so I better look good in this thing,’ then to tell me I looked sooooo good dancing with so-and-so and he’s such a nice boy and blah blah blah – the curse of being single and stag at a wedding. Then I pretty much said, “I have a boyfriend and he was supposed to be here, but he’s at home dying from a spider bite instead.” Then I politely excused myself to the bar where I continued to drink heavily.
It sounded like I had a great time right? Actually I really did despite the minor hang ups but no wedding is complete without a couple of those. After my $30 cab ride home with some cabby named Webb I wrestled the pink satin-ness that had been suction cupped to my body for 12 hours off, threw it on the floor and passed the hell out.
The boy is in fact just fine except the nasty bite is surrounded by disgusting blisters now, which he loves to shove in my face while making this irritating, high-pitched screamy noise that makes me want to claw his eyes out. And he keeps walking around making *whoosh* noises while pretending to shoot webs out of his wrists because he apparently thinks he’s Spiderman now.
We’ve been dating five months and this was his third E.R. visit in those five month all for legitimate reasons and that’s not even counting the 50 million times he’s visited the hospital the 40 and a half years before he knew me. Perhaps I should consider admiring him from afar from now on since I’m fairly certain that a grand piano or an Acme anvil is destined to fall on him one day as we’re strolling down the street and I would really hate to get all that blood splattered on me. That’s just unsanitary.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I peeled the red shoes of death off my now numb feet as soon as I hit carpet then went straight into the kitchen to sniff around for a tasty treat in the form of alcohol and immediately regretted sticking my nose into a cheap and rotten bottle of Pinot Grigio I found in the fridge. *BLUH*
Across the kitchen, the sound of a shot glass shattering on the tile floor made everybody jokingly curse and accuse, but it totally wasn’t me.
My hunt resulted in zero mixers, a bottle of tequila, the wine of course and a bottle of Pomegranate vodka and since I’d rather not projectile vomit on the walls of somebody else’s home, I took a shot of vodka and chased it with some water. You work with what you’ve got.
The boys busted in the front door and demanded I eat some of the bags and bags of random mystery meats wrapped in bread they scavenged from their late night QuikTrip run and I obliged since the simultaneous meeting of 3 a.m. and vodka makes all faux foods from gas stations automatically taste delicious.
Fitzy disappears briefly and comes back with a treasure: “Pervert.” Splotches of splooge form the spaces on the game board, which is spread out in the middle of the living room while I use my best sales pitch a.k.a. “WHO WANTS TO PLAY PERVERT?!” to recruit players. As the game went on, people became intrigued with either the screeching that came from our circle or the desire and undoubted knowledge that they would in fact win and be crowned “the biggest pervert” if they played. Players then outnumbered pieces and random objects from pockets were used instead.
“Move the peppermint forward one,” Josh kept squawking from his perch on a chair above the circle gathered around the board-o-jiz.
Questions from cards were fired one after the other around the circle only stopping briefly to assist the color blind in identifying the color of the card.
“Orange – everybody answers.”
“Purple is everybody except you.”
“Blue is just you.”
Until the ultimate question was asked: “Have you ever given or received a Tahitian Face Mask?”
Puzzlement washed over the players. We looked at each other for answers but to no avail. A room full of perverts playing “Pervert” couldn’t figure it out. I knew of the Dirty Sanchez, the Hot Carl, the Cleveland Steamer, the Rusty Trombone and even the Gorilla Mask, but not the Tahitian Face Mask. Perhaps it had something to do with exotic oils?
We all reluctantly moved our pieces back the required splooge spot and slowly continued the game while Josh whipped out his phone to gain the group a little knowledge.
Within seconds a smile spread across his face and he began reading:
“First you place a piece of plastic wrap over the receiver’s face…”
“The giver then squats over the receiver’s face and POOPS on the plastic wrap...”
BAAAAAHAHAHHAHAA! The mention of the word poop sends shrills of laughter into the air.
“A second piece of plastic wrap is then placed on top.”
Oh, OK, we got a laugh out of it and now we know since such facts will surely be needed in a life or death situation in the future, but as we started to go back to the game, we realize Josh isn’t finished yet and simply paused to laugh before reading the final line of description:
“Then *hahaha* the giver PUNCHES the receiver in the face...”
The rest of the sentence is drowned out by hysterics from the perverts. Kicking legs and flailing arms spill beers onto the carpet and bodies overcome with this glorious information topple backwards.
The plastic wrap and the poo and the punching of the said Saran wrapped poo on the face...OH GOD!!! AMAZING!
Yes, the famed Tahitian Face Mask did in fact have something to do with exotic oils…exotic oils from your ASS.
Breaths were caught and composures were regained as far as drunk perverts go and the game continued to the end. The biggest pervert did in fact win the game although he probably would have actually landed in last place if I would have posted some additional rules to the game that apparently were not obvious to him:
1.) Acts performed with an animal do not count unless the question specifies.
2.) The same goes for blow up dolls – even if it’s a really hot blow up doll.
3.) Acts performed during a dream while you’re sleeping do not count as reality and therefore do not count in the game unless the question specifies.
While I was sure I would come out on top, I sadly lagged behind just because I don’t enjoy other’s vaginas and boning in moving vehicles.
As it turns out, I'm merely a mediocre pervert. Goddammit.
Monday, April 13, 2009
We worked on all of that shit for weeks – basically until eating the Peeps was equivalent to gnawing on a cement curb. I don’t think we ever actually finished it all.
We always left the Easter bunny a carrot as a thank you for filling our baskets and years later my mom told me stories about how her and my dad would stifle laughter late at night as my dad would pick up the carrot, eat some, then chomp strategically placed “bunny” teeth marks into the remaining carrot before placing it back down on the plate for us to find in the morning.
My little childhood brain pretty much exploded every time I saw that carrot. I was all, “HOLY SHIT! He was actually here!” Then I’d get to thinking about it and decide I wasn’t really sure I liked the fact that a giant rabbit was roaming around my house at night while I was asleep. It was all sort of creepy and mutant-like. Hmmm…
The Easter baskets evolved through the years – less candy, more little surprises that suited our ages – a necklace, a t-shirt, a giftcard etc.
Now, here I am, nearly 26-years-old and my parents are still at it. My mom has always been quite observant of my wants my entire life. We’ll be in a store, I’ll mention how cute something is, the next holiday rolls around and low and behold there it is. I’m always completely amazed like, “how did you know?! I completely forgot about this!” But this time, since both of them read my blog, they have a little more insider information. Mom stuck an Easter basket in my car on Thursday afternoon while I was at work:
Notice: Minimal candy since I’ve already bought my weight in Easter candy over the past couple of weeks. That shit just sits on shelves at the store and stares at me. I can’t resist.
Notice: Those little white containers? Those are my coveted body scrubs that I mentioned in a blog a few weeks ago.
Notice: Plastic Easter eggs are no longer filled with chocolate, but with a bit-o-cash.
I was thrilled. So thrilled I almost cried. Maybe it’s because I thought I was too old for that stuff and being an adult has really fucking sucked lately. It brought me back to my lovely childhood when I didn’t worry about money or health problems or career choices or asshole men (and women for that matter). It brought a little much needed joy to my full of worries life.
If my parents continue to look to my blog for Easter basket ideas, this might be a little taste of what I can expect next year and in years to come:
Clockwise from the top:
2. Pocket flame thrower
3. Shark repellent
5. Mini teleporter
6. Hot shoes
I hope everybody had a Happy Easter!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
The earthquake that apparently annihilated L'Aquila, Italy the other day
kind of freaked me out – not because it’s one of my motherlands (what? You couldn’t tell I had Italian in me from reading my
belligerent brilliant writing?) – but because my friend Lisa recently moved there from Chicago. To Vicenza, Italy that is, not L’Aquila.
At first I was like, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, Lisa’s all buried and dying in ruble and shit!” But then instead of sending her an e-mail that said, “Dude! Are both your legs broken in six places from your house falling on top of you?!” I looked up the distance from Vicenza to L’Aquila, saw that L’Aquila is about 540 km south of Vicenza (roughly 385 miles and a 5 hour drive) and realized she was probably still in one piece and might have just felt a tremor or two.
Us Midwesterners are kind of fascinated by earthquakes since we just have them there tornadoes. Of course I’ve lived in area since I was 16 months old minus a few months here and there and I’ve never seen or even really been close to encountering a tornado. Huddling down in the basement with the pets and a radio while the warning sirens blare? Yeah, it happens every spring, but those things don’t mean a damn thing most of the time. Some old lady probably claimed she saw a menacing funnel cloud come out of the sky and frantically called Channel 5 News, who called emergency services who then flipped the switch. I’m all, “No Gladys, there’s no funnel cloud, those were your fucking cataracts playing tricks on you again.”
In fact, we’re so
jaded by them used to them that they went off one time in college when I was in the McDonald’s drive thru and they refused to serve me so their employees could take cover. I was STARVING and I had been waiting in line forever so when I heard this disheartening news I practically screamed at the speaker thing, “You chicken shits! There is no goddamn tornado! Now give me my fucking double cheeseburger!”
Of course now I live on the second floor of an apartment building with no basement, so in the next couple of months there will be a mile-wide Category 5 tornado that will level my apartment complex and I’ll be found in a vacant lot a half mile away, naked and fuzzy handcuffed to the water spout of my bathtub. No, seriously, I have no idea where I’d go if those damn sirens went off. It’s Murphy’s Law I tell you. So much for dying with dignity.
I think my parents felt a few tremors from time to time when they lived in Reno, Nevada and I was all, “lu-cky!” The only thing I got when I lived out there for a bit was freakish weather. I went to my internship up at Lake Tahoe at 9 a.m. one hot June morning wearing capris and sandals and left work at 5 p.m. fearing frostbite in the middle of a blizzard. I was all, “where the fuck am I? Kansas?”
ANYWAY – back to Lisa. I thought, ‘cool, she probably felt the earthquake’ and sent her an e-mail to check in. She sent one back laughing saying I was the only one who checked the distance rather than sending her a frantic e-mail like the rest of her people back home and the response, “I guess that’s why you do what you do.”
It got me thinking about my practical ass self. At first I thought maybe my training as a journalist made me a check-the-facts-before-flipping-a-shit type of person, but then I realized I’ve always been a logical thinker. I look before I leap. I weigh the pros and cons. I make sure safety nets are in place before making decisions. I’m so practical I want to gouge my eyes out.
I’m just not one of those people that would pick up my life and move someplace else for the hell of it. That’s not logical, not practical and there’s always that fear that some fat kid is going to point his finger at you and yell, “FAIL!” because if you fuck up and end up living in a box eating rats because you wanted to be adventurous and moved somewhere without a solid plan, nobody’s going to feel sorry for your dumbass. Except maybe your mom, but mommy can’t wipe your ass forever.
Of course most people I know don’t do this either. They have a reason to move and explore – school, a new job, some sort of planned out opportunity – like Lisa – her brother and sister-in-law live in Italy and offered to pay her if she came to live with them for a while and help watch the kids. I’m like holy shit, will such an opportunity ever show itself to me? Probably not. I’m most likely going to have to look for it, but whether it falls in your lap, like in Lisa’s case, or you have to scrounge for it, it’s still a risk and you still make the conscious decision to make that leap. It’s OK to look before you leap, weigh the pros and cons and have a plan just as long as you seize opportunities and I’ve never had a problem with that. I was actually proud of Lisa for taking that chance because I think she’s a pretty practical chick like me and I’d like to think I’d do the same if this opportunity was presented to me.
And why the hell am I being all “leap of faithy” all of a sudden? Maybe it’s because I just gave half a month’s salary to the government or because my boss called me dumb yesterday (true story). Every time I deliver plans to an architect or a city hall, as I’m walking in I think, ‘I should be the engineer who drew up these plans, not the messenger girl. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?!’ Life is stable as is, but it’s not what I want. I never pictured myself here, yet here I am, and I won’t be doing it for much longer. I’m finding an opportunity and I’m seizing it and that’s all I’m going to say.
In the meantime, I have to keep myself from slipping into the oh-my-fucking-god-my-life-is-so-boring-no-wonder-I-want-to-sleep-all-the-time mode because in reality, it’s not boring at all. The month of April will wrap up like this:
Tomorrow night I’ll be attending a bachelorette party where we will all don colored wigs. Yes, just like in the scene from the 40-Year-Old Virgin where the girls were “totally wiggin’ out!” Except I’m pretty sure we won’t each be toting a color coordinated dildo as well nor will I puke shellfish sandwich and strawberry daiquiri on Steve Carrell in a PT Cruiser though I’m sure he’d appreciate the grand reenactment if he were in town.
At first I was like, ‘Are you fucking serious? This is going to be the duuuuuuuumbest thing I’ve ever done. Pass me the bottle of cheap vodka because I’m gonna need to drink like a $2 whore to get through this.’ But now I’m fully embracing it and think I need an alter ego complete with a name and fucked up attire for the night. Suggestions welcome.
Next weekend I’m in a wedding and while most people would go “yay reception and free booze!” I’m more excited for the hair, make-up and morning mimosas. Stop laughing. I fully admit to being a total girl. Somebody mentions make-up or hair products and I’m like, ‘What?! Where? GIVE THEM TO ME!’ Everybody I’ve talked to that has had their make-up done said they hated it, but unless they Tammy Faye Baker-up my ass, I’m leaving it the way it is. It’s all part of the experience. Plus, I heard they shellac the shit out of your face to make it stay so my face may resemble a shiny, tie-dyed Easter egg anyway and there won’t be dick I can do about it.
Two weeks from today I’ll be rollin’ with the Cajuns in New Orleans for the first weekend of Jazz Fest. It’s part of my birthday celebration (My actual birthday is the 27th for all of you who want to send gifts – preferably cash to put in my, “my computer is fried and need a new one fast” fund and “my taxes butt raped me, ow it hurts” fund.). Last year I spent my birthday doing Colorado-y stuff in Denver with the girls and this year I’ll be exploring all that New Orleans culture has to offer with the boy – a true NOLA native. I’ve only been treated to the really touristy stuff there, so I’ve decided to fully immerse myself in this opportunity in various ways, which I may regret later since I told the boy that I would try anything he ate. This includes crawfish and gator on a stick (Note: HATE seafood). I think I may have even agreed to actually suck the head of the crawfish or whatever it is they do down there. I guarantee there will be vomit on someone’s shoes. Jim better wear his shitty ones.
Congrats to you if you read this whole thing. Ridiculous. I suppose I felt the need to make up for the two Britney Spears posts. Cheers!
Monday, April 6, 2009
I think this is the best one, plus, she's crawling around in a lion's cage.
I had to record this gem "If You Seek Amy" because it's her clever little way of telling the world through song that everybody wants to fuck her. As you can see from the dance moves, she is in no way, shape or form "seeking Amy." Check out the dancer on the right. Get it girl!
And, the song that started all the batshitass crazy debauchery that is Britney:
Oh wait, I almost forgot...Did you see this yet?
Oh, you did? Oh, so sorry...
Friday, April 3, 2009
"Now you all just sit there and keep your mouths shut while I go listen to my Britney Spears records!"
The joyous gay...
The masked mistress...
And Britney’s black wig and booby tassles!
Let me tell you, Britney Spears has had a few songs that I like for their dancey-prancey party appeal – they’re just so damn catchy! – but I’ve never really considered myself an actual fan. However, I must say that last night’s circus-themed concert was pretty amazing. Not for the live singing aspect since, from my calculations, she only actually sang one song – “Everytime” while sitting on the handle of a giant umbrella suspended in the air. In fact I wonder if the mic was even on most of the time. It was basically just like a remix CD was playing with her and some backup singers chiming in on a word or two here and there...but the show itself was brilliantly choreographed with dancers, circus performers, creepy, alternative clowns with mohawks, lights, props, shit flying around above your head including people, bicycles, poles, sparkly costumes, video montages, confetti, sparks, fire...a midget faux playing the guitar and on and on and on...I now aspire to be a Brit Brit back up dancer. Perhaps then she’ll marry me and all my money woes would be over. I mean, shit, she’s done it before plus nobody would even bat an eye if she married another woman. They’d just be all, ‘oh, that Britney...’
Anyway, Big Gay Andrew got a wild hair up his ass to buy tickets on Tuesday to last night’s (Thursday’s) show and the only ones left were the bajillion dollar ones, so he went ahead and acted as a high roller. Then, he made the lovely decision of inviting me, which I’m so glad he did because we got VIP wrist bands, a special entrance and perched on little swivel barstools in “ringside” seats in the second row, while sipping Miller Lite from plastic cups. We were perhaps 15 to 20 feet from the edge of the circular stage.
The Pussycat Dolls opened the show and they were actually damn good in all aspects. Plus, they are definitely a physically fit group, but none of them were gross skinny.
Actually nobody in the whole show was anorexic looking. Even Miss Britney had a little stomach pooch rather than the ripped abs that you’ve seen in videos in the past, but she looked curvy and sexy and womanly – nice legs and a really nice butt that I kind wanted to take a bite out of like a big apple.
Listen to me! I’m talking about marrying her and biting her hot ass. I sound like a giant les-bi-nan, but I’m just giving compliments where they’re due. She’s a pretty hot ass beotch. I wouldn’t have taken my children to this show if I had any since Britney was in basically underwear and a bra or a leotard most of the time while constantly pelvic thrusting and being groped by herself and various male dancers in tiny black leather schlong covers, so it wasn’t surprising that, by my guess, the largest demographic was 18 to 30 year olds – both ladies and jumpy, joyous gay men. Thank god there were no teeny boppers wastin’ my flava near us. However I was slightly annoyed by some of the outfits I saw. I’m like, seriously? You’re a grown woman. Take that tutu off dumbshit.
Well, I’ve wanted to see a show in the Sprint Center since it opened last year, but I never thought my first show there would be Britney Spears. But, hey, it was a fun time had by all. Unfortunately there were no rando yellings of “bitch” or “my pussy is showing.” Damn. Sorry to disappoint. I also wanted to post some videos, but they're taking so damn long to upload, so perhaps on Monday. In the meantime, enjoy this beautiful sight instead:
"It's Britney Bitch!"
Thursday, April 2, 2009
a flame thrower, run around in circles lighting everything on fire including women and children, but mostly men, while screaming, “This fucking world is a WHOOOOOOORE because of YOOOOU!” In a high-pitched scream that sounds more like dolphin sonar than an actual human voice?
Yeah, it’s been one of those days.
I hate being all pissy and nobody wants to read about your crap, wah, wah, wah, day, but sometimes you just can’t avoid it.
I woke up this morning, early as nuts, to dreary gray skies and heavy rain just above freezing temperatures. My first thought was: FUCK.
I’ll spare you the details of my relationship issues because frankly I don’t even like to hear myself talk about them, but let’s just say I was already annoyed about something involving the boy, then a belated April Fool’s Day joke was doled out causing my head to spin around and spew green shit all over my car. It was messy. I’m talking eyes bugging out of my head, hair on fire, there’s-a-good-chance-I’m-going-to-kill-you type of pissed, so I just hung up in order to avoid crashing my car into a highway guardrail. I usually have such a healthy sense of humor, but this was the wrong thing and the wrong time allowing other issues to invade my already crowded mind. Men like to bitch about how crazy women are, but they are in fact the source of the crazy. They are so quick to say, ‘wow, that bitch be craaaaa-zy,’ instead of holding themselves accountable for their actions and words by thinking, ‘perhaps the things that I do and say are the cause of said craaaaaa-zy.’ Ask any loony ass woman and you’ll see – she either has “daddy issues” or was severely mistreated by a man or men in her past. It’s times like these that I often think back to one of my favorite quotes:
“Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.” – Katharine Hepburn
Why do we torture ourselves when it’s just so painfully obvious? Seriously. FUCK.
After that I decided it was time for some Arby’s Roastburger to help mask the taste of Exorcism vomit in my mouth. I walk in the door of my apartment ready for lunch - the awesomeness that is Arby’s Roastburger - and to let the dogs (dogs, plural because I’m watching Wolfie while my parent’s are out of town) out when I spy several puddles of liquid shit all over the living room. LIQUID SHIT...LIQUID FUCKING SHIT ON THE CARPET!
Yeah, I sure did burst into tears. I didn’t yell at anybody because somebody was obviously sick, but it was the most ill timed liquid shit attack ever if there ever was a good time to have the liquid shits. I thought I could trust my neighbor with a key to my place in case I ever got locked out, but since he can't even make it to the toilet, I might have to revoke those privileges.
After scrubbing the carpet and letting the dogs out, I headed back to work to finally have some glorious Roastburger, which ended up being disappointingly assy. This is most likely directly related to the fact that I had just sopped up liquid shit from my carpet 20 minutes earlier.
I’ve hung up on at least two other people today because they a.) don’t start talking quickly enough after I answer the call meaning they are retarded call center assholes or b.) are telemarketers calling my goddamn cell phone to which I reply, “Do you have a death wish? Quit fucking calling this number!” before the *click* you’re a whore! I’m at my wit’s end with those people. I’m at my wit’s end period.
It’s just difficult to exist today because every time someone comes up to talk to me, all I want to do is grab both of my ears, yell “BBBAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!” in their face, then flamethrower them.
There’s some more bullshit thrown in there about other people’s lives that sucks too, but I’ll refrain from sharing on the Internet.
However, Big Gay Andrew requested that I accompany him as his lady friend to the Britney Spears concert tonight to which he apparently bought extremely expensive and awesome seats. Free concert? Sure, why not? Perhaps Britney will yell “BITCH!” on stage for no other reason except to hear herself yell ‘bitch’ all echo-y because according to BGA, she does that sometimes. That would be fun. Plus, I’ll hopefully be surrounded by several other happy, jumpy, star struck gays. It doesn’t get much better than joyous gays.
OK, now leave me a funny comment to pull me out of this flaming, boo to the human race, liquid shit of a bad day. Your words may just prevent me from committing a felony. Ready, go.