Thursday, December 2, 2010

hey it's kinda like a birthday

Two posts, one day? Wtshit?

I just wanted to say, I started writing in this a year ago. Not that many posts but I am being kept moderately amused.

Gotta commemorate the occasion.


what ABOUT drinking?

So lots of partying and clubbing... that's what Thanksgiving is all about! For my birthday weekend, one of us got kicked out of the club for wearing shorts (which was lame, because the club wasn't THAT gucci) and when I finally got out, I made friends with random guys who offered me weed and checked out my boobs. Then last weekend was gay clubbing and I once again made friends with random (gay) guys who distinctly did not check out my boobs but did accidentally make me drop a cigarette down my shirt. And then offer me nachos while stealing drags as we ate tacos. I ordered in Spanish and pretty much made the guy's night.

This is what happens when I either don't have adult supervision OR my adult supervision is meekly standing by while I wander off to hang out with people who look interesting. Or they're just not paying attention while I go to the next table to hang out with THAT group because I grabbed the wrong chair (see: tacos).

In any case, I might have a problem, because I was linked to this: What About Drinking? And at the end, the guy says, "What do you think? What about drinking?"

My first thought? "Turn this video into a drinking game!"

It's okay if I have a problem because I'm adorable.

Back to the grindstone!

Sunday, October 31, 2010

hullo, my name is Drunkie McSparkles

Oh gosh but it was an awesome weekend. Who loves Halloween? This bitch loves Halloween.

I ended up in the gay district of the gayest city in this nation, known for the gay and the awesome, and I was STILL the most glittery person there. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW. I was the fairyest fairy ever. Just to give you some sort of guestimate:

That flash picked up about a quarter of the glitz that was on my body. The wings were kind of a bitch to move around with in the club but it all worked out in the end with no permanent damage to anybody. I was with a few friends, who were dressed as a Musketeer, a Goth, and a Double Rainbow. We tasted that rainbow. IT WAS DELICIOUS.

I kind of dressed up as the alcohol fairy. No, that's not my real hair; I have several wigs. I know you love it. Here's a better shot of it:

I don't even want to mention how many drinks I had, but I was definitely the Alcohol Fairy. I made a few friends and loved on random strangers and tipped ridiculously at the bars because costumes cloud my judgment. I threw up with my friend in the bushes as a bonding moment and woke up in a bathtub at one point. My own bathtub, no worries. I did smoke outside and my friend who has previously threatened me with extreme bodily harm if I ever smoked did not bodily harm me.

The entire point of this post was to really say that I'm going to miss this. Objectively I'm way more mature and responsible than this. I do know my alcohol limit. I do know how to dress appropriately in public and how to party conservatively with close friends and maybe a game of Pictionary. But I'm 22, goddammit. Being dumb and drunk with my ass EVERYWHERE, that is something that I CAN do right now, and for some reason it gives me a thrill because I can do it and not look like a tool. Heavy drinking is not alcoholism, it's being young. When I get older and attempt to do the same, I will look dicriculous and people will ridicule me. Or that's what I fear.

So I'm living it up while I still have the right, nay, the EXPECTATION to be irresponsible.

Plus I look awesome after a night of you hard drinking:

Monday, October 25, 2010

no seriously, ALL of them

My Monday nights:

Me: I don't think [roommate] realized that when I asked 'so when are you getting back?' I was really asking 'so when should I be putting the pants back on again?'
Me: and when i text her 'we have ALL the hotdogs!' she doesn't know I mean that we have fucking ALL THE HOTDOGS
Innocent Friend: ... did you really just tell me you're not wearing pants and give an all-caps exclaimation about hotdogs in consecutive IMs?
Me: did one of those not go through? cuz uh you could just go back and read, lady.
Innocent Friend: waaaaaaaaay to take away the challenge of making something dirty out of your comments away from me

You're welcome.

Friday, October 22, 2010

there are innocent bystanders EVERYWHERE

So tomorrow I'm going to a convention. Like, an important one. Where people will probably show up in slacks. The last time I went to a con people showed up in their underwear and body paint and posed for pictures and I was kind of belligerent for, um, the entire thing. I sort of wanted to step it up for this one... you know, leave the rum at home and wear pants. Little things.

I was even going to wear slacks until I realized that I had to do laundry to do that, since I wear slacks for my something-like-work. I'd had a shit day that day, in the sense that in the middle of a lecture I was giving I started cramping up so hard if I were a lesser person (and I am NEVER a lesser person) I would have had to cry. So I figured I still had clean capris, and that meant I wouldn't be wandering around in my panties, and that's about as good as it's going to get for these people anyway.

But I knew I still had things to do, which involved shopping. My only painkiller available to me right now is a little prescription for 'Percocet,' a bottle of close to 200 pills that I got as a gifty when I had a sunburn so severe I kept throwing up and couldn't get up to do so into the toilet. I figured my cramps, while not on that level, were still pretty bad. Blinded by pain, I took two.

Vicodin is a painkiller that just sort of makes me sleepy and does nothing to actually kill the pain. Percocet, on the other hand, not only makes the pain STFU and GTFO but I then feel the urge to giggle for about two hours and feel the carpet.

I believe the kids nowadays are calling that 'blitzed out of their mind.'

Remember, I still had things to do. This involved driving approximately five minutes, pulling into a parking lot, and the full effect of the pills hitting me while pulling into a spot.

I started frantically IMing with my friend on my space phone, having a mild panic attack as I remembered how to blink. I knew I was there to buy a shirt for my Halloween costume but I wasn't quite sure how to go about doing that. I still have no idea how potheads function if this is their life:

Me: I think I can make it into Ross.
Her: Alright, be safe...
Me: Fuck. I'm here. There are so many goddamn shirts.
Her: Take it one step at a time.
Her: How high ARE you?
Me: I can talk with you. And I can recognize the color blue. That is the level of my functioning atm.
Her: ...this is so very entertaining.
Me: Shit, where am I? Please tell me you know. There are shoes everywhere. I don't think I wanted shoes.

I did manage to find shirts of a sort. I also found gloves, pillows, the roof, and random strangers who spoke French. I think. At one point I sat down on a pillow and just stared, hoping a kind stranger would help me out. No such luck, I mean, I was in a discount store.

I did make it home. Driving through a parking lot while high? Jesus H. Christ there are at least five times more people around when you're high. And also it was 'drive like an asshole' day. Nobody told me, and it really sucks to be confused and trippin' balls. But I'm alive.

And sometimes it's the little victories you have to focus on.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

stop looking at me with that tone of voice!

Man, sometimes I hate the apartment complex I'm in. The individuals are predominantly older, with families, respectable jobs, things to get up for in the morning. AND THEY ALL JUDGE ME.

I mean, come on, group of Indian moms. A girl coming out of her car at 9 am with clubbing clothes on (this face, brought to you by yesterday's makeup!) might just be coming home after crashing at a friend's because the DD got 'slizzard,' as it were. No need to stand there with critical expressions. I thought women were supposed to just KNOW when a bitch got laid, which is NEVER my life.

This morning, when I was in my PJ's (a very large shirt, and if my roommate's lucky, panties), eating brownies straight out of the pan while waiting for my garlic noodles (thank you PF Changs!) to heat up, what do I see when I look up? A middle-aged man standing there, looking into the window.


...or jerking it. I'm not entirely sure. The angle was a little off. Hey, that could be in SOMEONE'S bucket.

Later, when wearing PJ's again (plus bottoms, this time) and going to do my laundry with my hair messy and my shirt that used to fit me when I was in the 8th grade?

Old mother lady standing there, folding clothes.


Seriously, guys. My life is not as exciting/lame as you think it is. Stop it with the eyes and the staring. Just live vicariously through what you think is going down and leave me out of it.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

this entry has no value

I remember watching 'The Neverending Story' for the first time. I hadn't seen it before and was alone, and it was on TV, so whatever.

I actually found it boring, and wandered out of the room a few times--typically during commercials. Another couple of times it was a large-ish chunk.

What I'm pretty sure happened was that they were playing the movies back-to-back, all of them, in a marathon. So occasionally I would come back and the plot would be slightly different, but the same characters, and suddenly the action was building yet nothing from the previous plot had been resolved.

...this went on for 7 hours. Approximately.

Until much, much later I was convinced it really WAS a Neverending Story and I'm still a little scared to rewatch any of the movies in fear that I'll be trapped watching it forever.

Aaaand I'm pretty sure here's where I admit I had no point to this.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Large, vibrating, between my legs.

If you guess 'motorcycle' you win one point!*

So last weekend I went behind a parent's back to ride a motorcycle, or take a class as the first step in getting my license and starting a riding gang named 'Los Conejos Peludos.' Random motorcycle God's way of punishing me for my impertinence was to both give me my Lady Time while on a motorcycle and make me sick. Like, sick enough to skip all kinds of school.

People don't know how to comfort me when I become sick. They think they can do it by comforting body rubs, giving me medication, and giving me good food. I don't know if I'm weird or anything, but:

1. I get super sensitive EVERYWHERE. Like, full body sunburn bad. It hurts to wear clothes, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH ME. 'sides, I'm sick, I'll give you the plague.

2. I like sleep, I know it's good for me when I'm sick, but if I get on medication it has the tendency to not put me directly to sleep. Then I get some very fun fever nightmares and can never sleep again.

3. Food. It tastes like shit. What I'm looking for is: bland. Easy to swallow. Doesn't put up a fuss. OH I JUST DESCRIBED YOUR MOTHER, WHAT UP. No but really, sushi is wasted on me. I appreciate the effort but it tastes like ass.

So anyway, I'm sick and hopped up on medication. I doubt I'll remember this post.

I did name the motorcycle Mori. At first she was Maury after the show cuz I thought she'd give me unnecessary drama in my life. It evolved to Mori when she was only occasionally a bitch. I always name things once they've vibrated between my legs. Just seems like common courtesy.

In case you were wondering, my current dildo's name is Neil Patrick Harris. Suck it, monkeys.

*redeem at later time for cash prize!**

**now 100% dolphin free***

***not a 100% guarantee

Sunday, April 25, 2010

I have a lot of things to do tomorrow, so I'm distracting myself from thinking about it at the moment through this entry

I write, on occasion. I do not write well or anything, as my posts show. But I love writing, love stories... I love it even more when I can share them with other people, when I write stories with another person. It gives me the sense of a deadline.

There is a sort of a theme throughout my work, actually several small themes, and I do not know what they say about me. Here are some of my preferred topics:

-bisexual boys
-girls with short hair
-dyed hair
-foreign languages
-life/relationship-related emotional/physical damage
-commitment issues
-people living very close to the poverty line
-girls with the name Amber
-love/hate relationships
-preschool teachers
-sarcastic characters with snippy wit
-ridiculously laid-back characters who are impossible to insult and by that nature, infuriating
-a physical handicap of some kind, possibly caused by an accident: amputee, eye missing, blindness, deafness--all examples of stuff I've written about
-straight boys finding their 'exception' while drunk

On a deeper level, I absolutely adore seeing the whole 'humanity in depravity' concept. Or that people can't always be judged by their actions, and even if they take it up the ass for money they might still be good people. Or thinking you are a good person and yet almost able to sit back and watch as you make bad decisions and betray the people you care about. Set your story in a ghetto, make times hard, and see how that changes preconceptions about morals and values. You can do unto others, or you can starve.

Character flaws are awesome. They give you so much to work with. You can make a character better, or you can make them fall deeper. You can't do anything with a perfect character. You might not make your readers sympathetic with this person, but you certainly aren't going to bore them. Maybe on some level they can relate. Nobody's perfect, which is why I love people. Even if the readers are not coke whores crying in an alley, maybe they can find a shred of empathy for the creature experiencing a more intense version of the same self-loathing they might encounter every day. They might not have alcoholism, but the character is so very real that they worry for their addiction, like one might worry for a friend.

In addition, nothing gives me a writing boner more than overcoming all odds with the minimum resources. I was playing a fantasy roleplay, where my character was a human in a strange land. The other person wanted to give me powers so my character wouldn't be so lost and confused. I replied, are you kidding? That sounds intensely interesting. Figuring out how she copes, how her wits keep her world together--that is what keeps this story intriguing.

A romance based on something other than looks? Sign me up. My kink is two people overcoming rivalry. I want people who hated each other to slowly fall in love. I want loud fights devolving into mutual understandings. I want drunken hate kisses, I want angry confessions, I want thrown punches and grown-man pouting sessions and make-up sex and covert glances and insecure musing. Hate to dislike to grudging respect to mutual affection, oof, I just got tingles up my spine.

And okay I've been writing a LOT of homosexual erotica. Um suck it, I like guy romances better than heterosexual ones. Just because of male dynamics, really, and yeah, maybe I write gay romances with like... MEN instead of boys. Maybe a few of my main characters would call stuff 'gay' because they have to prove to the world they have a penis. Guys who are hilariously emotionally retarded at times make me all warm on the inside.

Lastly, I would like to say that while many of the things I've listed here sound slightly morbid and angry, well. I love humor. I like laughing, and making other people laugh, if this was not made obvious by this blog.

I would say I like my humor like I like my coffee, or chocolate, and follow that up with a deep voiced "dark" and follow THAT up with a drawn-out "lllllladies"; but I take my coffee with cream and my chocolate with milk. SO. Unbeknownst to you, that would have been lying. You're welcome. Apparently 'unbeknownst' is not a word. Well it's my word now.

What I do hate about writing? Conclusions. Suck it.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

It has judging eyes. Minus one star.

I was going to write something about my voice and how I sound like a squeaky Death, but then my mom came out of nowhere and said, "I got you a present!" I like presents, so I held out my hands and closed my eyes. A box was pressed into my grabby hands.

I got this.


In looking for the link to show people my "what" I also noticed reviews and wanted to write my own. This is what I put up:
My mom saw me recently and gave me this. I don't know why. I graduated college with a BS in Biology. Maybe she thinks I'm a stoner? Or mentally impaired/easily amused? Either way, I feel compelled to rate it, so maybe she wasn't too far off on any count.

At first glance it weirds me out. Dude, the remote has EYES. Maybe if I were under the recommended maximum age of three this wouldn't be so bad, but since I'm 22 I feel the thing is judging me. "Put me down and go get a real job!" Shut up, giggle remote. I HAVE a real job. You don't even KNOW me.

The pictures on the buttons are cash, though. There's my fav, the cookie monster, or whatever they've done with my furry fatty recently (probably went vegan at this point). It turns out when you press the buttons, you can alternate between Elmo saying the numbers and whatever sound the picture would make. For the characters, it changes quite a bit, which is nice. I was wondering what a soccer ball would say. Apparently soccer balls are cartoon springs now. It's not what they sounded like when I played soccer back in the day. Whatever, I learned the number eight. Score! (Other criticisms: The yellow dude of the Bert and Ernie duo only gets one phrase, which is a ripoff. The cookie monster says something I can't make out, but it could be cursing. Good things: the number zero is ALL ELMO. Enjoy.)

I thought the volume and channel buttons wouldn't do anything interesting. THEY ACTUALLY CONTROL THE VOLUME AND CHANNEL. Please tell me you also think this is cool. I guess a parent could turn the volume of the toy down before handing it to a kid, but it kind of defeats the purpose when you put the volume control right back into the kid's hands. I would recommend just taking the batteries out. Or turning it to 'off' but again, totally not the point. If you don't want your children's toys making noises, buy them Play-Doh. (Hint: make it non-toxic. THEY EAT EVERYTHING AT THAT STAGE.)

So this kept me distracted for very nearly 2 minutes, but my attention span is much shorter than that of your average 3 year old. I'm trying to find a way to close the eyes forever. The toy did freak out the cat a little but it's a small price to pay for quality entertainment.

Guess this will teach me to visit home anytime soon.

I doubt that will even make it to the page.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

I was adorable. Promise.

I've noticed 'bad day' is one of my most used tags, so I'm adding something to balance it out:

My childhood.

I was an adorable child. I have a journal from when I was in the fourth grade, thereabouts, that has the direct quote "If I were a giant, I would step on people. I would love to hear them scream!" With a drawing to match my statement.

Lately, Mom dug up a picture I had drawn of two cats, a mom cat and a baby cat, looking at a nice picture of a flower with a moth on it, next to a hummingbird. On the back of this picture is a story. I will recreate it exactly (I've double checked, and all the typos are intentional). Italics are where it's also underlined.

The whole story

Hello, I'm Nate Stasi. I'm a strreet cat.

Today I'm going on my first hunting trip.

All I could do is catch moths. It's really hard. First you creep up on your victim, then you pounce.

The first thing I saw on my hunting trip is a humming bird. My mom said I should pounce on the humming bird, but I saw a moth on the flower, and I pounced on it. But, the humming bird was right next to the flower, so I smushed his wings. He couldn't fly. My mom picked up the humming and killed it. We had humming bird stew.

By [ K ]. Illastrated by [ K ].

...apparently this was a Mother's day gift. She loves it. (Name edited out to protect what was once my innocence.)

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Do I have to have a sexuality? Can't I just be sexual?

So in all honestly, when I spewed this word vomit onto my keyboard I was kinda emo about being stood up for a date that might've made me question my sexuality but I wasn't in danger so I just deleted that shit and I want to replace it with this:

When it comes down to it, after so many drinks, gender is just a number.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

One vodka tonic, hold the medication

I think I just had my first panic attack.

Or, rather, anxiety attack mixed with panic mixed with 'get me the fuck out of here.' I've had anxiety attacks before due to my medication. When I started taking atenolol I felt randomly like I was being choked and got short of breath. I also had the strangest nightmares, but that's neither here nor there.

But today in sign language, I just felt the overwhelming urge to cry. Like, hyperventilate, freak out, leave, go sob myself into a little ball of self-loathing for no apparent reason. It was close. I stared at my desk and hated that the class made everybody so visible to everybody else.

I... am really good at hiding it. My emotions, my feeling. Like, A+ actor. All I needed was to use that 10 minute break to hyperventilate around the corner and sob a little and I was good until the end of class. Then, repeat.

Seriously, there is a beautiful little cove around the way from that class that's pretty much totally closed off right now due to construction, and it has a running fountain and privacy and. Now my favorite hyperventilating spot.

I don't know if this is hormones. I think it's that class. Why? Because we were supposed to get into groups and do group projects. I haven't. I have no idea why I'm suddenly too shy to ask people if I can hang out with them to do the projects, but I literally freeze up and 'forget' and... I've already missed turning in one lab report, in danger of missing two and a questions paper. There is absolutely no reason for me to be afraid of these people. For one, I'm social. I hang out with people. I love company and talking. I have several of these individual's phone numbers.

The only thing stopping me is this paranoid little feeling that although they are my friends, they are MORE each other's friends. That although I am included, I am also excluded in a very fundamental way.


Unlike the title suggests, I am not curing my problems with alcohol. No worries. It's just weird for me to be anxious about anything social. I typically just jump right in and start talking about dead baby jokes and nipples.

I just need to figure this out before I settle for a C in sign class because I can't do any group assignments.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

I am NOT a dog person

Dogs have not gotten this memo.

I agreed to house/petsit for a family friend, because although he's a dumbass and lost me over 200 grand (I wish I was kidding) he did do a lot in the process.

Yet this is making me bitter.

I have to get up at 5:30 am so I can take care of his animals and get home in time to take a shower (thus catering to my OCD). I'm then going to work or school, and not coming home at all until 9:30 pm at the earliest (my classes get out at 8:45). After walking the dogs, feeding them, picking up poop, and making my own dinner, I am finally ready for bed at 11:30 pm.

At which point I have homework, as a full time student and part-time teacher.

And when I finally do get to sleep, the dogs either sit at the foot of my bed and lick their personals so loudly it wakes me up (I have slept through earthquakes, fire alarms, thunderstorms, and being kicked in the neck, so this is defs saying something) or stay outside and whine the whole night. They act like locking them out of my immediate presence is the equivalent of kicking a baby. And giving it AIDS.

Also, not a dog person. Did I mention this? They are loud, one of them is obsessed with licking me, and they both follow me around when I'm there like kibbles is going to shoot out my ass (incidentally, their dog food? SMELLS LIKE INFECTED ASS, and I have to dig around to get to the food at the bottom of a huge bag and I get the smell on my arm and then start hating my life). They are also bigger than me, and one likes jumping and gnawing on me when he's excited. Hint: apparently moving my arms is cause for excitement. Or, if I am being still, blinking does the trick.

I haven't slept properly in three days. I am NOT good with no sleep. I smell blood and get dizzy when I stand. This has 100% messed up my schedule and I've also missed taking my heart medication three days in a row. I will not remember posting this. The guy already knows that I'm never doing this again when he gets back, but I still have to last until Wednesday.

Over a week away.

Please kill me now. If I die in the house the slobbering monsters will eat my body and that's just not the way I saw myself going.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Forsooth, fair maiden

My friend: "Wouldst thou care to frequent an establishment for the purpose of alcohol consumption with my sisters and I upon the eve?"

Me: "I would be positively delighted, my love."

Basically, my friends know how to cheer me up. My health care might be canceled (which is okay, what with my heart condition and all), I have to housesit at an old guy's house that includes taking care of 3 large, untrained dogs, and my taxes just became 50 times more complicated. Fuck this noise. The cure? ALCOHOL.

Monday, February 15, 2010

It's like my mouth is pooping sadness

I would never, ever say anything negative about chocolate. It is amazing. Chocolate cures a lot of things, except perhaps childhood obesity. Small amounts of dark chocolate enhance performance on tests. If chocolate were a man, I would rape it.

So of course this blog does not endorse NOT eating chocolate.

But never, while the chocolate is in your mouth, absently also stick a bite of creamed corn in there with it. It was one of the only times my gag reflex has been so violently induced that did not involve alcohol.

A moment of silence for the wasted chocolate.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

What the hell, day?

Today I fed a cat Valium, parked in a semi-flooded lot, locked myself in a room with a random couple dozen or so colorful children's tricycles, and gutpunched myself on a gate so hard I stopped breathing for a minute or so.

The only clarification I feel like giving is that the tricycles were for whatever reason behind the physics and chemistry classrooms, and the gate was one of those bar things that they open or close in front of parking lots. And that spot is red and swollen. I hope I'm not going to die.

Let's see if this day can top that. *drops mic*


I tried to pay for a parking pass online for the college, and my credit card wasn't working. Wondering why, I went to go check my bank account and found that the company that overcharged me for an oil change by about $40 had double-charged my credit card, on top of that. So a sudden $200 was gone (yes, they overcharged me, but my car wasn't going anywhere until I got that oil change). I need to call them up, but in the meantime I had to pay for ANOTHER parking pass today.

And then I walked out and there was a Worry doll on my porch. She was tied to a string and the whole thing was rather voodoo-esque so that kind of freaked me out.

And I busted my lip open a while ago, and it's not healing and it looks really gross.

I feel like I got into a bar fight.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Oil tastes like regret

Oh Christ on a cracker, life's been just going on and on and on. I look at it and go "Is it time to sleep yet?" Life just laughs and shits in my oil filter. My car broke down this morning on the way to the high school, right when I needed it to work properly, so that was a reference to getting my oil changed. FINALLY.

Sorry, but every memory of oil changing is a good one, which makes the whole process bittersweet. So thinking about my long overdue oil change sort of made me nauseous, mechanic-man, for reasons you cannot explain. So I'll just blame this on my mother and you'll charge me out the ass. LESSON LEARNED. But now that my grad application (for a teaching credential) is in, let us breath a small sigh of relief. I can focus on the little things. Like getting to bed at a decent hour. For now.

However, at this very moment, I am unable to get to sleep. Mostly because I am learning ASL (American Sign Language) and my friend thought it was a marvelous idea to take me to Deaf coffee, a Deaf event, at 11 pm, so the caffeine-sensitive chick can load up and stay awake until 4 am before her Saturday guitar class. So now my mind is wandering and I think, hey. I want to be a guy.

No, I'm not transgender. I am very firmly a girl. I wear makeup, I do my hair, I use soap in the shower. On occasion, after looking in all directions to make sure nobody is around, I frolic the fuck out of some flowers. Let's just say, if I were to suddenly be a guy, I would be gayer than a handbag full of rainbows.

But at the same time, I feel physically, I'm more gender fluid. Honestly, if I were to wake up with a penis sans boobs, my biggest reaction would probably be something along the lines of "Whoo! I don't have to shave my legs anymore!" Followed very closely by "oh my god I can pee standing up sweet Jesus." It would be nice.

But I could settle for looking more androgynous. If I were to ever want to look like a guy... no dice. I can't cut my hair short (or I get a Jew fro made of curls and frizz), my face is too ugly-femme (though my jaw is pretty wide), and... well. My meatsacks? They're not going anywhere. No amount of gauze in the world can tie these puppies down without serious damage in the chesticulars.

I wanna be skinny with straight hair and a more vague face, so I can on occasion tie down the sweatermeat and cut my hair short (I would kill for Asian straight black hair) and go as a girly guy. Or a boyish girl. This would be amazing.

And so not going to happen, ever. But for cereal, turning into this creature of androgyny (because androgynous people? HOT) would be my first wish for the genie I shall discover. Oh, you plan that shit out too. Don't deny it.

But if you wish for flying, LAME.