fork meets eye

ALL the butts.

2011-06-02T19:09:00.000-07:00

Scene: nice restaurant, with my mom and sisterface.

Sisterface: All I’m saying about baggy clothes is if girls have to show off our humps guys should, too. I want to see the butt I’m getting.

Mom: Oh? And just how many butts have you been getting?

Sisterface: Well—

Me: Wait no no hold UP. Mom. Rude. Damn. Sisterface could get butts.

Mom: What? I’ve gotten zero butts.

Sisterface: To be honest, I’ve gotten zero butts.

Mom: And how many butts have YOU been getting?

Me: *angry glare* ALL OF THE BUTTS, Mom. ALL OF THEM.

Wine drunk: the classiest of the drunks.

2011-02-06T19:45:00.001-08:00

I dunno what it is about wine. A lot of my friends love it. And I mean, good wine, where they can say 2005 was a great year and red wine has tannins and (unpronounceable noise) is a GREAT white (haha! wine joke!). I don't know the appeal. I can tolerate some whites and berry wines, but really, the only wine I enjoy is the cheap shitty wines or white Zin. Otherwise, please sir may I have another screwdriver?

However, I have to admit, when I can keep wine down it is a pleasant buzz. All warm and upper-classy. I had a lot remaining of this one bottle of (unpronounceable noise) and was wondering what to do with it when a friend called me up with an invite to see a late-night Tron. It was Saturday night. Of COURSE I would immediately go on Google and look up Tron drinking games.

The remaining wine filled up my water bottle almost perfectly. I think that's what they're calling 'Fate' nowadays.

I wish I could say it was my first time sneaking wine into a movie theater so that I could play a drinking game to it, but it's not. I corrupted my Boyface with a couple of full water bottles to a showing of Burlesque (drink whenever you see high heels, or match drinks with the actors, and when they mention Patron by name), plus a few other indiscretions. It's just what I do when I've heard the movie is kinda shit. There are always ways to have fun.

Rules for Tron drinking game:
-Drink whenever you see someone's disc, or when someone throws a disc.
-Drink when you hears the words 'Tron,' 'user,' 'program,' 'the Grid,' or 'the maker.'
-Drink when a program is destroyed.

My wine was gone halfway into the movie and I got pleasantly buzzed, all warm and happy. Afterward, I didn't want to go inside, knowing my warm was too warm at the moment. And I'm feeling classy.

WINE classy.

I know drinking wine out of a water bottle shouldn't give you immediate rights to feel high-and-mighty, but it does, and I just have to accept those responsibilities. I chilled outside in the parking lot a bit, texting friends and smoking a clove as I waited for my flush to die down.

I know I've mentioned before the huge amounts of judgy people that reside in my complex. I look up at one point and notice a woman there, judging me. She obviously hasn't gotten the memo that I'm tottering around smoking cloves while drunk on good wine, thus making me better than her. I stare back, raising an eyebrow elegantly as I regard her with the same judgy stare she's leveling at me.

In that moment, I know what to do. I can feel my response coming, and I shift my hips just a little.

Pbbfffft.

It's a small one, but audible. She blinks, and I can see the realization cross her mind that even farting, I am way classier than she. She seems to become aware of her own disheveled state and the fact that she's wearing pajamas. It's almost sad, watching the self-pity set into her features as she shakes her head and hurries off. I stand there smugly, finishing my clove in peace.

Point: me.

Good! Unnng, excellent, just like that...

2011-02-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

So recently my friend and I were at our usual Wednesday joke class. It's a college class in my program that's designed to give teachers the resources needed to pass our big evaluations. We like to call it 'storytime' because basically, the professor reads us the outline of our evaluation. Girlface and I stay until we can sign in to mark that we were there, then we bounce like a bed spring.

We also entertain ourselves with completely irrelevant tasks during our 20 minutes of attendance. Last time I was writing sheet music for Hallelujah and Girlface was grading quizzes; this time, I was playing on my space phone (translation: iPhone, bought to fuel my internet addiction). It was a momentous occasion that has since ruined my life.

Girlface: Man, I wish I had a space phone...
Me: You can play some games for a bit, but I'll need it back to check my email.
Girlface: Do you have Bejeweled?
Me: ...GIVE ME TWENTY SECONDS

The good thing about my addictions to shiny things is that it denotes a short attention span and a bad recall, so I could hardly remember a game like Bejeweled existed for the time it would take to get out my phone, check to see if it was an app, and download it. The bad thing is that if a friend mentions it and I'm already searching for games, I have to buy it.

Bejeweled is a terribly addictive game in and of itself. Huge time consumer for me... while I'm waiting for a page to load on my computer, while I'm chatting with people on my phone, while I'm waiting for prep period to be over so I can teach, while I'm pooping in the faculty bathroom and resting my heels while another teacher walks in so I can continue when she's safely out of ear shot of my butt... I estimate it takes up a good 10% of my day. Considering I used to spend that time sleeping, well.

The worst thing is, other Bejeweled people totally know this. They just don't care.

Me: So. Recently downloaded Bejeweled.
Fluffy, who I tease about looking like a hobo, or Sasquatch, who is inherently a hobo: OH. Oh. I'm sorry. On your phone? So you have it everywhere?
Me: I haven't slept in three days, I think my eyelashes are turning to sugar.
Fluffy: ...what's your high score?*

There's something so cathartic about lining up shiny gems and watching them disappear. Sometimes you line up 4 and they become shiny. The shiny ones explode. In case you didn't hear that, SHINY. EXPLOSIONS. This is pretty much like getting addicted to crack, especially the part where I neglect friends and family, except I don't have to have the nosebleed and I only paid once and nobody famous is on it.

One thing that bothers me. One, tiny, little, thing. If I get a cascade... for you non-Bejeweleders, that means the disappearing gems go on for a while and get me combo points... well, there's a man's voice that comes on and tells me I'm doing good, or excellent, or incredible. But it's just so very slightly strangled. Not in a painful way. Just. Reminiscent of me giving him a handy in the back of his mom's van while he tells me it's so good, excellent, incredible, unnnnnnnhhhhh. I don't know if this is unique to iPhone but I'm just terrified that if I get any more combo's past 'incredible' I'll have to charge him fifty dollars and call it a night.

Sound: off. Forever.

...of course, it would definitely make those ladies in the bathroom hurry out of there that much faster.

*86,851. I don't know if that's bad, or good, but I've already shared it with one person so I figured might as well continue spreading it around like VD.

hey it's kinda like a birthday

2010-12-02T22:16:00.001-08:00

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.

LEMME GET MY CLOTHES OFF.

what ABOUT drinking?

2010-12-02T22:03:00.001-08:00

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!

hullo, my name is Drunkie McSparkles

2010-10-31T23:35:00.001-07:00

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:

no seriously, ALL of them

2010-10-25T19:03:00.000-07:00

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.

there are innocent bystanders EVERYWHERE

2010-10-22T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

stop looking at me with that tone of voice!

2010-10-16T14:34:00.000-07:00

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.

JUDGING ME.

...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.

JUDGED.

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.

this entry has no value

2010-06-09T21:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Large, vibrating, between my legs.

2010-05-18T21:56:00.000-07:00

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

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

2010-04-25T18:21:00.000-07:00

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
-redheads
-piercings
-scars
-dyed hair
-foreign languages
-drugs
-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
-strippers
-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'
-...sex 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.

It has judging eyes. Minus one star.

2010-04-24T22:34:00.000-07:00

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.

What.

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.

I was adorable. Promise.

2010-04-18T17:52:00.000-07:00

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.)

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

2010-04-17T01:11:00.000-07:00

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.

One vodka tonic, hold the medication

2010-04-15T21:45:00.000-07:00

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.

I DON'T EVEN KNOW.

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.

I am NOT a dog person

2010-04-06T23:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Forsooth, fair maiden

2010-03-31T17:09:00.000-07:00

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.

It's like my mouth is pooping sadness

2010-02-15T17:55:00.001-08:00

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.

What the hell, day?

2010-01-20T12:30:00.000-08:00

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*

EDIT:

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.

Oil tastes like regret

2010-01-16T01:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Elbow-deep in chestal cavity

2009-12-15T20:22:00.000-08:00

Dude, way too many strange guys have been seeing my boobs while I've been sober. Something's not right here.

MAYBE IT'S THE PART WHERE I HAVE TO BE SOBER.

I can't have alcohol or caffeine or smoke for a full day before my surgery, to avoid risk of heart palpitations.

I SAY WORK AROUND THEM, THIS LADY WANTS A SODA GODDAMN.

But seriously, it's becoming commonplace for a dude to lift my shirt without even asking my name beforehand nowadays. Sure, he's sticking electrodes to my skin and staring at a machine instead of my cute new bra, but I still want a drink before I flash the guy like it's Mardi Gras and he is the man with the beads to need.

And then tomorrow not only will my surgeon be rummaging around my breasticles, they'll have a visiting doctor, and the two of them together can stare pensively at nipples.

I need black duct-tape to censor myself. TONIGHT.

Edit: DONE. MY NIPPLES WILL BE PRESERVED FROM VIEW FOR THE NEXT GENERATION.

...ew. The next generation does NOT need to look at my nipples.

All I've learned about gay sex and never had to ask

2009-12-10T14:43:00.000-08:00

Because they'll just tell you. Like, outright. Or there are sites that goes into such technical detail it would turn a porn star dry. At this point, I feel I know more about the subject than people who have ACTUALLY had gay sex.

Why am I doing this? Gay erotica. BAD gay erotica. The internet is like one big porn library and typically I highly enjoy this fact... unless it's horrible gay pr0nness. I read it and and it SUCKS because I'm wincing and sex scenes should never make a person cringe unless that is the intention and 99% of the time it's obvious they were trying to make it sexy. So here are some goddamn rules, bitches.

1. Water is not a lubrication. I don't care how slippery it makes things, it is not an oil, and it actually dries the skin. This works for girls, too, because it actually takes away natural lubrication. It hurts, doesn't help. For that reason, I would use silicon-based lubrication (doesn't wash off easily) for shower scenes.

2. Your ass is not raring to go at all time. It needs to be stretched; a gay has told me that two fingers are usually enough unless the top is kinda big. The muscles in that area tighten up pretty quickly, too, which is why anal sex advocates aren't anally leaking everywhere. There are even kits you can buy to help with stretching. Someone's who's experienced can relax better but even they usually need a little preparation. Without it, there might be anal tearing (no fun) or even just small tears in the membrane (still no fun). Also, use lube. Lots of it. An anus is not a self-lubricating hole, like a vagina. It needs help. Precum ain't gonna cut it.

3. PROTECTION. I've actually gotten critiqued about using condoms in fiction. It's because I'm responsible... especially if the other person is an Unknown. My character doesn't know if they're clean or a walking back of AIDS so guess what? Rubber goes on! (Also: good for cleanup!)

4. Thought you were 'filled' by someone not wearing protection? I dunno if you've seen a guy come, but it's not like buckets. You might psychologically think you were 'getting filled' by someone, or you felt a splash, but more than likely you didn't feel anything. It's not that sensitive inside of you, which is good, if you think about what usually goes through there.

5. There is a prostate. It is about the size of a walnut and usually just as the tip of your finger if you went poking in there. It is sensitive. Some people have a 'trigger' prostate where they orgasm insanely fast if it is stimulated. It is located towards the front of the guy. It is not an inch up the ass. It is not a magic love button that makes everything better. It is a mass of sensitized tissue that secretes the fluids that comprise a lot of seminal ejaculation. Sorry girls, nothing there for you. But the anus itself is full of nerves and some women find that alone to be quite pleasurable. 'sides, orgasm is mostly mental anyway.

6. There are a shitton of gay stereotypes but let me tell you, they are wrong. You see the effeminate, long-haired waif with the stocky hulk and you should have NO IDEA who tops just by looking at the couple. Just putting that out there.

Now if you want to write the gays, that is all the information you need.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

My mouth hasn't hurt this bad since high school

2009-12-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

Of course I start this shit off with a blowjob joke. It's funny.

Oh god oral surgery is like the suckiest thing EVER. Besides AIDS. And like a list of other things that suck worse.

But that day was pretty sucky in and of itself. I did the surgery and very distinctly heard the dentist tell his assistant that they were "going to go for broke. Do the best we can for her." Because apparently MY MOUTH FAILS. I just injured a gumline for a lower front tooth and the frenulum (little flap of skin that connects lip to gums) was just making it worse. So they nicked the sucker off and did a skin graft from the roof of my mouth to the tooth. They didn't mention stitches were involved but there you go. DENTISTS LIE.

And for that trouble I got ibuprofen and a gold star. A metaphorical one. He didn't give me an actual gold star.

ALL LIES.

Then when I was loopy and tried to drive home I nearly ran into a wall because once more, I performed the trick where I confuse brake and gas pedal. A bad idea in most situations, but my lysdexia is particularly nerve-wracking when coming down from the shock of seeing your blood everywhere.

Then two days later I ripped the graft off.

I RIPPED THE GRAFT OFF.

I RIPPED THE MOTHERFUCKING GRAFT THE FUCK OFF.

Basically I need to go in again later to redo the graft and it sucks and I gotta slap a bitch. So close to my other surgery. Hate.

Thus ends this edition of 'your life is better than mine'! Tune in next week when I get heart surgery, make a joke while under local anesthesia, and cause a surgeon to nick an artery. Headline: 'Girl killed by dead baby joke.'

Now let's make like a dead baby and hit the road.

So much familial love it's just short of creepy

2009-11-25T22:10:00.000-08:00

(The night before Thanksgiving)

Me: Can I help?

Mom: Make the pies.

Me: ...usually you tell me no.

Mom: It's instant pie crust, at least get that done. (hands me a roll of pie crust)

Me: DONE.

(Forty minutes later.)

Me: ...okay, the crusts I made are gimpy. Are pies still okay gimpy?

Mom: Like anybody cares. Recipes for the fillings are on the counter.

Me: Wait, why would you want me to cook more of the pie? I failed at AUTOMATIC PIE CRUST. All I had to do was unroll the bitch. I can't do round peg, round hole. I thought our eventual goal of these pies was to have people want to eat them.

Mom: RECIPES FOR THE FILLINGS ARE ON THE COUNTER.

Sister: (walks in) Nice gimpy pies, loser.

Me: YOUR MOTHER WAS A WHORE.

Mom: HEY.

Me: YOU HEARD ME.

Sister: I delegate myself to the task of supervising and testing for poison.

Me: I see your delegation and raise the task for me to also take a nap.

Mom: Okay, that's it, get the fuck out of my kitchen.

I'd swear I'm not a lush but I'd be lying

2009-11-23T16:18:00.001-08:00

Painkillers don't work on me, not really. I ripped up (not totally off) a good portion of a toenail a week ago and have been hobbling around on it for a while, which really impeded dancing.

See where there is a conflict of interest?

And I still have to defend my ramen against my cat. I don't think 'ramen' is a good food preference for a cat. My cat likes everything, and I keep feeding him stuff for my own sick amusement. So far the only thing he DOESN'T like is Pepsi. I'm pretty sure that's not right. If there was a union for cats, he'd be kicked out of it.

And now it sounds like I only have ramen and Pepsi for sustenance. Oh no, it was my birthday, I have a shitton of free food to nom. Also more booze. A friend got me a bottle of rum for my birthday because SHE KNOWS ME. LIKE, KNOWS MY SOUL. And then people kept buying me drinks. I love my friends because they're enablers, purr.

God, every time I update this thing I'm drinking, smoking, or clubbing. My life is not the life of a rebel sans cause. I do shit like pay storage rent and get dental checkups and jump into my pants with both legs at the same time like everybody else. But clubbing is still amazingly fun, and if you can afford it, go for it.

I'm sorry, back to clubbing. We went to a club in the city and danced it up to top 40's and hiphop, although they repeated songs just like last year, goddamn go on iTunes and download some shit, people, you have three hours and there are more songs than that. I got good and tipsy, and at my high point my friend said something to me and I licked another friend on the mouth. I think that's what was pressing on my mind the whole night, not that I did something so odd and snag a friend and lick her on the mouth, but because now she won't think I'm a good kisser. Which I don't think you can judge with a drunk person anyway. Which was my logic at that time, and now, I'm like "Dude, I don't want to get in that friend's pants anyway, why am I worried she's judging my non-kissing?" and I think that maybe she'll tell prospective hotties that I'm a bad kisser, but she's still a friend even though I licked her mouth, so probably she'll just tell them I can lick my own nipples or something completely ridiculous.

I totally didn't throw up out of a car this year and it was fun even with Creepy Korean telling me to chug my drink and not taking "no," "no," "fuck no," "get the fuck away, asshole," "I will rip out that greasy rag you call a soul, wrap it around your dismembered kittenish testicles, set it on fire, and shove it down your throat if you don't back the fuck off" for an answer. Actually, a stranger came to my rescue, which was nice. I like it when guys feel chivalrous, it always means helping me or buying me things. I know how to change my own tire inside and out but I've never had to.

Yes, so, happy birthday to me. I'm cold, but I have a leftover bottle of rum to finish, and if that doesn't work to warm me up, I can just set fire to my alcohol-soaked liver. The flames will be beautiful.

I dance like I'm having a seizure, but less sexily

2009-11-13T22:49:00.001-08:00

Last night I went dancing, specifically dressing up to go ballroom dancing. Which was like the nightmare where I'm continuously fucking up in front of an audience, and people are laughing and pointing, but this was WAY more boring. The moral of the story is, I can learn to samba, but the moment the instructor makes me be her follower and all my mostly-okay BS is exposed, and she has to stop the lesson to make me less of a fuckup but it doesn't work, then I'm dejected and sulk in a corner. I tried to be a good sport and I grinned and had a decent time, but no way was I letting all those old people touch me. Especially when I was so bad, and they were so good.

Someone in our group was like "lol this isn't your scene" and I was like "lol no, my scene is more like UNTZ UNTZ UNTZ" and somehow we ended up clubbing for reals. After they got 'tired' of it, I'm really freakin' hoping it wasn't because of me. I didn't want to be a buzzkill; I was just the only person there who had never taken ballroom dancing. I have rhythm and everything, I swear. I could have faked it but no way.

Anyway, we went downtown and found ourselves in a club where everybody else except the bartender was distinctly Not White. I like hip hop, and I can dance (fuck the title of this post, my hips don't lie), but the fact that we were there was the most entertaining thing ever apparently. I could practically hear whispers of 'This is better than BET!' floating around* as we hit the dance floor. But we were totally hot (I can say this cuz I have low self-esteem but I know good dancing and at least everybody else in my group was hot, and my bff and I ground so hard I'm halfway certain I'm preggers now by that girl). It's just that everybody was watching us and I'm pretty sure some were laughing (in impressed joy, probably). We were also in ballroom dancing clothes vs. clubbing clothes. We kinda cleared the floor. I didn't realize this until my heart started hurting (I skipped my heart meds last night and now expect to go through some fun withdrawal today) and we sat out, and then it was packed again. Oh maaaaaaan. Like Awkward turtle had millions of Awkward babies. (The rest of the night was less uncomfortable/fun and more boring. We went to another bar but bounced to go get Mexican food. A good decision on our part, indeed.)

So there are the unspoken rules of the club, usually limited to 'don't leave your drink on the bar' and 'have a signal for when a creeper is grinding into your ass so you can be rescued.' That's the basic shit, stuff you go over with newfies to clubs so they're not raped at any point. But there are a few rules that I've only learned through experience:

1. Get the hell out of a club before the lights come on. There's two reasons for that: one, you miss the mass of drunk that escapes at that point. Always nice to leave a few minutes early and not have to run bitches over to get out of the area. Two: you do not want to see the floor. You might be fooled into thinking it was clean when the only light was flashing from a strobe twenty feet overhead, but then the lights come on and you see the mass of empty cups, used condoms, and hypodermic needles. And then you automatically get every VD ever for just looking at it. And cancer. You also get cancer.

2. Not only do you not put your drink down, if your club is Sketchville, don't ever let it out of your sight. If you're a girl, take advantage of the fact that you look cute and helpless if you hold it two inches from your boobs with hunched shoulders. Because if you take that drink and just hold it out two feet in front of you, into a crowd of dancing people, it could come back with no less than seven different types of tranquilizers, rape drugs, and E/heroin combo's. Trust me, in good rave clubs you can OD by just inhaling deeply. Your alchie does not leave your immediate sight for longer than a blink.

3. You might laugh at the girls for going off to the bathrooms in groups, but if one of you has to go to the bathroom, you ALL GO. Unless the club is small, there must be a mass to the bathroom. Otherwise one of your party will pass out in a stall and get raped and end up stripping in a really horrible stripclub so her kid can go to school so don't do it.

4. Don't go in with white shoes. They will come out all sorts of fun colors. And stuff will splash on your feet. Unless you have an open wound and it was a cup of pure AIDS suck it up, it will wash off. If you don't want your shoes dirty, don't wear them around throngs of inebriated people. Although you do need shoes; see tip #1.

5. Tip the goddamn bartenders. Even if you get water. They work with your drunk ass for a living. And, if you're generous, you get lots more alchie in your next drink and sometimes you get free drinks. Especially if you yell at the top of your lungs about how cute the bartender is, which works even with gay ones, something I learned by drunken accident.

6. Don't bitch about people wanting to dance with you. Yeah, it's annoying when creepers rub up against you. But you came to a public place to dance, where people dance with everybody else. You probably dressed up. Your dancing is most likely sexy. Everything in your body language says you're here to get nookie. Trust me, I understand, I wouldn't go to a club for sex just like I wouldn't go to the AIDS clinic to share needles. But at the same time, these boobs were made to be showed off. Just politely decline, no need to get nasty or bite anybody's face off. Your friends will laugh with you later about creepers but silently they'll be calling you a douche canoe for the unnecessary reaction. Plus, if you pick fights with drunks, it doesn't matter how much of a girl you are. Shit could go down.

That's it for now. My experience is now your experience. You're welcome.

*if you were offended by that, might just spare yourself the trouble and never come here again.

If this post was censored it'd just be one long 'beep'

2009-11-13T19:06:00.000-08:00

You know, I never used to hate Friday the thirteenth's. Mostly because I'm not a superstitious asshole. Not calling all superstitious people assholes, except I am, because superstition is stupid.

Especially that one. A number isn't gonna kill you, bitches. Suck it up. But we still fail to have thirteenth floors and room number skip the dreaded one-three, so apparently the world needs to invest in a backbone. Right after we fix the economy.

What REALLY pisses me off is that the number can ruin a perfectly good Friday. Back in the day it was an unlucky day (thus, FRIDAY the thirteenth) but right now it is the day where you're like fuck yeah, it's the weekend, and the afternoon is like more time off. It's an amazing day and thirteen just pissed all over it. Especially since back in high school I had to listen to all the fuckwads talk about how thirteen is actually their lucky number because of course nobody else has ever thought of that ever, whore.

I don't fall for superstition. I couldn't care less about walking under ladders unless they look old and someone's on them, I don't break mirrors cuz that shit is expensive and hard to clean up, and I've owned (and currently own) black cats, which have been the best cats I've owned. Mostly. On Friday 13th I couldn't care less, just went around my business. I usually wouldn't notice, though, until someone went "LOL IT'S FRIDAY THE 13TH." It was really just another day. Nothing bad happened to me on them, ever.

Today, actually, was alright. I talked with a boy who wasn't doing his work in the school project and got him to grow a pair for almost five minutes, some of the kids were pretty cool, last night I went clubbing and I only overslept a little this morning, and I just had a delicious popsicle. But it was a sucky day.

Mostly because this year, on a Friday the 13th, my dad died.

So quite frankly little Miss Bitch could just shut the fuck UP about being tired from being on the wrestling team and he can't plant flowers because that's GIRL'S work, his life is SO HARD. Jesus. If whining was electricity I'd be RICH.

I have to race like a pisshorse

2009-11-12T11:55:00.000-08:00

The title is just another charming phrase I picked up along the way. Drop it casually at formal balls and EVERYBODY will want into your chiffon gown. Or at least point you to a bathroom.

But for now, I'm stuck in the library, too lazy to relinquish my little computer booth and head across campus to find a bathroom, since I only know where one is, a fault of the school, I'm sure. Or at least I'm going to blame them.

Anyway, in class today, my teacher had gotten started on gender and sexuality. I didn't take notes, because even though he has a PhD in psychology, I still probably know more than him on this topic. (I already know more about embryology, as the fucker has no idea what a zona pellucida is.) He got started on transsexuals, then moved to masturbation. Addressing the class, he told us that most of us masturbate, and are too ashamed to admit it.

I masturbate. And I would admit that, in public. Mostly. Not in front of a huge class, so it's not like I volunteered that information. In a small group? I am a very innappropriate person around strangers, but I've learned they like the shock value. So admitting the fact that I've masturbated while driving, that's funny, and it does get you friends cuz "BITCH YOU CRAZY." But on the flip side, nobody has seen my dildo. Sad, because they know what it looks like: purple, and sort of like a nun. Like, the glans is the habit, and it has flowers that sort of make the shape of a string of rosary beads. I wish I was kidding.

I call it 'Divine Penetration.' (I desperately need a new one; an 'OhMiBod,' if at all possible.)

In regards to sexuality, my rearing with both restricted and free. My mother didn't exactly volunteer information, but she was the one to explain to me what a blowjob was. I don't think I ever got the sex talk but I don't think there wasn't a time I didn't know, it was just always known. Then I have friends all over the place who are dirty and nasty and from whom I learn everything that made up for it. And then there is the internet, and my mother comes in here too, not because she's on the internet beyond email but because she totally instilled in me a sense of curiosity. Which is kinda bad, in this case.

Then again, I didn't masturbate for the first time until one of my friends said, "If a girl says she doesn't masturbate.. she's lying." Until then, I hadn't. Was I missing out?

Apparently.

So I can remember my first orgasm ever. I have another friend who cannot, because she started very young. And yet other girls have yet to really experience an orgasm. 20% of all new brides will not have an orgasm their first year of marriage. This is sad. Something needs to be done.

I propose that Christopher Walken goes around to each female individually and assesses their sexual level of maturity. If they don't masturbate, he explains to them the error of their ways. If they have never climaxed ever, and many women don't orgasm until they're 24, he takes care of that problem personally. Bitches and hos get the slut smacked out of them.

I also volunteer Heath Ledger, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Matt Damon, and any other typical hot male celebrity. Walken was my first choice just because he's kind of a badass. In case you hadn't noticed.

(Upon asking a friend, they volunteered the name 'Rupert Grint.' I veto'd that, if only because his sex face would invariably the same nauseated expression that is his go-to emotion when acting. I like redheads as much as the next girl but. No.)

What you should take away from this, or what I took away from this when I reread that mass of pixelated mental vomit:

-masturbate furiously daily. No, you won't go blind. Much.
-the author needs an OhMiBod and it would be a fantastic birthday or Christmas present, but only for her. Think before you buy it for anybody else. Like, really really hard.

I am Bad People

2009-11-11T22:41:00.000-08:00

If having the sudden urge to smoke while swinging on your old elementary school campus makes you a bad person, I don't even want to know how to be a good person. Because seriously, swinging is awesome. Random urges to smoke are awesome. Combine the two?

Totes amazeballs.

My smoking habit, though, isn't really a smoking habit. I don't think you can call it a habit if I bought a pack in September, and here it is November, and I have 13 left. I bought it because it was literally the last day I could legally buy cloves in the US and because I had been jonesing for smoking. I had never smoked before in my life, but I was seriously dreaming about it, I wanted it so bad.

See: addictive personality. I can get addicted to something without any of the prerequisites, like... trying it.

Occasionally now, I have an urge to hold something between my fingers and suck on it (obligatory blowjob joke here) and for a bit I have been wanting to go embrace my inner child but not in a pedophilic way because ew. Swings, though. Yes.

I live around the corner from my old elementary school, so it's 10:30 at night and I'm like "whatever, any kids up to see me smoking are delinquents anyway, and it's not like I'd share my damn cloves when they're illegal to buy here" so I go and yonder hence. It's a nice night out and--

Holy shit fence. There is a huge, fatty fence around my school. Wtshit, childhood? Oh well... it's a fire hazard to lock the thing totally down, so I wander around the perimeter and bam, open door. Score one for me.

I'm walking both through the school and down memory lane, outside the buildings (It's an outdoor campus), being all happy and practically prancing and I vaguely see movement. Yes, my night vision sucks harder than the really old Godzilla movies, although those are hilarious to watch when you've had a few drinks in you. I can't remember which movie it was, but Godzilla totally blows Mothra. I was there, I saw it.

Anyway. Movement. Like an idiot, I decide to Scooby up and investigate. Sort of, I mainly just continue to head towards the swings when

WHITE STRIPE FREAKING OUT HOLY SHIT IS THAT A SKUNK

I gtfo'd harder than I have ever gtfo'd in my life. It is on campus and chilling outside a building and about thirty feet away and then it's running and I'm running and to condense all my terror into a few words, I did not get sprayed but it TOTALLY exacerbated my condition.

I sang my way back out of campus because skunks do run away if they know you're coming, it's not like they WANT to ruin your life (they totally do). It was a pretty simple song, mostly comprised of "I am totally haaaaarmlessssss" and "please do not spray me in the faaaaace." My idyllic urge to swing had been squashed. But the pack of nicotine and cloves in my pocket still sang. (It wasn't as good as my song.)

So I hung out in the street to the side of the school, smoked, turned on a few porch lights with the power of making people concerned, and probably TOTALLY freaked out neighborhood watch. I mean, kid in black hoodie wandering outside your house? Sketchy, but... GO BACK TO BED, OLD PEOPLE WITH SUPER-HEARING. I DO NOT WANT TO STEAL YOUR SHIT. And just FYI, fuck littering, I totally didn't throw away my butt. See? I'm a good person. I don't litter or give kids cigs or smoke around other people. (Just outside of elementary schools.)

In any case, that was WAY more terror than a trip to a playground really needed. Which is probably why I should quit my horribly unhealthy smoking 'habit.'