ALL the butts.

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.

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...

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

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?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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*

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

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

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.

My mouth hasn't hurt this bad since high school

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

(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 have to race like a pisshorse

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

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.'