Well tonight is Christmas Eve, and my 24 year old family tradition of hanging out was rescheduled due to "inconvenience"- which is ridiculous to me- but anyway, it was decided that we would instead hang out this past Sunday. I should clarify- it was decided weeks ago that today would be inconvenient, so we planned to hold the gathering in advance of Christmas Eve. If it were possible for my family to decide the day of an event that it should have been held in the past, and agree to pretend as if it had happened, then we would probably all be much happier people. Anyway, the event, as it happened, was fine, seemed normal- but one thing did happen that really made me look forward to our big, extended family get together tomorrow.
I think it's funny to say things to my brothers and parents that maybe (definitely) shouldn't be said. I hadn't been to see my parents in about a month, so my Dad was harassing me and asking me what I'd been doing. I said "You know me, blowing random dudes." Now- this normally wouldn't be a surprising or offensive answer, but since our extended family was around, my Mom felt the need to loudly chastise me by raising her voice and saying my full name. "Jennifer. JEAN. BLOOMER."
I accepted her response because she wants my family to think she's raised a nice, mature young woman. They all know I'm a weirdo, but whatever helps her sleep at night. The thing about my Mom that always gets me is that she tries to put on a facade of normalcy for my family- but she says the most fucked up shit in such a matter-of-fact way that they have to know she's a punisher. This has never happened in such a clear way as it did Sunday night.
We were all sitting around, enjoying a very delicious lasagna dinner (which I enjoyed thoroughly) when the subject of my Uncle's new found position within the Catholic Church was brought up for discussion. Of course, he wasn't present, but my Grandma told us all that he was now an Usher. Everyone in my family has an opinion, but mostly my Aunt's husband and Mom. They both started discussing the Catholic Church, and the donations Ushers apparently ask for. I have no idea about any of this, because the most experience I have with Catholicism is lying about having been confirmed in order to be my cousin's confirmation sponsor a few years back... whenever that old pope died. ANYWAY, everyone was chiming in and complaining when my Mom said "I'm not going to donate money to the church so they can RAPE OUR LITTLE BOYS".
UUUUUUHHHHHHHHH. Awkward! She said it so nonchalantly... I laughed pretty hard.
I can't believe I got scolded for blow jobs but she dropped the child rape bomb right in the middle of our delicious meal!
Totally weird. Hopefully she does more of that stuff tomorrow!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Christmas Cheer
So I was hanging out with my Grandma the other day while she was opening her Christmas cards. I usually hate Christmas cards, because once you start sending them you're fucked and have to send them to everyone you've ever known for the rest of your life or run the risk of falling into the "Oh... I didn't get a card from _____ this year." zone (which is worse than death in my family)- but there was one in the bunch that really stood out so I thought I'd write about it.
First of all, the front of the card featured my boy Scooby, which I can back 100%. He was in a box with a Santa hat on looking amazing. The card itself came from my Grandma's former co-worker, Emmett, and although I never knew Emmett I was always a fan of any story featuring his name, so that was also great.
What truly made the card, however, was part of the inscription. The first couple of lines were typical "I went golfing this year, I am trying to keep warm" old people stuff, but the rest of the card read as follows:
"Judy Brown died last week. She choked on food sample at Costco.
Celebrate your Christmas with happiness.
Love Ya,
Emmett."
Ummmm... I don't know for sure, but I think a friend dying warrants a phone call. Emmett is my kind of guy for sure. Inappropriate.
First of all, the front of the card featured my boy Scooby, which I can back 100%. He was in a box with a Santa hat on looking amazing. The card itself came from my Grandma's former co-worker, Emmett, and although I never knew Emmett I was always a fan of any story featuring his name, so that was also great.
What truly made the card, however, was part of the inscription. The first couple of lines were typical "I went golfing this year, I am trying to keep warm" old people stuff, but the rest of the card read as follows:
"Judy Brown died last week. She choked on food sample at Costco.
Celebrate your Christmas with happiness.
Love Ya,
Emmett."
Ummmm... I don't know for sure, but I think a friend dying warrants a phone call. Emmett is my kind of guy for sure. Inappropriate.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Thanks Plow Man
I would just like to post a public THANK YOU to the lion of a man who did me the kind service of plowing my car in the parking lot at work. I realize I was out of the office for about three minutes, and that in the plowing universe three minutes is enough time to clear off an entire Wal-Mart Parking lot and father three children- but I think maybe he could have waited the five minutes I had posted on the door to ask me to move my car.
Maybe he knew there was nothing I'd rather do than use an ice scraper to dig my car out in the subzero temperatures. I think when you look at my face, I seem like the kind of girl who loves to dig cars out of giant piles of compacted snow. He probably caught a glimpse of me and said, "Merry Christmas Sweetheart" and then kindly took all the snow he could possibly gather and nestled it up as close as possible to my tires.
This will be the fourth or fifth time in three days my car will have been stuck in the snow, so I'm more or less a professional in these situations. I find the best way to get your car out of the snow is to use all of the force humanly possible and attack the snow like an animal or someone rescuing a (presumably worthwhile) person from an avalanche. This involves furious stabbing with an ice scraper and furious digging with your own hands. If you can get generally furious with the snow you will win. Yes, you will somehow get snow down your shirt and freeze your boobs but it's worth it because you get to drive your car until it gets stuck in some other wayward snow bank, where you will be tested by the elements once again.
Moral of the Story: There is nothing better than being plowed in by a guy who looks like he probably stole beer from Ratt's dressing room.
Maybe he knew there was nothing I'd rather do than use an ice scraper to dig my car out in the subzero temperatures. I think when you look at my face, I seem like the kind of girl who loves to dig cars out of giant piles of compacted snow. He probably caught a glimpse of me and said, "Merry Christmas Sweetheart" and then kindly took all the snow he could possibly gather and nestled it up as close as possible to my tires.
This will be the fourth or fifth time in three days my car will have been stuck in the snow, so I'm more or less a professional in these situations. I find the best way to get your car out of the snow is to use all of the force humanly possible and attack the snow like an animal or someone rescuing a (presumably worthwhile) person from an avalanche. This involves furious stabbing with an ice scraper and furious digging with your own hands. If you can get generally furious with the snow you will win. Yes, you will somehow get snow down your shirt and freeze your boobs but it's worth it because you get to drive your car until it gets stuck in some other wayward snow bank, where you will be tested by the elements once again.
Moral of the Story: There is nothing better than being plowed in by a guy who looks like he probably stole beer from Ratt's dressing room.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
It Came To Me In a Dream
Last night I couldn't sleep at all. I'm guessing that had a lot to do with the fact that I had about five energy drinks in a futile attempt to be energetic during my waking/socializing hours. I did an Arizona RX/Sugar Free Red Bull system and it didn't kick in until waaayy late. I stared at my ceiling for about three hours thinking about a million weird things, and I fell asleep for about two hours total (maximum), but that was weird half awake sleep. This isn't exciting at all- except for the amazing groggy dream I kept having. Actually, it was more like a clear prophetic vision.
I was basically living in The Grind: Hip Hop Aerobics. If you don't remember this, you are whack.
Eric Nies basically humps air with no shirt on and teaches you illicit dances while you get in shape. This is just like Flirty Girl Fitness but for all sluts and not just aging housewives trying to spice up their marriages or ladies strip teasin' for their man. It also features a very high Zumba factor which automatically increases the value of any product (or human being for that matter). Zumbas are the guitar solo of pants.
Anyway! When I was in 6th or 7th grade my mom bought me TGHHA (Awesome) on VHS as some kind of a sick joke. First of all, at this point my mom was still trying to tell me what to wear, which in her mind only consisted of body suits and high waisted, tight ass jeans in the brightest clown colors imaginable. I had buck teeth, a thumbs-in-belt loops problem, and I was not allowed to watch MTV at all. In fact, I wasn't allowed to watch VH1 either. I had no idea what was cool, and I read a lot of young adult novels about horses. I was a major fuck up.
When you treat a child in this way, and then hand them a brightly colored neon box with a ripped to shreds Eric Nies grinding, it's like handing them a box of projected sex appeal and coolness. I figured Eric was probably cool, and anything from MTV had to be okay... even if it was four years old. I thought I was going to get into sick shape, grow huge boobs, learn some amazing moves, and completely impress Aaron Gierada at the activity night, to make up for him finding the secret love letter I wrote in which I described him as a cuddly teddy bear. Once he saw me doing the worm with my giant grind-grown boobs, he would stop making copies of the note and want to hold my hand forever.
What ended up happening is a big more tragic. Unfortunately all the zumbas and Eric Nies saying "That's Niiiiiccceeee" in the world can't transform an awkward 12 year old into an amazing sexy dancing middle schooler. It, instead, turned me into a person who was grinding alone in the basement with her thumbs through belt loops and a southwestern print body suit and purple jeans on. Equally unfortunate is the fact that The Grind is still the most formal dance training I have, save a tap dance class when I was about 5 and the time I lied to my best friend about being in a Backstreet Boys dance class (yep) so if I were to unleash my tremendous moves, I'd probably revert to the belt loop air humping.
Maybe the most amazing thing about this is that I thought I was grinding to perfection. This is similar to the way Roundhouse made me feel that I could break dance. So confidently, in fact, that I said "Dad, check this out" and I was breakin', which I think was more of me rolling around on the ground almost knocking over my mom's weird knick-knacks.
The most upsetting part about my prophetic visions of my grind future is that I have searched somewhat tirelessly for clips (or, god willing, a full version) of my video, but it's nowhere to be found! I'm going to have to go dig some stuff up at my Mom's house. Maybe I'll buy Darren's Dance Grooves and update my skills. I think I could probably make more friends if I could pop and lock.
I was basically living in The Grind: Hip Hop Aerobics. If you don't remember this, you are whack.
Eric Nies basically humps air with no shirt on and teaches you illicit dances while you get in shape. This is just like Flirty Girl Fitness but for all sluts and not just aging housewives trying to spice up their marriages or ladies strip teasin' for their man. It also features a very high Zumba factor which automatically increases the value of any product (or human being for that matter). Zumbas are the guitar solo of pants.
Anyway! When I was in 6th or 7th grade my mom bought me TGHHA (Awesome) on VHS as some kind of a sick joke. First of all, at this point my mom was still trying to tell me what to wear, which in her mind only consisted of body suits and high waisted, tight ass jeans in the brightest clown colors imaginable. I had buck teeth, a thumbs-in-belt loops problem, and I was not allowed to watch MTV at all. In fact, I wasn't allowed to watch VH1 either. I had no idea what was cool, and I read a lot of young adult novels about horses. I was a major fuck up.
When you treat a child in this way, and then hand them a brightly colored neon box with a ripped to shreds Eric Nies grinding, it's like handing them a box of projected sex appeal and coolness. I figured Eric was probably cool, and anything from MTV had to be okay... even if it was four years old. I thought I was going to get into sick shape, grow huge boobs, learn some amazing moves, and completely impress Aaron Gierada at the activity night, to make up for him finding the secret love letter I wrote in which I described him as a cuddly teddy bear. Once he saw me doing the worm with my giant grind-grown boobs, he would stop making copies of the note and want to hold my hand forever.
What ended up happening is a big more tragic. Unfortunately all the zumbas and Eric Nies saying "That's Niiiiiccceeee" in the world can't transform an awkward 12 year old into an amazing sexy dancing middle schooler. It, instead, turned me into a person who was grinding alone in the basement with her thumbs through belt loops and a southwestern print body suit and purple jeans on. Equally unfortunate is the fact that The Grind is still the most formal dance training I have, save a tap dance class when I was about 5 and the time I lied to my best friend about being in a Backstreet Boys dance class (yep) so if I were to unleash my tremendous moves, I'd probably revert to the belt loop air humping.
Maybe the most amazing thing about this is that I thought I was grinding to perfection. This is similar to the way Roundhouse made me feel that I could break dance. So confidently, in fact, that I said "Dad, check this out" and I was breakin', which I think was more of me rolling around on the ground almost knocking over my mom's weird knick-knacks.
The most upsetting part about my prophetic visions of my grind future is that I have searched somewhat tirelessly for clips (or, god willing, a full version) of my video, but it's nowhere to be found! I'm going to have to go dig some stuff up at my Mom's house. Maybe I'll buy Darren's Dance Grooves and update my skills. I think I could probably make more friends if I could pop and lock.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Possible Voyeur
I (maybe, possibly) watched two strangers have sex on my couch last night. I'm really not sure, and I was not drinking at all.
I'm blind without my glasses on, and when I'm half asleep, it's even worse. My roommate (who is out of town) asked me if a friend of his could stay over on his way to the airport. I said sure, and my roommate told me that his friend would be by our place pretty late and leave pretty early. I could care less who comes in and out of my house as long as I'm not expected to entertain them, so I naturally didn't care at all.
Well, when I am sleeping I do not have the luxury of memories, vision, or reason. Last night I woke up at about 3:30 am and I was very disappointed to learn that I had to pee. Fortunately, before I go to sleep I look like a very hot and sexy model, so I was wearing Big Dog boxer shorts and my hair was styled in the signature "alien top ponytail" I rock nocturnally. I lumbered out of my room and noticed what appeared to be two blurs on my couch. I'm not 100% on that, it could have been one long blur with a big fluffy brown top, but it seemed like two blurs. I stood there squinting and the blur(s) seemed to acknowledge my stunningly beautiful presence. I was piecing it all together, but in the meantime trying to discern the creature(s) on the couch so I really craned my neck and squinted super hard. I was tired and had to pee too much to use my "hand glasses" move, which you don't want to see if you never have. It's sexy, but too much for the average bear.
ANYWAY, I just peed (in the bathroom, not while I was potentially watching strangers bang on my couch) and went back to bed.
I didn't really think about it until this morning, but it really did seem like one of the blurs was mounting the other blur, and if that is what was going on, I stood there staring at it. There are a lot of potential "Your roommate is fucking weird, man" stories going around right now.
WEIRD.
I'm blind without my glasses on, and when I'm half asleep, it's even worse. My roommate (who is out of town) asked me if a friend of his could stay over on his way to the airport. I said sure, and my roommate told me that his friend would be by our place pretty late and leave pretty early. I could care less who comes in and out of my house as long as I'm not expected to entertain them, so I naturally didn't care at all.
Well, when I am sleeping I do not have the luxury of memories, vision, or reason. Last night I woke up at about 3:30 am and I was very disappointed to learn that I had to pee. Fortunately, before I go to sleep I look like a very hot and sexy model, so I was wearing Big Dog boxer shorts and my hair was styled in the signature "alien top ponytail" I rock nocturnally. I lumbered out of my room and noticed what appeared to be two blurs on my couch. I'm not 100% on that, it could have been one long blur with a big fluffy brown top, but it seemed like two blurs. I stood there squinting and the blur(s) seemed to acknowledge my stunningly beautiful presence. I was piecing it all together, but in the meantime trying to discern the creature(s) on the couch so I really craned my neck and squinted super hard. I was tired and had to pee too much to use my "hand glasses" move, which you don't want to see if you never have. It's sexy, but too much for the average bear.
ANYWAY, I just peed (in the bathroom, not while I was potentially watching strangers bang on my couch) and went back to bed.
I didn't really think about it until this morning, but it really did seem like one of the blurs was mounting the other blur, and if that is what was going on, I stood there staring at it. There are a lot of potential "Your roommate is fucking weird, man" stories going around right now.
WEIRD.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
It's Settled: I'm Never Having Sex Again
I received a strange document via e-mail yesterday, which brought to my attention a strange and horrible sexual fetish act: Forced Staring.
Forced eye contact is officially the creepiest and most awkward of all fetishes: this includes pee fetishes and foot fetishes. Enough weird stuff happens when you eventually climb into bed with someone, is forced eye contact really necessary? I can't believe people are really into that. I would hate it so much. The mere thought of forced staring haunts my dreams.
An unfortunate fact of my life is now that I know about forced staring, it's going to happen to me. I'm 95% sure. Eventually I'm going to have to tell a story about some guy I dated who blew a wad every time he forced me to stare at him for a long time. Every time something really starts to weird me out, it forces itself all over my universe. If you think I'm kidding, you should know about my magician hatred.
I fucking hate magicians so much, it's not even funny. When I see a magician I get so deeply annoyed that I feel like my ribcage is going to turn to dust. I moved into a house with a friend of mine after a shitty and annoying breakup under one precondition: NO MAGICIANS IN THE HOUSE. For any normal person, this would seem like a very easy rule. A couple of months later, I come home to none other than a MAGICIAN on my couch. Not a very nice thing to come home to. I'd say it's roughly tantamount to finding your children stabbed to death. Maybe a little worse, but that's the closest thing I can think of at the present moment.
Since then, this same roommate has become biblically familiar with a DIFFERENT magician. Last night at dinner, there was a MAGICIAN roaming around the restaurant, trying to delight people with his annoying, useless illusions. Criss Angel exists, and last night my freak ho Brother hinted that he may get his swerve on with a magician. I told him I would disown him, and I meant it! Someday, when I have more energy, I will fully disclose the details and intensity with which I hate magicians.
Fair warning- Once someone said: "How can you hate magic? You love wizards," to which I shot back "WIZARD MAGIC IS REAL! I HATE TRICKS."
I wasn't even thinking when I said that, but I really meant it. I'm mentally eight years old.
Seriously though: FORCED STARING! Sounds like the worst possible thing.
Forced eye contact is officially the creepiest and most awkward of all fetishes: this includes pee fetishes and foot fetishes. Enough weird stuff happens when you eventually climb into bed with someone, is forced eye contact really necessary? I can't believe people are really into that. I would hate it so much. The mere thought of forced staring haunts my dreams.
An unfortunate fact of my life is now that I know about forced staring, it's going to happen to me. I'm 95% sure. Eventually I'm going to have to tell a story about some guy I dated who blew a wad every time he forced me to stare at him for a long time. Every time something really starts to weird me out, it forces itself all over my universe. If you think I'm kidding, you should know about my magician hatred.
I fucking hate magicians so much, it's not even funny. When I see a magician I get so deeply annoyed that I feel like my ribcage is going to turn to dust. I moved into a house with a friend of mine after a shitty and annoying breakup under one precondition: NO MAGICIANS IN THE HOUSE. For any normal person, this would seem like a very easy rule. A couple of months later, I come home to none other than a MAGICIAN on my couch. Not a very nice thing to come home to. I'd say it's roughly tantamount to finding your children stabbed to death. Maybe a little worse, but that's the closest thing I can think of at the present moment.
Since then, this same roommate has become biblically familiar with a DIFFERENT magician. Last night at dinner, there was a MAGICIAN roaming around the restaurant, trying to delight people with his annoying, useless illusions. Criss Angel exists, and last night my freak ho Brother hinted that he may get his swerve on with a magician. I told him I would disown him, and I meant it! Someday, when I have more energy, I will fully disclose the details and intensity with which I hate magicians.
Fair warning- Once someone said: "How can you hate magic? You love wizards," to which I shot back "WIZARD MAGIC IS REAL! I HATE TRICKS."
I wasn't even thinking when I said that, but I really meant it. I'm mentally eight years old.
Seriously though: FORCED STARING! Sounds like the worst possible thing.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Bad Kid Update: Garage Band
Today a tenant who is apparently as nosy and untrusting of adolescent males in baggy jeans as yours truly came in to ask me what was up with the kids on the property. I immediately became excited, glared, and said in a sharp whisper "What did you see? What. Did. They. Doooooooo?"
Well, it turns out these little fuckers have some kind of a band going on in there. I don't think it's the awesome band Whiplash, so they can't keep this shit up. Maybe if they were nice, but since they decided to have a low(er) rent Rage Against The Machine attitude with me, I'll pull the plug on their shitty band and ruin all of their future vagina earnings.
The tenant said "I heard a drum beat, but it went on for a bit and it stopped. I got an earful, it's not bad!" This guy drives a "tricked out" probe and calls it a whip, so I'll have to take it for what it's worth. These children definitely pissed in a bottle back there, so when I catch them covering Static X songs I'm going to make one of them drink it. Then I'm going to smack one of them with a fish. I'll show them some Led Zeppelin rock and roll shit. I'll get black dog on their "where did this hair come from" asses all day long. Try me.
Anyway, now I am more determined than ever to catch these little fucks.
The only way they can stay is if they let me join the band and be my friends and finally let me be myself again, a.k.a. wear my JNCOs and watch Pat Tondreau aggressive Rollerblade outside of Westland City Hall. I will wax the curb eternally.
Well, it turns out these little fuckers have some kind of a band going on in there. I don't think it's the awesome band Whiplash, so they can't keep this shit up. Maybe if they were nice, but since they decided to have a low(er) rent Rage Against The Machine attitude with me, I'll pull the plug on their shitty band and ruin all of their future vagina earnings.
The tenant said "I heard a drum beat, but it went on for a bit and it stopped. I got an earful, it's not bad!" This guy drives a "tricked out" probe and calls it a whip, so I'll have to take it for what it's worth. These children definitely pissed in a bottle back there, so when I catch them covering Static X songs I'm going to make one of them drink it. Then I'm going to smack one of them with a fish. I'll show them some Led Zeppelin rock and roll shit. I'll get black dog on their "where did this hair come from" asses all day long. Try me.
Anyway, now I am more determined than ever to catch these little fucks.
The only way they can stay is if they let me join the band and be my friends and finally let me be myself again, a.k.a. wear my JNCOs and watch Pat Tondreau aggressive Rollerblade outside of Westland City Hall. I will wax the curb eternally.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Public Record... Storage Facilities: The New Mall? Somebody get me a smoothie.
There is a group of 12-14 ish year old kids that keep coming on and off of the property. They have a gate code so I can't remove them. I'm sure they're up to something and when I find out I'm going to yell at those little turds. They look pretty nu metal, so I may have to bust out my old JNCOs to relate to them. The other day I saw them walking around, and since Storage Facilities aren't typically the kind of place adolescents hang out, I asked them if they had a unit. They said "YEAH" like little bastards. So then I asked them which unit, and they told me, but they were total pricks about it. I can tell they're totally "fuck the man" little kids. They think I'm the man for sure.
Three words: WHATEVA Bitch kids! I have tattoos and know people with dreadlocks, so just take a few steps back in your Sabbath t-shirt that your mom bought you at Target. I will verbally destroy every child on earth. I glare at them with every muscle in my ocular power.
Need I remind the world once again that (in my mind) I INTRODUCED Limp Bizkit to the Wayne-Westland school district? Once I was screaming "HEY I ACTUALLY LIKED POWERMAN 5000" over loud music at a bar, but the music stopped so everyone heard me. I have a "Behind Enemy Lines" CD in my car right now. I will smash this state into a million pieces and make a vegan patty out of them.
I just want to catch these kids doing something bad so I can say "Well, well, well.... What do we have here, boyssss????" and then scare them, but ultimately let them go. My job is boring and this is the highlight of my day- Fantasizing about yelling at middle school kids. It's better than what I fantasized about in middle school, which was wearing an over sized blue flannel and playing bass in Everclear.
I'll be like "a motherfuckin' chain saw.... I'll skin your ass raw... and if my day keeps going this way I just might BREAK YO FUCKIN FACE TONIGHT."
Give me something to break... how bout your fuckin'.... awww mann.
I want to buy a jump rope.
Three words: WHATEVA Bitch kids! I have tattoos and know people with dreadlocks, so just take a few steps back in your Sabbath t-shirt that your mom bought you at Target. I will verbally destroy every child on earth. I glare at them with every muscle in my ocular power.
Need I remind the world once again that (in my mind) I INTRODUCED Limp Bizkit to the Wayne-Westland school district? Once I was screaming "HEY I ACTUALLY LIKED POWERMAN 5000" over loud music at a bar, but the music stopped so everyone heard me. I have a "Behind Enemy Lines" CD in my car right now. I will smash this state into a million pieces and make a vegan patty out of them.
I just want to catch these kids doing something bad so I can say "Well, well, well.... What do we have here, boyssss????" and then scare them, but ultimately let them go. My job is boring and this is the highlight of my day- Fantasizing about yelling at middle school kids. It's better than what I fantasized about in middle school, which was wearing an over sized blue flannel and playing bass in Everclear.
I'll be like "a motherfuckin' chain saw.... I'll skin your ass raw... and if my day keeps going this way I just might BREAK YO FUCKIN FACE TONIGHT."
Give me something to break... how bout your fuckin'.... awww mann.
I want to buy a jump rope.
Fish Lyfe Update
So after partying my ass off last night at the Whiplash/Wilhelm show (so much water I peed like eight times) I came into work and the office STILL smelled like corpse vagina. I was kind of hoping the scent would just peace out overnight but my luck is running on empty (Shout out to Jackson Browne) so it didn't happen.
I knew I was going to have to investigate, and I was absolutely not in the mood to get all Scooby Doo on this atrocity (8:30 in the fucking morning, assaulted) but I knew it was the only way.
I just want to preface this by saying a couple of things-
First of all, I am not someone who gets grossed out easily. I say and watch a lot of disgusting things while I eat. I once spent an entire dinner telling my whole family that my birthday dinner was all bits of my placenta and I always point out to my brother that when he was born his mouth was on my Mom's bleeding vag. They are usually bummed but it keeps me amused for weeks on end so whatever. What I found this morning made me dry heave.
Second, since I became employed with this company about a year ago, I have found some pretty disgusting things around the various properties, including but not limited to: An old man shitting behind a dumpster; a plastic Wal Mart bag full of nuclear yellow pee; mystery substances and a giant space age cockroach; and a pile of orange human shit that I had to clean up using a small Tim Horton's cup. I've also walked in on a homeless guy with no arm sitting in a recliner in a unit. I don't get paid enough to deal with any of this skanky shit, but I do it anyway because I'm a slave to the system and I need to pai mah billz (Smash the state plz).
ANYWAY, I tied a scarf around my face and walked into the bathroom and the smell was so potent I though my face was going to melt off. I thought I was going to turn into the disgusting decaying fish Toxic Avenger. I looked over at the garbage can and I thought "No wayyyy, no way." So I opened the garbage can and- let me be very clear about this: YES WAY. There was a soiled adult diaper in there. When I opened that trash can I basically got slapped in the face and called a fat slut. I started gagging and saying "That's not fucking right, that's not right". I ran to the dumpster so fast, gagging with a scarf on my face. I hope they don't review the security cameras.
Anyway the good news is that the disgusting smell is slowly dissipating after I thoroughly disinfected the entire world. This smell was not right and it was from both the future and the past simultaneously. It is something that cannot be properly quantified, much like time itself. I can't even think of some sort of "Cosmic Year" scale to try to put it into perspective. For a second I wished Carl Sagan were here to help me out, but I know he'd just say "What the fuck? That's not right. Not right."
I think I'm going to mail that lady a much needed summer's eve.
I knew I was going to have to investigate, and I was absolutely not in the mood to get all Scooby Doo on this atrocity (8:30 in the fucking morning, assaulted) but I knew it was the only way.
I just want to preface this by saying a couple of things-
First of all, I am not someone who gets grossed out easily. I say and watch a lot of disgusting things while I eat. I once spent an entire dinner telling my whole family that my birthday dinner was all bits of my placenta and I always point out to my brother that when he was born his mouth was on my Mom's bleeding vag. They are usually bummed but it keeps me amused for weeks on end so whatever. What I found this morning made me dry heave.
Second, since I became employed with this company about a year ago, I have found some pretty disgusting things around the various properties, including but not limited to: An old man shitting behind a dumpster; a plastic Wal Mart bag full of nuclear yellow pee; mystery substances and a giant space age cockroach; and a pile of orange human shit that I had to clean up using a small Tim Horton's cup. I've also walked in on a homeless guy with no arm sitting in a recliner in a unit. I don't get paid enough to deal with any of this skanky shit, but I do it anyway because I'm a slave to the system and I need to pai mah billz (Smash the state plz).
ANYWAY, I tied a scarf around my face and walked into the bathroom and the smell was so potent I though my face was going to melt off. I thought I was going to turn into the disgusting decaying fish Toxic Avenger. I looked over at the garbage can and I thought "No wayyyy, no way." So I opened the garbage can and- let me be very clear about this: YES WAY. There was a soiled adult diaper in there. When I opened that trash can I basically got slapped in the face and called a fat slut. I started gagging and saying "That's not fucking right, that's not right". I ran to the dumpster so fast, gagging with a scarf on my face. I hope they don't review the security cameras.
Anyway the good news is that the disgusting smell is slowly dissipating after I thoroughly disinfected the entire world. This smell was not right and it was from both the future and the past simultaneously. It is something that cannot be properly quantified, much like time itself. I can't even think of some sort of "Cosmic Year" scale to try to put it into perspective. For a second I wished Carl Sagan were here to help me out, but I know he'd just say "What the fuck? That's not right. Not right."
I think I'm going to mail that lady a much needed summer's eve.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Fishy
Man, I just have to throw this out there: This lady came into my office smelling like dead fish, and that shit has been lingering for TWO HOURS.
I don't know what was wrong, but I think she needs to see a doctor. I have the windows open, fans going, and I've seriously douched this whole office with hazardous amounts of Lysol disinfectant/air disinfectant spray.
This fish scent will not leave, and I'm going to suffocate myself soon.
I wonder if I could sue this woman for pain and suffering.
Please wash "down there".
I don't know what was wrong, but I think she needs to see a doctor. I have the windows open, fans going, and I've seriously douched this whole office with hazardous amounts of Lysol disinfectant/air disinfectant spray.
This fish scent will not leave, and I'm going to suffocate myself soon.
I wonder if I could sue this woman for pain and suffering.
Please wash "down there".
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
I need Mystery.
"You look kind of retarded... like cute retarded!"
Despite what I thought last night, that is not a compliment.
Noted.
That one is going in the same file as "So on a scale of one to ten... ten being the highest... how much do you want to make out with me right now?"
Overflowing game.
Despite what I thought last night, that is not a compliment.
Noted.
That one is going in the same file as "So on a scale of one to ten... ten being the highest... how much do you want to make out with me right now?"
Overflowing game.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Edgar Allen Pole, My Goth Strip Club Name
Halloween is certainly upon us.
I can always tell when Halloween is coming because the calendar says so, but also because every year, the week before Halloween is so fucking cold I want to stab my face off. I have cleverly arranged my furniture (cardboard boxes) so that they block every single heat vent in my room. Most people don't know this about me, but I'm 25% Wampa. I think my Grandma was fucking around with some drugs and ended up throwing down with some reptocarnivores, don't judge. She was a very desirable ho and sometimes you wake up covered in snow next to a bloody furry dude with yellow eyes. It's happened to me at least twice. If anyone knows my Mom, you know it's a plausable story. I'd compare her to a Wampa or the Viking from those Snickers commercials (the "NOOOOO, YESSSSS" commerical).
Anyway, she may have single handedly pushed a car out of a ditch in the middle of January, but that's not the point.
The point is that because I try to re-create a somewhat Hothlike climate in my room and because I am not full blooded Wampa, I get cold. And because I am 25% douche bag, I own a black turtleneck or four, and every so often I wear them to work (only when I don't think I'll see anyone I know). This, coupled with my black glasses, makes me look like a "poet", according to a few customers. Today a guy came in and said "Damn girl, you look like Edgar Allen Pole!" I was a little bummed, but it's better than being told you look like Edgar Winter. So I said "Edgar Allen Poe?" and he said "Nahhh, Pole, mannn.... The Raven!" So I just agreed that I looked like Edgar Allen Pole. Then I was thinking about how I'd like to kill myself because of my job and the fact that I wore berets for awhile in the late 90s (contain your boner, if you can), when the same guy said "I always knew you was spooky!"
So I'm just sitting here being spooky, but I'm for sure not a poet. In fact, I was recently going through some boxes in my basement, and I came across a book of poetry I wrote when I was fifteen. A lot of burning/bleeding/ripping out heart imagery. This was coupled with my awesome drawings of the aforementioned scenes and some sparkly Smurf stickers. One page was actually tear-stained! I was awesome and had lots of friends. This guy Shawn dumped me and it really lit a creative fire under my ass, I guess.
Parents are shitty because they tell their kids not to do drugs or have sex, when they really should be telling their adolescent idiot children never to write poetry. Seriously! I remember that Shawn guy writing me poems and me writing him poems, it was a big mess. They were all like "As we walk over the causeway, my strange concomitant... etc." I don't remember specifics of the poems, but I do remember using the word causeway for sure. In fact, every time someone talks about a bridge I think of the word causeway. Just yesterday, my friend Dave told me he was stuck on a bridge and it reminded me of my shitty poetry and the use of the word 'Causeway'. That word will forever fill me with embarassment! Bridges see me coming and send "Oh hey, a causewayyy you fucking douche baggggg" vibes. Maybe I'll dig out the poetry and post it on here. It was really fucking bad.
I don't even like poetry. I know that totally goes against the awesome look I've whipped up for myself today, but I can't really think of poems that I like. I know some people who still write poetry, and it's still bad! Painful to read. Once a slam poetry session happened in the living room of my old house. It was a moment in which I wanted to skin myself. Please never write me a poem, if you were thinking about it.
Back to Halloween- I think I got out of most of the costume party invitations that were issued to me this year, which is really great because I'm the worst with costumes. I think my main problems occur and the intersection of me being a female and me not wanting to dress like a "slutty (noun)". I really wanted to be Han Solo but I slacked so now there's no time. Beyond that amazing costume, the only costumes I thought of were "Suicidal Wall Street Executive" which takes too much explanation (Trust me on this one: I was Black Tuesday a few years ago it was a failure), and "Hitler Youth". I was going to wear my 3x Snoops, put my hair in neat pigtails then draw on a little Hitler 'stache and drink whiskey out of a baby bottle. Neither one of those costumes are good and I don't want to be a sexy whatever so I think I lose. I am sort of excited to see the sexy costumes though, because every year they get better. I think I saw a sexy garlic press the other day! Sexy bowl, sexy plate, sexy funnel, etc. I don't know, I hate costumes.
I can always tell when Halloween is coming because the calendar says so, but also because every year, the week before Halloween is so fucking cold I want to stab my face off. I have cleverly arranged my furniture (cardboard boxes) so that they block every single heat vent in my room. Most people don't know this about me, but I'm 25% Wampa. I think my Grandma was fucking around with some drugs and ended up throwing down with some reptocarnivores, don't judge. She was a very desirable ho and sometimes you wake up covered in snow next to a bloody furry dude with yellow eyes. It's happened to me at least twice. If anyone knows my Mom, you know it's a plausable story. I'd compare her to a Wampa or the Viking from those Snickers commercials (the "NOOOOO, YESSSSS" commerical).
Anyway, she may have single handedly pushed a car out of a ditch in the middle of January, but that's not the point.
The point is that because I try to re-create a somewhat Hothlike climate in my room and because I am not full blooded Wampa, I get cold. And because I am 25% douche bag, I own a black turtleneck or four, and every so often I wear them to work (only when I don't think I'll see anyone I know). This, coupled with my black glasses, makes me look like a "poet", according to a few customers. Today a guy came in and said "Damn girl, you look like Edgar Allen Pole!" I was a little bummed, but it's better than being told you look like Edgar Winter. So I said "Edgar Allen Poe?" and he said "Nahhh, Pole, mannn.... The Raven!" So I just agreed that I looked like Edgar Allen Pole. Then I was thinking about how I'd like to kill myself because of my job and the fact that I wore berets for awhile in the late 90s (contain your boner, if you can), when the same guy said "I always knew you was spooky!"
So I'm just sitting here being spooky, but I'm for sure not a poet. In fact, I was recently going through some boxes in my basement, and I came across a book of poetry I wrote when I was fifteen. A lot of burning/bleeding/ripping out heart imagery. This was coupled with my awesome drawings of the aforementioned scenes and some sparkly Smurf stickers. One page was actually tear-stained! I was awesome and had lots of friends. This guy Shawn dumped me and it really lit a creative fire under my ass, I guess.
Parents are shitty because they tell their kids not to do drugs or have sex, when they really should be telling their adolescent idiot children never to write poetry. Seriously! I remember that Shawn guy writing me poems and me writing him poems, it was a big mess. They were all like "As we walk over the causeway, my strange concomitant... etc." I don't remember specifics of the poems, but I do remember using the word causeway for sure. In fact, every time someone talks about a bridge I think of the word causeway. Just yesterday, my friend Dave told me he was stuck on a bridge and it reminded me of my shitty poetry and the use of the word 'Causeway'. That word will forever fill me with embarassment! Bridges see me coming and send "Oh hey, a causewayyy you fucking douche baggggg" vibes. Maybe I'll dig out the poetry and post it on here. It was really fucking bad.
I don't even like poetry. I know that totally goes against the awesome look I've whipped up for myself today, but I can't really think of poems that I like. I know some people who still write poetry, and it's still bad! Painful to read. Once a slam poetry session happened in the living room of my old house. It was a moment in which I wanted to skin myself. Please never write me a poem, if you were thinking about it.
Back to Halloween- I think I got out of most of the costume party invitations that were issued to me this year, which is really great because I'm the worst with costumes. I think my main problems occur and the intersection of me being a female and me not wanting to dress like a "slutty (noun)". I really wanted to be Han Solo but I slacked so now there's no time. Beyond that amazing costume, the only costumes I thought of were "Suicidal Wall Street Executive" which takes too much explanation (Trust me on this one: I was Black Tuesday a few years ago it was a failure), and "Hitler Youth". I was going to wear my 3x Snoops, put my hair in neat pigtails then draw on a little Hitler 'stache and drink whiskey out of a baby bottle. Neither one of those costumes are good and I don't want to be a sexy whatever so I think I lose. I am sort of excited to see the sexy costumes though, because every year they get better. I think I saw a sexy garlic press the other day! Sexy bowl, sexy plate, sexy funnel, etc. I don't know, I hate costumes.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Paralyzing Fear
I'm going to throw this out there: Why is it that there are no scary movies anymore, but I can casually browse the internet and find things that make me pee my pants and sleep with the covers over my head at night?
If I spend ten bucks on a movie, I'm subjected to people being loud and messy (which I hate) on top of a Powerman 5000 soundtrack (which I pretend to hate in order to retain friends). On the other hand, if I'm casually browsing the internet I spend very little money and come across things like a severed puppy head kept alive by science. In fact, I found a video of Sergei Bryukhonenko shining a flashlight into the responsive eyes of a disembodied fuzzicle beast, a floating puppy head- something with no body that could lick my fucking face! I'd post it, but the last time I did that several people deleted me on Myspace. I use the number of friends I have on Myspace as a strict measure of self-worth, so it was devastating to my psyche and caused me to eat an entire XL Explorer Pizza from Papa John's in seven minutes and wear nothing but Triple X Snoopy pants for a few days (Official name: 3x Snoops). Fortunately, I was able to add some frisky grandpas looking for a young sloth like myself and now I'm back to wearing jeans and blowing senior citizens. I'm telling you, if it weren't for the internet and baby boomers my sex life would be dead. Anyway!
Ever the cautious young lady, I kept the Snoops on reserve, and that's a very good thing, because today I found out about female masking coupled with some brutal visual evidence that will make your life fall off. "Life fall off" is a new feeling that I experienced while watching the videos.
Now, I usually hate it when people send me videos and I rarely ever watch them unless they are accompained by some sort of evidence that the video is worth watching. I tried to find a good picture of female masking, but for some reason when I did a Google image search all that came up were some Persian cats with angel wings. Although I did hate that, it wasn't as horrid as the female masking.
According to Wikipedia, Female Masking "is a sub-form of cross-dressing that involves, in addition to the wearing of women's clothing, a mask (usually made from latex) that gives a pseudo-real representation of a female face." I'm all for trannies, but this still makes me want to sew myself into a pillowcase and roll off a cliff.
I guess you're just going to have to take my word on how fucked up this is, and see for yourself.
Check out the world of Julie Masking, put a diaper on first if you know what's good for you.
http://www.youtube.com/user/JuliesMovies
If I spend ten bucks on a movie, I'm subjected to people being loud and messy (which I hate) on top of a Powerman 5000 soundtrack (which I pretend to hate in order to retain friends). On the other hand, if I'm casually browsing the internet I spend very little money and come across things like a severed puppy head kept alive by science. In fact, I found a video of Sergei Bryukhonenko shining a flashlight into the responsive eyes of a disembodied fuzzicle beast, a floating puppy head- something with no body that could lick my fucking face! I'd post it, but the last time I did that several people deleted me on Myspace. I use the number of friends I have on Myspace as a strict measure of self-worth, so it was devastating to my psyche and caused me to eat an entire XL Explorer Pizza from Papa John's in seven minutes and wear nothing but Triple X Snoopy pants for a few days (Official name: 3x Snoops). Fortunately, I was able to add some frisky grandpas looking for a young sloth like myself and now I'm back to wearing jeans and blowing senior citizens. I'm telling you, if it weren't for the internet and baby boomers my sex life would be dead. Anyway!
Ever the cautious young lady, I kept the Snoops on reserve, and that's a very good thing, because today I found out about female masking coupled with some brutal visual evidence that will make your life fall off. "Life fall off" is a new feeling that I experienced while watching the videos.
Now, I usually hate it when people send me videos and I rarely ever watch them unless they are accompained by some sort of evidence that the video is worth watching. I tried to find a good picture of female masking, but for some reason when I did a Google image search all that came up were some Persian cats with angel wings. Although I did hate that, it wasn't as horrid as the female masking.
According to Wikipedia, Female Masking "is a sub-form of cross-dressing that involves, in addition to the wearing of women's clothing, a mask (usually made from latex) that gives a pseudo-real representation of a female face." I'm all for trannies, but this still makes me want to sew myself into a pillowcase and roll off a cliff.
I guess you're just going to have to take my word on how fucked up this is, and see for yourself.
Check out the world of Julie Masking, put a diaper on first if you know what's good for you.
http://www.youtube.com/user/JuliesMovies
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