Sunday, December 30, 2007

C'est la vie

I'm a harmless flirt. I guess it comes naturally, and some people are either extremely offended by me, or extremely intrigued.

I always hated reading posts where people announced their demise, or that they needed a blogging break. Maybe it's more for me that I'm writing it...I don't really know.

I'm taking a little blogging break. I might be around commenting a bit, but I probably won't be blogging much or at all for the next couple/few weeks. I don't know how long the break will last. If it even lasts, but I have my reasons.

I'd like to formally apologize if I've ever personally offended anyone by my words, or actions.

Happy New year, everyone. Looking forward to it!

Friday, December 28, 2007

I Love the Rain the Most...When it Stops

It's not often that I have the house completely to myself. Between my Mom and my sister, I'm usually dodging one of them left and right. This weekend my Mom went out of town to my aunt's funeral and my sister went to work, heading to her boyfriend's after.

So I was sitting in front of the fire with my pet laptop, when one of the dogs started crying and begging me to take him out. I got up, wandered to get his leash, still warm and lethargic from the heat of the fire I had going, and before I put it on him, I opened the door. Please note I was wearing nothing but a wifebeater, undies, and flip flops when I flew out the door after him screaming for him to stop because he managed to slip past me, before I got the leash on him.

Where I live, it's pitch black. It's in the middle of the woods, in the mountains, and you really don't run out without a flashlight. It was pouring rain and the dog was nowhere to be found.

Push Play

I stood in the middle of the clearing in front of the house, Christmas lights flashing, shivering just a bit, rain pouring down on my head and shoulders, and I let my head fall back and the rain pounded onto my face, dripping down over my neck, chest and body.
I forgot all about the dog, and I could hear the music in my house playing behind me and I began to sway, letting my hands rise toward the sky and I smiled. I smiled so big that giant tears began to mesh with the rain falling, and I spun in circles, arms stretched out at my sides, palms up, in the pouring, cold, rain. Occasionally I slowed even more just to wipe the vast amounts of rain getting in my eyes and nose.

With Mazzy Star lulling in the background, I crossed my hands over my chest and realized I wasn't smiling anymore. I was full on bawling in front of the house in the rain and still swaying to the soft sounds of the rainfall and dim music. I cried for everything and everyone. I cried for all the times I forgot to cry when I've lost something or I hurt in the past. I cried for all the pain I had hidden away so well when people were watching me. I just cried. I cried for me. Knowing no one could see me or hear me because of the rain, I bawled to a point where I could hear myself sobbing. Still spinning in the rain, slowly; soaked and shivering.

Eventually the dog came back, standing at my feet, looking at me, perplexed as to why I was standing, sobbing in the rain, almost naked. I imagine in his mind he was calling me a stupid human.

I knelt down, scraping one of my knees a little bit on the gravel rocks, and with a slight stinging ache, watched him run around me, count, four times before he stopped and let me put the leash on him. I walked around the house, not crying anymore and I felt more cleansed than I'd ever felt. Sometimes, all we need is a really good cry, all alone, in the pouring rain.

Just remember...rain is cold and you'll be shaking uncontrollably for about 20 minutes, even after you're back in the house and in front of the fire. I'm STILL cold.

I thought shit like this only happened in the movies...

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Christmas at Gramma C's with the Little Wooden Hand

This was the first Christmas for years that I was there and (semi) sober and able to enjoy everyone's company. Sitting around the table and cracking obscene jokes. It was the first Christmas in my life that I didn't get a call from my Father wishing me a Merry Christmas, or some completely inappropriate gift from him. Anyway, it's almost the new year and soon, bigger and better things will erupt in my life.

I can feel it.
After dinner my uncle D, fell in love with the stocking stuffer that my Grandma gave him. It's a wooden back scratcher. It's long and at the end it has a little wooden hand shaped just so, for scratching. I'm sure you're thinking,"Oh, I have one of those, I love it too. They reach all the right spots."

Well this wasn't exactly the same kind of love. D found this thing to be the funniest object in the world. It was his new best friend. I really can't begin to describe the love here. You see, the hand extends and retracts, and it does look just like a tiny little hand, so it has become the source of great amusement. Perhaps you should all get one for yourselves. I had no idea how many possibilities were loaded into one little wooden hand.
Why you can:
  • Hi five with a little wooden hand.
  • grab objects from across the table with a little wooden hand.
  • caress your lovers cheek without having to move from the couch with a little wooden hand.
  • scratch your chin like an intellectual with a little wooden hand.
  • pose like The Thinker with a little wooden hand.
  • put a little wooden pinkie into your mouth and say "one million dollars"
  • scratch the dog with the little wooden hand and not get any hair on you.
  • smoke a cigarette with a little wooden hand without having to bring your hand all the way to your mouth.
  • drive like a low rider with a little wooden hand.
  • brush your hair back with a little wooden hand.
  • bitch slap someone with a little wooden hand.
  • "raise the roof" with a little wooden hand.
  • smack the back of someone's hand for grabbing something from across the table when they shouldn't with a little wooden hand.
  • have the worlds smallest wooden hand stroke the worlds smallest wooden penis (don't ask).
How could I possibly think of all these uses for such a seemingly creation? Put the little hand in a room full of friends, family and beer and see what happens. And if it's on Christmas night when tensions are already high, you're in for a treat. Be prepared because...

Of course in our state of of wooden hand giggles, the next logical step was to share the love of the little wooden hand with perfect strangers so they too could see what a genius invention it is.

There is a knock on the door. Everyone hides in the kitchen, except for D, little wooden hand in...well, hand, and I'm on the sofa with an engineer whistle in my mouth. Everyone is silent. It's amazing how how well this is going to come off. D opens the door and the pizza guy doesn't even bat an eye. (I should add that D was wearing and old engineer's cap and aviator glasses and weighs about 250 pounds) He stares at D and starts to hand him the pizza. D flicks out the little wooden hand, which has money in its tiny wooden grip. The arm extends, and the hand reaches out to the pizza guy. This is too much for D, who is already well aware of the comedic power of the little wooden hand, and he begins to giggle. He giggles right in front of the pizza guy who now just wants to leave.

D invites the pizza guy in with a creepy "Hi. You wanna come in?" This forces em to hide my face in the sofa. I mean, come on, it was fucking funny. It's a big city but a small neighborhood, and who knows. I might see this guy on the bus in a week and he could scream out, "Her and her freak train conductor uncle tried to seduce me with a little wooden hand!" The pizza guy leaves, snatching the money from the tiny wooden hand and running down the stairs so fast I thought he was going to fall down and we were going to be sued. D eventually closes the door, after waving goodbye with the hand for a minute or so and smiling. The rest of the bunch come out of the kitchen and blame him for ruining what would've been "The ultimate Pizza guy, little wooden hand Joke."

Now you probably thought my life was all glitz, glamor and fun late night parties in New York with strange rich men, that just treat me like a princess. But in reality, all I do is sit around on Christmas night thinking up new trick for the pizza guy. And while most of the time, I go home drunk at the crack of dawn after these types of events, I instead think about how great the the look on the Pizza guy's face was when we extended a little wooden hand with a twenty dollar bill crammed into its little fingers, at his appalled face.

It's been a hard holiday season for my family. I'm sure you all know that. I'm just trying to make light of a hard time and there isn't much I wouldn't do to try and see my Mother smile again, even if just for a split second. Any ideas?

P.S. Mom, if you're reading this, please close it and try not to peek too often. I love you dearly Mom, but this page isn't really a place for my Mommy's eyes. I'm sure you understand.

Monday, December 24, 2007

They say it happens in 3's

I apologize, but this post has been lost. I'm leaving it up because I appreciated the comments, but the words are just nowhere to be found.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

I'm in NYC! Bittersweet Symphony...Ahhhh

This is going to be an incredibly, LONG post. So if you don't have time to sit and read it all, you're probably better off not starting it. I promise you won't be sorry if you do.

I had an incredibly hard time staring Guinness in the face at first. I don't know how I got so nervous. It felt like I was in Middle School and he was asking me to dance. We gave each other the quickest answers to every question. Where were the jokes and flirting we'd grown so accustomed to? How did we end up scaring each other like this?

I grabbed the drink menu and it fell out of my hand. As I lurched over to pick it up, my elbow hit my water glass, sending it tumbling over. I jumped up and cursed. Guinness was quick with the napkins preventing the spill from pouring into our laps. Water dripped off the table on to the floor. I was humiliated as a busboy came over to mop up the floor. I could feel my face flushed as people stared at us. I was right. We were going to ruin everything by meeting face to face.

Guinness looked up at me and smiled, making eye contact. "Let's get out of here, k? I'm not all that hungry anymore." When we walked outside, I spoke first. "I'm sorry. I'm nervous."
"Do I make you nervous?" he asked. I answered,"No" and we both smiled and began our walk to the car.

I had imagined our first meeting together so many different ways, but I never thought it would be me saying stupid shit while he wished he were somewhere else. He was much taller than I was, and I could see a small nick on the back of his neck where he must have cut himself shaving. I imagined his face being so soft to the touch, but I wasn't bold enough to touch it. Bear with me folks, I know I'm probably boring you but I want to savor every moment of the first encounter.

We ended up in Applebees and we had a couple drinks. 2 mudslides later we were much more relaxed. We were able to look at each other. We made jokes and even touched each other a few times, casually. We avoided conversation that was too deep. We stuck to things like sports, movies, and music. We had the coolest waitress that brought me an extra little bowl of cherries because my drink lacked one. I sat in my little corner sucking on cherries and giggling. I was getting a little tipsy. I took a sip of his drink and it was a lot stronger than mine was, and I began to hiccup immediately. He told me how beautiful I was and I hiccuped and smiled. My foot accidentally brushed against his under the table. I know he said things after that, but I didn't hear them. I was imagining what our hotel looked like, and exactly where I'd be pinned as he slowly worked me over. Would we be in front of the door? Would we be in the hallway near a bathroom? Would there be a mirror where I'd spot myself smiling before I closed my eyes and allowed myself to fall into him?

I don't know if he even asked me, but within an hour we were at the hotel. It was a really nice room, but there was a little too much light in it, for my taste. I looked around, my mouth dry and I ran to pee. I'd been drinking after all. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and asked him if he could bring me some water. As he handed me the water, our fingers touched. I blushed for noticing it. Behind him was a section of the wall, close to the mini fridge, that would be a great place to get pinned against. I could hear my pulse in my ears and I could feel my blood rushing through my wrists.

He pulled out a little bag and inside was a scarf that he got me for an early Christmas present. "I love it," I said. I could feel his breath on my skin, next to my left ear. "I'm glad,"he said quietly, and the scarf fell from my hands on to the floor, as his gaze weakened my grip on it. I took a step back and went to the bathroom again, sitting on the toilet, with my face in my hands, and I tried to catch my breath and compose myself. As I found my way back to Guinness, he smiled when he saw me. "Hey you," he said. "It still trips me out that you're here. It seems so unreal...just a bit." I smiled and he kissed me on my cheek. My body sort of fell into his, and my arms went around his waist, and my mouth found his neck as I blew hot air on his skin in an exhale. I heard him gasp. He looked at me and smiled with a smile that told me I could do no wrong. He was absorbing me with his eyes. Taking in ll of me. I think I felt more beautiful than I've felt in a very long time. I felt captivating. Important. We kissed. "You're a good kisser," I giggled. "So are you," he exhaled and leaned in to kiss me again.

The next time we came up for air, he asked, "Are you okay? Is this all okay?" I just nodded, unable to talk. I was panting. "You make me weak," he said, and we both smiled and started kissing again. We kissed and kissed. We kissed against the front door. We kissed in the hallway. We kissed with me pinned against the wall. We kissed with him pinned against the wall. I was ready for anything, wanted him to do everything. I wanted him to steal me and keep me in this room forever. I just wanted to let him have me.

He pulled me toward him again and moved his hand to my breast. He kissed my collarbone as he whispered words I couldn't make out into the skin of my neck. W climbed into bed. He was on top of me. Our bodies weren't used to each other.
"Ouch. You're on my hair, I said. "Sorry, he panted. He moved a little to the right. "Ow!" he yelped. "That's my arm." It continued like this for awhile. A little bit of tossing and turning, trying to make it work. We started out slower and got better at it. By the time the night rolled around, we were very, very good at it. We screamed over the sirens as the ambulances passed. We talked and kissed and had sex over and over. I had orgasms that made me blind. The arches of my feet were aching from being clenched for so long. I kept craving for more and more. All of those quick fantasies I'd been having over strangers were surfacing and he'd answer my cravings instantly with completely with complete satisfaction. He hit all of those aching spots inside of me. I just couldn't get enough.

Eventually he got enough, because he's lying here next to me, sound asleep with a slight smirk on his lips. The little tip tap of my fingers on the keyboard aren't disturbing him. I imagine tomorrow morning we'll wake up and without saying a word, we'll begin kissing, and starting the process all over agin as light creeps into the room. Our bodies will be aching from the night before, but we won't care. Morning sex is beautiful. It's quiet and hungry. Hushed and bittersweet. There will be bruises and muscle cramps. My hips will probably groan from the mere wight of him, but I won't care. I'll welcome the dim pain. I wish I could feel him on top of me for weeks.

I'm sure I'll find time t run around and read over all your blogs tomorrow night after I tire him out again. Note to Sara Sue, I asked him about taking a picture and he said he'd think about it. So that sounds promising. I'm trying to think of something creative that I can get involved in, too.

I'll be back, all.

Love and kisses from NYC!


Saturday, December 8, 2007

Up, up, and Away!

This will be my last post until I get to NY.

I'm off tomorrow, and staying for a week. I'm nervous as hell. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

Anyway...wish me luck, everyone!


Tuesday, December 4, 2007

I'm 13 again. God help me.

I was tagged by Ted (isn't he just the funniest fuckin' guy around?) to do the letter to my 13 year old self, thing. I honestly avoid tags like the plague, but something about this tag just kept calling to me, over and over again. It's a little hard not to sound like others that have done this tag before me, but I'm going to give it a shot, anyway. Over the past few days that I haven't posted and I've lurked on other blogs, I couldn't help but flash over my life just a little and think that it might feel good to jot some of it down.

OK. Rules are, to link back to the person that tagged you, write a letter to your 13 year old self, and then tag 5 people to do the same. (I think)

In turn I tag:

Sara Sue
Sweet Ass
Dyna Girl
Winnipeg Princess

Dear S,

This letter is reaching your hands from the distant, or, not-so-distant, future. There are a few things I wanted to tell you, while I have this once in a lifetime opportunity, and I hope you listen to me. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up a little less fucked up, if you do.

Right now, you're probably late for volleyball practice and wondering if anyone will notice. They won't. So you're better off going home, because you'll spend years of your life trying to impress those little blond bitches just to be spit on, over and over again...

Next year you're going to have one of those huge fights with your Mom, and you'll say "I hate you and I want to go live with my Dad" in her face for the last time. It'll hurt her to the point that she'll walk to your room in tears and start packing your shit. Let me tell you now, that you don't want to go there. All those stories your Mom told you about him are true. He'll drink and verbally abuse you. You'll leave home all the time and stay gone for weeks at a time and he won't even notice. Stop hurting your mother. She's the only one that will always stand by you.

Before your 15th birthday, a boy named Jayme is going to steal your heart. In an attempt to keep him, you're going to lose your virginity to him in his tree house and he's never going to speak to you again. Your dad is going to find out you had sex because he hears you one night giggling on the phone and he drags you to Planned Parenthood where they're going to tell you that you're pregnant. 2 weeks later you'll be drinking with your friend Sandra and have a miscarriage. Jayme's an asshole. Sandra's a bitch. Keep away from them and keep your legs closed. Later you'll find out that he got HIV from a girl named Kia and died before he turned 23. Be glad that wasn't you and thank God.

When you finally come back to your senses, your Dad puts you on a bus and sends you home.

You'll meet a girl named Tia, and she'll convince you to steal a car and drive it to LA. You two will decide to go dine and ditch at Denny's. Since you know you have a good heart, I don't have to tell you that you get caught because you felt so bad that you left the waitress your Mom's phone number so she wouldn't get in trouble with her boss. You'll spend a minute in Juvenile Hall and then your Mom will come and get you. I told you. She's always there for you.

Remember that asshole that touched you when you were little? This year he's going to get into an accident and lose a leg. That's right. It's true. What comes around goes around. You'll see him gain over 200 pounds over the years and become one of those old, fat, limping men, that you secretly hope won't sit next to you when they get on the bus.

After your stupid escapades as a teen, you'll slowly start to grow up. Of course you dabbled in drugs. Drugs were the least of your problems after a point. Never EVER stick your finger down your throat. You're not fat. Don't let anyone tell you that you're anything but beautiful. You only have big calves because you dance, and trust me, being limber will come in handy down the line.

You'll fall in love again. He'll break your heart and open your mind at the same time. I'm not going to tell you to avoid him, because it was a good life experience and makes you a very strong woman.

You'll go to Columbia University and decide it's not for you. You'll blow off a full academic scholarship so you can take pictures. I'm not going to tell you not to do it. Good for you. Do what makes you happy. You never wanted to be a lawyer, anyway.

On that note, I'm going to close this letter, and chin up little girl. It's a long bumpy road, but I promise you, one day you won't be so awkward. One day you'll be completely comfortable in your skin. And one day, you'll see, all those bitches that you thought were so hot in school, and they'll have fat, saggy asses and tits and they'll gnash their teeth when 'they see how amazing you've turned out.

Oh, and stop trying to act stupid to get in the retard class. They'll never let you in.


Monday, December 3, 2007

Pre-Flight Jitters~Updated

White and simple panties for a first meeting; or black and racy?

I'm so excited about my trip that my brain has turned to mush. I leave in less than a week for NY and every time I think of it, I get that nervous, mushy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's like having a crush on a guy for the first time, all over again in middle school. Guinness called me this morning, just to let me know he was as excited as I am, if not more.

This post will be kept short and sweet, because I have so much shit to do before I leave, and I haven't done a fucking thing yet.

First note. If you haven't voted yet in the Bloggers Choice awards, what are you waiting for? The guy that's ahead of me jumps up 5 votes every time I get one.
Here are the people that need your votes.

1) Me. Duh. Click
here to vote for me for the Best Blog About Stuff.

2) You have Mike, over at Tongue in Check. He was nominated by Sara Sue, one of my favorite bitch, I mean female bloggers, for Best Humor blog, and best blogging Host. Vote here and here. He has an eclectic, funny blog, that grabs you at first glance and will keep you reading.

3) The
Joey Polanski Show for Blogitzer. Honestly, I don't know what a Blogitzer is, but if anyone deserves it, he does. Sara said so, so it must be true. Vote here for Joey.

Cissy Strutt has been nominated for Best Photography blog. Sissy deserves this award a hell of a lot more than those in the lead, so shoot her a vote people, right here.

Angel, one the bloggers from South Africa was nominated for Best Parenting Blog, and Hottest Mommy Blog. Shoot her some votes, too. You can vote here, and here. I'm forgiving Angel for voting for someone else for Best Blog about Stuff. Go vote for her.

So, I know you have to register and shit for the site to vote, but it's a small price to pay for those bloggers that you love and care about, right?

OK. On that note, I'll probably post again in a few days, before I leave for my trip. Can I trust you all to sit and amuse yourselves in the comment section? I'll allow you all to talk quietly amongst yourselves until I return. It will probably be Friday.

Behave. (or don't)


P.S. I want more balloons. I'm putting them on my sidebar. Get creative and send me some fucking balloons. I completely blame Ted for getting me started on this weird fetish.

Now, you have something to look at to vote properly. Fuckin' A, I'm supposed to be cleaning and packing and instead I'm trying to find the cutest pair of panties?!?! Where the fuck are my God damn Balloons? :(

Saturday, December 1, 2007

The gun in Sister Rose Marie's Handbag

For those of you that belong to a church or at least pretend to, you know that every Christmas there's some kind of boutique. They sell presents that you wouldn't buy for anyone but your Grandmother or great Aunt Edna. Everything from crocheted crosses, to little handmade aprons for your dish soap. (if you don't know what that is, look below and cringe)

click to enlarge if you dare or care

Today, I went to visit my Grandmother who is all of 82 with all of her wits about her. Don't let this woman fool you. She's a cunning, sneaky woman. I love her to death because she raised me right. Coming in at night with her yardstick making sure we said our Our Fathers and our Hail Marys was always a treat. I go to visit her every single Saturday and she plays all old and innocent and shit. I'm getting distracted, as usual. OK. So, today she calls me on my way there and asks if I'd like to accompany her and go to the Christmas boutique. I absolutely despise these events but I knew that if I didn't go, she wouldn't get there, since she's completely immobile and she really did seem to have her heart set on it.

After practically carrying her up a flight of stairs, we get into the room and I see 75 old withered women look at us coming through the door. A luncheon! She tricked me into taking her to a League of the Sacred Heart, luncheon! She turned to me and swore up and down, I'm sure with her wrinkled little fingers crossed behind her back, that she forgot it was a luncheon. (For someone that forgot it was a luncheon, she was quick to pull that envelope with her dues that was obviously made way ahead of time.) Along with lunch, they were having a little boutique, as I mentioned before, with strange crocheted or knitted, (I really don't know the fucking difference) toilet paper holders and handmade quilts, along with all kinds of other shit you hate getting for Christmas, and will never use. Not once. Not ever. Also included, for the low price of 6 for $5.00, were raffle tickets. On the table of things that were being raffled off were 5 bottles of booze, and some other stuff. After seeing the booze, my vision became tunneled and I bought my raffle tickets.

I didn't win. I never win a thing. With a room full of lucky Irish people, some are bound to be less lucky than others. The raffle went something like this...Cue obnoxious swishy music. ~~~~~~~~~

A woman named Rose, screamed out, "Number 2806!!! I SAID, number 2806!!! Does anyone have number 2806?? Last call for number 2806!!!" Last call came at least 4 times. Everyone sat there squinting at their pile of tickets, wondering if it was them, and I hear a deep, raspy voice scream, "Beengo!" I turned around to see a man! *GASP A MAN* An elderly man, named Patrick had slipped in. I suppose he was married to one of the women. He was waving his raffle ticket in the air, calling out,"Beengo! Beengo!" Women looked appalled and whispered, while another woman walked over to him and told him gently that it wasn't bingo, but it was, in fact, a raffle. In any case, he traded the winning ticket for the Vodka. (I don't know how these old people can in good faith, take these bottles of alcohol when they know damn well they can't drink with all those fucking medications they're on. My Grandparents have whole tables full of pills) Or maybe they can. My grandmother was a little loopy this afternoon. Maybe she's been nipping at the cooking sherry with her Codeine. I wonder if Patrick thought he had died for the sake of Jihad and realized the Quran had a typo. It wasn't 72 virgins after all. It was one 72 year old virgin and her name was Sister Rose.

The day was pretty uneventful other than my Grandmother tricking me into an old lady fest... I bought a few handmade cross magnets for the fridge that already has too many magnets from my many travels and escapades. Does anyone know why 7 out of 10 women over the age of 70 are named Rosalie? Whenever someone screamed the name Rose, 10 people turned around. I'm glad I have a name that isn't common.

Until we meet again,


Thursday, November 29, 2007

Cause I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane, I don't know when I'll be back again

OK. Couple of things to mention, here.

First off, I've made plans to go on a little trip. These plans have been somewhat iffy up until now, and I'm heading to New York for a nice little escape from my life. Not like I really have one to escape from, but you get the idea. I'll be flying out on December 9th, red eye, and arriving in New York City, at like 5:30am on December 10th. I'm one of the few people that actually likes flying the red eye flights. I pop a sleeping pill about 30 minutes before I board and by the time I get on the flight, I'm fading fast. I usually arrange a car service to pick me up when I get there, and it's waiting by the time I land. So no waiting in those NYC taxi lines in freezing weather, and to be frank, car services in NY cost a hell of a lot less than taxis because they flat rate you, not time you. I dislike the cold. I dislike the cold very much; which makes me wonder why I'm going to NY in December, at all, but we'll get to that after in a minute.

Everything is arranged, minus when I'm coming back. What I love about Jet Blue is that their prices don't really change unless you're traveling a day in advance. So when I get there, I'll decide when I want to come back. I do want to be back by Christmas to spend time with the family, and my remaining Grandparents. Something tells me I might not get too many more Christmases with them.

Now for the why. And I'm going to ask people to be nice, even though for some of you, I know it's extremely hard...(no pun intended) I'll be meeting a person I met through this blog. That's all I'm going to say for now. I have every intention of spending vast amounts of time with him, and tiring him out to a point that he'll never forget the visit from Miss Curious. I'm going to name him Guinness, because it looks good, tastes good and always leaves me thirsty for more. I'll have my own hotel room, and don't worry about me. I'm smarter than I look. Well, not that many of you have actually seen what I look like. Although if you look hard enough various body parts have been spread throughout my blog and some of them are indeed mine. Have fun trying to figure out which ones. *wink*

Second thing I wanted to write about has completely slipped my mind, so I'm going to wait until my head clears and try again, tomorrow.



P.S. If any real writers actually read my blog, which I highly doubt...Whose dick do I have to suck to get my shows back on TV? Quit it with this strike shit already. I'm truly upset that Grey's Anatomy was a rerun, tonight.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

My Ass Hurts...

Maybe you're one of those perfect people that pay for a gym membership and always go. Every morning you bounce off with your perfect little fucking ponytail and your big white teeth gleam, as your perfect little perky ass and your annoying little perky, mousy voice goes "I'm off to the gym!!"

First of all, if that's you? Be thankful no one has stabbed you in the eye. Yet.

I'm not one of those people. I forget to exercise until someone reminds me. I don't run unless my life is being threatened. And of course I only try to break a sweat during sex.

There's this wedding coming up that I mentioned before, and I'm pretty sure as my friend was measuring my hips, she was shaking her head and holding her breath, while sucking her teeth. I could be horrible here and mention that as she was measuring my hip to foot distance, I noticed that the hair on the top of her head was thinning and I could actually see her scalp. But that would make me mean. And I'm not a mean person, so I don't know where you heard that from.

Since I broke down the other day after seeing my measurements on paper for the first time, in 5 years, I decided to grab an old Tae Bo tape and work out. You remember Tae Bo don't you? With everyone's favorite scary, sweaty black man, Billy Blanks? After about 30 seconds I quit and went back to the Girls Next Door Workout Video. I enjoy watching them jump around a hell of a lot more than Billy. With Billy, I had to do these crazy hop things and then punch, and then run backwards like I'm a member of the fucking Dallas cowboys or something.

OK...On to Bridget. Bridget is fucking amazing for 34 years old. She looks 21 so she must be doing something right. In one particularly aerobic set of moves with Bridget, you lift one knee, lift the other, kick kick, and then do four jumping jacks while moving back into your starting position. So I'm doing the knee, knee, kick, jumping jack, jumping jack, jumping jack, jumping jack, and I'm feeling pretty fucking proud of myself.

BRIDGET: Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!

S: Oh, yeah, Bridget! Let's go!

Bridget: Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!

S: That's what I'm talkin' about Bridget! Yeah!

Bridget: Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! That's it! Keep going! That's it!

S: I know that's it! I know, Bridget, I fucking rule!


Table: Crash!

Ashtray: Flip!

Bottle of water: Splish!



Bridget: Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!

S: Shut the fuck up Bridget! I just fucking fell over a table! Give me a fucking second to recover, Whore.

Bridget: Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack!

S: I'm sorry, Simba, is your tail OK?

Simba: Fuck off. I'm incredibly pissed at you. I always stand right behind you while you work out and you know that jumping backwards is a stupid fucking idea, but you did it anyway, and now my tail hurts, you bitch, and you spilled water all over me, and now you've left me with no choice but to go into your room, find your favorite pair of shoes, and take a big giant shit in one or both of them.

S: I understand.

Bridget: Come on now! I know you're tired. I know you want to quit. But DON'T GIVE UP! DON'T QUIT! YOU CAN DO IT!

S: OK, Bridget.

Bridget: Are you with me!?!?


Bridget: Keep that hip out when you lunge. And don't scream so loud that your neighbors call the cops, S.

S: Sorry.

Bridget: Uh Huh. That's good! Right there!

S: Can I ask you a question, Bridget?

Bridget: Sure, as long as you do shoulder to shoulder punches while you do it.

S: No problem.

Bridget: March a little faster! Now what's your question?

S: Am I officially hallucinating?

Bridget: I'd say that's a pretty safe bet.

S: That's what I thought...

Bridget: Now a lot of people want to quit when they start hallucinating. Anyone can quit when they start seeing shit and their stomachs are all fucked up and their thighs are trembling and they're screaming and shit. But don't you think that's a small price to pay for firm thighs? Knee! Knee! Kick! Kick! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Jumping jack! Ready? GO!

Papa Smurf: You need to concentrate! Here let me help you with some of those kicks!

S: That's it. I'm turning the tape off.

Bridget: Are you sure you wanna do that? Come on. Only 15 minutes left!

Papa Smurf: You can do it, S. I have faith in you.

S: Of course you do.

So I'm sitting here very carefully on my sofa, as my ass is throbbing beneath me. I think I learned my lesson. You can't just become an athletic person in one day. It's not like I stored up all of my past workouts until I decided to take my ass off the pause button. And most importantly, I probably shouldn't do peyote right before I work out.

Will someone please come kiss my ass for me?


Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Fuck off.

No. I'm not OK.

No. I don't think I'll be OK.

I don't care if you've felt like I feel.

I don't want to cry on anyone's shoulder.

I just want to cry all night until the pain sinks into my pillow.

Tomorrow I'm going to wake up, and it's going to go away.

Tomorrow, I'm going to pop Bunny Boot camp into the DVD player and push my ass to the limit.

Tomorrow, today's troubles are gone.

Actually, after writing this, I already feel better.

*End Rant*

It's been a long, long past two days. Gramma S is buried and gone. Tomorrow, I'm going to resume regular programming and leave this bad feeling behind. Thanks to everyone that's been there for me. It means a lot.

Sadness Fades,


Friday, November 23, 2007


I know I said that I wouldn't be posting until next week, but I was browsing a few of my favorite blogs and I came across something on my Canadian friend's blog, Winnipeg Princess, and it inspired me to do something absolutely silly and fun.

I introduce to you all, the Llamalicious blogger award, created by yours truly. This award is being given to any and all who are deserving. All I ask is that as I'm giving the award to you, please be kind and give it to at least one person that matters to you, but up to as many as you feel deserve it.

The first award I'm presenting to,

Preposterous Ponderings
Big Daddy
Winnipeg Princess
Sara Sue

These are only a few of the blogs I manage to check daily, and I'm not trying to offend anyone by not giving them mention. I'll be making a new award in the near future and more of you will be mentioned.

Mommies, I didn't forget you guys. Of course not!

This one is for:


Modified Mummy

Enjoy! Blog awards are fun and make your side bar look pretty. :P

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Death Happens

Why is it that when we cry our mouths salivate? Is it because the throat gets swollen? Is it to wash our mouths? We cry when we're in pain and tears are an antiseptic? Do our tongues swell and push against a salivary gland or something?

Honestly, I think it's because God gives us saliva so that we have a harder time talking when we cry, to prevent us from saying things we don't really mean when we don't know how to express exactly what we're feeling in a healthy manner. It might also be a defense mechanism. People stay away from weeping, drooling messes. It's human nature. The ones that love us no matter what, let the snot and drool get all over them while they hold us and tell us everything is going to be OK.

I've been pretty snotty and drooly this morning.

My Grandmother died today on this day before we traditionally give thanks, and I'm very thankful to have been this woman's Granddaughter. Because of this, I feel the need to tell you all a little bit about her.

She was a good woman. She tried to be a better woman. She changed over the years and became a quieter version of herself. I heard plenty of stories about the crazy things she did back when she was younger. Back before she had to become responsible and become an adult.

I'm not going to go on and on about her, because something tells me that's not what she would've wanted. She probably would've told me not to waste my time. She is the type of person that will be missed by hundreds of people. She rarely kept to herself, and had a mouth on her that would keep you giggling. Very intimidating and loud when she got going. Very blunt and stubborn, as well. She damn sure made sure that she took care of the people that mattered to her. You can bet your ass that those handfuls of people she loved and cared for are going to miss her tremendously.

She loved sitting in her living room, in her recliner, feet kicked back, remote in one hand and she watched television, her head leaning back more and more as she fell asleep watching her shows. She had her things that made her happy. She was a diabetic and hid Twinkies in her room, and got caught on more than one occasion.

She lived in the same home for so many years before she had to go to a nursing home, that she hated. She bitched that they were all Filipinos and talking about her when she couldn't understand them. It was a conspiracy, I tell you.

The funeral will be Monday, most likely. I have to wonder if she would want a lot of fuss made over her. But we have a huge family and a close knit one at that, so there's no way we wouldn't all gather in her memory. I'm writing this at the risk that she wouldn't approve and neither would my family, but I wanted to tell the world that she existed. I want everyone to know that I had a Grandmother and I'm very sad that she's gone. And this is my diary. So if I didn't write it, it would be like saying that it wasn't important to me. Reading back over these words, for the first time now, is making this all feel, very real. It's all sort of sinking in. I'm telling myself, as I'm telling all of you...I lost my father and my Grandmother is a short period of time, and it hurts. It hurts very much.

So Gramma S and Dad...I don't know all that much about the Internet, but I have an incredible hope that these electronic waves are made out of some of the same particles you're made of now. I know we didn't get a chance to formally say goodbye...any of us, but I hope that maybe you can feel these words and feel all the love I'm shoving into them. I'm packing them in along with all the things I never got to say to either of you.

Thank you for being my Gramma, and make sure they let you have Twinkies up there in heaven every once in awhile. I know how much it'd mean to you.

Is it true deaths always happen in threes? I don't know if I could handle another one. My other Grandmother is also very old and not very well. I don't know what I'm going to do if I lose her too. Time to put on my headphones and cry.

Just a little note: For those that check my blog regularly, I probably won't be posting until the middle of or late next week. The Rosary is on Monday, and the funeral is on Tuesday, so I want to give myself the time to properly mourn and clear my head a little bit. I'll be back though.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Measurements, Please.

She was measuring my ass. You heard it correctly. I had my measurements taken for a stupid blue taffeta dress, that the bride obviously is only putting me in, so she can look fabulous. Of course brides enjoy making their bridesmaids out to look like 80's hookers, but that's another story, altogether. I understand the bride wants to shine. But this isn't about the bride, or the dress.
This is about my ass.

She wrapped the measuring tape around my bust line which I already knew was going to be a task in itself. Then around my waist. Then, beware. She measured my hips and ass. Her nose squished up just a little while she scribbled down my measurements for that ugly dress and I asked, "So?" She smiled and said,"You're gonna look fabulous! Stop worrying! I better be going. Can I use your bathroom before I go?" Off she trotted to the bathroom before I even answered and I peeked into her little pad to see my ass. My mouth dropped open. When did a 6 sneak in there? 36 inches??

After she left I went into the kitchen drawer and I measured out 36". If my hips were laid out flat they would be 3' long! I mean, holy shit, my hips are almost as tall as I am? How much ass is that? How much fucking ass is that?? That's an assload of ass. That's how much. My refrigerator, minus my freezer is the size of my ass. My entertainment center from from DVD player to television, is the size of my ass. My bathtub is the size of my ass. I continued measuring things around the house, making my way around the rooms with my arms outstretched, the measuring tape pulled taut between my fingers, and I was a measurement monster! Beady little eyes, bulging out of my head, going crazy! You could fit three Simbas on my ass. (Simba is our Chihuahua) You could store all of my clothes in my ass. My bed? As wide as my ass.

I grabbed a piece of pretty stationary and a purple marker from my sister's pen cup by her computer, tossed my bottle of water into the recycling bin, and grabbed another one. I calmly, or maybe not so calmly sat down and wrote in big purple letters at the top of the paper:


1. LOSE WEIGHT (that belonged right at the top) I added a little subheading.

2. QUIT SMOKING (I crossed it out)

2. DRINK MORE WATER ( much easier, that one)

I mean, cigarettes are part of the diet plan. I took a deep breath and looked around the house again.


I have stacks of books mingling with stacks of books that I've been meaning to read, piled along with old mail, that I've been meaning to read, unopened. Credit card denials, and bank statements. All it will take is a trip to Walmart and my problem will be solved.


I have to say that this 'alone thing' takes getting used to, but come on. It's time I went out a little more often, by myself. I don't always need to go out with my friends or some guy. I could go for a stroll by myself. Get a table for one at a restaurant. Neither of which I've ever done, that I can remember...


I get NO work during the Winter holidays. I get stuck in the house, spending hours on my computer, and watching TV and feeding my pet ass.


I think it's time for a little change. Maybe swept bangs, or layers. Maybe some new color, or highlights.

I have decided to start task 1, immediately. Back to on demand exercise on TV and hitting the gym at least 3 times a week. I pay monthly for it, and I haven't been in weeks. I keep blaming being sick, but I'm not sick anymore and I really can't keep using that as an excuse.

Time for bed.

Little note, I got an email from a blogger that asked me to promote her blog. To be honest, I can't say I endorse everything it stands for, but she did ask me, so I have no problem with that. Give it a look-see and leave her comments whether you're for or against the cause. She likes the feedback.

Second little note, this is the first, and last time I'm doing this for someone. I don't want to make a habit out of endorsing anyone, because then my blog will be flooded with spam.

Ta ta for Now.


Saturday, November 17, 2007

Would she go Down on you in a Theater?

I had wasted so much fucking time. There wasn't anything wrong with me. He just didn't know how to love me...I suppose I'd already known the truth for some time, but I was unable to admit it to myself. Today I held a box in my hands; an early Christmas present, and it hit me. I was free.

I threw away the box, unopened, shredded the card in two. We broke up a long time ago, but it's finally real in my mind. I can finally, openly, honestly say, I have no more feelings for him, and it feels fucking awesome and it's so, so liberating.

Relationships are really, very difficult. Someone once told me, "Love means never having to say you're sorry." That's bullshit. In love you're apologizing all the Fucking time. Constantly finding things to say you're sorry for. How people change and grow with each other over the years, blows me away. In time, you're finishing each other's sentences. You know who turns the light off at night before bed and who's going to smack the alarm clock and hit snooze in the morning. You have your side of the bed and he has that special pillow he sleeps with. Nights of passionate love making, turn into, "Baby stop, I'm tired.." Nights of sleeping in each other's arms, naked, turn into sleeping back to back, and being annoyed he won't stop snoring. You'd love to smother him with that favorite pillow he holds on to for dear life, instead of you every night. People change so much and sometimes you find that that you aren't the team you once were. And no matter how much the two of you are in love, you just can't get things to feel the same anymore. It just stops working.

We broke up. We're separated. We're on a break. We call it a lot of different things to cover up the pain that he's not here anymore, every day, reaching out a hand or stroking my forehead when he passes through the living room on his way to the kitchen.

There was once a boy. There was once a girl. They once created a life together. They decided to step back from that life when it just wasn't fun anymore. It just didn't make them happy anymore. They loved each other so very much, that they just couldn't stand making each other miserable anymore. That's life. That's what happens to people. We can trace a line of events, but we can't follow a series of emotions. Things change. People change. Life changes. Times change. It's very possible to love someone so much and still be unable to make him or her smile.

Sometimes the best gift you can give someone is their freedom, and space. That's what he did.

Merry Christmas. Now go away.

I may talk a good game, but I seriously have no idea what I'm doing, what I'm going to do, what I'm supposed to do, or what I should've done. I'm just here, like any of you, trying to figure it all out.

It's hard to let everyone know you're absolutely terrified.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Sister, You've Been on my Mind

"Let this be a lesson to you! Go downstairs and pick up those coasters, right now!" She threw them from the balcony on the second floor, and my Mom sent her down to pick them up. She was 2...

Angel was born when I was just a little girl. My mom got pregnant when I was old enough to know what was going on, and I was so excited to have a little baby all my own. My best friend's Mom got pregnant at exactly the same time, and our Mothers were friends. So while they sat together and ate bon bons, we would be in the front yard, doing handstands and letting the little boys across the street get peeks at our panties while we acted shy in our uniforms.

The closer my Mom got to having the baby, the more excited I got. I would buy her little things with my allowance and press my face against the large, swollen belly and sing to her. When she'd kick me in the cheek, I'd giggle and say she didn't like my singing and began talking instead.

I remember the day she was born. I heard my Mom on the phone and then she came to wake my other sister and me up. She told us gently that the baby was coming, but we had to go to school anyway. I argued and fought the idea, but I couldn't wait to go tell everyone that I was going to be a big sister. When I got to school I couldn't sit still and I gazed out the window, wondering if she had been born yet. At lunch I was running around telling everyone that my Mommy was in the hospital having a baby! After school, my Grandmother came to pick us up, and brought us to the hospital. I had a volleyball game but refused to go play.

When we finally got to the hospital, my Mom was walking around the hospital room breathing like it was really cold, in short breaths, with her hand on her back. I didn't want to leave the room. I wanted to see the baby come! My Mom finally insisted that I leave the room, and I pouted and cried, sitting in the waiting room. Before I knew it, her Dad, who is not my Dad, came out and said it's a girl! I jumped up and down, clapping, and they took us into the room, where I was told I couldn't hold her unless I was sitting down. I quickly ran to sit and he brought her over to me and I held that little girl in my arms, tears streaming down my face. "What's her name?" I asked. I was crying almost uncontrollably. I'd never held a brand new baby before, and this one was mine to keep.

When we got to bring her home, I loved changing diapers and stealing her away, any chance I could. I liked making her cry so I could be the one to make her stop. My best friend's mother had her baby a week after Angel was born. She'd bring the baby down and as they got a little bigger, we would take them to the baby park down the street and push them in the little baby swings. We would put them in their strollers and pretend we were Mommies.

As Angel got older she was a handful. I lost interest in being her Mommy, and decided that being her big sister would be a lot more fun, and a lot less responsibility. She followed me everywhere, and looked up to me like I was some kind of Greek Goddess. She was constantly throwing things out the window from the second floor. She was constantly taking the end of the toilet paper and walking through the house with it until the roll was completely unraveled. She threw fits. She loved attention. She loved me, and I loved her too.

Angel has grown into a stubborn, beautiful young woman. But sometimes I just don't know what to do with her. I love the girl with all my heart, but sometimes she has me at my wits end. This is my ode to Angel. I love you sis. I love you even when I scream that I hate you. Even as I'm writing this she's screaming at me. "What the fuck is your problem??" That's my baby sister!

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Have yourself a messy little Christmas, I mean Merry...

Santas in Australia's largest city have been told not to use Father Christmas's traditional "ho ho ho" greeting because it may be offensive to women, it was reported Thursday.

Sydney's Santa Clauses have instead been instructed to say "ha ha ha" instead.

One disgruntled Santa told the newspaper a recruitment firm warned him not to use "ho ho ho" because it could frighten children and was too close to "ho", a US slang term for prostitute.

You've gotta be fucking kidding me! Am I the only one that thinks this is going a little too far?

"Ha ha ha", just doesn't have the same ring to it. How to you change hundreds of years of tradition for a group of bitches with sticks up their asses? Next thing you know, people will be claiming that "ha ha ha" makes children feel bad and like they're being laughed at and will be changed to "he he he". A big fat guy in a red suit skipping down the street with candy canes, saying "he he he" just takes away my whole vision of Christmas. "Mommy? What's wrong with Santa?"

Give me a fucking break.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

To Catch a Predator, or Only Tease One?

I've been sitting and racking my brain a little, for something to write about, and I've thought of a lot of great little ideas, but none that haven't been touched on by anyone else. Is it even possible to write about something or think about something that hasn't been thought of before?

I've gotten a lot of Emails since I started this blog. Some from younger girls that want a confidant or advice. Some from older women that appreciate my honesty. Some from women in my own age group that envy my honesty and blunt way of getting things off of my chest. I've gotten fun emails, strange emails, stupid emails, friendly emails, flirty emails, scary emails, curious emails, and perverted emails. All of them amuse me, and some of them, I've enjoyed immensely.

A lot of the time, when you receive emails, there is just cause to wonder if that person really is who they say they are. Because the internet is funny place. In all honesty, or dishonesty, a person can be whoever they want to be on the internet.

My little sister and I conducted a little experiment the other evening that made me almost completely lose faith in the human race, as a whole. We decided to make a few fake screen names and wander into different chat rooms and pretend to be someone we weren't. The first screen name we made was thong_girl93.

Thong girl's name was Anabelle and she was a 14 year old virgin looking for someone older to talk to. I think you would be amazed at some of the results we got. The first taker, was a 43 year old man that had a 15 year old step daughter. He continued to tell us how he would go into her dirty laundry and steal her panties. He was beyond creepy at that point but continued to get worse, asking if she'd ever seen a real cock. He then offered to turn on his webcam and show her what a real man looked like. I had no desire to see this old pervert's penis on cam, so I told him I was really 49, divorced and now weighed almost 350 lbs but that the role play thing really did it for me. He stopped answering. I guess he only likes little girls...

The next man was a 27 year old photographer, that offered to have Annabel over for lunch and take her picture. This type of man scares me more than the previous one. "It'll be like school picture day, only sexier" he told her. When Annabel said she was scared of strangers, and had never been with a 'boy' he said he was more than willing to teach her how to open up and become a woman. He offered to take it easy and he promised her that he'd be gentle and that it wouldn't hurt. After he asked if she had her period yet, and how far she wanted to go with him, and where they should meet, we asked if he'd ever watched Dateline NBC's To Catch a Predator, and he stopped answering us.

The next Screen name we made was hotsofia76milf. I think it's obvious who she was supposed to be. Sofia was a 31 year old single mother, that had only ever been with one man. She eloped with him when she was 17, and they were recently divorced because her husband slept with their housekeeper, Lupe. (can you get more cliche?) She had 2 children, and they were nicely tucked away in bed, so she decided to check out Yahoo chat for the first time! Yay Sofia! The men that contacted her were just as perverted. The first thing any man in chat types, is a/s/l? When you say 31/f/cali, most of them stop answering. The few that do answer, and keep talking to you, do not speak fucking English! "Hay babes, u wana sho me u pusi on cam? u got cam? u lick 2 fuk me? taking to me durtee babi. cum oooooon." I occasionally asked if they were American and a few of them were! "ya i wuz bron in kintuky." When I asked if they had graduated High school, they said yes. It's way too easy to get a diploma, these days if that's the case. Of course there was the occasional man that thought she sounded absolutely perfect. Like Girish, that one man from India that asked her to marry him and help him start a business in Los Angeles, because that's what his brother did. When she inquired what would happen to her children if she did this, he was quick to tell her that "they didn't have to know". What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway?

You all and I know, very well, that a lot of people aren't who they say they are, online. It's hard to find, honest, good natured people to talk to.

Last but not least, I went in as myself. Sorry, not posting my Yahoo Screen name here, because then I'll just open myself up too all kinds of harassment. Most of the people that sent me messages, in their first line, said, "Pic? Cam?" When I would say no, they'd be gone. I'm not comfortable sending my picture to people online that I don't know. I have, on occasion, sent a picture or turned on my webcam, and people are utterly fucking amazed that I look exactly how I've described myself. I'm no supermodel, but I don't lie about my appearance. My question though, is this. If you don't believe that the person is who they say they are to begin with, why on earth do you keep on talking to them?

People are quick to ask to meet. People are quick to call you a fucking bitch, cunt, slut, whore, tramp, and many other things if you turn them down. The one conversation that sticks out the most in my mind over the course of our experiment was this guy that seemed really nice. I was almost ready to tell him, sorry, and that this was all an experiment. He was a 24 year old man, from California. We discussed what we each did for a living, and he had been married once for a short period of time and divorced with no children. He sent me his photo, and he wasn't the most amazing looking man, but not ugly either. He had dreams and ambitions, and he was really the sweetest talking man I'd spoken to during the experiment. Then he dropped the bomb.

Him: So, S. Do you wanna meet?

Me: I'm sorry. I don't meet people from chat.

Him: Why not?

Me: Because I've had bad experiences and I prefer not to rush into casual meetings.

Him: Not all men are like the guy you met. Let me prove to you that not all men are animals.

Me: I'm sorry. It just won't work. I don't do that.

Him: Are you sure? I'm really a good guy. I promise not to disappoint you. ;)

Me: Yeah. I'm sure. I prefer to get to know a little bit more about people before jumping in like that.

Him: You mean I spent all this time talking to you and you're not gonna meet me?

Me: No. Sorry. But we can chat if you want. (I still had faith this guy was somewhat sane and not a complete asshole)

Him: Fuck you then, bitch.

Me: Thank you for reminding me why I don't meet men from the internet.

Him: Fuck you. Suck my cock.

*click* He was gone.

The point of this post wasn't really going to be about that but it got a little out of hand there for a minute. My post really wanted to focus on the Emails I get that proposition me. Listen boys, girls, men, women. I enjoy the occasional Email saying you liked something I said but you were too shy to comment. I enjoy the occasional Email telling me to keep doing what I'm doing because I inspire you. I even like the occasional Email telling me I must be fucking hot, and you wish I was typing my next post while I was sitting on your lap. Innocent flirting is fun, and I'm good at it; but let me tell you this: I do not appreciate being propositioned. Maybe I do have a tendency to be promiscuous, but sending me pickup lines like, "Yeah baby, I could fuck you better than that asshole" or "Let me call you and talk dirty to you, make you cum" just doesn't do it for me. I'm not a phone sex operator. I don't care if you have an 8" penis. I'm not a whore. I'm not a call girl. I'm not an escort and I'm definitely not going to go for a guy that can't fucking spell Kentucky!!!!!

Any man that can't intellectually stimulate me, has no business trying to stimulate me at all.

Going to have another glass of wine. Since I'm a little out of it, this post might me a little bit long, and a lot incoherent. I


Sunday, November 11, 2007

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?

So, I was right. As my veins ran with infection, and my blood boiled with fever, I ended up going to the hospital and taking care of myself. Well, I went and they took care of me. My fever had spiked to about 104, and I really had no other choice. I'm feeling much better and I had a few ideas that wandered through my brain of things to write about while I was sitting there being pumped with antibiotics.

I used to carry around a little notebook, covered in clovers with me, wherever I went. It was my little doodle book, notebook, diary, book of secrets, or whatever you might call one of those things. Over time I had written tons of thoughts in there. Secret crushes. Romantic encounters. Arguments. So my little black (and green) book was always in my Prada bag that was thrown over my shoulder, and every once in awhile, I'd pull it out, scribbling something. My friends often wondered what I scribbled, but I never gave up the 'dish'. One day, this book vanished into thin air.

I looked high and low for this book. Under my bed, in my purses, pocketbooks, drawers, piles of clothes, under the dresser, and even in my kitchen cabinets and under the sink. This wasn't the only book like this I'd had. I have boxes of Composition books that I've written in on and off, over the years. But this book was different. It was a diary. It was my secret place. These were the days that I wasn't all that internet savvy and I honestly don't think blogger was around then anyway, but I've always had the urge to write. I didn't find it. It was MIA.

Two weeks passed and the book stayed fresh on my mind. One evening I was watching TV with my boyfriend and he nonchalantly asked me, "Who's Alex?" My heart stopped. I choked on the slice of apple I was swallowing and picked up my glass of water to try to drown out the dryness that had suddenly overtaken my mouth and throat. "Who?" I retorted, with a slight crack in my voice, my hand rising to clutch my neck, knowing exactly who he meant. "Alex. You know. The guy you you find irresistible." (I have to say, in my defense, that I often find people absolutely irresistible, but when I'm in a relationship, I'm completely faithful.) I wasn't worried that he'd figured out I was having an affair, because I wasn't; but I was worried about the fact that I complained to my little black and green friend that he wasn't satisfying me and I'd closed my eyes on more than one occasion and thought of, Alex. By now, I had managed to get up begin walking into the kitchen. I was speechless. I felt so guilty. A dizzy feeling was rushing through my head and body, and tears welled in my eyes. My face flushed hot and was probably a nice shade of crimson. My back was to him as I walked away, swallowing back those little chokes that come with the tears. I felt violated. These were my private thoughts. My private feelings, and I felt like he had betrayed my trust a hell of a lot more than I had betrayed his, just by peeking into my brain. The guilty feeling that had swept over me just moments before were replaced with rage and disbelief. Why should I feel guilty about expressing my private emotions out into a private place, meant only for my eyes?

I turned on a heel and asked him where the fuck my book was. He smirked and said he didn't have it anymore. The tears weren't welling in my eyes anymore. My hands were balled up in fists and tears were streaming down my cheeks. I cocked my head back and let out a cry that could've woken the dead. "You fucking asshole! Give me my book!" I was the modern day Carrie, only I wasn't covered in pigs blood and didn't get a tiara out of the deal. I think what upset me the most was him sitting there with a smug look on his face and this little smirk. A tiny smile that made his lips curl up on the side, just a smidge. I picked up the ashtray on the table in front of me and hurled it across the room. It slammed into the side of his head and I heard a nice *clink* sound. His hand quickly reached up to to rub his head where it struck, and yes, he was bleeding. Normally when I do something this impulsive, I run to the aid of whoever I flipped out on and profusely apologize, but in this case, I was looking for the next thing to throw. "What the fuck, S? What the hell is the matter with you? " he screamed, pulling his tee shirt off and holding it over the side of his head where the ashtray struck him. "I'm gonna need fucking stitches! God Dammit!" A warm feeling washed over me and I'm pretty sure I had the same look on my face he had just moments before that ashtray smashed against his head. So I scream at him again, in a stronger, more confident cry, "Where is my fucking book?" He reached into the sofa cushion right under him and pulled out my book. It had pages folded and a couple of post-it notes sticking out. I assume he had thumbed through it, page by page, marking things I'd written that he felt I needed to be confronted on. He didn't mention a thing. He had that defeated look in his eyes.

Needless to say, we broke up. I can forgive many things. I can forgive yelling, screaming, bringing another girl in for sex, bringing another guy in for sex, stealing my panties, hitting on my friends (as long as it's only flirting). I can forgive, leaving dirty laundry on my favorite chair, opening my mail, taking advantage of me while I'm sleeping, borrowing my deodorant, and leaving the toilet seat up. I can forgive, a lot of things. I think I'm fairly tolerant. Fairly liberal, but not in some Nazi feminist sort of way. But I can not forgive, cheating, spying, or betraying my trust. It's a short list, but one I stick to, most religiously.

I share my innermost secrets with you all that read this blog. It's sort of become my little black and green book. I love the feedback I get from people and I love feeling completely uninhibited. Thank you all so much for the well wishes when I got sick. I appreciate them so, so much.