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.

Friday, November 9, 2007

It was you Fredo. You Broke my Heart

A couple of days ago, I had a tooth pulled. In all honesty, the tooth wasn't bothering me all that much, but my favorite dentist in the world probably wanted to get even with me for vomiting on him a few weeks ago, and told me the thing had to be extracted.

Even though my regular dentist made the recommendation, I was sent to someone else. I can understand him not wanting anything to do with me after the last visit.

So the new woman who spoke in a heavy, what seemed to be Russian, or maybe Hungarian accent, had to be the most flattering dentist, ever. She told me the whole time how pretty I was, and what great legs I had. I know she wasn't flirting, but maybe she was trying to assure I didn't throw up on her out of spite for yanking my tooth out. After numbing me extensively, she said the words. "Opeen Vide, S." A yank. A pull. "OWWW! FUCK!" I was screaming. "Nut to Vurry, S. Eat is only da pressure." Now I'm no dentist. Would never want to be. Everyone hates fucking dentists. But let me tell you...this was not pressure I was feeling. It was a shooting pain that stemmed up from my jaw to my ear, and I let out another yelp. She quickly took her hands out of my mouth, since it was closing quickly and in a very powerful stride that almost snapped down on her finger, and she looked at me horrified, wondering what my problem was. "Vut is da problems Sveetie?" She asks. "I'm not numb!!" I exclaim, tears streaming down my face. She begins stroking my cheek with her latex gloved hand, and telling me that everything is going to be fine. It really was quite soothing. She gives me another shot and I was good to go. Pop! Out came the tooth, my mouth was stuffed with gauze and I looked like the female version of The Godfather for the rest of the day.

When I went home, for the most part I was fine. I took my pain medication, and the antibiotics that were prescribed, but I was groggy and having a little trouble focusing on anything. Yesterday, I felt even more yucky, and the fever set in. Today, I'm completely lethargic, feverish, and nauseous, along with a nice sized ear ache. So I'm assuming either she drugged me and took advantage of me, I'm like this as a side effect, or the hole where my tooth once was is getting infected, and I need to go to the doctor. I'm assuming it's the latter.

Oh, and one more thing...

You know how I vomited on the last dentist when he took impressions? Well, the stupid fuck managed to break my impressions and I had to do them all over again! Incompetence at its best, or worst, depending on how you look at it.

I'm sick. I feel yucky, and I want to just curl up in bed for days and days. I absolutely hate being sick, and I'm a big baby while I am. I like to be cuddled and babied, and I talk like a child in a high pitched baby voice, with a slight whine that would annoy even the most codependent of mothers. Boo hoo. :(

Thursday, November 8, 2007

When I think about you, I touch myself.

Part of the fun of anonymity, is the freedom to write about whatever the fuck tickles my fancy. Those that don't like what I write about don't have to read my blog. Those that do like what I write about are more than welcome to jump in, (head first), and join in the fun.

I think the first time I touched myself, I was probably only about 11 years old. I figured out what felt good from a very, very young age. I don't know if that many other girls at 11, were pushing pillows between their legs, but I know that I was. I had a best friend named, Heather for a little while and Heather and I would sort of explore each other's bodies in a non-sexual way. I remember when I first discovered my clit and ran up the block to her house asking her if she had one too. This happened often, running to Heather's house. We started wearing deodorant at the same time. Shaving under our arms at the same time, and masturbating at the same time. Neither of our mothers let us shave our legs until we were like 15, but we would time how long it took for us to cum or try and cum together on the phone. I know it sounds like we got it on, in a phone sex sort of way, but honestly it was just two girls exploring and she was never what was turning me on while we were doing it. I had a huge poster over my bed of Jordan Knight from the New Kids on the Block that did it for me...(good God, what was I thinking?)

So anyway, pretty much for as long as I can remember, I've masturbated at least 3 times a week, if not more. I graduated from pushing myself up against a pillow to fingers, to water pressure, to men. Yes, it's entirely possible to use men for the sole purpose of masturbation. Don't you think? I knew a girl that used the handle of a hairbrush. I knew another girl that used one of those travel sized deodorant bottles. I've always been fairly content with fingers, but I did own a dildo once. When I was 16 my boyfriend bought it for me so he could watch me use it. The stupid thing was terribly fucking huge, and there was no way on earth anyone was hung like that. At least not when I was 16... so his money and batteries went to waste.

From what I understand, men and boys have it much worse off than we do. Men sort of have to have it once they're aroused or they get a nice case of blue balls. (Do they actually turn blue or just hurt like they're black and blue?) So boys have to cum no matter what. If I was built anything like a man, I think I'd have to get off at least twice a day, so I really don't know how you boys handle it.

OK. So here's my question for the gallery. How old were you when you started and how often do you do it now? Do you use toys, or fingers? Do you get turned on in awkward places and just have to excuse yourself to take care of it? You can avoid the last Do you watch porn during? Look at pictures? Those two things have never done it for me. My imagination is key...

This topic sort of came about when I was having a discussion with a male friend of mine. This male friend, who shall remain nameless until I can come up with something suitable for him, said he never likes to stroke. I have never heard a man say that. Is there anyone else out there that isn't comfortable enough to handle it themselves? I'm truly curious.

Anxiously Awaiting Responses.


Tuesday, November 6, 2007

I'm Good Enough. I'm Smart Enough. And Gosh Darn it, People Like Me!

I haven't always been a person comfortable in my own skin. There. I said it.

I say that now, a little older, and a little wiser. It's always been with me, that my ass was too big, or my tummy could stand to lose a little. We all have our flaws. We really do. I can live with my flaws. It's taken me a long time to be able to say those words. Its only when other people can't accept our flaws that makes us feel like there's something wrong with us. Society tells us how much we should weigh, or what's appropriate. Last week,
Bunny touched on this subject on his blog, but I'm so annoyed right now, I just have to vent. This really is getting to be a habit.

I'm sitting here writing this post, because I had a conversation with someone this evening that offended me to a point I haven't been since I was in fucking grade school. I'm a little hurt and a little offended. It's not often I add people to write about, but I have a feeling he'll come back up at a later date, so we'll call him Scooter. Scooter and I had an amazing chat. Yeah. That's it. A chat. Now, I have on occasion, been smitten, only by the words of a person. It's easy for me to become attracted to a person by their words alone. I love intellectual stimulation and this evening he provided it. It didn't take long for the conversation to stem into this man pissing me off and offending me. I held my tongue the first time. I held my tongue the second time. The last straw was when he made me feel inferior, due to the fact that I have tattoos. According to Scooter, men like him, consider women with tattoos to be fuck buddies and not marriage material. These weren't his exact words, but even when voiced using large, precocious, words, it meant exactly the same thing. Whatever made this man think I would marry someone as uptight as him, and as closed minded, I have no idea.

So I'm fuming. I'm pissed off. I'm hurt and offended. By? Some fucking guy I met once on the stupid internet.

I've decided to give up my Yahoo Messenger for awhile. There's no reason in the world that this should upset me like this. When things like this to upset me to this extent, I think it's time for a break. Anyone that contacts me via Yahoo messenger can call me. If you don't have my number, I probably didn't like you enough to give it to you, so fuck off.

Fuming, I tell you. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!! It's his loss.

It isn't that I don't like sweet disorder,
but it has to be judiciously arranged.


Blogger Hates Me. It Told Me So.

OK. Not really...

Last night, I decided that I was gonna play with the HTML on my page. I initially started blogging to work on my HTML when blogger was still done in HTML. So, let me begin this short post by saying, blogger really hated me last night.

After playing with the few codes I knew, I hit, save. I meant to hit preview, but I didn't. Bad, S. After hitting save, I hit view blog. Fuck. Where was my blog? It was there. Kinda... The blog's template was completely gone! I have no idea how I managed to pull that shit off, but I did. I saw a white background and words tossed around like a Caesar salad. I swear, tears welled in my eyes. What was I going to do?

I have to give credit to my little sister, who stood by me through this dilemma. After trying new template, after new template, we finally agreed that this one was the most suitable and the least complicated. I do plan on changing it in the near future, but come on people, and let me know what you think of it! It took me forever to fix the damn thing.

Oh, and one more thing. I hate this daylight savings shit. I'm a little confused. We turned our clocks back an hour. So, it's spring forward, fall back. I can't seem to figure out when I'm falling asleep earlier and waking up earlier than I usually do. This morning I was up 5:30 am. There was no hope of me falling back asleep. Well, until I did; but even then I was up at about 6:30 the second time. I hate it when the clocks change. It gets dark at like 5:00. Doesn't quite seem fair.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Those who live by the sword, get shot by those who don't

Anyone remember coming home from school and running to the TV?

When I was a kid, there were only certain times I was allowed to do that. I wasn't allowed to run home and switch it on if something like, Full House, or Punky Brewster was on. No. The only way you could watch TV when you got home at my house is if there was an afterschool special on.

Afterschool Specials were hilarious. Usually they were about some young girl being pressured into smoking by a friend, or having sex. Occasionally someone died, smoked pot, or got pregnant. It was the closest thing to soap operas that we could get. But they were so unrealistic. How many of you have actually had a friend corner you behind the school and tried to make you smoke? "Come on. Smoke! Mwahaha. Smoke!!! Smoke. You're not cool if you don't smoke. You know you wanna be cool like us. (pull in, fake inhale) It's soooo cool." Fact of the matter is, if a kid wants to do something to be 'cool' no amount of these afterschool programs was gonna make that go away. In fact, the more we saw these programs, the cooler we thought these things were. So maybe twice a month we'd rush home and watch someone stick their finger down their throat and lose too much weight and get sick or get caught shoplifting and go to juvenile hall. But, was that a bad thing? Because all of the cool kids were super skinny and had been to Juvie, right?

Another show I really liked, growing up, was Degrassi. The old Degrassi were kids from Canada, a few years older than I was at the time I watched it. They were into young love, and a lot of the same problems the afterschool specials had, but on a more dramatic, entertaining level.

Last night, I was bored and couldn't find anything to watch on TV and to my surprise, I came across Degrassi. When I clicked on it, it wasn't the old Degrassi, it was the new one. I knew there was a new one, and that my younger sister, loved it, so I thought, eh, what's the big deal and sat and watched it. Holy shit, people. Young TV has come a long way. I'm telling you that the new Degrassi covers everything from rape, to handicaps, school shootings (he had to become handicapped somehow), to hard drugs, bulimia, anorexia, lesbians, homosexuals, testicular cancer (wtf), murder, teenage pregnancy, suicide, hit and runs, alcohol, gambling, strippers, teenage soft porn on the internet, sexually transmitted diseases, bi polar disorder, among other issues that kids these days have to deal with. Give me a fucking break. Now, I'm not a psychiatrist or a parent, but if I had a choice whether or not to send my imaginary kid to imaginary Degrassi, I'd rather home school. I think what bothers me the most about this show, is that number one, there's nothing wrong with teaching kids about the dangers of growing up and the pressures that come with it, but when they put it on models, actors and actresses, it becomes glamor to kids. Number two, this is not a kids show! It's like 10 times worse than All my Children. My little sister points out that of all the fucking problems these kids have had, none of them smoke. Now there's an oxymoron for you.

Sooo if you live in Canada, don't let your kids go to Degrassi. Or if you live anywhere else, don't let them watch it, because that show is for young adults, at best.

Update on my twisted life, Snow is probably leading me on. Mad Libs got boring and I stopped writing. I went out yesterday with a woman. No. I'm not a lesbian, but it's fun to pretend sometimes. Don't worry, I'm not leading anyone on, but is there anything wrong with getting a little bit of girl sex? I have a feeling that it comes with more strings than boy sex. We shall see.

So if you're curious about Degrassi, or don't get it where you live, never fear! Simply curious is here! And she has a link for you to watch crazy post traumatic teenagers online!
Here you go. Enjoy!



Saturday, November 3, 2007

Please Allow me to Introduce Myself

What is it with following temptation and then feeling guilty afterward?

I'm not usually a person that feels sorry for my actions after I did them. I can usually smile through things with no qualms and push them out of my mind afterward with no qualms either.

So why on earth am I feeling so nasty and dirty right now? It's so not in my nature. I don't want a guilty conscience, but I don't want to stop the things I do either. I'm not going to write about what I did...I'd rather forget, even though the memory won't let me this minute.

On top of that, I'm falling for someone. Someone other than the person I was with. Is it really terrible, nasty and dirty to close your eyes and think of someone else during the throws of passion?

Help. :(

Friday, November 2, 2007

I think Victoria has More Secrets than she lets On

After a day of shopping and lolly gagging around with my sister, we decided to head to Victoria's Secret to look for panties. I apologize if this post is boring, but I really have to take a hot minute to rant. walk into Walmart, Costco, Kmart, Target, or any other large store that sells panties and you come across like, 6 pairs of Hanes for $5.99. If you walk into another area of the store you hit the cute, tiny, frilly, pretty panties. Now let me just say this first, Hanes 'granny panties' are hardly panties at all. They pull up to just about below your bust line and they slip down all day long, no matter what size you get. The kind of panties that I like and probably every other female like are the cute ones. Especially if she's planning on having them seen, no? Cute panties cost a lot more. I have to wonder why. They cut off half of the material, the material is thinner and less durable and they add like, a couple of inches of lace. Cheap lace. They tear extremely easily, and once they get wet, forget 'em. So why do they cost 20$ a fucking pair? Bras are the same way. Well, I can hardly speak for normal women's bras because I can never find the size I want in department stores, but why are the cuter bras like $80.00? I think it's insane.

I would fully boycott Victoria's Secret and their cute little panties, but where else on earth can you find them so cute? Fredrick's of Hollywood is even more expensive, and they have about the same stuff. So my question, more for the ladies, do you spend more money on panties than groceries, or is it only me?

End rant.

Again, I'm seriously flattered that I got mentioned for awards. I'm loving the attention. Thanks to Eileen for nominating me in the blogger awards. She's been reading since day one and never misses a Send a little bit of your love over to my
bunny friend. He loves it even more than I do.

Last but not least, I'm semi-drunk so this post probably won't even be here tomorrow when I realize it probably makes no sense. But for now it sounds perfect.

Eggnog came out today! You have to love the Christmas season for that stuff. :D 'tis the season to be jolly.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Rocky Horror Halloween

For those that celebrate Halloween, or at least celebrated it growing up, you know it's a time for candy, parties, and candy. When you get a little older, it's the one holiday that you can dress like a total slut and no one will say anything.

Growing up, I loved trick-or-treating. On more than one occasion, I've kicked someone in the shins for not giving me candy. It's said that Robin Williams gives out giant candy bars at his house on Halloween, although I have no idea where he lives in San Francisco, or if it is, in fact, true.

Last night was a blast. My Mom and I decided last week, that we were going to see the
Rocky Horror Picture Show. Since I've been giving ratings lately, as to how things I've been to, were, I have to say I absolutely LOVED the show. I've never been to see it live, but I've seen the movie more than a few times. Usually when you see the movie of something first, the show is somewhat of a let down. Not so in this case. The actors were absolutely stunning. The costumes were sexy, and flashy, and made you want to just reach out and taste someone! One thing I can say about Rocky Horror Picture Show's actors and actresses, is that they completely fall into their roles. It's was fabulous, and I give them two thumbs and an ass up.

After Rocky horror, I met a friend at this Crepe place across the street. We then headed over to the boardwalk, only to find it had closed early. While we were walking on the boardwalk, it completely shut down. Lights were turned off and a heavy fog drifted in. I'm not really one to scare all that easily, but we were locked in! I could feel my heart beating a little faster and I was searching for exits, when a security guard came out of the cuts and told us we had to walk on the beach to get out. It's not a short walk...I wasn't all that amused since I was wearing 6 inch stilettos. I ended up taking them off and running free as a bird all over the beach. I was a little tipsy, which is a good thing, because I have to tell you, it was fucking freezing and I was running around in a skirt up to my ass and a thin sweater with nothing under it but a camisole. I went home shortly after that, after watching some of the most awesome costumes I've ever seen, had a drink and fell asleep watching Natural Born Killers.

OK. Last but not least, I'm blown out of the fucking water that I got blogger awards. I sometimes wonder if anyone even reads this thing. Thanks,
Angel, for thinking of me. You're a doll and I can't wait to see your new tat. So, I guess for the one Angel nominated me for, I have to choose people to nominate, too. Let me go over my emails, comments, and favorites to choose a few and I'll get back to you. Hope everyone had a HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!!!!