Simply Curious Girl

Tick tock...tick tock...

2012-01-31T09:35:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in everyone's life when they feel like all they're doing is waiting. It reminds me of being a little girl again, and waiting to grow up. As the days passed me by, I took them for granted, and it's not something I regret. We all take life for granted as a child. I don't think childhood is meant to be taken seriously, and all of you parents out there, think long and hard the next time you tell your child to grow up.

I stopped blogging for a VERY long time, and I'm not sure anyone will even notice that I've started again, but so much has happened over the last two years that I feel like if I don't get some of it out of me in one form or another, I'll explode.

Over a year ago, I was diagnosed with PCNS Lymphoma. Basically told I had very few options. One option was to operate which pretty much meant I would die. The other option was chemo and radio therapy with a probable life expectancy of 12-18 months. These are words I've uttered to no one and written to very few. I chose the treatment and my brain tumor decided it was content with that and so far, it's let me live. I'm not entirely sure what's making me write all of this down now, but for some reason, blogging has always been more therapeutic than actual therapy.

While life is a waiting game, make the most of every moment. The little things like that warm feeling before you get out of bed in the morning. Whether you have one friend or thousands, tell them you love them. If there's a special someone in your life, make sure they know how much you care. If you must feel like you're waiting, make sure you always find something good to wait for, even if there are a million awful things in between.

Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
~ Dr.Seuss

The Internet is for Porn

2010-06-27T04:01:00.000-07:00

The proverbial question in my mind today, is why do attached men that have perfectly willing partners need porn?

It's something that's never really made a lot of sense to me. So, you have a partner that's ready, willing and able pretty much 24/7, so why spend your time wanking at the computer screen? Seriously... her hands must feel better than your own. No?

Porn is something that's always sort of put me off. I know plenty of men and women that appreciate it, but it's never really done it for me. I've tried watching it on various occasions, but it always makes me laugh uncontrollably. The sounds, the positions, the people, etc.; porn just feels like I'm watching a comedy gone really, really bad. Same as hearing other people have sex. Mind you, I make plenty of my own stupid moans and whimpers during sex, but some people overdo it to the extreme.

I was in a hotel room once, and at about 1:00 am, I was awoken by the sounds of "Fuck me Jimmy!" My bed, being on the opposite wall of theirs, like something out of a bad sitcom began clinking against the wall as some woman on the other side of the wall was screaming at the top of her lungs. Seriously?! I've had some amazing sex in my life, but I think screaming at the top of your lungs is just overkill. I imagine it makes your partner feel like he's doing his job, but personally, if I were a man, I think I'd prefer the soft whimper when something actually does feel good. You never hear men going on like they're being stabbed in the gut repeatedly. Seriously, if I wasn't laughing so hard, knowing what was going on in the next room, I would've thought she was being murdered.

But yeah...my question is this. Why do men look at porn when they have a partner that can't keep her hands off of him? Maybe it's less pressure? Maybe it's less high maintenance? Maybe he'd rather concentrate on getting himself off and only himself? It's just a question. Anyone have the answer?

Fucking Weirdos...

2010-05-25T11:30:00.000-07:00

OK. So awhile back, I got this note on my door from this little girl named Lily (age 7). It was a no smoking sign. Now, no smoking signs I can deal with. Big deal... Who says I smoke anyway? COFF!

Today, I went to the post office and was gone for maybe...hmm..20 minutes. If that, to be honest. There was no queue and I zipped in and out in no time. When I got home, I came to find a new note PINNED to my door. Now, the first thing that ran through my mind was Homer Simpson strangling little Bart, except it was my hands around little Lily's throat. But alas...nooo... On closer inspection, I realised it wasn't from Lily at all. It was poorly written and it looked a lot more like someone who was an adult tried a little too hard to make it look like it was from a child. This wasn't Lily... Nope.

The little piece of paper PINNED to my door with what looked like a little sewing pin, said "I see your knickers." Admittedly, last night I ran across the living room naked with the window open, BUT all of the lights were off and NO ONE could've POSSIBLY seen me. Also the spelling on it was terrible, which makes me worry if this is an adult. It said "I see you're nickers" Yes... I'd be embarrassed to post that on someone's front fucking door, wouldn't you?

I was going to let this go, but to be honest it's quite dodgy and quite disconcerting. I mean, who the hell is looking in my window often enough to see my knickers, anyway? And if they DID see me run across my flat at 4:00am with no clothes on, would they seriously pin a note to my door about it? I ended up phoning the police and reporting the note. So maybe that seems just a little anal, but the police found it a bit disconcerting as well. So now we wait. Hopefully no more notes will appear but the notes have been saved and I'm hoping it was just a prank by some stupid kids in the neighborhood.

Cheers!

SCG

YOU eat it!

2010-05-18T07:46:00.000-07:00

Some people call themselves picky eaters. Some people will eat anything. I, on the other hand manage not to like anything until I play with it enough to be edible.

Examples of my pickyness. Is that even a word? Pickiness? Pickyness? Fuck it. I'm picky. Spell check doesn't like the word no matter which way I spell it. I went to lunch last week and ordered a chicken salad sandwich. Now, chicken salad is what? Chicken and mayo, right? So why do they feel the need to pile cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce, sprouts, and what-ever-the-fuck else she put in there. I can't turn my head for a second without seeing a GIANT sandwich. I go to the bench to eat it and pick everything out. When I say everything, I mean I was left with nothing but a couple chunks of chicken and some mayo. Even the mayo was almost gone. So basically, I ate fucking bread for lunch.

I've gotten a little bit better over time. I used to have to have all of my food separated on the plate. If any of it was touching, I wouldn't eat it. I'd make giant food volcanoes and have them erupting mushy peas.

A list of disgusting foods.

-Mushrooms - Slimy disgusting FUNGI that taste like ass. Not that I've ever tasted ass... Or that I'll ever admit to it..

- Sprouts - This includes all brussel (spelling?!?) sprouts and bean sprouts.

- Any kind of meat that's rare, medium rare or raw. How the hell can anyone eat meat that isn't fully cooked?!? If it looks like it's bloody, keep it far away from me unless you want to see it come back up when I try to eat it.

- Leafy greens - I don't like lettuce that isn't iceberg. If it's too green, I won't touch it. I also hate broccoli, spinach and cooked green peppers but I can eat them raw.

- Fish - Just ANY kind of fish. If it looks like fish, smells like fish or tastes like fish, I won't touch it. Drown tuna in all the mayo you want. It's still fucking fish. This includes all shell fish or chicken prepared like fish. Not happening. And don't try to trick me either, because I always know.

- Any food that I haven't inspected before I eat it. That means taking it apart and putting it back together to my liking.

I do have a slightly promiscuous attitude toward food. I don't like everything, but if I DO like it, then expect to have it everyday until you find something else I like. I can live on overcooked chicken and fruit until the end of time. Oh, and snack food. Nothing beats a bag of crisps in the morning and a diet coke. Breakfast of champions.

This has been a lesson to all you parents out there. Don't let your children dictate what they will and won't eat. Force them to eat their veggies or they might just end up erupting out of Icelandic volcanoes made out of mashed potatoes and green beans.

-SCG

Fear itself....

2010-04-06T04:32:00.000-07:00

I was sitting outside this morning, and a little guy walked by. No wait. Not a little guy. A REALLY little guy. I have never liked midgets. I don't know what scarred me to the point that if I see one, I start to sweat and have to cross the street but it's there. Call me evil, call me prejudice, I don't give a fuck! They SCARE me. Genuine fear, here.

Anyway, I just had to say that I finally looked up what the name of the phobia was clinically for someone afraid of midgets/dwarfs, and surprisingly... it was... achondroplasiaphobia . Jesus H. Christ. Achondroplasiaphobia is a really fucking long word for being afraid of something so damn small.

What are YOU afraid of?

My Preciousssss

2010-03-23T04:25:00.001-07:00

So, those who know me might say I'm somewhat of a nerd. OK. Very much a nerd. I play a lot of video games, dress up at events for said video games, and watch shitloads of movies.

I've been known to quote movies often, painstakingly Lord of the rings. Example, while hanging with my best friend, I would quote it ALL the time. She'd say something to the effect of,"Be really careful with that, it's old." I'd get all creepy and say, "Don't worry, it's my preciousssss." Nods and laughs from her. But I realized that my friend didn't actually know what movie I've been quoting when I said, God, how crazy was Gollum, hey? Her response... "What's a Gollum?" Now what the fuck did you think I was doing when I would say things like, "It's tricksy ya hobbits"? Or someone wouldn't answer their phone and I'd say in the same creepy voice,"They is not our friennnnd." And more importantly, what the hell did you think I was doing when I walked into a room and said in a deep dark voice,"I am never late, nor am I early... I arrive precisely when I mean to" while stroking my long fake beard...

Do you just think I'm extremely fucking weird? Do you just laugh at ANY kind of weird shit that I do? Maybe I could just say something that isn't even a quote from a movie. "Oh, what a little crickily boxily, I won't break it." Would you just laugh and say I was so funny? You bitch.

And I stopped and thought, what the fuck have you all been laughing at these past few years? When I stood in doorways and said "You shall not pass!" And you'd all giggle. What were you all giggling at? When I let you borrow my necklace and you asked if I was sure, and I said,"I choose a mortal life" Why wouldn't you say something since it was such an obviously bizarre thing to say?? You fucking twat!

Anyway, sort of moving on, I thought of some quotes.

Let's see who can name these. Remember please I'm a nerd.

"I wrote you every day for a year!"
"MerMAN"
"I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse"
"I'm 16 years old and I don't need a governess"
"No one knows what it means, but it's provocative!"
"I coulda been a contender"
"I'm in a glass cage of emotion!"
"Look at this stuff, isn't it neat?"
"STELLA!"
"Say hello to my little friend"

I suppose there are some references some people wouldn't get. Like, Lord of the rings isn't a film everyone would've seen. Maybe I just need to stop quoting it or continue looking like an extremely dim and slightly insane girl...

Only sleep

2010-03-19T02:32:00.000-07:00

I haven't slept since I got to England. Wait, correction. I sleep, just not much. I wonder how much the body can actually take before it just crashes, honestly. I get a few hours a night here and there. To fall asleep, it's green tea and a sleeping pill (or two). About 3 or 4am, I wake up and take another sleeping pill, but usually, I'm up again by about 6:00ish. I miss sleep. I used to be able to sleep until 2:00 in the afternoon if no one bugged me, but this morning I was up about 5:00am and just couldn't get back to sleep. So, I'm up.

Apparently, I suffer from something called akathisia. Which is basically like, a restless feeling that makes it hard to sit still and stay asleep through the night. I don't want to get on any medications, since my history with doctors giving me medications hasn't been the best. So, I wait. Like I said before, I know the body needs to adjust. We all change over time, and our bodies learn to get what they need. I just wish my body would catch up with my mind because I'm going slightly insane.

This song says a LOT.

I am SOOOOO......

2010-02-23T05:33:00.001-08:00

....absolutely, positively, excruciatingly, BORED. I mean, think about it. You're home and sick... What is there to do? You have TV, but I'm sorry, daytime TV in the UK is quite SHIT. Then you have your laptop or desktop, whatever, a fucking computer, and even that doesn't seem to do the trick because you KNOW you have nothing else to do. How many times do we get wrapped up in soem stupid online game for HOURS when we have tons of stuff to do.

I'm a great procrastinator. I'm an awesome procrastinator. In fact, I did all of my packing in one day when I left NY. We're talking a whole Goddamn apartment. I don't think we can forgtet for a second that I'm female and have tons of CRAP everywhere. But try fitting all of your things from your home into two suitcases. Whatever, I'm off topic.

When I know I have something to do, I find other shit to do so that I can avoid the dreaded task at hand. But sitting here, home and sick, I can't find a damn thing to do. I've literally had to stop myself from just staring at the walls for hours at a time. I sat and watched a blue screen on tv today for about 20 minutes. And no...I'm not kidding. So if anyone still reads this fucking blog, HELP!!! Someone give me something other than something stupid like Farmville. I know some serious Farmville addicts. Oh! Plus, I'm also looking for new tunes. I need some new shit in my ipod. I listen to a little of everything so any suggestins would be great. But first thing's first... how to pass a sick day....week...month. Ech.

2010-02-22T00:27:00.000-08:00

So, it's a new year, sorta, and I haven't blogged in God knows how long. But so much has been happening in my life that I just couldn't keep my little fingers from moving.

First off, I've made a huge move. For those of you that know this blog, if anyone is still reading it...You know I lived in NYC and I was going to school there. For those of you that have been following this blog for longer, know that I had a prescription pill issue that my doctor referred me to methadone for. I was emailed by numerous people telling me not to get on methadone, and I know now that it was probably the worst thing I've ever gotten myself into. I was still on it up until about a couple of weeks ago. I went to a clinic, spending over $10,000, to do a rapid detox. It's extremely hard to find information on this program, so I want to just let a little bit of info out. Basically, you're put under general anesthesia and completely detoxed. Then you're put in a room with a nurse under excruciating detox, for a few days. I hardly remember any of it. I was given a Naltrexone implant which is debatable. Apparently it's used to for alcoholics as well. it's supposed to block your receptors and not let your body feel any of the euphoric effects of either narcotics, or alcohol. It also blocks cigarettes I think. Or at least makes them taste like shit. So I have these 5 stitches in my abdomen which are a bitch, because of this implant. And since I've left the country, they can't even take them out for me. Yay! I get to practice being a doctor even before I've managed to reach rounds... I think it's giving me all kinds of side efffects but the doctors and nurses say that they're normal. So there's one update. Wish me luck because I still feel like shit, even if I am a little bit better day by day. Or so people keep telling me. I've also lost about 15 pounds getting off of this shit, which thank god, because I had gained so much weight and I couldn't understand why. Thanks Methadone. :)

So, back to why I initially started this post. I'm going to be in the UK for the next few months being taken care of by someone very special. Someone who has never let me down, and someone that I absolutely love dearly. He has been a good little nurse and taken care of all my pill times and writing everything down. They say in less than a month I'll be "myself" whatever myself is. I don't think I've ever been labeled as anything, nor have I felt "normal" for a pretty long time.... So, no one can blame me or say that I haven't reached out and told people what's going on in Curious World. Of course the fun part comes when I'm better, and I go exploring my surroundings. That should be fun. In this neighborhood, I have a feeling I'll have plenty to share. :)

Hi...

2009-10-29T06:35:00.001-07:00

Hi!

Bump that, BEOTCH!

2008-11-04T20:35:00.000-08:00

Courtesy of my favorite Polack. It couldnt have been said a better way.
Jus FIST-BUMPski!

Look Ma! I'm famous!

2008-10-17T17:51:00.000-07:00

This evening, after not checking my blog for quite some time (sorry!), I noticed I had, literally, thousands of hits the last couple of days. Wondering why the hell so many people recently took an interest in the Curious Girl's blog, I checked my IP tracker, which I also hadn't done for QUITE some time... Anyway, long story short, I thought it was the the coolest thing that I managed to be voted one of the top 10 in the bloggers choice awards. Last time I checked, I wasn't even on the map anymore, so I want to thank any and everyone that voted for me, even though I've been an AB-SO-FUCKING-LUTELY terrible blogger lately, and for this I apologize. Since so many people showed their appreciation for my annoying, rants, raves, pathetic attempts at humor, and silly sex starved notions, I promise, I will try to be a better blogger. Between work and school, I just haven't found the time to keep up like I used to. But again, thanks everyone for making me feel special, and I shall return with the quickness!

Part two, which will be semi-quick; I had a fairly icky day today. I'm managing a bakery in Brooklyn. That's my new, crazy job now. Today, I managed to trip, fall, dropping a bottle of Snapple, and slamming down on my hands and knees cutting them both (hands and knees), up a fair amount. So, I plead the ouchies and ask for at least one more week's stay... I'm posting proof of my ouchie for anyone that thinks I'm full of shit. :( Be back soon!!!

A new Adventure in Curious Land....

2008-09-26T02:58:00.000-07:00

"I can't believe it!" my mom was screaming. SCREAMING, I tell you. "That's so awesome! First you move away on your own, get into school, and now this! My God, S, who would've thought a year ago, I'd be hearing news like this?!?"
"I know, right?" I was BEAMING. "Ma, I'll get to buy new cute clothes and everything!"
"You know... this is huge, S...," my mother added. "It's gonna change your whole life..."
"I know!" I spouted out happily. "But you know, Ma, I think it's time. That clock was just ticking away and it felt like the time to do something about it."
"Well, you're entirely sure this is what you want, right?" she asked. "Ha ha... it's a little late to turn back now, no?" I laughed. "I took the test, even got a little pee on my hand, and, well, everything says I'm good to go."
"I can't wait to tell all of my friends, and just, oh... oh my God!" she was absolutely gushing.
"I dunno if that's such a great idea, Ma... At least not yet," I suggested. "I think we should make sure it, um, you know. Let's make sure it sticks before we tell anyone not immediate. But I guess you can tell Gab, and gramma.
"God.. They're gonna be so, so happy... To find out that you, my special little girl are gonna have,----" she paused, probably to wipe a tear of elation from her cheek---"a job!!!"

I mean hell, I couldn't believe it either. I even successfully passed the drug screening test, after spilling half of it and clumsily sopping it up off the bathroom floor. Yes, I washed my hands. It was a hell of a relief really. Because the last time I held a steady job was like, ages ago, and I had this stupid fucking boss, who would utter things like, "Make that more better," "irregardless" and my favorite, "for all intensive purposes" which for an average boss would've been fine, but this guy was an attorney, and it was a bit unsettling.

So, I'm going to try to take a little bit of time this evening to write a little bit about this new experience I'm embarking on, but for now, as usual, I'm fucking late. Great way to start the day.

-SCG

Ready or not, here I cum.

2008-09-09T03:27:00.001-07:00

Good morning. Salutations, and all that good shit. I have to get this off of my chest while it's still somewhat fresh on my mind, because I think of blog ideas all the fucking time and I manage to either forget about them or lose the 'umph' to write about them once I get home or finally get time to sit at my computer.

Last night, I went on this bizarre cleaning kick at about 1:00am (which is WAY past my bedtime since I get up at 5:30-6:00 every morning to make sure I get to class on time). I must've been delirious or something, because I cleaned my apartment, top to bottom, inside out. I ended up collapsing about about 2:00 (which goes to show you how big my apartment is, as well as how well I clean) and I was seriously, out. I don't think I've ever melted into bed the way I did last night. This isn't what I wanted to write about. See what happens when you try to blog at 6:00am? SO, after my cleaning kick and passing out into a heavenly slumber, I had some of the most a-fucking-mazing sex dreams Ive has since I was 14. Remember pre-teen and early teen year sex dreams? The ones where you actually woke up with your hand between your legs and that nervous feeling that you were going to sit up and your mother would be walking through the door? "Maaaaaaaaaaaa!" Yeah... So I had those last night. Lots of them. Over and over and over again... I was wrenching and twisting and turning and fighting with my sheets all night long. I sleep with about 5 stuffed animals, and by the end of the evening, I only had 2 left on the bed. Even Eyyore jumped ship and I've been molesting Eeyore in my sleep since I was just a wee one. Hot, dirty, unadulterated, (and monogomous believe it or not) fun. (You would think that I'd actually cheat in a dream, but nope.)

Anyway, when I woke up this morning... no... wait... I'm getting ahead of myself here. The final dream I had was extremely vivid. Im sure if I see my neighbors or the woman upstairs, this morning, I'm gonna get some pretty strange looks... It was hot. I was tossed and slammed and flipped and poked and prodded... and, oh my... Where was I? Ah yes... In the dream, I was in a hotel with my "long distance boyfriend". (I'll be amazed if I don't get slammed by the blog of unnecesary quotation marks after this post) And you know how it is. You don't see each other for months, so when you finally do, before you can even have a decent conversation, you have to rip each other's clothes off and at least manage a quickie, or you can't even concentrate on what you're going to do during your visit. So, in the dream, we managed a quickie, that didn't end up being quite so quick, and afterwards, (still dreaming) I got up, walked to the kitchen, (in the dream it was actually my kitchen), drank down a glass of water, walked past the bed, leaned over, clad in nothing but a tee shirt, and kissed him on his sleeping forehead, and walked to the bathroom. I know that some of you're wondering what the hell I'm going on about, but be patient, I'm getting there! I pulled up my tee shirt, sat on the toilet to pee, closed my eyes, and started to fall asleep in my dream. Is that even possible? I have a feeling some of you know where this is going... I'm falling asleep and in the dream, I begin to pee. A warm, relaxing pee, that was both calming and, wait... Huh? Waiiit! Fuck!! Im awake!!! AHHH! I'm peeing!!!! I'm peeing!!! No, no, no, no, no!! I jump up, still peeing, dripping and slipping across the bedroom floor and stumbling to the bathroom, pulling off my little red boyshorts and still half alseep, manage to get them off, (almost... they were dangling from my left foot) trailing pee all over my freshly cleaned apartment floor. I sat on the toilet, dropped my now soaked panties to the floor and peeled my sock off. One wet, sloppy heap on the bathroom floor. Lovely. I shook my head and got up. Washed my hands and arms up to my elbows, walked back to my bed, and felt the sheets, and they were dry. I guess I'd managed to jump up and pee across the bedroom floor insead of on my new matress. I pulled the sheets off anway, dropped them on the floor, and hopped in the shower. I have to say... After such a long crazy night of sex, I am so, so, so tired today. I wonder how I'm going to manage to stay awake in class. I've nodded off twice during this last paragraph, and I know I'm gonna be just a little late for Physics. No more late night snacks before bed.

The City So nice, They Named it Twice!

2008-08-22T20:45:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I've posted... What's happening to me?

I've finally settled after my crazy move to New York, and I should be up and running (not with those tits) soon. I miss you guys!

~~Simply Curious Girl~~

Not a Fucking Chance in Hell

2008-07-02T06:30:00.000-07:00

Ever watch late night tv? I end up watching the shit, all the time. Well, not all the time, but often enough. I'm one of those people fortunate enough to be plagued with insomnia if I don't get sex before bed. Since I haven't had sex before bed in AGES, and I probably won't have sex before bed for quite awhile, I have this strange feeling I'm going to remain an insomniac. This isn't going to some whiny post about how tired I am, getting u at 5:30 every morning when I don't get to sleep until close to 3:00. Shutup. It's also not going to be a post about not taking Ambien anymore, because it's been proven to cause memory loss and I'm too young to start looking for my long lost dead dog from childhood. In the woods. In the middle of the night. In my underwear... Uch. Shake it off.... This post is going to be about the shit, yes, shit, that they put on late night tv, last night. Last night, I was watching tv, at about 2:00 am when I was almost asleep. Almost... And then I saw it. This invention... This stupid. *blink* Silent invention.

So, don't ask me why I was watching it to begin with... But... Uh... I was. I don't particularly remember what the show I was watching initially was about, but there came a point in the show where they began to discuss the advances of bathroom commodities. I swear I wanted to switch this shit of immediately, just being tortured by the idea! Not only that, I also had to take a few deep breaths and vowed, “I will never let this happen to my bathroom!” What was it you wonder? It was the advent of a silent bathroom ventilation fan. I mean, what the flying fuck? Why would anyone in their right state of mind want to do that? OK, I understand some fans are way too loud, but for the most part they aren’t. However, the pivotal question is why do I like them?

Though there are many reasons, but the first and foremost of them all is that the vent fan gives you that aural veil of privacy. It may not be required as much at your own place, but when you are visiting someone else’s house it's surely a weapon of choice. Before you go “Ewwwww! Why is fuck is this crazy bitch mentioning all this?” Let me clarify that I am not really concerned with what you have to do once you close the door, rather what someone on the other side of the door might try to do. I am not just talking about those shit head little kids, but adults too!
Some... Hmph... more like A LOT! - people love to find out what you were doing in the privacy of that little 4-by-6 room. You know, when you come out they invariably ask:

“Oh, you had to go pee, eh?”
“That milk not settling well with you...?”
“Took you a long enough time to brush. Sure that's all you were doing?”
"Use enough water?”
"I hope you used the air freshener, girl... ”

Assuming that you went (ahem), even though the real reason may be that you just wanted to find some reprieve from this demonic idiot that you're regretting spending your time with to begin with!

I mean, don’t these people have ‘better’ things to do than to find out what a person went to the fucking bathroom for? On top of that, some of these furtado people will go as far as ‘casually’ eavesdropping on you while you go about doing your business in there. OK. So that hasn't happened more than once, but still, people can be fucking weird!

Well, while you can’t really stop these dingos from asking all those questions (albeit there are a bajillion comebacks that one can practice on them - Heee yaa!), their eavesdropping portion can surely be neutralized by turning on none other than TA-DA! ‘The (not fucking silent) Ventilation Fan!’ Ah Ha! I bet it’s annoying as hell to these intrusive druids when they sneak up next to the door only to hear –

A Burrrrrrrrrrr here
And a Burrrrrrrrrrr Burrrrrrrrrrr there
Here a Burrrrrrrrrrr
There a Burrrrrrrrrrr
Everywhere a Burrrrrrrrrrr Burrrrrrrrrrr

With the friendly neighborhood ventilation fan, you can rest assured that you have freedom of expression. Not only that, you can hone your all important singing capabilities in the hot hot shower for your all important soon-to-be-unleashed Best-Rock-Star-of-All-Time career, American Idol tryouts, singing to Paula, Randy and Simon, without any dumb nut singing along on the other side of the fucking partition. After all, who needs a back up singer when you ‘magically’ acquire the capability to sing for both in the shower?

And of course, how in the WORLD can I forget the synchronized dance number you have been practicing for the video of your number 1 single? Yep, the one that’ll remain on top of the VH1, MTV AND 'Top of the Pops' charts for 20 consecutive weeks? I mean, you don’t want the audial-tom to giggle his/her butt off when you accidentally slip in the bathtub while pulling those unbelievable moves, do you? Ummmm... No!

So faithful readers and others that I don't know but still should benefit from this important piece of information, I suggest that we boycott this new totally worthless invention known to every day dreamers as the ‘noiseless ventilation fan’ and continue to ignore it (it’s expensive as shit anyway) to keep the boat of the loud-ass, audible ventilation fan afloat!

Miss Independent

2008-06-21T08:41:00.000-07:00

OK. Let me start this post off by saying over the past few months (the ones that I actually posted), my blog went from fun/funny, posts, to a little bit more personal and sappy. Sometimes I need the outlet to vent and get some feedback on my complicated and sometimes extremely overwhelming life. This is the last 'personal' post I think I'm going to write for some time. Not at all because it's not what does or does not sell, but because I actually have my drive to write back, and while I was on my Saturday morning jog this morning, my mind was racing with things to write about. I really missed the flowing words that used to come so naturally to me.

I've always considered myself a "Miss Independent". If you don't understand what I mean, exactly by that, I'll explain. In my humble opinion, Miss Independent is the type of woman that feels like she can get by just fine on her own. I've never really needed a best friend or a man to complete me, or make me feel like my opinions meant something. I don't need backup when I believe in something and I don't need reassurance that I'm making the right decision. I do often struggle with being a more independent-type-woman, because it means staying pretty busy. Very busy, actually.

Human nature is wanting some kind of companionship. Human nature is calling someone when you're excited about something or proud of an achievement or accomplishment. This is no way saying that I have no friends, at all. I do have plenty of friends, but the amount of close, personal friends are extremely few and far between. I have a feeling that this stems from my childhood. This is a subject I've touched on before, so it doesn't need much explaining. If you haven't been reading this blog for a long time, or you have, but you overlooked this post, you should read it to get an idea. It explains a hell of a lot about the person that is, Simply Curious Girl.

It's obvious that I don't often open my heart and let someone in. When I do though, I do it wholeheartedly. Its not easy to do, and it leaves me vulnerable to all kinds of pain and heartache. The last three, (and only three) times that I've done it, I've made it very clear before I did, that I'm a very sensitive person. I'm the type of person that needs defending because I can't fight. I'm the type of person that would rather cower and cry than get in someone's face or scream and fight. So this time has been no different. The day I realized I was open and my heart was exposed, I made it advertently clear what kind of woman I am because I didn't want to get hurt. I don't want to hurt... Who wants to hurt?!?!

I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this post, because I can't really explain to myself, let alone anyone else, what's going on in my situation, right now. But I do want to say that my heart has taken a bit of a strike and I just need a little bit of comfort. Last night, I curled up in the fetal position, in bed and cried like I haven't cried in quite some time. My stuffed Eeyore comforted me like he used to when I was a little girl, and I just sobbed until I could sob no more. This morning my eyes are nice and puffy and I'm still dragging a little. OK. A lot... Why do I feel like my world is crashing down around me, and will it go away?

Before I end this post on a sad, shitty note, I really wanted to thank the people that have stood by this blog and stood by me, even through all that time that I was gone. The emails and IMs that I've gotten mean a lot more to me than I let on. So, thank you, everyone. I do accept checks and money orders if you're feeling generous. Oh, and of course PayPal.

Weary, so underrate my jury
fear me, I push pencil fury
standing over you like a mirage
hazard warning
safe sabotage

I underrated my rating
left the court debating
oh sorry baby, were you waiting?
in the clear but still fading

love is real man
so what if the ocean's rocks miss you
and in the beginning, it was actually pretty easy to resist you
but I had to eat the bug that bit you

I'm sitting under you
like a fascade
safe sabotage

tired of not running
ice cream sundaes
with you I actually love Mondays
and face a lot of mundane days
like a crossroad thats only one-way

Safe sabotage...

I generally post once or twice a week when I'm regularly posting, so next week back my regularly scheduled programing. I didn't realize how much I missed my blog until I started typing. I'm most definitely back!!

Come out, come out, wherever you are...

2008-06-14T21:14:00.000-07:00

Hey, guess what?

I'm back.

I'm going out of town for a couple of days, in which time I PROMISE I'll work on a post and get my blog up and running again.

I'm pretty sure you've all gone away, but just in case anyone is still checking this page, I'm not dead, and the big bad California fires didn't get me, although they were pretty fucking close. Another story for another time. Yeah, so, um, I have to do a short little recap post to let people know where I've been hiding... or not. In any case, I am actually, truly, promise, that I'm back!

Infinite X's and O's,

SCG

I'm going Insane...

2008-05-05T19:39:00.000-07:00

So, I have a twitchy eye.. Ever had one of those? It's like, you feel it. You know the thing is fucking twitching, but no one else notices it? Fuck.

So anyway, it went away, but now it's back. It's back and it's mad. It wants to be heard. It wants to be seen. It used to be that other people wouldn't be able to see it if I forced them to stare at my head, but now you can see it. At least, I can see it. I can really notice it. It looks like my eye wants to leave my face, or something! Needless to say, a few cups of coffee in me and my twitch, I've turned into South Park's Tweek.

It's my right eye. The twitch is in the upper eyelid, and it appears the twitch will go away only when I'm talking about, worrying about, addressing or thinking about the twitch. I searched the Internet and found a range of solutions. Ones that started with "It's perfectly normal," to "...Unless it's a brain tumor." Blink. Blink. A brain tumor.
The Web doctors seem to all agree that it's caused by caffeine, lack of sleep or stress. God, you've just gotta love the internet.

Well, I guess I'm just living with a twitchy right eye for the rest of my life, as I don't see how I'm going to get rid of one of those three things. I mean, come on people, I gave up smoking. I'm sure as hell not giving up my couple cups of coffee a day. I don't even drink soda that often. I drink like, a liter and a half of water a day. I exercise. I try to sleep six to seven hours a night. I try. In high school and my first year of college, I only slept four hours a night (if that). Hell, a few months ago, I was only sleeping about five a night (if that). I'm sleeping more than I've ever slept before.

Check it: I nap. Nap like I'm fifty. Nap like, "Shit, grocery shopping was so exhausting. Where's my pillow?"

I keep rubbing my eye, hoping that a little pressure or a tiny massage will help. I tried not drinking coffee, drinking more coffee, sleeping until eleven in the morning, and a mask. I'm still twitchy.

Then I worried that I was really sick, and that the headaches I get on my left side aren't from stress or some shit, but from the tumor I have in my head. I worry that I caused this by letting that stylist pluck my eyebrows for the past 3 years. I worry that it's because I'm worried about money, about traveling, about moving, about paying all of my bills. I worry that it's because I'm behind in my work, wishing I could just sit still and read a good novel.

(Sidenote: all I want to do is sit and read this novel I have, by the way. It's by one of my favorite authors and I think it's terrible I haven't been able to read it yet. But, to be honest, I bought it over three weeks ago. Then I read what it was about, and I'm so scared by the concept of the book, combined with my lingering feelings and shivers I got from the last one, that I talked myself out of reading it for the time being. I got too scared to read the book. How sad is that? I had to read a breezy book, to work up my nerve.)

Then I worry that I'm worrying too much and then my eye starts to twitch. Again. Actually, it was only twitching when I left the house. When I met with someone. Now it's just twitching all the time. Today I think it twitched more than it didn't twitch. I hate this. I hate having to feel it twitch all day. Nobody sees it, at all. Nobody notices it, at all. But the fact of the matter is, that I know that it's there. I know I'm twitching. It makes me feel all full of anxiety, the soles of my feet twitch, I can see dark circles under my eyes (and I've never, ever had those before), and I start to worry that every single thing that happens to me is another sign that I'm sick and dying. OK. That's exaggerating just a tad...but STILL!

Trying to avoid anxiety gives me more anxiety than anything else. Now the twitch is winning, you see? It's taking control, I tell you! It's telling me to think about it all the time. It's making me think that something's wrong with me, which only makes me feel worse, which only encourages the twitch to keep on dancing. ....breathe....

'Kay. I guess that's all I have to say, tonight. I'll pop back in, soon with a more, um, conventional, Simply Curious, post.

I'm considering the big move to Word Press. I bought myself the domain name, sometime ago, and I'm slowly trying to figure it out. What do people think? Blogger is starting to really piss me off, and it's sure as hell not helping my fucking twitchy eye!

Another year older, another year wider? Or wait. Wiser, I think...

2008-04-29T19:54:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in the far away land of California, this woman met this man and got married. So then they decided (hopefully after getting married) to have a few kids! Hey, guess what! I happened to be one of them! Not the first one though... The first kid is sorta like the first pancake, anyway. It never quite comes out right...

Yeah, yeah. Sure enough, a birthday doth approach. On the wonderful day.. of the first of May.. I was born.. on a pile of hay. OK. That's bullshit. I was born in Kaiser hospital sometime in the middle of the night, I think. I asked my Mom and she doesn't remember. Must've been one special night, huh? Or day? Guess I'll never know. I'd like to think it was in the middle of the night and the hospital drugged her up so much that she couldn't possibly remember the time. It would also explain a hell of a lot of my problems (if you know what I mean...).

Alright. Thanks Mom for birthing me. Thanks world, for putting up with me. I'm shamelessly asking for people to wish me lots and lots of happy birthdays and to please just make my fucking day, because I absolutely LOVE birthdays. I'm not one of the people that hates them because I'm a year older. I really just love my birthday.

So, I would rather not mention how old I'm gonna be, but I'm old enough to drink, so that's all that matters. Oh, and if you paid attention to the little bogus hay poem, you'd know that it's not tonight, but by the time some of you read this, it'll probably be Thursday the 1st, or even later, so I figured posting it tonight was a good plan.

P.S. For anyone that would like to send gifts, feel free to email me and I'll give you an address where you can send expensive gifts, cards with cash, balloons, flowers, etc. I absolutely love getting presents. Doesn't everyone?

P.P.S. Admit it. I was one CUTE little girl. And I don't care if you think I'm a bitch for cutting one of my sisters out of the picture. It's my damn birthday.

Girls just wanna be Mean

2008-04-23T20:40:00.000-07:00

Women are weird.

There. I said it. Men are weird, too, but women are really fucking weird. That's been my big revelation over the past couple of months. First off, last month I went to a babyshower. So, the shower is over and as usual, I was the "odd girl out," what with being the only person there not married, getting married, or pregnant...I kept running into the other room, slamming the door and chanting:

I don't want babies yet. I don't want to get pregnant yet.

Those women were trying to trick my fucking ovaries. I could feel them tugging with every baby picture or flash of diamond. There's something about showers that makes a single girl look like Pippi Longstocking. "Oh, she just doesn't understand, that poor, poor girl."

The conversation was about people I didn't know, things I hadn't experienced, and babies that weren't mine. Not that I wasn't interested, but I just didn't know how to react. Everyone would laugh at the secret girl joke. Damn, I never paid my dues to that club.

Then I'm in a restaurant the other night, and I walk into the bathroom to see one girl on her hands and knees talking to the other girl in the stall. They are talking to each other about how long it's taking the one girl to pee, while the other is screeching, "You saw my panties! You saw my panties!" Then the rest of their friends come into the bathroom and start talking about whether or not one should wear her shirt tucked in (prude) or out (slutty). They decide that the point is moot anyway, because she's spilled ketchup on herself and she's just gonna look like a fat slob no matter how she does it.

Then my new issue of a magazine that shall remain unnamed came in the mail. The "Girlfriends Issue." In it, they discuss the many reasons that no guy could ever take the place of a good woman in your life. I was groaning before I opened the page.

I've never kept a real girlfriend. Ever. They always leave. They stop calling, they accuse me of things I didn't do. They all break my heart.

I've moved around a lot growing up and I never had a solid group of friends. I never had "girlfriends" growing up for very long because I'd leave eventually, and we always lost touch. But the friends I've stayed in contact with over the years? All boys. The boys always seem to call me or write me or ask how my family is doing. The girls? Well, many of them went on to date whoever it was I was dating before I moved, or they thought that I was really trying to date their boyfriend, or they listened to some gossip that told them I was lying about something.

I've never had that kind of treatment from a boy. I've never had to say, "And you believed her?" after a three month cold shoulder. Because they ask me right away instead of it festering.

I've always marveled at how men relate to each other. A bunch of men who have never met before will get together on a basketball court and play full contact ball. They have no idea what the other person's history is or if they are fair or a good player, but they all play together, patting each other on the ass after a good play, arguing over fouls, but generally getting along pretty well.

Try putting a bunch of strange women together someplace. Take the doctor's office, the bus, a store. Do we instantly bond? No! We stay to ourselves! We don't want to bother anyone, and if someone starts talking to us, we wonder what this "crazy woman" wants or why the hell she's talking to us since we don't know her. We aren't open from the beginning. We let people in gradually, because we're concerned about getting hurt. I really do wish that women had that openness that men have, because then maybe I'd understand them more. I'd understand that need to share each other's thoughts in a bathroom stall. I'd know why women whisper at each other and stare at me if I'm talking to a "male" friend.

When I was a kid, my best friends were always boys and it was never a problem until I was eight, and my best friends D and R, used to come over after school to play with me or go swimming. I remember my neighbor freaking out that we were home alone in our swim suits. I never thought of D or R in any other way than just friends, (hell, I was invited to their weddings) and it had never occurred to me that he could be a boyfriend, because I wasn't thinking about boys in that way. But then we started getting teased by students and teachers and parents that we were boyfriends and girlfriends, and we got so mad at the label that we drifted apart when we were children. (confession: I drifted away. I was embarrassed. I just wanted my friends back and now I had all these rules and we weren't supposed to hang out together if no one was home and it was only because they were boys. Anyway, I'm sorry, D and R, wherever you are right now.

I've never considered myself a threat to other women, but I've often been treated as such. Being "one of the guys" my whole life has made things very interesting. I am always included in "guy talk," but for a while that made me "like a girl," but not quite. I could never get the object of my crush to stop looking at the cheerleader and see that the girl giving him so much advice was totally in love with him for who he was and was female to boot. I'm also a dork and a nerd, and extremely weird, but that's another post for another time...

As I got older, being "one of the guys" meant that women didn't trust me. Would I tell the guys what they talked about? Was I a spy? Or the very worst-- was I actually just trying to steal their men? All three, completely ridiculous notions, but things I have been told as I ask another woman who used to be my friend why she doesn't call anymore.

I've also noticed that being a "cool chick" to guys makes you a weak link in girl cliques. They have tighter bonds because they are united in trying to understand men, and since I hang out with men regularly, I was usually the last asked to tag along to shop or see a movie. I missed out on pining for men with women and consoling over Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookie ice cream. Don't think I don't miss the friendship of a woman, but I resent the fact that women seem to think that a man could never be the best friend in your life. My closest, closest friends my entire life have been men.

I once had a man tell me that every man that I think is my friend is just telling me what I want to hear to get me into bed. The whole "When Harry Met Sally" thing. I rolled my eyes to that (but inside become terribly paranoid that I'm fooling myself about everything, everything, everything) and told the guy that at the time no one had broken my hymen yet, and I wasn't doing anything to make them think that by watching MTV on the phone with me late at night was the best way to between my legs. It's been told to me numerous times since then, by numerous other men that were interested in me...

But I guess that's it, isn't it? Trust. Who do we trust to be our "Best Friend." The title passed around so often when we were younger, with some girls wearing three necklaces that said "Be Fri" or "Est Ends" and nineteen beaded safety pins on her shoelace. But as we get older, the name becomes more sacred, and we start looking at the Best Friend in a very Survival of the Fittest sort of way. We start testing each other. We start trying to figure out what she really meant when she said that thing about our hair. We get paranoid.

Because we are afraid of getting hurt. And with a male best friend, who may even be your boyfriend, those stakes are incredibly high. It's safer to have a girl as your best friend. But it sure is a blast to have a guy.

Sure, it's been harder having boys for best friends because inevitably they have guy friends who don't want a girl hanging around on some nights, and you get shuffled to the guys' girlfriends, who you don't know very well and have nothing in common with and you look like Wednesday Addams to them, but it's always been worth it. I don't have to wait six days to call a boy, and if he calls me on Thursday to see if I want to do something on Saturday, you bet your ass I'm going. Fuck the rules. I am my own girl...

But seriously, if someone could explain women to me, I'd really appreciate it. I'd just like to feel good about myself after a conversation with a bunch of women. Why do they like "America's Next Top Model?" What's the big deal about Matt Damon? Why do they want to know about my yeast infections? Why do they talk to me when I'm peeing? Why do they stare? Why do they stare? Why do they stare?

I know.

ok. On top of this very long, probably extremely boring post. I'm sad. I'm really, very sad. If anyone can say something to me to brighten my night, day, week, month....I'd really appreciate it. I'm having a very hard time today, that's seeping into tonight, and I'll probably wake up even more upset tomorrow because I'm about to go crawl into bed, mad, sad, angry, hurt, scared, and probably all kinds of other emotions; even though they say you should never go to bed like this...I am. I'd just rather be sleeping right now.

Fuck it

2008-03-31T20:09:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I was sitting at my computer, browsing the internet, when I came across this thing called a blog. I can't quite remember what I was searching, although I'm absolutely positive it wasn't Kathy lee Gifford's nipples. What I was looking for at the time, is completely beside the point.

There are very, very few of you reading this page right now, that have followed my blog from the beginning. I know this for a fact, because I honestly have no idea how the hell most of you even found me, or what intrigued you enough to keep on coming back. Other than the fact that I do have a fantabulous tushie, I think in retrospect, I'm a pretty average twenty-something female.

Now as to where this post is going, I'm having a little trouble spitting it out, because nothing annoys me more than people that feel the need to bitch and moan about absolutely nothing. It takes a lot to get under my skin. For the most part, I try to be friendly to everyone. I have never intentionally been a spiteful or vengeful person. I've never intentionally bickered or sat and gossiped about people I dislike. Actually, when I dislike a person, they never even know it. Call me stupid, naive, or whatever you like, but I don't even dislike many people at all. I give most people the benefit of the doubt, that they're good people and have no reason to hurt me since I've never hurt them. I guess that some people get their thrills and chills out of it though...Yeah, shit, OK! I'm rambling again. Let me try one more time.

I've emailed with a few of the people that read this blog. You all know who you are. I'm not talking about the one liners that people sent me when I was sick, or the cute little balloons people sent when I decided I was collecting them, but I mean genuine conversations, where I opened up and formed friendships. I've been told by a lot of people that I know in real life, not to get too attached to these online friendships, because they come and go, and I have the tendency to trust far too quickly and get emotionally attached to people. When it came to blogging, I found it fun and didn't let myself get attached to anyone. I kept everything pretty public. By everything I mean, my conversations, my friendships, and didn't take anything more serious than it needed to be. It seems to me that there are a lot of people out there that just love to dig deeper. They love to try to crossover and make blogging a little more serious than need be. Personally, I don't need the fucking drama. If I needed internet drama, I'd go in search of it, like so many people tend to do.

Honestly, I don't want any part of it. If people are so miserable that they need to pry into my personal life and make up bullshit stories about who I am and things that I've done, more fucking power to you. You win.

I've been sitting and letting this sort of simmer down in my brain, because I still don't understand the logic, or even the point, but I think I'm just going to go away for a little bit. I've never pretended to be the strongest person around... I've never pretended that I had the perfect life nor have I ever pretended to be anything that I'm not. I was always just myself. Anyway, I hope that the people that do read this blog regularly, and email me from time to time, don't go away. I'll be back. I just need a little break. Normally I wouldn't even tell people I'm taking one, but since I'm probably going to stay away for a little longer than a couple of weeks, I figured it deserved mention. I'll still be around and commenting. C'est la vie...

Get on your knees baby and....pray?

2008-03-27T19:40:00.000-07:00

I have a cousin that's going into her eighth month of pregnancy. Before you start bitching and moaning, no. This is not another anti-pregnancy post...I saw her the other night and made a comment on how absolutely beautiful her hair had become. She then informed me that when you get pregnant, the hormone that makes your hair fall out (we all lose 100 strands a day, or so) stops being produced, so you simply stop losing your hair. Seriously, she has, in turn, this crazy-thick, gorgeous, stunning, awesome and shiny hair! The catch? Of course there's a catch... After the baby is born, a woman loses her hair FOUR TIMES FASTER than she used to. FOUR TIMES! Babies steal your hair. That's fucked up.

**********

When I was in New York, I stopped with a friend of mine to see the inside of the old St. Patrick's Cathedral. While we were there, I decided that I wanted to light a candle.. After we left, I told my friend about my bright idea, and we ended up going to another, rather large church with stunning architecture. Nothing like St. Patrick's but that's beside the point.

When we first entered, I thought we were the only ones inside until I saw a nun praying close to the front of the church. I saw the prayer candles that I was there looking for, but I had to take a different entrance to get to them. I went back out and back in the other door. It was extremely dark and kind of eerie in the corner by the candles... I hadn't done this since I was a little kid, so I was a little bit nervous. I dropped my backpack and read the sign on the wall. "PRAYERS 25¢." There was something else that cost a dollar, but the fact that I had to pay a toll at first had really thrown me off. I dug inside my pockets, found no change, and ended up going into my backpack. Still no quarter, so I ended up pulling out a dollar, and figured I'd light 4. I mean, hey, I guess candles are pretty cool and they're sure fun to light. (No. I'm not a pyromaniac or anything... I just like lighting fires... which is technically the definition of a pyromaniac, but I don't enjoy it enough to burn houses down...whatever...shut up.) I folded up my dollar and put it into the little slot opening at the top of the box, and began looking around. I looked around for matches, a lighter, torches? Anything? Nothing. Then I spotted the other sign which in much smaller print, read "PUSH BUTTON ON TOP."

Blink. I rubbed my eyes. Double blink.

The Candles were light bulbs.

I ran back out as quickly as my short little legs would carry me and I found my friend. "You're not going to believe this," I said to her. I then proceeded to point to the candle display. "Nah, come on. There must be matches and real candles around here, somewhere," she said, squatting and then standing on her very tippy toes and peering around like it was going to change her view or the fact that there were no candles anywhere in the whole fucking place... "I mean, how else are you supposed to light the candle?"

I held out one finger, placed it above the candle and pushed the little red button.

"POP!" The little light came on.

"It's like a game of Trouble," I said.

"Weird!" (she giggled.)

"I know..." (I wasn't giggling.)

"I've never seen anything like that. It's seriously not normally like that." (she giggled again, almost uncontrollably.)

"I don't believe you." (me. still not giggling.)

Out in the foyer, which I'm pretty sure has an entirely different name when it's a church foyer, we read the information painted on the walls. According to the history of the church, it has already burned down. Twice. I guess they just weren't taking any more chances.

"Well, damn, S. Why didn't you light a candle while we were at the huge St. Patrick's Cathedral?" my friend asked, while still smirking and giggling, unable to control it anymore, so it had actually, by this point progressed to full-on laughing by this point...

"I didn't know I could." (at this point my lip is out about as far as a pouty lip can go.)

Who's in charge here, anyway?" (I swear I wasn't drunk.) I saw the nun standing up from her prayers and I slowly walked over to her waiting for her to pull a yardstick out from under that gown and smack my knuckles with it, "Sister? Um..ehhm...uhh..."

"Yes? Do you need help with something?" the nun asked.

"Well, uhmm.. yes. I do."

"How can I be of assistance?"

"Who's in charge here?" (I should note my friend in now sitting in a pew, with her face so buried in her hands becase she just can't hold it in anymore, at all.)

The nun raises her hands, smiles and before I say it, I can bet, you guy know what's coming. "HE" is in charge. This is "HIS" house."

(fuck. see? I knew I needed an invitation..)

I'm looking around for this "HE" and I said, "well...where is he?" I swear at the time I thought that she meant a Monsignor or something.

"HE" is everywhere.

"Kay, time to go..."

Sometimes, my lack of religious knowledge is kind of embarrassing. I did go to catholic school growing up, and my grandmother is absolutely devout. I, on the other hand, am not. I almost figured I was going to have a problem going into that church without someone that was actually from it or some kind of a formal invitation. I didn't want to get thrown out or unintentionally disrupt anything. My aunt tells a story about getting in trouble for taking communion before she was old enough. I know there are tons of rules. I just didn't want to be disrespectful.

But come on...dropping a quarter into a box and then pushing a fucking button? For some reason, that just doesn't quite seem like the right way to pay respects or send off some kind of "prayer." So Dad, I know there's no one relaying messages to you or anything but you should know that you were thought of and to prove it, there's a church somewhere with little light bulbs lit, just for you.

Ahh how I love the sweet bliss of ignorance...

SiMpLy CuRiOuS gIrL

Fatal Attraction

2008-03-19T20:23:00.000-07:00

Before you decide if you're in love with someone, it's extremely important to know if you're pursuing said person, or merely stalking them. One of these options is all charming, and makes your tummy flutter, while the other is pretty scary, and makes your tummy drop to that lower part of your spine reserved solely for your kidneys.

Now there is definitely a fine line... Some might consider Romeo a stalker, and he sure has hell had some stalkeresque qualities, but there was a mutual attraction there, and sometimes, that's the bottom line. If the love/lust, goes both ways, dive right in and go for it. If it doesn't, it might be time to reevaluate the way you approach your love, and decide if you've passed the dreamy boundary right into the creepy zone.

A checklist, If you will:

THE PHONE

The lover calls you to find out how your day went. He called to make sure your dentist appointment went OK. To see if you got the little note he slipped you. He calls to tell you that he misses you and thought about you during the day, and uh, by-the-way-have-you-lost-weight?

The stalker calls to find out if you saw him watching you today. He calls to find out why you didn't TELL him you had a dentist appointment and why you didn't ask for his opinion on a good dentist because he knows an excellent one and that's why you should marry him and have his babies...he calls to ask if you got the 5 letters that he left for you and the four he gave to your sister to give to you and the other three that he put on your windshield and the one that he left in your coat pocket...(how the hell did he get a note in your coat pocket?), he calls to tell you that he misses you and thought about you during the day, and uh, by-the-way-are-we-losing-each-other?

YOUR EMAIL

A lover sends you an email to say hi, honey. Miss you. On my way to the store? Need anything? love ya. xoxo

The stalker sends you an email to say, HI HONEY, MISS YOU!!! :( On my way to the bridge...will you stop me? I LOVE YOU!! XOXOXOXOXO!!!!!

THE MUSIC

The lover sends you music and will occasionally write you a song or two that's pretty awful, but you love it regardless...because you can hear his voice wobble just a little when he gets to the part about sleeping warm and nestled in your arms.

The stalker will compose hand-written lyrics and tape them to your front door...some that he made up and others he scraped together from somewhere else. He'll write you songs, too, and you hear his voice wobble a little bit too, when he gets to the part about breathing in your last breath...

The lover's music selections for you are probably going to be "Everlong" by Foo Fighters, "So Happy Together by The Turtles and Crazy for You by Madonna.

The stalker's selection will be: No one Else by Weezer, Walking after you, by Foo Fighters, and Right here Waiting by Richard Marx.

YOUR FAMILY

The Lover is genuinely interested in your family and is nice and respectful when he meets them. They ask about him when he's not around and ask how he's doing.

The stalker is interested in an invitation to the next family picnic or reunion. They ask about when said person is talking them to Six Flags again.

THE DOORBELL

The lover: One ring

The stalker: Thirteen. Just to make sure you hear him.

YOUR EXES

The lover puffs up just a bit around exes, and makes sure that it's known that he's the head man in town. He threatens (but only in private) that he should kick their asses for what they did to you in the past.

The stalker kills ex and leaves his rotten carcass lying on your front porch like a cat leaves its kill. He's sitting next to him, all puffed up, looks up with bulging (but loving) eyes, and says,"Who wants a picnic?"

THE NICKNAMES

The lover calls you "Honey," "Sweetie," "Baby." or "Cutie."

The stalker calls you "Eternal Love," "Princess of my Underworld," "Master of my Dementia," or my personal favorite "Miss-Never-Call-Me-Back."

THEIR EXES

The lover refers to his ex-girlfriends as "Her," "The last one," or ~~most of the time~~ sometimes even "bitch."

The stalker refers to his ex-girlfriend(s) as "The one that got away," "The girl from Canada," or "Little Miss Runs Real Fast."

Please people. Don't be stalkers. Please. Don't encourage stalkers. If you stand outside the door and go,"I fucking mean it! Stop it! I'm gonna tell my new boyfriend and he'll be really, really mad....did I mention I'm gay?"(that's encouragement) Just tell him to scram then ignore him...trust me. They'll keep coming back just at the slightest touch of weakness. If you even look like you could be softening up because you feel bad for him and/or, you secretly kind of like the attention, you're only getting what you deserve.

Love is a very beautiful thing, and if done properly, the wooing process is the stuff that the best stories are made of. Stalker stories are only fun to tell during late night sleep overs, cookie dough sessions, campfires, or to get some guy to get the stalker off of your back.

Now, Simply Curious Girl, you ask, what on earth prompted this story? I'll tell you. Not that I haven't had my fair share of stalkers, because believe me...I have, but I watched the stupid, silly-ass movie, Play Misty for Me, last night, and I swear Clint Eastwood should've seen that bitch's stalkin' ass coming a mile away, and I don't want to perpetuate that kind of behavior.

On the day that Everyone's Irish!

2008-03-17T13:52:00.000-07:00

So this is just a quick post to wish everyone a great big happy St. Patrick's day!

I can't say that I'm a heavy drinker, like most in my family. My sisters can raise a glass with the best of 'em and drink all night without ~~passing out~~ falling asleep. Even my Mom can ~~guzzle~~ handle her booze, when she chooses to drink. I, on the other hand, am a total ~~sissy~~ lightweight. If my father wasn't already dead, those few words would've probably dropped him dead on the very spot where he stood.

Whatever the case may be, I'm still Irish and proud, and this is the one night of the year, other than of course, my birthday, where I'll have a few with family; drink and be merry.

Everyone is Irish on St. Patty's Day! So raise a glass and Sláinte!

Dare I say It?

2008-03-12T19:28:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should start this post off with a little bit of explanation. I haven't been posting very often for the past month and yes, there's a reason. Not to worry, I haven't run away and joined the circus (yet) or dyed my hair purple and electric green, shaved half of it off and tattooed the anarchy symbol on my forehead to join some crazy cult in the depths of the tunnels of Paris.

Everyone has their own ~~lame~~ special reason for blogging. Some people are extremely funny (or think they are) and choose to share that with the world. Some people are constantly whining (those have to be the worst types of blogs and I avoid them at all cost). Some people are emotional and needy. Some write blogs so that they can keep their friends and or family posted on the happenings going on in their lives, while others start one just to be able to write about things that are meant to be kept secret from them. My blog varies.

When I first started writing, it was a place for me. A place to sort of rant and write. A place to hide from the world and be able to speak completely freely. My little diary. I had no idea I would accumulate readers, or that people would actually give a shit about what I had to say. I honestly didn't care if people noticed it or didn't, because I meant it when I said this was meant to just be a place for me to write whatever I felt like. I've been keeping journals since I was a preteen, so when I wandered into blog world, I was fascinated by how many other people opened up their lives for the world to take a peek in, and I thought "Eh, what the hell. Why not?" I like the idea of people peeking into my diary and giving me their opinions and feedback.

Not too many of you have been reading my blog since the beginning, but most of you have been reading it long enough to know a lot about me. I'm not a girl that's easily summed up in 100 words or less. I guess if I had to give a quick summary of myself, I wouldn't be able to, so I'm not even going to pretend to try. I do know that it's hard to reach my heart. Well, not extremely hard to reach it, but extremely hard to penetrate the wall that I've built so strongly around it. Many have tried and many have failed. I'm starting to sort of ramble and I'm sure you're wondering what any of this has to do with why the hell I've been missing. Maybe you've already put it together... But let me quickly run back to what I mentioned before. This blog is pretty much a place where I write about what's on my mind. Obviously something has been on my mind so much that I haven't been able to write about anything else at all... So let me take a deep breath a kind of just let it out so I can get on with my normal writing and stop feeling like I'm holding back on a huge chunk of my life. The only reason I haven't written about it is because I was afraid of judgment and what people would think. But you know what? Fuck it. I've never intentionally hurt or been mean to anyone in my entire life. Hopefully my karma is good enough at this point in my life that I won't have to regret speaking freely in a forum that's supposed to be friendly. Anyway, this is my diary. Right?

Simply Curious Girl has been bitten by a bug. Bitten. Smitten. And so it is written... I am completely and utterly in, dare I say it? No...can't... I have indeed become interested someone that has captured my heart. It's become difficult to concentrate on work, writing, and even sleeping. I spend countless hours sending instant messages, emails and talking on the phone. It's almost like being a middle school girl, all over again. I get the butterflies in my stomach that make me have to catch my breath, and an electric surge that rushes through my veins when we speak. When I wake up in the morning, I rush to my phone and send a text message saying "good morning" and I talk on the phone every night until my eyes sag and grow so heavy that I can't keep them open anymore. My family watches me giggle on the phone and twirl my hair while I bite my lower lip and grin, talking for hours on end. "You hang up first." "No, you." "I'm not hanging up until you do..." "Well, I'm not hanging up..." "Come on I have to get up early tomorrow!" "So hang up!" "You first..." Ah. I do believe I'm hopelessly in... Dare I say it?

Too Cute to be Straight?

2008-02-26T16:50:00.000-08:00

First off, I would like to say that I have a really hard time spelling the word "February." I constantly want to spell it "Februrary." And every once in a while my brain does so much of that "You know there's that 'r' in there you always fuck up," that I actually spell it "Februruary." I also have problems with the words, colonel (big thanks to colonel colonel for teaching me to spell it correctly), restaurant, exercise, conscientious, and vacuum. Needless to say, I'm very excited (another word I tend to spell wrong) that this month is about to end. I'm tired of writing the word and misspelling it.

Does anyone remember when Jerry Falwell proclaimed that Tinky Winky, one of the Teletubbies, was gay? Now, there are many things that could be discussed here, such as the fact that Tinky Winky is fictional, and that Tinky Winky doesn't have any genitals and that Tinky Winky appears to have the same kind of affection for both the male and female Teletubbies, who appear to be rather androgynous anyway-- but instead I want to talk about all of this "exposing children to evil."

Falwell said that because Tinky Winky carries a purse (or "magic bag" or whatever you want to call it), is purple, and has his antenna shaped like a triangle, that these "subtle depictions" are "no doubt intentional." He went on to say in statements, that, "As a Christian, I feel that role modeling the gay lifestyle is damaging to the moral lives of children."

If anyone understands being gay in the most purest terms, it's probably children!

When I was younger I lived in San Francisco, California. I had two friends who were a year or two older than me, who lived together. They were best friends who got to live together. I thought that was the coolest damn thing in the world. When I asked how they got to do that, they explained that their dads were best friends, and when their moms divorced their dads, their dads moved in together. It made sense to me, just fine. Rent is cheaper that way, after all, right? Plus their house smelled amazing and their dads looked like Darryl Hall and John Oates, and there was nothing cooler than that, to me.

One night I spent the night at their house. They sat me down and told me that they had something very important to tell me. The looks on their faces were pretty serious and so I nodded and my eyes bulged. They said, "Our dads are gay." I really had no idea what that meant, but it sounded really important, so I tried to play it off cool.

"Oh, yeah, really?" (see how cool I was?)

"You don't know what that means, do you?" One of them asked me.

"Uh huhhh... I do." (I didn't, and they could tell, so they proceeded to explain.)

"They live together because they want to live together. They love each other," the other explained.

And here I thought that was the coolest thing in the world. Because their moms didn't love their dads anymore, they loved each other. Now that I'm older, I'm pretty sure that the moms left once they found out the dads loved each other, but at the time it seemed so simple. So logical.

"Everyone needs a best friend," I said to them.

"They have sex," one of them spat out. I could tell that they had lost plenty of friendships over this, and they were ready for me to leave, too.

"Well, duh. That's what grown-ups do when they love each other," I said. "I do have cable, you know."

And that was all I thought about it. I don't think that their dads "damaged" my "moral life" in any way.

Children don't assume people are "evil." It's when they see their parents suck their teeth and shake their heads that they wonder what's different about those people. People just love to snicker and giggle about making puppets and children's icons have these "secret sexual lives." They turn Mr. Roger's Neighborhood into the Jerry Springer Show. Every time someone sees my Sesame Street books or my Grover cup some asshole has to start in with the, "You know Bert and Ernie are gaaaaaay, right?" You know what? Bert and Ernie live together because they are best friends. They're fucking puppets! They were seven years old! Maybe Bert was ten. Tops. Don't even give me the argument that they had adult voices, because when you were little, you didn't even give that a second thought.

Pooh is a bear and Piglet is a pig. They are also about six years old. Christopher Robin, who was the one making up the stories, was ten. They aren't giving each other blow jobs on the Hundred Acre Wood. They're fucking toys!

Why are all these freaks trying to ruin my childhood memories with sexual images?

Just let the children's shows do their jobs. Let them educate the youth. That's what they have degrees for.

Children start by looking at people just like they see themselves. Then they start to compare. It's when their parents tell them something is wrong that they question whether or not they should like someone.

I have a feeling I'm preaching to the choir, here, but for fuck's sake, is anyone else tired of this? Just people stretching for any kind of conspiracy theory that leads to the boycott of yet another thing that could possibly bring joy into a child's life! They have to make their own decisions, sometime. They have to learn about the world and people in it. Wouldn't it be simpler to have your child see a man in a gay pride parade and say, "Is that man carrying a purse like you do, Mommy?" And when you say yes he says, "Oh, just like Tinky Winky!" And that's it. There's no need to explain fetishes or gender issues until the child is older and can understand such a complex discussion. Everyone. Is. Different.

I started reading Stephen King books when I was eight. I read Lord of the Flies at ten. If you had kept me sheltered, I would never have been as intelligent and literate as I am. Because when does the sheltering stop?

Kids just want someone there to answer their questions. They are able to rationalize all sorts of things. But who knows? Maybe if Prince had seen Tinky Winky sooner he wouldn't wear so much purple. Getting my Prince cassette taken from me as a child for asking why Nikki* was masturbating with a magazine, and "wouldn't that hurt?" is a different story for a different time.

*couldn't find the song, so I could only link to lyrics, but I'm sure most of you know it)

Whisper it in my Ear

2008-02-22T17:59:00.000-08:00

I'm not quite sure how to word this post, which is very rarely a problem for me. Usually my problem is having so many different ways to say something, that I struggle with which way sounds the best, or which way people will be able to relate to. So I'm going to keep this post fairly short and sweet. I only want to ask a simple question, that might not be all that simple to answer.

If you had to choose a song. One song. A song to sum up you. A song to sum up your life. Your theme song per-say. What would that song be? I'd love to hear what song and why.

Freebird, by Lynyrd Skynyrd is mine.

Wow...I think this is the shortest post I've ever written...

P.S. I know nothing about Final Fantasy, but this was one of the few decent, clear videos with a high quality version of the song.

I didn't Escape. I Have a Day pass!

2008-02-13T17:23:00.001-08:00

I used to have this really cool boyfriend. When I say cool, I mean, willing to experiment. Not only willing to experiment, but willing to do pretty much what I asked for or needed.

I'm not quite sure what made my our hearts desire this special book I'm about to tell you about, but we ended up with it, anyway. The first page of the book warns that if you're absolutely satisfied in your love life, than then this book wasn't for you. I wish I had known that a little earlier, but since the book was sealed when I bought it, there was no going back.

The book came with a series of sealed envelopes. Half of the envelopes "For Her Eyes Only" and the other half "For His Eyes Only." You're supposed to sit together and pick an envelope every week to later be opened in private. This was you knew at some point during the week, you'd be surprised with some random, romantic, sex act.

My first envelope was called "Fantasies of the Orient" and involved honey and tea. Strictly following the instructions, I made a pot of green tea with a hint of ginseng (supposed to be an aphrodisiac?), draped a black blanket over our futon, and made my boyfriend take off all of his clothes. Acting like I wasn't allowed to utter a word, I pushed him back on to the blanket, poured honey on the inside of his leg, and the proceeded to lick it off. Then I was supposed to put the tea into my mouth and let it hit his skin through my lips as I kissed him. Yes, it's as hard and complicated as it sounds. First I scalded his neck and then I burned the inside of his elbow. Soon my tongue was aching terribly from the near boiling liquid, but since I wasn't allowed to speak, I just quietly sobbed on his stomach as I got sick from too much honey, and I couldn't eat anything for the next two days or so.

We decided it was just a bunk envelope and admittedly, as well as embarrassingly, tried again. The next envelope was called "Treasure Trail" (shut up) and it instructed me to cut out paper outlines of my feet to make a trail from the door to my chosen "hiding place," where I was supposed to "pounce" on my "mate."

Just a quick note: the only time you ever hear hear a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife, described as a "mate" is when you're reading some kind of sex-help book, or listening to Doctor Ruth on the radio. Mate has to be one of the most un-fucking-sexy words. Besides tuna. Well, tuna, and uvula. Those are the three unsexiest words. But the last two are hardly found tucked away neatly in the pages of Cosmo or Playboy, now are they?

While making the little cutouts, the little voice inside of me muttered, What the hell are you doing here? How old are you? I used my special glitter crayons to make the feet sparkle and say funny things. It really does take a long time to trace, cut, and color little cutesy feet to tape all the way from your front door to your hiding spot. Plus the card said I should make them go in and out of several rooms in the house...We had a two bedroom apartment, so I had the feet go into the bathroom, out of the bathroom, into one of the bedrooms (a storage room/office), out of that room, up the wall and around the corner on the ceiling, down into the closet. Just a little Lionel Ritchie in there to get him motivated.

So I'm sitting in the closet, waiting for my ~~dumb~~, ~~damn~~ darling, boyfriend to get home from work, and I'm thinking, Fuck, I hope he doesn't go out for a drink after work or something. He better just come home on time. I wonder what kind of idiot I look like in here. Ow. Shit. I'm sitting on a high heel. (Maybe I should be wearing these.) I'm thirsty. Maybe I'll just run and grab something to drink. No, no. I can't go out there, because what if he comes home and sees that I'm standing in a trail of my own damn glittery toes? This just isn't sexy. This. Isn't. Even. Cute. This, my friends, was solitary confinement.

He did come home. Late. Of course. And apparently he didn't even notice the new sparkly trail of feet installed on our almost white carpeting. I heard him call out,"Hello? Baby? Where are you?" I didn't know if I was supposed to answer or not. The book didn't leave me instructions for ~~when~~ if he missed the giant clues that were as bright as those flashing arrows that led to strip joints. Shouldn't these special circumstances for ~~stupid~~ special couples such as us, be covered? I heard the refrigerator door open and close. The TV snapped on and the sounds of a basketball game filled the apartment. Unbelievable. He wasn't even going to notice. What if in three or four hours he finally decided to do something about it? What would I do if he called the police to file a missing person report or something, and they came in, followed the purple paper trail, and found me asleep in the closet cradling a tin of Altoids, and an empty bottle of water, wearing nothing but my panties?

I panicked a little, making noises that were a combination of whimpers and shrieks until I heard him get off of the couch. When he finally found me, seven minutes and 37 seconds later, he looked at me with a face that read,"Hello. Did you get lost or something? Do I need to call a ~~psychiatric ward~~ ambulance? Do you still understand English?" Then he smirked and laughed through his nose, before bursting into full-on laughter, and then it hit me that this book was making a complete and utter moron out of me.

His assignment that week focused on kissing. That was fun.

I pulled out my third assignment. I was supposed to make a sex game creating two sets of cards. One with body parts listed on them and the other with verbs. I tried all week, but I just kept wondering what would happen if he pulled the two cards that said "Thrust!" and "Ear!"

I absolutely refused to do my next assignment as well, where I had to "innocently" take him to a miniature golf course (because we put-put all the time?). I was supposed to go to the bathroom, take off my panties, wrap them around the golf ball, and hand them to him. Can you imagine that?!? I'm sure he'd say,"Uh...S, what the hell...?"(in a nice loud tone) And everyone would look up to see my panties on hole nine. Besides, there are fucking kids on these mini golf courses, mostly due to the fact that miniature golf is supposed to be for eight and nine year olds.

The only thing I liked about this book was while planning the fucking ridiculous things, I thought about my boyfriend. I liked thinking that week that there was going to be some kind of special surprise for me. But in general, the two of us could be a hell of a lot more creative than that book, which still sits in my bedroom by the way. Mocking me. Feeling like a dork is a really, really bad way to spice up your sex life. And come on, do you really want me showing my naked ass to innocent children, golfing? Put, put, put.

Happy Valentines Day, kiddies!

Infinite X's and O's,

Simply Curious Girl

Whistle While you Work

2008-02-07T21:30:00.000-08:00

If you're one of my friends who was so worried I found some kind of rabbit hole or accidentally wandered off the face of this earth that you decided to give me a call or send an email recently, then you know the question, "What are you up to?" is met with a list of large, looming complaints that all overlap while having absolutely nothing to do with each other. You might also note that it seems I've been giving this same, impossible-sounding list since sometime in December. That is because it is the same large, seemingly impossible list of complaints, but now the complaints are really really real, and I'm not a hypochondriac, I swear. Hi. I love you. I miss you. I cannot see you right now. I see my mom, sister, my laptop screen, the lady that gives me my Methadone dose first thing every morning, and the guy in Jamba Juice who I believe is starting to know me by name.

Anyway, this pity time has caused me to develop Writer's Ear.

Writer's Ear is a constant hazard of my life as a writer, and I should have known I was headed right towards it, but I've been too icky to notice I wasn't taking the best care of my head. But last night it was undeniable -- Writer's Ear. My right ear aches, deep inside, like I'm developing an ear infection. Now, I haven't had an ear infection since I was little. I used to get them all the time. All the time. At least once a month I had strep throat or tonsillitis, and usually that came with a monster ear infection that would leave blood on my pillow and cause the most monstrous nightmares where giant ants were throwing enormous bricks off a building. The bricks would shatter and it would feel like my eardrums were bleeding. This was because my eardrums were bleeding.

I've later learned that those kinds of ear infections are pretty common for children growing up in a house with second-hand smoke. Both my parents smoked inside when I was little, and it's funny that we just thought I was a sickly kid. I'm on my back, ears bleeding, asthma racking my lungs, and my parents were like, "You need to calm down. You're stressed about school and friends and it's making you sick." No lie: even our dog had asthma. I got older and was home less often, and once Dad had lung cancer, at his place they started smoking outside. That last sentence wasn't a joke, by the way. It's the sad fucking truth. Including the part where all of us smoke outside. Together. As a family. And it's one of the few things we all do as a family. Still.

But this is supposed to be a funny story about Writer's Ear. So uh, ignore that last little brain spasm of a paragraph.

So I'm not living in a house filled with smoke, and I'm not seven, so the fact that my inner ear was hurting and popping whenever I yawned was troublesome to me. And then I realized it was probably due to my headphones. I've been wearing headphones for I don't know how many hours a day, and sometimes I'm walking and sometimes I'm writing or reading, but for a good part of my day I'm plugging my head shut with little buds that play loud loud music. I push them into my head while I'm at coffee shops because the cappuccino machine is loud and the constant pulse of techno they play there is even louder. So every day I mash these little buds into my ears.

And then, in the morning, I go walking. Well, when I'm not vomiting. Because since I've been sick, all I do is vomit. So now I'm mashing the buds into my ears so they don't fall out, and I'm mashing them as I walk faster, which means I'm sweating, which means I'm pushing sweat into my ear canal and then plugging it up. I've made an ear terrarium, and I'm wondering why my ear might have developed an infection? I'm not so smart sometimes.

Writer's Ear has other side effects, which include getting so focused on whatever it is you've been writing all day that you zone out of conversations, end up taking showers that last close to half an hour, and can't do anything without pulling a pen and the back of an envelope out of your purse to jot down sixteen things you thought about in the time it took for you to get from your house to the clinic which is 15 minutes away, driving.

Writer's Ear is more annoying to the rest of the people in your life than yourself, because you are constantly:

A) Distant.
B) Distracted.
C) Bitching about your ear hurting.
D) Talking about iPod headphones.

I've switched to the headphones that don't go inside my ears, which are too big for my head and don't block out sound the way I'd like, but I think I need to give the inside of my right ear some time to dry out. I can deal with it right now, while I'm sitting here at home and sitting still and writing, but it was a pain in the ass this morning, when I was trying to actually get things done. And I can't really stop walking, you see, because I don't have a driver's license and I'm at constant war with Office Ass even though I don't work in an office.

I am battling Office Ass with everything that I am. This is also a condition that makes others suffer because it makes you:

A) Hate yourself.
B) Tell everybody you hate yourself.
C) Feel extreme guilt about every calorie consumed.
D) Apologize for wearing clothes.
E) Constantly fluctuate between indulging and punishing yourself.
F) Constantly discuss the waves of guilt that involve the size of your own ass.
G) Forget that others really don't want to spend their day telling you how not fat you are, when you know for a fact that you are and they are all liars.
H) Lose all of your friends. (see A-G)

I do a pretty good job avoiding most of the junky food my house has to offer. I've ordered every soup and salad combo Santa Cruz County has to offer. But I have a hard time resisting some of the Starbucks treats when they're right in front of me, beckoning. "You'll come up with the best blog posts if you have just a taste of sugar. With pumpkin. And chocolate."

I was recently complaining about Office Ass to my friend Elizabeth. "You don't look fat," she says. "But. Are you snacking in between meals?"

There isn't a word to describe how guilty I sounded when I responded, "Kinda."

Elizabeth summons her inner Dr. Phil. "Look. You're working hard, and you've been sick and you're detoxing. You can try not to eat, but you're still walking some, and you look fine, and you won't always feel like this and then you'll lose anything you gained in like a week when you go back to normal living. So what if you gain a couple of pounds. You're sick. Skinny is not always more fun. Quit beating yourself up about it."

Still.

Office Ass is a concern of more and more people as the holidays end. The other night I was with a group of people discussing Weight Watchers, and more specifically, what the hell a POINT was. This conversation, I should mention, was led by a heterosexual man. Sympathetic women were trying to soothe him as he basically admitted he was fucking starving and hated life, but dammit if he wasn't going to stick to his alloted points. One of them found the entire points thing fascinating. "How many points is a bag of Doritos? Wow! How many points in, like, a pint of Ben and Jerry's? Holy crap." A couple of years ago I tried to explain the maddening reality of my best friend's metabolism, which allows her to have Guinness and ice cream for a midnight snack without even a single calorie hanging around to cling to her body. (It's maddening! Maddening, I tell you!)

OK. I don't have a lot more to say today. I'm actually supposed to be writing a review for some hotel in Pennsylvania for peanuts, that I've never actually been to, but hey, at least it's money, and it keeps my mind off of how fucking sick I am. But this is another place where I'm supposed to write, to check in to say I'm okay. It is, in many ways, the only way some of my friends have proof I'm alive. So hi. All of this which is to say, I'm fine. I'm a dork, but I'm fine. And thanks for the emails, and checking in on me, even though I've been neglecting this blog and neglecting so many of you that seem to care so much about me, but I'm just so fucking sick and haven't held ANYTHING down for over a week. Again, I'm rambling! Hopefully, soon enough my writing will be back up to par and I'll stop being so annoying. I know I'm boring you all lately. I'm even boring me.

It's a nice day for a....white wedding

2008-02-03T18:42:00.000-08:00

OK. That's it. I'm not drinking an energy boost drink EVER AGAIN.

I have a nice energy boost and everything, what with all the chemicals they put in that thing, but the nightmares that I have at night are simply terrible! I had my first Red Bull the other night and slept horribly. I kept dreaming that someone was chasing me and trying to kill me. My sister said she woke me up about three times that night because I was kicking and yelling.

I thought briefly about the Red Bull, but then decided it was just me being really tired that caused the dreams.

Well, last night being that most of the day I was pretty lethargic and sick, I had another energy drink because I was feeling really tired and I had the worst dream last night.

It was one of those dreams where you wake up going, "Oh, man. It's just a dream."

OK. So in the dream I'm getting married to this guy I know and like who shall remain unnamed for the time being until something between us changes. But for some reason this wedding was just sort of thrown together. I don't even think I'm wearing a bridal gown. There's all sorts of people there that I know, but they all look miserable-- like I've called them to a meeting. We have to wait in line for the couple before us to get married so that I can, and then when it's time, we're married before I even know what's happening. There's like, no ceremony at all. Then the photographer is pulling on my arm, "Hey, I forgot to take any pictures, so could you guys all stand in the center here and pretend you're having a good time?"

So we're all fake dancing in the center of this room where there's all these overturned chairs and tables and it's a mess and I see my reflection and I look like shit. I start trying to cheer all of my friends up, but they don't want to talk to each other, so some of them have moved on to other rooms and some are hiding and some are just getting drunk. I try to go out the front but someone stops me and says that my mother is out there getting the cake ready and getting my presents together.

I was really mad because some of my best friends didn't show up, but people who I think are only nice to me in person but are evil behind my back all were there, trying to kiss my cheek and tell me how happy they were for me.

I go to try and cheer someone else up, who for some reason is sitting on a wall with a couple of people I knew from high school and she tells me that I'm not going to get any cake if I don't hurry.

She was right. The cake was all gone. The presents were in a jumbled pile by the door and quite a mess.

I walked outside and sat in the grass. There were some Star Wars action figures there, so I picked them up and started playing with them like dolls. I made a little box-chair and was pretending that the Star Wars guys had gone to a strip club and the girl action figures were dancing for them. People were walking by and staring, but I didn't give a shit. I started rolling in the grass and creating this whole world for my action figure dolls just like I did when I was a kid. Some guy came up to me and told me that he didn't know what to get me for my wedding gift because I never registered anywhere and he had no idea what I would like. That's when it all hit me. I was married, I had no wedding presents that were any good, and I couldn't remember the ceremony. Then I sort of woke up in the dream and realized that I was in the bed alone. I was very upset that the last thing I remembered about my wedding night was playing with Star Wars action figures.

I went to my computer and sat down to write a blog entry and I thought to myself, "What am I going to tell everyone? They are expecting me to type 'Well, I'm a taken woman, now. Everything was beautiful. All went just as planned. Off to Cancun!' But instead I want to write, 'Could someone tell me what the fuck happened? Why did I spend my wedding night alone?'"

I went and found the guy I married, who was sleeping alone in a bed. He looked like he had been out drinking all night long. I woke him up. "Hey," I said, shaking his leg, "What happened last night? I never saw you?"

"Well, you were asleep," he said, "I didn't want to wake you."

"I just remembered we never planned a honeymoon."

"Well, you needed this wedding so badly, I guess it never occurred to you that we could use this ceremony as a chance to better our lives together."

"We didn't get any presents. We got one thing that looked like it wasn't an ash tray, and it's a battery charger."

"We didn't get any money."

"We don't have anything to do now. I don't even really remember it."

"That's fucking great."

"I just feel like maybe you are mad at me," I said to him.

"Really? Why do you think that?"

"Well, I just feel like maybe you didn't want to get married to me and you were doing it to be nice and now you hate me. I think you think we made a mistake."

Then his face somehow morphed into David Spade's: "Oh. You think?"

And I woke up yelling.

I've had wedding nightmares before. Once I dreamt that I was sitting around watching the sunset, and for some reason I knew that I had taken LSD, and since I've never taken LSD in my life I was curious as to what it would do to me. I was able to sit in the air and lean back like I was in a rocking chair and watch the sunset. When it was all over, I walked home feeling really safe-- until I accidentally walked onto a highway, and the concrete sides were too high and I thought I was going to be killed. When I made it home there was a huge party in my driveway and everyone was hugging me and telling me how beautiful I was. I asked my mother what everyone was talking about and she said, "Your wedding, silly."

I looked down at my hand and I had a ring there. The boyfriend that I had at the time really wanted to get married and I didn't, and in this dream he had drugged me, planned and went through a wedding. That's when I knew it was time to get out of the relationship. I was so upset that I had missed my wedding.

Anyway, I'm feeling a little bit better. I know I dropped a bombshell in my last post, but I really needed to lighten up my page a little bit. I don't want this blog to become one of those blogs I avoid and I don't want it not to be any different. I'm still feeling pretty yucky, but that's because I now have pneumonia on top of being on Methadone now. Actually, they've pretty much stabilized my dose which means that I'm not feeling symptoms of withdrawal at all, but the pneumonia is making up for it. Tonight is going to be one of my better nights. I can just feel it. Well, as long as I don't wake up in a Billy Idol video.

No more Red Bull. I mean it.

Oh, one last thing, if you've had the attention span to get this far into my post, I found this shit this morning and it scared me. So if Red Bull isn't giving me nightmares, I believe this has a fair shot. I tried to post the video but can only hyper link it.

Once the Drugs are Done...I feel like Dying

2008-01-29T15:03:00.000-08:00

I want to say before I write this post, that I'm not looking to be judged. I know that opening my personal life up on the internet is asking for a bunch of assholes to make me feel like shit, but I'm going to write about this subject anyway, and just hope for support instead of assholes making me feel worse.

About a year ago, I was prescribed a prescription pain killer. Who am I to say I didn't enjoy pretty much every moment of being on that pain killer. It was a bottle of some pretty strong shit, and it had a bunch of refills. Yes. It was a narcotic. Yes. I kept taking it even after I wasn't in physical pain anymore.

After some time, I realized I wasn't taking these pills for pain at all anymore. I would take them like clockwork first thing in the morning. After lunch, I'd take them. Before bed, I'd take a couple more. So, three times a day, without being in pain or even getting high for that matter, I was pumping myself full of narcotics. My doctor kept refilling my prescription, without asking me how my pain was doing.

A few months ago, it hit me. I'm addicted to prescription pain medication. I spoke with my doctor about this, and she assured me that it would be better to "ween" me off of the medications instead of just quitting cold turkey. She told me that it would be painful and I probably wouldn't stick to it. Slowly I began to "ween" off of the pills, when it hit me again. I just, can't, do this. I told her I wasn't ready to "ween" so sure enough, she said "No problem" and gave me my prescriptions back. At the time I was thinking of what a cool doctor I have. Now I'm looking back thinking what an idiot she is. Why the fuck would she allow me to stay addicted? Why wouldn't she tell me to suck it up and get off of them before it got any worse?

It got worse. I don't walk around high. I don't get high at all. but when I don't take my prescription pills, I can't function. I sweat. I shake. I vomit. It's like all the symptoms of every flu you've had all thrown into one fucked up flu that there's no cure for, except for taking my damn pills.

Today I took the first step. Over the past few weeks I've been looking into programs and trying to find a place that helped to treat this addiction. I honestly don't feel alone in this. It's more common than I thought for people to become addicted to these medications and for doctors to keep the addiction going by doling out more pills with stronger prescriptions instead of helping their patient. I went to have blood drawn this afternoon, and Thursday I'll be starting a methadone detox program. I've been told by a few people I know, that this isn't the way to go. A lot of people are concerned for me, becoming just as addicted to methadone as I am to these pills, but I can't imagine myself, as young as I am, flushing my life down the toilet for an addiction that I know I can beat before it gets any worse than it already is.

For now my plan is to start the program this Thursday. (I have to go in under complete withdrawal symptoms, which is something that I've never let happen, and it scares me to death) I'll have an intake and they'll give me my first dose. It's supposed to completely wipe out all symptoms of withdrawal within half an hour and the dose will last me 24 hours. I will have to go in every morning, as long as I'm part of the program. Since my insurance doesn't cover "detox" I'll be on "maintenance" instead. So instead of a 21 day program, I'll set up a treatment plan and detox over the next 4 months instead of 1.

I hope everyone that reads this blog understands how hard it was for me to write this post. It's going to be a pretty bumpy road over the next few months, but I hope everyone is here for me and understands that this could've happened to any of you, just like it has to me.

The Baby Itch

2008-01-23T20:10:00.000-08:00

Well, I got the phone call I’ve been waiting on for a while: two of my best friends in the world are finally having a baby. They'd been trying forever, it seems, and they're very happy to be one month along. They keep repeating that they know they aren't "out of the woods," which only strengthens that myth of storks leaving babies in gardens and cabbage patches way out in the middle of nowhere (or "the nowhere", as my newly-pregnant friend was mocked for saying). I always imagined mothers crawling through thorny vines and poison ivy, shielding their tiny infants in their hands, both faces streaked in mud until they both found a warm home. So really, finding out when I was a little bit older, that I instead came from a belly was a relief.

Anyway, my cousin is due to have her baby in about a month and a half. My friend had another baby a few months ago. A guy that works in my Mom's office just got forced into marriage because he 'accidentally' got his girlfriend pregnant. Stars are having babies left and right. One of my other friends is trying with his wife, too. "Forever!" I said to him the other night. "You're having a kid forever. It's not just some kind of summer thing or like, a five-day rental. Forever."

He nodded with that look that says, "I love it. But hey, run while you've still got the chance."

Why don't I have the baby itch? Particularly with the way everyone on television wants to remind me lately that my insides are ticking away like the stopwatch on 60 Minutes and how I've only got so many years left before it's too late!!!!!. Even scare tactics aren't working on me. Sure, I get all cutesy when I see an adorable baby do something so adorably babyish, like chew on a fist or point at me when I cross my eyes and wiggle my nose at him or her. But there's no ache inside, no pull with a whisper, "Baaaaaay-beeeeeee."

Nothing. In fact, that tiny voice inside me often says, "Oh, thank God. No baby. Whew. Can you imagine?"

I'm exhausted from a day that involves waking up, showering and dealing with the basics of day to day life. I was exhausted after trying to take a cell phone call inside of a building with shitty reception because the call was to cancel an appointment and I couldn't quite make out what was being said. That was exhausting to me. Clearly I'm not ready for any kind of responsibility involving another person's upbringing for the rest of my life. The rest of my life. I get irritated when the dogs climb over me in the middle of the night, almost pushing me out of bed. I honestly don’t think that I have the patience motherhood requires at this point in time.

Sometimes it makes me feel like a bad person, though. I feel like I'm not being a good enough woman, that I'm not trying to hurry up, get married, buy a house, "settle down" and start a family. "Settle down." That's what my Mom would always say to my sister and me when we were jumping on our mattress or running through the house playing Tag.

"Girls!! Settle down!"

It meant, "Quit acting like a fucking idiot and shut up!" Now it means, "Quit pretending you don't want what we all have. It's why you're on this earth. You're supposed to sit still and be quiet and let someone else be loud and obnoxious for a change. You're done. Be done. Just sit still for once."

Settle down. Buy a house. Stop renting. Stop chasing. Start planning for a future. Get a savings account. Invest. Get a CD that doesn't have Flogging Molly on the cover. The kind I can't touch until I'm in my fifties.

I can't imagine stopping my life and changing every aspect to raise a child. I just can’t imagine how I would do that. And the fact that I'm not even slightly upset at the thought of not doing that someday makes me feel a little guilty. Then I feel guilty about feeling guilty. I want to rock all girl power and say that I don't need a family/child to validate my womanhood. I don't need a family/child to prove that I'm good enough, that I've been Chosen by a male to breed with. I don't need the world to carry on my seed... or egg... or whatever it is that we say when...shit, you know what I mean.

I'm just not done yet. I don't want to raise someone when I'm not even sure how to take care of myself. I don't think it's responsible to bring another human into this world when I have no idea when exactly I'll get my next paycheck. How do people do it? How does everyone do it? And why am I not even slightly pulled in that direction?

I know that it's OK to feel this way, but I'm surprised that it even bothers me sometimes. I surprise myself when I fantasize about weddings and houses and sweet couple moments that come from years of life together, memories together and that look you give each other when you remember that you were there for that first wrinkle next to his eye and you've been there as the rest of them arrived. I know it's kind of hokey that I think about cakes and music and large gatherings of people celebrating love and birth and the joy of life. I want it in bits and moments. I just don't know if I want it every single day.

I'm a lousy babysitter. I'm good with children, but not in the motherly sense...I’m the "cool babysitter." I whine right along with them, wishing even more than they do that Mom or Dad would come home soon. I'll want to eat ice cream for dinner and 9 times out of 10 I let them convince me that it's a good idea. We watch scary movies and stay up too late and fall asleep on the couch in our clothes with our shoes on the good pillows and the dog on the nice sofa.

The thought of having a child sick and needing a doctor scares the crap out of me. Holding a crying child, knowing that there's an infection and the kid doesn't understand pills or medicine and all it knows is pain, pain, pain and it's my job to make the kid feel better but secretly I'm just worried I'm going to catch it too? I'd be at my Mom's door so fast and so often that she'd move and not tell me.

Never. Not once. I've never genuinely wished I had a baby. I've never envied someone else's child. I've never been curious what my child would look like. The only time I've even thought about what I'd name a kid was back in high school and some of the names I came up with were so lousy that I'll never tell anyone what they were. I don't look at baby clothes and say "Aww, if I had a little girl I’d put her in this." I don't inhale deeply when I pass a Baby Gap. I don't rub the bellies of pregnant women when I see them in public. (Or in private, for that matter…) I still get a little uncomfortable at the sight of a woman breastfeeding a baby. I get a little uncomfortable at the thought of someone else going through labor. The thought of me going through labor makes me sweat with fear. I'm not even curious. I'm not even slightly interested.

When I moved into my last place, I bought some furniture and started trying out new dishes, making cookies and cooking things I've always wanted to try. Someone tilted her head to the side and said, "Oh, you're nesting. So cute."

No, I needed bookshelves for my books and I've never had a big kitchen before. I'd have cooked if I didn't always have the counter space of a dorm room. It's not nesting. One month later it wasn't even safe for the kids I watched to nap on the floor. I'm not a very clean person when I’m extremely busy. I used to think I wasn't that bad, but now I know I used to live with messier people, or clean people that picked up my stuff too. I've never seen before just how much of a slob I can be when I don’t have someone I pay to clean. Nesting always reminds me of the end of Sesame Street when Big Bird would tuck his beak into his armpit and start snoring. What I do is more like Bird's neighbor Oscar, noisy basement and all.

So, I don't want a baby. That doesn't make me a bad person. That doesn't mean I'm less of a woman. Get off my case. Maybe I'm just being the responsible one. I'm leaving more space for your baby. Now my baby won't steal your baby's spot in college. My baby won't make your baby feel insecure, or break your baby's heart someday at a dance. My baby won't be at a stoplight when your baby hits my baby's car because your baby was jamming out to a CD while talking on a cell phone, and now your baby's insurance premiums won't go up. My baby won’t sell weed to your baby on the schoolyard. I'm just making your world for your baby a better place without my baby around to make your baby feel secondary. You're welcome, by the way.

So I guess this means I'm a pretty great woman. A selfless woman. A woman who won't bore you with baby stories and pester you to babysit. A woman who's always available for a night out or a quick cup of mid-day coffee. I'm the woman you can call in the middle of the night or the middle of the morning and I won't scold you for waking anybody. When you come to my house there will be an 89% less chance that you will be puked or peed on (unless you get me really drunk). I can loan you a book that doesn't have any pages torn out, scribbled on, or chewed off. I will not serve you a Cosmo in a fucking sippy cup. You will never have to watch me clean my son's tiny penis with a wet nap and then sing a song about my son's tiny penis to his tiny penis while you search the room for something to stare at instead. I won't ask you what I should do about my sore nipples (unless they’re really cold or I had a really great night the night before). I'm not going to be the woman who only half listens to you because I'm listening to the baby monitor near your head. Most importantly, I won't be the woman who tells you that you aren't really a woman until you have kids. I'm not going to be that lady that gives you that pity look and says, "Oh, they just make it all make sense, you know? They give your life meaning. Direction. A purpose."

I believe you are important even if you don't have a baby. I promise to never make you think otherwise. I do believe in you, just as hard as I believe in me. Together, we don't have to have babies to be somebodies. We're just as valid in this world, even if we don't need a booster seat or high chair at a restaurant. We're worth staring at in the street, even if we're not pushing a tiny version of ourselves in a stroller. We are strong, independent women who are beautiful, talented, marvelous creatures. And when we read Charlotte's Web or James and the Giant Peach at night we don't read it out loud, but to ourselves. It's still good.

And I promise not to judge you with babies if you promise to not judge those of us without. I won't ask you what it's like to lose what I can only imagine is your personal identity if you promise not to comment on how empty and lonely my life must be.

Just in case I someday change my mind, however, Simba (the chihuahua) is keeping me in prime condition. Every single night, right in the dead middle of the night, he finds a way to wake me up. I haven't slept through a full evening in over a year. I do believe after these dogs, babies are going to be a breeze. I’m entitled to change my mind, but right now, this is where my mind is at, and I don’t understand people can't respect that.

Whoa. This post ended up really long. SORRY!

Are you Smarter than a 2nd Grader?

2008-01-21T17:51:00.000-08:00

I went to my Gramma's house the other day and played with my little cousin. We both have our little pink Nintendo DS, so we synced them and played together. She loves that I have all the cool games. So while we were playing Donkey Kong and I was kicking her 8 year old ~~rotten~~ sweet ass, she asked if she could play alone. Kids. Hmph. Fine. She just got tired of losing. Ha! So we traded games. Of course the only thing that my uncle buys her are ~~lame~~ educational games, so I figured, how hard can a kid's educational game be? I mean she's 8...right? Wrong. Big Brain Academy...that's the name of the game. Sounds like a little pussy game, right? Wrong again.

A picture of my ~~spoiled~~ adorable little cousin playing with her DS.

Here I am all whizzing through the practice test and shit, going fast as fuck and not getting ~~all of them~~ any of them wrong. I'm like, yeah, I'm the fuckin' ~~man~~ woman. I've got the same warm feeling as when I was beating her ass at Donkey Kong. Go me! So the little guy pops up and tells me how much my brain weighs. I'm not going to say what he told me, because I'm actually embarrassed. Not only does my brain weigh about as much as a coffee cup, I got a D+. A fucking D+! Let me add that I had a full academic scholarship to an Ivy League University, and I scored brilliantly on my LSATS. I was pissed. I figured I just didn't know the mechanics of the game and I needed to pick my speed up a little. So I tucked the DS into my pocket and left without giving the game back. Shut up. I didn't steal her game. She's happy as a clam with Donkey Kong. Obviously she knew I had the game, anyway. She thought she was getting over on me by keeping Donkey Kong. I bet she got tired of being told she has a little brain too.

That night, I took the game out while everyone in the house was sleeping, and I began to play. I played, until my hands hurt and my fingers bled. OK. Not really. But I played for about 4 hours because when I looked up it was well after 3:00 am. No sooner did I look up that I got this dizzy throbbing sensation in my head and stomach. It was something like car sickness. I'm thinking to myself, fuck...I think I'm gonna barf. I don't know why it is when I feel sick, I always wait until the last possible moment to get up and go to the bathroom. Maybe it's the thought that I might overcome the feeling and not barf at all. This wasn't one of those times. I waited and waited, until I knew there was no overcoming the feeling and I ran to the bathroom fumbling for the switch, remembering just a little too late that the light bulb was out, and projectile vomited in the dark right into my toilet. I'm talented I tell you. Can't you just hear the Mexican guy on TV screaming "GOOOOOOOAL!" Needless to say, after all those hard hours of playing Big Brain Academy, not only did my brain seem to shrink, but I'm now battling carpel tunnel syndrome and arthritis in my 20s. (I have managed to work my way up to a C though.)

I don't understand why they have all the games they have for kids today. Look at the show, Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader. I do better on that show than I do on the brain game, but nothing makes grown men look more stupid than not knowing their fractions or 3rd grade Geography. I guess what else bothers me, is when I was a little girl, kids seemed a hell of a lot smarter, even without all this high tech bullshit. I grew up on Top Ramen and cartoons where little blue men skipped around singing and ran from a one toothed villain and his cat, and I turned out just fine. Even if that stupid game says I have a brain the size of a pea. In my opinion, the "Super Size Me" Generation is doomed.

Drama Queens Should Never Shop Alone

2008-01-18T17:37:00.000-08:00

I only went into the damn store to pick up cigarettes. I do it all the time. I really do. I go into that store. All. The. Time. This, was not supposed to happen.

I bumped into my ex in aisle 2. Well, I almost did. I would have if I had taken three steps more. First I should say that I don't normally even go down aisle two, but I reminded myself that I needed bottled water, and I can never remember what fucking aisle it's in, even though I buy it, weekly. It wasn't in aisle two. Anyway...I heard his voice as I was looking down and I snapped my head up fast enough that I was able to dodge behind a display of Christmas shit that hasn't sold yet. Please never remind me when I'm old and gray that I hid from an ex-boyfriend behind a Santa missing an arm and a tooth colored black with a marker, while my nose dripped and I was too scared to make a noise, so I just let it.

There he was, standing there, like we never dated, talking on his cell phone. Didn't we divvy up California after we broke up? I thought so. I still take weekend visits to San Francisco, therefore northern California is mine. He told me he was moving, anyway...What was he doing in my half of the state?

There was something about not being prepared to see him that yanked my insides down and pulled me back behind that decrepit Santa.

He was talking on the phone to someone, laughing every few seconds about some story that I wasn't getting to hear. He pushed his hair back behind his ear and leaned forward, looking in the air, with a slightly annoyed, worried look on his face and trying to improve his reception. It's his new girlfriend on the phone. It's all I could think at the time. It had to be. She was probably telling him all about her day, and babbling on about the most mundane things in the world, and of course he looked absolutely charmed by every syllable that came out of her mouth. Maybe he craves her like that. When she talks, he doesn't float away like he would when I'd talk about some shit that happened at work because he just misses her, that much.

She's probably absolutely perfect, with one of those kick-ass lifestyles. She's smart and talented, with a car. A shiny car that never breaks down. And, um, food always comes out of the oven on time and cooked perfectly. I bet the bitch bakes her own bread. From scratch. Something I've never, ever been able to do. She probably has one of those bodies that bounces back after childbirth (10 times), and she never, ever has to go to the gym. She's just always skinny. She probably always has perfectly crispy clean sheets that she irons, and she recycles everything. Even newspaper. She has the perfect dog that catches Frisbees in the park, instead of my slightly neurotic dog that can't quite grasp the idea of fetch. She gives the best back rubs and blow jobs and never demands that he reciprocate. She doesn't eat much, but when she does, it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. I bet her name is something incredibly sexy, like Holly, Yvette, or Tiffany. She cums the second he's inside her and she's always left satisfied.

And then it happened, as it often does in these parts. He lost the call. I heard him shout "Hello?!?!" a couple of times before closing the flip phone. The signal must have faded.

Would he call her immediately back? Would he stop the next shopper he saw, demanding to use his or her cell phone to call her back and tell her how sorry he was that they were interrupted? Would he run out of the store, leaving his cart full of perishables to be by her side as soon as possible? What would he do?

He shrugged. Made one of those, 'whatever' faces and shoved the phone back into his pocket. I guess it wasn't Tiffany. Or maybe Yvette doesn't excite him enough that he needs to call her back immediately.

Or maybe, just maybe, he still wished the girl on the other line was me.

Infinite X's and O's...

-SCG

I'm not a sicky NO MORE!

2008-01-18T15:33:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling better. Hear that? Better!

Anyway, I couldn't stand seeing the sick post on top, anymore, so I'm just posting this until later this evening. New post on the way.

Oh, and thanks for all the well wishes, balloons and porn that found its way to my inbox. Most of it was appreciated.

Infinite X's and O's...

-SCG

Also, I did that little tag that was going around and it came out pretty cool, so I figured I'd post it.

Here are the rules and links for anyone else that would like to try:

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/ The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together

Here you have it!

I'm a Sicky

2008-01-14T11:40:00.001-08:00

I had this really great post planned for today. I'm not going to write it.

I'm a sicky. Super duper sicky. I can hardly breathe without something leaking out of me. My body hurts. My head hurts. I have a fever. I can't breathe. (I know I mentioned that but it deserves more note since it's probably the worst part.)

I want balloons. People stopped sending me balloons. Since I'm a sicky, I deserve fucking balloons, don't you think?

*cough cough...sniff sniff*

Who says Football isn't Fun?

2008-01-09T20:52:00.000-08:00

This is my least favorite time of the year because of all the fucking football. If you ever saw as much football as I've had to watch, you might just start crying.

Let me tell you this much...people have NO idea that I actually can't stand football. They don't know how I find it repetitive and boring. How have I done this? How have I tricked people that have known me my whole life into thinking I'm the coolest girl, ever? Because I'm an absolute expert at faking the football orgasm. Mm mm... Because I really am the coolest girl alive. Because I can.

That's right folks. I can wiggle, scream and cheer with the best of 'em. I can spill beer and throw chips and just about paint my face red white and blue every weekend. It's not just a game for me. It's an art form. Now, I'm willing to share some secrets because I think we're all friends here, now, aren't we? Plus I strongly believe that this will contribute to happy, healthy relationships.

Now, if you break any of the following rules, it will be obvious that you're faking it, so be very careful.

1. Don't walk in front of the television while the ball is in play, while they're doing an instant replay, or while the ball is at something called "the line of scrimmage."

2. Walk (and by "walk", I mean "RUN") past the television only during commercials.

2a. If you're watching the Super Bowl, fuck it. Stay away from the television at all times. Pee before the game starts.

3. Offer beers to everyone when you stand up. You'll be the coolest girl there, and it's still a semi feminist move if you're already on your way to get your own beer.

4. Be familiar with shouting the words "asshole" and "pussy."

5. When the ref throws the flag (it's yellow), start shouting possible reasons why. Try "FOUL!" "Pass interference!" or "face mask!" Don't worry, the boys will yell, too. Continue shouting through the ref explaining why the flag was thrown, at which point you will stop and ask,"What was the call?" Then you will all argue at what the call must have been.

6. Anytime there is a call against your team, it's time for you to yell, "Oh that's Bullshit!!" Just like that. Try it, it's fun.

7. It's called a touchdown and it's worth 6 points.

8. Then they try to kick to get an extra point. That's worth one. Generally they'll get the extra point. If it's a close game, they may try for two points. We don't have enough time, so I'm going into this here. Just trust me on this: If it's a close game and one team gets a touchdown, say,"Do you think they'll go for two?" This'll cause a boy debate, about field goal and ranges and red zones and things you don't need to worry yourself about. Just sit back and think about how cool you look. You'll make it through this yet.

9. If guys are suddenly really upset, ask them what happened. They'll be more than happy to shout out the injustice of the last play. Let them vent.

10. DO NOT attempt to kiss your boyfriend or significant other at ANY TIME during the game. Do NOT go "TOUCHDOWN!! KISSES!!" You will not get them. People will hate you.

11. NEVER, EVER TOUCH THE REMOTE CONTROL.

12. You don't need to know every athlete, but it helps if you know a few names. Here is the athlete that makes it sound like you know your shit. Ready? Bronco Nagurski. (NA-GUR-SKEE). Is that a great name or what? He played for Notre Dame I think. Or something. Doesn't matter who he is, or was. Just say things like, "Well he's no Bronco Nagurski." What I like saying is, "Well, I was really comparing him to someone like Bronco Nagurski." Chances are, they'll all tip their heads back and say,"Oh. Well yeah. If you're doing that." It works like a fucking charm, I'm telling you.

13. Know that being a girl means that if there is an argument about sports, even if you know you're right, they'll say that you, the girl, are wrong. They will find a loophole in your logic and there's nothing you can do about it, because you have ovaries.

14. You're supposed to be happy about overtime. No grumbling or sighing or pouting. After all, this is football and you love football. Yay for more football!

15. Make sure you know which two teams are playing, because they're gonna switch channels during the commercials. They'll watch other games at the same time, so be on your tippy toes. If you're the only one rooting for the "guys in blue," you could end up cheering for the enemy of a different game. At any moment there might be three different games on TV within an hour. I know. I'm sorry.

16. If, like me, you're ever in a situation where you're in a public place and your significant other is standing in the middle of the bar shouting,"That's what I'm talkin' about! You can't fuck with the -insert team name here-!!" It's completely OK to pretend you don't know him at all. Get someone to buy you a drink.

17. I don't care how persuasive they are. Listen to me and listen good. It's not tradition to take your shirt off when there's a turnover. You don't have to do it.

18. The Super Bowls are counted off in Roman Numerals. Don't say the X's and I's. Hey, I don't know what level of expertise you're on. I'm just checking.

19. If you're watching the Super Bowl, you'll probably have to sit through the pre-game and post-game festivities. It's OK to laugh at the pre-game stuff (which involves a terrible film of some guy making the Super Bowl ring), but it's not OK to laugh at the post-game footage. The levels of beer consumption are so drastically different before and after the game that it's best not to have any reaction that might affect an emotionally vulnerable, boozy sports fan.

20. The season does end eventually. Then you get to watch hockey, basketball and baseball! (these are things you're supposed to be excited about.)

Now go out there and fake it like a pro. You can do it. GO TEAM!

Back without further delay,

-S

p.s. I can't wait to write a little about the past week. We all knew my break wouldn't last, too long, right?

C'est la vie

2007-12-30T13:02:00.000-08:00

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!

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

2007-12-28T15:41:00.000-08:00

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...

Christmas at Gramma C's with the Little Wooden Hand

2007-12-26T15:06:00.000-08:00

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...
YOU CAN PAY FOR PIZZA WITH A LITTLE WOODEN HAND.

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.

They say it happens in 3's

2007-12-24T16:26:00.001-08:00

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.

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

2007-12-12T22:49:00.000-08:00

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!

-SCG

Up, up, and Away!

2007-12-08T21:00:00.000-08:00

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!

-SCG

I'm 13 again. God help me.

2007-12-04T22:32:00.000-08:00

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
Ann
Sweet Ass
Dyna Girl
Jen
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.

-SCG

Pre-Flight Jitters~Updated

2007-12-03T14:29:00.000-08:00

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.

4) 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.

5) 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)

-S

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? :(

The gun in Sister Rose Marie's Handbag

2007-12-01T19:31:00.000-08:00

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,

S

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

2007-11-29T22:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Smooches,

S

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.

My Ass Hurts...

2007-11-28T10:12:00.001-08:00

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!

Simba: YEEEEEEEEEELP!

Table: Crash!

Ashtray: Flip!

Bottle of water: Splish!

Simba: YEEEEEELP!

S: OW! FUCK! SHIT! OW!

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!?!?

S: OK, BRIDGET!

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?

-S

Fuck off.

2007-11-27T17:50:00.000-08:00

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,

S

Llamalicious!

2007-11-23T14:42:00.000-08:00

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,

Bunny
Preposterous Ponderings
Glugster
Ted
Ann
Big Daddy
Winnipeg Princess
Jessica
Sara Sue
Jen

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:

Sweetass
Angel
Modified Mummy

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

Death Happens

2007-11-21T11:01:00.000-08:00

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.

Measurements, Please.

2007-11-20T01:15:00.000-08:00

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:

CHANGE

1. LOSE WEIGHT (that belonged right at the top) I added a little subheading.
*NOT BECAUSE OF ANY MAN BUT BECAUSE IT'S HEALTHY TO BE THIN*

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.

3. GET SOME NEW DECOR FOR THE HOUSE

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.

4. GET OUT MORE

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...

5. NEW JOB

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.

6. NEW HAIRCUT?

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.

-S

Would she go Down on you in a Theater?

2007-11-17T20:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Sister, You've Been on my Mind

2007-11-16T11:29:00.000-08:00

"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!

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

2007-11-15T11:09:00.000-08:00

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.

To Catch a Predator, or Only Tease One?

2007-11-13T19:24:00.000-08:00

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 apologize...lol.

-S

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?

2007-11-11T22:13:00.000-08:00

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.

It was you Fredo. You Broke my Heart

2007-11-09T19:14:00.000-08:00

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. :(

When I think about you, I touch myself.

2007-11-08T12:46:00.000-08:00

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 question..lol. 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.

-S

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

2007-11-06T20:37:00.000-08:00

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.

-S

Blogger Hates Me. It Told Me So.

2007-11-06T08:44:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2007-11-05T08:31:00.000-08:00

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!

Smooches.

-S

Please Allow me to Introduce Myself

2007-11-03T17:13:00.000-07:00

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. :(

I think Victoria has More Secrets than she lets On

2007-11-02T19:19:00.000-07:00

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.

So...you 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 post..lol. 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.

Rocky Horror Halloween

2007-11-01T10:25:00.000-07:00

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!!!!!!!

Familiar, but not so Much

2007-10-30T11:41:00.000-07:00

When you smell a hospital, you know things are bad. The hospital smell is so tightly linked to Bad Things. Maybe if I had a baby. Maybe then hospitals would remind me of We're Gonna Have a Baby. I haven't been to hospitals enough to have any good memories attached to the experience.

The first time was when I was 10 and broke my arm running backwards in a relay race at school. I was winning, I tell you, when I tripped on the back of my white saddle shoe, and slammed down onto my left wrist. The sharp pain thrust up my arm and I was taken to the nurses office, screaming bloody murder. The nurse assured me, there was no swelling, and it was a sprain. I refused to move it, and I cried non-stop until she let me go home. That evening, I couldn't sleep, and my grandmother who's a registered nurse(well, in her day) also assured me that it wasn't broken. My Mother finally called in sick the next day, since I absolutely refused to go to school with my arm hurting like that. I'll never forget the words she told me as she made that phone call to work. "Let me tell you, S, if that arm isn't broken, I'm gonna break it." I believed her. Needless to say, after an X Ray it was broken and I was stuck in a cast.

The second time was about a year later when I had to say goodbye to my great uncle, Zio. He was a man I'd really only seen here and there during visits to his home. He'd gotten quite old and senile over the years and was living with my Grandmother. He had a stroke, I think, and I hid behind my Grandmother, my face buried deep into her side, and Uncle Zio reached out for me. "Roberta," he kept calling me. "Roberta, give me back my cupcake." I thought it was pretty funny, because at that age the funniest thing to come out of an old man's mouth is "Roberta, give me back my cupcake." I think he got angry with me for laughing, as did everyone else, and the laughter became so uncontrollable that they finally had to take me out of the room. My Grandfather took me to McDonald's and I got popoids in my Happy meal. Remember those?

When my father was in the hospital, I remember those sliding doors opening in front of me and the rush of hospital smell, and I realized that this was the third time. The third real time. I'd been to the hospital myself, a few more times before this, but it was different, and I knew it would be my third real experience in a hospital. The smell soaked into my skin and I felt like I was just sprayed with Lysol.

I weaved around the hallways when I was called in, afraid to peek into the patient rooms where the doors were cracked open. I was afraid I'd see terrible things inside. Every one of those rooms held someone sick, or hurt or dying, someone that was sad that person was sick hurt or dying, and someone trying to fix the person sick, hurt, or dying. There was literally so much sadness on my father's floor that I felt like the whole building was going to break down into sobs. Other than a few beeping noises and scurrying feet, I was amazed at how quiet the place was. A heavy sadness...a tense hush like someone was trying to fall asleep.

After the visit and going home, I got the call from my Older sister, Roxy. There it was. "S, he's gone." The first word that came out of my mouth was,"Whoa." Gone. Gone or passed away are the words people use when it's too fresh to say the word dead. Like lost. Missing. Not there. Gone.

And that was it. All the panicking, planning, frantic phone calls, rushing to see him. It was all over. It was all for nothing, because I'd never get to see him again. I'd never get to hear his voice again. My tears started but not until much later, since it was such a shock that I had just seen him one day prior. I lost it, alone. I wasn't controlling anything. I wasn't aware of anything.

Then it was just me. I was all alone. I have a dead Dad. How the hell did that happen? I didn't have a dead Dad last week, or even yesterday. Hell, I didn't even have a dead Dad a few hours ago. His phone number is still fresh in my phone's call history, for Christ's sake. Now if someone asked me how my Dad was, I'd have to say he was dead.

I've always felt an uneasy feeling about not being there by his side when he died. His wife was a bitch, and I assume that she left him suffering. When I went to scatter his ashes with my Mom, I still felt uneasy. I felt like I had missed something. I took a step closer as my mother scattered his ashes, and felt a chill. A small breeze. Then everything was very still again. I looked up and saw the trees move just a bit right past me.

My body relaxed, and my breath rushed out of me. I didn't cry. Thanks for waiting for me Dad...I smiled, telling him in my mind that I'll miss him. At that moment I breathed in the last moments of my father that lingered.

Sometimes it hits me all over again that he's gone. This morning, someone sent me photos from the memorial and the first thing the popped into my mind, was, these are great, I should send them to Dad! Then I feel it. I'll never send him anything again. I found myself writing him an email the other day, that I knew he'd never get. Of course it came back. Undeliverable. Final. His phone number is still in my phone, and I can't bring myself to delete it. It hurts so much sometimes, and others I can smile it away. I think today is a day that I can't hide behind smiles. I miss my Dad.

To anyone that had the patience to sit here and read this whole post, it means a lot to me.

Exotic....Erotic.....Pirates?

2007-10-27T22:48:00.000-07:00

I was asked last week, to blog the Exotic Erotic Ball in SF. Now before I go into why I didn't go to the event and blog about it, let me slap myself about 6 times around the room.

OK. Now that I've abused myself for being stupid, I'll explain. After the shit happened with my friend and I was drudging around the house; pouting and breaking into frequent tears, my sister and I decided that we were going to go the Pirates of Emerson at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. So the ad for this thing, says that it's like, one of the scariest Haunted House events in America. They must've been talking about the actress. She's not that big anymore, but, anyway, this was nothing short of a joke and a waste of money. The makeup was terrible. The pirates were perverts, and the wenches were bitches. There was one in particular that rubbed me the wrong way, talking in a phony British accent and asking me why I looked so bored. She continued to talk to me, even after I made it clear she was getting on my nerves. Asking me why I paid 25$ for something that I didn't like. Obviously if I knew I wouldn't like it, I wouldn't've paid the 25$ to begin with.

All in all, the evening pretty much sucked. I did, however get to ride a few of the rides. I've never been on the rides at the Boardwalk at night, so that was pretty exciting. I made a little video, and I'll try to upload it after I write this. Quality sucks, but enjoy.

OK. So instead of blogging about how fun the Exotic Erotic ball was I give two thumbs down to the Losers of Emerson.

P.S. Thank you everyone for being concerned about how I was doing. I've been pretty fucked up for the past few days, and I'm just now starting to sober up and feel better. Sympathy sex, anyone?

Ding Dong the Bitch is Dead

2007-10-25T11:57:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a best friend? Not the kind of best friend you call when you want to go to a movie, or gossip, but the type of friend you know you could call if you murdered someone and needed help to drag the body across your living room floor. I did.

Marie and I met years ago, quite on accident. She had a boyfriend that was friends with mine. I couldn't stand the bitch. I'll never forget our first encounter. It was one of those, "Why the fuck were you talking to my man?" conversations. I remember her having a few friends with her when she confronted me, because I had a reputation for smacking a bitch before I argued. I kind of smirked and thought, I'm getting too old for these games. At the time she was pregnant with twins, that I later became the Godmother for. I'd see her argue with her boyfriend and go ask her if she was OK. She spent the night at my place, a lot and we were pretty much inseparable. When she had her twins, they were the most annoying, yet adorable things I had ever laid my eyes on. I would babysit them, and buy them cute little things. There, began our friendship.

Over the years, she's managed to have 6 children. No. That wasn't a typo. 6 children. Let me add, she really has 7 but her first husband took her oldest. I've been in the delivery room with her for 3 of them. Held her hand, listened to her scream, and took photos of her new child coming into the world. She often forgot my birthday and Christmas, but I never forgot hers or her children's. She walked over me often, and borrowed, never returned money. When her last child was born, I provided everything that child needed. I bought her a crib, a bassinet, a swing, clothes, diapers, bottles, formula, a car seat, a stroller, a baby bath, and more. Don't ask me why I did this. What I do for people that I love is pretty much unconditional. I went without often, so she could have. So her children could have.

The last straw pretty much hit me a couple of months ago. Her husband's niece needed a birthday gift and I was out running around trying to find one. I ended up shelling out my own money, of course being told I'd be paid back, but never was. I asked her why she was doing all of this for a kid she didn't even know, and we'd been friends for years and she didn't even get me a fucking card. She then said something that's been ringing in my ears since the day she said it. "Well, you're not family." I let it roll off of me when it was said but it hurt me. Stung actually, since I'd blown off my own family affairs on more than one occasion to help her with those fucking kids.

I stopped going over there as often, but I felt so bad for all these kids that she has and can't really take care of. I promised the children, months ago that I would get them Halloween costumes and take them trick-or-treating this year. I managed to get every single kid a costume. Since most of you that read this blog are parents, you know that kids' costumes aren't cheap. Over the past couple of weeks, I've pretty much decided I didn't want to be friends with her in the same sense, but I had promised the children we'd go on Halloween, and I always keep my promises. This morning she called me and decided I shouldn't come. Not only shouldn't I come, but she decided she didn't like the Halloween costumes I got, and she was just going to put them in what they wore last year. I didn't even hesitate when I told her to go fuck herself. Well, not in those words. I think my exact words were something to the effect of, "You know what? Keep the Halloween costumes. Burn them. Eat them. Do whatever with them. Fuck the money I spent on them, and you. Fuck your shitty abusive lifestyle, and fuck you." Click.

As I hung up the phone, I burst into tears and almost regretted what I said. Almost. It's over. Years of friendship and being a second mother to her kids. Gone. It was a 2 minute phone conversation. And 10 years of my life just went *POOF*. I won't miss her. I don't want to be her friend. So why the fuck does it hurt so bad? Why am I still crying, and this happened hours ago?

I'm gonna go make a drink, and finish making the cake for my sister's birthday. I made a couple of heart shaped cupcakes, as my celebration of getting rid of Marie. I think I'll go frost it, eat it and cry. There's no place like home...there's no place like home....there's no place like home.

Sherry Baby

2007-10-23T17:08:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: Those aren't the shoes in this post, they only look like them. If they were, in fact, the shoes, I'd have them. :( But they're almost identical.

Today and yesterday were pretty boring. I've been sitting at home, trying to write about a topic of substance. Since I can't seem to get one fully typed out, I'm just going to stick to my bullshit posts and rants about the various things going on in my life.

Today I wore my Sherrys. (don't laugh...yes, I named my shoes) My Sherrys are that pair of shoes that I know look good, but they smell. They're also the most comfortable pair of shoes I own, and the cutest, so I absolutely refuse to throw them away. I fill them with baby powder before I put my feet in them, but they still stink once I pull my feet out. The problem is, they're slip ons, so sometimes I absentmindedly pull my feet out to play with the shoes and suddenly I'll smell my feet.

I've taken them off before in mixed company and people shout, "Good lord, what is that smell?!?!" I have to put them on in the morning and never take them off until I'm home and then I run into the bathroom and wash my feet, because even I can't stand it. My feet usually don't smell. I don't normally have this problem. Two days ago my Sherrys received another strike against them. The right shoe squeaks with every step. Some sort of air seems to be escaping from the sole when I step down. I sound like the little house cleaner from Poltergeist. I think we all have a pair of these shoes. I've tried finding another pair that are at least similar in the way they look and feel but no such luck. I've looked online and in pretty much every shoe store that I know of. I've looked in second hand stores, and gotten close, but no cigar. What's a girl to do? I should add that I named them Sherry just for the object of this post. I don't go around naming everything I own...

Anyway, enough about my Sherrys.

I haven't spoken to Snow all day. I've been a little bit preoccupied with housework, he never calls, and I'm not allowed to call him for obvious reasons, so unless I sign into Yahoo Messenger, we don't speak. I know work can be tiring, but I would think that it would be more fun to be tired out by me and not analyzing finance. I could be wrong.

My tattoo still hurts and it's been keeping me up at night for the past two nights, even with the booze and pain pills. Since it's right between my boobs, (I have large boobs) it's harder to sleep the way I'm used to. I like to curl up on my side and cross my arms in front of me. It's like a cross between the fetal position and Dracula, if you can imagine that. Unless of course I'm in bed with someone. Then I either lie on my side on their chest, or lie on my side with them poking me all night. That's a subject for another time....clearing my mind...ahem, yeah, so last night, after lying in bed for a couple of hours and reading, I managed to fall asleep on my back. I then woke up with a thud as I hit the floor while rolling over during an intense dream that I can't remember. It's always the really good, or really bad ones that escape memory, I think. The dog was quick to bark at me, then slightly cocked his head to the side wondering why I was sprawled out on my bedroom floor rubbing my head (hardwood floors) and moaning. He quickly ran up and gave me a lick before jumping onto my bed and hogging the center of the bed. For such a little thing, he sure does manage to take up a lot of room.

I guess that's it for now. I think I'm drinking tonight. Anyone up for one of my girlie cocktails?

-S

Murphy's Law

2007-10-21T22:12:00.000-07:00

"Nothing is as easy as it looks.
Everything takes longer than you expect.
And if anything can go wrong,
It will, at the worst possible moment."

Not the case, today. I woke up today, and decided I had 'the itch'.
Anyone that doesn't have tattoos, can't possibly understand what the itch entails. Pretty much to sum it up, you wake up one morning and decide, today, you're getting a tattoo. Angel, my apologies for getting mine first, but I really couldn't resist.

I wish I could be one of those people that says, "Getting a tattoo is fuckin' erotic." Or "Nothing turns me on more than getting inked." I, on the other hand, am one of those people that cringes like a poor kitten in the tattoo artist's chair, asking 500 times if she's done yet. This is the second tattoo I had done by, Bonnie. The first tattoo I had done there was by Andy. Two sweet little cherries behind my left ear, tucked away for those that get close enough to taste them. Otherwise, they're pretty much hidden. Bonnie is a tough looking chick, with a hard shell, that looks like she's gonna smack you if you look at her funny, but she ended up making me smile and laugh the whole time. OK. Not the whole time, but a few times, during the process. She's the kind of person you feel comfortable with, and makes you glad that she did your work. Thanks, Bonnie. You're a champ.

I sat in the chair, shaking like a leaf during the line work, and almost having tears welling in my eyes a few times. We took a short break so we could smoke and I could bitch about how I should've taken some paid meds before I came. Bonnie admitted to me that out of all her tattoos, and this woman has a LOT of tattoos, that that area hurt the most. (Now, no one told me that this is one of the most painful places that you can get a tattoo. It begins right between my breasts, stemming up into two beautifully shaded clovers. Luck of the Irish, eh? Sure didn't fell fucking lucky... Shit, did I start this thought with parenthesis?) The shading wasn't so terrible until the end, and Bonnie was getting annoyed I kept asking how much longer. I don't have the highest threshold for pain, even though I do have a bunch of tattoos and plan on getting more in time.

Now, I know I'm into the whole, confidentiality thing, but I have to say, if you're in Northern California, and looking for a great tattoo artist, I'd send you straight to Santa Cruz Tattoo. Of course if you say that Simply Curious recommended you to them, I highly doubt that they'll know who the hell you're talking about.

Special shot out to Bonnie, Andy and Nate, my favorite tattoo artists and the best Santa Cruz has to offer. Don't let anyone tell you different. Haha, this is starting to sound like an ad.

I had a completely different post planned for today, but this will have to do for now. Tomorrow evening, I have a new topic while I'm not all doped up on pills.

Until Tomorrow,

S

Move Over Dolly

2007-10-19T09:51:00.000-07:00

Small chested girls and boys of all shapes and sizes, today I give you big boobs. You've wanted boobs your entire life and today, I'm giving them to you. Now, after you've spent some time in the mirror playing with them, get ready to experience the real world of having big breasts. Here we go....

Your shoulders will hunch inward, just slightly; a result of trying to make your chest look smaller while you were growing up, embarrassed to have people staring at you.

The seatbelt never stays in place across your chest. It slides up and sometimes goes across your neck if you're not careful. You're terrified that you will one day be decapitated because of your 34 DDs.

The cuter the shirt is, the chances are it won't fit you. If it does fit in the arms and length, the logo on the front will be stretched so tight across your chest, that you look obscene.

The strappy, backless fad? Forget it. Where are you going to be seen with no bra? There's no way. While you're at it, you can pretty much forget one piece swimsuits. They don't make any that hold you in correctly, so you're wearing separates, forever. Better keep trim.

When you're cold, everyone else is going to know. They won't tell you that you're high beaming, but they'll enjoy the free show, anyway.

People will "accidentally" brush into you. They like to do this at bars, in tight hallways, on trains and on buses. They will be all "Excuse me," but will raise or lower their arms so that they brush into your breasts. They may even do the hard shove that presses their chest against yours. They won't thank you for it either.

Your mother will talk more about your chest than your career.

No running. Ever. Invest in three sports bras and wear two at once, But you'll still never run a mile. Use the elliptical trainer, treadmill, or Stairmaster.

The sight of speed bumps on the road may bring tears to your eyes.

Never close a hardcover book, too quickly. You may get a nipple stuck in there. Yes, it happened, and no, I don't want to talk about it.

Babies grab your breasts. They don't know any better. It's only mortifying when someone jokes loudly,"He's looking for lunch!"

Lovers try and name them. Don't let them. Keep your dignity. Maybe one great name like "Fantasia." But not "Bert and Ernie." "Pooh and Tigger." "Lefty and Lopsy." Fuck that shit.

You wear bras all the time. Constantly. Underwires only. No frilly-soft-lacy-pretty things. Industrial strength. Straps and inch wide. You look like a 1950s nurse who's into S&M.

Women will outwardly hate you because of your chest. Even your best friends.

There will be lines you can break, drinks that will be free, things that you can have and tickets you can get out of.

There will also be friendships never had, cute clothes never worn, sports never played, and pictures ripped to shreds in agony.

Your back hurts. Just all the time. A constant state of hurt.

You have a terrible fear of catching a football and it's completely understandable.

New boyfriends won't know what to do with them. They will opt for a mix of lifting and lowering, licking all over the place, hoping to hit a spot you like.

Sometimes you accidentally drop food down there, like popcorn. People think that's hysterical. You don't.

Sometimes you'll lean over the table to get something from the other side, like the salt, and you will end up dipping your breast in someone's ketchup. Yes, you'll be humiliated. No, you probably couldn't have avoided it.

You may catch yourself leaning on a table, resting only your breasts on it. Stop. You look obnoxious. I know you didn't realize it, it just happens sometimes.

Find yourself a period play and act the shit out of it. May I suggest Dangerous Liaisons?

Did I frighten you or just make you want your own pair of big boobs even more? No boys. I'm not talking to you. I know what your answer is. Even gay boys. I know you want a fancy pair for special evenings. I'm talking to the Itty Bitty Titty Committee here. All in favor of keeping your new knockers, say "AYE!."

Hello? Hello?

Yeah. That's what I thought.

He's under my skin

2007-10-18T13:37:00.000-07:00

removed for personal reasons