Friday, January 30, 2004

comments

yo haloscan, you're the bestest. before you, i felt inadequate. i didn't want to show other bloggers my blog because i felt self-concious. i even shut out the bloggers i love the most. other blogs used to beat my blog up on the play-ground. but then i saw your amazing ad, and you've done what i thought no one else could do. you've made it bigger. my world, that is.

thanks dudes!

Thursday, January 29, 2004

i wanna get this over with.

it occurs to me that i never really went into great detail about what in hell happened to make me so bitter. yeah, a dude broke up with me. big deal. happens all the time. and i suppose i could create a million different justifications for myself and anyone else williing to listen, as to why im hurting more and my ass is way more chafed. I like to think that's true. i like to think that im entitled to my vitriol, and acid, and all the other nasties i brood over because im special and i got way more fucked over than the average jane. but this is not so. and i know it's not so, even if it feels like someone killed my puppy. knowing and feeling are entirely different birds, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I don't want to be a fucking robot, or a goddamn logic-less raw nerve. I like my brain cooked to a happy medium temperature, muchas gracias.

there are some things worth mentioning for the sake of the story, as it were. we met at work. i didn't like him at first. it took him a lot of poking and prodding to win me over, as well as find my happy spot. but then i got comfortable. i maybe even loved him. and this is where the average american male wigs the fuck out and remembers that he wanted to 'spread his seed' for at least 2.7 more years. so i got the 'we should be friends' bull-shit. yeah. what-the-fuck ever. i was understandably bummed. my little predisposition for depression didn't help much either. but i got things under control. my emotions weren't surging up and down like a menopausal woman pregnant with sextuplets. i even managed to graduate in four years while having a job and playing a varsity sport. i discovered the inherent beauty of psycho-pharmaceuticals. and then the shit-pig came crawling back.

I, the dumb woman i am, let him in.

many miles, tearful confessions, marriage proposals, love letters, hate letters, and sleepless nights later, he again broke up with me. citing the fact that 'he [didn't] feel it anymore'. i'm sure 'it' was supposed to be 'love'. but all i could think of while giving him the death stare before exiting, was that i could make him fucking feel it. oh yes, i surely could.

by giving him a doc marten enema.

i was wearing shit-kickers the night in question, so, i totally could've done it. but i left with my dignity intact and my balls deflated. thusly, the auspicious beginning of round three in this 'relationship' set the tone, mood, and ambiance for the eventual suck-fest of the last several months. lather, rinse, repeat.

i don't feel like i need to write about the recent shortcomings of the ex. because the third verse is same as the first, a whole lot louder and whole lot worse... Etc. sure i'll enjoy besmirching his name in the future. I will take pleasure in recounting the idiotic shit he did, when and if it pops into my head. for now though, this is about as far into the past as i dare venture. i have a habit of getting stuck in places that are plentiful in the way of booze and cigarettes when im pensive. but i also have a way of getting stuck in such places when im deliriously happy and frolicking in fields of daisies and kittens and soft fleece materials. so i guess i don't really have a point.

lazy i am

ok. yeah. i have a confession to make. i dont give a rat's monkey's ass about punctuation and such. you're damn lucky to get a period at the end of a sentence. if i feel like it. when im in a good mood. and about spelling, lets just say i didn't win any 'bees' in school. i feel like im spending most of my time editing my shit-ass grammar rather than writing what i want to write. and that is sooo not why i started this webpage. if i dread the ordeal of the proof-read and the spell-check, im never going to get a goddamn thing done. so there. also, id like to have the time to get out of my house and experience new and illegal things to write about, and frankly, there's not enough time to fuck with it [grammar], between work, drinking, and considering new and evil venomous ways to hate my ex.

so here is my final ode to punctuation:

dear comma i love you, but dont know where you go
a period at the end of a sentence is too slow
so fuck the mutha-fo's that be dissin' my sight
the content's what matters, and yes i am white.

i wish i could spell but alas i cannot
it surely dont help with the smoking of pot
the spell check button says that fuck=puck
useless to this guy, and now i am stuck.

yes. yes i am a huge fucking tool. somebody already told me, but thanks.



Monday, January 26, 2004

Oy

I know I said I wasn't going to spew anymore hate, but fuck that. I just discovered that a certain fuck-wad maybe, kinda, sorta was dating someone else, while still pretending he and I were together.

Oh yeah, and apparently they're still going at it.

This, of course, warms the cockles of my heart. There isn't much in this world I depend upon, but loyalty and honesty are pretty fucking high on the list. I'm not saying I blindly trust random douche-bags I meet on the street, but there is a certain coterie of folks in my life I have to believe won't fuck me when I drop the soap. Lest I become a miserable lonely bastard. He used to be a part of this select group, and I had hoped he would stay there.

I know. Pathetic.

I had thought we could somehow manage to remain friends. Sadly, this probably changes the whole fucking dynamic. He had to go fucking with the fucking dynamic. The dynamic was good. The dynamic had promise. And now I can't even call or write or smoke-signal my hate for him. Mostly because he won't talk to me. It makes my tummy hurt.

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Mar.

I just read that silly post, and wow. I might have to, um, revise it's many grammatical errors. It's becoming extremely difficult to give a shit though. When I write in my journals I don't have to worry about this sort of stuff. Nobody will read them. Not that anyone is reading this, my lovely blog, but on the off chance someone stumbles upon it, I'd rather not come across as completely inept. I'm shooting for partial ineptitude.

I will continue to make up new words should an incident occur that can, in no way, be accurately described using actual Webster-endorsed verbiage. I can't give up all my bad habits at once. Ever try quitting smoking and drinking at the same time? Fuck that.

Sunday, January 18, 2004

Crazy? Um, yes.

I'm going to write this all down, grammar be damned because I know I'll forget about it soon. I'll forget, because it was an exceedingly fucked up dream. It made me think though. I guess you could say I had a vision, almost. It was like when the natives were taking peyote out in the desert. Or Jim Morrison.

I was getting ready for school. I have this recurring nightmare that I somehow failed a class and that someday they're going to catch my ass and throw me back into a pleated, plaid, itchy, horse-blanket skirt. Yes, I went to a catholic school.

My family was understandably disappointed that I fake-graduated 5 years ago. They wanted me to go to church. They wanted me to go to AA. I settled on going to freaky church 'alcohol=bad' club. And this is where the fun begins. I've always had a raging crisis of conscience in the migraine center of my head where the church, god, all his wacky followers meet. I guess because the majority of the early-life crisis took place in Dogma class, my dream-world fun decided I shouldn't pass it, just to see what if.

A little background; I was never able to swallow my religion hook, line and sinker. I always had lingering doubts about an institution run by people. And people are fundamentally flawed. It would be different if the big G had a desk on the 18th floor and bitch-slapped the self-righteous clergy on a regular basis. But I haven't seen God rain down fire and brimstone, shove any lightening bolts up any asses, or do any general smite-ing in a really long fucking time. I know doubting Thomas is portrayed as a bad guy, but at least he had the sack to speak up.

Yes, I question things. I question the bull-shit infallibility of a church that murdered millions of people in witch-hunts. I question a church that likes to cover up molestation charges regarding altar boys and Father Mulligan. I resist a church that refuses to let women take an active role in reshaping misogynist policies that have endured since the early years when lions where eating us. I am digressing majorly, back to dreamland.

I am back in high school. They have had an intervention for me. They fear for my soul more than my corporeal drunken-ness. My brother is leading me by the hand to the church basement for the slaughtering. What exactly we're slaughtering I find out later. It's a doozy. There's coats strewn hap-hazzardly on chairs and in corners. People are drinking coffee and punch, waiting. I fall down and know one seems to notice as they step on my face, hair, wrists. I pretend I can skip ahead in time and change reality itself when I blink my eyes. There. His hair turns blond. Now he's 20 years older. I skip billions of years into the future where the Japanese fighting fish the Sunday school kids keep as pets have evolved into dangerous, languid dancers, their diaphanous vestigial fins swirling in front of their dry, long, teeth. I blink again and I'm back in my own reality. I sit up, curious as to why I'm no longer being trampled by the children of the meek. I look for my coat. It's cold and it's raining and my diaphanous skirt isn't doing a very good job hiding my vestal legs from the dangerous alter-boys. All at once I am terrified.

Their is a slow hum, a buzzing coming from the floor, or below the floor, and it is maddening in the way it seizes the back of your head. I walk around trying to divine the source with a forked branch. I hope to gods this forked branch can find a forked tongue. And no one else can hear it. They are laughing, eating cookies, tending to the children who look vaguely disturbed because they know something is not quite right. The intensity it like insects crawling in a cadaver, hungry for the chew. But I'm not dead yet. And it's my brain they take away. My nose is bleeding freely now, but no one seems to notice. My brother takes my hand and we leave this place.

He seats me in the cavernous, yawning mouth of the church as he goes to pull the car around; my lips are blue and my coat ran away. I see a room at the end of my hallway and walk over to see the curiosity of an un-locked door. Inside, music is playing. Headphones are lying on the table, as is an enormous catalog of music. I put the large ear-muff looking head-gear on, and press play. Collective soul. I skip ahead. Creed.

I decide to put in a new cassette. Creed again, or something very similar. I know these can't possibly all be Creed songs, but whoever this is bleating tone-lessly in my ears is doing a damn good impression. For several minutes I sit and concentrate on finding something that doesn't suck. All the Christian music in the world at my disposal and I can't find one good song. I recognize that this might be a metaphor for something by can't tell what. I am hazy and dreamy and that can wait till tomorrow. And, they've been watching me.

She walks up behind me and points out one of the album sleeve's as her own recently recorded music. For a second I remember her, singing in the sanctuary, gat-toothed and smiling. She's trying to save me. I think she's the one who needs saving. She's inviting me into her fellowship, letting me borrow some suggested reading materials. I excuse myself somewhat rudely, explaining quickly that my brother is waiting for me outside. She says something so sad next, that I feel awful for being too smart to not know the difference. She asks if I want the love of her God and her church. But I am awful in general when I say something snide under my breath and leave her holy books in the trash.

I want to be saved. I want to be liberated from an unimaginative, un-original flood of awful, shitty art 'inspired' by God. Like writing and singing about God automatically makes it ok to not try and suck ASS. But I'm exhausted, my brother has left me, and I have to call my dad for a ride home.

This is so fucking long of a post, and sadly there is more to go. My tummy is growling and I must feed it. More later, promise.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

jibber jabber jaws.

If you can't tent your hands in a smarmy manner I don't want to be your friend. Hand-tenting is just too important to everyday conversation. I find it hard even to communicate with non-tenting, expressively bereft people. If somebody has something you want, and you fully intend to yoink it when they aren't paying attention, you obviously have a responsibility to tent your hands. If someone is eating something, and you plan on 'surreptitiously' taking a huge honking bite out of it, hand-tenting is more than adequate warning.

Another important thing to remember is the saying of the word 'yeeesssss...' whilst tenting your hands demonstratively. This indicates that something favorable is occurring. The tenting and the 'yess-ing' express gratitude on the behalf of the tent-er, and more often than not give much needed encouragement to the tent-ee, thus, expediting the entire process.

Sunday, January 11, 2004

sucking the glass dick. again.

I hate feeling attached to certain individuals as a result of a little making out. If anything, this whole blog experiment has shown me how bat-shit crazy I just might be. And in sad edition, how very muchly I choose not to notice.

less than a week ago, I would have preferred my ex to be a flayed and burning carcass somewhere in the Amazon with lot's of bite-y, sting-y insects attracted to the smell. But all is forgiven. Not really.

Under the influence of the New Year, shit-loads of alcohol, and many sleepless, dancing to the Pixies at 4am nights, I might have been a little scathing in my assessment of his shit-weasely personality. I'm not ready to give him any 'props' as the kids these days call it, but I think I'm done spewing my hate for now. No more bees will be coming out of this mouth. Clearly, this is entirely dependent on his ability to stay the fuck away from me and my phone number, but I'll always have stock-piled adequate loathing should it be required.

I might have to change the whole festering mood chronicle thing.

In other news, my father has taken it upon himself to inform me of the 'garbage in, garbage out' theory. Apparently the gist is, what you put in your head stays there, good or bad, and those crazy trench-coat wearing kids from Columbine had too much Marilyn Manson racing around the synapses.

Unfortunately, he was referring to my blog. He saw the title and didn't realize I was, in fact, the author. And proceeded to tell me to not put that crap in my head. Dad...I'm not putting it in, it's already in there. I'm just sharing it with those less fortunate not crazy people.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

you might be rocking if...

Boys put me in a good mood. When they're not being shit-heads. It doesn't happen very often but when it does it's extra special good. Silly boys.

I love the service industry. No where else can my hard-obtained English degree be put to better use. Writing papers on the affect of monkeys on the decline of Western civilization totally prepared me for the work force. Totally. I comfort myself with the knowledge that I make more money than the psychology degree kids. Psychology. What fucking joke. That's just majoring in beer pong and then answering some obvious questions about basic human nature. Those guys are totally fucked. At least I know my degree is shit. Psych majors delude themselves into thinking they're getting a degree in some kind of science, yet still have time to party their collective nuts off. Think again motherfucker, you have no job. Unless you want to be some kind of high school counselor, a thankless set-up where you might use some of the "knowledge" you acquired. And really, that's where we need you. All the slack-jawed, natty-lite drinking frat boys that psych inevitably attracts definitely need to be molding the young minds of America.

So here's to you rambling blog entry. And here's to drunken fratters. Here's to drunken fratters spawning more drunken fratters. I have to go and reevaluate my life now.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

The idear. Yeah.

Friend I spoke of was in town for one night. She's moving to San Diego, which is the most fabulastic, fantabulous place to live ever. New words should be created to describe this city. I've wanted to live there since I was a wee monkey dreaming of getting the fuck out my parents house.

So I think I'm gonna go. Go west young woman. Find some gold, even if it's in a dude's tooth.

So scary to think of leaving my little town though. This place has been my home for 6 years now. I love this place and I love these people. But I have to see the rest of the world before I nest. I'll be kicking my own anus when I'm an old lady and I never surfed in California, or went boarding in Colorado. Shit y'all, I got relations out there too. I need a tan. My skin is so pale you can see the outline of my major organs. That's how I can tell my liver is inflamed and angry at me for drinking so much. It too, wants me to go to California and leave behind my bacchanalian lifestyle. Silly liver, they sell Chivas in California too.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

hootinany

Um, yeah. I lost my coat. Someone stole it. Yes, I happened to be drinking at the time. Yes, I might have been a little intoxicated. But not drunk enough to forget how mother, fucking, cold it is outside. It's fucking winter. Stealing someone's coat right after last call when you've left it for two fucking seconds to pay your tab...well that's just wrong. I hope my coat smells like ass. I hope you smell like fermented apples you pussy, cider-drinking monkey.

Damn you. Damn you to hell, coat-stealer.

So me and this buddy I used to work with were socialamatizing the other day. In the sense that bourbon and the singing of AC/DC ensued. Asses were slapped, drinks were thrown, coats were stolen. A good time was had by all. I hadn't seen bi-otch in a year, so clearly, asses had to be slapped more vigorously then usual. In the midst of all this ridiculousity, she came up with an intriguing idear.

Sunday, January 04, 2004

Baaaa.

That's all. And maybe a little moowahahahaha. /tents hands/.

Saturday, January 03, 2004

ugly casanova says it best

"I'm trying to sleep away the part of the day that I cannot drink away..." ~modest mouse

Bloody hell. What with the tequila consumption and my resulting inverted colon I'm so not sure what to write. Okay. So.

For two years I slavishly devoted myself to a pointless abortion of a relationship, with a person who broke up with me no less than 3 fucking times. Classy. How much of a moron am I for taking him back every single time? A very large one. Don't think I haven't whooped my own ass for being so naive. Maybe I'm masochistic. Perhaps I just don't feel I deserve to be happy. But I think all that's a load of hippie bull-shit. And the only thing that looks good on a hippie is fire.

I'm not a very chipper individual to begin with. More often than not, I prefer hot tea and a good book to meth-amphetamine induced maniacal laughter. Not that I'm suggesting naturally perky people that go around with shit-eating grins on their faces all day smoke drugs, but frankly that's the only explanation I can think of.

I got kind of off track, but my point is, my ex never made me happy or unhappy. I did that all by myself. Cause I'm a big girl. I feel like I deserve to be happy, cause I suppose every human should aspire to a certain amount of joy in their lifetime. I've just never really subscribed to the notion that the majority of my happiness should be due to a satisfying and idyllic relationship with some other person who just happens to have the right reproductive organs. That's a lot of pressure to put on anyone, and you best believe the minute I detect neediness and mommy issues I cautiously back away. Or run screaming into the night.

A certain amount of sadness/sense of loss is to be expected when one day, your best friend is no longer there. People start to feel like home after awhile, and pretty soon you forget what they smell like, how they used to laugh, what the hell you saw in them in the first place.

I have to go now because my roommate is reading over my shoulder and it's totally pissing me off.

Friday, January 02, 2004

Little, yellow, different.

I live in a house designed by those who might dabble in, shall we say, crack. I'm not sure who needs a closet inside the fireplace, but whatever. The only reason I'm living here is that the nice Asian man who used to occupy my room decided to off himself, went to the nut-house for a little while, and was even kind enough to leave me a sweater of his, (it fits!).

I know I said I'd explain the whole ex-fuckwad situation, but I don't feel like it. So eat a dick. And maybe this is background, really. Technically, the shit really and truly started to hit the proverbial fan when I moved into this hive. Not that any of what transpired was ever my fault, you fucking, fuck.

I have to go eat pancakes now.


Thursday, January 01, 2004

debut

I hate today. I hate today almost as much as i hated yesterday. Really, the last few months have been an endless progression of suck-ass days in a long line of suck-ass years following that birthing process thingy.

I woke up this morning after an anti-fabulous New Year's spent working till 2 a.m. immediately proceeded by the imbibation of copious amounts of bourbon. Happy fucking New Year to you too, asshole.

The reason for the season is, of course, a stupid fucking ass-head boy. There really is nothing better than ringing in the new year with a cigarette and the knowledge that, you have a accomplished little or nothing of value in your young life, and also that, *sigh* fuck-head, ass-pony has a new fabulous life, with a new fabulous job, and a new fabulous fucking house, with, I swear to fucking God, a white motherfucking picket fence. I hope you choke on your 2.5 kids. And then I hope my kids beat your kids up. Word.

This all may sound a little venomous and unfair, but it's my fucking blog and I'll cry if I want to. And really, let's all just bear in mind the immense hangover, the lack of non-expletive related vocabulary following said hangover, and the numerous ex-boyfriend sightings of late. At some point I will go into great depth as to why I maybe don't like him so much anymore. Or even a detailed description of his many, many character flaws will be fun. But the empty bottle of Jameson's I woke up still clutching this fine morning is telling me that it might be time to eat something greasy. But I will say this, if I were a monkey, I would fling my feces at him.

This is the next best thing.