Just who do you think you are?

Yoo-hoo, all! It’s me, again. The Anonymous Commenter! And that’s Mrs. Anonymous to you, missy. I been married to the same man for 18 years and that’s somethin’ to be respe’ted! Anyway, it’s a brand new day and as usual I’ve got nothing to do, so I thought I’d pop up to say howdy.

If you were wondering what that big, loud scratching noise was before, that was me crawling out from the big Midwestern rock I live under. I can’t fit my used Dell under there (let alone my ass- HAHA!) so I gotta climb out to do my daily blogroll.

Ahh, let’s start the rounds. Oh, HEHEHE! HAHAHA! WHOOWHOOWHOO! That Waiterrant has done it again. Such a nice young man. Always gets me in a pickle. Ok, what’s next? Oh…Oh my. What the …Jimminy Christmas! This is just terrible! How dare this snobbish little pooterbag make fun of… How can they sit here and say these things on the Internet??? I mean, the nerve! Don’t they know there’s only six or seven sites I read? How can they force me to listen to this? And their blog is just like this day after day. And it never changes! Don’t they think about me? What I want to hear? What happened to writing for your audience? That’s something Mrs. Wiesenburg taught me in fifth grade grammar class and I ain’t never forget! But every day they just go ahead and say something I don’t agree with and, I’ll tell ya, I’m cotton pickin’ mad! I think it’s time for Mrs. Anonymous to get the old soapbox again, and show ‘em who’s the real boss of their blog!

Just because you think you’re some big city slicker in Los Angeles or San Francisco (they’re all the same to me I don’t check profiles anyway) does not mean you have the right to put up your opinions and your fancy humor for us all to read! I mean who do you think you are! Instead of spending the whole day polutin’ the internet with your bitter little stories, why don’t you go out and get a job every other good American? Yes, missy. Hard work is what I’m talkin’ about. Like my husband, bless his soul, who works like an ox. Even on Fridays and Saturday nights! Sometimes he works so hard he doesn’t even come home! But that’s ok. Cause I got a date with my Dell every night. So why don’t you write something we wanna hear for a change? And for your information, it’s not “an stupid idiot.” It’s A stupid idiot.” Looks like somebody was doin’ a little snoozin’ in fifth grade grammar class!

But not me, nosiree! I had almost perfect attendance. I only missed that one day when they went over irony! Whatever that is.

Well, I think that’s enough sopaboxin’ for one day. Besides, I don’t hate all blogs. I mean, who can deny that Stephanie Klein is probably the most brilliant writer since Jackie Collins? And boo on Gawker for posting those mean, mean comments about Kitty Can Scratch. Boo pooty toot poop. That bright child is a real inspiration for women like me. And she can too write. I mean, I tried to write a couple of times; like this one time when I was really mad cause my poodle Daisy Lips ate my brand new pair of pleather Aldos! But, gosh! It was harder than when I tried to give up Bon Bons!

I’m telling you, that young lady has a gift. And just cause I don’t have any talent, doesn’t mean I can’t sniff it out like onion dip at a community center gathering. So you can just take your snarkiness and put it in your pootoodle!

What’s that you ask? Uh, what’s my name? You mean my name? Well, I er, I…Ooop. Gotta run. Who’s the Boss reruns are on! And ooo boy, that Tony’s sure a looker! Toodles!

Ikea sucks swedish meatballs

We went to the Port Authority and arrived at door #5. That’s we saw them. Hundreds of them. Yacking on cell-phones. Hoarding the oxygen. Bulbous and porous handfuls of sweaty flesh. Bellies soft with stupidity.

“This isn’t the fucking line is it?” I asked. “This can’t be the line.”

It stretched to Harlem. I was pretty sure we’d never make it on the bus. The line was too goddamn long. But as it disappeared through door #5, it appeared as though we might make it on. Suddenly, however, the line stopped right as we were about to board.

“No more seats,” said the woman in charge. “Only standing room.”

“Standing room?” we both asked in unison. “What the hell is standing room?”

But before she could answer, the crowd behind us had nudged us aboard. We discovered that "standing room" meant two things:

1) Standing in the middle of the isle of the charter bus
2) Holding on for your fucking life.

I gripped and held. For we were aboard and on our way. On the free Ikea bus to Jersey.

It reminded me of the time I was late for my train in Europe and had to ride in the cargo car. Only now I felt more like a chihuahua's ass drippings.

“This feels European,” I commented to the Rican.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Carpooling to a destination seems like a responsible thing a European would do. If we were big, stupid Americans we’d be driving to Ikea, polluting the air with big, stupid gas guzzlers.”

“No.” He shook his head as we stood in the crowded middle isle. “It doesn’t feel European. It feels Mexican.”

When we arrived, we discovered that Ikea is probably Mexico’s cousin. Cheap stuff, little order, and delinquent children overran the floor, like they were auditioning for the movie, City of God. (Yeah, I know that’s Brazil.) As I watched the swarms of screaming kids circle around the floor, I had only one thought. What the fuck were these parents thinking, bringing their kids along to Ikea? Because really. What were they going to add to the experience? Will the sleeping infant be able to help the arguing parents come to a decision between a new chartreuse throw or an extra set of curtains? Will the screaming toddler be able to provide insights on wallpapering Vs hiring a painter? Or were they really there to do the duty they seemed to be sent there to perform: stomping on my feet.

“I’m getting my tubes tied tomorrow,” I leaned over and whispered to the Rican. In the country of chaos, I was trying my best to eliminate any confusion.

But despite the disorder, we had to focus. Screaming bastards or not, it was time to turn our new home into Omm.


(Wow. I am super gay.)

After a few hours, we had to put a temporary hold on the torture in order to refurnish our empty stomachs. The only option for food was the Ikea cafeteria, so we grudgingly joined the line of oversized customers eager to stuff their faces with Swedish meatballs.

As we picked up our trays, I couldn’t help picturing the Swedish chef from the Muppets preparing the food. But when I took my first bite, I realized that my imagination was pretty accurate.



“This food looks like it would be good,” The Rican observed. “But when you eat it, it’s just crap.” This was becoming a common theme. The beds seemed stylish and comfy, but were like sleeping on top of a snoring grandpa. The pots and pans looked functional, but during cooking, the handles get hot and bite you. And the although the food, appeared tasty, it could have only been prepared by a chef with the brain of a puppet.

Hours pass. Days maybe. Lamps. Loveseats. Spatulas. It's a blur. All I know is that it ended. So we found a sales associate and asked him how we could get out furniture and end the pain, man!

"Oh you guys gotta go back and get da shit."

You mean the fucking giant sofas and shelves? ....we, uh... we just wanna get it delivered.

"I know, but you gotta get one of dees carts and, you know, put da shit on it, and take it over there," he said, pointing to a line of people that stretched to Rhode Island.

We thanked him, checked the time and realized it would be totally fucking impossible to order our furniture and board the last bus to New York before it abandoned us in this hell. Frustrated, we marched out the door and quickly boarded our last chance for escape. As we sat down, thankfully securing seats this time, I looked down at the bag I was carrying. And I realized, uh…we never got in line. We, um…

“Babes…we didn’t pay for shit.”

We just jacked Ikea. Looking around to check for swat teams, I felt bit of tugging in the pit of my stomach. At first I thought my super strict Christian upbringing was making me feel bad for stealing. But upon closer examination I realized it was not guilt but regret.

“Damnit,” I said to the Rican, “Why didn’t we take more?!”

But there wasn’t room for anything else. Cause everybody left their common courtesy behind in favor of mexi-packing the bus full of overcrowding shit. Bags were the size of obese Americans. Cardboard boxes seemed to stretch as long as backyard diving boards. And then, of course – children.

As I listened to a screaming toddler while simultaneously being poked by the corner of a flat cardboard box scrunched next to my seat, I started to realize that children were a lot like the items sold at Ikea. Lunch looked yummy but tasted like a Dr. Scholl’s shoe insole (used.) The beds had comfy potential, but felt like sleeping on old man flesh (hairy.) So then there’s the kid. He looks cute and cuddly, but he’ll start screaming his fucking fuzzy head off when you forget to do the littlest thing. Like feed him. Even once! Forget Swedish meatballs, this is false advertising at its most misleading.

“Well,” said the Rican, trying to raise his voice above the decibel of the screaming child, “at least we got all this shit for free.”

For a second I agreed that our heist made it all worth it. But then my toe got smushed for the eight time by an out-of-control toddler. Nothing is free, bitches. Nothing. Not even stolen pillows.

Update: I'm pretty pumped you guys all hate Ikea as much as me. Feel free to share your miserable stories and keep the comments coming. Maybe Ikea will see it and feel compelled to clean up their act. But, maybe not...

no sleep till brooklyn!

So this, might be what we call a "light post week." (right, like i post so much anyway...)

I have to a) start my new job, meet my partner and try to remember how to concept for ads

b) move to williamsburg -- the rican and i got a fabulous new place which we will be moving to over the week which means...

c) multiple trips to ikea (a blog may be coming about the wretchedness of that place. went yesterday and made a few "observations"...)

d) lots of cleaning. and oh how i hate that....

e) finishing my other job. I'm such a noble employee i decided to give them proper notice and still finish all the shifts i was scheduled for. (barf)

and then there's f) keeping you, my loyal readers, updated with regular posts of hilarity. (see, even that was funny.) ok. i know. i'm not funny. shut up.

and don't forget....




that's it!

Self indulgence and a Streets metaphor

(Warning...this one's whiny. And I guess it won't make sense to you if you don’t listen to the Streets. But given his recent rise to popularity, I’m betting that most of you have. So I’m using his song as a fucking weak metaphor. And if you haven’t, sorry, dude. This probably isn’t worth reading anyway. i only ramble on and on. I just kinda wrote it for myself....and of course, this one goes out to all my homies in the struggle...)

It was supposed to be so eaaaaasyyyyy.

Finish ad school. Move to New York. Get a job. Almost exactly one year ago that was our plan. “Our” being the Rican and me. And it sounded simple enough. I had savings. He had his mama. Never mind that the total combined times he and I had visited New York was under eight. Cause fuck, man. We were smart. And (while I didn’t believe it) everybody told us we had good books. Shit, a few people went so far as to flip out when they saw him. ”Oh, you guys definitely won’t have a problem.” Plus I had Donnell’s list of contacts in my little job searching black book. With hook ups like that I’d been turnin’ the fuckers down! And if all else failed (which it most certainly wouldn’t) I could always waitress at my old manager’s night club. New York, man. We were much too talented to go to some little agency out in Kansas. It was like fucking destiny or something. So goddamn easy.

But little did I know, a grand don’t come for free.

And just like that, easy, quick snap, we had jobs. Like good ad school grads, we printed out ten books and twenty CDs and marched to the portfolio review. And got our egos fucking stroked. “This is nice stuff,” The recruiters said. “Funny.” “Love your work.”

“I really need a writer. You think you can come in tomorrow to start?”

Fuck yeah, I can come in. Hired. On the spot. The Rican too. We didn’t really want to work at the same place, given that we were living together in sin and all, but shit. It was a job. Right-a-fucking-way. Who else could boast such quick employment? No one ever gets hired from these things. But we did, cause we were meant to be here. New York, man. I guess it was destiny after all. So easy, indeed.

But easy come, easy go. We went to our first day of work. The Rican overslept and was late. I got there an hour before he did only to learn the news I already feared in the back of my head. We weren’t just hired to work at the same agency, but in the same office. As a team. “But we’re dating,” we protested, hoping our new CD would just find us new partners. “Then that might be a problem,” he agreed. So the Rican got to keep his job. “And don’t worry, CD said to me. “You’re a great writer, you’ll find something else in no time.” And just like that, I was back on the streets. (This kind of thing is also great for a relationship, by the way.)

So I failed on the DVD,
But I still had to get the money….

Ah, but there was always plan B. The nightclub in Meatpacking. Under any other circumstances I’d never set foot in that herpes infestation. The smoke, superficiality and kamikazie shots were more nauseating than a night of chugging Belevdere. But my old manager offered me the job. And given my situation, I had to swallow my nausea cause I needed the money. The hours were horrible. The girls were bitches. I barely saw the Rican. And my ego, inflated by a portfolio review, was immediately popped by the customers who treated me like a dumb blonde cocktail waitress. A grand don’t come for free, indeed. Too scared and miserable to even enjoy the money, I continued to live like a pauper, spending none of it. I simply spent all my free time worrying I would never get a job. And began wondering why the fuck I’d left Miami, my home, everything I knew, in the first place.

So I failed on the DVD.
Couldn’t withdraw any money.
But I still had to call Mom.
Get the savings and then hurry.

And in this case, "Mom" was a list of agencies. Call. Email. Unreturned Email. Unreturned Call. Fuck! How busy can these people be? On the off chance I actually got through, I’d get the same reassurances. “Oh don’t worry. You're good. It’s just a matter of time.” A matter of time like eternity? Like never? Like I the two years I just wasted in ad school?

Oh, but there was the freelance. The horrible partnerless freelance that strung me along week by week. Month by month. The insecure income that forced me to keep two jobs, the club and the agency, lest I lose one. I was living a schizo double life, with my heart in neither one. Uncertainty began to creep all over me in this shaky state. And this horrible thing kept happening to me. Every day. It started with a little worry. Then the world got a little shaky, like I was on the verge of a ‘shrooms trip. But instead of spending the evening laughing at silly visuals, I began crying. For no fucking reason at all. “Shit, I’ve never cried like this before. What the fuck is wrong with me?” And that’s how I learned what a panic attack feels like. And learned over and over, every time I sat down to write. Kinda makes it hard to get your headlines done. But at least I still had that lucrative club gig. I may not have a career, but I couldn’t complain about pulling in that kind of money.

And then, for reasons out of my hands, the bitch fired me.

So there I was. In the middle of a winter I didn’t know how to handle. Losing one income. Knowing that if I didn’t start writing like I used to, if I didn’t get my shit together, I’d lose the other too. Pressure ain’t good for the anxiety. And, fuck it was cold. And ugly. Where were my palm trees? What the fuck was I doing here? Standing in the middle of a frigid crowded street in giant Uggs I should have never spent the money on, I felt like I was in the middle of that Streets song. Except, it wasn’t just about a bad day, it was a fucking bad life. A stupid fucking me. A whiney immature bitch who just couldn’t get her shit together. So easy, my ass. What the fuck was I doing leaving Miami? For what? For here? For this?

Today I have achieved absolutely now.
It’s just being out of the house I’ve lost out.
If I wanted to end up with more now,
I should have just stayed in bed like I know how.

My freelance ended like I feared it would. It seemed like a good thing at the time – my CD promising me all the contacts I needed. But, of course, the prick never came through. Never returned an email or a phone call. Just like all those other working bastards who at one time or another assured me my book was great. So great. So fucking great. So great everyone I know is working but me.

A thousand pound disappearing from me, is not what I call funny.

Getting up was gratuitous. The alarm would go off, but I’d just roll back over, hiding safely behind my eyelids. Good morning, Day, now fuck off. My twenty-seventh birthday was coming. After 8 months of CD hounding I had no job, and no career to speak of. Waa-waa. Boo-fucking-hoo. Even Dave Eggars was not this whiny.

But then one day I just said fuck it. Stop pondering the suckiness of this hole I'd let myself fall in. And start climbing the fuck out of it. You’re depressed? Really? STOP THE DRAMA! GET THE FUCK OVER IT! Get a waitressing job. Start writing. Just do it. No, it’s not fucking easy. It’s actually really fucking hard. But a grand don’t come for free, goddamnit!

So I went back to old faithful and started waitressing again. It didn’t pay like the club job did. But who was I to complain? There was no time for that. “All writers get shitty jobs,” the Rican told me. “Much worse than this one.”

Easy for his employed ass to say. But still, he was right. It wasn’t great, but it could have been a lot worse. So I just did it. Yoga. Write. Work. I didn’t have a spot at Chiat, but I was a hell of a lot further ahead than I was a few months ago – unemployed and crying hysterically on my bed. And I felt better too. Routine keeping me busy. A month passed and I was about to start working on my book again, my confidence restored and my finances (while minor) intact.

And then the restaurant closed without notice, leaving me out of a job again. Goddamnit! What else can go wrong??? No, no. Don’t ask that question. Cause the universe will always answer you. Just find another job and keep writing. You’ll have a new book by the new year, and then you can start chasing the ad thing again.

And I found a new job. And a better one at that. Mo’ money. Better peeps. And a month later I started luxuriating in the comfort of income and routine. Now I can start working on my book again. Just two kick ass campaigns, by the end of the year. I can do this. Just like I did it before.

And then, suddenly, without my planning, to my great surprise, I found my thousand quid. Yesterday, after almost a year of searching I stood outside in Soho, blinking in disbelief. I’d just been offered a job. A good job. A fucking full time job. In advertising. And it’s the kind of job I really want like I want an IV of Black Label in my arm. Or fuck. Make it Blue Label. Cause, fuckers, I’m making a paycheck! 401k! Health insurance! A kick-ass CD! And it was all out of fucking nowhere. It seamed too easy. No, no. This can’t be. A grand don’t come for free. But a quick mental montage through the past year and I remember. This isn’t some freak lottery win. I earned this.

“Was it worth it?” asked my friend on the phone as I walked to the 6 train. “All that shit you went through. Aren’t you glad it all happened?”

I smiled a silent “yes.” into the receiver my phone’s receiver. I guess things, easy or not, usually end up just as they should.

(Yeah, yeah. I’m rolling my eyes too. But fuck. Let me have my little moment. The normal bitter programming will return shortly.)

proof

It’s been a minute since I posted a server story. Mainly because I’m living in denial right now (despite kinda liking my job) and refusing to acknowledge the way I’m temporarily earning my living. I tell myself it’s not my job, no. It’s just some place I go hang out between the hours of 3 and 12. Sure, I bring home a fistful of cash. But it’s not my profession. People just like me. And they donate.

But spending longer time working in restaurants than I ever imagined I would has taught me something. Despite what I used to think as a high and mighty college student, there’s nothing wrong with being a server. Much like real estate, sales or any of the other numerous middle man positions out there, it’s just a job. A way to earn a living. You punch in. You punch out. Then you go find something that makes you happy.

But there are plenty of people who think there is something wrong with it. And what’s wrong with it isn’t the job. It’s the person doing the job. “What’s that? You’re a server? In a restaurant? Oh yee, of little education. Poor thing. You must be stupid.”

So they condescend. They speak sl-o-o-o-o-wly. They treat you with the same annoyed frustration a spoiled rich teenager would treat his retarded cousin when forced to baby-sit him. And there’s nothing you can do but bite your tongue and check your watch. Cause eventually you can high-tail it the fuck outta there and bury your nose deep into a fat glass of cabernet and a couple of brilliant blogs.

But in their perceived social triumph, there’s something they don’t realize. There’s a group whose intelligence plummets far below the average IQ of your every day order taker. A group who was apparently absent on the day in school when they taught the lesson – How Not to Act Like A Total Fucking Asshole. A group composed of you, me and everyone we know. You know who they are? Fucking people.



And this story, would be what I call, proof.

I was annoyed. (surprise!) Standing by the hostess stand on my fifth shift in a row. We were understaffed, overbooked, and my manager had called in sick. And with that phone call he threw us all to the wolves.

Three of them walked in. Two wolves and a baby pup.

If you ask me, children have no place in adult restaurants. There’s a very specific reason that most people avoid eating their food while surrounded by plush cheese eating mice that go by the name of Chucky. And I don’t think anyone deserves a place at the adult dinner table, until they learn to not shit in their pants.

But that’s what kids do. Shit their pants. And then they grow up to be adults. Adults who shit on your day. Adults who missed the lesson in class: You Don’t Change Your Baby’s Diaper at the Fucking Dinner Table in a Fine Dinning Restaurant. But that’s what she did. And that’s what people do. That, or something like it.

And like an unwelcome child, the diaper’s aroma came out to play. To mingle with the normal restaurant smells of garlic and lamb jus. The smell got so bad that one of the bus boys decided to walk to her table and spray Lysol. On her. (Hey, you act like an idiot, you get treated with stupidity.)

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Why he felt she deserved an apology, I don’t know. “But some people have been complaining about the smell.” Personally, I don’t see the use in trying to explain to people like this that there actually are others in the world that their actions affect. But maybe it was some sort of service industry instinct that prompted him to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault.

“Well you can take that then,” the woman said pointing to a napkin on the center of the table. “That’s probably what the smell is.”

The bus boy reached down, doing his normal job of cleaning up other people’s thoughtless shit. But the warm gushy feeling inside the napkin made him recoil his hand in horror.

“What is that?!”

“Oh, that was me.” Said The Moron. “I threw up.”

After changing her child in the middle of a food-consuming environment, where people touch things and then touch their mouths, she went on to publicly vomit in the same spot. Puke, no doubt, subconsciously induced by her gut wrenching behavior. And then she went on to talk down to her server, and all others working around her, just trying to do their job.

“Let me out there.” Said the chef, shuffling back and forth like a boxer preparing for a fight. “Let me go out there and tell her that we don’t want people like that in here.”

Ah, such naïve words for one who deals with food and not humans. People like that? Then you’ll be forced to close down and look for other work. Because at some point in our lives, all people do something like that. Kick her out, and you kick everyone out. These are people you’re talking about.

“Relax,” I said. “She’s just a stupid human. Just learn to laugh at her from back here. You’ll find it’s much more fun.” And fun is what I'm all about these days.

More people were seated. The night continued.

Like the flu in the winter, stupidity relished in its breading ground, mutating like motherfucker. Highly contagious. Infecting everyone in it's path. Too much idiocy to fit in one post. This used to make me mad. Infuriate me to the point of feeling compelled to teach everyone out there a lesson. To give them my class notes, and fill them the fuck in!

But now, after so many years, you can find me in the back. Completely metamorphosed into a bubble of laughter. Hilarity weakening my legs to the point of eventually collapsing Indian style to the floor. Gasping for air. Tears escaping from the corners of my eyes. Guffawing at all these stupid, stupid motherfukers.

Truth in Advertising

So those Osama blowin' fuckers were about to use liquid explosives on planes, eh? Thanks a lot, Towel-Heads. Now I have to settle for that half soda can those cheap airline fuckers ration out during the flight, instead of bringing on my own Cherry Coke.

So here I am, on my imaginary flight, sans Cherry Coke, pondering the various ways I'd like to administer Chinese torture to the minds behind this plot and that stupid smiling stewardess who still won't give me the full can, when it dawns on me. The Sierra Mist commercial!

This wasn't some original idea dreamed up by creatives. They were in on the plot too!

So that giant inconsistent clusterfuck BBDO is really just a network of soda bombing terrorists! And for some reason, it all makes perfect sense.

They Call me Crackhead

Here we are. You and me. Maybe we’re in a bar. Maybe we have some beers. Maybe I suggest we get a shot with the beers. Maybe you say, “Hell yeah! Muthafuckingshot! Hell yeah!” Maybe we walk to the bar. And maybe, while the bartender relinquishes some of that agave nectar, I, purely for your entertainment, decide to say something weird.

To which you will reply, “Dude, are you on crack?”

My friends, nary a day goes by without the things that come out of my mouth being indicted as products of the various habits of hippies and homeless people. In fact, at one time, your dear blogging buddy, Ms. Libre was known to her closest friends as “Crackhead”- this nickname being official as several people had stored my phone number under this name in their cell. But was it because I was a whiter walking audition for Dave Chappells’s crack-feign character Tyrone? No. I simply liked to watch, read and thus say weird shit. So they’d call me “Crackhead,” and I’d say, “Hey.”

Fun fact #37: I’ve actually never done crack. And if you add up the number of times I’ve done acid, you’ll ultimately reach a grand total of one. (It was slipped in my mouth without my consent at nine am after I’d taken my fourth ecstasy pill while in the middle of a whipit. But that’s beside the point.) So why then, should hallucinogens or the poor man’s coke get all the glory? Why can’t my freakish thoughts be the product of my own weirdness? You know, Crack didn’t spend its childhood years with an unhealthy addiction to reading insane books and trying to emulate the writing styles with its own stories when normal children went out and played softball. Crack didn’t suffer through years of peer rejection whilst trying to woo those same normal children away from their softball game with said written stories. Crack didn’t cry about its friendless existence on its mom’s shoulder, while she tried to comfort it saying, “There, there, Pipe. You just march to the beat of a different drum.” Crack didn’t even grow up later to realize how gay that saying is. So why’s Crack getting the credit?

Fun Fact #41: Aside from popping a few Focus Factors, I’m actually mind numbingly sober when I write these posts. Soberer than your mom. Soberer than Billy Grahm on Bible detox. Soberer than you when you woke up next to her:
and swore off burbon for the rest of your life!

Sure, Kerouac wrote On the Road while careening through the mind trip of Benzedrine, but I just can’t do that. Don’t got the right wires, man. Can’t blog while simultaneously watching purple heads ooze out of the walls and come together as one beautiful pulsating being that sings William Blake poems to the tune of Ooops, I Did it Again while soothing my anxieties with their fuscia tongues that duuuuude, makes me figure it all out. It’d be too hard to see the Zs and Xs on the keyboard.

Relatively Fun Fact Depending on What Your Mom Says #82: I’m actually more inclined to write posts about, for example, Why the Chickens are Speaking to Me Through the Spatulas. But what’s the fun in writing something if everyone assumes it was ghost written by hallucinogens? This story was kinda weird. Yet I felt the need to put the disclaimer on the bottom to illustrate that no, I was not stealing the Rican’s weed. (I did that later.) But since the whole fucking world has decided to crown Crack as the Poet Laureate of Lunacy, I felt compelled to defend my inspiration.

So peeps, just so we’re clear, Godamnit! It’s not crack’s idea!!! It’s mine! I’m the weirdo! I’m the freak! Listen to the Spatulas, man. The chickens are trying to speak!

Now, about that shot. Need some alcohol to bring me down quick. I took waaaaay too big a bump in the bathroom.

Subway Etiquette

You. You there wearin’ the tank top. Yes you. There’re only two other people in here. And I’m certainly not gonna attempt conversation with Mr. Pot Belly Sanchez sittin’ diagonal across. I see you. And I see what you’re about to do. Twisting your underarm skin ‘round so you can see. It’s in your eyes. Bloodthirsty. You’re wild, ravenous. You’ve spotted your prey.

Oh I know it looks all bulbous and juicy. Ripe for the poppin’. You can almost hear the satisfying snap of taught flesh breaking between your fingernails. There’s no goin’ back now. Temptation’s got its dirty little coke-nail hooked on your throat. Pointing out your prize with the other four fingers.

And it’s luscious. Apple-like. Garden of Eden n such.

Well, allow me to play God. Just for a second.

Don’t pop your fucking arm pimple in the subway!

Oh I know, I know. It’s calling out to you. And there’s nothing else to do considering you’re illiterate and all. And perhaps you think I don’t see you. I’m looking away now, right? You’re safe. I’m busy. Buried. Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (good god…does he ever stop whining? Does the book ever end?) But your vision is dancing all over my peripheries. My imagination filling in the sites and sounds. I can see the whole operation from the squeeze to pop and wipe. Examine the evidence on your little finger stubs. Your entertainment oozes all over my senses. You’re the subway ridin’ Garbage Pail Kid. And I’m officially grossed the fuck out.

No! Goddamnit! Don’t start looking on the other arm for another one!!!

XOXOXO!

Omigod! Don’t you love my new slut photo? I’m totally putting it up on my myspace page!



It seems like just yesterday when my brother got that job at Best Buy (you go, bro! So proud of you!) and he stole me that digital camera. I’ve always kinda wondered what my titties would look like on the big Dell screen, so I bit my lip and snapped a pic. And I was like, holy Sex and the City! I am totally gonna be the nexxxt Forbidden!

Forbidden is my fucking hero. Even her name is like totally genius and ironic n stuff. You know, like she’s forbidden like you can’t really “have” her, but really all you have to do is friend request her and she can be in your number one spot – like she is in mine. She didn’t respond to my “Thanxxx for the add!” or anything. But that’s cuz she’s “Forbidden!”

I’ve gotta start working on my myspace name. I was thinking something like “Cum out and play.” Get it? It makes me sound like totally hot and willing, but kinda innocent and schoolgirlishy too. Guyz like that. And it shows I’m more than just super hot but totally fucking clever. LOL! Fucking clever. Get it? I’m on a roll today!

Or maybe I’ll just go with something straight-forward like WetBoXXX or Bunny Fuxx. Cuz, gosh! Puns are really smart n stuff. I’d like totally hate to confuse my audience.

My audience, by the way, is huge. I’ve got 378 friends and counting. Only like, celebrities and porn stars have more than that. And I’m practically a celebrity myself considering that most of my friends are bands and famous people!

Speaking of celebrities, guess which Sex and the City character I am? Well as if you couldn’t figure it out already, as my page says, duh, I’m totally Samantha! When I took the quiz I was scared I was gonna end up being that tight twated Miranda, so I made sure I answered every question as slutty…I mean as “sexually liberated” as possible. And, viola! Samantha! And those tests are proven scientific evidence.

So what if I’m not really that hot in person? Who needs to be pretty when you can just master the “angles?” I've gotten really good at tilting my face in the cum-fuck-me style. But the best are the ones where you can't see my face or anything, so it makes me all boobs, baby! I fucking love my boobs. Even tho they’re a little lopsided, they were seriously the best present I could have gotten for passing my GED. Thanks, Uncle Steve!

But let’s get it straight. Just cuz I got a twat shot addiction, I AM NOT A SLUT! I’m just celebrating the beauty of the female form n stuff. And what's wrong with a little self luuuv? I mean, really. How could I be a slut when my profile says “in a relationship," duh! And I’m practically a virgin because finger fucking does not count! Man, is my ass sore.

But honestly, guyz. I think this new photo is the best one yet. A few more like this and I’m totally gonna high tail it outta here to the big city. Tallahassee, here I come! Maybe Uncle Steve will let me borrow his Hyundai. I’ll ask “nicely.”

Update: For the fucking record, since there seems to have been some confusion, THAT IS NOT ME! Nor is this post ABOUT ME. Instead of ranting about all those stupid girls who take these kids of pictures of themselves, I did it this way. Geez, people.