If you ask boyfriend, he'll tell you that I'm a lesbian. He's even got hard evidence. First hand. Not even hearsay.
I check out tits before he even gets a chance, and sometimes point the good ones out to him. If he's lucky and I'm feeling charitable.
I have several "girl crushes" that I talk to him about in great detail, which either makes him uncomfortable or excited, I'm not sure. Probably both.
Can you be uncomfortably excited that your girlfriend is potentially a lesbian?
Anyway.
Several weeks ago we were in a store together and both locked our targets on a mistress at the same time. This girl, woman, piece of ass... whatever, was hot business. Not girl next door hot, not school teacher hot, not penthouse hot, not even model hot. She was an exquisite mix of biker punk rock slutty nasty hot and I wanted her all to myself.
I glanced over at boyfriend hoping that he didn't see my completely obvious stalker-stare, but it was too late. Jealousy poured over me as I saw that he also was eye-fucking my unicorn. Without my permission. This of course was all my fault since I didn't call out "dibs" at the exact moment I saw her.
We proceeded to fight over said unicorn stating reasons why she'd take one of us over the other, but being the pussies that we both are, we compromised on pretend asking her for a non-existant threesome in make-believe land and went on our way.
At the end of the day, I'm pretty totally sure that I'm 100% straight.
I just don't know about the rest of the day.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I might be a bridge, but I'm a hot one.
I have a friend with a kid. I generally try to limit these.
When you have fucking neat friends, and they go and get themselves knocked up, something happens.
All of a sudden it's all about, like, their kid. Like they're super important or something.
They change their facebook profile pics to one of their kid, all you hear about is their kid. They eat, breathe and sleep baby shit. Ok, they probably don't sleep it since they aren't actually getting any sleep at all, which tends to make them bi-polar on top of becoming completely lame.
I tend to avoid getting close to people who could potentially have children because I know after years of amazing and totally fucked up glorious shananagans, they're going to dump me for a fetus that they don't even know.
That's pretty much like getting dumped for a one-night stand that then proceeds to move in and never leave for 18 years, meanwhile sucking all the funness out of your former friend leaving them a husk of mom-jeans and oversized t-shirts permanently riddled with spit up residue.
Anyway, I have a friend with a kid. I don't see her as much as I'd like to, and hardly ever see her without her kid. Not to sound like a complete asshat, I will say that as kids go, this one is pretty cool, and his parents are cool, so there's hope of him ending up somewhat cool. Especially if I have anything to do with his upbringing.
There are situations that arise where this kid is around a group of people who have no kids, and really have no intention of ever having kids. They get all nervous and sweaty around kids like they've never even seen one before. These people also drink a lot and participate in douchebaggery on a regular basis.
Last night was one of these nights.
This kid is staring to repeat things you say, and forming his tender little vocabulary. One word he's having trouble with is 'bridge'.
Yeah, it totally comes out 'bitch'.
This is hilarious, and adds to the popularity of this kid when you can ask
"Can you say 'bridge'?"
And he yells "bitch!"
Well, these drunk fucks I'm friends with decided to push this a step further.
"Can you say 'hot bridge'?"
"HOT BITCH!"
Ever seen a toddler marching around a living room flying matchbox cars yelling HOT BITCH?
Well, it's the first reason I've ever found to have a kid.
Unfortunately, I think he'll grow out of it.
When you have fucking neat friends, and they go and get themselves knocked up, something happens.
All of a sudden it's all about, like, their kid. Like they're super important or something.
They change their facebook profile pics to one of their kid, all you hear about is their kid. They eat, breathe and sleep baby shit. Ok, they probably don't sleep it since they aren't actually getting any sleep at all, which tends to make them bi-polar on top of becoming completely lame.
I tend to avoid getting close to people who could potentially have children because I know after years of amazing and totally fucked up glorious shananagans, they're going to dump me for a fetus that they don't even know.
That's pretty much like getting dumped for a one-night stand that then proceeds to move in and never leave for 18 years, meanwhile sucking all the funness out of your former friend leaving them a husk of mom-jeans and oversized t-shirts permanently riddled with spit up residue.
Anyway, I have a friend with a kid. I don't see her as much as I'd like to, and hardly ever see her without her kid. Not to sound like a complete asshat, I will say that as kids go, this one is pretty cool, and his parents are cool, so there's hope of him ending up somewhat cool. Especially if I have anything to do with his upbringing.
There are situations that arise where this kid is around a group of people who have no kids, and really have no intention of ever having kids. They get all nervous and sweaty around kids like they've never even seen one before. These people also drink a lot and participate in douchebaggery on a regular basis.
Last night was one of these nights.
This kid is staring to repeat things you say, and forming his tender little vocabulary. One word he's having trouble with is 'bridge'.
Yeah, it totally comes out 'bitch'.
This is hilarious, and adds to the popularity of this kid when you can ask
"Can you say 'bridge'?"
And he yells "bitch!"
Well, these drunk fucks I'm friends with decided to push this a step further.
"Can you say 'hot bridge'?"
"HOT BITCH!"
Ever seen a toddler marching around a living room flying matchbox cars yelling HOT BITCH?
Well, it's the first reason I've ever found to have a kid.
Unfortunately, I think he'll grow out of it.
Monday, January 11, 2010
All aboard the obnoxious fuckville express.
For some reason, looking like a jackass totally appeals to me. My sister says that she likes being able to "outwardly express her true fuck self". I couldn't agree more.
There are so many fashion nightmares in this state that make me cringe. Mom jeans that hit the bottom of your bra. Shirts under tank tops. Capris with sneakers. One piece Sunday dresses. My god. Sunday dresses. People here bore me to tears.
Conversely, I'm sure that things that appeal to me are simply terrifying to the majority of my fellow Utahns.
I have a hard-on for most things punk and moderately obnoxious. Black nail polish, tattoos, piercings, Converse All-Stars, hot pink, plaid, mohawks, and fedoras. My love affair with fedoras started with Mark McGrath from the band Sugar Ray. Circa 1999. Sweet Jesus, is there anything hotter than a topless Mark McGrath in a fedora?
No. The answer is no.
Back to my sister. She rocked a fedora on New Year's Eve and made endless jokes about what a fuck she looked like, but I couldn't quit thinking how hot she was and how I wished I had the balls to pull off a fedora myself. After taking a survey, and finding a hot pink plaid fedora online, the engineer punched my boarding pass and I was on the train to obnoxious fuckville.
There are so many fashion nightmares in this state that make me cringe. Mom jeans that hit the bottom of your bra. Shirts under tank tops. Capris with sneakers. One piece Sunday dresses. My god. Sunday dresses. People here bore me to tears.
Conversely, I'm sure that things that appeal to me are simply terrifying to the majority of my fellow Utahns.
I have a hard-on for most things punk and moderately obnoxious. Black nail polish, tattoos, piercings, Converse All-Stars, hot pink, plaid, mohawks, and fedoras. My love affair with fedoras started with Mark McGrath from the band Sugar Ray. Circa 1999. Sweet Jesus, is there anything hotter than a topless Mark McGrath in a fedora?
No. The answer is no.
Back to my sister. She rocked a fedora on New Year's Eve and made endless jokes about what a fuck she looked like, but I couldn't quit thinking how hot she was and how I wished I had the balls to pull off a fedora myself. After taking a survey, and finding a hot pink plaid fedora online, the engineer punched my boarding pass and I was on the train to obnoxious fuckville.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
My new year's resolution is to eat a lot and keep avoiding sperm.
Know how I know resolutions are bogus? Because I've started a diet plan the past 209 consecutive Mondays in a row, and promptly failed them by 5 pm the same day.
It must be pretty obvious to my friends that I'm a fat ass and fail diet plans, because I've gotten two texts in 24 hours asking me to go to spinning or yoga or pilates or yogalates or some shit.
I saw a show recently that explained that women have 10% more body fat then men and wider hips for birthing and such tomfoolery, and it all began to make sense.
According to my spinster age and regional affiliation, I should be placenta-deep in my third spawn by now. My body is working in overdrive hoping I'll notice how well prepared it is to spew offspring.
Hopefully one day my body will realize that my brain is on an override loop to veto fertilizational powers. At which point I'll be back to my pre-"my body wants a baby" weight. Or since I'm such a chronic resolution-failer, maybe I'll make my resolution this year to BE a total lard ass. Yeah. That's it.
It must be pretty obvious to my friends that I'm a fat ass and fail diet plans, because I've gotten two texts in 24 hours asking me to go to spinning or yoga or pilates or yogalates or some shit.
I saw a show recently that explained that women have 10% more body fat then men and wider hips for birthing and such tomfoolery, and it all began to make sense.
According to my spinster age and regional affiliation, I should be placenta-deep in my third spawn by now. My body is working in overdrive hoping I'll notice how well prepared it is to spew offspring.
Hopefully one day my body will realize that my brain is on an override loop to veto fertilizational powers. At which point I'll be back to my pre-"my body wants a baby" weight. Or since I'm such a chronic resolution-failer, maybe I'll make my resolution this year to BE a total lard ass. Yeah. That's it.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Happy fucking new year to ME.
I hear this clicking. It's 6am. I immediately assume it's boyfriend playing games on his new super phone that has so much going on I'm pretty sure if we had Barack over for dinner, he could find an app to launch nukes from this bitch. You know, only in case of an emergency.
ANYWAY. I hear this clicking and assume it's Nerd Herd in bed next to me geek squading his new device. Just when I get enough energy to roll over and ask him whyyyy he's humping his new phone so early, I hear him snore.
Well that'd be a new one, right? Being so obsessed with your phone that you play in your sleep?
Well now I'm just confused. On to option two. My cat is dismembering something. Boyfriend's kids slept over, maybe she's finally played out her end game and murdered one of them. She has been stalking them for months.
I smash on my glasses and prepare to discover a carcass when it hits me, Mother BITCH. That noise is water. Being that water is my arch nemesis, I start doing the frantic breathing like a drunk that just got pulled over with a car full of hookers and cocaine. "Oh shit, oh god, oh FUCK."
There's a giant paint pocket of water on my ceiling ready to blow its load. I half stumble run down the stairs in search of a vessel large enough to hold all my "this is going to be a great year" hopes and dreams, and the closest I come is the crock pot insert.
Ok, now what? Wake up boyfriend.
He tells me that I need to pop the ever growing bubble of roof water, so I get a needle. After holding the heavy crock pot up to the ceiling and stabbing the pocket several times, my impatience gets the best of me and I gently press on the bubble.
This was wrong. Fucking wrong. What happened next can be summed up by saying that my roof peed in my mouth. Yeah, roof piss. In my mouth.
The paint gave and the delightful cocktail of roof water and plaster splashed everywhere.
After cleaning up the metric fuckload of house fluids, I lay in bed trying not to cry or throw up, or both. As eager as I was to get rid of 2009, I'm now thinking that 2010 won't be that great either. At least 2009 didn't pee in my mouth.
ANYWAY. I hear this clicking and assume it's Nerd Herd in bed next to me geek squading his new device. Just when I get enough energy to roll over and ask him whyyyy he's humping his new phone so early, I hear him snore.
Well that'd be a new one, right? Being so obsessed with your phone that you play in your sleep?
Well now I'm just confused. On to option two. My cat is dismembering something. Boyfriend's kids slept over, maybe she's finally played out her end game and murdered one of them. She has been stalking them for months.
I smash on my glasses and prepare to discover a carcass when it hits me, Mother BITCH. That noise is water. Being that water is my arch nemesis, I start doing the frantic breathing like a drunk that just got pulled over with a car full of hookers and cocaine. "Oh shit, oh god, oh FUCK."
There's a giant paint pocket of water on my ceiling ready to blow its load. I half stumble run down the stairs in search of a vessel large enough to hold all my "this is going to be a great year" hopes and dreams, and the closest I come is the crock pot insert.
Ok, now what? Wake up boyfriend.
He tells me that I need to pop the ever growing bubble of roof water, so I get a needle. After holding the heavy crock pot up to the ceiling and stabbing the pocket several times, my impatience gets the best of me and I gently press on the bubble.
This was wrong. Fucking wrong. What happened next can be summed up by saying that my roof peed in my mouth. Yeah, roof piss. In my mouth.
The paint gave and the delightful cocktail of roof water and plaster splashed everywhere.
After cleaning up the metric fuckload of house fluids, I lay in bed trying not to cry or throw up, or both. As eager as I was to get rid of 2009, I'm now thinking that 2010 won't be that great either. At least 2009 didn't pee in my mouth.
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