Seriously Though, I'm Just Kidding.

I'd Rather Ruin My Carpet Than My Life

2009-08-08T13:58:00.000-07:00

Why does almost every adult person on the planet have at least one child? I don't get it. Kids are loud, smelly, time-consuming money-grubbers. I don't know about you, but I value being able to pee in peace without a little hyperactive rugrat barging in on me. Call me selfish or crazy, but I just don't have the desire to have children. Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me and what happened to my maternal instincts that I'm supposed to have as a female of child-bearing age... Woah. Seeing that in writing makes me feel like a very old 25. But then I think those instincts have just been focused somewhere else: pets. I'm weirdly attached to my furfriends and I'll probably wind up being a crazy old cat lady someday. And the worst part is, I like that. Thinking of playing mommy to my kitties, puppies, and chinchillas makes me happy. Yes, I have a chinchilla and her name is Gwen Stefani. Don't judge me. But thinking of chasing around some screaming, ungrateful kid makes me vomit mentally. Basically, I'm going to have lots of pets instead of children, because I'd rather ruin my carpet than my life. (I got that from a Facebook bumper sticker. Genius.) I know I probably shouldn't feel this way, but I really believe that if more people reeeeally stopped to think about it, less and less would choose to have kids. I think it's just 'the thing to do.' People are 'supposed' to have children. My mom drives me batsh*t crazy with this topic, too. She's always saying that I don't mean what I say, and that it's just a phase I'll grow out of. Hmmm... this phase sure has lasted a long time. Like ten years long. But who knows? Maybe she's right and I'll end up having like three kids someday :::shudder::: And if I do, I'm soooo dressing them up like animals until they're old enough to fight back.

Does Not Play Well With Others

2009-04-22T18:24:00.000-07:00

I'm desperately trying to get into a dental hygiene program at a local college this fall, so I've spent the last 8 months of Saturdays rotting away in classes like chemistry and anatomy & physiology (microbiology fun is to come this summer). Stop me if you disagree- haha you can't actually do that 'cause this is a blog -but pretty much ANYTHING would be better on a Saturday than spending 9 hours in class. One of my fellow classmates does not feel this way.
For the past 3 months, "blondie" has been slowly killing my soul with her incessant, pointless, self-important, incoherent blabbering. She is the worst version of a grade grubber, and I'm pretty sure the professor hates her as much as the rest of the class does.
Blondie is roughly 45 (I'm guestimating) with the social appropriateness and maturity of a sixth grader. On any given day, she will cause us to be stuck in class for at least an extra hour, due to the fact that she won't shut the hell up. At this point, I'm seriously considering violence. It's bad enough that she never stops talking, but her rambling is always pointless AND no one can understand a word she says 'cause she runs all her words together. She sounds like she is speaking in tongues.
On top of her chatter-boxing, blondie is also a rude b*tch. She bumped me out of my lab station during an exam, causing me to miss three questions. She also ratted my two friends and I out to the professor because we were "distracting" her during a test (we were eating bagels quietly in the back of the classroom). And it's not just us she badgers. Last class, she angrily told a very nice classmate to stop chewing her gum so loudly... and accompanied this with a "shut your mouth" hand gesture. When my friends and I heard this, we all stuffed giant wads of gum in our mouths and started snapping our gum as loudly as we could. I may or may not have blown bubbles and popped them extremely obnoxiously as well. It kinda sounded like a balloon deflating.
So I'm throwing this virtual gauntlet out into cyberspace: bring it on, blondie. Keep rambling like Porky Pig... Keep shushing my friends and I and telling us to leave the classroom... Keep ratting us out to the professor like you're an angry, pouting pre-schooler. Bring. It. On. I dare you to say one more thing to me. You ain't seen crazy 'til you seen a stressed-out college kid who's waiting for an acceptance letter.

Freaks, Geeks, and Pre-pubescent Cheerleaders

2009-03-08T08:32:00.001-07:00

*Unrelated Note: My life isn't all that interesting, or even blog-worthy. In case you're wondering why I don't update more often.

Valentine's Day is nice, but let's admit it: it's a tad bit silly too. I don't know about you, but I'm with all those people who say, "I don't need a holiday to show you I love you." Now, I like being wined and dined and showered in gifts just as much as the next girl, but it all seems so forced. Anyway, this year, Valentine's Day truly was a wonder to behold. Let me start at the beginning, where all good stories should start.
Because neither myself nor Colin (my freckle-faced Irish delight) could get our sh*t together that evening, we left for Providence, RI at roughly 8:30pm. Slightly late for a V-Day dinner excursion. Not to mention I was still feeling kind of like poo from the tail end of a lovely strain of the flu. (it rhymes!) So things were off to a rough start.
Our plan was to eat at Fire & Ice, one of Colin's most beloved restaurants; I think he enjoys the interactive environment. It didn't occur to either of us, however that perhaps we may not get seated on V-Day at a place that doesn't take reservations. We be smart. So we got to the front desk after 5 or 10 minutes and lo and behold, there was a two and a half hour wait. Note: this would mean that we'd be seated just a little before midnight. They closed that evening at 11pm.
But I digress. We wandered around aimlessly, looking for someplace, any place that would seat us in a semi-timely fashion. But to no avail. So we went to the food court at the Providence Place Mall. Mmmmm Subway. Eat Fresh. Colin and I shared a small meatball sub and decided to check on room rates at the Westin, since we were there and all. Walking through the skyway that connects the mall to the hotel, we passed by a dozen or more teeny-bopper cheerleaders followed by a couple of cheer moms. You know the type: frazzled shoulder-length blonde hair, tapered mom jeans that rise just a little too high on the waist, T-shirt tucked into said mom jeans, and just an overall look of not-so-quiet desperation that screams, "I STILL FIT INTO MY CHEER COSTUME FROM '87!"
Yeah, so we passed that group and found ourselves in the upper lobby of the hotel, surrounded by a couple hundred more adolescent cheerleaders in many different school uniforms. Cheer convention! This was fun for me because, having admittedly terrible taste in movies, I had watched Bring It On: All Or Nothing a record 3 times that week. Living the dream, baby, living the dream. We continued down to the the main lobby and WHABAM!

A hairy old man in a pleated pink skirt and black shiny maryjanes, a middle-aged geek dressed up like Robin Hood, a skinny goth in a too tight corset being led around on a leash by a man in black leather chaps, a couple of heavy early-thirty-somethings in sequined tutus.........

"Ummm, what's all this?" I asked the concierge.
"Oh. The fetish convention." and then he took a phone call.
Colin and I were thrilled. The saving grace of our Valentine's Day had just been delivered to us by the gods, wrapped up nicely with a black spikey bow on top. The only logical thing for us to do was to go back up to the second floor balcony and stare down at the freaks, geeks and weirdos for a solid hour. We pointed, we laughed, we ridiculed. It was good times had by all. I even took a couple pictures. Come on! If you dress like that, you clearly want attention.
Then something occured to me. Who the hell was responsible for booking the fetish convention and the underage cheer convention on the same weekend?! I'm no prude, but methinks those two particular events are about as oil-and-water as you can possibly get. It'd be like booking a boyscout convention and a N.A.M.B.L.A. convention at the same time.
Creepy.
On the other hand, my faith in Valentine's Day has been restored.

Some Beach, Somewhere

2009-02-04T13:30:00.001-08:00

Here in New England, it has snowed a sh*t ton already, and it's not even half way through February. Now, I like the snow (except for having to clean it off my car and drive in it) but there comes a point where enough is enough. And that point came about two weeks ago after our umpteenth blizzard that buried us in the white stuff once again.
Since I'm happier nowhere than at the beach, I've decided to completely ignore winter and pretend that it's summer and I'm down the Cape, or in the tropics. People may think I'm a nutter, but it makes me feel better to put myself in a summer mindset. I do this in a few simple ways: 1) I rock out to my "Luvin' Summertime" playlist on my Ipod whenever possible. It has songs on it like "Lime in the Coconut," "It's 5 O'clock Somewhere," and "Escape (the Pina Colada Song)." 2) I dress in summery colors like coral and sea green/turquoise. Also, popular opinion says that white after Labor Day is a fashion no-no. But I say that when one's mental well-being is at stake, that silly little rule can go screw itself. 3) I drink things like Bud Light Lime and pink lemonade with citrus vodka when I'm in the mood to get shmammered. They are delicious, and one sip whisks me away to a hammock under a palm tree. And 4) I drench myself in beachy scents such as my Tahiti Sweetie lotion from Bath & Body -BEST EVER. GO BUY SOME NOW.- my tropical passionfruit and pina colada lotions (both also from Bath & Body), and the most awesome beachy perfume in the world, Tahitian Holiday by Avon, for which I have my friend Jordy to thank. Oh wait, and 5) I also like to wear my Tiffany starfish earrings that Colin bought for me a couple years ago. They're so freakin' cute I can't even stand it.
So I urge you, band together with me, friends and tell Punxsutawney Phil (jaysus... just had to Google the spelling of that one) and his 6 more weeks of winter to go f*ck himself. Awe, that actually just made me feel really bad 'cause I think Phil is adorable. Sorry, Phil, it's a metaphor. But seriously, join me in my summery movement. Because really people, life's a beach.
I need to move to San Fran like now.

Happy New Year! (again) ???

2009-01-12T16:13:00.000-08:00

I've been re-reading my last few posts for grammatical errors and whatnot, and I noticed that none of my recent blabbings has been particularly fun or cheerful. Now what kind of way is that to start 2009? Therefore I've decided to keep this short and sweet, and regale you with a tale of early onset senility.
I was on a mission today to find a pair of snow boots for my upcoming ski trip this weekend, when my quest found me in the shoe department of T.J. Maxx. Despite their disappointing array of footwear (not a single pair of snow boots!) they did have some very cute dresses. And they were on sale! I perused a number of racks and found five dresses that I brought to the fitting room to try on. All the while I was thinking, Wow! Any of these would be so cute to wear out on New Year's Eve. I wonder why they have such a large selection... All the cute dresses are usually sold out by now. I must be in luck!
...It wasn't until I shimmied into the first dress that it hit me. Mmmmm, New Year's Eve was like two weeks ago.
Holy crap on a stick.
I stood there in that lovely jewel-tone dress for a full minute in utter shock and horror at what I'd done. How is it possible that a 24 year old girl could come down with an acute case of Alzheimer's?
Happy New Year!
Wait.
Where am I?

Prancing In My Skivvies - an imaginary journey

2008-12-03T21:29:00.000-08:00

Tonight I watched the 2008 Victoria's Secret fashion show, and I gotta say the good people of that famous lingere line outdid themselves this year. I found Usher and his sexed-up performance to be completely creepy (what is with that beak nose of his?), but other than that - phenomenal show.
I wish I were a famous VS supermodel...
OH! The power I'd have over the male species. Mwa Haa Haaaa. I'd never wear real clothing because my body would be smokin'! I'd prance around in tiny little lacy ruffled underthings that left none of Victoria's secrets to the imagination. This would even be totally appropriate work attire 'cause I mean come on. Who's gonna have anything negative to say about the VS supermodel prancing around the office in her skivvies? Wait. If I were a VS supermodel, why would I even be at the proverbial "office?" I think I'm confusing myself.
I would not, in fact, have to work at any sort of office. I would be paid obscene amounts of money to look hot and run around in designer undies. (Umm speaking of, did you SEE the multi-million dollar diamond bra on Adriana Lima? Her tits sparkled like the night sky at the north pole!) I'd also have the best hair and makeup artists at my beck and call 24/7 to keep me looking my most boticelli-angel-esque-d at all times. My long tousseled wavy hair would sparkle in the runway spotlights. My skin would glisten as if kisssssed by morning dew...
In reality I'm too curvy for my own good and I chopped off my long, flowy tresses back in August because my split ends had begun to take over my life and suffocate me in my sleep. OK, that last part was just me being melodramatic, but did you see those frayed, frazzled ends? Yeesh. But let me tell you: my long hair is definitely gonna make a comeback; with the help of many deep-conditioning treatments, mind you. As my friend Jen once said, "my sense of power and completeness in life is directly proportional to how long and blonde my hair is." And how, sister!
So I will never be a Victoria's Secret supermodel-
unless I can figure out how to suck out Alessandra Ambrosio's soul and take over her body-
but a girl can dream, can't she?

Deck The Halls With Jerks And A$$holes

2008-11-18T11:24:00.000-08:00

Fa La La La Laaaa La Laaa Laaaaaa LAAAAAAAAA! I feel a rant coming on. Don't say I didn't warn you. My rant is holiday and co-worker related. First of all, the holidays are a time of giving and kindness and peace on earth and good will toward men, right? Of course right. So why is it that there's always gotta be one rotten S.O.B. who pisses on your cheer?
I work with a person who I refer to as CM (this abbreviation has a fairly rude connotation, so I'll leave its exact meaning to the imagination). She was born and raised here in America, in one of the most we-love-our-country states you could possibly be raised in. And yet she has converted to a particular religion that no sane American would ever convert to. Not only that, she's a devout, hardcore follower of this faith. OK, whatever, you're nuts but that's neither here nor there. It's not really her choice in religion that bothers me; what bothers me is that she's an a$$hole - in the purest sense of the term. She's rude and obnoxious, and she's one of those people you have to walk on eggshells around because she's offended by eeeeeverything. I really don't care if you worship the f*cking devil as long as you're nice to me and are fairly pleasant to be around. This just simply is not the case with CM. She drives me completely batty.
Now that you have some background info on my crazy co-worker, gather 'round children and I'll tell you a tale from my work day: Last year during the holiday season, we did a "secret holiday buddy" gift grab. We put everyone's name in a box and pulled a persons name out, who we would then buy a cheap but thoughtful gift for. CM was the only one who refused to participate, preaching to me that she "doesn't believe in Christmas." Mhm, yes, this is why it wasn't called a Christmas grab, you looney b*tch. Anyhoo, since the holidays are once again upon us, it's time again for our yearly holiday grab. Today I made a very cute little box with a cover and wrote "HOLIDAY GRAB" on the front, and then I put a piece of paper with each co-worker's name on it into the box... all the names except of course for CM's. Even though I knew what the response was going to be, I did the polite thing and asked her if she wanted to do the grab. I said, "Hey [CM], do you want to do the holiday grab?" to which she veeery b*tchily replied, "You mean the CHRISTMAS grab?" I then held the box over my head and yelled, "No. I said HOLIDAY GRAB... IT'S FOR EVERYONE." and promptly made a little show of throwing her name in the garbage.
You know what I'd really like to do? It'd really make me happy if I could break into CM's apartment and just go buck wild decking the f*cking halls. I'd like to bedazzle her digs with so many Christmas lights that she can't even move, and I'd like to jam a giant Santa statue in her toilet and scatter about 300 reindeer all over. BE MY HOLIDAY B*TCH, B*TCH!
Merry f*cking Christmas.
And I'm GLAD you're not getting a secret holiday buddy grab gift, so HA!

HONK If You Can't Drive

2008-11-11T13:12:00.000-08:00

I work in an area inhabited by lots of rich people, Asian people, and old people. My drive to and from work is particularly hazardous because these are the 3 groups of people who are the WORST drivers in the world.
Rich people suck at driving because they're convinced they are the most important (or only) people on the road. Apparently their wealth puts them above the law and gives them a free pass to mow down all other drivers. They weild their super-expensive Porches and Maseratis as weapons of mass destruction, because these cars are clearly impervious to accidents and fender benders. No, Mr. Jaguar, you don't need to stop at red lights, signal when turning or switching lanes, or brake for pedestrians in crosswalks. Please feel free to go 80mph through a busy intersection, cut me off on my way to the grocery store, and smash into little old Mr. Poirrier while he's crossing the street. After all, you can afford those big fancy defense lawyers when inevitably you're brought up on charges of vehicular manslaughter.
It's the oldest cliche, but Asian people really cannot drive either. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because they were raised in a part of the world that is horribly overpopulated, and therefore they adopt the perspective of "every man for himself." I dunno. What I do know is that if ever I find myself millimeters from a terrible car wreck, you best believe Mr. or Mrs. Miagi is behind the wheel of the offending automobile. Case in point: On my way to work there is a rotary that I now lovingly refer to as "the rotary of death." Because I was born and raised in Massachusetts, I know that in order to successfully navigate said rotaries, you have to look for a small opening in the flow of traffic... gun it... and kiss your hand and smack the roof of your car. This technique hasn't failed me yet. Anyway, on my way home from work one day, I perform my rotary ritual and am happily headed for the street that takes me to my house when- SCREEEEEEEEEEEE! I scream bloody murder, slam on my brakes, and come to a dead halt roughly 2 inches from the driver side of another car. The person in this car didn't bother to pause or LOOK INTO THE ROTARY to see if anyone was coming before they entered directly in front of me. I smashed my right hand down on my horn until I thought it would break, threw the entire upper half of my body out the window, thrust my left middle finger as high into the air as it would go, and let fly from my mouth a string of obscenities the likes of which I've never even heard before. Then... it happened. As if things couldn't get any worse for me, Mrs. Miagi, no expression on her face WHATSOEVER, staaaared blankly at me - completely unphased, as if this sort of thing is a daily occurrence for her. I swear I felt a vein in my forehead burst. That day I reached a level of pissed that I didn't know was achievable by a living person.
And last but certainly not least are the elderly drivers of America. They really should form a coalition and all sport the same "I'M OLD" bumper sticker on their cars, so I know to give them an extra 300ft of room. Grandma, as a rule of thumb, if the only part of your head that clears the steering wheel is the tippity top of your pile of white curls, you need to surrender your license. Immediately. I'm sitting at my desk at work a couple weeks ago, and I hear a very loud crash right outside the front door of my bank. Everyone runs outside to find little old Ruth (god love her, she's a sweetheart and she's one of our regular customers) behind the wheel of a car that is smashed around a giant concrete pillar. Essentially, Ruth drove into the side of the mall I work at. Really? A mall is a fairly large edifice. How do you miss a mall? Then, two days later, I'm leaving work and notice that there's an ambulance with its lights on parked in the lot out back. Upon further inspection, I see that a little old woman has crashed into the curb and hit her head. I'm telling you, this is an epidemic.
So, if I ever become very wealthy, magically turn Japanese, or get decrepitly old - just take my license away by force. K? Thanks.

A Giant Douche Or A Turd Sandwich?

2008-11-04T11:22:00.001-08:00

Ever see the episode of South Park where the kids are voting on a new school mascot, and the only two choices they have are a giant douche and a turd sandwich? I relate this episode directly to my experience of the current presidential election. I like neither McCain nor Obama. I think either would continue to screw our great country into the ground via the foundation our lovely president Bush has laid. They would just do it in different ways.
I gave the issue a lot of thought, and I just could NOT bring myself to vote either one of those a$$ clowns into the white house. Therefore, I wrote in my own choice of presidential candidate; someone who I look up to and admire... someone who I think would get this nation back on track, and make it a shiny happy country to live in once again. So I threw my vote away. Big deal. This state always goes with the democratic candidate, so Obama's gonna win Massachusetts no matter what ridiculousness I write on my ballot. At least when our country continues to go to shambles, I can say with a clear conscious, "I had nothing to do with this. I voted for an awesome person; someone I really believe in."
But before I tell you who I'd like to turn our country over to, let's pause for a moment and discuss the man I had to share a voting rounder with today. Since I don't know his actual name, I'll just refer to him as Seizures McGee. Now, I don't know if Mr. McGee was literally trembling with excitement over casting his vote, or if he has a serious medical condition which causes him to rattle about like a 6.0 earthquake... but he was shaking the rounder so hard that I could barely keep my marker in the ovals. So thank you, Seizures McGee for adding a layer of challenge and danger to my voting experience.
Anyway, despite the shaking and my abhorrance for the current presidential candidates, I am glad I got to vote on the series of questions that are on the ballot this year. For once they actually pertain to a couple of issues I feel strongly about. I voted yes to de-criminalizing marijuana (they need to puff-puff-pass this law ASAP), and yes to banning greyhound racing in Massachusetts. See? I'm taking a stand for animal rights, just like I said I would. Seriously though, those poor dogs are couped up in tiny cages when they're not racing, and they're often fed disgusting rotten meat to keep food costs down. That kind of treatment is appalling and just plain wrong. It makes me want to cry just thinking about it. The ads on TV and the radio would have you believe that banning dog racing will result in the race track employees being tossed into the gutter, jobless and homeless. This just isn't true. If this law passes, dog racing will be phased out by 2010, giving said employees more than a year to find a new job (who knows, maybe their new career will even be a moral way to pay the bills!). Hopefully this law will pass and I'll be able to adopt one of the greyhounds. I'd love to have my very own Santa's Little Helper.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand in conclusion: Gwen Stefani for U.S. President!
(you think I'm kidding)

Give Me Somethin' To Believe In

2008-11-03T11:33:00.000-08:00

I guess I'm kind of a lost little lamb. I don't believe in much; like organized religion, Crocs, or one-ply toilet paper (seriously? spring for the extra ply, people... your a$$es will thank you later). I DO believe that there is one true God, and her name is Coco Chanel. But lately I've been feeling as if that one belief just isn't enough to keep me warm on cold nights. So I've decided to become a crusader for something worth-while: Animal Rights. As I said before, I like animals more than I like most people. True, wild animals fight and eat each other, but people are capable of higher reasoning and still choose to blow each other up... and hunt for sport... and wear furs. It ain't right! Especially considering how nice and luxurious some of the new faux furs are. I'm not saying I'm a saint. I eat meat. But I've decided to give up politically incorrect meat such as veal (which will be hard for me considering how delicious abused baby cow tastes when smothered with tomato sauce and cheese). I've also decided to donate more frequently to a few charities I like; the MSPCA and ASPCA, and the WWF. I was thinking about joining PETA after Kate mentioned it jokingly in a text she sent me today, but they're just too radical for me. I don't wanna be restricted to a diet of rabbit food, and feel pressured into throwing red paint all over people in mink coats. I've donated to the MSPCA before and I gotta say, they send you some cute swag in return. The selfish part of me can't wait to get free T-shirts with pandas on them, and free return address labels adorned with kitties and puppies! But more than that, the human spirit inside me is excited to be part of something substantial and worthwhile. And I bet my animal rights activism will get me through the pearly gates one day when Coco Chanel and I finally meet face-to-face.

Raindrops On Roses And Whiskers On Kittens

2008-10-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens- Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens- Brown paper packages tied up with strings- These are a few of my favorite things! Well, aside from the whiskers on kittens, that's largely untrue. So to get a feel for my intricate and often times contradictory inner workings, here's a rundown of some of the things that please and displease me. Don't try to understand, just rooooll with it:

I really like animals (excluding birds; I don't trust them with their pointy beaks of death). In fact, I like animals more than I like most people. If I'm watching a movie and a person dies, it leaves me largely unmoved, but I can't sit through a movie with dog fighting in it because I'll cry and have nightmares.

I don't like styrofoam one bit; it's the devil's textile.
I like drinking iced coffee in the winter.
I like people -watching because I'm naturally judgemental and it's fun for me. However I don't appreciate being stared at. It's rude.

I reeeeeally like 90's grunge (STP, Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam, etc.), and I also love Gwen Stefani. She and Chris Cornell are my heroes. Sometimes I leave Chris really creepy messages on MySpace just to see if he'll get skeeved out and comment on my wall. I guess a little while back he had a brush with a stalker and the stalker ended up getting thrown in jail. The day that story broke on the news, two of my friends called to make sure I didn't need to post bail.

I love fashion and sketching clothes. I keep a book of drawings I've done of wedding gowns in particular. They're beautiful. If fashion wasn't such a hard business to break into, I'd totally design for a living. I'm lazy, though, so I'm going to school for dental hygienistry.

I don't like children. They're loud, messy, waaaay too active, and they take up too much free time. That's not to say that I can't appreciate the rare occasional well-behaved child who has been beaten into submission by their parents (ever notice that this breed of docile child usually tends to be Asian?). I just don't think I'll ever have rugrats of my own. Mommy needs her "me" time, and she would definitely develop a dependency on prescription drugs. I love babies though. If they remained small and cute and helpless forever I'd have like a million of them; via c-section of course... my vaginal elasticity is something I treasure and intend on keeping. Anyway, it's when said babies learn to move (run away from you) and/or speak (learn the word "no") that I lose all interest. This goes back to me being lazy. I'm all for that law in Nebraska or wherever that allows people to drop off their kids-up to age 17 or whatever-when they've reached their wit's end.

I like love. Being in it, receiving it, etc. I'm what you'd call an "affection whore." My boyfriend, god bless him, tolerates rather nicely my penchant for violating his personal space. If he's working from home, I like to plunk myself in his lap while he's at his desk. It obstructs his view of the fancy flatscreen monitor he recently bought, and it makes me feel all warm and cozy inside. Sometimes at night if he falls asleep before me, I nudge him awake to squeeze out an extra 5-10 minutes of nuggles. I'm pretty sure he resents some of the pet names I've lovingly tagged him with (I'll leave those to the imagination to preserve a shred of his dignity), but in my defense, I try to use them sparingly, in public. Key word here being "try." He's just so damn cute, he lends himself to being called schmoopy things. I guess he could have it a lot worse. At least I'm not one of those icy witholding jealous b*tches that give the rest of us good girls a bad name.

I really like my friends. They're fun and good-looking and smart, and they enrich my life in numerous ways. Kate's my best friend. She's blonde and sarcastic and she's a really good time. We can be our true, disgusting, socially inappropriate selves with each other, and not wanna run screaming in opposite directions. We've been besties (aweee) since 9th grade when we realized what a dynamic duo we were, and that we could probably rule the world if given the opportunity. With our brainpower, naturally dashing good looks, and her evil cat George, Obama and McCain better hold onto their a$$es. My guy friends are really a treasure to behold as well. Andy is my right-hand man. We first bonded over the phone one night in college when I was sh*tfaced. It's been friendly bliss ever since. He's delusional, which is nice for me because that means he thinks I'm pretty even when I'm in a sweatshirt and have no makeup on. He also supports me in all my major life decisions, and is right there by my side when I make a fool of myself at karaoke night. These are the qualities that make my friends great. These are the things that matter.

Now that you've taken a peek into my world, don't you wanna keep reading to see what this beautiful mind will come up with next?

To PC Or Not To PC

2008-10-19T18:00:00.000-07:00

...Not to PC. It's just who I am, it's part of my being. Of course having very little tact and saying whatever pops into my head ('verbal diarrhea' as my friends call it) does present some problems. I often find people laughing nervously or shooting me a what-the-hell look when I get an attack of the verbal sh*ts. I've also been scolded by strangers on more than one occasion for my *ahem* bluntness. However, this lack of social propriety also means that I'm usually pretty honest.
This whole blog thing is fairly new for me. I've read a few before, and aside from one or two that were seriously funny, I found the others to be self-gratuitous and whiny. That's not to say that mine will be all sunshine and unicorns, but at least there's a solid purpose behind my blog: Maybe, just maybe if I direct my stream of consciousness heeeere... it'll rear its (often times) ugly head elsewhere a little less often.
Love it or hate it, here it is. If you don't like what I have to say, feel free to stop reading. That is, unless someone has a gun to your head and is forcing you to. In which case, my advice to you would be to cold-cock the SOB and run like hell. Conversely, if you find yourself even slightly amused by my narrow-minded ramblings, you're more than welcome to leave messages of praise and adoration. Or send cash.