But I am a Whore!

I have not blogged in what feels like a million years. Why you ask? I have been busy bitch...damn...get up out of my business. Actually, my routine has been all messed up. It's rough doing the walk of shame every morning then working like 12 to 14 hour days. Fear not...it's on tomorrow bitches!

On a side note, can you believe my girlfriend just said that I wasn't a good reality TV whore?! I'm like...who you talkin' to? Seriously?! What because I have never heard of some show called Hells Kitchen? Whatever. I mean, I was FAITHFUL to A Shot at Love with Tila Tequilla...FAITHFUL to America's Next Top Model...FAITHFUL to the Biggest Loser...FAITHFUL to The Pussycat Dolls...FAITHFUL!!!! Need I say more?

Confessions of a Sparkly Queen

As we learned last week, I am a "love addict". In addition to this so called love addition, I am also addicted to GUILT. I feel guilty about everything! Didn't let someone cut in front of me in heavy traffic...GUILT. Forgot to say "I love you" before hanging up the phone with Papaw...GUILT. Don't have any chedda' to tip the valet guy, but valet is the only parking option...GUILT. Listen to one CD more than another...GUILT. You see the pattern. So, this morning as I used my blow-dryer I was inspired by this guilt. Why not just put everything (OK...not everything) I have done out there and be done with it. So these are my confessions . Feel free to click the link if you want to rock out to Usher while you read. This will have a much more dramatic effect. Somewhat like a montage.

CONFESSIONS of a GUILT ADDICT

1. Sometimes I smoke a cigarette when I am stressed.
   
   



2. Sometimes I smoke a clove when I feel the need to smoke something else.





3. Sometimes I smoke something else.





4. Every morning when I get out of the shower I blow dry my hoo-hoo. This is something that I suggest everyone try.





5. When I was 8, I accidentally cut my brother's lip (he was 2) when I jerked a toy saxophone away from him. I hid with him in the basement, until he stopped crying so I wouldn't wake up my mom.





6. I don't always brush my teeth, and I never wash my face before bed.





7. In 9th grade I cheated on Dave DeBoard with Jerry Faber. Yes...we kissed, but it was way sloppy and gross.





8. Speaking of 9th grade, Justin "Somebody" felt me up in the hallway before school.





9. I cuss like an ex- sailor who was just made someones prison-bitch.





10. Occasionally I watch straight porn.





11. Occasionally I watch girl on girl porn. It is still straight porn. I don't know a single lesbian who eats pussy like that or fucks while wearing 3 inch fire-engine-red Lee Press On nails.





12. I snuck a McDonald's cheeseburger everyday during the last 6 months that I was a vegetarian. Except for that week when Wendy's had the Carolina Classic ( I couldn't resist the chilli and cole-slaw that was slathered on top).





13. I identify as a Christian, but I don't know what I believe anymore. I am too afraid of burning in hell to not believe in anything.





14. I cheated on a math test my senior year of High School.





15. Once, when my mother wouldn't get out of bed, I threw a lamp at her. Well actually at the wall over her head. She didn't move.





16. In middle school I found weed in my dad's pocket. I hid it in the house and watched him frantically search for it the next morning.





17. I used to go through my dad's pockets.





18. and my mom's purse.





19. I blog when I should be working.





20. Twice I snuck my high-school boyfriend in my room while my parents were downstairs.





21. I will use anything as a toothpick. The corner of a TV Guide works best.





22. In college, I once ate 2 McDonalds value meals then went home and had dinner so no one would know.





23. I only wear 3 pairs of jeans because I refuse to buy another pair in my current size. I wash them once a week.





24. I worry that bad things will happen when an odd number is involved; thus, this is number twenty-four. Just to be safe.

Finally Leaving the Office

Isn't it amazing how the anticipation of seeing someone can brighten your entire day?!

Back to the Practice of Self-Love...or Something Like That

Today has been quite a learning experience. So here are my big take-aways:

1. When you write hate-blogs about yourself, people who care about you ARE GOING TO RESPOND.

2. When they do respond, it is because they care. You need to accept their love and support instead of being a total fuck-head about it. (Sorry to those of you to whom I was a total fuck-head.)

3. Sometimes people surprise you. Even the seemingly emotionally unavailable ones have feelings too. You should always be aware of that before telling them to , "Fuck off, ass!"

4. I am scared shitless that I will turn out just like my mother. I project this fear onto others and assume they have this same worry. Many of them do not.

5. Finally, and probably my most important take-away for the day, you CAN get a spicy chicken fillet on the Chicken Club at Wendy's. Delicious!

DEPRESSION'S OVER PEOPLE. LET'S MOVE ON.

So the depression has lifted just as quickly as it came on. I am tempted to remove the last post given

Sitting in my underwear eating a chicken sandwich from Wendy's. Life is good.

The First Rule of Fight Club is You Don't Talk About How Fucking Depressed You Are

I am so depressed. So depressed in fact that I am pretty sure that I have lost my funny somewhere between the feelings of overwhelming hopelessness and the numbness that has taken over my body. I'm sorry to whomever is reading this hoping for a good laugh today, which actually makes the assumption that
1. anyone actually reads this and
2. should someone read this they actually find it funny.
So, it's been coming on for a while now. I've been fighting it like a scene from Fight Club where Ed Norton kicks his own ass, but here it is. I wake up this morning, and its fucking ugly face is staring right at me. What in the hell is wrong with me? I mean, MA likes to point out on a pretty consistent basis that it is a beautiful day, I have a good job, friends who care about me, a fantastic girlfriend, etc... so what in the hell do I have to be depressed about. I ask myself this now. Honestly there are times when I don't have an answer, and even now I don't fully understand it but I do know that something was triggered the day I heard about my mom. I can't seem to get myself to deal w/ whatever emotion that has set off inside of me. Even now as I am typing this I am getting tight in my chest, fighting the tears, telling myself to suck it up and get over it. It is what it is. I hate that I say that now..."It is what it is." What in the fuck does that even mean? It's a little phrase I picked up from my time w/ Brooke. In some ways, it makes sense to me...you know, stop trying to change the unchangeable. Focus on what you can control. I seem to use it as a way of avoiding. Whatever, I am not making any sense today. I feel so totally outside of myself right now. My whole body feels tight and numb at the same time. I am on the edge of tears, yet they refuse to fall. There is a weight on my chest like a stack of bricks that is getting heavier by the second. I am anxious. I am tired. I am lonely, but I want no one around me. I hate myself for this. Hate myself. How am I supposed to be a good girlfriend, a good friend, a good person, a good employee, good to anyone when the thought of moving from this bed seems like too much for today. Just totally too much. Maybe if I sleep a little longer I will wake up feeling refreshed...or...maybe I won't wake up at all. I refuse to be like my mother and sleep to avoid it. She has been sleeping for 20 years and clearly that is not working for her. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the person I see. It is hard to even look at this person. It's not me. I hate the girl in the mirror. She is pathetic and fat and miserable and ugly and undeserving of anything good in the world. Normally this is a secret I keep. I hold it..hide it. The thought of posting this is terrifying to me. What will people think? I'm sure that many of you see this as a cry for attention. I assure you that it is not. I actually feel nothing but shame for the way I am in this moment. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want you to ask me about it. Somehow I am hoping that by putting this shit out there, that I will release myself from it. Relieve myself of some of the pain and shame. My fear is that certain people will read this and realize how pathetic and fucked up I truly am, and they will disappear. I am too much to handle. I can't even handle me right now. My Effexor has been doubled and a lovely side of Xanax has been added. This is not working. I am still FUCKING SAD and STRESSED...and maybe a little sleepier. Awesome. Just T-Totally fucking awesome. Finally, let me end by saying that if you read this and it causes you to worry about me, please don't. Please don't worry, the thought of causing someone else stress, sadness, anxiety, any negative feeling at all is almost too much for me to take. This too will pass. I promise.

Here Comes the Bride

So around 4:30 this morning, my eyes pop wide open. I look around the room and wonder silently, "What in the hell woke me up...I was sleeping soooooo goooood! Oh, lord, did my neighbor come home drunk again, which means she is screaming like she has a bad case of Tourettes?" I listen. Nope. Silence. Then out of nowhere I scream, "Good Lord...for the love of God make it stop!!!" So, two things are happening here:
1. The worst menstrual cramps I believe I have ever had in my entire life. Fuckin' Eve.
2. LACTOSE INTOLERANCE. Somehow, I thought that drinking a very small glass of 2% milk before bed would be a fantastic follow-up to the glass of wine and chocolate cake I had just before.

Time-out...what is it with me and drinking alongside a delicious baked good? I think this is something for Robert in Friday's therapy session.

So point being, I am pretty sure that I am dying or there is getting ready to be a recreation of that scene in Space Balls when that disgusting thing bursts out of that guys stomach, and someone screams, "Water my ass. Get this guy some pepto-bismol!" Ohhh...wonder if I can find that on YouTube.

So needless to say, I end up in the bathroom, pants around my ankles, in the dark, drinking Alka Seltzer, wild hair, mostly out of it from the Ambien I took, and praying that God will just kill me now. So then my mind starts turning, I find that I do some of my best thinking on the toilet...OK, maybe not best, but definitely interesting. The random chain of thoughts went something like this:

1. If giving birth is anything like what I am feeling in this moment, I will definitely not be having children.

2. Fuck it. I'll get an epidural. Maybe I will have kids.

3. God, I'm getting too old to have kids. Hmmm...if Emily and I could reproduce those would be some damn cute kids.

4. Nah...no kids. Can't have tons of sex when you have kids.

5. Maybe we should get married first.

6. Wonder what the wedding will be like. Totally on the beach. Wonder if lots of people will come. Probably.

7. Hmmm...where will they sit? Ohhh... I know. We could give them white beach chairs as their gifts w/ Emily and Amanda written on them, kind of like Brit-Brit and K-Fed's "Pimps and Hos" track suits. Then they could just keep them and enjoy the beach.

8. Nah...that would be expensive. Plus I don't even want a chair w/ our names on it. Too lezy.

9. What kind of ring would she want (Pause while I stare at the ring finger on my left hand for an un-godly amount of time.)

10. Maybe I should get a bridal magazine. Oh...that would be pointless, all those frilly hetero girls posing w/ those gay models in Armani suits.

11. There really needs to be a wedding magazine for the gay world. You know, what folks are wearing, doing, etc.. OMG....it could be a special edition mag from Curve that comes out like 4 times a year. Like one for each season or some shit.

12. I should totally email Curve about this. Totes.

13. No. That's fucking lame.

14. OH GOD I have cramps. Wonder if I can reach the Alieve in the cabinet. (I get the Alieve). Shit, I don't have any water (I take the Alieve using what is left of my Alka Seltzer.)

15. OH NO! Is that going to kill me? Is that dangerous? (I read the back of the Alieve bottle). Shit...something about bleeding stomach.

16. Whatever.

17. Hmmm, I wonder how many National decisions George Bush has made from his toilet in the White House? A lot I bet.

So...yep. At this point it is 6:00. I wrap things up, wash my hands, grab the heating pad, get back in bed, pass out, and oversleep for work. My first day back in a week. AWESOME!

I'm just happy that I managed to begin planning my wedding (and future children) to a girl I have been dating for two weeks as of today from the seat of a toilet. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY BABY! XOXOXO

A "Dic - Dic to Love"

Great. I've officially been labeled a "Love Addict" (Enter Robert Palmer, "You might as well face it your addicted to love...") When I was younger, I totally thought he was saying, "A dic-dic to love." I have no fucking clue what a "dic-dic" is, but man I thought that was a jam. Also, I loved those sexy women who pretended to play those guitars and swayed seductively in the background of the videos. Can I tell you how mother-fucking disappointed I was when I showed up at his concert at the age of 10 and it was just good ol' Bob (that's what I like to call Robert Palmer) and NO GIRLS! I WAS PISSED! This should have been the first clue that one day I would grow up to be a big old lezzy...well that, and the fact that I had been making out with my red-headed neighbor Courtney in her closet since the summer after second grade.

OK, so back to my so called, "love addiction." According to Robert (Snellgrove...my therapist, not Robert Palmer the singer) this is a problem. I have this desire, a longing if you will, to be loved and validated by people who are not "emotionally available" to me. This of course stems from my childhood...wanting the love and approval of my parents...blah blah blah. Therefore, I continue to repeat this cycle in relationships and friendships. I work my ass off to please them, in hopes that they will validate me as a person. How f-ing pathetic does that sound. So, needless to say, I walked out of his office feeling not so great about myself today. Isn't the point of therapy to make you not want to kill yourself?

Put down the phone people, I am not about to kill myself. If you knew me at all, you would know that I am way too lazy for that. I would have to actually put down my laptop, which might mean a missed MySpace message or email, and actually move from the couch. I don't know...I could be like that woman who sat on her toilet for two years. Actually it was her boyfriend's toilet, and he claims they had a "normal" relationship. Hmmmm...all, I'm sayin' is, I hope there were two toilets in that house.

Tramp Stamps and Tattoo Dreams

As some of you may know I have a slight obsession with tattoos...I could lick the ones on Emily's body all day...oh...wait...sorry...off topic...let's focus here. So anyways, I have this obsession with tattoos, and if I could I would seriously have them all over my entire body. LOVE THEM. I, however, seem to feel that I can't stray too far from the norm; therefore, I, for several years, kept it simple with a modest flower on my foot.

Then came the TRAMP STAMP!

Good lord people, this tattoo is a cross between satan's axe and something you might find on a 65 year-old stone butch named Bertha in cell block 8. I am not even exaggerating here. Can we just ask ourselves, what in the fuck was I thinking?! This thing gives new meaning to words like DYKALICIOUS and GAYTASTIC. So yeah...I have decided the time has come to cover that shit. I went for a consult yesterday w/ Patrick @ Bombshell. So here's the deal...I'm pretty sure that I am going to go balls out and get the full back piece that I have always wanted. The problem with this is that it is an estimated 10 hours worth of work. I don't even have the patience to take a poop let alone sit for 10 hours worth of tattooing. Now, I'm not totally stupid...I recognize that this will take place over multiple sessions but still DAMN! The sketch should be done Tuesday, so we will see.

Oh...and was the pooping thing TMI? Whatever, you'll get over it.

My Mother

I wish I was sitting down to tell you about my amazing weekend...the conference, my hilarious new team of ODs, the comforter I stole from room 1629, the exploration of the bed in room 1501 w/ my partner-in-crime Emily, what happened when the lights went out, MIXED TAPES, the room-service lady who went through my suitcase, my amazingly-sassy-ass shoes that rocked the worlds of many, and the meeting of Karon, Tony, & Friends which involved some skeleton pan-Ts, an infomercial, cheerleading uniforms, blowing wads, thick-ish crusted pizzas, 2 doodle dogs, garlic-coated avocodo, revolutionary muskets, the down-low, mini-interrogations, and so much LAUGHTER!!!! Unfortunately, that does not seem to be what I need to write about right now and since this blog is about making me happy, I need to talk about something that is making me overwhelmingly sad and anxious and by the end maybe, just maybe, the medicine ball on my chest will become a much more manageable nerf-ball, ideally a pink one cuz those are cute.

So I woke up this morning feeling so amazing after a long night of sleep thanks to my dear friend, and a friend of many insomniacs everywhere, Ambien. Hell to the ya...I took a whole one somewhere around 9, and I slept until 9. NICE. I rolled over to give Emily a gentle kiss on her sweet-little head and remembered that she was not there. No...I haven't driven her away yet, she just slept at her house last night. I think I must have been dreaming about her. Anyway, this leaves me w/ a small feeling of sadness, but then I hear that the phone is vibrating and I cheer up because I know my lovely girl has left me a message this morning.

I pick it up and my phone informs me that I have one missed call, one voicemail, and one text. The text is Emily, so I decide I will look at that last because I knew it would leave me feeling happy and girly. The missed call was from Aunt Trish. My stomach dropped so hard I cannot even explain the feeling. Why you ask, well because she never calls me unless it is to give me bad news of illness or death. My head is spinning, who is sick, who is hurt...who died?! I summarize this into the following potential outcomes: 1. My papaw has died. 2. My mother has died. or 3. Something is really wrong w/ my brother.

Have I mentioned I am still sitting in my bed? So I braced myself, I decided that I wouldn't cry (oh god...what if it is my mother and she's dead and I can't cry). I listened to the voicemail, her voice is serious, but gives no indication as to who or what it is concerning. I call her back. Aunt Trish says, "Amanda...it's your mom (I knew it)...she's in the hospital (here it comes)...but she's OK (wow...she has survived yet another breakdown, overdose, fall, car accident...you fill in the blank.) So I say, "OK, so what's going on." In short she proceeds to tell me that on Thursday...

OK...TIME OUT

THURSDAY!!!!!!!!!!!! Whatever she is about to tell me beyond this, can we just talk about the fact that this is MONDAY! Why has no one called me to tell me that my mom was in the hospital.

OK, so on Thursday my dad finds my mom sitting up in the bed, her head flopped over to the side, gurgling, stuffing socks into her purse, hallucinating, and non-responsive. I recognize how this imagery may seem humorous, and for that fact is why I am hesitant to type it. But this is my life...has been my life since the age of 11 and I am so tired of being embarrassed...so tired of carrying shame that should be her own.

(Oh..look at that...there are the tears. How totally inconvenient, don't they know I am trying to type.)

So my dad calls 911, she goes to the hospital and is admitted. All Aunt Trish seems to know is that she has pneumonia (again), a severe kidney infection, and is on oxygen. She also tells me that she thinks my "dad is nervous, he has an assortment (of pills) in his pocket and your mother keeps asking him for them." My brother of course is no where to be found. Social services is involved, no one knows who called, and they (my mom's sisters) are meeting at 11 when the social-worker comes to see my mother. My father does not know this. This will be DRAMA.

So now I wait...I wait to find out what my mother is going to do. History tells us that she'll say that she doesn't need help, my father will agree, she'll go home...pop a pill or 20...and I go back to waiting for another phone call from my Aunt Trish. The one where she tells me that my mother has died. I think about this often actually, who will call me. I have decided that it will be Aunt Trish or my cousin Abbey. Time will tell.

So my typing is slowing, and the medicine ball has lifted, so I'm thinking that this particular blog is long enough. As for me, I'm going to take Robert's advice and find an Al Anon meeting and go this week, and I'm going to go eat a FAT BREAKFAST at The Breakfast Klub w/ my best-friend 'Fonda.

Oh, and as far as the Lovely Emily's text...it read, "Hey beautiful girl. How'd you sleep?" I'm totally falling in love with this girl.

Until Next Time-

The Sparkly Queen

The Jones Family

Volleyballs & Wet Dreams

OH MY GOD! Seriously?! There I was in dream land, which since meeting my VW who by the way is now my GF if I haven't said that already...whatever, I know I did...I'm just happy about it...anyway, back to dream land. So there I was in dream land with her and her beautiful smile and soft skin, when out of know where I hear, "I DON'T WANT PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY!" My eyes fly wide open, she disappears and I'm left with my skin on fire and a feeling of, "WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE!" Now, given the peanut butter statement above, you might think that this was a 2 year old in the hall-way. Nope. That would be the mother-fucking high-school volleyball team who is eating breakfast in the room next to mine. All of a sudden my ears fill with their screams, laughs, and parents. Where is that mute button located? At this point it was 6:20 in the morning, and I didn't fall asleep until sometime after 2:00 am. THIS IS NOT OK!!!

Oh, yeah...did I mention my pimp put me up in the hotel so I wouldn't have to be on the ho-stroll all night? It's great, the Johns just send me a text and I'm all like, "What up" and that's that. Wham Bam, that will be $750 please. Actually, no, that's not true. I'm here for a 3 day work conference where I need to be on my game and ready to train my team so they can go out and impact student achievement. The question remains...how in the hell am I supposed to do that when the students are in the god-forsaken suite next to me bitching about PB&Js and their helicopter parents are laughing so f-ing loud, and I can't finish my f-ing wet dream. SHIT PEOPLE!

Oh...I hope everyone has a great day :)

"Take that BITCHES!"

Meet the Parents

It is completely fascinating to me how opinionated people can be and how entitled they feel to that opinion. What fascinates me even more is how they don't recognize their opinion as an "opinion" but an actual fact. I am so fucking pissed right now, and I can't even articulate exactly why...so maybe, just maybe if I ramble for a bit I will figure it out.

So here's the deal...I'm sitting w/ a group of folks who shall remain anonymous, so for our purposes today we will call them LaFonda, Matilda, Irma, Pie Head, The Intern, and Boss Lady. Anyways, we are eating Jimmy Johns (which, side note, is a total FATGASM) in the conference room when I turn to LaFonda and quietly mention that I am meeting "The Girl's" parents on Sunday. This is what they call her as if I have a harem of women and they just can't keep the name straight. Anyway, usually I find this funny, but today I seem to be feeling a little "sensi". The conversation went a little something like this:

LaFonda: "Wait..hold on. What..tell me you are joking?!"

Me: "No, I'm serious...what?"

LaFonda: "You can't do that. You two just met, and you know how you are."

Me: "How am I exactly?"

LaFonda: "Boss Lady what do you think about this? She emailed w/ this girl for about a month, they met on Sunday, and now they are dating or something and she wants to meet the parents."

Boss Lady: "Oh...yeah...no...don't want to do that."

Me: "What's the big deal? I don't fucking get this issue here."

Boss Lady: "The next thing you know you are going to be talking about living together and then you'll really be in a mess."

Me: "I'm not going to do that!"

Pie Head: "She's done it before."

Me: "Pie Head...come on! I learned my lesson, that is not going to happen."

Matilda: "What's she talking about? Sparkly Queen...what in the hell are you talking about now?"

LaFonda: "She's talking about meeting The Girl's parents."

Matilda: "Oh HELL NO!"

Me: "Damn LaFonda, why do you have to put my shit out there?!"

Pause for argument that ensues over putting my shit out there.

Me: "So what is the appropriate timeline for meeting someones parents?"

LaFonda: "There is no perfect time, that's not what I am saying."

Me: "So then why not Sunday?"

LaFonda: "You don't know that this is going anywhere."

Me: "Whatever...I'm done talking about this."

So...
1. I'm super pissed that LaFonda can't keep a conversation between the two of us or express her concern in a less condescending and attacking sort of way.

2. I just really don't feel like this is their business or understand why they feel so strongly about it.

With that said, I am left with the following...I am sure that this comes from a place of concern for my happiness and the well-being of my heart. I have on occasion fallen pretty hard for people and pretty fast. I must say though, never this hard or this fast (hahaha I said hard and fast.) I suppose it is true that I don't know her fully yet, but isn't this part of it? Aren't they part of who she is? Isn't this part of getting to know her?

At the end of the day, I am going to do what makes me happy...and she makes me so happy. That's all that matters as far as I'm concerned. Oh...and they are really going to shit when they discover that "The Girl" is actually "The Girlfriend." Yeah...I know GBFF, you were right. I owe you a beer.

Retraction: Mistaken Pussy

It has recently been brought to my attention that the pussy below was incorrectly identified as Monster, when in fact it was actually Otho. I sincerely apologize for any embarrassment this may have caused Monster's family. Please note that the correction has been made.

All my best-
The Sparkly Queen

Meet Hank

When did I become a single,retired, ex-frat-boy named Hank who sits in his wife beater w/ his hand down his pants? Ok...so maybe my hand isn't down my pants (at least not all of the time), but I am really starting to worry about myself. I woke up this morning and was like...hmmm I need some breakfast. I went to the fridge, wife-beater, no bra, hair wild, scratched my ass (just keepin' it real)...

Looks innocent right?

Then...I opened it...

This is soooo not OK people. Can we just analyze this for second. The only thing that is truly edible up in this mug is some Kraft Parmesan Cheese. And if that doesn't do it for ya...no worries...cause there is a giant block of parm in the drawer too. Why in the hell do I have so much fucking parm?! I mean, clearly I haven't been cooking, so on what have I been putting it? There is enough beer and wine for when my homies come over...oh...and a Forty for when I feel street.

So what did I do you ask?

Closed that shit...made some mint tea...and had a handful of M&Ms....DUH!

A Note to Myself

To the workaholic and slacker who reside in me - It's time we start working together ladies, so GET ON BOARD BITCHES!

Love-
The Sparkly Queen

My Virtual Lover

I think I blew my writing wad IMing with my secret lover this evening.

Ok, well not really a "secret" so much as this amazing person who I have yet to meet, and maybe not so much a "lover", rather a literal pussy eating champ (poor Otho).

Honesty...this is a relationship / friendship / virtualship (whatever kind of -ship this is) built on honesty, which is quite honestly nice for a change. I can't help but wonder if we will end up back to back, laptops in hand, typing frantically because it is the only way we know how to communicate with each other. God...I'm so dramatic this evening. I'm not sure where this drama is coming from, oh...yep...I'm a big ol' lezy...that explains so much.

To my Lovely VW - Never send me your dirty pussy eating pics if you don't want them to end up being sold on the net like, One Night in Paris.

Don't Forget to Flush?

"Another 14 year-old gives birth in the bathroom." What?! I don't know what disturbs me more, the use of the word "another" or the calm, smiley demeanor of the news anchor sharing the story. From what I can gather, the 8th grader tried to flush the baby, ultimately drowning the baby in the process. How does something like that happen? I'm not going to get all creepy, preachy, and soap-boxy but I just can't wrap my head around the following:

1. How did her parents or teachers not notice that she was pregnant? I mean, I know Bette didn't notice that Tina was knocked up (get real Ilene). I mean, come on people, we're constantly looking for the next "baby bump" in OK magazine, but a 14 year-old pregnant girl waddling around a middle school we don't notice.



2. Did she not have a single friend who was like, "Hmmm...she's prolly' going to pop that baby out sometime soon...wonder what she's gonna do...maybe I should tell somebody."



3. You know that had to hurt like a bitch...did they not hear her in the f-ing school bathroom?



4. Regardless of how young or scared she was, how could she possibly think that flushing an infant was a good idea?

This makes my heart hurt people. Truly it does.

In happier news, I read on Dooce that a baby kangaroo was saved by a dog. At least something is right with world.

My First Time...

Ok, so maybe not the "first time" you were hoping for...fucking perverts. Anyway, this is my first blog, so what in the hell am I supposed to be talking about?! I am sitting on my brown couch watching old DVRd Oprahs, Mediums, and Bad Girl's Clubs, "enjoying" a sick day. I can't decide if I am sick or if I am depressed...again. Time will tell I suppose. Maybe if I eat another chocolate birthday cupcake (nope, not my birthday...the frosting just looked delicious) I will be able to see more clearly. This whole blogging thing is actually pretty fascinating to me. Do I write my most intimate thoughts (i.e. I have a lame-ass girly-crush for a new but incredibly dear friend) or should I try to be cool and discuss all that is new in the pop-culture world (did you hear that Heath may have a love child...why can't folks just leave him alone?) Maybe for once in my life I will just be me. This is my new hope you know...to be me...to actually find out who "me" is. I am so tired of trying to make everyone happy, trying to fit some mold that's too tight, too big, the wrong color, the wrong texture, too itchy, too soft, too...just too!!!! Let's pause for a moment as I recollect myself. If you haven't noticed I can flip crazy in a hot second, but not crazy like boil your bunny, smother you w/ a pillow...more like loud, wild, and strongly opinionated. Can we go back to those fucking delicious cupcakes for a second. They are chocolate, with a fudgy frosting that gives a new name to orgasmic, and a few pastel sprinkles to add to the festivity of it all. When I purchased them, it was close to 10 pm on a Sunday night, I was exhaustedly (not a real word I'm sure, but totally describes how I was feeling) pushing the buggy (a word I picked up from my time in NC) around the store. I took those little chocolate treats for a cruise around the store along w/a case of Shiner, 3 packs of single-serve frozen veggies, bread, and black-bean burgers. Of course, the bread, veggies, and burgers will continue to sit around never to be enjoyed; however, do you know how good Shiner is w/ Birthday Cupcakes?! Back to the point, as I carried my bags of goodies and that big yellow case of cold beer to my car I was so incredibly happy to be an adult...for the first time in my life I was like, "Adulthood totally RULES! I just bought cupcakes and beer, and didn't have to beg my mama for them yo'!"