Only stupid girls fall in "love" with their rebound...

I'm that girl. The kind I used to make fun of. I couldn't just have fun and let it not get serious. NOOOOooooo...I gotta let the moron move in. And let me tell you something about boys. They do NOT think before they talk. I don't really think any of them do. They say, "move in with me!" all excited like and then after you say "ok" they freak the F out! Um..huh? You asked me, asshole. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this." Once again, you asked me, you tool. So my advice to girls is unless you plan on having kids with the idiot, there is no need to live with him. And if you insist on getting married you should still have your own place, sort of like a fallout shelter where he is absolutely not allowed to come over without asking first.

MY jackass also has a problem making plans. Now I'm that lame girl with the non-existent boyfriend that no one has met because he won’t ever go out with me. He says he's a "last-minute, spontaneous" kind of guy. In McAssHole talk spontaneous means, "I'll think about going if a better offer to go out with my douchey friends doesn't come up at the last minute."

Now, I love when my man has his boys. I love when he goes out with them and by all means, please go have a "guys night". I won't call, I won't nag. I enjoy when you are gone sometimes, believe me. Leave for the whole damn weekend for all I care! I got my own shit to do. I just ask that you let me know if you will or will not be returning to MY abode at 2am. But I think that this sort of "weird" girl attitude, where you don't really care if they go out with their boys, doesn't come across correctly. They can't comprehend that you can be cool with them leaving, that your life doesn't completely stop if they want to go out with their friends. This concept was lost completely on my retard. He had the nerve to say, meet you at home and dinner, blah blah blah. Round about 9 he calls and says he's at dirty Doug's or something.

Ok, now I know that this is completely my own fault. I'm an idiot for dating that guy. And I suppose every girl makes that mistake at least once in her life. But I fell in love with said idiot and even though I want him out of my damn apartment like nothing I've ever wanted more, I find myself crying because he is moving out.

Boys are stupid. And apparently so are girls. If it were legal I'd just date a monkey. I could train him to do my laundry and shit. And when he didn't listen to me it would be because he was a monkey and couldn't understand what I was saying because he is a monkey. Anyone know where I can get a monkey?

Trashy AshyMcFlicker

Once upon a time there was a skinny fake blonde girl named Trashy AshyMcFlicker. Miss AshyMcFlicker would frequent clubs around the Valley on a weekly basis. Trashy was a chronic smoker so no one really wanted to make out with her because she smelled, well, ashy. This made Trashy mad so she would stand next to hot chicks that were hotter than her and younger and much more well dressed and would flick her gross ciggie ash in their drinks.

Well, on one particular occasion Trashy AshyMcFlicker flicked her ash in the wrong bitch’s drink. The other girl, whose name was Hottie McHottiePants took off her stiletto and jammed it right into Trashy AshyMcFlicker's eye. Thus changing her name to Trashy McPatchy. And eye patches arrrrr only cool on pirates.

Puke can be expensive and Jesus sucks!

We went out for Daniel's b-day on Saturday night and all started off well. Daniel's drinking, hanging with his friends. Tammi, Travis, his friend and I are tossing a water bra sack around the restaurant, just minding our own business. (Don't ask...normal evening for us.) And mind you, Tammi and I aren't even drinking, people. This is just us normal. As all this is going on Daniel's friend "Jesus" (not his real name, but that's what it said on his gas station shirt) is buying him shot after shot after shot after shot...you get the point. And Daniel, being the nice boy he is, just keeps taking the shots. (Next time just pass them along or fling the shit over your shoulder, man). So we go to Dos Gringos and yuck it up at a table with some more random people we don't know.

At this point Daniel has downed about 25 shots. He should be dead. He casually begins to smoke a cigarette and throw up on the table and smoke his cigarette and throw up some more. No one really even noticed. If there was a suave way to puke, this was it. So we sneak away from the puke covered mess, paid the waiter $50 to clean it up, and Daniel heads off to the bathroom to finish getting rid of the 25 shots. His friend Jesus decides that he doesn't need to help. I don't know much about "guy code" but I know if one of your boys is sick from the shots your ass is buying him, you make sure he makes it into the toilet dammit.

But no. Jesus yells at Tammi. YELLS at his friend’s girlfriend. THEN his bitch-ass-blonde-too-good-for-everyone girlfriend fucking ashes in my drink. The drink I am holding. I wasn't even facing the conversation! She thought I was standing there holding a cup just for her to ash in! Oh, HELL NO! They broke that shit up before the stilettos came off which let me tell you, Jesus and his bitch are lucky. I hear a stiletto in the eye can leave nasty-ass scars. Jesus and Trashy AshyMcFlicker would have been sporting matching eye patches for a while after that.

And remember, if you don't throw up on your birthday, you didn't have a good time.

I'm LOST and gay boys can be so bitchy!

I'm watching the complete 2nd season of LOST and now I'm not going to get anything done this weekend. Nothing. Yesterday I did manage to get out and go shopping and oh my god it felt so good. You know, sometimes, even though you have no money at all you have to go shopping. If you are a shop-a-holic you have to shop. It's been at least 2 months since I bought any new clothes at all. 2 MONTHS!!! I felt empty and lost. And so wearing old clothes. So I spend a couple hundred. And boy do I feel wonderful. There is no buyer's remorse for this girl...no way! (Talk to me next week thought when I can't pay my SRP bill).

Then straight from the mall we head out to a gay fashion show. Now that was pretty much the highlight of my week (besides buying my new Very Sexy Victoria's Secret convertible bra...AND finding out that I'm a full 34 C, baby! The girls didn't shrink at all! YES!!!). Then one of my hot gay friends gets super drunk and all bitchy on me and we end up getting pushed by said gay boy and everyone gets mad...just because you are gay, my friend, you are still like 6 feet tall and have like 100 pounds on me. We can't bitch fight! And you don't even have any hair for me to pull. But when all is said and done, everyone is sorry and forgiven.

If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all...

Or so I've been told. By my doctor (or rather, a muscle therapist for my TMJ). Not the best news to hear as he's digging his boney thumb into the side of my face as hard as he possibly can. The bastard was trying his hardest to make me cry, I know he was. Though I didn't cry, I did flip him off and give him a solid beat down in my mind.

Once the torture session was over, the hippie that is his assistant felt the need to "test" me on my jaw exercises. I'd just gotten done with a traumatic experience, so I was a little more than unpleasant. I remember him standing there opening and closing his mouth in various ways and all I can think about is how much he looks like an elf from Lord of the Rings (but not nearly as hot) with his long blond hair.

Then he mentioned that I don't talk much. Well, it is a bit hard to talk when there is a man-thumb with the all the strength of the Hulk pushing your jaw towards the other side of the room. Now that I think about it, he may not be a hippie so much as a D and D player. He grows his hair out to fit in with the sorcerer costume he wears on the weekends.

Speaking of Dungeons and Dragons, what would that say about me if I thought that may sound like a fun game to play, like, once in my life? But do I have to dress up like the characters? That could be fun too, I guess. But then I'm crossing way over into Dorkdom and I'm dorky enough as it is. It would be funny though if this guy dresses like a wizard on the weekend and come Monday he throws his elven locks into a ponytail and dons the mint green life force-sucking scrubs and acts like a semi-normal human being. But I can see through his façade as he stands there laughing diabolically in the corner as his boss is torturing me and telling me I have bad luck. Evil scrub-wearing, elf hair-having, maniacally grinning warlock. If he weren’t so nice I would hate him.

The sinister doctor who isn't even a doctor insisted on humming to himself while the torture ensued and then the scrub-disguised warlock created a percussion section by drumming out the beat on his mint green legs. It was a 2-man circus band around me. I wasn’t sure if that is supposed to distract me from my pain as much as it just irritated me. I did get a good look at the fiendish doctor’s shoes, which looked fairly expensive. I tried to spit on them but my aim was off.

I did sneak out without paying my co-pay so the joke is on them! (Enter evil laugh here). Actually joke is on me because I still feel like I got run over by a city bus and it's been 3 days since the D and D torture. Oh well.

Living the Clydesdale-Free life...

The "Clydesdale Chronicles" have ended before they began. It's true. Clydesdale and K-Fed have moved out this past weekend, so no more redecorating or vacuuming at all hours of the night. No more running circles in the living room with platform boots made of cement on. We have entered into a new era. And this era is called: Sleeping Through the Entire Night Without Having to Wonder What the HELL She is Doing Up There. That's kind of a lame name for an era but it makes its point.

Breaking up is hard to do...and OMG Johnny D's nose is falling off!!

This past weekend was an interesting one, to say the least. Whenever you have a roommate, regardless of who it is, there comes a time when you have to "break up" with them. Maybe because they are messy or a freak of nature or just plain annoying. In my case, I was the messy one, our place was too small and my roommate had a huge smelly dog...all of these factors should have been a sign at the beginning that this wouldn't work out. Oh, he was also my boyfriend. So we pretty much had to break up and one had to move out. Which made me remember how much I enjoyed living by myself in the first place.

So I moped around all weekend and watched a bunch of movies I got in the mail from Netflix. The first was "The Libertine" which I will admit, I got just because Johnny Depp was in it. He was some Earl of Something guy that drank a lot and I'm not sure what exactly happened, but he started looking bad. Like disgusting. Like he had leprosy or something. I think his nose fell off. It was very depressing and he was only attractive for the first half of the movie.

A small interesting part in the movie was when he had to write a play for the king and he didn't want to so to make everyone mad he made the play about French women and dildos. He passed out wooden dildos to the audience and made a giant one and one of the actor’s names was "Little Clitoris". I was completely lost at this point but I stuck it out through the whole thing and felt a little bit violated at the end, with all the clitoris and dildo talk and Johnny's beautiful nose falling off and him pissing his pants every five seconds. On second thought, what the hell was this movie about?? I'll have to Google it, I suppose.

Second movie that IMMEDIATELY followed the first (I wore my pajammies all day) was "Underworld: Evolution". I enjoyed the first "Underworld" a lot because I like movies about vampires and stuff, secretly hoping that Buffy or Spike will show up at any minute but they never do... Good movie, scary bat guy flying around. The werewolf wasn't as scary as the last movie. He just looked like a guy in an abominable snowman suit. Don't know how to even begin spelling "abominable" so get off my case.

Third movie was "V for Vendetta". Holy crap!!! GOOD MOVIE! I give it 2 thumbs up and 2 toes up if I could. Wait...I can give 2 toes up! (I just took my stiletto off and tried) I thought it would be stupid because I didn't like the guy’s outfit with the mask and all but the movie touched something in me. And not something naughty you nasty minded people! Rent it, watch it, love it. (I lied. I didn’t take a stiletto off and try. I really am wearing my jammies and that would be ridiculous to walk around with jammies and stilettos on. Even for me.)

"So, what do you do," asked Frankenstein

So I went to a bar as a total third wheel this weekend with Tammi and her man and a boy comes up and says, first thing, "so what do you do?" To which we laughed about all night. Like he really cares as he is staring down at my new cleavage. So that gave me time to think of a really good answer but ended up telling the truth. As his eyes gloss over with boredom I go into more interesting tales of divorce, meningitis, boob jobs and infection-riddled tattoos.

I now have a new experiment I'm going to do each time I go out. I'm going to tell the guys that inevitably ask me what I do something really random and off the wall. Like that I don't work and just sleep with rich boys. Or that I inherited a porn theater. Or that I'm a drug dealer. Or that the Virology Department at the University pays me to let them do experiments on me. Or that I get disability for having “mental issues” and then start looking around the bar all paranoid and hide under a table sucking my thumb until he goes away. Or maybe that I own a mongoose farm in Africa and I am just passing through the states trying to sell some of the little guys to zoos. Or perhaps that I’m a geneticist and I’m currently working on crossing a wolf with a duck and that my colleagues and I are arguing over whether to call the little mutant a Wock or a Dulf. Stuff like that. Takes the boredom out of being the third wheel.

*On a side note, the “so what do you do?” guy looked like Frankenstein. His head was very large and square and all he needed was a couple of bolts on each side of his neck. And some personal "head handlers" to hold up that massive noggin of his with giant poles wherever he went...

Tattoo scabs and Laguna Beach depression...

First, let me tell you how I DIDN'T spend my Labor Day weekend...having fun, bbq'ing, traveling, out of town, on a boat. Anything that equaled fun I was not doing. Just for the record. What I was doing was pretty sad, to say the least.

Now, when I got my first tattoo it was a while ago. About 9 years ago. And it was on my back, so I couldn't really see what exactly was going on back there. But I do NOT remember it being this gross...really. Infections and blood poisoning aside, humongous rose-shaped scabs falling off randomly are not in the slightest bit fun. (I never found that one by the way, mom, sorry.) After that fiasco the owner of the tattoo shop tells me to do a “dry heal” and then, when my scabs are all dried up and gone that he will do the touch up for free! Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

So I spent 3 days sitting in my dad's purple recliner (he insists they are maroon and he bought them only because they were on sale much to my mom's dismay. How WILL she decorate around those??) totally not picking my tattoo scabs, I swear, and watched the entire first season of Laguna Beach. I know, I said I wouldn't watch it but after the all day marathon of "The Hills" I just had to know how this started. And boy was I in for a treat! I was in desperate need of some chick-flick therapy and alone-time and what better place than the parents house, in Butt-*bleep* Nowhere with 6, yes I said 6, cats, to do it?

*On a side note, when I arrived at the parents house late Friday night (meaning it's dark outside and when it's dark outside in Apache Junction, it's late) I turn my brights on and warily walk up to the darkened house. I unlock the security gate, then the dead bolt of the door and slowly push it open. And of course, MY stupid bitch fat stretch pants wearing (if she wore pants) cat Lola ran right out of the place. Great. It's darker than shit outside and I have to go and chase around my fat ass cat in the dark. In Apache Junction. Where there is a meth lab one street down.

So I'm cussing and yelling at her fat ass and deep inside praying that I don't get raped over this episode. I finally caught her because, let's face it, she's a fatty. I'm sure my parent’s neighbors (who are like 100 years old and are constantly spying on my parents because I'm sure they have nothing better to do...because they are 100) got an eyeful that night. One of the crazy Childres' kids running around yelling in the middle of the night "Get back here you stupid fat bitch!!!"

So back to sitting in the purple recliner watching Laguna Beach, not picking my scabs (actually you might find that big rose shaped one in that very chair, dad). Now I'm completely invested in these damn rich kid's lives and I know them all by name and I get mad when they talk shit about LC because I really like her.

But it wasn't the fact that they are rich and live fabulous lives at the age of 17/18 that depresses me. Or even the fact that they all went off to these fabulous colleges and attended fabulous parties and went to Cabo for their senior trip. Nope. At the end of the graduation episode all the girls were sitting around drinking Evian or some shit (which, by the way, I don't think tastes any better than Fry's brand distilled water) and they are all talking about where they see themselves in 10 years.

Shit. It's been 10 years for me. I'm almost 10 years out of high school. And I'm divorced and still living in AZ. Oh my god, panic attack. I suck, my life is worthless, I've amounted to nothing, I'm a hack, a loser...etc. You get the point. I thought back to when I graduated high school and what my dreams were and where I thought I'd be and then I found myself in a deep depression and driving to McDonald's to get a damn hot fudge sundae. Seriously. I did that.

After the ice cream, I calmed down a little and realized that my life isn't that bad. It doesn't exactly suck. Then the tiniest thought crept upon me for a split second that maybe I should just stop watching shows about rich high school kids and being jealous of them? No, why would I do that? It's my vice. That's why I love Netflix. Every 2 days a new red envelope comes and no one knows what is really inside. Looks innocent enough. No one has to know it's the second season of Laguna Beach, the third season of Dawson's Creek and the 7th season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (don't judge me).

And I'm sorry I outed my dad's purple recliners here on my blog. But he had to know the truth.

I'm the .1 percent...

I go and get my wrist tattoos that I've been wanting forever. Roses and banners, one says truth one says love. So I sit through 5 hours of needle and ink torture and survive, don't even get the least bit faint. I get home, remove the bandages and they are a bit red, nothing to worry about. The next day they are more red and now swollen. Hmmm, not looking too good. My other tattoo didn't hurt this bad. I know the wrists are a lot more sensitive, but shit! These look gross!! Then the ever-scary red line begins to travel up the "love" arm. NOT GOOD.

I have E-rock drive my ass back to the tattoo shop and as the worse possible advertising ever, I show my red swollen infected arms to the owner and they tell me if it travels any higher to get my ass to the hospital ASAP. Everybody has gathered around me and my "nice tattoos though" arms and are freaked out by this red line that has traveled up past my elbow in a matter of 6 hours.

At this moment I decide I can't handle it anymore and I almost pass out in the freakin' shop. 2 days AFTER the tattoo. I have to go lie down and eat candy, drink water...they were taking pictures of my arms because "in 19 years of tattooing I've NEVER seen this happen before" ...yeah right.

I get home and wash them again and mark on my arm where the red line is and begrudgingly call my mother. My dad is yelling in the background "Don't be stupid! Take your ass to the hospital!" So I call this health line and she says to get my ass to the hospital too. Now I'm just feeling so stupid. I did this to myself. I wanted these stupid tattoos so bad.

I go to the emergency room with my wrists covered with a jacket like a convict being led through the airport. I got in pretty quickly. Scottsdale Healthcare is soooooo much better than Paradise Valley Hospital. If you ever get sick, NEVER go to Paradise Valley. I think they tried to kill me on more than one occasion...

I get an IV… of course. More needles. Was in and out in a couple of hours. Got an antibiotic and when I woke up this morning the red line was gone!! Yay. So, was it worth it? The tattoos? I don't know. I really wanted them, but maybe my body is telling me, "enough, dumbass, enough". Boobs, tattoos, meningitis and chronic migraines. I’m a mess. What else can I do to myself??

So, I've figured out over time that whenever it says 99.9 percent effective...I'm always that .1 percent that everything bad happens to. I'll post some pics of my tats once they look better. I got lots of compliments in the hospital...

True stories...

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eBay dumbass

I got my "super cute XS leopard print car coat" today in the mail that I just HAD to buy from eBay because I'm insane. I've been dying for a leopard print coat only for about ever. I get the coat and size XS?? Let's try size L. It says XS and I could try to wear it and dammit I will try to wear that damn coat but it’s big. And I'm little. It has a pink lining and everything. O

f course, stupid eBay buyer that I am, didn't read the whole description and got so freaking excited it was an XS that I didn't notice it was CANVAS instead of like faux fur, which would have been way cooler. Stupid too-big-canvas-leopard-print coat. Supposed to have a belt too. Didn't come with a stupid belt. Highlight of my week was ruined. At least it's only Monday...

I'm dying and "health insurance" is a big fat stupid poop.

Don't be fooled. Just because you pay for it, doesn't mean it will actually help you out when you need it. Yeah, so, just because I got a little sick and it cost a measly $17,000 for me to go to the hospital...Pacificare has to go all ape shit on me and deny all future claims the bastards. BASTARDS!!!! I hate them. HATE! Just pay for my damn head! It hurts! Pay for it!!!! That's what you do. I pay for health insurance and you pay the doctors.

Nope. I pay for health insurance and I pay the doctors. My head hurts. FIX IT! Nope, can't get it fixed because I have to pay for it first! HA AHA HA!! Evil Health Insurance Plot: You Pay Us, We Don't Pay Anyone Else. I may have headaches due to stress. Do they think this is helping?? NOOOOO. Damn stupid retarded bastard good for nothing dumbass insurance.

Warning to all those thinking about getting sick in the future. Don't. It will make you go broke and end up in a padded room talking about Denied Claims and Ineligibility. You will become a boring crazy person. How is that even possible? Health insurance will do that to you. Make you boring and crazy. Not even the actual crazies will want to talk to you because all you can talk about is insurance. Not about aliens or stabbing people.

I'm not bitter.

I agree with Doug... for once

I haven't washed my hair for about 4 days now. Of course I've showered, but the towel-around-the-head kind of shower. I hate taking showers, because I hate doing my hair. It’s become a whole “To-Do” to do my hair. Luckily, for the first time in my life, my dry frizzy hair is a blessing because I can go days without washing and it never gets oily! So lucky lucky me.

This brings me to say that I have to completely agree with the one thing Doug Porter ever said that ever made any sense in a gross and "Doug" sort of way. He said he hated taking showers and just wished he could wake up clean every morning. Man, I wish that too. I never thought I would ever have any reason to say this but I have one thing in common with Doug. We both hate taking showers.

But that's where the similarities end. Believe me. He likes to stink. I know I have to take a shower, I don't want to stank. Doug doesn't care. That stanky-ass gets all the MySpace whores you can imagine. Why? I have no idea. It's beyond me. How can a guy go 5 days, in the summer, skating everyday, and not take a shower, and still get a MYW (MySpace Whore) to come over and give him head?? (I just threw up in my mouth a little).

I'm going to have to wash the mop tomorrow I guess, as much as I don't want to. It ranks right up there with doing laundry and washing dishes and can't I just HIRE someone to do that for me? How much does a personal hair stylist cost? I'll have to check into it. I keep breaking flat irons too. Like the good, expensive salon-quality ones. Well, I guess I better get back to not washing my hair.

My pity goes out to all you oily-headed normal people who have to wash their hair every day. This is the first time I got something up on you!

To Marry Spud Duffey…

I really love MySpace. I have gotten to the scary point where I talk to my friends more on MS than on the phone or in person. But it’s great finding old friends and people you used to know. It gets very addicting and I can see how one could get sucked into the MySpace World and become a 7th Level Stalker.

Yes, I'll admit, I've stalked a few people, but mainly just to get my dad off my back about marrying Spud Duffey. I just sent him Spud's page and finally he has stopped asking me to marry the guy, but only because he is already married. Spud Duffey, the boy I loved in junior high and haven't spoken to since 1993. I didn’t really talk to him then either. I was a big dork and Spud was out of my league. (That’s probably the saddest sentence I have ever seen. That a boy named Spud was out of my league.) But in my opinion, any boy who can get through his whole life being called Spud is a damn strong man.

On a side note, the only reason my dad wanted me to marry Spud was because he thought Spud’s parents would be really great in-laws for him to hang out and go camping with. It had nothing to do Spud’s and my happiness.

Enough about Spud. Please dad, enough.

Turkish arm skin and dead babies

I got a call from my gay friend Mike to get everyone together so we can try out this Turkish restaurant that has belly dancers. So we arrive and get the “VIP Treatment” in the “VIP Room” which is just a small wall separating it from the rest of the restaurant. Oh and you get pillows instead of chairs to sit on.

There was a lovely Turkish band playing, you know, flutes, bongo thingies all the good stuff. The only thing is, this is a very small room, and they still felt the need for microphones and a speaker the size of a cow. So we yelled and yelled and of course once the music stopped the ever-embarrassing yell of the burning of an STD is heard round the room. Oops.

And oh, the belly dancer. She would dance and swing those silly white girl hips around until you gave her money like you would give a stripper. So every time she came around, we would do everything and anything to avoid eye contact. Stare at forks, build double-headed dildos with our food, and hide condiments in Tammi’s cleavage and purse. (This is actually a national pastime for us. No matter where we are we will always try to put everything that is on the table into Tammi’s bag. It’s a thing.)

The food comes and of course, Kerie gets the large turd-shaped penis thing that ended up being thrown around the table and in Tammi’s purse and god knows where else. Daniel got this plate called Donor-kabob or something. It said Donor. So when he gets it, I swear it looked like shavings of native Turkish baby arms. He was straight eating donated baby arm skin. It was apparently pretty tasty though. Kerie's on her 4th or 5th Melon Ball and E-rock is drunk, doing shots alone and to the point of ordering “Grey Goose and vodka, please”.

Somehow we got on the subject of Mexican breast implants. (Our dinner conversations usually always turn around to our boobs at some point in the evening.) We were wondering what they would be filled with, Tequila being the obvious choice. Then when you have a kid and you tell people "My baby never cries. He's so good!" they can only reply with "Um...that's because he's dead.” We have no problem killing babies with alcohol poisoning by breast feeding and then eating their donated arm skin. No problem at all.

Can I please get a nurse that can find a vein??

I had to go get an MRI today because ever since I had meningitis, I've had headaches. Apparently, these "meninges" in my brain were at one time inflamed, and that's not good. But I’ve been told that meningitis is like chicken pox in that you never get it again. So what's with the damn headaches? Maybe they are just leftover inflamed meninges.

So when I was in the hospital, they poked me so many times and I had so many IV's that now my poor little veins are apparently all dried up and crusty. Every single time they draw blood and/or stick me with any type of needle, they have to do it several times. As this "nurse” is digging around in my arm, with a needle, trying to puncture a working vein, I am trying to focus my mind on anything but the mangling of my arm innards. I was actually thinking about my new breast implants and hoping that when they turned the damn machine on that nothing would happen to them. It didn't work. All I could focus on was that bitch and the needle tearing up the inside of my arm and feeling faint.

At least this has an up side. I could never shoot up heroin, for instance. I'd pass out the second I saw the dirty needle, then when I woke up I would pass out trying to find or even discussing trying to find a vein. And then when I woke up again, and I tied that rubber thingy around my arm, all color would drain from my face and I would faint again and my dealer would just be all frustrated and leave. My money wouldn't be worth all the fainting and turning green and save me from getting AIDS or something. Like drug dealers would really care, actually. I give them too much credit in this story.

Back to the implants. You know how when you fly you have to put anything combustible in a bag so when it explodes it won't get all over your clothes? Well, as I was boarding the plane to go to Port of Viagra I began to worry about my implants expanding (maybe to a full C cup on the bright side) to like big ol' F cups and enlarging my already shiny stretched-to-the-max skin and then exploding!! In my body!

What do you say when that happens? What if only one boob pops? Would I have to go through my entire vacation with one really large boob and one saggy empty sack of a boob? Would they turn the plane around and get me urgent medical care? Would they announce over the loud speaker why they were turning the plane around for urgent medical care? “Excuse me passengers. We will be turning the aircraft around and land at the nearest airport so the girl in seat 15D can seek medical attention because her boob popped. Sorry for the inconvenience, thank you for flying with Delta and have a pleasant day.”

Well, whatever happens, at least I got a warranty on the tits, because with my luck, you never know, man.

Those bitches on "The Hills"

I'm not hating, really I'm not. Well, I guess I am. But those spoiled 19-year-old bitches have way better lives than I do, damn it all to hell. An internship at Teen Vogue, a fabulous apartment in LA, and your biggest dilemma in life is whether or not to shack up with your boyfriend in his ridiculously expensive beach house for the summer (yeah, he so didn’t pay for that himself) or go to Paris for an internship with Vogue. Stupid lucky annoying rich spoiled stupid girls. I hate them, yet I want to call them up and hang out with them because they are so much cooler than I am.

Now, before you go judging me because I watched this stupid show, I never ever not even once watched Laguna Beach. Had I not been confined to my comfy couch all day Saturday with a Vomit Migraine from Hell, I would never have entered the "Hills" world. Unfortunately, it was a marathon and I cannot resist a marathon. All day. I had to watch the next one and the next one and the next one. I had to see how Heidi's first day working for Bolthouse Productions would go. And let me tell you, I got the ultimate payoff when she went to her boss, on day one, and said she didn't think work would be this boring.

How does this dumb 19-year-old girl get a job at one of the biggest event planners in LA, as a 2nd assistant? And then, how does said dumb girl get called away from her game of Solitaire at her desk, into the boss’s office, and get promoted?? HOW?? These bitches are already rich and they aren't ugly, but how do they get to go to LA and make it at the age of 19? Will they have to work for anything?

Now I'm officially hating. Because I'm 27 years old, at the top of my career here in AZ, (which isn't that high, let me tell you) and I'm so jealous I can’t even stand it.

Bitch Fit

It's been one of those days. The ones where all you can say is ..@$&^õ. Dammit. I woke up late and had to take a "hooker's bath" because I went tanning last night and the burnt skin smell from hundreds of other asses was stuck on mine. Then it rained on the way to work. Normally that wouldn't be any unusual problem, but alas, my windshield wipers are hanging on by a thread, and I mean that literally. The stupid little blade thingies flap around like wet noodles while the metal scrapes dirty little streaks across my field of vision.

Then the fucking guy in the fucking Mercedes decides he doesn't need to wait for his green light to enter the freeway from the on-ramp like the rest of the little people and has to go the same time I do. Bastard.

The highlight of my morning was the fact that Tracy on "War of the Roses" didn't cut in on the phone call too early and we got to catch her boyfriend Jackson cheating on her and sending those flowers to a girl she didn't even know about! Bastard. He actually said that he loved her so much it scared him and he was confused and needed to get the cheating out of his system. Seriously. What an ass.

“War of the Roses” is one of my guilty pleasures. They devised it up on one of these local morning radio shows where they do more talking than playing music. (Since Howard Stern had switched to satellite radio so long ago, that guilty pleasure was out of the question and I needed something to amuse me on my way to work.) So a girl calls them up if she thinks her boyfriend/husband or whoever is cheating on her. She gives the details, if she has any, about the person or persons she thinks he is cheating with.

Then the girl DJ calls the dude up and says she’s from some new Phoenix flower shop and as a promotion they are offering to give him a free dozen roses, send it to anyone he wants, with no strings attached. The girl DJ (I will say her name is Katy) is a very good salesperson. Not one person has hung up not wanting the roses. The whole time the girlfriend/wife is listening on the other line and supposed to be quiet. Then it comes time for the guy to say who he wants the flowers sent to, and most of the time after he says the name of some other girl, the one that’s supposed to be quiet on the other line always butts in and freaks out before Katy can get any real information out of him, which completely ruins “War of the Roses” for me until next week. I don’t know why they don’t just put the girlfriend on Mute.

Katy is amazingly good at getting information about the other girls and how long he’s been seeing her and whatnot. Even if he sends the flowers to his girlfriend/wife or his mom or sister, Katy will offer him another free dozen, just to totally entrap him. And 9 out 10 times they are cheating. It’s so great when the girl is quiet and the dude digs himself a hole so deep he can’t really think of anything to say so he hangs up. Then the DJ’s call him back and try to get some answers out of him. The guys threaten lawsuits and all that stuff but no one ever says any last names.

It’s deliciously evil. I love it.

A few things I learned this week...

1. No matter how much I hope, pray and practice my walk in the longest runway-like part of my miniscule apartment (from the sliding glass door in the living room to the far wall in the dining room), I will never reach my dream of becoming a runway model.

I participated in a photo shoot (I use the term photo shoot loosely here) last evening and I discovered that my eyes twitch when I am having make up applied to them and no matter how hard the make up artist tried, liquid eyeliner hates me. In every picture taken, I either look drunk, high or the fat pockets on either side of my face, otherwise known as cheeks, make me look like, "Oh, bless her heart, the little chunky girl think she looks so perrty..."

2. Investing in real estate is not for the amateur beginner with a few thousand to kill. And I didn't really have a few thousand to kill. I just had a few thousand. And now I got crap, dammit all to hell.

3. Mexico is the devil. You will not come back the same person you were when you left. You will either be minus something you need (like flesh on your legs, all your money, or your boyfriend) or plus something you really don't need (like the CLAP or Flesh Eating Disease or a boyfriend.)