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...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.)

Killer Roach Attack and a Nightly Tsunami

Last night I was taking a walk around my new neighborhood. It was a lovely evening, just walking and thinking and minding my own business when all of a sudden, out of no where, the biggest, most scariest, man-eating cockroach comes FLYING at me. I run and dart about screaming my head off and the thing actually touched my leg. IT TOUCHED MY LEG!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now I must get the cockroach residue off of me and shower as much as ol' Clydesdale up there.

This should be part of the "Clydesdale Chronicles" but that girl showers like there is no tomorrow. Which usually means at least twice a day. And she seems to take a bath before the shower in the morning...and at night. I know it sounds like I need to make better use of my time than trying to figure out what the Britney Look-A-Like is doing up there, but every time she turns on the water, which is about every 5 minutes, it sounds like a tsunami is in my apartment. I have to turn the TV up to full volume and sometimes I still can't hear it. Good thing I have a DVR so that I can rewind and hear all the important things those Real Worlders' are saying... I'm such a loser...that got body-slammed by a human-sized cockroach from hell.

The Clydesdale Chronicles...

So, I'm trying to figure out, what exactly she is doing...that girl that lives above me. It sounds like big Budweiser horse is running around up there. It also sounds like she is constantly moving around furniture. Maybe she has Chronic Redecorating Syndrome. (CRS?) A big horse moving around furniture all day and all night in the apartment right above me. Maybe this makes a big mess because she then feels the need to vacuum at least once a day, sometimes twice, at like 1:00, 2:00 in the morning on a weekday. Why? She can’t possibly get any sleep. I'd say maybe she was a tweaker...but she's fat. Tweakers aren't fat are they? I'm not well researched in the tweaker area. So I'm only making an uneducated guess here.

The girl reminds me of Britney. She looks just like her (post Kevin Federline, of course). She's got the horribly dried out and thinning bleached hair. She's even got the K-Fed look-a-like boyfriend. He dresses just like him and he's smaller and skinnier than her. I swear in the entire time I've lived here (3 months) I've heard them having sex one time. It was hilarious. I heard the bed squeaking then the "Oh God! Oh God!" Then it stopped. Like 5 minutes later, footsteps to the shower, then nothing. How sad. No wonder she walks around all day looking like she smells poo. I've smiled at her, but she just scowls.