Oh Today

Oh today.

Today is a Thursday... Or am I not supposed to say that? I don't have a computer yet, but I do have, in my possession, an iPod touch. It isn't mine, but I'm getting my own Saturday. I won't bore you with the details- you came to be inspired or laugh, maybe you just came to judge me... Which on the iPod touch, when typing "me" it got real close to being entered as "ms" (my NY resolution is to lose weight in my fingers), "judging MS" would have made you an even bigger asshole than you were when you were just judging me... I mean, to other people. Not to me, in my book, me-judging is almost the most offensive thing in the world, next to old people kissing- EEW!

When I turn old (40), I won't kiss my husband... Maybe not even my kids because of how hideous I stand to look doing it. Heck, the sight could just about give you MS! What's MS?

No time now- I have to talk about humanitarianism.

No kissing and no pictures as soon as I turn 40. That's going to be a hard sell to the paparazzi, who will no doubt be hounding me by then (just look at this talent), but I'm sure the world is only getting more civilized, so probably won't have to worry about that or even try to live by example- this stuff just happens... Usually after a good rain shower. I was going to edit this last sentence to be less rambly, but fuck it! I'm blogging on an iPod touch. 

Right now this is just a "note", but soon it will be an anecdote to the absurdity of your life. Is that hard to read, maybe it doesn't go down well. The truth never does. Hey, I'm just going to undermine the lives of people who read this far into one of my "stories". This seems like a good way to get ahead... Or "some head" if I were a man (I'm so close), but seeing as my balls haven't housed themselves on the outside of me in a leathery satchel called a "scrotum", I can only be considered a woman with too much confidence. This is why I'm single, in case you were wondering (everyone does). Back to scrotums; it's my belief that if linguists were coming up for the name today, they would have called the skin around the reproductive nest egg on the male anatomy "Angelina Jolie's Lips". That's my snarky celebrity bit... I don't really feel that way, but I haven't really felt since childhood. I also think that a scrotum looks like an old person's neck... Which is why watching Something's Got To Give (starring Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson- as two old people kissing) is like watching a boxing match between nut sacks.

Have a great Christmas or whatever.

Abbey Jordan: Professional Reference

Oh hey Internet, good to see you're still applicable... I mean I never doubted you. What?! I didn't- I just thought with Y2K and all, you'd end up being a vehicle for the return of Jesus, but Facebook is good too... and I don't really follow Jesus anymore, wait! Is he on Twitter?! I don't even Tweeter, honestly didn't think it would last, like employment in my early twenties, but aren't I surprised?!

I am.

I have found myself to be in a position as a good employee and a valuable addition to the companies I work for. I work for families and it's perfect... sure, Starbucks didn't get me, but a human does... especially when they are young enough to feel joy still. Sigh, we all miss it, don't we? Rhetorical, of course we don't! Joy is in achievement and we're so busy hoarding accomplishment our closets are pouring over with skeletons.

Not mine.

I have personally embarrassed and alienated myself at any opportunity given, so that the only skeletons that emerge from my closet (embarrassments) are when you can't see my skeleton anymore! Yep, big Abbey is starving because fit Abbey tries to find affection outside confection. I'm still looking, so we're all a little famished over here at Camp Abbsies, but some news fills us more than others... like when our friend is job searching and uses us as a professional reference.

This ACTUALLY happened and I'm expecting a call ANY SECOND now from L'Occitaine. It's a smell good company, but it's also a place in France. They are calling ME for a REFERENCE! I haven't done this before, but I imagine I just have to come clean about all the jobs I lost. Luckily I am learning French, so I can tell them about it in a broken version of a language they probably don't speak anyway. Furthermore, she put me down as a "comedy colleague", so I should probably try to be funny at every turn!

**** example ****

THE MANAGEMENT: So, Abbey, how would...

ME: [interrupting] Don't wear it out!

THE MANAGEMENT: What?

ME: Oh sure... ly. Hey, that guy died! ce mec est
mort!

THE MANAGEMENT: Thanks for your time.

ME: Derien!!!

****** end ******

Now I know how Robert Downey Jr. felt when he finally got due respect with Iron Man. I am a professional reference! I can't wait to be the BEST professional reference on the application. It's probably going to take some extra congeniality because this girl knows some stuffy fucking people (she's a law student)

****** example ******

THE MANAGEMENT: Good day Ms. Jordan, how do you do?

ME: Regards, I am well, however perplexed as to whom you might be.

THE MANAGEMENT: My name is Reginald Cologne and I am ringing on behalf of a Comedy Colleague.

ME: Affirmative, [insert researched political bit here] how can I help you Reginald?

THE MANAGEMENT: You are the most articulate reference we've called thus far!

ME: Merci beaucoup! Je Parle Francais aussi!

****** end ********

So any minute I should be getting a fax, inviting me to answer their telephone call. I bought a fax machine and land line for this occasion and I can't wait! I also am having business cards printed that read:

ABBEY JORDAN
Professional Reference
www.facebook.com/abbsiessauce

!!!

Namaste- Away From Me Right Now!

Oh boysies has it been a while (rhetorical). Mama (me) will write more when she gets her new laptop (by 2012!)... until then...

I do yoga by donation at a place here in San Francisco. I highly recommend this space to people who want to go to yoga, but are on a budget. However, I see where yoga has just turned into a form of Jesus on the plate of a cynical public, hungry for some authenticity and a little less "OM" (or horse breath). I felt like Carrie Bradshaw just then.

I go to yoga and have been for ten years... I even participated in a teacher training a few years back... did I decide to teach? No, because yoga isn't salvation (also I didn't pay in full, so was never really certified) and the people in it are no better (energy wise) than the Greyhound Bus Stop half way between here and the next Clan Rally. People who go into something like Yoga believing that breathing extra loud will give them some relief to what they're trying to drown out are really just like the homeless people they secretly despise- loud and yucky! This has been a huge statement lately- people SCREAM BREATHING. I bring my destructive friends so their back can get stretched and that they may feel the endorphins released by having a supple, stretched body instead of an 8-ball. After most classes lately, I know they are going right back to sauce and spice and I'm not talking Paneer, Slumdog!

I love an instructor who mostly keeps his or her mouth shut (not likely to happen with most women instructors, I know). Just guide the class and stop telling the same tired jokes you tell every class to help people escape from their discomfort. Stop trying to make this "better" for people- IT ISN'T! It isn't good for people, that's why we're here (yoga) and no amount of New-Age-bull-shit-chuckle jargon is going to make the experience more "authentic".

I suppose this is a bit of a rant, but I farted in yoga once... HA! Look- a funny little fart joke. I love going to yoga, but if I wanted to go to a comedy open mic- I would.... uhhhh, oh yeah. I go to open mics about 6 times a week, so NAMASTE away from the jokes and let me listen to my own breath for a moment. THAT is why I am here... and that is what experience I hope my friends have. Just be quiet and stop encouraging the entire class to express their breath with loud sighs and horse mouth... happy babies are quiet babies, so let's stop pretending they need to lion's breathe in a higher octave to get back to innocence.

Alright, Mama (me) is off to a comedy mic to tune out the same fucking jokes I always hear from people I should probably not like as much as I do and hopefully cultivate something new for myself.

xoxox

Abbey

RALLY TO JUMBOTRON!

Oh hey there boob-tubers! Abbey Jordan here, fresh off the the stage (7 hours ago "fresh") at the 2010 Rally To Restore Sanity in San Francisco. I performed with my friend, Sean and with 30 people attending, the only thing more inappropriate than calling it a "Rally" would be to call it a "Rally Against Overpopulation".

I like the idea of there being a rally against population and only 15 people attend, but it still boasts a jumbo-tron. Even more though, I like that I performed in The Rally To Restore Sanity, 13 people attended and they had a jumbo-tron!

Truth is, the rain was coming down so hard and people are like cats... you know, with a tail and nine lives... where my Hindus at?! Everybody who was there, was there because they care too much- or they were being paid to perform (me and Sean) and I got on stage and told them how dumb they were. When I first got up and said: On my way here I asked everybody I saw if they were coming to this rally... they said "what rally?" [exploding laughter comes from the audience rolling 11 deep] and I told them "I DON'T KNOW!" At this point, the crowd (10 people) laughed so hard they vomited and then, gave me a standing ovation. Haters might say "it was raining and there wasn't seating", but I'd like to tell those insecure women (obviously) that if I brighten the rainy day of 9 people, then let's just be happy for all of us... because collectively, that makes a brighter day for the whole world- except China.

I took some video of this 5 person festival, there was some of my performance, but Sean Keane (who went before me and took video of me) couldn't stop narrating my set/ being overtly gracious to the three people in the "crowd" who turned to acknowledge his set. I am just going to post something that was filmed before either one of us went up. In this video you will see a male tribal-fusion-belly dancer. This guy is like Thomas the Train and he's pulling heavy cargo! I mean: he was first and we followed him (like a cult!). That's okay because NO ONE SHOWED UP!

This was a bizarre, fun experience and I wish EVERY DAY had a Rally for me to perform in front of even if it were attended only by fetuses!

Enjoy!

Oh Thursday, being wasted is so "Friday" of you.

This just in my head: Maybe a guy binge drinking on a Thursday isn't so much "sad" as he is "innovative".

THE WEEKEND ISN'T EVEN HERE YET! A trend setter, the next day- EVERYONE is doing it (even pregnant people). Clearly this guy is someone to be looked up to, just ask my ex-boyfriend (also ask him if he got tested, so I don't have to).

A widely held belief is that a disease drives people to drink... or me (Hi Mom).

GET READY FOR "THIS IS LIKE THAT":

A Wednesday drunk is the Mark Zuckerberg of liver failure! He get's up, goes to work (unless he's committed), maybe he throws one down before brushing his teeth- maybe he doesn't brush his teeth. This guy doesn't smoke, but takes "smoke breaks" plugging away at his passion. He knows that sometimes you have to juggle your daily obligations with your personal ambitions and it's not really "stealing company time" if you're all balanced and shit. Tuesday drunk, well that's next level shit... over my head, so I wont presume to lend voice to it.

There is another side to this trend: the Sunday/ Monday drinkers... The weekend is really over, but they can't let go. S&M drinkers are Bruce Willis to the early 2000's. They've been riding The Fifth Element well into a regular spot on Friends, but they also know that Live Free Or Die Hard is a fun movie, making failed relationships and a disappointing existence worth the Whole Nine Yards.

It's Thursday and I ate a pint of ice cream... I like to think I am working on being a supportive wife to an important man, having "pregnancy cravings". Manifest Destiny over here!
.

Is That A Peanut or A Baby?!

Alright gang! So, people have been asking me (a little bit too many people for the pay I get) how I am able to get in front of hundreds of people and do my comedy jokes without completely turding. Here's the scoop ladies, I vomit after meals. Oh sure, we all do... and why not?! All the fun with no consequences! Well...

Almost no consequences.

Did I ever tell you about the baby I lost to vomiting? I was 2 days ago old and just throwing up a pound (or 7lbs) of food in the toilet at the gas station (where I shower to keep the water bill down). There, on top of my pile of "healthy" (no girl wants to hear she looks "healthy") snacks was the fetus of my unborn child... or a peanut. I was so saddened by this loss! I had no idea I was pregnant and this just came as a huge blow to my future... mainly because I haven't had sex in 6 months, so this was surely the second coming of Christ that I purged from my sleek, emaciated belly. surely.

I believe God chose to surprise me with the next Jesus because I am tidy, hard-working and have curly hair. I hope I get another chance!

ARCHIVED TREASURE

I was writing out a sketch in my Google Documents this evening and I came across an unfinished gem... I preface with this, because I am not nearly as boy crazy or skinny as I was when I wrote it. I like to think my BRAIN weighs more, but my pants have their OWN opinion. Okay... enjoy!

I have to write this. If I don't write this, nothing will happen in my life. If I had a car, it would have a bumper sticker that would read: I would rather be doing crunches.

I love writing. I love laughing at ideas I come up with. I love getting feedback from people that they really like what I do... I L O V E that more than men, but barely. I am at the coffee shop I have made my hub for optimism city. All the cuties are here, or should be, because I am.... I am here, just working away on my own thing.

"look at her, she's so in her power."

Yeah, I am and nothing can stop me, except the Grecian beauty steaming milk right now. I will give up on all my goals to have his babies (he stopped steaming and is right next to my table as I type... what if he reads this and gets a boner?!)? "What if" indeed. If he got a boner, I would probably continue typing about how I wish he had a boner. I would just drill away at creating my own happiness as an independent woman (thanks Beyonce!) and he would want me so much more.

"How is she so comfortable with herself? She seems way too young to be so cool."

I love that he thinks so highly of me. He seems to have his own goals... he's quiet, but friendly, probably good with money... maybe he has a camera and wants to travel. We should go somewhere warm because I want to wear a bikini all the time. I love working out my stomach muscles and wish I lived in New York because then I could just wear crop tops and it wouldn't be an issue at all. I would wear these tiny things and then be grossed out when unattractive men looked at me... THE NERVE!

***

Authors Musings

Ladies, if you're nice to men you'll get raped socially with unwanted advances... so dress as skanky as you like, but for GOD SAKE (and your own) be a cunt about it. Who cares what people think?!

Um Bears.

I nanny... and kids can't take vitamins like a self-actualized woman (myself- SHUT UP DAD!), so the "man" makes them in gummi bear form. He calls them "Yummi Bears" more like "Yummi Bears"! aaaamiright ladies?!?
"Yummi Bears" more like "Ummi-employment Bears"!

Abbey, why would you say "Ummi-employment"? Oh, I'm glad I asked! I say that because I'm over here eating all this kid's vitamins. If the serving says two, I figure I can take 4 because I am a BIG GIRL. I am not eating sweets right now (or meat, cheese or coffee), so this poor kid's vitamins seem like a gelatin loop hole that stretches to fit me through it... and it better because I am packing 7 extra pounds in yummi bear weight! I have VALIDATED eating Yummi Bears because they're vitamins. I haven't validated the sweat in my palms at the thought of the parents discovering my hand in the Yummi jar. Sure, there's a cookie jar, but I am on a cleanse PEOPLE!!! At one point they moved the vitamins to a different shelf, probably just to make room for all the organic treats they stock up on, but I found them and thought "HAHA- can't fool me! I have a nose for Yummi Bears!"

I only have so much time before this kid wakes up and there is laundry to do, so I will go fold my employers underwear and boxers, pretending I don't want to take care of my own husband. JK! Who has time for romance when I am so focused on my career?!

Ummi Bears take me away.

Addicted To "Love"

It has been months, hasn't it? Sorry it's taken so long, you've probably forgotten about me. No? You want to try again? I should tell you about my relationships then.

I have had a terrible time with my boyfriend, the only time he says "I love you" is when I slip him ecstasy. He would say it pretty regularly, but now his dick is soft and he's started doing heroin. While he's awful cuddly there's not a whole lot of "me" time. I'll be like "honey, let's go to the mall!" and he'll be like drooling with his eyes rolled back into his head. Boys are weird!
My favorite part of that story is that I am with a drug addict... better than a "rug addict", which is what I typed before I realized I forgot the 'd'. Have I ever told you about the time I was in love with a rug addict?

Michel was an arms dealer with a penchant for fine floor coverings. We met at a small patisserie in the West Nile when I gave up on Atkins (AGAIN!). There he was, in a chair uncomfortably close to a young family, hunched over a catalogue filled with- what else: breast implants. I saw my chance... I sauntered over, casually eating flakey croissant- I leaned over the family of three and whispered "I hear the Vatican is hiring a new Pope." As my intelligent, albeit ill-informed, words showered wet bread all over his grey, mustard stained sweatshirt I noticed his eyes fixate on my exposed chest. "Those are some AK-47 tit bags you have!" I loved him, right then. I knew he loved me too, because I slipped him ecstasy and I felt so pretty.

I am a bit of a health person, so having all these drug addict boyfriends really stumps me. I decided to take myself off the market for quite awhile, until I meet someone famous and trick them into loving me. I am sure I will love again, but he has to be famous, because I will not date another man who is unaccountable... or a rug addict.

Hells Wedding Bells

One of my best friends (if I am not too old to say that) is getting married to a lovely woman whom I approve of (you're welcome Rebecca). However, there are some "issues".

Vince says my attendance is mandatory at their May/ June 2011 nuptials, but Rebecca's super religious Grandparents- who Vince is dedicating "half" the wedding to- may not be able to handle anything I would say in a toast. Nevermind that I may not be able to handle their smell or the ominous reminder that death is inevitable. They believe in Jesus and Hell, so I should just keep my mouth shut about reality for 2 hours on a farm in Wisconsin... a state I can't even spell (making that the region's fault, as I am a spellaholic).
Vince says my voice is very important- and really wants me to talk about him (remember: toast NOT roast!(stupid Vince said that))):)) So I am going to work out some hypothetical scenarios before the big day. A year isn't much time to change who I am... oh sure, I don't HAVE to... Vince DID say I could talk after the Grandparents left, however, that is probably after cake and I don't know that I can wait that long before running my mouth. He also started giving me clauses, like he were a network or something.

Without further ado, a delving into the colorful speech I may (or may not) make next year:


HENCHMAN #1:

[clinking glass] The honorable and highly successful friend of Vince, a woman who needs no introduction- other than this one (by contractual agreement)- will speak a few hours about whatever she pleases.

ABBEY:

Friends, lovers, hypocrites, I stand before you today a toned size 4-6 and I am disgusted by the filth that surrounds me [farts loudly]... what is this a FARM?! I was talking to this one guy- I forgot his name because he was boring, but there he is in the stupid clothes [pointing at an "important" family member] and he was going on and on about this guy [drunkenly points to Vince] and I was like "big fucking deal- why are you so chubby?!"...

ABBEY:

[27 minutes later]... so when I put the jeans on, I was SHOCKED because I hadn't been doing as much cardio as I normally do, but I still lost weight. You might ask me "how?"- well, shut up dummy- you wouldn't know! I did it by having sex in public more and giving more blow jobs- which really curbed my desire to nosh...

ABBEY:

[43 minutes later]... and so it cleared up, but my dress was ruined. Anyway, I am going to get out of here because my buzz is wearing off, but before I go- I would like to say a few words about the groom: he cheated on Rebecca- with a black chick.

ABBEY:

[6 minutes later] Just kidding guys. Vince is a great guy and I am happy to see him with such a lovely lady- her Grandparents are a bit unreasonable, but she's got a good head on her shoulders. Let's eat!

END SCENE

I may write more of these, but it seems I barely have time to write at all anymore, so we'll see.

Meet Joe Blech

I've been in LA for a couple days now and I have had a good time listening to names being dropped and dreaming of seeing John Mayer in some coffee shop or something. However, I have given up on seeing John and will instead focus on how I met Joe.

I met Joe at a huge industry bonfire that he invited himself too. Joe was the star of his own internet television series in Chicago. Joe got let go a few years ago.

When you can't make it in Illinois, LA is a great idea.

Joe doesn't work or have a car (car's are more important than food here) and somehow finagled his bitterly entitled personality into the back seat of my friend's car while we drove across town from the beach party we were welcomed guests at. It was my fault that Joe was riding with us, but it was my friend's fault for not pulling over on the freeway to kick Joe out of the car.

It's a sad thing to hear a person's soul leave them, but when it does, you will hear "I hung out with Gunther from Friends." Gunther was a secondary character who worked at the coffee shop the cast of Friends liked to hang out in for the series. Sometimes Gunther wasn't even working there when they were hanging out... and no one who watched the show thought "I wonder if Gunther is sick today." Gunther sucked and so does Joe. Joe was a representation, to me, of the worst kinds of people in LA. People who feel embittered that they haven't made it, instead of checking their premises and realizing they have no exceptional gifts to catapult them out of the reality they wish to escape. I know there are sad people out there, but there are starving, beaten children... any pity or compassion I have is reserved for my own charity: taco carts. People expecting something they don't or can't earn just piss me off. I don't know a lot of people named "Joe" that I like- even Trader Joes is questionable, but I am positive I will never name anything Joe... unless it's gross.

I overheard this other guy, a new agent at the bonfire talk about how he probably wont date for a year because his car isn't nice enough. Can you imagine what he will expect from love when he is behind the wheels of a Maserati?! I think it will involve a lot of blow jobs, threesomes and anal.


I <3 SF

See the Forrest For The Gump

I am on a computer with a defunct 'R' (the '5' just flipped over when I typed that) and sometimes it doesn't click, which makes me grumpy or "gumpy"- which I like a lot more. When I'm "gumpy", it negates "grumpy" because "grumpy" is way more Lieutenant Dan and, let's face it- I'm feeling pretty "gumpy"... RUN SENTENCE RUN!

I have been sans laptop for a bit now and haven't made as many improvements as I thought I would... I can barely speak French and I'm only 200 pages in to reading Atlas Shrugged for my second time. I still have things getting in the way of myself and my goals. They aren't things outside of myself, but diversions I imbibe in to avoid living in the moment or being productive. I am aware of them and the hollow results they bring, but I engage for as long as I can before exhausting all of my vitality. It's not "why?" I do it, but "how can I get on with it"? Surely there is something I can blame it on, leaving me unaccountable... oh yeah, there isn't. When did THAT happen?! I feel like all I want to do is be alone or at a comedy mic. I do 6 shows a week and other than that, would prefer to be anonymous in public- to everyone. Community makes me want to live on a boat, but who could I tell my jokes to? They aren't my jokes, they're the Collectives'. If that is true, then what is the credit I get for telling them? I don't even care right now... I want to be on a boat, just like Forrest Gump. If this computer had its way, it would be a "shimp" boat. Hilaious.

There isn't a whole lot funny about wanting to be alone all the time. I have crushes, but I resent any distraction they impose to my psyche... where would I fit in a date when I barely see established friends? I wont date because I would only resent someone from taking me away from my own focus. I am also a little raw from my heart being broken by a beer cozy a couple months ago (that's right computer, a "bee cozy" does sting). I feel like I can't talk about it because there is nothing to say and maybe that's why I want to be alone all the time. What can you do when you get foiled by a beer cozy besides can it and chill out for awhile. Reading Ayn Rand doesn't help me want to talk to people either.

I am writing to write, to produce, because every time I think about the week and a half that passed since I produced a blog, I feel betrayed by myself and that makes me gumpy.

No Computer, No Problem!

Maybe my computer broke and I haven't been writing as many tasty blogs for my 14 followers (including myself) to chew on... maybe. However, before you start calling me unmotivated, there is someone who only writes a blog 4 times a year and it's always disappointing to one of my followers because the writer doesn't mention me- ever. Maybe. So, I could be worse... I could barely be writing and talking about myself even less- how would that feel?! Maybe.

My computer up and left, just like my parents. Only thing is, there is no State of Oregon to raise me now. There is no foster computer and what happens? I start reading more and taking French lessons again. I've also been out of the house more, making friends and using their computer... kind of like how I ate all the neighbor's food before the state started feeding me.

Is this a sad blog? Am I sad? Nope, J' ai faim, so I should go get a sandwich! Okay, I'm back and now that I am filled with sandwich (I never left), I am really going to start producing some notable paragraphs. Yep, up until I stood up to go eat that pretend food, I was just wasting time, now I am a machine- pumping out observations everyone can relate to; Most importantly, Rachel. As long as my sweet friend, who bought my movie ticket (SATC2) can relate... who cares?

Being a single, or (depending on my self-esteem) "focused" gal in San Francisco can be tough. I haven't really been looking at all, but one reader was for awhile and she bought me groceries once. I am all together disinterested in dating, but I should probably consider it because I think my vagina might grow back together and I could forget how to kiss.

NEWS

If you stop dating/ being intimate for more than 4.5 months, you forget how to kiss and even worse, you vomit in mouths of people who try to resuscitate your hopeless attempts at finding a counterpoint.

TRUE STORY

I had a fellow call me his "counterpoint" once. I thought he was joking and I loved him for his sense of humor. However, in retrospect he was a hacky romantic and I vomited in my cervix a little thinking about that, baring me from ever having red-headed children. I hope he doesn't read this (he wont), because I think he is an interesting person, but sometimes I think he may just be contrived... In case he is reading this, I should let you know that a penis shouldn't look like that. gross.

ANOTHER STORY

I had a friend who ran into an ex of mine recently... it's actually a really funny story that I will tell you tomorrow, Rachel (SATC2!!!) and the ex said "yeah, she wants me dead," in reference to being asked if he were my ex. I don't want him dead. I think that he is honestly just a bread sandwich soaking up the vomit of his new girlfriend, who purged an actual sandwich all over his useless, moldy body... because she is bulimic and he doesn't have a clue. I don't like him, that doesn't mean I want him dead. He was inconsiderate of me in a way that was so hurtful, I couldn't ever want to be his friend again. However, instead of saying "yeah, I'm her ex" and being accountable for his own behavior, he somehow placed himself in a power seat of being "wanted for dead". Like he were Butch Cassidy- hey Butch- fuck you! Sex and the City is in theaters and I am going to see it tomorrow with Rachel and Aiden's back, so there couldn't be a ill-will in my entire, glorious body. Enjoy having herpes, Butch Cassidy, I'm having Red Vines.


So, no computer, no problems. Just evolving over here.

Robin Hood, Meet Carrie Bradshaw, Carrie Bradshaw, Meet AIDEN

I went shopping and after that, went to see Robin Hood, because the weather was beautiful and I should be cutting back on spending. Seems resistance has gotten it's evil hand on my hand and is just sliding my bank card around like it were Carrie Bradshaw at Dolce and Gabbana... DID I JUST SAY "AROUND"? I did and eventually, I will get around to the point.

I sat through a movie that got me to thinking how funny it would be if they (movie industry) tricked everyone in the movie theater by showing a feature that NEVER ended (much like the headliners of most black comedy shows)... like a 6 hour movie, but you don't know about it until it's too late. The last Lord of the Rings felt like that to me, could have been the farts around me or my father next to me, but either way- I wanted to go home (fuck the Shire!).

Robin Hood was okay, but not nearly as exciting as the preview before it for Sex and the City 2: Return of Aiden. YOU HEARD ME!!! He's back! I don't know how either, because last we saw him (Season 5) he was with child (in a Baby Bjorn, no less). It seems there is some trouble in the marriage of Carrie and Big (no surprise there- have you seen his eyebrows?) and all the other ladies are getting past the age where sexy is appropriate (Blanch Deveroe anyone?), so they are heading East... and being that they live in New York City, that can only mean one thing: Long Island! or...
Abu Dhabi... Hmmm, I get two confused. It's very odd to have trouble in the paradise that is: Carrie and Big, but you add the torrential rain of Aiden showing up in the Middle East and you've got a disaster that would make the incidents in Chile and Haiti look like Katrina (so 2005, I know!)!

I have to work Friday morning, but I'm thinking about quitting so I could go see this movie. or something. I don't think this is the best blog ever, but someone is sitting next to me telling me how bored she is and my computer is broken, so her state of being is relevant, because this is her computer (and apartment). However, we BOTH have Aiden Fever and will be curing it this weekend (I hope)!

PS
I can't believe Aiden is Back!

Date Rape Brownie

You ever think "I wish there were some way I could feel out of control without hurting anyone but myself."?

Eating Pot.

Let me just tell you- I didn't know I was in for anything but a snack, but the freezer had other plans. I was cat sitting for a friend and I wanted to eat some food I didn't pay for, so I went to the freezer and saw brownies (my 7th favorite!). I don't smoke pot, in fact I hate it, but you know what they say "heart disease is the leading cause of death among men over the age of 60?" no... the other thing: You are what you hate/ eat. I really didn't know what was to happen to me.

I was a pot brownie... Now I am a tortilla chip.

7 Hours In The Life Of Pot Brownie (an internal dialouge)

Oh boy, it's tough being brownie... kept in the freezer... I can't worry about that now, my head is disconnected from my gooey center and I'm clearly at room temperature. It's like I am a million delicious particles... what was that?! Where am I? I better get off the phone because I don't know what this person is saying "who is this?" oh yeah, hope he doesn't take that wrong... what just flew by me?! Oh- it's a chair... good, it's not moving. wow... wait... what am I holding? "hello?"... "who is this?" I gotta get to the couch. I'll just set my phone in this glass of water. Water is weird... woah, but it's everywhere. I wonder if there is a joke to that. No time now... what time is it? what does '3 o' clock' mean? I better stand up if I'm ever going to walk again [laughs]. I'm not even hungry, maybe I should do some yoga...

ONE HOUR LATER

why can't I eat almond butter and tortilla chips? It's so good... there is nothing else to eat... I've never eaten cat, but it sounds like a lot of work. I don't know if I will ever poop again. Batman makes a good point... What ever happened to women being so stupid in movies? Oh god... I wonder if I overlooked something in the cupboard... tahini? maybe with some maple syrup... oh yeah- I need some more chips.

END SCENE

Seriously, I can't talk about it anymore. It was the worst thing ever. So many of my peers enjoy pot, I tried to enjoy it, but it's a lot like being that one guy in a gang bang who really wishes women respected themselves more. I came up with a lot of useless ideas and ate my own weight in condiments; conversation scared me. I walked 5 miles home at midnight just to give my digestive system the upper hand in it's slow road to recovery. It's still mad at me. I can't believe I dated someone who did this all the time. I have to explain to my friend what I did now... which is not embarrassing... unless she asks me about her freezer burnt Mochi... then, it's pretty embarrassing.

Anyway, here's a video about it:

Bobby Brown Bear Catches Another Tuna

Bobby Brown is getting remarried.

Bobby Brown is getting married and I have gotten 65 accumulative views on my Youtube channel. Bobby Brown has publicly depicted himself as himself and I am afraid people will find my on-line blog.

Bobby Brown should be married... if one person should be married, it should be him. It shouldn't be me, though... I am working too hard on my own thing and marriage, well it would just Bobby Brown everything up. I am going to start referring to all of my exes as "Bobby Brown", because that's my prerogative ... the irony is that they were all white, most of them poor and there was a very constant pussy lineage between them. Apparently my balls are so big there is only room for one pair. If I were to date the actual Bobby Brown, I bet we would just laugh a lot and pick bar fights with young, white women.

ME: Hey Bobby! Look at this bitch, thinking she's all skinny and shit...

BOBBY: She's skinny, like a boy- boys in dresses make me want to slap a bitch.

ME: No, Bobby! One more strike on your record... I'll slap her!

BOBBY: Let's fuck in the bathroom before the cops get here.

ME: Give me a piggy back ride!

END SCENE

So, I am almost positive the next sentence will be relative. I don't like the way that waif-ish girl is lingering at the counter where my coffee boy crush is working. A really hairy man just walked in... I hope he mistakes her for a Koho Salmon and starts attacking her squirmy body. I love my gender-sisters, except when they encroach on my territory... then I get all Bobby Brown on a bitch. Bobby Brown is getting married and I am barely producing a blog. To my defense, I have been creating in a different medium... on my Youtube channel (http://www.youtube.com/user/abbeyjordancomedy). You can get a sneak peak here. I should warm you that I have a lot of imagined repartee and often times people are subjected to my fantasies, unbeknown to them. I don't want to seem all Bobby Brown or anything.

Bobby Brown, getting remarried. Good for them.

Hearts In My Lattes.

This gal is making it a point to go out more... I went salsa dancing last night and didn't do too bad. It was a bit difficult with my boundary issues, assuming everyone who salsa dances is poor doesn't help, either. Poor people make me itch and when money is tight on my end, being inside of me is very uncomfortable... for me, not anyone else, because my boundary issues have made it nearly impossible for me to have anyone on top of me. There is a price to pay to ride this pussy train and it can't be paid in monetary form, not even tokens... it has to be "love".

Let's just say I have lied to myself on more than one occasion (I love fucking!), but despite my faults, I still feel disheartened when it turns out the person on top of me doesn't care about me... which is why I sleep with him one last time, because he needs to know what good feels like and I need to know what love doesn't feel like... that and who knows when I will have sex again?! It's been almost two weeks now and the bonding affects are wearing off from the last person I will probably never talk to again.

I am at a coffee shop where I have had a bit of a flirtation with a fellow I am sure has a drinking problem (he's so dreamy). However, today he was sitting outside (off-duty) and inside was an even HUNKIER bag of tall dark and handsome. There is one similarity: they both leave hearts in my lattes- HEARTS! I don't know where you come from, but where I come from (3rd grade), that is a BIG deal. The only question is: do they want marriage and stuff? How do I present this question?

Ideas:

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice you love me... is there anybody else here you love too?"

[Pointing to latte] "So you love me, that's a lot more than my parents did... do you want to be a parent?"

"If this is going to work, you are going to have to have more ambitions than working here... what's your 5 year plan?"

END

If I decide to take the direct approach, I will use one of those three examples. If I decide to be passive (always a GREAT idea), I could just stand at the counter all day as women come up and order lattes and watch the tops of their drinks. If I see a fucking heart on a drink other than mine... there are a couple of options:

1)
HIM: [handing over latte hearts]
ME: [sighing loudly] Oh yeah, like that will work! If that's what you want buddy, go for it...

2)
HIM: [handing over latte hearts]
ME: [slamming fist] Are you fucking crazy?! There is no way you're getting out of that without an STD... wait, do you have an STD?

3)
HIM: [handing over latte hearts]
ME: [gently looking into his eyes] You are going to mature emotionally, someday and when you do, you will look back at me, at us; you will remember how great I was, how I challenged you and loved you. You will regret throwing it away on this vapid, emaciated girl with herpes. I'm going to go honor myself now.

END

Until I figure out the exact approach I am to take with my future husband(s), I will continue turning down poor people on the bus. My friend and I were dressed up for salsa dancing last night. We were sitting on the back of the bus, minding our own- beautiful business, when two meaty men sat in front of us with a pizza and a 2-liter of generic orange soda. They made no effort to show discretion as they blatantly stared at my breasts, gyrating to the rhythm of poorly maintained roads. It was so uncomfortable, I tried to deter them by tucking my chin, crossing my eyes and loudly saying "I have to go poo poo!". Let's just say if they showed that much determination in school, they wouldn't be so poor right now! I will continue to avoid low-cut shirts as much as possible.

FOR REALS, END.

Knowing How To Live Over Here!

Cynical and Cyclical... so Cymiliar.

I have found that my misplaced optimism has once again left me crying in a pillow... just like childhood. That's not funny... or is it? What if I told you that when my Mom would break me down, she wore floppy shoes and my Dad slipped away on a banana peel? I know, what hacky parents, but not as much as my ex, who clearly is hacking my parents.

I had the worst week, for a decent heart, in as long as I can remember... truly nightmare-ish and I couldn't be happier to be home again. I was in Portland, where everything awful in my life has ever happened. I am back in San Francisco, wavering on view points, grasping for reason. When things get to be too overwhelming, all I can do is exercise, starve myself and/ or watch Sex and the City (I know, typical). I am knuckle deep in season 5 of the meal replacement series, when I catch myself crying at Charlotte's bounding optimism when faced with looking for love. I don't know if I am crying because I know she ends up with a fat, bald man or if it's because I realize that I had so much hope for the person who completely devastated me. "Love knows no bounds," but it should... it really should, because before too long you'll be watching Sex and the City just to see Richard cheat on Samantha again. So you can feel like someone other than you is an idiot for not seeing the signs. At least Richard took care of himself and owned a bunch of hotels. I was practically engaged to a bag of Cheetos before I realized it was getting orange stuff all over my tummy.

That's about all... anything I can create is good. Now I am going to watch one more episode (I hope it's the one Richard fucks up again) before going to sleep.

au revoir

Screws Loose.

This may (or should) come as a big surprise to you, but when I am not telling jokes, I am watching youngsters. I was at speech therapy this week with a special young man in my life (the only... never mind- I will eat a cake if I type more on that). I left to use the restroom and over-heard a woman discuss an accounting issue by stating the following: "Pardon my French, but they keep screwing that up!"

"Pardon my French, but I don't know French."

Is "screwing" a pardon-worthy expression these days? Did she mean it in the context of "Pardon my French, but they keep making romance with their genitalia up there." and that's why she felt it was lewd? How is using the term "screw" something you apologize for when you're talking to another adult... I mean, these women probably watch Sex and the City (instead of their marriages)- I'm sure there is no need to pardon anything so trivial in the 21st century.

I have been in job interviews where the prospective employer asked me what I felt I screwed up most in my last 37 jobs. Mind you, I wasn't applying for residency at John's Hopkins and strip clubs are a bit more lenient with thier vocabulary, but still... screwing is a polite alternative.

EXAMPLES

"They keep fucking off up there."

"It's important to me, I don't want to fag it up."

"There is a cunt loose in that bench."

The expression "screw" is the vernacular equivalant to bio-diesel. On a road littered with old Fords and Chevy's, it's nice to not have to feel bad about being in a hybrid... "I'm sorry, but I get great mileage and produce less emissions than the "F" word." Fuck that, am I right? (Always)

I was clearly upset... almost as upset as when I see mascara ads displaying false eye lashes in leu of actual product results (go screw yourself Lancome- I'm not falling for it!) So I sauntered over to Frühe Congeniality and tore into her... clothes- I ripped them off! Before anyone could stop me, I was pooping all over myself, creating a safe barrier from all my would be oppressors- no one wanted to stop me! I whispered all around her face "I screwed up, I screwed up, I screwed up and there's no excuse."
When taking a stab at social commentary, I like to use a good turd story.

Thank You.

Oh, Alright Cupid... Get In Here!

My dear friend has been going on so many internet dates, I don't have anyone to hang out with anymore. Such thing there isn't a lot we don't share, I started a page on the same site. If I go on dates, I'll just talk about her experiences in life, all while wearing her socks, jacket and back pack... like I don't do or have anything of my own. It's either that or talk about my ex.

My internet dates will ask me about what I like to do and I will say "Rachel speaks Spanish."

Here is the difference between Rachel and I; She is doing things with her life that will help low income people and I want to meet some one who has money. It's not so much that I want to meet someone who has money, as I don't want to do anything for the poor. My ex doesn't have any money and all I've wanted to do are things for him, to help him realize his own potential and feel good about who he is... then he can get it together enough to realize that we would be so happy together in San Francisco. However, my efforts were squandered and now I just end up yelling at homeless people because he isn't around anymore.

HOMELESS GUY: Spare some change, Miss?

ME: [screaming] I can miss you, but I can't change you! [sobs into scarf]

HOMELESS GUY: [to himself] It's a numbers game, Pete.

It's a numbers game... dating and consequently (for me), loving. It's like Scientology invented romance and while everyone else is getting on that space ship of love, I'm locked in limbo with Captain Xenu. So I have decided to surf the international house of hot cakes AKA "OKcupid"....

SIDE RANT:

"OKcupid" is the name of the internet dating site I joined with my friend and I think their ad campaign should go something like this:
"OKcupid- you fix it!"
"OKcupid, what's the deal?!"
"OKcupid, your arrow better be dipped in something fierce, because I have developed a tolerance [the chorus line to Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" plays in background]"
"Oh- Okcupid, like some cherub is going to crawl inside of this shriveling uterus and give me a legacy."

END SCENE.

I created my account, answered some questions and went over to Rachel's a day later. She has been going on so many dates lately, she called in sick (to her date), so she could hang out with her favorite person: sweat pants. I came over too. She and I pulled up our accounts and went shopping (our favorite!), but because we are both pretty broke we went shopping for men (shoes wont put a baby in this barren wasteland 5 years from now). Her quick match brought up all sorts of dark, beautiful men, albiet a bit young for my taste. My quick match brought up HUNDREDS of dorky, ugly men. One guy (ironically, the most attractive of my entire brigade) called himself "Atractus" and when I quipped "more like UNatractus" Rachel and I laughed so hard, we realized we don't need men. Besides I can't ask a date to wax my ass crack and Rachel is more than down (pun?).
The reason she is getting more viable hits than me is because she has beautiful hair and isn't a gold digger. I'm not a gold digger, I'm just not open minded. I think, ultimately, I prefer that kinetic spark of seeing someone in a coffee shop, yoga or through their car window as he speeds by and thinking "what if?". What if I see him again? What if he asks me out? What if he turns around? What if I get mugged in front of him and I end up laying out 3 bad guys while he films it so he can tag me on Facebook later?

Soul Mates.

Fly The Friendly Thighs

This girl went to Denver a few days ago and had a blast. So much of a blast that she only got two hours of sleep before she had to fly back. "That's okay," she thought "I picked out my seat next to the window." However, when it came time to be the one person holding up an entire aircraft of people, she pushed past the exit row demonstrations to row 19 (coach, no chicken bus for this princess) only to find herself seated in a middle aged sandwich. Frontier Airlines asked her to pick her seat out on-line and it didn't matter because they put her somewhere awful.

[end of third person narrating]

I was sitting there, waiting for the minute I could put my tray table in the "I don't have to explain myself to old people" nap position. I realized it was weird to be exhausted for a noon thirty flight and I felt a little trashy. That was, until the gentleman to my right took chivalry to a whole new altitude. He balled up his denim patchwork Carhartt and offered it as a pillow. I politely refused explaining I did not want my face to smell like pastrami and cigarettes. He insisted and I declined to the point I got irritated. I didn't want to lay on his clothes. I really just wanted him to put his meaty arms inside his own jacket so I wouldn't have to feel the red hairs of his functional bulk brushing against my soft skin. He was a little over my arm rest and his distressed jeans were finding analogous position, placing themselves as if we were on a date. His body language set to "rape" and I haven't even had my coffee... ok, I have had my coffee, but I wasn't ready for this. He kept trying to talk to me like I was going to giggle and say "your arm hair tickles, let's go to the potty."... I found a lull (pretty quickly in the middle of his sentence) to put in my ear buds and finally lay my head down on my own god-dammed jacket (thank you) and took a nap.

[she drifts off to St. Vincent]

I am awakened about 15 minutes into my nap with a gruff cough from our favorite rapist in seat 19C. I jump a bit and sit up to orientate myself. With a suggestive pat, he implies I should use the balled up jacket of his, but this time it's in his lap. I don't know how they do it in Minnesota, but here- over where ever we are, men get lynched for less than that (right?). When the same refusing response came from my purdy mouth, I could hear his teeth chip- no doubt fighting the urge to shove my head onto his "pillow".

[alternative ending]

Him: you can lay your head here, in my lap, Miss.

Her: Why thank you, there aren't a lot of men out there willing to let an attractive (relatively) young thing like me get my face anywhere near their lap. This is very big of you.

Him: uh-oh!

Her: What? Did I forget to wear panties under this skirt? [reaches down and feels exposed vagina] Oops!

Him: Oh that, yeah... but you said "big" and that word that awakens Thor.

Her: [vagina excreting unusual amounts of interest] Who's Thor?

etc.

They end up in the potty, fucking over the smell of stale farts and she has never been so satisfied.

The End.

Mostly Stuff That Happened

Okay... I saw a psychic last night. I paid $20 for a reading. Do you know what she told me? That I need to start having more sex. I told her that she should make more money because that's such a wonderful idea! "How do I do it?" I asked. She looked a concentrated look into my energy field and replied "have fun- you're young." I thought it was a little trite, being that she was 16 years old and pregnant, but okay. "Hopefully I don't have too much fun [pointing to her stomach]... What did your mom say?". "She don't OWN ME!" Bitches be trippin', right?

So here I am at a coffee shop "having fun". They have the music on a Beatles station and I have sat through at least 6 songs now... the fun couldn't get more penetrable (grrrrr)! One of my favorite activities is flying, but on an airplane, not with my super powers (I get motion sickness). I like flying on commercial airplanes and packing a little snack to tide me over until I arrive at my destination. I usually steam some broccoli and hard boil some eggs- then, halfway through my flight, open the Tupperware and look around the cabin like "who farted?!". Maybe I do need to get some dick in here to fuck all these unattractive thoughts from my hamster head.

I am sitting in Philz coffee shop, which is a famous local chain in San Francisco. I am at the original one and Phil is just walking around- (doesn't this guy work?!) mingling with the female clientele. He sells his "signature fedoras" and pounds of coffee. He has all sorts of pictures of himself all over the walls. Phil creeps me out. He reminds me of a Rat Villain in a kid's movie. He always looks at me like I should be so excited to see Phil of the coffee dynasty. I feel for his employees and I just wish he'd go home. Does the NFL let their mascots bumble around the field when the team is playing? Phil is in the way. I am sad for his children... not really, but I wish there were somewhere to put this guy!

That's all.

Girls Don't Poop!

My housemate reminded me tonight that girls don't poop. I almost forgot until he told me! How silly of me to be hoping to excrete all this food I'm eating through my anus, I guess it's back to the old purging board! Some women have been known to poop up to every nine months! I ate such a big meal tonight, with my housemate... I had to wait until he went into his room and then... I pooped. I pooped so hard. I felt guilty, knowing it makes me less of a woman. I had an impulse to yell down the hall "I'M POOPING! I'M POOPING!" part of me felt like Scarlett O' Hara... when she found all those carrots and was excited to eat. I was excited too! However, no one can know. Should I give it up for adoption or just throw it in the dumpster? Tell me quick because poop's getting all over my keyboard and is only minutes from becoming self-aware.

I often feel like Ms. O'Hara, but sometimes I feel like Malcolm X- all free at last, free at last... but the kind of "free" that makes me want to change my given name to a new Muslim name. Malcolm X was Martin Luther before he became King of the Panthers. True story, I teach history... or I dated a history teacher, he cheated on me, so I will cheat history. Who wins that battle? Me.

Some people think I am insensitive or racist. I don't know about that. Why, just today I was standing next to a black man on the bus and I didn't vomit or gush blood... I couldn't really have done anything because I was so worried about my purse! You know who is racist? This 2.5 year old boy I help take care of... He calls every black man he sees "Obama". What a little turd! However, we get along pretty well, I call every fat black woman I see "Precious".

There was a lot of poop talk in this one, plus more typical race stuff, then I threw a spin on it with a kid story, but brought it back with fat black ladies. I want you to see what else happened today:

My Yoga Boat Needs A Skipper!

I wish my friend were back from Costa Rica because I have a fancy crush on my yoga instructor… I need her there with me to help me giggle every time he touches me during class. If we giggle uncontrollably, I will seem easy going and he’ll want in on the joke, plus maybe she’ll fart (knowing her) and I can console her as she cries her embarrassment into a child’s pose. I’ll say “shhhh, it’s okay, it’s totally natural… I’m so comfortable with the human body and my body- which is why I can cum like 7 times while boning.” He should hear this (I’ll be shouting) and run over to ask me out.

In an ideal world, a man will ask you out when you shout about orgasms. However, in San Francisco, I’m told the men are notorious for not asking ladies out. I wasn’t aware I moved into a gigantic vulva, but that would explain all the pussy. Fuck. I will tell you this: I’m not pursuing another man- again. I have taken initiative too many times and I was only lucky they were potty trained... There is a story about one guy who wasn’t, but he was also like 3 years old, so I try to be compassionate… also before you go thinking “oh my God, she dated a 3 year-old?!” You should know he was a dog, so he was more like 18 years old. (This last paragraph was mostly parenthetical)

I don’t get why men are intimidated by me… Is it my personality? I mean, I am a powerful woman, but that shouldn’t… is it my looks? What- the 6 inch stilettos? The latex leggings? The high powered- portable fan I wheel in front of me to keep my perfectly coifed do out of my precisely made up face? Can they tell I’m waiting to change them? Better them than me, that’s what I always say (in my head), out loud I talk about letting the change begin within. Oh, if I were only a minority… I don’t know why, other than I wouldn’t seem so racist when I opted to only date my own race. White boys are so dreamy. I digress.

I hope that me talking, earlier, about how my friend farts, isn’t a trespass on our confidentiality, but she (or he) farts sooooo bad. I miss him or her.

Sans Continuity

You might be asking yourself... what happened to your last post? The one where you're having so much fun at the expense of others? Well, I deleted it. There are limits and lines you shouldn't cross, people and if people keep crossing them, well then a wall goes up. I am living in a self-imposed cell block and I don't want any company... sad? sure. I have been forever, but I will try to have some fun with it now.

I was on the bus, lonely and cold... the bus got crowded and a large woman sat next to me. I was irritated for two blocks because I like my space, but after a little while I warmed up against her protesting skin, stretched beyond reason to house the extra helpings of love she didn't receive as a child. I began to care for this woman, where she came from, what happened to her... then she left, just like everyone else in my life and there I was, colder than before. Her seat was filled by some other poor person and I just couldn't bring myself to love again... not so soon.

There is a 400 lb man-boy assuming I will bed him if he keeps flashing me his machismo. So, that's flattering. Say, do you know where my healthy body can get stuffed with chubby cock? What's that? Your dick has love-handles? I didn't know penises got saddle bags- I'm so intrigued- show me!

I'm super attractive, smart, employed, funny and together... where can a girl like me find a broke, swaggering, fat, cigarette-smoking greyhound bus to plow into my perfectly maintained vagina?! No, I'm not mad- I'm a woman, so I am just like this roller coaster of absurdity. I understand some women treat their vagina like they got it at an Enterprise and can just turn it in for another vagina once they run this one into a tree, but I take care of myself. I value my body and I resent so greatly when a man thinks that I should be responsive to his suggestions of us hooking up. You add 220 lbs to the mix and I get pregnant. Get me filled with obese fetus PRONTO! I can't wait... what does a fat man's dick look like? I'm dying [inside] to know!

Right now, I kinda feel like a man... like a happily married man who has an affair... How he has a loving wife and family, but wants to wet his dick on some fresh putang... because I took a shower earlier, but I might take a bath in a few... maybe I'll get my hair wet, but I shouldn't... people will know.

I have been sad about a boy. I have been so sad because he's like a little retard and I hate him, but I don't because I loved him so much once, but now I'm just going to not like him anymore because, he was terrible. He is also a retard and I don't like those people... taking all our jobs. I can say "retard" without being offensive because my brother is an alcoholic.

I told myself I wouldn't be happy about tonight if I didn't write... we'll see if this works.

Euthanarium®*!

Hey kids! Do you want to go to the aquarium? Yeah? How about the Euthanarium®*? Oh, you don't know?
You're so stupid at this age (6).

The Euthanarium®* is where families go to feel safe and see live action! Why should loveable/ aggressive pets be the only things put to sleep? I'm not sure if you know this, but to some people you're one sexy 6-year-old and you would look mighty fine with a wad of underoos in that tiny mouth. What is sexy? Well, it's debatable.

All advertisements aside folks, I found myself telling a mom at the park today that I thought "pedophiles should be euthanized." I didn't know this woman, but somehow that's an appropriate topic of conversation in a liberal city where no one (but me) thinks the death penalty is okay... why didn't I follow it up with a gem like: "... I mean, pedophiles is one thing, but I think it's totally fucked up about abortion! What if that baby is the coming of Christ? Can you imagine?! Some rakish 14-year-old had the nerve to start wearing make up before marriage and seduces her uncle; now she wants salvation vacuumed out of her? What does she need? to make room for her teachers and cousins... [shrugs shoulders] kids today!" The woman was polite, but did not engage me further... that's okay, I wasn't getting paid to impress her ripe-ass anyway.

Why are pedophiles let back on the street with little more than a "tisk- tisk and here's some food/ shelter for awhile"? Does anybody get that this is a disease that spreads like wild fire? I work with kids and it's so scary, I can't even fathom having my own sometimes (especially girls because from about 14-27 they are pretty much worthless). The thing that sucks is that we can't just hang sexual offenders- or make a reality show out of it.

Euthanarium®* is a place pedophiles get sent to fight to the death. It's a 2,000 gallon tank that is slowly filling with water (there's a ceiling on this place people!), but only one can be fished out alive and only after all the others have died at the hands of one another! When we fish the "winner" out, we can try him for murder and seek capitol punishment!
Maybe you're a bleeding-heart-castration-advocate. Castration doesn't make sense because a lot of times they just use their fingers or tongue (maybe something laying around the kitchen). If they're over 25, they're stuck in their ways and if that way is fingering the asshole of a toddler- can't we get creative?! There should be something done. Killing is pretty extreme and despite my stance, I was never molested, but I am pretty sure my ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend was. Which makes no sense, because I am way prettier and she's super boring.

I'm sorry you read this, unless you liked it... and then I would have to agree with you.

*- ® is a lie... I haven't even registered to vote.

The Amazing Space

There is an amazing space in my pants where 200 extra lbs used to reside.

I'm always amazed to see grossly obese people eat in public. When I was 1,200 lbs, I ate alone in my hot tub/ deep fryer (hypothetically). It may seem like an easy target, fat people, but it isn't. I mean, physically, great target because it's hard to miss them, but comically- well, it's been done. I'm not being funny. I am serious. Watching fat people eat cake makes me want to run a flight of stairs and drink only water for the rest of my life.
I saw a girl, who was "Precious"-fat, trying to eat a muffin daintily. She was in a dress and clearly she was trying, but she was huge... like, "why even try?"-huge.
Am I evil for saying that? Sure, but I'm thin.
If I were in public eating a muffin with 200 extra lbs factoring into my decision making process, all bets are off- I would be mooing! I would acknowledge that I were already a spectacle and spare the irony of manners at a restaurant. I would oink all the way to my seat and fart non-stop. Farting is the olfactory equivalent of the optical assault that is: really fat people "enjoying" food. It's like a pedophile enjoying his grandson... he might play nice, because the parents are around, but he's pushing the swing with a throbbing erection tucked into his belt. You can just sense the dysfunction and it's beyond sad- it's hilarious (not the erection- the food thing)! It's so funny because that's why socialized health care is so hard to fathom: diabetes... probably the biggest medical expense in this country, but poor people somehow manage to put down carbs like baked goods were dogs at an animal shelter.

Oh- it was okay before I started with the dogs? I've always liked cats more, but I would eat a cat if it were a lean enough protein.

Which brings me to how I lost all that weight (did you think I would forget to tell you that made up story?). I grew up on a farm in Portland, OR. My mom kept sleeping with the barn animals, which led her to sign me over to the state of Oregon, where I became a ward of the court (then she could have more alone time with horses). Before she turned me loose on a revolving door of foster homes, she would starve me because we didn't have money for food and she needed her smokes. When she would get a check from her Tijuana circus shows, she would stock the kitchen full of processed magic. This happened twice a year and I would always eat until she caught me. She told me I would never be loved and chased me around calling me "Miss Piggy" until I agreed to pee on her face while she ate french toast. I felt conflicted about being told I couldn't be loved and being called swine- because pigs were her favorite lovers. I ended up eating my own feet one day when I was bored and found honey to dip them in. So that just added to calories I wouldn't burn exercising. It took two years, but I became super obese!

Eventually (8 weeks), I lost the weight with experimental drugs and crying. To this day, I can't see a crane without thinking: cement truck and I can't see one of those without thinking: cement. Life is strange. Big is Gross.

Marriage Balls Be Ringing

I see a lot of signs in San Francisco. "Free Wi-Fi" "Cash Only" and a bunch of variegated marriage propaganda.

Come on people, if God wanted a man to marry a man, why would HE make wedding dresses be so pretty?! Further more, if a man were allowed to marry a man- what's to say he won't want to marry a refrigerator or a down comforter?! I mean even I, a straight as starch gal, have found myself questioning my sexuality around a down comforter.
Just the other night, I was all bound and gagged getting stuffed from behind by a man (like God intended) and just as I was about to cum all over his fist and forearm, I looked at the comforter. There was definitely a moment there where I could see us walking down the isle. I shook it off of course, because the thing's all white and no blanket is going to upstage me on MY big day!

I knew this one guy, in grammar school and he was always sucking on penises because his parents said it was okay. When he turned 18 he left his boyfriend of 7 months to elope with a tire iron. No one knows where he even met a tire iron! He had always been drawn to guys who were a bit dangerous, so a tire iron probably felt like the next step. Was he born hard for tools? or was it brought on by the media? He probably ate some bad shellfish and became this evil-faggy-tool-shed-closet-hound. The point is: it's not nice to point or be gay just because you FEEL like it.

My friends are all pretty liberal and I hate that! Do I hate them or their beliefs? I don't know either, but I do know that I hate almost all of their status updates, mostly because they don't "like" mine enough. Also, when we're having conversations they want to talk too, about themselves- how selfish! Even if I'm doing most of the talking, it's about other people so they should just get over it and comment on my status more.

To bring the point home, I don't see what the big deal around marriage is anyway- who cares?! I mean, especially if all you have are tuxedos?! I want to get married, but that's just because I like dressing up, gifts and owning people.

Valentines Day: Funny Because It's True

Oh boy, oh boy! Valentine's Day is upon us again kids, marking the anniversary of when that black doctor had a dream. I don't know about his sleep patterns, but if I were a black doctor (show idea), I would be dreaming about a special boy on Valentines Day. This boy would have a functioning penis, some initiative and enough energy to love me. The last dreamboat I set sail upon was more like a tug boat and it just sputtered out before even leaving the harbor, but somehow managed to cause enough damage to kill every living thing in my heart. That was until yoga the other day when my dream was rekindled by a man's toned, perfect body across from me. He looked at me and smiled, which was weird because he was in downward dog... I guess if I were in downward dog as well and not snapping pictures with my camera phone... it wouldn't be as odd (keep yoga weird, right?). The teacher did prompt us to "yell out all of the joy in our hearts through a silent smile!". Still, I think he was smiling just for me. Just like the Sun that shines just for me.

So anyway, I followed him home and as good as I can tell (after 96 consecutive hours), he doesn't have a girlfriend or a dog... so he might be my soul mate.

Valentine's Day is celebrated differently in other cultures. In the East they celebrate it in the Spring with baskets and colorful eggs. India celebrates nothing because they are so impoverished. I think of India when lamenting boys who couldn't love me and the parents who set those patterns in place. I think what would have happened if I were born in India? I probably would have been made a beggar and later a prostitute. However, as I got older (and more beautiful) a childhood friend would fight the odds to become a Millionaire and buy me away from my abusive drug czar boyfriend and we would all win a bunch of Oscars.

So whatever Valentine's Day means to you remember that India has a dream and so should you, but it should be a better dream, because chances are you have more money.

Celebrity T Shirts: The True Disaster

Kellan Lutz, a freshly minted Calvin Klein model/ "actor" (Twilight), was seen showing his support for Haiti on a tight-fitted shirt this week. Kellan was throwing the ol' pigskin (USA! USA!) with a friend (not pictured) when the papapapapapapaparazzi showed up to exploit Kellan's clothing (made in China).
When asked for a statement his shirt cried "some one get me off this thing and onto a 12 year-old, where I belong!" Apparently Lutz's hunky chest was tearing apart the shirts fibers and terrifying all other clothing in a 5 block radius.

"There hasn't been a case of such apparel cruelty since 2009.5 when Pamela Anderson had her 17th breast Augmentation!" reports Corey Haim (or Feldman).

Corey also pointed out that Jesus invented punctuation and sweet potatoes.

Jesus has inspired Corey to keep his charitable focus on the Oklahoma City Bombing, where we lost so many of "God's true children". He hold vigil nightly (Where Are They Now, anyone?) in anticipation of Christ's return. "He will most likely wear a tuxedo when he rises up, like Garth Brooks at an awards show". However, no clothes were made for Corey's cause due to tragedy shirts not really being trendy before 9-11. When I asked Haim (or Feldman)how he feels about this he explains that he "[doesn't] see what's so special about New York." Feldman (or Haim) instead shows his support with a Oklahoma City Goatee.

Turns out "celebrities" can show their support in a variety of ways. Corey has his OCB goatee; Kellan has a Haiti shirt/ Darfur football and Heidi Montag has her Chicken Pox breasts... "Like five kids died in 9 years because of Chicken Pox [spaces off for a moment]... Where's their T-shirt?! I don't know either, but when I find it- I'm going to stretch it out. Buy my album!"

Kellan's cause has got some tongues wagging or, I guess his own (see pics below). When approached for a comment, Lutz replied "a buh buh buh fah buh duh buh buh." His translator explains "he said 'my tongue looks sexiest out on the left side of my teeth. I hired this Mexican to follow me with a spray bottle so my mouth doesn't dry out." The translator added "I'm Norwegian".

We'll maybe Kellan Lutz isn't hungry for Haiti, but I think we can all agree that silky black haired people all look the same.


Abbey

Darker Humor or Just Sad Abbey

I went to the store tonight to get some fancy foods because my EBT (food stamps) card came in the mail. I shopped thoughtfully for a good 30 minutes bringing $36 worth of groceries to the counter. A line formed behind me. "Look at the delicious cheese she's purchasing!" a middle aged woman explained to her two young children. I smiled "yep, just treating myself to some fine dairy." Two people formed in line behind her, all with eyes on my culinary choices. "Cash or Credit Mam?" the clerk respectfully asked, I was dressed so well... how was he to know. "EBT- actually" I said. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEW!" the two children screamed as their mother sheltered them behind her. To make matters worse, it was "Denied." once, twice, thrice...

The janitors came out jabbing me out of the store with their broom handles. A van drove through a puddle and soaked my humbled body, laying on the ground. Then I was raped by my father and had two children by him, the first one retarded, second one, black. My mom threw pans at my head and before I ever had a boyfriend, I contracted HIV from my father.

Maybe my life doesn't seem so bad because I am white, but I feel black sometimes and I want to say ridiculously loud things on the bus like "SUHMTHIN SMELLS FUUUHNNY!" From there a small Mexican man would shed a little tear, he is smelly and knows it, but he works so hard. Instead, I'm just me, recording things on the bus and looking crazy in a very discreet, Caucasian way.

Did This Catch Your Ears? Did You Look At It?!

I am unable to do a mic tonight because I am committed to two very medium loads of laundry and a movie about piracy... or there's a warning... I don't know, but I'm already at the edge of my seat! I have a joke that I am so excited to tell I am going to make it into a long story. My joke will come out much differently on stage and will be peppered with adorable facial ticks that I am helpless to express (SOMEBODY LOVE ME!), but I think that it will be satisfactory in blog form.

Sharks be eating people. Did this catch your ears? Did you look at it? However, people go into the ocean dressed as seals. Am I correct in making this observation ladies and gentleman? Whenever I see a group of surfers catching a wave I think "those seals have great balance!" and I'm sure sharks and I think very similarly. I guess sharks and I aren't always on the same wavelink, but that's only because there are no underwater phones or networking systems. I doubt sharks ever ask themselves "did he read that e mail? Is he going to respond?" and they're probably a lot quicker to know there are plenty of fish in the sea. Plus there are plenty of seals! I mean, if you count all these people masquerading as them. In all of our scientific discovery we couldn't invent a neon wet suit? What good are shoe laces and hot pants when people are being eaten?! What shark wants to eat a radioactive mammal? Not a Great White, which are the most racist water predators around and definitely not your run of the mill variety either. I don't go into Over Eaters Anonymous meetings dressed as a pulled pork sandwich. Although I did go wearing a Twizzler skirt once and it's a miracle I can walk! Children are miracles, but not if you're poor, then they're probably more like fliers that get handed to you on the street. Garbage. Good band, no fliers. coincidence?

Time to switch my load, not because I want to, but because I need to put quarters into something and I don't have a car.

Oh, real nurture guys!

I can't wait to be a Mom. When I'm a Mom, my jokes will be SO much funnier, plus it's super lonely sleeping on my friend's floor. It would be nice to have a little child to keep me warm. Some one has to love me and dogs are too much responsibility (also, not as many clothes). If I were a Mom tomorrow, I probably wouldn't go to this party tonight, unless my baby were going to be sick (but only if I knew for sure) b/c it would probably just sleep all day anyway and then I could just go somewhere exotic (shhh don't tell child services) after sleeping in.

Anyway, I'm nannying right now for twins and they're sleeping. I have a little over an hour until the parents get home and the mom and I don't wear the same size anything so I thought I would just write a little true story about being a mom tomorrow. I will probably have to steal a baby here because that's not a lot of time to get a boyfriend. I guess I have a fella, but he lives in Louisiana and is already married to his work. He is New Orleans' premier graveyard tour guide. I think his success is based on his wardrobe (he loves capes). His personality is sub par and he's only my boyfriend because his penis hangs all the way down to his knees (calm down ladies, he's like 3 feet tall). He sent me pictures of his penis once. We have never seen each other in person. I broke into this call center a few weeks ago and stole a bunch of leads, he was the most responsive when I was calling around for a boyfriend and we've been together for, well several lifetimes I'm sure. I could ask him to mail his sperm tonight (we're really close) so I can have a baby, but the baby would probably be retarded because my boyfriend is also one of my biological fathers. You see, my Mother was a slutty cat and had all sorts of penises in her furry pussy, so I have at least 7 dads (and nine lives). If I had a child, I would probably accidentally bake it too long, so I should just go to this party tonight instead.

I'm glad that I had time to figure this out. No kids for me, especially if they end up all sexy like I was when I was 3. If I wanted some competition I would join a varsity basketball team.

I Can Say Whatever Because National Geographic Says I Am From Africa

I got a call from my agent today (you know the one- Dr. Everything Be Alright) and she says that I'm huge in Russia! This news cannot come at a better time because I really need to move into an apartment. I have been sleeping on a forensic science nightmare for the last month and the only thing between me and sweet comfort is about $1,400. Surely Russia can help. I mean, look what we did for Haiti in this economy! (I hatey to make it a competition, but...) My back feels like Darfur + 911 + World Trade '93, not to mention (yet) that I can't find a thing to wear with all my stuff in boxes. Where's my telethon George Clooney?!

So in real life I am a stand-up comic, writer, take the trash outer, small talk with stranger specialist and I also work various other unpaid jobs. However, in Russia, I am a famous fashion designer of swim suits and sundresses! My picture is all over their Queen's panties! I guess it makes sense because I am part Czechoslovakian, which is still, today, a beautiful country inside of Russian territory. I think my Mom was like a cat and that I have several different fathers (I also think, as a kitten, she was left in the microwave too long). According to National Geographic I am originally from Africa, which explains my compulsive desire to yell out "MY NIGGA", but this has yet to yield any grant money from my Niggas over at the NAACP.

I recorded a bit, byte, clip for all of my fans in Russia. I did this before I was informed that my swim line isn't selling because it's 10 degrees. Also, on a production front, nothing has been made due to everyone thinking the designs are "ugly and tasteful". When my agent (position available) said I was "huge in Russia", she meant "fat and plain looking". So all I can really do is wait for NAACP to get back to me about my request for $1,400. They could also just be a co-signer for a $50,000 loan, enough to get me through the year. I think within a year I will have made it big, if not for stand-up, definitely for doing the dishes.

Best ______You'll Ever Get.

People ask me what I want in a fella. I mean, these people are paid professionals and under my employ, but they ask (not a lot of boat rocking in this economy). People tell me I should write more and wear more shirts that show my mid rift. I like to own people, it makes me feel skinny. So when describing my dream boat, let's just say I get motion sickness... which is why he better be sedentary. It helps if he's bogged down with salty snacks. Extra weight makes it extra hard for him to run away or feel good about himself (hot tip ladies, you look way better to fat guys). Another big thing is occupation and when I hear "employed" I think "boring"! Jobs are for goal- oriented people and trust me, you can't run a man with ambition. Oh sure, he can want things, just as long as he doesn't pose a threat at advancing in life. I mean, if he advanced what would I look like? No one would ask themselves "what does she see in him?" and with out that question how could I maintain the benevolent notoriety that is so crucial for any woman to be considered truly beautiful? The best part of this paragraph is when I talk about employing people.

sigh.

I was getting frozen yogurt tonight and the young man working the sweet shop informed me that they only have one size. I asked for him to fill it at three quarters (can't live in stretch pants). As I asked this a tall, thin, female worker walked by, heard my request and rolled her eyes. I immediately jumped behind the counter, shoved her frail head into a tub of ice cream and screamed "I'M SORRY! DOES MY PORTION CONTROL BOTHER YOU?". She wriggled, but her vapid body collapsed under my strong arms (thanks Yoga!). To my defense I was only trying to freeze her sassy eye balls out of her emaciated face when, suddenly, I was snapped out of my lucid daydreaming to the male worker saying "...that will be $4.50, not a lot when you consider we serve our yogurt with love!". I slowly backed out the door yelling "YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT LOVE! NOT YOU, NOT MY FATHER, NOT THE BANK THAT DENIED MY LOAN..." and with that I walked out feeling pretty good, but then I went back to fetch my purse off the counter. I ended up leaving with my head held high. I didn't eat that frozen treat after all and this means I'm going to be all the thinner when I see my sweet fella in just a couple weeks. He's been "looking" for a job and smoking lots of pot (who loves snacks?), so I'm sure to be pretty physically appealing. Turns out the Secret isn't a bunch of bull-shit after all. Thanks Oprah!

2 Dollars?!

"What do you mean this coffee is 2 dollars?!" she screams at the barista before throwing the hot beverage all over his face. He wriggles in pain, blinded permanently. She laughs "hey buddy, I'm just kidding. What do you take me for- some poor person?" She leaves without tipping, knowing that the energy she put into the exchange was way better than a dollar, besides she's broke.

I enjoy awkward interactions, so I usually engage a cashier in some conversation like "isn't this place the place to be?" or I just make a dorky observation about the pastry case "Sure looks good, probably filled with rat poop... you don't have to tell me, I'm hip" [winks]. I am either a ham or dead-pan, but people rarely know what to say back- so I win! I am the champion of Talking the Most! My friend says it's uncomfortable for her when we go places where I talk to people. My friend tells me I should try not saying anything or I should be "normal", let the people do their job (she actually pleaded with me). Now, we go somewhere and there is a "normal" interaction highlighted by me punctuating every "normal" exchange by looking at her and smiling. You're probably stupid, so I wrote a script:

CASHIER: What will you have?

ME: An 8 ounce latte, please [turns smiling face toward her friend]

CASHIER: That will be $2.45.

ME: No problem, here you go. [hands over exact change while slowly turning head to her friend, smiling]

end scene

I think I do this to emphasize my effort to appease her; To let her know I value her comfort and to showcase my willingness to compromise. Ironically, it's probably more uncomfortable the new way! I like to embarrass myself. I think that it is to relieve my own tendency to take myself too seriously, but a psycho-therapist might say something else.

PSYCHOTHERAPIST: That will be $110

end

What Do You Mean these Eggs Aren't Satanic?!

True story. I mean, true as true can be. I cannot see an Asian walking a dog without thinking "enjoy being soup- dog!". Does that make me a racist or a dog hater? I don't know, but I have always been a cat person. It's not just Asians, it's anyone with black, silky hair- they all look the same to me!

I lived on a dead end street from the age of 5-10 and there were a lot of dirty, poor, white kids in my same age group. We would shit in each others lawns, spit in a cup, make my little brother drink it and harass the old Chinese (or Mexican) man who lived across the street from my house. Was it that we were "racist" or "animal- lovers"? Clearly, with an old menace like that renting the garage of Clint's house, all of the four-legged pets in the neighborhood ran the risk of being turned into a burrito. How did we know that? Let's just say someone's dad liked Hamm's beer so much- he had a life sized statue of a fun-loving-beer guzzling bear in the family room and then after I say that, let me add that I still don't know how that relates to the cat myth. However, deviled eggs are fun!

The thing about the cats in our neighborhood, is they were all related and screwing so they were in-bred, worthless and probably deserved to be made into some sort of ethnic dish anyway, but hindsight doesn't feed a slew of poor kids. Nothing does. There are tons of stray cats and dogs in areas amassed in poverty, so why did Tu-Pac's Mom have to make "miracles every Thanksgiving"? You don't have to be David Blaine to understand the magic of resourcefulness. That's what happens in a welfare state: a false sense of entitlement to beef.

I miss my childhood, I really do- seriously, I blacked most of it out. That Italian across the street though, will always be a gook in my eyes and now I see him in the hair of every pet owner passing by as I think too myself: phở.

If Beef Were Funny, Cows Would Be Sacred.

I live in San Francisco, which makes me a better person than other people. I was born and raised all over Portland, OR and as a native Oregonian, I am making sure to never move back. I think that people who really love Portland hate the sun and black people, because both are myths in that city. Oh sure, it's "cool", with all of the $3 movie theaters that serve beer and popcorn with nutritional yeast, but that's the problem- I guess. Portland residents tend to think they are in the most progressive, inventive and artsy city around. You know what? Public transportation there isn't even as cool as Portland thinks it is and it's pretty easy to feel "progressive" without a ghetto. Seriously, I was never afraid I would get raped in that city- how fucked up is that?! Pabst is somehow the poster beer for Portland (unless it's not anymore). Why does every city pride itself on drinking the most? Why is cheap beer so cool, Portland? It's not- it's cheap beer. Accomplishment is pretty neat though, so enjoy being drunk and downloading ambient pop.

In San Francisco, I sleep on my friend's floor. She wants to move back to Portland. She has a beautiful voice, great hair and a job, so Portland needs her (plus she's white) and I have a hard time relating. Her family is there, but so is mine. Hey, I have a family too... I have like 5 families I don't talk to- thank you very much State of Oregon. Yeah, ward of the court... since I was 10. It's amazing I can write, let alone form sentences.

I think that because I grew up with a _____ childhood, I am more entitled to success. However, just as I lacked parents, I lack motivation. Oh- sure, I had parents- lots of them, but guess who parented who (how does one punctuate that?). Meanwhile there are a million boring people brought up organized and disciplined, geared to shape the ideas of this nation. Then there are a million other people ruining the lives and chances of their children. That means there are two million people (children obviously don't count as people until they can vote). Two million people and over half of them are rich, however the poorer half are fatter... who can explain that? A: not even God, mainly because the question is formed in English and God only speaks Mayan (studied Latin in youth, but totally lost it by now).

It's raining and that makes me a bad person. I really don't know how I am going to make this a funny blog. I don't know what will come of my writing... I generally write in journal format, however, I want to be funny or pretty... the end.