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
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
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.
"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.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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.
[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.
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