Cat in the dark.

William Fitzsimmons: So This Is Goodbye (Pink Ganter Remix)

William Fitzsimmons - So This Is Goodbye (Pink Ganter Remix): "William Fitzsimmons - So This Is Goodbye (Pink Ganter Remix)"


An insert I put together yesterday: 3" x 3" and placed inside with the invite, which was white with black script lettering.

fuck you, friday.

Things I say Fuck You to, on Friday.
Get it.
Fuck You:
1. BP, for being money grubbing, animal hating, environmental thrashing fucktards. PLUG THE FUCKING HOLES!
2. George W. Bush, who I will continue to blame everything on, pretty much, for the rest of my life, Fuck You Again and for the rest of time.
3. FOX News, for always getting it wrong, never bothering to think, employing racist, evangelical, narcissistic nationalists who shout Socialism while being total Fascists, [thousand other reasons I will need to dedicate an entire day to compiling], and for tainting the names of two things I love: Foxes. and News.
4. Sex and the City, for souring female identity into some halfwit fashion focused, man chasing, money hungry, boozing idiot sorority. Now with kid/nanny expansion pack.
5. Mexico. Stop kidnapping and chopping peoples heads off. Fuckin' hell it's creepy.
6. Our Government, for continuing the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan when the money could be used to fund education and healthcare.
7. The Senate, whose corporate dick sucking rivals Linda Lovelace.
8. Sarah Palin, for breathing my air.
9. Uganda, Iran, Israel, Jamaica, The United States, Pakistan, North Korea, Japan, China, FUCK IT - ALL OF YOU(!), for not trying harder to get along with each other!!!!
10. Texas, who is trying hard to rewrite history, ignore science, and I am sure next year somehow fuck up addition and subtraction because you might as well round it all out with Math (which is probably useless when you have god anyway).
11. The Food and Healthcare Industries, for charging people to be fixed after slowly poisoning the population with processed food stuff, pesticides, hormones, and deplorable meat raising/packing practices.
12. Flies. For just being flies.
13. And last but not least, Fuck You VW, for selling me a plastic toy car, thats disintegrating with only 52,000 miles on it.


Also, reasons #65 and #49 why I hate being a Graphic Designer.

If I did develop Cancer (or a mild form of Aquarius), I would definitely see my Chiropractor. They are Pray-Ers (defined as: Those who Pray). Recently, when I was down down down on my health (Constitution - 78, Hit Points: Low and I am a two day walk from the village, there are lycanthropes and trolls in the area - WTF CAN A ROGUE REALLY DO?!!) and procrastinating more heavily than usual, I called them up to cancel yet another rescheduled appointment, whereas they were to give me Graphic Design work and whereas I was to do it for them in trade for a straightened spine and orgasmic neck cracking.
I wasn't THAT sick. I just didn't want to work. But damn did I sound sick on the phone. The Oscars shunned me but the Chiropractors office bought a ticket to the show, ordered a big fat tub of popcorn and even splurged for a box of candy.
They - get this - PRAYED for me, over the phone, for my (fake) deathbed sickness.
I - get this - ACCEPTED said healing prayer, over the phone, whilst searching the internet for free porn.

Sweltering little ginger minx cushion, WTF are you talking about.

Do not judge me. I know where I am going, on the back of a 1,000 Harpies, I am told.
Besides, my team of lawyers will pounce upon you. And when they pull me on the stand and ask me to put on the gloves to see if they fit: Oh, you will acquit. You will acquit.

Confession time redux.
I have developed an unhealthy relationship with Cheetos. Our vending machine at work carries them and I am continually draining it of such whilst the rest of the fried/high fat/heart attack fare goes pretty much untouched. After finishing off the entire row (not in one day mind you, I am not that sick yet) this past week and upon walking into the break room this morning, to my very lovely surprise, I found that the vending machine fairy dropped by and replaced all the Cheetos bags. I actually debated dumping the entire lot of quarters I was recently "given" and cashing out in Cheetos (Thank you Client X for paying me for design work in quarters - WTF!?).

They call me Squirrel Gurl (nobody calls you that).

breaking the rules. nightly.


Vampire Weekend - Everywhere (Cover)

I hate covers. But damn. This is good.

4AM Eternal, KLF :: The time is wrong, Bob.

What the hell was I thinking. The Girl Who Played with Fire was such a good book, I decided somewhere between 9 and 10pm last night, fuck it, I was going to finish.
This morning I can report three things:
1. The book was damn good. I mean, damn, damn good.
2. Hindsight, staying awake until 4AM might have been... I dunno. Foolish comes to mind right now. Also, bananas but cut me a break, I am smelling piña coladas.
3. I hope the snakes I am seeing all over the floor are on account of exhaustion, because I am not about to get all Indiana Jones up in here.

Not sure a caffeine IV is going to suffice today. I need espresso bullets fired on the quarter hour straight into my skull.
According to my calculated sleep schedule, I can go to sleep on any even number and be ok, its the odd numbers that throw everything off.
Of course I say this knowing that 2PM is going to barrel down like a freight train, on a broken track, being driven by The Jackal from Thir13en Ghosts.

Snakes on a Printer, starring Samuela el. Fraction.

This morning I can report a few more things.
Boxing is extremely useful, sign me up.
Smile in your passport photo. You never know.
Armenian's are always awesome, no matter what your assumption.
Prostitution is not all its cracked up to be, study hard in school, kiddies.
Sweden, though they may have fish and the coolest chef on The Muppets, may be silently crazier than I had previously assumed. Back to the drawing board.
Crime DOES pay but fucking hell is the Luxury Tax a pain in the ass and if you ever land on Boardwalk or Park Place, you can kiss your sweet ass goodbye, straight to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
Always call for backup, geez. It's like they have never made a single movie where NOT doing so yielded positive results. Idiots.
I would love to bare my teeth and swish my tail back and forth in the dust while crouched over some vile manner of prey.
Girls just wanna have fun. That's all they really want. Some fun.

SSSSSSSssssss. sssssssssssss. ssssssssssss.


Evan Voytas: Sad, Like Hearts Can Be

soooooooooo pretty.

Evan Voytas - Sad, Like Hearts Can Be by WILD TONIC

I smell one too, Jack White.

I can't believe I am coherent enough to write anything other than HELP

Before the weekend kicked off, the man-slave (I get to be Spartacus this time, get the Whip!) and I made it down the The Enzian to catch The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo - still showing. It wasn't nearly as good as the book and the ending should have been about 30 minutes shorter so as not to confuse the audience with needless information (if you are going to gloss over something, just. don't. add it.). I have been reading The Girl Who Played with Fire, which is the follow up and second book of the threesome (which sounds way hotter than Trilogy, come on). It's fantastic, by the way. I had not realized how long it had been since fiction had crossed my eyes; the deviation from my usual 'learn and burn' a much appreciated suggestion.

The Snap! Orlando International Photography event on Saturday night was sort of a let down. The workshops were barely explained, in most cases two words maximum - could they have not planned some events around actual shooting? Right. Photography event, I know that might have been a stretch, guys.
The art was good enough, there just wasn't enough of it; some was borrowed from a local gallery, where I had already seen at least 3 of the artists work previous, something new would have been... stellar. I would have thought including the world might have brought more than a few rooms of photos but apparently I was mistaken, should have listened to Walt Disney.
The South Beach room with White Couch, hipstertrash and DJ, could have been less corporate-y. It would be nice for people to sponsor things without flashing lights and clowns. Sorry, don't give a shit about your mini projector and Sponge Bob movie, I came for to see the photos.
It was fun mingling with the pretentious, overly jewelryed people in Orlando, if only for the hour or so it took us to saunter through. Confirmation that when I show large, I will have to be in head to toe black, sunglasses, looking completely unapproachable. Also, wearing a large sticker ala Chiquita banana or something.

I took my house back this Sunday nursing a Cosmo headache with beer and chanting under my breath for that baby cat to drop dead (I hate that baby cat). The construction is finally over. We now have an additional bedroom and the living room no longer has a futon in it (or a kid). My life is not pleasurable until the smell of bleach knocks me into HazySlurLand, oh sainted cleansers; you are calling my name and pleading for Round 2. I know. Totally wet, just like me, we'll mop this up together in a heap of sighs.

Found: Bastards.


Douglas Kirkland exhibit - Snap! Orlando

In Tow


Kid A: I don't understand why guys like bisexual girls so much; I don't get it.

Me: It's because girls are much prettier to look at than guys.

Kid A: Yea. But half the girls that claim to be bi are only saying they are because they know guys like it. It's retarded. They're just bi-posers.



you can bet your ass (or burro) I am.

it's healthy to be remorseful

Thee Oh Sees - I Was Denied


People ask the question... what's a RocknRolla? And I tell 'em - it's not about drums, drugs, and hospital drips, oh no. There's more there than that, my friend. We all like a bit of the good life - some the money, some the drugs, other the sex game, the glamour, or the fame. But a RocknRolla, oh, he's different. Why? Because a real RocknRolla wants the fucking lot. Archie - RocknRolla

Mountain lions are totally pro choice.

Responsibility. Blag.
Dishes. Blag.
Laundry. Blag.
I hate doing what I have to do and often procrastinate wildly in protest. I figure that I could get ten times as much done, if I was relied on to do nothing at all (which would basically even out to be the amount I do now, if you think about it carefully, but this way I would feel way more superior and isn't thats what life should be, making tiara time a permanent fixture of being). The less you expect from me the greater the chance I will not only exceed your expectations (given) but blow them out of the water with a bazooka because I have a secret infatuation with Superwoman and would love nothing more than to overachieve all over your face.
Its the handcuff bracelets. Oh, yea. And the tits.

Now that the byproducts are old enough and skilled enough to cook for themselves, I do take up the periodic kitchen boycott. If I were a mountain lion (stay with me here) I would be done by now. They'd learned how to eat by themselves, procure and process their own food, build their own sleeping arrangements, my time as their mother would be complete. No need to thank me on some overly righteous holiday created by a bunch of Sky God worshippers with an Oedipal complex exploited by a card company who makes shitty, overly dramatic, safe, moral (fist-pumping) and UNREALISTIC movies that, yes, once brought tears to my eyes when I was Mrs. Crochet You An Ornament for Christmas but that time IS LONG FUCKING GONE (I was faking any way)!!! ROAR! Time to fuck more mountain lions and birth more of you fluffy/fangy little buggers!
That's my job. It's what I do.
(Backs that ass up)
Either all my friends are total wussies or no one takes me seriously. I have given those around me permission to clobber me with bricks for violating specific sets of rules and to date, no one has yet to throw a brick in my face. Geez, no one has even attempted to wound me by taking out a foot temporarily. I bet if I had fucked the President, gotten caught (but I wouldn't have gotten caught), and gone through public humiliation the size of the Titanic one of you people would have hit me with a brick as I attempted to fuck the very next President (because I would have tried to fuck the next President, I cross party lines ALL THE TIME).
This is my bet but as the rule of my Universe goes, I never win bets.
Pay attention. I am serious now.
So here it is. Again. I am allowing personal violence to wash over me, without ramifications, if necessary, choose your weapon wisely.
If you ever. Ever. Ever ever ever ever hear me say something to the effect of "I would like to have another baby" consider my body inhabited by demons or space aliens. Grab a knife and go Jack the Ripper. Grab a bat and go Babe Ruth. Grab a set of dentures and go Manhunter. No babies shall ever inhabit this uterus henceforth, nor shall that sort of talk ever be tolerated under my roof (to include the roof of my car, or any one else's roof, or any temporary roof I might be under, like if I decided to hang out with some homeless people downtown in a box, then yes, that applies there as well).
Babies, totally unnecessary, pour moi. I could just be a middle aged mountain lion that struts about the prairie practicing safe mountain lion sex. Or, I could start fucking zebras: Option 2.

I remember when I was a kid and my parents would say "Not in THIS HOUSE!!" and I would think, cool, 'cause I am totally doing that shit in the yard 5 minutes after you stop roaring at me.

Work. Blag.


Found: Lunch


Seeking Full Time Employment, Greater Orlando Area
Salary: starting $50,000.00 a year + benefits (i.e. Medical, Dental, 401K, popsicles, slurpees, sushi)
Job Title: Director of Distraction

While you attempt daily normal work place routine (meetings, phone calls, appointments), I shall provide endless reasons and opportunities to not work.

Hours available:
Monday through Friday. 9am - 5pm.

Varied interests include Astrophysics - cooking Zeppoles. Addiction to Non-fiction provides endless amount of new exploration possibilities.
Bi Polar Disorder makes for an ever changing, unreliable environment where one might be crawling through windows impersonating cat burglars or hiding in a darkened room watching black and white movies.
Animal imitation skills, perfected. To include dinosaurs and aquatic mammals.
Pathological. Excessive. Insubordinate.
Knows more than 20 secret hand shakes (some to include rhymes, songs and games).
Ability to procure wide variety of free music and porn online without risking network to computer viruses.
History of risk taking and bad judgement ensure you could pretty much talk me into doing just about anything that did not involve a large dildo (unless inside a House of Worship).
Total lack of respect for authority or rules.
Can write a Haiku in 10 minutes or less.
Puzzles and riddles galore.
Storyteller, manipulator, very good liar, and innocent smile equal = Infinite get out of jail free cards.
Infectious laugh.

Available Upon Request.


The sky is not falling. Only stars.

The only person who can solve my problems, well that's me. It's the only person I count on to do so too. I know me. I know me well. For you to solve my issue, you would need to know me. This could take, 50+ years and I am only 34. Come on. This problem needs to be resolved inside of my lifetime because more are on their way. It's a matter of logic.
But see, I got this. It's one of repetition, one I know the root of; a ride that begins high and ends low, so rather than scream my head off during, giving all the other passengers needless heart attacks, I'll just grit my teeth, growl and white knuckle the safety bar.

I know I am quiet, withdrawn, wandering, day dreaming, staring at white walls sometimes. Nonsensical half sentences, from the middle of inaudible thoughts, broken by laughter or tears, which never belong. Precision questions from a confused origin, uttered not for their answers but only to continue the processing along silk threads barely holding webs of unbalanced explanations together. Out of nowhere, no visible rhyme or reason, moods switching so quickly paying attention might have given one whiplash.
I know.
People don't get fixed they just figure out how to rearrange the puzzle pieces to suit the moment, the issue, the problem, the path. When I am thinking, when I have something to figure out, that's all I am doing. Rearranging.
I am not deluded in thinking one day I will be ok, as though there is some magical elixir to stumble upon, or a sequence of numbers I must know to unlock all the secret solutions to the problems every one but me has. No. No one is ok. We are all a bunch of fucked up, punked out souls, each with their own invisible scars, some deeper than others. Maybe it is easy for some one to deal with theirs. Maybe some people have it harder. I don't care, it's NMFP: Not of My Fucking Problem. I can't help them; they can't help me. We are all Even Stevens.
There will always be voices that whisper but they get softer with time, experience and contemplation. And though it will never go away, one day, the taunting won't matter as much. A deafening; pillows shoved against the wall insulating the outside (and inside) world. A better realization of events one can smile and stick their middle finger up at. I have no reason to think otherwise and am happy to understand the process.
I've been at this a long time, baby. This track, it's well worn.

Ignore me. Let me pace the floors, scrub the kitchen floor, rearrange the living room at 3am, lay quietly staring at the ceiling, paint a picture half drunk on wine.
Love me. Make peace with not understanding. All anyone needs to know is the pattern and then like crystal, it's clear.
It always ends, everything, always ends.

Then we can smile and laugh again about how the stars fell and not the sky.


Bug and Bunny

Coffee, today you are just NOT doing your job proper.

Today is my last tattoo day before summer; so excited I could pee my pants.
"You ain't cool unless you pee your pants."

Never let it be said that mania didn't work to ones benefit at certain points. I got so much accomplished yesterday, it was like I had a clone running around town whipping horses, sheering sheep and churning butter. Move over Billy Bob, I'm gonna land these planes while I finish the Chicago Tribune Crossword puzzle.
34 Down: Seven Letters: Garden Hose Golf Ball Retrieval Method

Who the fuck names a song Mayonnaise? Oh, right. Billy Corgan. Neveryoumind. Mayonnaise is the most awesome-ist name of a song ever created. Rock on.

It is strange how one comes to the conclusion that certain things must be abandoned. “Hi kittens that are a day old. I am not sure what to do with you, but something is telling me ‘trash can’ sounds like an awesome idea.”
It is also my understanding some people think its also OK to throw kittens out of their cars while on the highway, you low IQ fucks. That's a kitten. I need to point this out?
I hate people. I seriously just hate people. If you are people, I am sure I can find some reason to hate on you but come on, at least make it challenging for me. Kittens? Really?

Hope you weren’t expecting some brand of strawberry coated, cream filled, chocolate confectionary epiphany. I got nuthin’, carp.
Not even a fucking coconut-flavored jellybean.


But you knew that, Uncle, didn't you.



Today is Fail.

They should build a wall between Mexico and the US with Legos. Hire a whole bunch of super cool Lego artisans and have them create dragons and turtles holding up a “Stay Out All Bad Mexicans!” and "Legal = Love!" signs facing our southerly neighbor. I have these weird dreams where I am standing at the lego wall looking up wondering what’s on the other side, while some Mexican girl is standing on the other side looking up wondering what’s on the other side too. And then we both wonder why there's a wall there at all. And then we send text messages to each other on our cell phones about how The Cult’s lyrics tend to be quite minimal but the music really fucking rocks out.

Mexicans. I love you.
Mexico. You are seriously fucking freaking me out. Stop kidnapping people, geez with the heads already.

I saw this incredible band Dead Bolt last night. From afar because I was under the weather and no one likes puking club girl, even less when she is sober and not bothering to drunkenly flash her tits. (What?) I wish I had felt better but it was still badass squared; a Tarantino movie meets cheesy lounge act meets PBR. Somewhere in there I also imagine a small white bunny hopping, but that could be my own projection. Yea. Probably my own projection.

This morning I am way too freaked out to eat. So I am going to wait until near passing out. Or noon. Yesterday I also attended an annual Mother/Daughter brunch with The Cult, my mother's social sorority (What?). Every year, for the last nine, around Mother's Day, we ascend upon some new restaurant, we eat, my sister and I drink mimosas, we exchange gifts, we celebrate having a mother, or being a mother, or all that mother means... I don't know. I think my sister and I just go to drink mimosas. Ok, maybe I just go to drink mimosas.
They poisoned me with bacon at the brunch which is just cruel because I am not going to want to eat bacon for awhile I assume, and bacon is fucking good. Pork chops is good too. (What?)
Say what one more time.

Last night I also dreamt (a repeat, actually, this is the second time) I was withholding information from the authorities about a tattooed serial killer who is my very good friend. It's been a long assumption of mine I am going to wind up someone's prison bitch on account of my own negligence, never you mind actual "crime"; my luck, it ain't gonna be Wendy O. Williams. Suck.

I have no coffee and itunes is playing Indian drum music I didn't know I owned.
Excuse the dust and paint smell. My head is building rooms faster than Rose Red. Oh no. Those stairs don’t go ANYWHERE.
Not sure what I am doing. Lost. No Map. Blindfolded. Kicked down the stairs at night, no cane. Where is Gollum?
We all will make it to the black gates together.
You and I.
Me and You.
And then I will throw you into the mountain because I REALLY like shiny things.

What’s the Spanish phrase for “Fuck me with a tire iron”?

Found: Missing.

Pear and Pomegranate: Still Paranoid.



I feel like Im Han Solo, and youre Chewie, and shes Ben Kenobi, and were in that fucked-up bar.

Ugh. I hate when I am the recipient of "I told you so" but, he told me so. The nightmarish landscape of my overstimulated brain kept me up late thinking about prickly things and also fire. Let is be said right here, right now, if you have to kill it, best you kill it with fire. Always. I insisted on watching the movie Splinter last night, about some parasite that attaches itself to living things and then proceeds to kill shit, look creepy, NOT celebrate holidays. My fiance does not appreciate my fascination with horror flicks BUT PAY THAT NO MIND, I still watch the fuck out of them because, secretly, I know he loves to be scared as much as me. Ok. Secretly I do not know this, but I have my suspicions. Actually, I suspect he truly does hate them BUT ITS FUCKING TIARA TIME AND I WANTED TO SEE SOME BLOOD AND GUTS FLYING ABOUT, MATE!!!
I just wanted to see some blood and guts flying about, mate
So any ways, Splinter sucked. Basic basic basic plot run down: Scary bloody thing, unrelated hostage situation, a gas station, scary bloody thing traps everyone in the gas station, blood and guts, everyone is friends, fire, BOOM.
It wouldn't have been so bad had the ending not fizzled out like 2 week flat soda pop. Not recommended. The movie, that is; flat soda, on the other hand, is très magnifique!

In addition to random nocturnal musings involving creatures that crack my bones, I was also convinced I was not waking up in the morning on account of heart seizure. It sounds more dramatic than I actually (day) dreamt it happening though, as I assumed my parasympathetic nervous system was gonna just malfunction. Stop working. Fuck the dog. Give up. Surrender. Cash in. This paranoia caused me to stare at the ceiling willing my heart to pump, pretty much all night long. I can report, with a sleepy smile, all is well this morning. I woke up. I exist. Still. Yay.

It is fun being overly paranoid. Fun for the whole family, in fact. I am sure the significant other revels in promises he must keep hours and days after my death. The rituals that must take place, the things that must be burned and destroyed, the items that must be hidden (scavenger hunt FTW!). I just hope that the mailman learns to avoid my booby traps and the neighbors are comfortable with my nocturnal activities.
Lots of people dig underground hideouts in their backyards at 3am, right?


I totally need a flame thrower.


mellooooooooooow yellow

Show and Tell

My computer has been in the shop for almost a week, back after both fans having been replaced. Seems I might use it a lot or something.
Today, I have little focus for creative writing. Or working. Or Chemical Warfare.


I got a new tattoo last weekend at the Tried and True Tattoo Convention. Maneki Neko. Luf, luf, luf. Upper left thigh, near my stars. One more next week (a bunny and bug with heart) and that's it for before summer. I miss the pool and sun. SUN!

My wedding plans have not changed in 2 weeks. You should be so proud.

Construction in the house has almost ended; daily "For the love of all things holy when is this fucking work going to be done" freak outs: ON THE RISE.

Sunday is my yearly Mothers Day Event with the cult (my mother's social sorority). Bring on the Mimosa's.

Three weeks of no smoking as of Tuesday and although I miss the sweet, sweet smoke filling my lungs, it's getting easier to remember in those moments of weakness why I decided to quit.

Working out is still hit and miss but I am confident the fiance and I will figure it out. Construction has had a ripple effect on everything. We are, at least, still trying.

Our move to eating healthier (no processed foods, buying bulk/local, organic and eco-consciously) has been fun. I bought several books on gardening (Good Bug Bad Bug, Vegetable Gardening in Florida and Carrots love Tomatoes) , we have researched several stores and have come up with a transitional game plan. We signed up for Orlando Organics and had our first produce delivery last week, which I was none too happy about, as most of the food came from Mexico - unacceptable - I would rather travel to Plant City to purchase local produce BUT we are going to go ahead and see what happens on our next delivery before canceling the account. My expectations are pretty low.

My palms, which have a simian line, have been a rather unusual daily focus since finding a Facebook group devoted to others with the same feature. Previously I have run into no one who has the line, so reading others thoughts and research on the matter has caught my attention. You know, until something shinier comes along.


Downtown Pour
Gonna, gonna, gonna, go.

Half Off Depot
Have been using it for a year now - events, restaurants and services.

The House of the Devil (2009)
New horror - 80's style.

Music Track.
Gold Panda
Pretty much you absolutely understand why.

got me one.

Found: I want you too.


Orlando Organics Delivery

Dear Local VW Sales Department

Thank you very much for email blasting me useless offers for brand new cars at enormously discounted rates. Actually, there is not a day that goes by that I do not pray for a lightning strike, a flood, a meteor from the sky to wipe my VW Bug off the planet. I hate it more than roaches, Satan, alligators, sharks, cancer, AIDS, tacks and my elementary school bully all rolled into one. Yup. I have never hated anything more.
So no. No I would not like to take advantage of the fabulous limited time offers counteracted by your inflated prices for sub par plastic cars that fall apart at the seams before they accumulate 60,000 miles.
I hope to buy a bike and start riding that to work because to watch this vehicle disintegrate (which I can only assume will happen considering its rate of deterioration thus far) in my driveway, without another single mile being put on it, THAT, sir, would please me more than the newest new car you could ever hope to sell me.

Best Regards,
The Wood Rabbit

Seventeen things I could do with chopsticks, if I had some chopsticks.

1. Put my hair up.
2. Eat some food.
3. Defend myself from rapists and murderers.
4. Play a reasonably volumed drum solo in the library.
5. Start a tiny fire.
6. Construct a sling shot in order to slay giants.
7. Teach monkeys 2-6, write a paper, become published in a Scientific Journal.
8. Set the tip on fire, blow it out, use the char to write a letter to my Congressman.
9. Poke you. (Not hard; for giggles).
10. Fly some tiny pirate flag on some tiny pirate ship.
11. Very short game of pick up sticks.
12. Push elevator buttons, ring doorbells, and operate ATMS all the while ensuring I do not catch diseases from contact with surfaces other herpetitus-canceraidacious-hepalupus-streplacockus infected individuals touch.
13. Write messages in the sand.
14. Scratch an itch (just not your itch, sorry).
15. Pop some bitches bike tire.
16. Pop some punks balloon.
17. Pop some other shit that needs popping, including "Popping Off", just with more flair (WHOOOOOO!!).

Give it up for Sexual Chocolate, ladies and gentlemen, Sexual Chocolate.


France: no longer pro-war.

Two things that do not go together.
May 5th - Happy Cinco De Mayo - Let's Drink and Celebrate!!!

I'm sorry.
What are we celebrating again?
Thats right. Half price drinks.

I cannot imagine living in Arizona, being of Mexican origin, or even Spanish, Dominican, Latin, or any number of ethnicities that fall into the category you kinda look Mexican. You are a resident - legally - Born and Raised American (YAHOO!) and because of some law thought up by a bunch of people who most likely do not look remotely Mexican, the possibility exists you are either repeatedly stopped to prove Amerikan Authenticity or worried about being stopped (stress is a leading killer of people in the United States) which is a nuisance and waste of public funds.
"You look Mexican", employed by the same types of cops who uttered to my friends "You looked like the suspects".
Suspects: Four African American males in a Black Jeep Cherokee. My Friends: Three Caucasian males in a Gray Ford Mustang.
Remember kiddies, it is always good to ASK questions. We have rights.
Seriously though, I would never leave the house. Even strangers telling me I just left my gas cap off, or commenting to me in public about the beauty of my new shoes, send me into mild heart palpitations. Arizona would kill me within 6 months. Dead.

You can't do this. Not this way. It is wrong and it is rude.
National. Everyone must be involved, anything that only includes a segment of the population should be seen as suspect by the whole, who should be protecting the rights of all. If we can't all be profiled (because, there are more than just illegal Mexicans within our borders, there are at least ten other countries out there 'don'tcha know', some I hear can be seen right from Alaska (!) then we all need to register somewhere central. ALL of us.

Wait. What are we celebrating again?
A war that was won against the French?
We celebrate this as Mexican heritage and pride Day but why wouldn't we do this on their Independence Day. In September.
So lazy, we are so lazy. It's because it had a catchy name, that has to be it.
I think Mexico, and every other nation for that matter, should celebrate our heritage and culture on February 10th, which was the day the Treaty of Paris was signed which officially ended the French and Indian War. Seems fitting, actually.

Happy Cinco de Mayo and also Happy February 10th, like just sort of belated.

No carp were harmed during the creation of this Blog post. Some carp were offended and got their panties in a bunch to which I say, "You should have bought a thong and saved me the trouble; that’s what you get; now have a margarita and shut the fuck up."

trust. we got it. bad ideas. we got those too.


Completely unrelated, non-life changing, self indulgent NEWS that is neither eco-friendly or worth more than two pence.

I have realized (no I haven't) there is not a moment that goes by that I am not totally bloody confused. Everything about people confuses me. Everything about life confuses me. Everything about interacting confuses me. Conversation confuses me. Disagreement confuses me. Disclosure confuses me. Intimacy confuses me. Silence confuses me. Overly sugary icing confuses me.
When they installed the update for me version 8.3 (or whatever expansion pack I am on now) it had to have been done during a lightning storm.

“Pardon, the power went out, but I swear that it said 96% loaded before the shut down, so we should be mostly good, right? Surely that's enough to run this skirt, proper."
Ooooooooh nooooooo.
I am missing a few .dll files and am trying to connect to the online resource for help using a dial-up modem at 6pm.
Shit. SHITE!

...on her sister's new haircut

Kid A: You are so adorable, I just want to punch you in the face every time I look at you! That hair cut is so freaking amazing. It's like you are the cutest human alive and so I have to balance things out. Totally adorable hair but sorry, you are going to have to deal with a new black eye.




Give me two Popsicle sticks and a rubberband and I'll fuck it like
some filthy MacGuyver. Zack - Zack and Miri Make A Porno

Beer IS food, lady.