all caps (annoying) monday








Well. Ok, yes, I do, but fuck if I won't find some work arounds.


Shipyard Grand Opening

Wall Koi

Fatty Koi

Ed, hey Ed

Facebook birthday reminders are one of the most jerky features of the site; the obligation to issue sincere type greetings to people you don't know well enough or may have little history to draw back from, or don't want to wish a happy birthday to for whatever reason (wears pink polos) (although this was not the case yesterday - to Ed, who I hope is reading this now, another Happy Birthday to you! I really did hope it was fantastic, you smiled + got drunk + laid or even better, got a blow job, because who doesn't love a fucking blow job SCORE).
I wish people almost every day, who I would otherwise never talk to, a Happy Birthday, simply because I KNOW that THEY KNOW, that I KNOW their birthday is occurring. Facebook keeps us all up to date, so we can further sloth through life devoting those now non-dedicated cerebral files to Snooki's favorite foods and various cocktail recipes. Balls. I detest it. I just don't care, you are older, I am older, way to go, biology is doing that for us all on it's own, do you want a cookie, cause I got cookies, have a fucking cookie.

If you are my friend (not even a close friend), you are having a party, I am invited and we are going out for drinks, I will buy you shots till you puke if thats how you are doing it up this year. If you are a guy, I will laugh at you and take photos; a girl, I will hold your hair.
If you are my byproduct, some place in the birthing canal, a sealed in angels tears irreversible pact was made that I must celebrate this uterine exploding, vagina expanding moment until the day I die (but if you think for a moment, I am not going to remind you of my stretch marks and the agonizing pain you put me through then and everyday after that along with your gift of an iPod Touch, birthday cake and dinner, you truly have not been paying attention, kid. That shit hurt, and you need to be reminded of the pact YOU signed, which allows me to verbally remind you of this at every instance I desire, until the end of time, glad we cleared that up) and I am chill with this. Holla, self-high five, fist bump - what are you like, 15 now - jesus, where's the bourbon.

My neighbors father, who once came by my driveway to buy lemonade from my kids little "let's make some candy money" stand and then saw fit to not only find me on facebook (creepy) but add me as a contact (creepier), well, I now have to wish this mysterious person Happy Birthday or feel the wretched pangs of guilt for not (I don't feel guilty) BECAUSE: I KNOW that THEY KNOW, that I KNOW.
Fuck me.

So yesterday, I facebook-ed a birthday greeting to a "friend" (Ed, hey Ed), who I actually knew when I was a little kid. Oh my god, he was the cutest little kid in the whole world, hands down adorable, pinch some CHEEKS. I think either his mother babysat me, or my mom babysat him, for all I know, our parents were cocaine kingpins and we just happened to see each other on drug deals (I once made up an entire backstory for a friend that included adoptions and his parents dying in a car crash that was completely untrue, so I don't know, I can't always trust my own memory, it does what it wants). What I do know for sure, is that we were somehow hanging out as little kids and we also attended the same schools together though we didn't socialize much once older. The sum of these memories is enough to qualify said person (Ed, hey Ed) for a non forced birthday greeting, from me to him, without personal guilt or hatred for the process, I am happy to do so, bursting with fruit flavor - FACT. We might not be "friends" but I would totally buy this Kat a beer in a heartbeat, if we were in a beer establishment, at the same instance, Hazy Childhood Life *Surprise* oh my fucking god I flashed you my vagina when I was four, I'm sure of it, how the fuck are you.

And here, my good people, was the open online comment exchange, which I, face palmed myself for (twice):

Comment: ...and a very happy birthday to you...
Ed: I saw you at Jax weeks ago and am still pissed at myself for not saying Hello. Idiot.
Me: We are up there quite often - say hello next time. I don't bite (hard).
Ed: Yikes. Okay.

Post Mania Analysis (hubby did finally return last night, restoring balance to the universe, with a delightful 2am wake-up, thank you love, SO MUCH FUCKING BETTER, all hail his majesty's cocks return):
I was mildly 'aw' about that fact he did not say hello having seen me out but really he is by no means an idiot for not having done so. I would find it pleasantly amusing if one day having recognized me he saw fit to, though these things keep happening to me, seriously, where someone recognizes me in public, says nothing, sends me a facebook message later saying they wished they had, a psychotic complex growing inside my head that I either look totally unapproachable (WTF) or I smell like pee.
The "bite" portion of the comment, being the cheeky monkey (no internet half off deal, live monkeys here) that I am, would have been cheeky under afore mentioned forced birthday greeting circumstances, but under these circumstances, I WASN'T being cheeky and all but immediately regretted typing it for the sole appearance of being fake cheeky, which is just FAIL. My mind had been moving fast and I thought about the last time I was up at Jax, in which I was full blown raging eat live babies angry and this picture popped into my head, of me literally chomping him like a rabid dog had he approached with anything but food or beer. I was amused with the thought but of course did not share it in FULL because: (1) I haven't seen this person in years and that would just be insanely strange of me (yes, sometimes I do actually think before I act: .0499% of the time) (2) iPhone typing drives me nuts so I tend to limit it and (3) I don't bite hard but I DO bite, I wasn't being jokey jokey at all, it was knowledge he might need to know about me, sort of kind of (it isn't). I bite my husband all the time, sometimes it leaves marks, sometimes not. I bite the kids, they bite me, when my husband jokes that I was raised by wolves, sometimes I imagine this might be truer than he thinks and just MAYBE I have created my OWN backstory and now run around believing it and sharing it with all of you, on a daily basis (grain of salt, grain. of. salt.).

So I shouldn't have even written this as a reply to him, because now he might think (Ed, hey Ed, I hope you not only made it to the end of this blog post, but you do not actually think what I am about to type outside of these parenthesis) I am this mentally retarded child-adult, who writes stupid comments to people on facebook in order to appear cute-sy or completely unlike the vile, sailor mouthed fucking snake bitch (who also enjoys origami, scrabble, Belgium Sour Ales, and creating the occasional piece of artwork), that I truly am.

*chews gum*

Ed is totally never gonna say hello to me, ever.
It's all facebook's fault.
I seriously must smell like pee.


won't, you be, my neighbor

don't poke the dinosaur

Head: Labrodaur.
Tail: dog dinosaur.
Tail: incisors the size of my dick.
Tail: if i had a dick.
Head: Labrodaurus Rex.
Tail: that shit would be huge. like, at least 10 (soft).
Head: Sweet... the size of a baby's arm. You know how I like eeeet!
Tail: hell yea, straight in the eye socket, last i checked.
Tail: poke. poke. poke.
Tail: i am knocking on your skull door.
Tail: let me in.
Head: Not before wrecking mah pink puckered star fruit with that ginormous throbbing member.... I want it to be the dirty sanchez of skull fucks.
Tail: i would require lube any way.
Tail: good call.
Tail: gold star.
Head: TY.
Tail: YW.

with a side of hashbrowns (real hash, please)

Who knew that Frank Sinatra did not like eating his breakfast alone. Or, that he preferred scrambled eggs. Myself, I like them over medium with toast but whatever.
When I am super raging famous and acting completely ridiculous (you're already ridiculous, bunny, what do you mean by 'when') I am never ever ever eating breakfast alone again, just like Frank (I don't eat breakfast or eat alone, 98% of the time, this post already wandering into idiocy-land, instead of mouse ears we wear butterfly wings, but fuck it, its Thursday, buckle up and keep your hand and feet inside the vehicle).
Mr. Concierge, dear sir, share some toast with moi.
Hey hooker gurl, you want a bagel with cream cheese, holla!
Sup' mah bumz, let's get some bizkits and graveeeeee.
I got way too many voices in my head screaming for a cheese danish right now.

With all these holiday mascots, you would think at some point a corporate whore would have streamlined everything with one main representative, conservatively dressed and named "Present King" or something. Neutral colors. Monogrammed everything. Drives a Hummer.
I get all panicked when I think a holiday is approaching and can't remember what it is I am celebrating. What's up with Labor Day, I mean, can we get a logo for that or something? Pickaxe? Gold Watch? Jimmy Hoffa? Valentine's Day is the next, right (well, not for me, I will be celebrating Imbolc this year with the byproducts making candles).
I have always wanted to create a bunch of violent and bloody Valentines Day images. The idea of a cherub with arrows to me, is scary. Little kids freak me the fuck out. I dunno. Maybe it is a photo shoot.

STFU fatboy, we ain't GOT NO APPLE STRUDEL.

Top of "upcoming holiday get me some shit I want list" (free copy for all members of requesting society) is an empty vial of Rabbit Anti Mouse (I am not sure I need a full bottle, though it may prove a far more interesting gift, especially if toxic). If it were the only thing I ever received for my birthday/Christmas/Valentines Day/Take Your Slut to Work Day from now until the end of time, I would be the happiest bunny in all the land. What is it? I have no clue. But since finding out it exists, I can do nothing but obsess about possessing it. My grail. Holy. Sacred.

You can't masturbate with a quiche, Napoleon.

It is a mixed bag, as we collectively (me, us, them, you, your half off internet deal live monkey) race my paranoia clock. Oh, it exists and the time is set... possibly ahead, potentially behind - DON'T TRUST THE READ OUT! Just shake. Shake again.
One minute you are comfy on the couch, the next, thrown into a lake of fire with gasoline panties on. At least it's mildly entertaining. That House show is way better though. Nevermind. Go home and watch some TV, there is nothing to see here.

Two Words: Grit Crepe.
International trend setter.
That's me.


It actually makes pretty good sense

Kid B: Hey! I'm not sucking up, (Kid A) is just sucking down!

zebra striped donkey campaign

Your one wish? Your one wish is for a Facebook repost?
That's it?

I know lots of people killed by cancer.
I know lots of people who have survived cancer.
I am going with ZEBRA STRIPED DONKEY for my wish though.

Get that fucking Facebook campaign started.

homemade lentil soup delivery to the rescue

i'm hungry

I had seven faces, thought I knew which one to wear

Caught your hand inside a till
Slammed your fingers in the door

Fought with kitchen knives and skewers

Dressed me up in women's clothes

Messed around with gender roles

Dye my eyes and call me pretty

There are plans in process for building a tiger trap. They are detailed. They require digging. And safe guards. Symbol coded escape plan and buried life sustaining treasure.
There is a space picked out in the woods and I have even designed the sign.
A tiger, will one day be mine.

Tell me did you sail across the sun
Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights all faded

And that heaven is overrated

In Alaska, during silent winter nights, obsidian skies void of clouds, I stood staring at a sea of diamonds; I wasn't just on top of the world, I was, the world.

you better lie down cuz the angels are watching

she closed her eyes and said quit with the talking

'you can hurt me do whatever you like'

"You dirty fucking whore, you know who owns you," woke me up around four in the morning.
Face down, an arm wrapped around my chest, a hand cupping me by the throat. He whispered again, so close it made my ear warm.
"I own you. I. Own you." he chanted it low, steady. I winced only slightly when his cock entered my ass and his hand tightened around my neck.
The fresh wounds on my back stung and the bruises on my arms were darker still.
La petite mort.

I'm moanin' for more of the medicine

In the mornin' you're wonderin' where you been

Just turnin' your back to the ghost

And tryin' to look like you just might know

That all of the good that you've seen

Just went down and into the drain

Phillip, sound asleep, rolled away from me. I felt the sheet slide across my hip as it left with him. The sun shone through broken blinds, stinging my slitted eyes. I couldn't remember when we had come home, so I was lost for how long I had been asleep. The stone white walls bled orange rust. It smelled like wet newspaper and smoke. Sin hung like a fog directly above us.

Eric coughed. The echo reverberated off bare floor and walls. Empty room, Empty souls. Filling the void together, by whatever means necessary.
Strained muscles made it difficult but I managed to pull myself onto an elbow. I caught my reflection in the broken shard of mirror on the floor. Ignoring dark eyes pleading, I cut out a thick line and breathed deep, the universe. I arched my back and stretched long, skin taut against skeletal remains.

As the numbness warmed my brain, I eased onto my back again slowly. Fluffy little clouds enveloped, suspending me above the abyss I neither considered, nor ignored.
Smiling, I ran a hand through my hair and wriggled; a little cat in her warm sunbeam. Monroe eyes, moved slowly over the golden glow of flesh unknown.
White paint shown again bright and the jewel encased edges of everything glistened, sending beams of light through the room.
I giggled softly, thinking of what I would paint. Tomorrow.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

The bedroom would have the sheets removed, mattresses overturned, dresser drawers emptied on the floor, dresser turned on end, pictures off the wall, smashed things, broken things, curtains on the floor, garbage everywhere. He did the living room once too.
She used to take us with her when they fought, we would stay in a hotel for the night, it was kind of cool, like a tiny vacation, just the three of us.
But we must have been a burden, because after awhile she just left us there with him alone.
And saved herself.

There'll be times

When my crimes

Will seem almost unforgivable

I give in to sin

Because you have to make this life livable

A secret, my love.
Demons rattling closet doors.
When the scratching becomes melodic,
hide your eyes.

And they burnt up the diner where I always used to find her.

Licking young boys blood from her claws.

And I learned about the blues from this kitten that I knew.

Her hair was raven and her heart was like a tomb.

My heart's like a wound.

Smoking cigarettes, sucking on lollipops, staring at white walls, enjoying the silence.
The balance remains, the pendulum swings.
I am wandering.
You'll be here soon, I know.

(For you, Dave, who reminds me to sleep and spin the wheel again.)


ironic fish

Day three of Hubbysaurus being gone and I am starting to level out.
I apologize (sort of) for the dust from yesterdays construction zone. I am still not sure if I was building a sacrificial alter or just a coffee table.
Routine makes my life possible. Las Vegas conferences do not count as normal routine. Like throwing a frisbee, it's weeeeeeeeeeeeeee.........
Anxiety and mania attack like rabid dogs, I am lucky to not be drooling. But I got this. Old hat, my friends, you just white knuckle the bar and hope you come out unscathed on the other side.

Intense focusing helps. Its a channel.
I stayed up last night to complete an art piece I have been working on for the last few days. Everyone at work loves it. Happy girl.
It feels good to finish something. It feels good to create.

Was thinking I might try painting a fish this weekend. I have been, putting it off. Sorta. Kinda. I have, fish history, we will get to that.
My brother in law thinks he can sell them in a shop near the beach so, why not. A few months back, he asked me to paint him a large snook for his living room and loved it so much, he offered to seriously try and market them for me. He is fish crazy, loves the fish. The people he has shown, love the painting, so yea. Fish painter.
Me. Irony would be that I become a fish artist, considering my distaste for fish in general. Distaste. Hm. Hatred. That might be a much better word. I fucking hate fish. Hate. Fish.

When I was seven, a catfish I caught and then dropped on my left foot, ended up scaring me up pretty bad. A broken busted up toe and a full scale operation (after the botched emergency room no anesthesia trial run) to remove the barb from inside the top of my foot sort of put a bad taste in my mouth as far as fish are concerned, probably for the rest of time. I am by no means an animal hater but fish, ugh. My scar still hurts; if lightly touched, I recoil in pain and only a few times has something ever dropped on it, rendering my foot useless for more than a week. Sucks. I hate that fish. I hate all fish. Fuck fish. Fuck'em swiming around in their smelly gill and scale nastiness. FUCK FISH.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, in a galaxy far far fucking away, I was married to this redneck, gun rack, dip chewing, piece of shit, violent racist fuck of a first husband (one day I will tell you the real reason you should say no to drugs; because drugs sometimes cause you to do things like marry stalkers you have only known for two months, SURPRISE I used to hide out on your roof in full camouflage and watch you undress!), who would take me along with him fishing for catfish, specifically. I suppose I never did fit the scene (oh yes, there is a scene) in my flip flops and sarong, reading books about psychology in my lawn chair but fuck: when have I ever fit in anywhere? Yes, I would absolutely LOVE another can of Budweiser, motherfuckers, FUCKIN' A! (Oh sweet Universe, please forgive me my sins.)

Any way, so ex-tard catches some fish and strings them on a line, to keep them alive and fresh in the shallow part of the lake we had been sitting at for going on now, several hours. And they were barking. Fucking barking. And all I could think was, it was once because of your kind, doctors were digging in my foot for over an hour with only a local anesthetic looking for the barb of golden delight that was swimming somewhere in my very sensitive flesh. And you dare. And you dare bark at me. (I don't care how other people process, the memory of pain for me does not go away; I remember screaming at the top of my lungs with multiple people holding me down and from that moment on, I swear to all that is honest and true, that I have hated fucking fish with all my soul.) Fuck you, fish.
A few beers later an annoyed me stumbled upon a stick. I love sticks. When I am in the woods, around a campfire, nothing is quite like finding that one awesome stick to poke and prod shit with, amen.
By this time, the ex-bastard needed to go on a beer run and decided it was a good idea to leave me with my stick and these barking ass fish. I had thrown the book aside awhile ago, just pacing around with my stick now, drinking beer from a can, issuing a loud FUCK YOU to the fish, hearing the SHUT UP echoed back (by the ex-jerk). I was restless. Who can read with all that annoying barking going on - FUCK YOU FISH - I was getting down right angry as time creeped forward and I began to feel the pangs of alcohol induced retribution tempting me. Catfish. Hate em.

He hadn't been gone but three minutes, and it started with a little poking. Poke poke. Bark bark BARK. Poke poke. Bark. POKE. POKE POKE POKE POKE. FUCK YOU, poke poke poke. BARK! POKE FUCK YOU POKE!! POKE!! POKE!!!!
And then, a vile demon of fish hate took over my body. Everything went red and I just... started beating the fuck out of the fish on the line with my stick. I was smacking the water repeatedly, screaming out directly to the fuckers, I HATE YOU FISH!!! BAM BAM BAM! Apparently, my stick blows were hard enough to pop open all of the hooks, thus releasing these battered and verbally abused fish, back into the river to either bark some more, die slowly, commit fish suicide, or who fucking cares THEY WERE CATFISH GODDAMN IT AND THEY HAD BEEN MOCKING MY DRUNK ASS FOR THE LAST FOUR HOURS!

I found my calming center before he returned, weapon of mass destruction cast aside in the bushes, book in hand, words swirling in my head connecting themselves together quickly devising an explanation of how these fish could have somehow miraculously released themselves off the line, which seemed the best option having panicked, refusing to return to the scene of the crime to close the open hooks or to address what I had actually done.

"Seriously sweetheart, I didn't hear any more barking, so I walked over there to check on them and they were just gone, I don't know WHAT happened. Can they pop themselves off the hooks? Maybe they are just really smart catfish. What about if their jaws are strong, can they open the hooks on their own? I didn't notice, I was just so busy reading, I totally got back into my book, it's great. It's sort of like they were super catfish, baby, too bad we don't have any to bring home now, I bet they would have been awesome for dinner. You'll catch more another day, I am sure, let's just go home."

Doe eyes of angelic innocence totally saved my ass that day. No other words were exchanged and I considered it a Get Out of Jail Free card from the Universe.
I was never invited to go fishing, ever again.
I am not proud of what I did, but I admit to having done it. Let me go to hell for beating to near death, some nasty fucking catfish, I'll take that. I got fish issues, man.
Shit, was personal.

So yea. Fuck it. Fish painting.
Irony, reaches new levels in my life.
Can't wait. Can't fucking wait.


Coming together


mice love chewing bubblegum inside circus tents

Supervision isn't a necessity, but it helps maintain the balance.
Like this clown I am going to catapult into the ceiling tiles when I stomp on this here beam, because thats how its done.
You bounce on the beam and the other clown goes into the ceiling tiles.
Circus Circus.

You bite through the big wall, the big wall bites back
You just sit there and sulk, sit there and bawl
You are so pretty when you're on your knees
Disinfected, eager to please

There are bad people in the world. Clothed in wool, carrying purses of fools gold. The worst don't even know it. They best, cut so quickly you'll never even feel the blade. You'll bleed out slowly, while they dance around a ring of fire blessing the soil about to be tilled in your honor.

Never turn your back on a wolf. No matter how many times they lie in front of your fireplace enjoying the warmth. No matter how many times they have taken food from your hand.
A wild dog is always wild. They just look and act like pleasant dogs. They follow the rules convenient to them at the moment and their rational will never be understood once they snap. And they always snap, its a time thing. Balance the sand dial back and forth, artfully keeping it from ever running out, didn't matter any way, now you are missing a limb, and damn you look stupid with one arm.

I once turned my back on a wolf only to find my intestines lying on the scalding hot sidewalk.
Can't call animal control for that; one can only get a Louisville Slugger and hope you get a chance at bat. But you won't (even veterans forget, never feel bad).
Or you could just grab a lollipop. A lollipop puts it all in perspective. Unless you are the type to crack it open immediately with your teeth and crunch it into nothing like it was never meant to be sucked on slowly while contemplating the finer workings of the universe.
Heathen. Sinner.
For shame.
Get in it.

Sometimes you sulk, sometimes you burn
God rest your soul
When the loving comes and we've already gone
Just like your dad, you'll never change

The huge red signs missed, the old stone barricades avoided, the barbed wire ignored, sure, why not, let's go ahead and proceed to the center of this burnt up abandoned complex.
Go for it, lamby.
For you are the Lamb of Steel (!), I saw your red hot blazing triangle chest piece and cape.
Finely tailored. Lined. Smashing.
Drink from the fountain, lamby.
It's cool and clear.
Oh yes, lamby, the apples are delicious.
We can spin some wool and knit a scarf, lamby.
Hold still.
I hear rustling.
Shhh. SHHH.

Oh, lamby.
Silly, lamby.

There are good people in this world.
There are good people in that world.
There are good people.
They have worlds.
Your name might be on the list, if your application made it through processing and the Department has allocated funds towards your research.

"Wha-da-ya got?"
A stick, less than a dollar in change, some purple string, a small, white, plastic duck figurine, and two tickets to the fair.
"What do YOU got?"
Four bottles of beer on the wall and some cracked eggshells.

Flip a coin, it's January.
Four more days until Thursday.
Come home soon hunny, before I start hoarding cats.

Each time it comes it eats me alive
I try to behave but it eats me alive
So I declare a holiday
Fall asleep, drift away


Empty. Fuck you.


yin yang

25 Things I am positively NOT going to do this weekend
(Friday Afternoon Work Procrastination Edition)

1. Rape anything organic.
2. Sing a song of sixpence.
3. Wrestle an alligator in a bikini.
4. Get a tattoo.
5. Fluff things (porn actors included).
6. Publish the cure for cancer.
7. Build a sacrificial alter in the likeness of Rob Pilatus.
8. Incubate or spit a byproduct out of my vagina.
9. Do the electric slide.
10. Buy any genetically modified animals.
11. Run for political office inside of the United States.
12. Use my super powers for good.
13. Steal anything with a label.
14. Drive my car off a bridge or into a wall.
15. Herd cats.
16. Use my incisors to tear into meat.
17. File bankruptcy.
18. Return the monkey.
19. Email anyone with the first name Jack or Jill.
20. Start a revolution.
21. Watch The Housewives of Beverly Hills.
22. Drool on my pillow.
23. Jiggle.
24. Shred documents vital to the continued stability of Parliament.
25. Be sad.

25 directly correlated ideas I am not positively ruling out as activities during the next 72 hours.
(Friday Afternoon Still Procrastinating Work Edition)

1. Fondle produce in the supermarket.
2. Fill my pocket full of rye.
3. Play UNO while lying naked on a bear skin rug.
4. Tag something with my new Graffiti artist name: Pookie Vajayjay.
5. Dip myself in oil; roll in feathers.
6. Write a grocery list.
7. Fantasize that Milli Vanilli is still together and booked to play my 37th birthday party.
8. Masturbate furiously and frequently.
9. Shark Mop my floors and then pull a Tom Cruise Risky Business move in my socks.
10. Grill steak.
11. Chart my advancement possibilities within the Canadian government.
12. Use my super powers for evil.
13. Steal a pair of something.
14. Take the city bus.
15. Wrangle teenagers.
16. Smile at a stranger.
17. File my nails.
18. Write a short story about my internet order, half-off deal, live monkey.
19. Post to my blog.
20. Start a fire (but not in a forest).
21. Watch The Housewives of Atlanta.
22. Drool on Husbandvestment's pillow.
23. Make Jello Shots.
24. Dance and Sing to Album: The Queen is Dead.
25. Be happy.

and they come in my size.

what is with me and the shoes lately?
oh right, Heather, is rubbing off on me.

let's go millionaires, send me gifts.
or poor people who stumble upon $340.00 USD, i really don't care who or how they get purchased, just that they are on my size 10 feet.

Pet Sitting of Bradenton logo

START send me to the moon, banana-hands

Does anyone send telegrams anymore? Not the kind delivered by a purple gorilla for someone’s birthday, just a normal average everyday telegram. I want to receive one and have it contain some honest to good information I need to know. Something important. Time sensitive.

Attempt at Rasterizing Real Life Octopus Ends in Fine for 37 year old woman.

My neighbors gathered around their back doors silently listening to me loudly exclaiming, a very emotional tirade against the inner workings of the United States, heated snake tongue violently lashing about, fist thrown high in the air, breathless from the amount of words leaping out of my mouth without pause, when my beloved interrupts the madness of this late night psychotic anti-establishment moment to point out, simply, that I am not 37. Which I had been, indeed, exclaiming for the last few minutes. I am 35.
Seemed almost unnecessary to say much of anything after that. So I didnt. And I swear I heard a few screen doors shut after having calmly sashayed off my rickety little soap box.

Jungle cat claws 37 year old victim after offer of tuna fish sandwich was rejected for inclusion of sweet pickle relish.

You read, you speak, you think, you breathe, you dive, you devour, you gasp, you dream, you float, you weep, you slumber, you awaken, you wonder, you grow silent, you miss, you die silently inside, you bury it deeper, you lock it up, you throw away the key, you smile, and you buy a ticket to do it all again.

You write it all down and just keep ignoring the fact that there is a published chronological log of your cycle of insanity.

You laugh. You hope the world laughs with you.
You buy a gun. Just in case no one is.
You learn to shoot like Annie Oakley, you start wearing chaps everywhere, you always have a piece of hay sticking out of your mouth.
You full on challenge your spying neighbors to show downs in the street over healthcare and taxation legislation.
You laugh. Because your gun is made of foam. You cry. Because your neighbors, is not.
You wish you had bought a pack of cards and invited them over for beer instead.

Everyone likes beer.
(Even stupid fucking internet order, half-off deal, live monkeys.)

This blogpost has now ended STOP.


i want panda lips

lalala, today, I didn't curse.

I am looking forward one day (that day being closer to the current day than to any other day) to getting more involved in the surrounding art community to increase the amount of things I have to complain about while wondering 'Seriously, people?' inside my head more than I currently do, which is roughly 98.4% of the time anyway.
Reminds me of The Judgmental's first album 'Jackson Pollock Snake Holding Tent Revival'.


I really, really like this one song by Nickelback, but every time I listen to it, I am reminded of that horrible moment long ago (during a personal period I like to refer to as the Dark Ages) when I realized what the band looked like via a music video at the end of the Spiderman DVD is that guys shirt really unbuttoned and blowing in the wind MY EYES!!!!.
There is violent inner turmoil when I try and play it, the black nail polish wearing nihilist holding a knife to the bouncy cheerleader slut's neck screaming, "I'll do it, don't you dare hit PLAY, I'll do it man".
Sniff. Cry.

(guitar solo)

I have decided that I like U2 just a little bit more since recently discovering a song called Trash, Trampoline And The Party Girl.
It kinda reminds me of the other night (which, by the way WAS the other night, many people close to me using this phrase to describe both things occurring a few days ago and more than 5 years ago, somehow thinking that is gonna fly), perusing Netflix and finding a movie that contained actors: Val Kilmer, Sharon Stone, and 50 Cent. Give me the gold and the lucky charms, Leprechaun. Husbandzilla and I peed our pants and then immediately started watching the straight to video masterpiece, Streets of Blood. There was no question, we had to see what kind of train wreck this was and conclusion: Total. Death count well over 100,000 and counting. Steer clear and take your antibiotics. In fact, it reminds me nothing of my recent U2 song discovery, I take that back; careless segue.

(final drum kick)


Leftfield - Inspection (Check One)

mmhyeah (no)

Chloride: You know that song "Shine" where the dude keeps saying "mmhyeaah" after the guitar part?
Sodium: i know what you are talking about.
Chloride: It's like (guitar) "bahnanananananananana!" then he goes "mmhyeaah!" then (guitar) "buanananananananaan" then he goes "mmhyeaah"
Chloride: like 4 times... then some more song... then he does it some more.
Chloride: know which one I am talking about.
Sodium: yes.
Sodium: i know.
Chloride: Well, what's he talking about?
Chloride: Does he like the guitar part?
Sodium: mmmhyeah.
Chloride: So when the guitarist is all like, "bahnananananananana!" he feels compelled to voice his approval?
Chloride: Cause it has nothing to do with the rest of the song.
Sodium: wtf the fuck of it. if you eat good pie you make noises of approval.
Sodium: technically, the noise of approval DOES have something to do with the song, just like the noise has something to do with the pie.
Chloride: But then at the end he appears to lose interest. Cause the last 4 times the guitarist does it at the end of the song he wont go mmhyeah anymore.
Sodium: the initial approval wore off and he began to contemplate his actual feelings concerning. obviously in this case, he had a change of heart. it happens.
Chloride: Maybe that''s why the song ends... cause the guitarist could tell he wasn't being appreciated by the lead singer anymore.
Sodium: i bet they broke up after that.
Chloride: No. They went around making this statement on tour...
Chloride: Approval of the guitar riff through several measures followed by obvious disapproval at the end.
Sodium: maybe after playing it so much on tour, the guitarist developed a complex, all the back and forth, must have been maddening.
Sodium: then they broke up.
Chloride: He sure must've liked to go "bahnanananananana" a great deal. I bet he still does it when nobody's looking.
Sodium: jerk.
Sodium: i bet it pisses people off.

Sodium: this story is sad.
Sodium: fuck you.


Disturbing is having an argument with your teenage daughter about why she cannot grow up to join the circus, sell oranges on the side of the road, or invent a product that increases the laziness factor of individuals while simultaneously realizing two things:
1. You are not 100% positive they are joking.
2. You did this. YOU. DID. THIS.
fuck me.

Slightly more disturbing is being asked by your teenage daughter's friend to give them a henna tattoo tramp stamp. Equally wrong, being requested to give a henna tattoo on one of their (underage) asses.
Uh. Uh. No, and I am just not explaining why children, try again, figure it out and pick a design already NO YOU CAN'T HAVE A DICK TATTOOED ON YOUR ARM EITHER.
Oh my god, there are not enough sedatives.

Violently mentally disturbing is hearing your teenage daughters joke with their teenage female friends, in front of you, of their teenage love interests male friends inabilities to satisfy any girl properly and if the males have compared dick sizes between themselves to see who is the king.
Listen up children.
I don't scream out 'FUCK ME HARDER, DADDY' handcuffed to the bed, while being whipped with leather floggers when you are home. Do me the courtesy of having your dick discussing party when I am not in the room anymore - IT'S MORE THAN CREEPY FOR ME ON MULTIPLE FUCKING LEVELS.

seda tives
wine wine wine
sed a tives
s ed a ti ves
s e d a t i v e s

w i n e
w i n e

o h

y e a

m u c h

b e t t e r

t h a n k s


a few.

Jerk Move 572.
Lying down on the couch watching TV, with my legs in my husbands lap as he rubs my feet. I mistake my black toenail polish for a bug and scissor kick violently, knocking him in the face with one foot and balls with the other.
Way to go, no more foot rubs for you.

Jerk Move 38.
Coming out of Home Depot, wheeling on one of those long cart things a very large box containing an outdoor fireplace and right on top, a very small bag containing something very small. Walking through the parking lot, the wind begins to blow and my husband says, "Quick, grab the bag!", so I do, of course, then proceed with continued momentum, to wing it as hard as I can, through the air so it lands several yards away.
Me = Cackle.
Husband = Frowny Face.

Jerk Move 411.
Refuse to acknowledge anyone who does not address me directly by shouting through a used paper towel roll. For over two hours.

Jerk Move 68.
At a sushi restaurant, prawn head decorating the plate, and no one intends to eat it. After finishing meal, I repeat, "Eat the Head" until my husband indeed, eats the head and almost pukes all over the table as a result of combination nasty taste and disturbing "crunch" sound.
Take photos.
Repeat chant every time we eat sushi that includes a head.

game on.


These are my wishes, today.

Friends sometimes fuck up, friends sometimes make very little sense. When something goes wrong, even in anger, safety precludes all.
We watch over each other or we wouldn't have called ourselves friends in the first place.

I have found that as a parent of teenagers, one of the hardest things in the world is watching them stumble without any means to cover the corners of life with rubber bumpers. You teach them to recognize the warning signs, the pitfalls, the sharp edges so that when they do trip, they don't break a limb. You trust the last thirteen (plus) years of preparation; you hope you haven't left anything out. They are going to fall. It is inevitable. Just how far and how many times, is to be seen.
Teach. Reiterate. Trust. Hope.
Then cross your fingers, knock on wood, throw some salt over your shoulder, light a candle, pray to God, Allah, Ganesh, Buddha, the Universe, science, Shera, your blue lamp - make the rounds - watch the clock until anxiety subsides and another moment has been walked through and learned from.
Listen. Love. Support. Challenge.

This repetitive process, may require a lot of Valium on your part.
Accept that. Quickly. Take a breath and hold.
Your role as a parent has changed and if you do not learn to ride the wave, struggling against the undertow is going to fucking kill you.

My girls have several friends, who I consider. Often. I cannot help but care about these tiny butterflies who float into my life, some of them, their wings already damaged from how many times they have hit the ground. In some cases not from their own doing and my heart further breaks for their innocence lost.
I've cried more than once this weekend for several of them, including my own. I recognize small pieces of my own broken, teenage experience in each and it hurts so much, to feel their discomfort, suppressed anger, and sadness for a lost childlike world of glistening gold, they are now realizing is worn, tarnished and nonexistent in some places.

For my own, and those I consider, when the moment becomes unsure and unstable, I hope they remember how much they are loved, cared and thought of. That I will never judge them for their decisions, no matter how I may disagree. That I am always there, for that 10pm call, for that 3am call, when they might not want to pick up the phone, when they are freaked out beyond belief for the repercussions, when they have misjudged a situation, when they find themselves having made the wrong decision, I hope I hope I hope they never forget that someone is there for them. Someone ready to throw out a lifeline, or to scoop them up and carry them away from danger so they can try again another day.
Nothing matters more to me than making sure they are safe: mind and body.

Once we feel that safety, truly know there is a net out there somewhere, we can be shown the dark clouds all have silver linings; taught to see it for ourselves. For every fall that happens we can learn, for every misstep one has taken, an opportunity lies from which to grow.
Perhaps that I why I see it as so important. There is so much more to impart once eyes begin to open. When they are comfortable enough to ask and trust enough to hear.

We, as parents, never ever, have enough time.
Let mine be as long as possible.
Let them always trust my intentions and let my intentions always be honest and good.
Let them forgive me when I misstep; let me remember to do the same.
Let those who struggle outside of my daily grasp, see a beacon, somewhere.
Let them always feel they are loved. Without condition.
These are my wishes, today.

Pamela and Samantha, (Tristyn, Casey, David, Alexandra, Faith), Destiny, Mary, Christina, Jordan, Melissa, Keiley, Jada, Josilynne, Chelsea, Cassia, Victoria, Heather, Katie, Jessica (Simone Milk), Maren, Austin, Kendall, Drew, Narnia, Sadie, TJ, Alex and for all the others, in and out, known for years or moments, or soon to be:

You are loved. You are cared for. You are thought of and considered, daily.
More than you may feel, more than I personally remember to tell you, more than you know. Today I will work harder than yesterday and every day after that, in all that I do concerning you. I am here for you always. You are never alone. And nothing you ever do or say to me, no matter how infuriating or frustrating, will ever change that.

Always and forever,




Bruised Fruit: Word for the day - Strumpet
Sad Tomato: i dont like your word today.
Sad Tomato: i am not using it.
Bruised Fruit: STRUMPET!
Sad Tomato: not so sure.
Bruised Fruit: I think you've come to the wrong astrumption here.
Sad Tomato: you have strumpthing on your shirt.
Bruised Fruit: Construmption strumption... what's your function?
Sad Tomato: suck ing off dicks and spread ing her pes
Bruised Fruit: Constumption strumption... what's your function?!?!?
Sad Tomato: i got three favorite holes that get most of the jobs done
Bruised Fruit: Work ing for pimps in fish net stockings!
Sad Tomato: mine was not good enough?
Bruised Fruit: It was.
Bruised Fruit: I was adding lyrics.
Bruised Fruit: But yours should be shortened to keep the struc ture to
Bruised Fruit: I got three holes that get the JOB done.
Bruised Fruit: Emphasis on job.
Sad Tomato: no.
Sad Tomato: not for the second verse, which i assumed you fucked up, cause its HOW'S that function.
Bruised Fruit: Ah yes. Agreed.
Bruised Fruit: STRUMPET! Away with ye!
Sad Tomato: you'll need a coathanger for that.


i thought not.

Dedicated to my five beautiful mother friends out there, so very, very close to my heart, who are right now raising the awakened minds of our evolving nation. These beautiful mothers who have birthed, are teaching, raising and are on the back NINE, your kids approaching independence and you approaching midlife. These beautiful mothers who suddenly and without cause, collectively have had a stroke of biological clock countdown baby-mania.
When I use the word stroke, we are not talking epiphany like Einstein or genius like Da Vanci; we are referring to drooling 90 year old man, peeing his pants, brain shut the fuck down in a few key rationalization regions and if you think for a second I am going to allow in this crippled instance for your uterus, my doe eyed goddesses of peace and harmony, to be conquered by some invasive-ass, heat seeking missle sperm, you will find me on top of the mountain, with my picket sign and bullhorn, because I got at least 10 reasons : right here, right now : that will remind you why: Babies Fucking Suck.

10. They only smell good for a few days.
Like meat gone bad, these foul smelling creatures start to reek up the place shortly after you bring them home. They shit constantly because they eat constantly. Three years of feces and urine handling. That's over 1,000 days, after which you unwillingly become a biohazard expert having added in an endless, uncontrollable amount of snot and puke. Everywhere. On everything. Now it all smells.

9. They carry disease.
Rodents spread less germs. Since they mouth everything, you can count on removing any number of bizarre and disgusting things from their jaws. It will be covered in saliva and oh crap, gag reflex: See 10. I knew a woman who screamed uncontrollably watching in horror as her tiny daughter gummed a small, angry, live snake, refusing to surrender it. A snake. In her mouth. And she liked it enough to fight to keep it.
Your only true defense is putting them inside a bubble, in a secluded wing of the hospital, where everything it comes in contact with has undergone a five step process to make it sterile.
They catch every cold, and sickness carried on the wind. Their immune systems hold weekly tea parties, welcoming in new forms of bacteria and virus. Come. Stay. Make everyone else in the house sick.
Your 102° fever battling their 104° fever, changing puke soaked sheets at 3am in a hallucinogenic haze of insomnia. Now, do it again. And, again.
Then. Again.


Fuck you. Again.

8. They break easily.
Hold the baby very carefully, oh shit don't touch its soft spot, fuck this umbilical cord is awkward, holy shit wobbly loose neck head, must purchase the protected from any danger you can possibly imagine (and we come up with more everyday) car seat/stroller/playpen/crib/highchair/seat/toy/______, oh my god its scratching its face again get the nail clippers and mittens, is the bath water/food too hot/cold, what's this rash, is that dry skin or scales, it's snotting again, fuck not again with the puke, oh hold still please while I clean your everything, no kicking no kicking, don't wriggle off anything, fall out of anything, what's in its mouth again, its choking, oh geez it hit itself with something, it rolled on something, it fell on something, it walked into something, lock the cabinets, cushion the corners, protect the sockets, get rid of anything metal or glass, no sharp objects below 4 feet, we need a vehicle with more airbags, oh my god get out the bubble....
Take your eyes off it for 3 seconds and it will have broken itself, somehow whether spontaneously or otherwise.
You watch it. Constantly. Even when it sleeps, to make sure its still somehow miraculously breathing.
And if you are lucky to have this fucking scientifically intricate cellular miracle fall asleep safe and sound, have fun trying to rest yourself, waking to a daily pre-coffee panic attack in front of a live studio audience game of how long has it been awake totally unsupervised.

7. They don't have a mute button.
They cry. Loud. All the time. All hours of the day and night. In the middle of anything. Sometimes they don't stop. Sometimes for unknown reasons. They do not care to stop, even if you ask them to stop. Or beg them to stop. They don't give a shit. And until you figure out a precise set of Mensa written, 23rd level wizard spells in a foreign language, they continue to not give a shit. Even then, when the code has finally been broken and the puzzles solved, sometimes, they still, fucking loudly, fucking cry.

6. They are anti everything.
They won't let you have normal phone calls. They are anti TV and movie watching. They are anti reading. They are anti cooking. They are anti eating. They are anti cleaning. They are anti shower/bath taking - your own and theirs. They are anti public establishment. They are anti meetings and appointments. They are anti socializing.
They are selfish nihilists and now because of them, you are too. In a short amount of time, you just hate, the world.

5. They turn your brain into oatmeal.
You relearn the basics of life: colors, letters, numbers, your face contorted into a frozen lobotomized smile, glossy eyed, singing a set of catchy mind numbing songs now permanently burned into your psyche, entering your dreams unannounced and dropping your IQ (on average over the span of the first two years) 65 points.

4. They cost a lot of money.
Exponential yearly requirement of money for upkeep may eventually bankrupt and destroy you.

3. They are non-returnable.
Remember when you had a few bottles of wine at that dinner party with friends and laughed until two in the morning?
Remember when you woke up at 10am on a Saturday and took an hour to lazily get out of bed?
Remember when you went to the movies? That cool concert? That beautiful play?
Remember when you took a bubble bath?
Remember the last full nights worth of sleep you got? Or that nap you took?
Remember the last time you bought yourself a new outfit, got a pedicure, colored your hair, got your nails done?
Remember that romantic weekend vacation you took out of town?
That was all before fucking babies came along.

2. They stretch, fatten, loosen, distort and morph your body in some irreversible manner just by incubating and birthing them.
I sneeze, pee my pants, upset my sciatic nerve and then just, cry. Fucking, hell.

1. They change everything.
Your comfortable routine, the life you knew, silently flutters away like a derailed train full of hyenas.
With each new baby, you hit reset. All the rules in the game change, get more complex and take double the amount of time to get used to.
Back to start for you; do not pass GO, do not collect $200.00 and oh wait - surprise! It's twins.

this further complicates my understanding of word on the street.

2010 Album Picks.

I don't really do music and film reviews. It is entirely subjective; until I make sure your home doesn't have teddy bears on the bed and you don't use a Snuggie to keep warm watching Housewives of New York on Tuesday's, I am sure as shit not going to trust what you tell me is awesome for my ears. Closets, we all have them and some of yours contain my nightmares.
In turn, you can take this or leave it.
Here is what my ears loved in 2010.

10. Arcade Fire - The Suburbs
9. Twin Shadow - Twin Shadow
Sometimes I just do not get around to listening to everything and other times I purposely shun an album for no other reason than to be anti-establishment and how could you tell me what to like you bastardly disguised corporate music blog (who I know for a FACT sucks the Starbucks teet). Ten, I am sorry I excused you before actually listening.
Late to the meeting, walk of shame clothes and smeared mascara, can someone please give me a cup of coffee? Nine, you should have never been a one night stand, I'll drunk dial again, for sure, my nipples are hard, currently, in anticipation.

8. Crystal Castles - Crystal Castles
Ok. Fainting Spells just cold pisses me off but the rest of the album is so damn Chemistry Class weird/cool, I cannot deny it placement on my favorites list for 2010. I didn't start out listening to the album in parts or as a whole, but was exposed rather to a multitude of remixes I found blogged continuously online. After awhile, I figured I needed to check out what every one else seemed to be falling head over heels for. It's geek Electronica. I dig it.

7. Gaslight Anthem - American Slang
6. The Black Keys - Brothers
I daydream about Bluesy rock fucking Punk rock and make me some awesome snarling dark haired babies with whiskey voices who smoke way too much.

5. LCD Soundsystem - This Is Happening
There is that kick your chair out from under you first moment when the beat drops on Dance Yrself Clean (wait for it wait for it, wait for it, BAM), you'll never experience quite the same after the first listen. I've tried, let the dragon go junkie's, and thank the universe the rest holds up thick like a Dairy Queen Blizzard. Drunk Girls swings into an indie pop playground laying down hand-jive knowledge. One Touch's SuperBreakout intro kicks into lyrics you'll soon find stuck in your head. Pow Pow could be the backbeat for a 70s detective show starring Pam Grier (hawt). It's an album you can put in the background at a party, and one you can face alone in front of your dresser mirror, hairbrush mic in hand - so many pieces to experience, so many dance moves to be had.
Fuck off. Why haven't you purchased this album yet? Maybe you are broke. I'll burn you a copy.
(Check out Kid Cudi's All Talk featuring LCD Soundsystem's Dance Yrself Clean. Mmm, mmmm, good.)

4. Girl Talk - All Day
DJ Gregg Gillis's mash up/sample heavy origami-esque albums are happy, dance inducing, full steam ahead Engine, Engine No. 9. playfully rich Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up - scratch. I have had the pleasure of hoarding a few mash up albums since someone turned me onto The Kleptones in 2006, with All Day, Girl Talk self-catapults into a Professor Surgeon Esquire Yoda status. I have yet to hear any artist rival the diverse auditory experience, All Day being the tightest puzzle yet. Shark Mop steamed, this one.
Track No. 11 "Triple Double" sample segment includes:
1:31 - 1:31 Blondie - "Dreaming"
1:31 - 2:42 Joe Jackson - "Steppin' Out"
1:32 - 2:54 Lil Wayne - "A Milli"
2:42 - 2:43 Nirvana - "In Bloom"
2:54 - 3:25 Crooked I - "Everythang"
2:56 - 3:24 Neil Diamond - "Cherry, Cherry"
Are you fucking kidding me? I couldn't pick out half these without the aide of a guide (I did figure out Joe Jackson, that piano is ingrained is my DNA).
Even better is that the album is offered free on Illegal Art. Free is good. Free is very good.
(The full sample list can also be found here)

3. Tame Impala - InnerSpeaker
Slipping right into a warm bath of golden sunshine goo kitten fluff please hand me a lollipop, is Tame Impala, a four-piece psychedelic rock from Perth, Australia. When I first sampled the debut album Innerspeaker, I felt pulled back through time. Kevin Parker's voice on Desire Be, Desire Go could be a roadside zoo jar containing the vocal chords of Grace Slick and John Lennon's bastard child. At no point during the album do I want to open a vein, which so often comes to mind when listening to jam(my) bands that leap off cliffs on the backs of guitar solos. It makes me want to move my feet and quite possibly, spin a little (ok, a lot). Mark my words, there is going to be a child conceived to the track Solitude Is Bliss. It's just. that. gorgeous.
This album, a daisy and a bare foot picnic.

2. The Polyamorous Affair - Strange Bedfellows
The single Bright One, delivered by the Los Angeles duo Eddie Chacon and Sissy Sainte-Marie, should be nominated for synth-pop track of the year somewhere. The album is a sexy, smooth blend of breathy vocals (from both artists), against a group of super groovy beats. There isn't a track I do not like. Strange is the lighter side of catchy (you're so strange, just like me); it's counterpart Fantasy darker and reminiscent of Blondie's Rapture-speak. Hypnotized mixes in some distinct African drumming, The Avenues offers some higher notes dancing on top of repetitive dance beats, each track nectar to my ears.

1. Sleigh Bells - Treats
Music duo Derek E. Miller and Alexis Krauss (who I secretly wished consisted of two females, masturbatory reasons to follow, but will excuse Derek's penis for at least the duration of this post) release debut album Treats. The moment I heard the spacey track Rill Rill I began salivating. When the album finally found its way into my hands the ensuing orgasm knocked out a wall in the house (non load bearing, mind you *wipes brow*).
Seriously. In love. I never expected guitar to be used more like a triangle or cowbell (perfect amount of cowbell) emphasizing and pointing things out more than carrying a melody. Infinity Guitars stands out for its hand clapping and tambourine, which brought me back to Jack and Diane camp fire sing a long nostalgia-land and my overwhelming desire as a youth to sleep with Stevie Nicks and Ian Astbury. Crown of the Ground and Kids made me want to stomp my feet to the force of the beat. And kick through some wood. And get into a fight with my grandmother. (EDIT: Get into a fight with your grandmother, dressed in a leather jacket and fingerless gloves.)
It's sugary sweet, pink bubblegum you are afraid to bite into because you know it's concealing razor blades but fuck if you didn't harvest all that shit on Halloween, so you'll bite around it carefully; if there was a cheer-leading team shouting its cranked out static/reverb heavy anthems, they'd do so in ripped fish nets and combat boots. Braless (for the bounce).
I'd totally do the team, cam whore style.
Your perv grandfather can even watch.

Tolido Sherpa Booties

Every once and awhile I covet something like to own it would be a gift from the Virgin Mary's sweet vagina and these boots, these boots I tell you...

Please little, Cherub Baby Jesus, with your rosy cheeks and freshly scented fat little ass, please please please, find me these boots in a size 10. I love you. You are so freaking awesome with all that saving souls and stuff, way to go. I'll totally trade in my eternal life card, seriously, this deal is weighted crazy style in your benefit, just sayin', help me out here, Karma pop tops, Charity trading cards WHATEVER IT IS I HAVE TO DO. Amen.
P.S. Thank you.
P.P.S. Love you.


hunker down, kiddies.

non essential: celebrity candles and underwear

Ol' Skrawberry: What's a candle party?

Sprankles: a party. with candles.
Sprankles: women sit around. light candles. the candles are all from some specific place.
Sprankles: they are better than all the other candles ever made apparently.
Sprankles: you learn to properly light a candle.
Sprankles: how to properly extinguish.
Sprankles: how long to light the candle for.
Sprankles: you smell candles.
Sprankles: you play games to win small candles as gifts.
Sprankles: then, you look at candles all set up around the room.
Sprankles: you view a candle catalog.
Sprankles: you order candles.
Sprankles: your host then makes money off your orders to order herself more candles on top of the candles she purchases.
Sprankles: its a mother fucking vagina EVENT
Sprankles: i go for the liquor.
Sprankles: well.
Sprankles: i went for the liquor.
Sprankles: to pass the time in alaska drinking in my own house, i went to the occasional candle party to pass the time drinking in someone elses house.
Sprankles: but, this was the requirement. candles.
Sprankles: i sniffed them. i looked. i ordered.
Sprankles: but mostly, i drank.
Sprankles: i just thought, that somehow i had entered and left that level of purgatory.
Sprankles: apparently, no.
Sprankles: i have been recently invited to a candle party.
Sprankles: i fear the guilt of not answering the invite, its a peer pressure thing among vaginas and they are fucking MEAN about that shit.
Sprankles: "well, I went to your ________ party last month, hmph."
Sprankles: _________ = Tupperware (yes, they still have those), or jewelry, or cooking utensil/dishes, or knick knack paddy wack party
Sprankles: for me the __________
Sprankles: is a wig party, or a spy party, or a wear a red shirt party
Sprankles: apparently this counts in the guilting portion of the program though.
Sprankles: i find it is a reason for a gaggle of women to flock together briefly and quack loudly
Sprankles: and drink liquor, as their continued existence was not a good enough reason
Sprankles: i just don't want to go and sniff fucking candles. i have sinus issues.
Sprankles: i always want to sneeze and the wine, is usually fucking white.
Sprankles: its like some new wave of vaginas has discovered you can get free things from hosting these parties
Sprankles: when they could go to the store and buy 5 times the amount of candles
Sprankles: but those are not X candles
Sprankles: which are the best candles
Sprankles: known by all women as the best candles
Sprankles: last month, during a haze of wine
Sprankles: i agreed to go to a jewelry party.
Sprankles: it was bad.
Sprankles: really, fucking bad.

Ol'Skrawberry: ...another pleasant valley sunday.... here in status candle land...

Sprankles: i think, i think i am being tortured.
Sprankles: my next door neighbor in alaska
Sprankles: her entire house was filled with shit she bought at parties like these
Sprankles: and she had fucking crazy candles, i have never seen so many fucking candles
Sprankles: and gold
Sprankles: there was a lot of gold shit in her house, embellished
Sprankles: it looked like her house should have been a castle or museum, but it was a house

Ol'Skrawberry: get you some of that shit.

Sprankles: her name was chi chi

Ol'Skrawberry: fill the place with that stuff.

Sprankles: she was a big black woman, with awesomely long straight relaxed hair, and i used to go over to her house in the morning to see what new shit she had not bought and drink my coffee and watch her iron her husbands underwear and her kids sheets.
Sprankles: i do not understand why underwear required ironing.
Sprankles: in any scenario
Sprankles: for years i tried to come up with a scenario where underwear required ironing
Sprankles: never.
Sprankles: and he had tons.
Sprankles: i have never known someone to have so many pairs of underwear.
Sprankles: what is the purpose of that many pairs of underwear?
Sprankles: even if there is a shortage, you can just not wear underwear.
Sprankles: its a non essential item
Sprankles: in the clothing arsenal.