aren't you glad I am not your wife.

It's a funny thing, whenever I have had to move, my houses have always been swarmed by some sort of bug. Once it was mosquitos, the next grasshoppers, then moths, another tiny ants, and this one, the mother of all bug fears for me, palmetto bugs. My girlfriend says it is the bad energy being released and that I should expect such each and every time. Flying fucking cockroaches, coming in from outside, every night now and I am spraying chemicals so much and everywhere I am almost sure one of the cats or kids might die soon.

So. This has been my world but fuck it we have one more night in this house of poison, at the time of this writing; we close on the new one tomorrow and FUCK if I am sleeping in Creepsville any longer.

Setting. 1:30am. AM.

My husband has been asleep for about 2 hours. I have just taken my sleeping pill and it's kicking in, making me drowsy, aw sweet slumber, I am becoming mush in the blanketyness love... but then I hear something. A rustling. My eyes pop open. And I know. I know wtf that sound is and I know if I do not attend to this, if I don't look over for confirmation at least, I will be somehow attacked in the middle of the night. Possibly eaten. More likely mangled beyond recognition.

I cannot bear to wake my poor tired husband up, oh no. Let him sleep, I can do this, I can totally do this, I GOT IT HANDLED (he is usually called upon for these types of tasks). I peak over his side of the bed and sure as shit, on the floor, is a bastard fucking palmetto bug. I can't wake him. I have to do this. Be strong. So I grab a shoe. I steady myself and with all my might, like a fucking super hero, I LEAP over his sleeping body, right onto the floor like spiderman and start beating the ground as this fucker evades me like a ninja on meth. BAM BAM BAM and now I am screeching because I cannot kill it, have realized this in my head and assume it is going to go on the attack any moment.

Instead, it rushes into the closet just as my husband wakes up and is turning over to yell "WTF ARE YOU DOING YOU LUNATIC?!?!", ignoring him completely, of course, I begin now throwing every shoe of his and every piece of laundry on the floor to my rear, with no care what so ever, where it is landing, it's projection, it's launch power, NOTHING, all I know is something has to die and it has to die right this instant. I am screaming, throwing things, BAM BAM BAM with the shoe, yelling "FUCK YOU!!!", my husband is yelling at me "WTF IS GOING ON WHY ARE YOU THROWING MY SHOES, OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!" until thats it. I have officially lost it. Not my mind, the palmetto bug.

So I back up and wait with that shoe in my hand, head full of meds, zoned in like a trained and lethal killer, all while being yelled at for "losing my shit", for "launching all the shoes across the room", "onto the bed", "in the next room", I even "hoisted out" with one hand "the entire shoe rack" to toss "into the" adjacent "wall", but to me it is all just very quiet, far away sounding and nothing to attend to right this moment. I have answered to nothing , I have spoken no words to my husband or acknowledged he is even awake. This is not helping, I am sure, in hindsight.

Then I open the door and call upon the cats. Come cats. Come help your mother. They saunter in just happy to be IN the room but they know some shit has gone down, as there is a mine field of shoes and clothing. I shut off the light and steady myself on the bed waiting. Perched like a gargoyle. Still no replies to this mutilated face my husband is now making.

He is obviously irritated (probably traumatized), how could you do this, what is wrong with you, do you know you are a lunatic, you have lost your fucking mind its almost 2am, why are you still awake, have you taken medication, I want to choke the shit out of you right now, you know you are going to kill me one day. The usual, you know.

And then, almost immediately, the cats bum rushed the bastard out (fucking love those cats, we have mind meld). I again leap over my husband (him increasing vocal levels, screaming at me "again"), onto the floor, and with a mighty cry of "FUCK YOU!!!!" BAM BAM BAM, I totally ended that bugs life. I stood up prouder than a Lion and shook out my mane, sweat beading on my brow, moonlight shining in to illuminate my kill. There was silence in the room and the love of my life, I think his jaw was just sort of hanging open.

I instantly returned to total girl and cried and cried until he agreed to get up out of bed and remove the carcass, flush twice, wash your hands with soap and hot water (the OCD in me has to be fed for these things). And he was able to do this because he was wide awake at that point, thanks to Super Jules, Insane Wife of the New Millennium.

The next morning, looking at the carnage around the room I said to my loving husband, "Looks babes, I totally cleaned out your closet for you". Never ever have I before thought he might actually choke me but I am telling you now, I came damn close, DAMN CLOSE.

Can't WAIT to see what's in store for tonight.

Totally sure he is excited as well.

bummer.

I need the super power of giving out Herpes.

Cranky like there is a knife sticking out of my back in a place I can't reach to pull it out.

I watched the President's address, and the follow up puke-fest that was the Speaker of the House's jacked up reply. This is why I do not watch the news. I read it. Occasionally at that, because if necessary I can shut my browser, or burn the fucking newspaper, stomping the ashes screaming FUCK YOU. I cannot punch out a TV, this would electrocute me and as much as I would like to test out the theory that you have an orgasm when electricity zings through your body, I have a vibrator that can produce the same results. No need for destructive violence. My workhorse even plugs in the wall, I am that fucking hardcore.

If you are reading this and are a member of the tea party, then drop me forever as a friend now, because I will never get you, ever, we cannot socialize any more, we cannot be friends, that is all. Government works because those elected compromise, the system is chaotic, on the verge of collapse at any moment, any class in government illustrates this quite painfully, scaring me more than swimming with sharks in a chum bathing suit. Order within chaos, should be our nation's slogan, fuck that One Nation Under God shit. You give here, you take there. This bullshit stance that the House (and let's be honest, its the "newest" members, don't beat around the bush, let's name names, let's call people out publicly and shame them) is taking of "We aren't gonna take it" equals fucking insane, not to mention out of date, not even Dee Snider looks this clobbered up anymore. Default? First time ever? Are you fucking kidding me you assholes? And don't you dare say the president is holding his own ground and not budging in the same way, SOLVE THE FUCKING PROBLEM YOU HALF WITS, YOU WERE ELECTED TO DO A FUCKING JOB THAT WE PAY YOU FOR. CLUE: YOU AREN'T DOING IT FOR THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLE. Nothing about Boehner's speech made me feel like he was considering what was best for me. It was selfish, it spoke direct to a very limited audience that would benefit from no new tax cuts, lining pockets with more gold. Above $250,000, if you make above $250,000 in your household, for fucks sake, the tax hike won't mean you pay the government $10,000 more in taxes, why oh why can't politicians just be honest? They spit thinly veiled lies out like snakes in kitten clothing. On no, you commoners toiling in the fields, if we pass this legislation, every poor person in American will have their furniture, their cars and their dogs taken away immediately, don't let it happen!

I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.

I got ON MEDS to feel normal and THIS is the shit I get?

"Before I served in Congress, I ran a small business in Ohio." 20 years ago. Good job, so what. One rule of business that I DO know, you have to spend money to make money, and if you think simply cutting back on a budget is going to suddenly save everything, you are both misguided and probably watching more FOX news than should be medically allowed. That station needs a serious case of herpes and the universe as my witness, I hope everyone broadcasting or involving themselves with this Satanic entity (using your own religion, oh no we aren't religious, against you, why not try and cast the demons out of your own producers with your pitchforks and calls for burnings at the stake), go straight to hell, boy, go straight to hell. And get herpes.

How is it allowed to be called FOX NEWS?

I want to grind bricks in between my teeth.

You know what Cut, Cap and Balance sounds like? Another easy slogan some marketing fuck made up, so that those not paying attention have something small to seize on and remember, as most minds can only handle a list of three of anything easily. It's actually a pretty calculated move, for that I applaud the psychology behind the slick manipulation (nothing like routing for the bad guys in the movies, except this is real life and that dual citizenship in Italy is looking more awesome everyday I tell you). People will walk away from the two speeches numb and only remembering Cut, Cap and Balance, because its old world, advertising like, create a memorable theme and stick with it. Drink Your Ovaltine, shucks, "Wow that sounds awesome hunny, don't you think that Cut, Cap and Balance thing sure is swell, he sounds so smart and speaks to us in simple terms we can understand, want a cocktail now, go ahead, turn on the game, the potpie is almost ready". The fatcats get fatter, and business executives buy new summer homes. The knives are in our backs. We are all working too hard to survive. The Middle class is hanging on by a thread to a cliff and instead of saving themselves, they are going to hand sharp scissors to elected representatives only concerned with 1. Reelection and 2. Not losing their goddamn tax cuts. Hope you have a parachute handy.

If you make $120,000 and your friend makes $17 million, the amount you pay to the government SHOULD NOT BE THE SAME. Real life example, of people known, not a fucking joke, except for it is, it's a big fucking joke and people are not fucking getting it and I don't fucking understand.

I cannot tolerate the idea of a multitude of morons electing unintelligent, gun toting, fetus rallying, "simple" "like you and me" men and women (who are only being considered because they have nice asses, tits, and cheerleader rants about bearcubs), who know not a goddamn thing about history, who use "I was elected as head of my High School Pep Club/Football Team" as if it were a legitimate example of governing experience. Business men in office is a bad fucking idea. Those at the top aren't concerned about the mailroom employee, they are only concerned about the Board of Directors. You should know better. YOU ALREADY FUCKING KNOW THIS, YOU BITCH ABOUT YOUR BOSSES ON FACEBOOK, WHY DO YOU FORGET SO EASILY, FUCKING HELL. And business men who run companies, who fuck Medicare up the ass, that company admitting to over ten felonies - are you fucking kidding me? We elected Lord Voldemort/Rick Scott as our Governor and he is raping Florida as we speak, no apologies, no reach around, violating every safe guard, dodging bullets, as there were none, omgstfupleasegetherpes.com. You know what. He killed Harry Potter. Can you rally behind that? I hate you Florida, and that has nothing to even do with last night.

This is why I can't watch the news.

This is why I drink.

Fuck off Tuesday, you make me want to hurl razors.

yup.

want. maybe. uh. get back to me.

I leaned over my computer this morning and tiny sticks fell out of my hair, which makes me wonder what I was up to last night. Werewolf shenanigans I have no time for right now. There are must complete items on my procrastination list that I am working on putting off as we speak. A spirit of lazy so ingrained in my being it will take an exorcist to remove (round two). I am that into doing nothing, won't even bother to move my eyes in either direction or swallow the spit working its way down my chin when staring at walls.

Committed. I am committed to the uncommitted, 50% of the time, or with just argument, 52% of the time. Or maybe the paperwork was using the word in another context. Doesn't matter. Either way, the possibility of coloring books is HIGH.

Coloring books are one of the reasons everyone should have a 5 year old best friend. Also, legos. Legos never go out of style no matter how old you get. They need to put those things in nursing homes, up the happiness factor for those rotting, miserable as hell folks. No one really likes bingo damn it, I am not sure why this is the standard activity for the old. When I was visiting my grandmother, they gave out cookies for winning and it made me think of trying to organize a small and very slow prison break just to increase the blood pressure of some given up on life 'we are so bored please just kill us' folk. None of them wanted cookies. What about some Jack Daniels. Lap dance Fridays, late night porn hour on the community television (with popcorn and kleenex provided), weed, maybe some beer bong challenges, fuck it, hand out heroin. Its the end, shouldn't you be allowed everything you want?

I totally plan on becoming a heroin addict at around 70. Who cares. Give me.

So junkies, you cannot buy a pack of legos without selling an ovary (do people buy those things, I am speculating here) for the starter pack, plain blocks, no decoration, no flower pots or people. When did plastic blocks become too damn expensive? Most everything is build a space ship, pirate ship or methadone clinic complete with EXACT directions. Are the children unable to be creative anymore? What happened to jacked up looking houses, holes for windows (had to figure that shit out, didn't you) with tiny cars that looked like wagons? Lego sets can't already be vintage items, this idea is foul and I won't stand for it.

List of items needed STAT:

1. Blocks only lego set.

2. Fresh from the press, plastic dinosaurs with no moveable anything.

3. Silly Putty.

4. Werewolf coloring book with the large set of Crayola crayons, the one with macaroni and cheese orange in there, you know what I mean.

5. Heroin (you see what I did there).

6. Fingerpaint (the kind that stains everything) with some of that shiny, slippery paper.

7. Spaghetti O's, apple juice and some pretzels.

Get your asses over here.

We have priority work to get done.

you scream, i scream, stfu.

if you only knew

learned tool making

God damn stab-y dreams. Wake up in a panic thinking 'holy shit where is my shank!', fists balled up wanting to punch my poor adorable husband in the face.

Love is assuming the woman you married will either 1. Give you a stress induced heart-attack within 5 years or 2. Turn sociopath and stab you in the middle of the night for not putting the dishes away, but still go through the 'I do' paperwork then put her on your life insurance policy. I still wish I had some kidnapping and shake down money in a safety deposit box, just in case. He's working on it, you know, because we plan on one day going to head chopping Mexico for a visit as I want a zebra striped donkey so bad, I can't even let the dream die for a day (Totally think "Visit Head Chopping Mexico!" should be a new marketing campaign considered to increase tourism to the area; maybe make a deal with local drug lords that "cross your heart, hope to die" only natives heads will roll down streets or be perched on doorsteps. There could be a danger tour to the acid tanks or back alley prostitution parades, I have all kinds of worldly ideas, someone please give me a little influence, who's dick do you have to suck to get some shit done around here? Why can't everywhere be like Hollywood. Sad.).

I have to be prepared for every scenario. That's all I'm getting at. Tonight in fact, I think I am going to take a few plastic cups into my bathroom and make real shanks with only a book of matches, those cups and the toilet seat. TV teaches me all kinds of good knowledge I need to put into real world practice should the recall arise. If it is filed away, I only need to tell my head secretary to go to the cabinet for retrieval. This evades most but critical in the event my kidneys or jugular are ever to be at stake. You never know. Just look at Casey Anthony. Poor child spent 3 years behind bars and was completely innocent!

Sorry. Bitter. Someone shank me, not for my extreme sarcasm, but for mentioning her name at all, I hate everyone of you who ever interrupted my "Did you hear what's going on in ________ country" conversation starter for "No, but Casey Anthony licked a toad when she was 8 + an asshole at 18, and they think its linked to her kid killing habits, did you know a zebra striped donkey might be THE FATHER?!". You did this to me. Watch your backs in the shower, is all I am saying.

Other things on my to learn list:

How to make a working zip gun.

How to throw a spear (desert island scenario).

Proper shark punching techniques.

Foraging for berries and nuts that will not rot my intestines out.

Sewing up a major gash using sinew and a wooden needle.

How to properly battle the Decepticons (fuck you, it could happen)

Shank: its my new word of the week.

I'll shank a badger, just for fun.

I'll shank your mom, my cake ain't done.

it's required sometimes.

Billy Present's Jugular, Marijuana addiction implicated: Now on Breaking Fing News.

I gave up on my Facebook stalking experiment. Bummer, sorta. Like anyone expected I would finish this, please. So new to the game are you.

Data compiling, statistics and demographics on game app players, that was my plan, to catch non readers up. Or, maybe I failed to mention what I have been doing for the last few months, on the sly. Regardless. I haven't been on the site in over 2 weeks, since my G+ invite. Posting from my blog yes, but interacting, researching, not so much. It's kinda nice to give up on the manic task and not having to worry about saying FUCK and my mothers christian neighbor seeing it, running the report over, so she can call asking me who I am and crying again because I have tattoos and hate religion.

She still hasn't gotten it, her image will always be this vision of me wrapped in a sundresses, handing out daisies and singing early Beatles songs (I will always sing Beatles songs).

Well, thats what you get for doing acid and coke while preggers kiddies: a starving medicated artist, running through life with a pair of scissors in her hand and a toothbrush in her mouth. [Cue: After school special NOW.]

Several months of creeping with my other Facebook identity, here is my basic summary: Vampire/Mafia Wars players are detached folk. I suppose this sort of thing happens a lot to those frequently online, the tease of being whomever they see themselves to be very alluring; a large majority never posting real pictures of themselves or going by real names either. I do not implicate everyone in this, however there was a significant amount of these players that believed they were Vampires, dressed like them, discussed drinking blood as though this was common practice among friends during dinner.

Maybe it's just been awhile that I have socialized in these circles. Maybe the shit is on the menu at Sizzler, fuck, what do I know. If the television (late ex: True Blood) made a cool show about zebra striped donkeys playing in fields, everyone would want to be a prancing zebra striped donkey (then I wouldn't have to travel to head chopping Mexico in order to get my picture taken with one, damn it you bastards). Instead, we have Mob Wives, I Have Too Much Money and Time on My Hands Wives and Billy the Exterminator who wears spikes on his T-Shirt (I have never understood his need to bedazzle the attire, frankly it scares the children).

So, in the next few years I can look forward to an overabundance of roach wasp killers/raccoon armadillo releasers, snobby orange tinted New Jersey (actually in Iowa) suburbanites with 25k credit card debt but eight breast implant surgeries under their belt, and way more hoarders. But I don't mind the hoarders, this return to bird like nesting is actually fascinating in a evolutionary sort of way. Fucking lay some eggs already, geez. I am still waiting for the show where they find the dead body buried in the muck. Gonna be awesome. Hurrah, hoarders, I need a t-shirt and a donation hotline for support. This is Amerika get it STAT, before three minutes go by and I forget everything you said, omfg do you see that, the latest piece of shit celebrity news (don't we have tabloids for this crap) is broadcasting as Priority Number One Headline CHARLIE SHEEN (or _______) JUST SAID SOMETHING WE NEED TO ANALYZE FOR THE NEXT 5 WEEKS on every station, please, someone, stab me in the eyes or gut me, I really do.not.understand.

Giving up, the life force... draining. I... loved... you... all (my 1%).

[Aside: Lay off the makeup tv people, I could carve my name in your cheeks]

I say combine some things here. I want a Mafia Wars surge complete with Reality TV fuck you in the eyes show. Let's bring back the suit/hat wearing, gun toting, cop bribing, gangsters (not gangsta) and let them loose on the populace; blurred identities of course, no need to get people all arrested and stuff, there are enough non-violent pot smokers law enforcement can wrangle up to handle the prison population/slave labor needs of private corporations rolling in the cash vault like little piglets. I think Mob Wives was the precursor to this anyway, and why not. We have been obsessed with the "glamour" of the Mafia for over three decades. Hell, I am all for anything that culls the herd, including the release of all the privately owned tigers in the states (my mantra for years). The plan is flawless, takes care of the jobless, homeless, debt and small business issues, it would be almost like legalizing pot, except for it has just about the same chance of actually happening.

Leave it up to lawmakers to fuck underage boys in the ass then scream from a pulpit about not letting gay people have rights.

The rich just get richer.

The poorer get distracted by Vampire Wars.

Fuck it.

Just call me Queen and present jugular.

brb

well. I sort of promise.

I love people. I don’t understand most of the world, but I enjoy it like going to the zoo. Watching behavior from behind safety glass and bars of steel is a great way to spend the afternoon. It can get nauseating when entering into the smelly monkey house and the hippos are generally fat assed mean bastards, but the diversity of the rest of the animals is quite amazing. Elitists, idiots, children, adults who act like children, professionals, separatists, creative types, extremists, peacocks, just plain cocks, dreamers, scammers, cookie-cutter sheep, snakes, pimps and hoes, and wanderers.

If everyone was separated by bars, it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t get along. They could growl, curse, throw shit and be foul all they wanted.

Bars and cages are needed. Tigers naturally hate on bunnies.

Friends have told me I come off as a dick. Cold. Mean. Heartless. Jerky. Bitch-esque. My husband frequently stares open mouthed and repeats, 'you know I want to stab/choke you right now', uh, a lot.

Honestly, this is always total news to me. I imagine in my head, I am like a tiny little bunny hopping around and wiggling my bunny nose looking for carrots. Maybe it is the cursing. I cuss, my god I fucking cuss. Maybe it is all the threats. Or the ninja chops to the neck when no one is paying attention. It's a game, people, you have to play back. Not my problem if you didn't get the rules ahead of time, shit.

People mislabel me and really, it's just that I am really shy and antisocial. Also, my face naturally grimaces in it's relaxed state. I generally look like someone just pissed in my corn flakes and I am about to take that person down with a machete. Maybe a blow torch.

I don’t want to seem like a jerk.

I want to be a fluffy cloud of happiness and love. I want to whistle while you work (Let’s not get carried away, I have no desire to work. Ever.), sprinkle fairy dust, emit light, carry you into fucking wet dream-land and urge you into orgasm. I hope I do that in some sort of twisted, head rolling, gutting you with semi-sharp knives sort of way. Raised by wolves, my husband tells me. The Universe didn't provide me with gumdrops. I have fangs, you know. Big pointy fangs.

I am trying. Really.

Don't stare, but please feed me.

I promise not to spit.

In your face.

hardware aisle, please.

Recreating Calvin

in the event.

enjoy that tunafish.

do it.

lock the doors.

unrelated Phil, tea-bags anticipating jazz whore

There is nothing worse than a name dropper. If you drop a name and do not have to explain who the person is (i.e. that Bob is a famous astrophysicist who assisted in discovering dark matter, in which case I may just drop to my knees immediately) then you are guilty of one of the foulest social crimes in humanity. Assumed elevation of ones self by holding onto the balloon string of another. This thing may not be wasted on others, but for me, as we are heading to the beach together, you might as well have just said you have genital herpes and the shit is damn near flared out all over your thighs. I am sure there are very famous people who have wonderful views on life and love, thoughts that we could share, some probably even play board games like me. But these famous people are not my neighbors. Oprah is not calling to find out how my three legged cat is doing. Paris and I are not going to lay out and get a tan. And if one famous person ever did, say hello, is it me you're looking for? I would answer no but hey, wanna play some UNO and listen to Miles Davis (if it was Jazz Sunday, otherwise maybe some Modest Mouse). Cause I am not a bitch. I just can't be bothered; there are a thousand other people, with stories and jokes I would rather meet, that I accidently run into on the street or through a simple comment left online. They are the real stars to me. The famous should be the scientists discovering things that we'd never understand. I know I have said this before. Its like SoapBox v2.0 or maybe even v3.0. I am reminded once again, and I must say, once again, those things we should never forget.

Never. Forget.

The Silent E.

Unless this concerns Zach Galifianakis, who is probably the only person with whom I would currently mother a love child with. And I bet my husband would even let me on account of him loving the show Bored to Death as much as he does, so WIN. I would jump on his back in a heart beat and wash away his soiled hands with my tears of joy. Tongue extended for personal Tea-bagging Happiness Festival 2011 (thru 2050 at least).

What.

Top paragraph rendered totally moot, fuck me.

I'd open my legs faster than a Chopped champion getting into some packaged ground turkey.

What.

Meds obviously not at acceptable levels for society.

Try again, doc.

Totally unrelated: I miss Captain Phil.

Rabbit and the Story of the Shredded ATM card

OOOOOOOOOooooooooooo

It's a rough life for my husband

huurah hurrah

It's a borked life for my husband

hurrrrrraaaaaaaaah

If he doesn't gut me with a spoon

I'm sure to raise his blood pressure soon

It's a fucked like for my husband

hurrah

New song by the Furry Pterodactyls.

"You Have No Friends because You have Gingivitis" Album release party July 2012.

So here is what sorta happened. Sorta in the sense that it happened but probably my recollection of events is a tad skewed on account of me being what they call in certain circles, off (not like bad eggs), but that's just some over educated, palm pilot using, lab-coaters opinion. My friend Sarah thinks I am quite nice and smell pleasant, thank you Sarah.

Right.

This past weekend, in a fit of I am not sure, I somehow managed to shred my ATM card. By shred, I mean cut up into a hundred small pieces and slivers with an industrial pair of scissors that could probably cut through fingers though I have never tried this trick because I am not a magician and fingers cost money to sew back on, money I don't have. Yet (anyone have a lighter and want to make a bet?).

It went a little like this:

Illogical Wife: "I'll cut my ATM card up."

Logical Husband: "Don't do that I will just hold on to it then when you want it back, I will give it back to you."

Illogical Wife: (slides card over)

Illogical Wife: "I'll fucking cut it up, I swear to fucking god."

Logical Husband: "Come on, let's be reasonable."

Logical Husband: (slides card back)

Illogical Wife: "I'll fucking cut it up, I swear to fucking god!"

Illogical Wife: (throws card at husband)

[Silence - Minutes Pass - Assumed Manic Episode Logically Over Based on Past Manic Episodes - Result Should Involve Tears and Sorry's]

Logical Husband: (slides card back)

Illogical Wife: "OH MY FUCKING GOD I'M GONNA SHRED THIS MOTHER FUCKING CARD!!!"

Illogical Wife: (leaps off bed, sprints to kitchen)

Logical Husband: (calmly follows to watch)

Curious Kids: "What's mom doing?"

Logical Husband: "Being mom."

He's a saint, I tell you.

Protecting the rest of the world, I tell you.

This kinda makes him Superman.

I make make him a cape, stay tuned.

FYI

Shredding ones ATM card is a very stupid thing to do. I almost ran out of gas, because I had no card. Every day for the last week, I have eaten lunch from a vending machine with change from my car or starved, I have not been able to purchase JACK SHIT, you get it, done, over.

Compounding this problem: I cannot call to get myself another card. Not because I am physically unable to but mentally, I cannot. Why is this you ask (no one is asking)? Because doing so acknowledges that I am an uber psycho retard in need of a cage. Please refer back to prior sentence referencing one, "Sarah".

So a big thank you to Heather, my coworker and blessed savior, who just happens to have a husband at the same bank, that was able to forward me a new card after she called him and explained the situation.

Complete with tears of hilarity, pointed right at me.

I am here for your amusement.

It's what I do. It's my job.

It's cool; much love.

Has taken on a life of it's own. Bravo.

More.

More heads will roll today.

Patrick. Bringer of Heads.

something needs to roll.

Coworker: What do you need me to do?

Worker: feel my pain.

Worker: that's all i need you to do right now.

Worker: hear my tiny tears hit the floor.

Worker: believe that angels are committing suicide in honor of the extreme fuck-up-ed-ness of this entire job, sacrificing their good karma to come raining down upon me like little sparkles.

Worker: i want to believe we can work through this.

Worker: will you hold my hand?

Worker: *sniff*

Worker: tight?

Coworker: Aye.

Worker: you are a true friend.

Worker: now, BRING ME SOME FUCKING HEADS!

Random List Monday.

1. Never pass up the opportunity to drop kick someone from an elevated position. Waist high is good enough.
2. Always wear shoes you can fight in or defend yourself with when going out at night. Bitch slapping someone with a flip flop does very little to discourage anal rape.
3. Assume all people you know are potential serial killers. Act accordingly. Everyone has the potential to become a sociopath. You may realize too late. Avoid the axe.
4. Escalators are dangerous. Don't fucking play. Get on in an orderly manner, maintain position, step widely as you exit.
5. Mind the bus.
6. Shenanigans end up in eye loss 89% of the time. Your mom was right. Call her. Apologize.
7. Never, ever, whatever you do, in the heat of the moment decide it is a good idea to cut up your only ATM card into a thousand tiny pieces.
8. The whole "Eat More Fiber" "You Need More Fiber in Your Diet" "Fiber is Fucking Awesome" marketing ploys (the last being a very brief ad campaign in which the people responsible were immediately sacked), come off very lie-y, if you know what I mean.
9. You will never know what I mean, not really and this is probably best.

They're fucking clown shoes.

"Jay and Silent Bob are terrible, one-note jokes that only stoners laugh at. They're fucking clown shoes. If they were real, I'd beat the shit out of them for being so stupid. I can't believe Miramax would have anything to do with this shit. I, for one, will be boycotting this movie. Who's with me?"
- Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back

Thank you, hubasaurus, for the awesome beer purchase.

Down Low Dining Event, Molecular Gastronomy FTW!

I attended a Molecular Gastronomy event last night, yes, IN Orlando (*gasp*) that was beyond fucking amazing. If you do not know what molecular gastronomy is, then read up foodies. In short it's a mixture of food and science. Liquid nitrogen, enzymes, dehydration, reconstitution, deconstruction. Seriously, if you threw a few math equations in there (math = measurements + time + heat + ratios) my vagina just might explode.
Oops. Neveryoumindthemess.

I first saw this type of cooking on Top Chef. Then SyFy ran 6 episodes of Marcel's Quantum Kitchen (taped them all), which was a little cooking, a little science lesson and a little reality melodrama; 2 outta 3 ain't bad, quote-th the Meat Loaf. That was it for me. I had to have it at all costs. I began thinking of where we would need to travel to get to this type of restaurant - not every chef has this knowledge or this creativity and sure as shit, I would have never guessed in a million years, Vapid Plastic Orlando would have been one of them.
I stand, absolutely corrected.
O-town 1, Jules 0 (j/k my score is like 607,362.4, fools).

At first we felt a bit out of a place. When I made the reservations, we had not imagined it would take place with less than 20 people, seated together at a long table, where we mixed and mingled for over an hour with strangers before dining. Lots of wine. There was lots of wine.
But it made the experience all the more intimate. Uncomfortable turned into ease and ease turned into laughter. I met some interesting people I can not wait to see at next months event, which will feature South American cuisine. I was amused by Michael, White Wolf Cafe's owner (where the event was held), who I did not nearly get enough time to chat with. And then there was/is Chef Jason. We were able to walk into his kitchen and listen to explanations of processes and view preparation of elements we were to consume later. He had just enough information to tantalize the less knowledgeable, and an overabundance of terminology for the more researched. How.fing.cool.
Not to mention, he is also, a really nice guy.
(Or a serial killer in Chef Disguise, come on, I can't go all in even with Four Aces)

I am by no means a culinary expert. But I do like to eat, I tend to eat out a lot, I like to try new restaurants (as much as possible, Hubby rates restaurants on Beer Tap diversity rather than food quality, so sometimes I am straight up munching some chicken fingers - gah) and I can tell you where to get a few of the best dishes in town; one of those being the Filet Minion at White Wolf Cafe where Jason is the Chef and how we heard about the Down Low Dining event (another great place would be St. Andrews for the chicken fingers). Or well, I can at least tell you my favorites. There really is no way for someone to explain these dishes. I mean, I could try but you wouldn't get it, because you cannot smell or feel textures through words and all senses are required. To do so would be tainting art. I have snagged a few photos, however, of the Amuse, the Appetizer, our Salad and Main Course. They are here, for your viewing pleasure courtesy of photographer Jessica Feran.

but fuck me anyway, is how it always goes.

I dig on the idea of giant rats, just not real ones.

Hello Blog. The crack, sometimes it just gets in the way of PRODUCTION. oh. no.
When I choose not to write it isn't because I have nothing to say; I have too much and the flood of thoughts makes my keyboard kryptonite. Mar.
Speaking of ark building, it is being managed by some interesting RX planks these days but we will get to that some other time. The verdict is still out on this one, Jury, my Jury(!).

We are buying a house, Hubbasaurus Rex and I. Holy crap. A house to hop around in, where if I break the floor, I CAN patch it up with duct tape and no one can say SHIT or hold onto my deposit for repairs. And other such things. Like bright orange paint and striped hallways (hoping that sentence was wearing a Cloak of Invisibility).

After having looked at several potentials, we've pursued "the one": donated DNA, bone marrow, blood, first-borns and so many printed copies of paperwork, that the hippie in me feels sad for being responsible for the equivalent of cutting down at least 10 trees. We are infiltrating the fold by moving further into the suburbs, where I will suspect many more of my neighbors committing foul, foul acts in extra wide garages. Trimmed hedges in the shapes of BMWs. A vampiric HOA with Security Guard syndrome. I am totally out of place but can play this role and even get used to it. Love it. Debating buying one of those two seater golf carts, to ride over to the Country Club on Saturdays, dressed in a tennis outfit (fuck the racquet though), martini in hand (extra olives). 10am. I am a late riser but a lifer. Hell. This MAY be fucking heaven. Scratch all of that. Give me my apron and Martha Stewart magazines, I GOT THIS.
Besides. I live with John Fucking Barrymore. Bathrobe wearing motherfucker.

In our colorful search we have come to understand better, the terminology associated with housing for sale.
For your future or current aide:

Pond view actually means: Ditch in the front or backyard.
Handyman special actually means: You will need to gut the place or burn it down and rebuild.
Unoccupied actually means: There will be dead roaches everywhere, be careful where you step.
Needs TLC actually means: Walk gently so your foot doesn't go through the floor.
Natural beauty actually means: Dirt in place of grass, hedges look like trees, vines are now making their way INTO the house.
Rustic beauty actually means: Old ass fixtures/appliances or miles from anything you need (hospital, store). Spiders. Rats.
Colorful neighborhood actually means: Rednecks, cars on blocks, houses painted weird colors, piles of junk everywhere.
Charming actually means: Appliances pre date 1970, wallpaper. Lots of it.
Modern actually means: Early 90s cookie cutter, lazy architect, non-licensed contractor, may not withstand 25mph winds.
One owner actually means: Someone just died in the house or has been sent to a retirement facility (see Unoccupied).
Great schools actually means: No one has been murdered in this neighborhood in the past year.
Quirky actually means: We took the garage and made it into 5 closet-sized bedrooms, in a maze pattern with a sink somewhere in the middle you will have to hook up to your water supply, if you want but you dont have to.
Unique actually means: See above.
In-law apartment actually means: There's a bed in the tool shed out back.
Spare bathroom actually means: A toilet and sink in the garage.
Urban living actually means: Ghetto (see Colorful neighborhood).
Zero lot line actually means: When you open up your bedroom window its going to hit the next house. If you spit out of your bathroom window, it will land in your neighbors kitchen. Hope you use public transportation or a bike because there is parking for only 1/4 a car.

We have none of these. We have big red front door, move-in ready with a pool and garden which we have come to understand is described simply as MONEY.
Now on to packing the old house up in boxes.
May stack and use them to create an indoor maze.
I dig on the idea of giant rats, just not real ones.