Filed under: self indulgence
Went with Courtney on Saturday and finally got branded :)
Filed under: amusement
…our very own bastardized Japanese game show! Who is EXCITED?! Is it the splashing? Is it the non-stop, fast-beat techno? The shiny unitards????
OH SHIT, I CAN’T DECIDE!
Filed under: amusement
I once went to CVS looking for (the fabulously OTC) Zyrtec. In the isle, I ran into a pair of women discussing which medication to get for a one of their colds that would not make them sleepy. Being me, I butted in, and suggested they steer clear of the ones with diphenhydramine and doxylamine. The one on the left met me with a vacant stare… “di-pen-hi-dri-min? I don’t know that one.” “No worries, I’m a biochem major, and I read labels compulsively. Its just the real name for Benedryl.” “Oooooh! Yeah, we learned about that. I’m a nursing major.”
If ever you wanted to meet a cliquey, self-important, and inept individual look no further than your local hospital. Nurses. In high-demand, these women with no special skill (especially spelling and logic) will be taking care of you on your deathbed.
Nickki in joys bowling.
Jasmin is a pessemist.
And Nurse Princess is… just… oh my god.
The plan for this weekend is awesome!
I am heading down to Courtney’s on Saturday. We are going to each get our first tattoos, henna up our feet, burn incense, and make curry :D In honor of this groovy event, I looked up the chakras associated with our tattoo placement, and am pleasantly surprised…
Courtney is getting a treble clef 
tramp stamp (just above the butt crack, for those of you who don’t know), and I am getting a capital delta 
on the nape of my neck. So Court’s is going to be placed at the first charka, and mine at the fifth chakra. “I am music” and “I speak change.” Frankly, if anyone ever needed to be better in touch with herself, it would be Courtney, and if anyone needed some creative motivation, it would be me. (I am, of course, not serious.) The chakras are as follows:
Filed under: amusement
Why do the fundies have to be so damn funny? I keep trying to fear them and their ravenous homophobia/misogyny, mode of dress, and general slavering zealotry, but they keep trying to convince me of irrational, and frankly ridiculous, shit. Then my stern face breaks, I crack a smile, and shake my head at the absolute absurdity and child-like logic. How could anyone take this seriously?
Admittedly, the content of Playboy is a tad disturbing at times. (Disturbingly like a creamsicle: orange on the outside, ‘nilla all the way through.) But anyone who took a logic class can recognize a slippery slope* fallacy, right?
Be careful, girls, its a short fall from wearing a two-piece bathing suit to selling your ass for meth. But, hey, at least you’ll get to watch some hot anal action to acquire the necessary skills for success in your new profession:
“The victims are shown pornographic films, over and over again for days at a time, so that they get hardened to accept the inevitable and learn what is expected of them.”
I learned everything I need to know from porn.
*If you clicked the link, do not have children. Thank you.
Filed under: secrets
Filed under: tales from dudeland
Its Monday, again. While I happen to rather enjoy my work, I am not impervious to the wave of sloth and apathy associated with Monday mornings. I intentionally keep my Monday workload light in anticipation of this phenomenon. I drink a mildly impressive amount of coffee before I even make it over to the facilities. And still, I remain a grumpass for most of the day.
At this point you should be asking yourself, “Why did she lead this entry about Mondays with a picture of a pith helmet?”
GOOD QUESTION, o observant one!
The truth of the matter is, I sat down to write something possibly insightful, possibly humorous, and most likely pointless, but the Dude sitting behind me began to chuckle aloud in his regular caveman-like grunts, thus wiping my mind clean of creativity and filling it with white-hot rage. Exaggeration? No.
It has taken a few months for me to go from “wow, you’re an asshole” to “wow, I hope you get ulcerative testicular cancer.” During my interview he sat slouched in his chair, playing with his pen, and when his boss asked him if he had any questions for me he replied with, “I really don’t care.” After a few months of hearing all about which chicks he finds hot, how annoying his girlfriend is, his insightful movie critiques, and Southpark episodes played through the speakers on his computer, I’m about ready to make with the stabby. Its times like these that I suspect there was something to eugenics, or that I wish I had a time machine and some condoms for his father.
Predictably against human nature, I will attempt to understand that which I find unnatural and frightening. I will don my pith helm, grab my binoculars, and study the behavior of Regs in their natural habitat (i.e. everywhere I find them, swarming like breeding locusts).
Filed under: self indulgence
Ok ok ok… so chances are that I will end up being made fun of for becoming overly domesticated since I moved back to the northeast, but I can take it.
I have been living with Dr. McAwesome since mid-January. Things are shiny-happy-pretty and its all cuteness and vomit trails wherever we go. But I am a loner at heart.
I don’t care who you are. If I don’t get to be alone for an adequate amount of time, I get stabby. Like grab-ballpoint pen-and-go-for-the eyes stabby. Dr. McAwesome is a math professor over at Tufts — across the street from where we live. He is home a LOT. He tries to stay a bit later than I get home, but it still doesn’t add up to enough time. I don’t get quiet time in the evenings. I don’t get the house to myself on the weekends. I love him to death, but he’s ALWAYS there.
I keep the pens out of sight.
He is going away for all of next week, and he’s sad because he will miss me.
My soul is dancing. I am going to be a complete fucking recluse. I am going to buy some sippin’ tequila and make a necklace and sleep downstairs with the animals and monopolize the bed and leave ALL of the windows open. Fuckin’ aweome.
