Tuesday, September 13, 2011

That One Woman

Growing up I had a nemesis. 


I was 13, she was 19. Which didn't make it a fair fight in the least. Yet somehow I would let her say mean things to me. Steal my clothes and make me cry. Ok, I didn't let her make me cry, she just did it out of the meanness in her heart. 


I had yet to find my voice. 


So about this woman, she wore tons of cosmetics, was super thin, had stringy hair that was never brushed. I'm not going to lie when I say that I wanted to be a little older so I could kick the shit out of her face. I couldn't. 


I was 13 and scared. 


She was around for a while since she dated a family member. 
Until she cheated on him, and got herpes. 


After we moved out of the area, contact was lost with this bitch. Until last week.
Thanks Facebook. A whole lot. 


She found me. 


Requested me to be her friend. 


I am glad I never said anything to her back then, because I saved it all for now. 


She is fat, has a bajillion kids and looks like someone who would literally be cast as a witch in a movie, sans makeup. 


Then I remembered that I never needed to say anything to her. 
She has Herpes. I believe that is a form of punishment for torturing young teens like me. 


Have fun with your Herpes, you mean bitch. 


P.S. Believing in God will not make the Herp go away nor will it make me forget the evil shit you did to me. 


Whore. 



Thursday, August 25, 2011

The Virgin


When I was young, like super young I met this guy at the local convenience store. Don't ask how or why, but we ended up talking. 

I had to be 14, 15 or 16. His name isn't important at this stage of the game but for the sake of him having a name he shall be Carl. Carl was older than I, at least by statutory rape standards. Didn't bother my teen-year-old self in the least. Honestly I should have thought about the consequences, but who does at that age? Not you, dear reader and surely not me.  

WAIT. No I was 16 when I was with what's his face. So I couldn't of have been 16. What was I doing at 15? Hmm. Ok fuck this, for the sake of my story I am going to go with 14. Yes, because I was that age when this happened. I think. 

On-wards. 

Carl was my secret. For several reasons but mainly because he was unattractive. 14 and shallow, that's how I rolled bitches. 

So Carl was always trying to feed me or take my 90 pound ass out to eat. Was it a hint? Perhaps, and it worked. We ate out as much as we could. 

Carl loved to eat. And eat he did, burgers, fries, fried chicken, etc. The unhealthy shit too. It helped tremendously that he was a wee bit on the chunky side. 

No matter, Carl would drive us around in his crappy little green Tercel and tell me stories that I cannot recall, probably because I paid zero attention to him and his weird face. I would catch key phrases and comment on them hoping that he would think that I was aware of what he was yapping on about. Guys will say anything to keep the attention of a hot, young thing.  


One non-relationship and several weeks later..

Carl thought that I liked him.

Hey, it had been a few weeks so why wouldn't he think that. Weeks in ohmagawd-I-am-talking-to-this-really-pretty-young-girl in boy speak is like a few  years so it only makes sense. He started calling me more often to "kick it wiz chu" and go eat. Poor portly Carl, he didn't know I loved eating so much too and was the only reason I kept him in my back pocket. If only he'd ask me, I'd tell his dumb ass to jump off a cliff or hide in a broken fridge. No he did not ask, so shut fuck up and keep reading.

It gets creepy. 


Being that he was older, I had to make up some story about myself because I couldn't give me away. No fucking way.

Why at this point? Not like I was going to marry the guy. He drove a Tercel for beginners and it was hard enough listening to his "woe is me" stories. Fucking Eeyore. All suicidal and shit.

I lied to him and said I was about to turn 16. 14 was close enough. Just to shut him the fuck up. 
He chewed it up, like a Burger King Whopper. I was such a great liar. One of the best I knew. 

Unfortunately for me he asked me when my birthday was. I said the first day that came to mind. April 16th. Did I realize that day was rapidly approaching? Probably not, I couldn't see the end of the week had you asked me.

Haha, the 16th. Was that the best I could come up with? Hell motherfucking yeah. Was it a coincidence that I was turning "16" and my so-called birthday was the "16th"? Yes. Yes it was.

Since the day was near, a few weeks later to be exact, he asked me what I wanted for my birthday.

*Side-note*  First let me get this straight, we were not dating. You hear me! NOT DATING. At all. Hell I must have had other "boys" that I talked to back then. We had kissed a couple of times but I didn't like it too much because his lips bumped up against mine in a very unnatural way. It was slightly repulsing. We were not fucking either. I was a still had my "V" card and I sure as shit was not going to give it to Carl, the self-loathing, tormented soul.

Back to the question at hand. What did I want for my birthday? Shit, a million dollars would have done it, that or my eyebrows grown back normally.
Ok, you got me, a tiny pony in glitter boots named Polly. Because how fucking adorable is that? 
(Source. Here, I mean from THIS VERY BLOG) 

SEE!! FUCKING ADORABLE.

I tried to come up with something so far fetched because why not? Seemed like such a grand idea. It was in my nature. I told him "To go to Disneyland or you know some fun magical land" which technically wasn't a lie. I had never been to Disneyland or a fun magical land and there was no fucking way that it was happening anytime soon. Then I thought I should have said something like "Go to Rome" but at that point I had given him my fake birthday wish. He seemed pretty content with my answer.

As the days grew closer to my "birthday" I simply did what I did with other fake facts given throughout the years and forgot about it. My real birthday was no where near April 16th. That day was just like any other.

The weekend of said fake birthday he said he wanted to "get away." He didn't say where was. 
But who was I to argue? Man I was 14, as gullible as they came. I grabbed a few items stuffed them into a plastic Kroger grocery bag and had him pick me up at an undisclosed location. [My house] Don't laugh at my lack of proper luggage, I had never been out of town before, I DIDN'T KNOW HOW THAT PROCESS WORKED! 

*mutters under breathe* 
Fucking judging people I swear. 

Where were my parents you ask. I have no idea. *shrug* 
I didn't tell a soul that I was leaving. 
Overnight or not, one was going to know that I was with Carl except for Carl. If that was his real name.

They would all laugh at me if they saw him. I chose to just shit the fuck up about him. No one needed to know.

His piece of shit green turd picked me up and off we went. 

Wondering where we were headed he said it was a surprise. 

Until we pulled into a parking lot. 

At a fucking park. 

So he could play ball. 

With his other fat, I mean "portly" friends.  

Oh this was the getting away he was talking about? I see, I see. NO I DON'T FUCKING SEE.  
Talk about disappointment. I could have been at home, eating a quesadilla watching Gilmore Girls or scrubbing the dirt encrusted tub till it gleamed or something equally entertaining with my time. 

Instead I sat around on a bench riddled with graffiti and splinters while Carl and his sweaty portly mens bumped against each other in attempts to put a ball in it's place wearing what left little to my now corrupted imagination. 

Finally, after all that sweating on his hairy man parts [legs], we made our way back to the road in the shit green turd Tercel. 
'Surprisingly' we made a pit stop at McDonalds for some grub.

After our food

He gets on the freeway headed west and drives. 

And drives. 

And keeps fucking driving.


An Hour later..

I finally asked him where we were going. Because I had no fucking clue what the fuck was going on. The city lights were long gone and I felt a mini anxiety attack coming on.  

Might have been gas from the McDonalds, but it felt like anxiety.

Why was I being driven into the desert with this stranger? 
Was he going to kill me? 
Was my "V" card was going to be commandeered? 
My family has no clue that I am gone!! JESUS. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?!

I lost all control of my rational thoughts. I was now in a nightmare complete with this weird looking man and his big fish lips in a shitty little car that I might just explode in.

I hope he doesn't have a gun. I squeamishly thought. That would be bad. NO I think a knife has to be worse. Why didn't I carry a knife with me? Where would he stick my cute little body? His trunk space sucked, surely I wouldn't fit back there. Right?! Wrong, I could totally fit in that little black coffin in the little turd car. 

He had this gross little smirk the whole time. 

More bad thoughts. 
Oh gawd, he IS going to kill me. I wonder if they'll catch him once he is done with my body. No I am with a Necrophiliac! WHAT IS GOING ON!! Please don't let him be a pervert. Like he wasn't already. He is going to use my butt for a pillow I bet! What if he sticks his pinky in my belly button? ... Shit. Do I at least have clean underwear on? 

Just when I started thinking of compromises, bribes and negotiations he says "Disneyland. Remember you wanted to go for your birthday?"

Oh yeah? OHHHHHH yeahhhh.

That. 
Totally forgot.

HAHA of course we are going to Disneyland! Not somewhere off a dirt road. 
Silly me.

Many, many hours later
We arrive in Anaheim with a plan to get a room and get some quick shut eye before embarking on our Disneyland quest. Driving with that twit was so much harder than I knew. I was borderline suicidal.

On the way to California he talked about his whole life story. His caring parents that he wanted me to meet. (Uhh, no fucking thank you, I'll pass) His crazy ex girlfriend. The kids he wanted. The kid he almost had but didn't. The moon, the stars, the god damn milky way.
All of this boring shit I cared nothing about.

He picked the hotel as I waited in the car, hundreds of miles away from anyone I knew. With a stranger.

"God, this is going to make such a good story when I get older, if he doesn't really kill me later" I told myself.

He got the key to the room and walked us up to the second floor of the seedy little blue hotel. As soon as the door opened one thing that stood out to me. 

"One bed?"

Really?

REALLY?

"Listen Carl, there is no way I am sleeping on the same bed as you" I told him.

He told me that they only had one bed available so he took it. Because we were both tired I did not have it in me to argue.

We got ready for bed, I in the locked bathroom, him in the one bedded bed room.

I got into bed, threw down a couple of pillows down on the floor for him and reached for the remote to see what the going ons were in the California.

Hello H-B-O!

All of the channels were....quite the show.

No HBO up in that bitch. Channel after channel it appeared that somewhere back in the office they were running some type of machinery that was playing VHS tapes repeatedly from the 80's & 90's.

Every single channel was porn.

Carl made his way to the bed as my tiny mind tried to cover all the bases they were showing on the t.v.

Carl started rubbing my legs. This is where he kills me. 

Yup, I am dead. 

Then my feet. Serial killers don't rub feet do they? Shit, that's exactly what they do. I am so fucked right now.

I was way too tired to argue. I started drifting to sleep when I felt it.

It being wet.

I know you are confused with this whole story but it was wet. My toes. My toes were being wet with his tongue.  

Holy shit, he was sucking on my toes.

I laid there like a zombie playing asleep, so he could finish lapping up the germs my shoes provided to his mouth.

This is all I remember before falling into slumber.

Before you jump to conclusions no "it" did not happen.

We didn't make the whoopie, and not because he had his big weird lips. I explained myself earlier. I just couldn't. Don't get me wrong I LOVE big lips, but his were just gross. They scared me.

He finally finished licking his meal and went to sleep on the floor, just as I had told him too.

While some bizarre porno played in the background.

I wish I was kidding.

Sometime in the early morning

I glanced at the channel he settled on and was surprised to see that there was ice cream and sprinkles involved in this 8 person orgy. The youngest person had to have been in their mid 30's. That kind of porn.

It was so strange. 

I lived to go to Disneyland and back (with my virginity intact) and tell the tale of my "birthday" that wasn't really real, come true. 

Monday, August 22, 2011

Jones




The week goes by swimmingly. I had fun last weekend getting trashed and making a fool of myself. Hell, that is why I am here, to entertain the masses. Or just myself.  


I anticipated Friday's lunch hour when I was going to see the hottie (Shane) again. Small text messages were send back and forth between last week and the past week. This time I didn't have to bribe him into taking me to lunch, he actually asked me. Without sounding super desperate I say "Okay sounds good." 


Jumping up and down like a horny schoolgirl. 


So Friday finally rolls around and 11:55 a.m. I head out the door into the humid heat of the summer. In a dress, that may not have been the best outfit for walking a block in the muggy weather. I tried to look my best without out doing myself. It worked I suppose.  


We got into the hamburger joint and actually eat our lunches and have a decent conversation. He wanted his shirt back from our last night out, so I walked down to my car to get it for him once we were done eating. While saying our good-byes we lightly hug and our lips linger close before closing the space in between them. His soft lips push against mine before I hear people coming out behind us. He tells me to call him that maybe we could see each other later. 


I get back to work, giddy making sure I had no food left in my cleavage. 


Slowly the time passes...
After work I drive. Same familiar route. To the strip club. Again. Sober.
Which should have been a HUGE red flag. Who spends most of their time at the strip club? He did, or so it seemed, since all the dancers (or so they called themselves this) knew him well. Maybe a tad too well. Strange, right? 
Most of the time I am oblivious of the red flags, even when they kick me from behind. Red flags swayed and swished in my face, I refused to acknowledge their existence. 
Ignorance is bliss, but it's also benightedness. But what-fucking-ever. 


I walked into the club, hoping that other guys didn't think I worked there because of my high heels and tight dress. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. This time was just like the last time I saw Shane. I sat and beer after beer was brought to us, no hesitation, I started chugging. 


To lose my inhibitions, because that's when I am at my best. 
I lost count on how many beers I downed at the same time he reached for his roll of dollar bills for yet another round. 
Several differences this time from the last. One was that no underwear was shown. Not mine, not his. 


No clothes came off of me. 


Not so much as a kiss even. 


Which was starting to weird me the fuck out. See...red fucking flags, staring me the fuck down. I looked away. I make an excuse for him, because I am that dim sometimes. 


He tells me that he has "family" coming from out of town so he has to leave after a little bit. Which was fine with me. Shit. I am not going to be some clingy ass woman. Go on motherfucker. 


I let him walk me to my car when it was time. 


This is where I proceed to fuck shit up. 


You see we were talking about my ex for some odd reason. Just a few sentences about him, that was all. Talking and talking I call Shane "Jones" my ex. Oops. 
What? It slipped out. Swear. 


HOLY SHIT BALLS. I fucked that up. 


Which is such a fucking shame.  


Of course being a child that he is he started to walk away. I start kicking myself. How the fuck does that happen? OMG. My ex is hot, yeah ok, but he is such a dickhead. Plus he hasn't called me in a while. So I am over it. Done. Fuck that noise. Knowwhatimsayin? No? Well fuck you too then. 
I started driving away, pissed at myself. I felt like such an asshole. FUCK!


Desperation finally surfaces, I break and call him immediately. This is where he yells at me, blathering in my ear, giving me all kinds of excuses just to get out of this. 
Whatever "this" was. Fucking dick.   


I tell him that it really meant nothing, because in all honesty it really didn't mean shit to me. Jones who?


I get home and he is still there yelling obscenities at me via the phone. 


At this point I want to bash his face in for being irrational and cocky. I clock it off as him being in a drunk delirium. He tells me that he never wants to talk to me again. I am like "Really dude, are you fucking serious? It was a fucking tiny ass mistake." to which he replies "Yeah."  Then tells me he has to go and not to call him anymore that he was deleting my number from his phone. Then he hangs up. 


I go outside and chain smoke a few cigarettes and call my friend to give her my shitty news.


I called my friend Amy because she lived close, and I needed someone to get me out of my serious funk. I needed to not be alone, for my shame would have manifested. That is never any good.  


She came to my rescue and whisks me off to Hamburger Works for round 2. 


One beer later.
I agree to go to another bar. Because misery needed drunk as a companion. Off we go to another bar for some more drinks. You can never have too many drinks when you are hating yourself for making a tiny, itty bitty ass mistake. I even sent him a text saying sorry around 9 p.m. 
No response. 


So I called Jones. 
I know, I know...it was a shit move. Jones never answered so not like it mattered anyway. See...DICK! 


Many, many drinks later I may have been swaying to and fro as we walked around the tiny bar, I was still in denial about Shane never talking to me ever again. 


Sometime around midnight.... 
My phone rings.
I did not recognize the number but decided it might be a friend calling to hang out with my inebriated ass. 
No such luck. 
Guess who it is?......
No it's not Shane.
It's not the dancers either. 
It's his wife. 
'His' being Shane. 
WHAT?!! Yeah, his wife of many years, his baby momma, his motherfuckin WIFE!! Calling me to talk about her lovely husband and his extra curricular activities. 
Here we fucking go.  
We talk for a good 20 minutes. She tells me their whole life story. 
Was I disappointed? Sure, but I was mostly LIVID because he fucking lied. Like a piece of shit. 


Surprisingly, as drunk as I was I kept my composure, I did not yell, nor did I call her a bitch. Amy walked over to me somewhere in between my conversation with the cheaters wife to see where the fuck I disappeared to and hears bits and pieces of the conversation I was having. She had her  eyes wide open mouthing "what the motherfucking fuck" as I stand my ground and tell Shane's wife of how I met him and the lies he told me.


20 wonderful, informing minutes of recounting my stripping experiences with Mrs. Shane, I am done. 
When we hang up I feel like total shit. I also feel some relief, knowing I wasn't the only asshole that night. 
Sure I called him Jones, but he fucking LIED and kissed me! Meanwhile his wife, mother of his 20 children was at home thinking her husband was out hanging with the boys. 
What a fucking idiot. 
So that was that. No more Shane.
So much for my ex being the only dickhead I know right now, Shane just upped the game.  
Amy takes my sorry ass to the bar where we have another drink with a side of water. Because I am close to being that drunk. 


I'm standing there in this bar confused as all hell because WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED? 
Was I dreaming? Please tell me I will wake up from this shit? 
I started getting drunk emotions, I felt tears stinging my eyes. I stand at the bar looking like a lost soul, beaten at her own game.  


A man starts talking to me. Hitting on me is what my friend tells me. I'm not interested, but keep up the conversation for the sake of a distraction. I ask him his name because I like to know who I am talking to even though I will forget his name within the next few seconds. 
Shane is his name. 
REALLY DUDE? THAT HAS TO BE YOUR NAME RIGHT FUCKING NOW? 
I lose my shit, and walk away. 


The Next Morning.
My head is pounding and I am sweating. Again. I know I have to stop waking up like this every Saturday morning.  
Somewhere far away I hear my phone ringing. 
"Shit" I manage as I roll off my bed towards my ringing phone. It's 8:05 a.m. I look at the caller ID and realize its Dickhead calling. Not my ex, THE dickhead of the month. Shane.
I go to answer and it hangs up. 
Fuck that noise. I am NOT calling that piece of shit back.
I go about my day (mostly hungover, probably still drunk) wondering how the hell I didn't realize his marriage was still intact and he was indeed not single like he told me. 


Sunday morning.
9:07 a.m.
(Phone ringing somewhere in the background) 
Shit. What the fuck people let me sleep in for fucks sake! 
I do not recognize the number so I answer. 
It's dickhead's friends wife this time. 
What.The.Fuck! 
Really? REALLY?! NO, mother-fucking REALLY!!!!
She tells me that Mrs. Shane called her and told her that Shane told her that the only reason that he had my number is because I was trying to hook up with her husband. AHAHAHAHA. 
No. 
I had to explain to her that her husband was not my type, and that no I was not trying to hook up with him. She thanked me for my time and told me she was never going to call again. She just needed to know if it was true or if Dickhead was trying everything in his power to not get his ass kicked by his wife. 
Seriously? All this bullshit for that man? No fucking thank you. 


He can keep his pink jello penis. 


Little cheating bitch. 

Monday, August 15, 2011

Drinks




I wake up sweating, throat so dry I cannot swallow. 
I sit up and look around, head is slightly pounding. My pores are oozing fumes of alcoholic drinks. I am almost positive if I breathed onto someone face at that moment they would tell me my breathe smells like a drunk bear took a shit in my mouth.  


I take a gander at my clock. It is 5 a.m. What the hell am I doing awake right now? Fragmented images from the night before come swirling through my head. Bits and pieces of tits and cockery. 


First thing that comes out of my mouth is "What the fuck was I doing at Hamburger Works, 9 o'clock at night in my sleeping clothes, drunk as shit?" 


A giggle comes next, several annoying giggles, then the dreaded "OHHH FUCK" as I remember the scenario that got me to that point in the first place. 


There was a strip club involved. I know this, because I drove there. Alone. Completely sober.


I left...well in a very different condition. Yes. That is what happened. 
In between these two dazzling places only certain things are starting to clear up in my foggy state of mind. 
Drinks, right. Lot's of those bastards.  Making out with the hottie also known as Shane, yes. Beer, beer, beer, yes. Strippers putting tits in ma face, yes. 
Wait...something about my underwear being glow in the dark..What was THAT about? How did I get to that point?... Oh.My.God. 


Was it some sort of stripper alter ego I formed sometime throughout my 2 hour titay club visit? Must have been. Shit I was so confident.


Something about his pink...weiner? Was it pink? I only remember seeing a flaccid, slinky-like jello dick. 
Worried about being kicked out once he pulled out Mr. Jello head. 


SHIT! What the fuck happened?!! 
I lay there so confused about the whole scenario. What the...


My car was there. Shane and I making out some more. Did he kiss good? WAIT.. Did that happen? 
Must have, since the next day, in between my seat was his great smelling t-shirt. 
I knew I should have refrained from having that J├Ąger bomber. Jesus. I CLEARLY remember telling myself no, but out of my mouth comes a "Sure, why the fuck not." 
Stupid, stupid Bitch! 
I had many beers in a small window of time. We said our byes, Shane and I. It was time to go home and sleep the weird ass evening off. 
I got home quickly and as soon as my front door was locked, my work clothes flew off me with the speed of a lush. Contacts came off, and my sleeping attire was put on. Sleeping attire being whatever it was that was on my bed or the floor. My big soft bed was the place for me, until I laid down, flat on my back. The tiniest of sickness hit me. 
Ok, so maybe that was not a good idea. 


10 minutes later 
My phone goes off. YES! My friend and his girlfriend asked if I wanted to go eat. So instead of changing or at least putting on undergarments I jump into her car and off we go. Beer, freshly sloshing around in my belly. 
I must have thought we were going to Jack-in-the-Box or something since I cared NOT about my sexy appearance. Nope, they did me even better! Hamburger works. It was 9 p.m. 
I recall several people at the table we were sitting at. But who paid for my burger? Shit if I know. I probably did.  
I talked and talked and talked and scared their Asian friend away. I knew he looked at me like I was some random hobo they picked up off the street.
Oh well. Outside to smoke a cigarette. I met a new friend. Richard I believe his name was. Poor lad. I talked his ear off too, until I realized with horror I was OUT of smokes
I made my friend run across the road with me to buy some. Poor Circle K man, watched me in all of my glory, perky boobies and all ask for the blue box. Now that I think about it he probably didn't mind one bit. 
I remembered later, next morning to be exact, that I had NO bra or underwear on, my sweat shorts were slightly big and falling off of me, my flip flops were in good shape I suppose that is the up side of this whole situation.
Dear me. What a fucking mess. 


Two days later.... I asked the heavily made-up girl at the M.A.C. counter to color match my blotchy skin. She grabbed some color that may have been what I was looking for and dusts powder on my jawline. I turn to see the difference in between the two colors I had on. I peer into the brightly lit mirror glance the left side of my jaw, noticed the color then switched to the right...and I GASPED. Holy shit. I'd been walking around with a hickey on my neck for two fucking days and just noticed it. 
Fuck.


Four days later....I sat in my living room trying to fill out my lonely night. I started to half heartedly do yard work. (That didn't work out by the way) I lasted all of 5 minutes. Then I gave up, because fuck that, it was too hot and my nails were already in bad shape. So 5 minutes I tried, at least. At most.  
So instead I went inside and made my pathetic noodle dinner from a box and sat in front of my computer. A brilliant idea hit me "Maybe I can have someone do my small yard work in exchange for beer." 
I tweeted this, and waited. 


30 minutes later when I got no response I decided to see what my profile was about. I know I made it, but I forget. I just KNEW that there were some tweets that were just ridiculous. I could have sworn that I only tweeted about that cute guy from school and his stupid fucking shape-ups once. No in fact I did it twice. So I went to delete a few (or 20) of my "dumb" tweets. 


As I scroll down the many tweets I see one that mentions ..."Shane is HOT, I wanna bleep, bleep, explicative".

WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT! When did I write this? 
Please tell me that I did not post this garbage? 
I did. God that was just the dumbest move, ever. 


This whole situation had just gotten way out of control. I need to NOT EVER use my phone when I have had too much to drink. Which would be almost daily. So I suppose that wouldn't work out like it should. 


Plus, I am at my best when I have had a drink or two. 

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Home protection




As a single lady, living alone can be quite an adventure. If I say so myself.
Sure walking around naked is a plus, until some transient passes by and decides to watch the show. 
Especially when you live in a neighborhood where stray cats and homeless people are exceedingly abundant. 

Count 4 times.... 4!  I have *almost* canned the hobo in the alley next to my house because of the racket he made searching fruitfully though my trash to find some treasured goods. I didn't have the heart to throw my makeshift hammer at his heavily greased hair-ed ass. 
Sure I have thought of buying a handgun. Haven't gotten around to actually getting it. They're so god damn expensive. And most people don't trust me with one. 
Don't know why. 
I am really a great shot. 


I have decided that since I don't have a home alarm system or a rough looking dog, and my can of mace is by no means a weapon of choice, that I will go right ahead and go about other ways to protect myself.
No, not by a condom, by a deterrent. Yes, I would like to impede any possible oncoming attacks. 
It is settled then.

I need a weapon to serve my combat against burglars and serial rapists that (would totally want to hump me) choose to bombard into my little home to take me hostage. 
Or take all my alcohol. 
Which would be the biggest tragedy of all. 
Sounds horrible, some stranger...drinking my wine. Sick. Just sick. 
There are so many choices for a young woman when it comes to weaponry. 


could do some fu man chu. Or was it Kung Fu? See all this black belting has got me all confused in the head. I'll just skip the ass whooping methods for now. I would hate to break a nail.  


I was thinking of having a shank made from a prisoner. (Because that would be total bad ass) I would have to come from one of the nearby prisons of course. Then the thought occurred to me... "What about the handle of the shank?" What if it was made from plastic from a broken fan or worse underwear bands?  What if these prisoners didn't even wash their hands while making it? Bacteria galore. Be gorged and have to have a tetanus shot while trying to protect myself. 
So that's out. 


Weapon: Throwing stick
Throwing stick is hardly a weapon. It's a stick. That you throw. No. 


Weapon: Blowgun - Like the kind used in Apocalypto. 
A blowgun sounds mighty fun to use. I just don't know any Amazonians that would help me (make one so I suppose that one is not a winner either. 


Machete? Would hate to make a big mess in my home.


Bayonet? I don't have a gun to put the bayonette on. So I guess that is a no too. 


Crossbow? I'm not coordinated nor fast enough.


Brass Knuckles? That means I would have to at some point touch this person. No thank you.  


A whip? Now this I can surely use. But then what if this person is really into kinky shit? It would be like their secret fantasy coming to fruition. No thank you to this too.  


I am running out of ideas. Which is horse shit. There has to be something I can protect myself with that won't make people look at me like I am a crazed lunatic.  


*Update*
I am trying to come up on a glitter gun. Do they exist? Surely. It is a brilliant idea. There has to be one somewhere. 
Internet please help a sista out. 
Yes, imagine it. 
It won't be deadly but would definitely hurt like hell. 
It would be a flare gun but instead of flares it will have glitter bullets. Compacted hard glitter. Multicolored glitter. 

When I hear a window break or door being rammed in I can grab my glitter gun and patiently wait for the perpetrator to emerge from the dust left behind from the fallen door. As I put the gun up to his or her face I can squeal in delight at my magical glitter that is about to RAIN hard on their face, and my floor. 
When those eyes settle from the dust, I'll let it rip. BOOM. Glitter all in your eyes. They would have glitter burns all over. It would be so unexpected. 
They'll look like a unicorn just shat them out. 
Perfection. 
There would be no escaping the glitterific party from happening. 
See when they run, I'll just tell the law to follow the glitter trail. 
Perfect weapon for someone like me. 


*Updated yet again, after that last update*
No one sells glitter guns. *Yet* 
Now to patent my idea and find some investors to help fund my little project. 

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Bite Me

Do you think vampires like to be bitten? For foreplay maybe? 
Now that I think about it do you think vampires get mosquito bites? 
No, THINK about it. Really think about it. 
They fill up with the blood they sucked out of you, why wouldn't blood loving insects suck on them? Right?
Sounds absolutely reasonable. 


Back to reality...
It's monsoon/haboob season right now. So it gets a little stuffy from time to time. Stuffy would be an understatement but it sounds like we are all teddy bears so I'll leave it. 
Take last night for instance. It was severely muggy. As damp as it can get, raining at a refreshingly cool 90+ degrees. Yes, you can almost feel it as I  describe the devils moist asshole in which I live. 
I needed to move my couch from one room to another, so it being a Sunday and I had shit to do, it seemed very practical. 
There I was, in a t-shirt, sweat shorts, hair up in a nest, pushing my couch on my hardwood floor. It was easy gliding that sleeper from the front room to my bedroom. 
That's when it got stuck. 
I could move it no more. I tried picking it up, to no avail. It was way too heavy for my one-man army. 
It was going no where.
I only needed 2 more inches. Of course my bed had to be in the way. The bed was going no where. I couldn't believe my shitty luck. 
I yelled "2 MORE FUCKING INCHES! COME ON SOMETHING FUCKING GIVE!!" 
I pushed, shoved, pulled, tried to convince my bed to get the fuck out the way, lifted, hit, screamed at that poor couch. There was no fucking way I was going to get that sleeper into the extra room. Not without help anyway. 
At that point I was sweating profusely AND I had zero beer in the house. I felt a ton of tears ready to fall fit of rage coming on. 
I called a friend to help me. When he didn't answer his phone I went outside to let the heavy air cling to me. I sat in defeat. 
I am a single lady, I can do anything!  That's what I told myself before I took another look at the cushion-less couch laying in the middle of my bedroom floor, on it's back. 
My muscles were trying to tell me something, but I wasn't listening to it's outlandish stories. 
With all of my might I lifted that bad boy on its side, where it fit without taking out my bed leg, but just barely. 
There was no getting it down from it's side. So I left it as was and went to go get tacos. 
It rained and rained as I drove to the neighborhood taqueria. 
I was extremely pissed that I had NOT gotten rain boots the night before at the local Walmart. Puddles of dirty water would just have all the fun without me. 
"Me das tres tacos de cabeza, sin cebolla y cilantro" I hurridly yelled into the tiny mic box that was the drive thru of the fine establishment. As I drove through I noticed small red bumps on my arm, that itched. Really itched, like a bad yeast infection itchy.
Son-of-a-bitch. The mosquito's fucking got me. 
I got home, grubbed and noticed 5 more alarming red bumps that itched, along my legs. 
I got up from my now empty front room and put a search party out for the pesky mosquitoes. After 10 minutes, the search party was over. Mosquitoes were no where to be found. 
I went to bed trying not to scratch my skin off, after I wrote my will just in case some sort of sick disease stuck me from the bites and I didn't wake up in the morning. 


4:45 a.m.
I wake up slapping at my skin. 
FUCK, he's back. The mosquito. Atrocious little bugger. 
Search party resumed, and ended just as quickly as it started; fruitlessly. 
All in all I sat in bed counting all of the red bumps I had collected throughout the night for a total count of 24. Bastards.
I literally looked like I rolled in bed all week with bed bugs. Which is NOT the case.  
I pulled out my large citronella candle, lit it indoors because at this point I had enough of their nonsense, sat it right next to my bed and slept. 
I read some blogs/articles/bullshit remedies and decided that none of these "treatments" worked for me.
So I decided to write my own. 
How to be rid of mosquito bite itching
What you'll need:
A pen, Exacto knife, napkin or tissues, and lots of heart.
Step 1: Take the pen and circle all of the pesky bites
Step 2: Take the (disinfected) exacto knife and carefully slice open all of the circles
Step 3: Take the tissue and wipe off all the blood
Step 4: Clean wounds 
Step 5: Reach deep in your heart, smile, and go on about your day. 
All of the other fixes online were bullshit. 


You are very welcome. 
I did not need to cut myself open because of my citronella candle that helped. Thank God, that would have been so messy and I don't think the people at work would have appreciated me going into work looking like I had ran through a rosebush forest.

I went to work smelling like a citronella candle. 
It's going to be a lovely week.