Black Heart Inertia

30 03 2010

Ever get that feeling that everyone you know is moving on to bigger things while you remain stuck motionless forever?

That eventually they will all have graduated to better lives, with better people than you in them?

And you’ll be happy for them. Really. But from afar. Because they won’t need you any more.

No?

I guess it’s just me then.





This is why I hate yourface

29 03 2010

I’m in a list kind of mood lately. If you don’t like it….well, you can suck it.

There are a few personality traits that can pretty much automatically earn you a spot on my I Hope You Die in a Fire I Don’t Want to be Your Friend, Ever list.

1. The 1-Upper

Gee, I’m really quite upset about my dog breaking her leg.”

“Try having your dog disemboweled by your legally blind neighbor’s lawn mower in front of a passing troop of Girl Scouts. Now that was upsetting!”

There is no story or concern too big or too small. They will find a way to 1-up you each and every time. I know everyone relates things to their own experiences, but it is possible to do that without minimizing the feelings of others.  All it takes is a “Oh wow, I’m really sorry that happened” to prevent being a huge douchebag and instead be a potential friend/decent human being.

2. The No-Show


Oh, how this pisses me off. Especially if you are the one who initiated the plans. If you must back out of your own plans, there are countless ways in which to notify a person of your cancellation in this day and age. Call, text, email, IM, etc. Use them, fuckface! My time may not be going for hundreds of dollars an hour lately, but it still has value to me. You are sending me a clear message that you just do not give a shit, and you can bet your inconsiderate ass that it will be noted.

3. The Racist/Homophobe/[insert ignorant douchebaggery here]

We’re all people. Get the fuck over it. At the end of the day if you can’t appreciate a person for who they are, all politics and preconceived notions aside, you are the flawed one.

4. The “Fatty”


If you are smaller than me, do not complain to me about being fat. You are calling me fat. Maybe not directly, but there is no way around it. I don’t appreciate it. I have been guilty of this one when I was young  and had not yet experienced it myself, and for that I am truly apologetic and almost wish that someone had punched me in the face.

5. The Saint

“I don’t even say ‘ass’ in front of my kids!”

“I would never have a drink with my children in the house!”

“Oh, I don’t eat the sugar.”

Well, I do. So you and your condescending gaze can fuck off. I hope it’s lonely at the top of that ladder of superiority.

As you can see, I’m still just a ray of sunshine. Back alley hysterectomy, here I come.





Friendtastic Friday 3/26

26 03 2010

It’s that time again.

I know I usually give a little blurb with each of these, but I’m still in a MEH mood today, so I’m just going to spit out a few links, and just trust me that they’re good, okay?

Mel Learns her Lessons

Getting in There

Go Forth and Blogeth

Go check them out. And like have a good weekend and all that crap.





Five trends that make me want to stab people in the face

25 03 2010

Today is a MEH day if I’ve ever seen one. PMS is kicking my ass and I’m in constant physical pain. I’m depressed, I’m panic-inducing broke and my cat won’t stop pissing on every fucking surface she can find. Oh, and my kid is home on spring break.

Today can suck it and so can the weekend.

So, instead of boring you with more of my incessant whining, I’m going to bitch about five trends that make me want to stab the subscribers to said trends in the fucking face.

1. Everything emo.

When I was a teen we had goths. They were dark and brooding. Quietly brooding. Not the irritating, whine-ass drama queen in eyeliner bullshit that is everywhere today. Get your hair out of your goddamned eyes and shut the fuck up before I slit your wrists for you, you douchebag.

2. Repeatinggggg theeee lastttttt letterrrrr offffff wordsssss.

If you have any teen girl facebook friends you no doubt know what I’m talking about. You don’t look cool, you look like you have fucking Parkinson’s. Back away from the computer and go get back in the tanning bed, bitch.

3. Skinny jeans on fat dudes.

Not all trends are for all people. You look like an ice cream cone. And I don’t mean that in a good way AT ALL.

4. Facebook statuses that say shit like “97% of people won’t repost this.”

GOOD! That means nobody wants to fucking read the regurgitated bullshit, so don’t bother posting it. Why do people feel the need to turn everything in life into one giant fucking chain letter?

5. Leggings.

Those bitches died out after the 80’s for a reason. Because they’re fugly. Unless you’re under the age of 7, just wear some fucking pants.

The End.





Not all baked goods are your friends: a cautionary tale

23 03 2010

Once upon a time, the Balls n Chain talked me into letting him go on a once in a lifetime trip to Vegas for his friend’s 30th birthday. Thus, leaving me unsupervised for an entire….I don’t remember….5ish summer days.

I did what any responsible adult would do to pass the time. I called up my friend and declared, “We are SO making pot brownies!”

Ahem.

I was ready to get scientific.

So, I hopped on Google and within minutes had a step by step tutorial of how to heat strain and make brownies with the THC infused oil. You know, instead of just throwing a bunch of weed in some brownie mix and trying to choke that shit down. (You know you’ve done it.)

I followed the directions perfectly. We each ate one or two that night but the results of the test of their effectiveness seemed inconclusive. Perhaps I should have taken more note of the fact that we both passed out still sitting before 11pm.

This particular weekend I was (not uncommonly) alarmingly low on groceries, so I hadn’t been eating much. The following day I didn’t eat breakfast in the morning, or lunch, or dinner. At about 3pm, I grabbed a brownie. Then I grabbed another at 3.30, and two more at 4.00.

Before you begin to wonder if I am a complete idiot, let me explain a bit of history. I started smoking pot when I was 14 years old, heavily at times. I have gone hit-for-hit with 200 lb dudes in morning til night smokefests, hardly batting an eye while they end up puking in the fetal position. I have never even had a problem going on with my every day tasks, let alone had a “freak out” or become physically ill. I’d never even had the textbook symptoms like cotton mouth, paranoia or mild hallucinations. It had always just been a little mood booster for me, no matter how much I smoked. That shit was for pussies.

Ahem.

So, 5.00 rolled around the realization hit me that I was totally high. Awesome, the brownies did work!

But then 6:00 passed and 7:00 struck. And I realized that I was fucked.

This is where the memories get fuzzy.

I remember laying on my couch feeling like invisible waves kept crashing over me and I couldn’t possibly move to escape their wrath. My mouth suddenly became so extremely dry that it reminded me of Jim Carrey in Me, Myself and Irene.

I became convinced that my throat was so dry that it was going to stick to itself and obstruct my breathing and I would surely die. At some point either I actually discovered a bottle of apple juice on the floor next to me or I just imagined it. I’m still not sure.

I remember sending Andy several Twitter DMs from my iPod Touch apologizing for every time I had ever fucked with him while he was high and freaking out. But, I could only type three or four letters at a time before things would go all wavy and I would almost puke, so I would have to close my eyes for a few minutes and then continue. I didn’t give up though, because at that moment it felt extremely urgent and important. I felt truly repentant for these stoner sins and felt that I was somehow being punished.

Minutes after I sent these messages, he showed up at my door. This seemed like fucking magic to me at the time. I vaguely remember stumbling to the door in my blanket and then hurling myself back onto the couch.

Eventually I realized that I had not gotten dressed that day or even so much as brushed my hair. Not only was I braless in a rather see-through shirt, but my cankles were exposed, and this realization was quite alarming. So, I somehow dragged myself to my bedroom and did manage to get dressed.

But every minute that passed I was feeling worse. At this point it had been 5 hours since I ate the first brownie with no end in sight. I wanted to cry like a baby.

At some point I ended up laying on the floor nearby as Andy used my computer. Every time I opened my eyes it was like everything was sort of rocking back and forth in that wave-like motion, and it got worse if I tried to sit up.

Every 20 minutes or so I would stumble to the bathroom, though I really wanted to crawl there, dry heave for a while, lay my face on the cold tile, and then return to my place on the shag carpet.

I kept wanting to talk, but it was as if it was physically impossible for me to make words come out of my mouth. I could feel them pressing on the inside of my mouth but could not force them out. Every time Andy would say something, I could feel and almost see the words mixing up and floating around and bumping the outside of my head so that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Every little thing that would happen or was said, I would immediately ask myself did that really just happen or did I imagine it? I absolutely could  not discern reality from delusion. It was a nightmare.

The whole time I knew that if I could just eat something I would feel better, but it felt like a huge insurmountable task. I remember asking for a glass of water and then just staring at it, feeling like it wasn’t possible to pick it up and drink it. I managed to go into the kitchen and scrounge up a Pepcid, thinking it would stop the intense nausea. But then I lay down again, sat it next to the glass of water and just stared at it longingly. I can’t quite describe the sensation I had that these small tasks were absolutely overwhelming and impossible.

I dragged myself to bed that night absolutely sure that I would not wake up. When I indeed did wake up the next morning, the glass of water and pill were still sitting on the carpet, untouched. I couldn’t remember if Andy had really been there or if I had imagined the whole thing. My memory had gaping holes and I was still high. I remained that way for the next three days. By the second day most of my memory had filled in but some of it is still quite fuzzy now.

And this little story is why I will never, ever again in my life touch a pot brownie, cookie, lollipop or any other orally ingested creation.

It may be the first time I ever turn down a baked good.





This is a fucking joke, right?

22 03 2010

Something horrifying has happened.

Yesterday, the Balls n Chain and Kid finally pried me off of the couch, where I had been glued to Hulu all day, at about 3pm to go play at the park.

I dragged ass to the bathroom to make myself presentable first. And by “make presentable” I mean swap out sweats for ripped jeans and slick my dirty hair into a side-part ponytail.

I’m all about the the glamor.

So, I run the brush through and loop the rubber band, when something catches my eye in the mirror.

And there it is. One rebel strand taunting me in a sea of brunette. That’s right: a gray motherfucking hair on my 25 year old head!

[Click that shit!]

So, I did what any rational person would: pulled it out, saved it to photograph and blog about later, and then spent the rest of the night eating more than an entire day’s worth of calories in candy eggs, Corn Nuts and Sunny D.

Because fuck those 40 lbs I lost, if I’m an old hag now I may as well be fat too.

Yeah, rationality. It’s a gift.





Friendtastic Friday 3/19

19 03 2010

Holy shit, it’s Friday again! And that means it’s time for….

Friendtastic Friday!

First on the list this week is Man-Shopping in Paris.

Live vicariously through this American woman living in Paris as she experiments with dating Frenchmen and documenting the results. Trust me, hilarity often ensues.

Another winner for living vicariously through: Steph at Not the Oxygen.

More dating stories. More hilarity. This girl doesn’t seem to take shit from anyone, and I love that!

One more for this week: Nils at Musician’s Choice.

It sounds like it might be a music blog, but it’s really not. It’s full of randomness instead. And, as you may know, I’m a sucker for randomness. Nils is adorable and I ❤ hisface.

Clickity click, people, clickity click.