Not My Day

The other day I dreamt that my tattoo had disappeared and somehow been replaced by one of fishnet stockings on my left leg.

That day was yesterday.

I woke up at five a.m. to the incessant yelping of my neighbor's rat dog and couldn't go back to sleep.

I get up.

I have a cup of tea.

I don't know what I should do with myself so I pace the apartment in my socks, gathering dog hairs and dust along the way. Any other day I would've gone to the fridge and peered within its orifices in silence, looking for something unhealthy to bury my anxiety with. Today I'm momentarily soothed by my new diet, greasy food cravings not nearly as alive as they should be.

I decide to shower. A little masturbation and hair washing later and I'm back to reality.

Fifteen minutes and my hair is dry, the kitchen clock reflecting fifteen past six. What to do...

Coffee.

Good coffee. Specifically that caramel latte from McDonalds with a breakfast sandwich. I grab Bruno and head downstairs, too chickenshit to face the dark on the way to my car alone.

Only that when we descend the final step, there is no car.

Wait. Where the fuck's my car? I go back up slowly and pinch myself, lifting my hallway blinds and hopefully looking out the window.

Nothing.

The cops arrive half hour later, two chunky ladies with friendly faces and coffee breath. "These sorts of things happen all the time," says Chubsters #1. I'm not exactly relieved by her statement.

Three hurried phone calls and my car is located, an hour away from my place at a joint called "Torres Towing." Two hundred dollars gone and it's back in my possession. This is what happens when your landlord forgets to pay his association fees for months and owes almost two thousand dollars.

You know what also happens? You get an eviction letter taped to your door that same day, stating you have one month to either pay the monies due or vacate the premises.

This is about the moment you're ready to give up, wishing the universe would align in your favor for just one moment that changes everything. Then you go drinking one-too-many with your friend Miguel and decide it's a good idea to write a post that'll bore your readers to infinity and beyond, right before the long holiday weekend.

I don't know.

I don't really know anything anymore. I feel like a deflated balloon. Maybe everyone should write a blog post about RMG saying it's a porn site and show them this picture or something? Who knows.

Then tomorrow I'll wake up and delete this post due to sheer embarrassment and unwelcome sobriety.

But not tonight...

Tonight, I simply don't give a fuck.

Update: My landlord paid all the money owed to the association as soon as I threatened to move out. Miami real estate is a disaster and moving to a new apartment would be a pain in the rear end I'm not ready to face at the present moment.

Still! You guys rock. You rule. And are better than passionfruit creme brulee served in bed by Channing Tatum wearing only boxer briefs.

Back To The Future

Today via text with my best friend:

Olivia: Yooooo... I've just looked into your future and it does not look good for you, my friend.

Me: Don't tell me you went to see that fortune teller again!

Olivia: No, stupid. I just Google imaged you and the old you doesn't look very hot. You need to start hitting that gym and piling on the Oil of Olay like it was your job, buddy.

Me: Why were you Googling me, stalker?

Olivia: Because I was Google imaging this guy from work and nothing came up, so I just started being nosy to see what sort of goodies popped up.

Me: I see.

Olivia: You *should* see. Or maybe not.

I guess it could be worse.

Mortification Master

Want to know what the best part of being sick and useless and totally unaware of your surroundings during the work week is?

The moment you go to the bathroom and realize there's no toilet paper after you've already tinkled. Then you cross the stalls in search of some with your underwear still down by your ankles when that girl you can't stand from accounting walks in and catches you looking like this:

Monday is the best day of the week.

When In Doubt, Just Lie.

Hurricane season and its inevitable rains are going to drive me to my deathbed and there isn't much I can do except pout and drink NyQuil, which is just what I did.

It's been noted that the consumption of cold medicine makes me angry and so I couldn't think of a better time to address a reader's email that's been sitting in my inbox for a couple of weeks (see below):

Hi!

I have an idea for you to address in your amazing way, plus drawings! And I'm always interested to hear how other women handle these situations anyway, so maybe it will start a helpful discussion. My issue is, how do you tell/inform/clue in a fuck buddy that he no longer does it for you? I've been getting texts from this guy for months now and I haven't been responding to any of them, and they're not aggressive or obnoxious, fortunately - just, "Hey how have you been." But there are a few problems with him - schedule, very closemouthed about possible girlfriend, but the worst is he became very sloppy about his breath, and started showing up with awful coffee breath. Why would anyone do that?

I'm sure you've had a similar scenario, and since you're back in the X-rated saddle these days, I thought I'd throw a freebie at you.

PS - he was one of those guys who had a really large weiner, so I think he thought he could let the rest of his 'toilette' slide, once I knew what was under the zipper. Hope you're having an awesome Friday night.

Hugs,
Marcia

I have to confess that last time I answered one of these letters I got knee deep in trouble but I'm feeling adventurous today so let's do the damn thing.

Dear Marcia:

I apologize in advance for disappointing you with the lack of drawings, it's almost midnight and I've been hitting the NyQuil, which makes me sleepy and weak and desperate for chocolate (all bad things, I assure you).

From my experience, there is no "right" way to inform a fuck buddy (or anyone) that you're no longer interested in dancing the horizontal mambo. Things of that nature never tend to end amicably because we are humans and as such, we have a tendency to latch on to others, regardless of how we truly feel about them deep down (this is very common in girls).

Now... If you would've asked for my opinion a few months back I would've told you to be honest, because honesty is the best policy and adults aren't supposed to lie. Now that I'm two ounces wiser, I know that whomever said that was an idiot (or a girl scout). Honesty never gets you the recognition you deserve because it usually ends up with someone's feelings being hurt.

With that said, I advise you to prevaricate freely and let the river of lies run deep. You can say to Mr. Stank Breath something along the lines of, "I have a boyfriend and the previous arrangement we had is null and void, as a result of my new circumstances. I really enjoyed the times we had and will always cherish them. Hope you understand."

He will likely drown in a cup of coffee and feel inclined to comprehend your situation, as he surely knows what it's like to be in a relationship *cough cough.* He will also warm up to your "honesty" because it doesn't reflect any negativity on his persona -bad breath, all around shadiness- and his tiny ego and big dong will remain sheltered and happy, as every man's should be.

Bottom line, dear: Sex between consenting adults is just that, sex between consenting adults. It is not a promise of forever, nor a guarantee you'll sleep with that person for an allotted amount of time or ever again. Whichever way you see fit to end things is the "best" way, and there's no reason for you or your sugar muffin to feel guilty about that. I would choose the least confrontational route because drama free's the way to be, but that's just me (that totally rhymed and not on purpose).

Just remember two things: 1) Honesty will get you nowhere but the doghouse 95% of the times and 2) If there's no intention of making a relationship out of whatever you're doing with the person, "Just sex" is a lie people tell themselves every single day in order to get laid.

That, is just the way the fornicating cookie crumbles and you'll eat it anyway because you enjoy the way it tastes going down, even if it makes you fat and miserable on the other side.

Hugs,

Annah

p.s. If the ding-a-ling was to your liking, why not just tell him to brush his fucking teeth and call it a day?

The Move

During the three years I've lived at my place, I’ve had a few roommates to alleviate the blow that is a monthly lease payment of fifteen hundred dollars.

If you’re new around here and don’t know much about me, I have three children whom I love more than stripper shoes and vodka.

When Sofia moved out about a year ago, I opted out of yet another roommate in favor of some sanity. The main cause for said decision was my dogs' inability to learn that my bedroom was indeed not a barf or poop zone.

With the roommate gone and house to myself, I decided to give the kids their own room, also known as one large toilet. A week after Sofia packed her things, I attempted “the big move."

Before this story unravels, it’s important to note a few things...

• Because Sofia was moving in with her boyfriend, she had no place to leave her furniture, so I agreed to let her store it at my place.
• Sofia’s “furniture” consisted of a small night stand (which she took) and a twin bed on wheels that could be rolled around easily to any place in the room.
• At the time of “the big move,” there was a husky named Jenka here which I’d rescued from a park where a stranger kissed me and told me I was a good person. You can read about that here.

That night, as I geared for my new venture into sleeping alone, I carried my dogs into their new little “house” and went back to my room for a blissful night of uninterrupted slumber. Of course I knew they were going to put up a fight, but I had obviously underestimated their ability to control me with cuteness.

It was half past eleven, and although my earplugs were in place and my eyes grew heavy with fatigue, their crying and barking was piercing my weak soul.

The clock ticked internally for hours and the more they whined, the stronger my resolve to go to sleep. By two in the morning nothing had changed and I was so exhausted I’d reached zombie mode and that resolve I was so determined to keep had dilapidated into puffs of smoke. I begrudgingly got up and went to their new room, carrying a pillow and some covers.

Soon as I walked in, I laid in Sofia's old bed and commanded my dogs to Go to sleep, God damn it! My dogs celebrated their victory by climbing on the bed with me and making themselves right at home. Because I was squezed in a twin-sized bed with three dogs, you can surely deduce it wasn’t the most comfortable of situations. As Bruno and the gang began snoring soundly all around me, I fumed at my horrible mothering skills and lay in the dark listening to some cats fighting off in the distance.

I looked at my clock for the last time at some point after five. Three hours later, I woke up and realized I was exactly half an hour late to work and in the middle of the empty room. Apparently my dogs had moved so much in their sleep they’d pushed the bed completely out of place.

You know those moments where new mothers find themselves on the verge of tears because the children won't stop crying and everything is a hot mess? That was me, a nervous breakdown of epic proportions taking place and ending all in a matter of sixty seconds.

And then -just like a mother would- I got over myself and went into damage control mode.

I pushed the bed back against the wall in one quick motion and put fresh water in my dog’s bowl. I then ran out of there, changed, brushed my teeth, combed my hair while I used the bathroom, and put on two mismatched earrings unbeknownst to me.

I proceeded to grab a bag of milk and gourmet coffee I'd bought for the office and was almost out the door when I realized Jenka had taken a colossal dump in the middle of the kitchen. As much as I wanted to hurry and get to work by nine, I wasn't about to let that marinate on my kitchen floor for nine hours. Quickly, I grabbed a napkin and picked it up, threw it in a plastic bag, tied a knot, and off I went. On my way out I threw the plastic bag with its poopy contents over the balcony and into the garbage as I hurried on to work.

As I’m driving twenty miles over the speed limit, I thank the heavens for blessing me with no traffic on my way up north. It seemed that I wouldn’t be so late after all and I was slowly beginning to breathe easy when something struck me.

Good God it smelled like a rat had been degutted and thrown inside my car while I slept.

I've never really understood why they always have garbage places so close to major highways. But this smell, I couldn't quite pinpoint why it was so different. Jarring to the senses, in fact. What the heck was that?

Turns out that in my rush to flee my place, I'd thrown away the wrong plastic bag. And although a bag sat innocently next to me on the driver’s seat at the time, it didn’t contain milk and mocha flavored coffee.

I still had about thirty minutes of commute time left and there was no way I’d be able to handle the smell of Jenka's monster poop for that long, so against my strict no- polluting beliefs, I grabbed the bag and tossed it out the window.

I don't know, but something tells me the planet will forgive me.

Blob Blog: Part VI

Against my better judgment, I finally decided to take the graduate entrance exam (GRE) even though I have no idea when I'm going to return to school for my master's and would rather wax my nipple off than go back, ever. With that said, I paid $165.00 for said exam four months ago and can't just throw money away like that so I'll be taking it on October 6th, in case famosity doesn't come knocking anytime soon (which the way things are going it shall be never).

Studying words like prevaricate and itinerant and exigent while working and juggling a million responsibilities induce stress levels of magnitudes worthy of the Richter scale. I seriously don't know how other chubsters let themselves reach the point I have, but for me it's one thing and one thing only: emotional eating. I don't know exactly where I crossed the line into obliterating my self-control for good, but as soon as that happened, I gained a gazillion pounds.

And honestly? If it were just one emotion that triggered the binge eating, then maybe I would be in the safe zone. Yet the fact remains that every emotion known to man has me staring deep into my refrigerator, looking for something to shovel down my throat.

It may very well be that I'll remain a fat ass for the rest of my life.

Or maybe one day I'll regain control of my emotions once and for all and tango with a little thing called willpower.

At least I haven't gained any weight...

Apparently, optimism is the only feeling that doesn't make me run towards the fridge.

I Need New Friends

Text convo between me and my good friend who always gives me incredible blog fodder and fabulous girlie gifts (I love you, dickwad):

Drogo (fictitious name, chosen by him because he's a coward and doesn’t want to lose his job): Holy crap you need to see the piece of work that just walked into my store!

(For the record, Drogo works at a ladies’ make-up store here in Miami. No, he is not gay.)

Me: Piece of work?

Drogo: Yeah it’s like this Lady Gaga, tall, I-don’t-know-what, with all the ass hanging out and wearing this weird wig.

Me: Is it like, a cardboard cut out? Or a real person.

Drogo: A person. Flesh and blood.

Me: Picture!!!!!!!!

(two minutes later)

Me: Oh my Gahhhh, what the heck is that?

Drogo: Some crazy girl, probably a Gaga fan.

Me: Oh honey, that isn’t a girl.

Drogo: Of course it’s a girl. What the heck's it gonna be?

Me: A guy, dummy.

Drogo: Seriously? Damn. Guess I shouldn’t have let it give me a blowjob in the men’s bathroom then, huh?

Lord save us.

Point Of Insertion: Part II

Although an intelligent woman with a phD and adept at always getting her way, my mother has never been good at expressing her feelings, especially when it comes to personal matters. Reserved by nature and raised by her blind grandmother, Mom shunned any relative who attempted to initiate the birds & the bees talk or explain how a woman's body worked.

Considering the aforementioned, when her first period arrived at thirteen, Mom thought she was dying. For months on end she used old clothes to "stop the bleeding" and stored them away in one of her chest drawers.

During my childhood and teenage years, mommy dearest never spoke to me about anything too personal, almost choking when at twelve I knocked on her door and said, "I need a pad because it happened." I distinctly recall her uncontrollable weeping as I desperately searched for the right words to console her.

In Cuba, tampons were unheard of, so it's granted that when the time finally came for me to enter womanhood, maxi-pads were the only acceptable option. My mom explained that tampons "were for hookers" and they would get me sick, making me promise I'd never come near them as I vigorously conceded.

Of course pads were uncomfortable and sometimes moved and blood leaked everywhere, embarassing me publicly on more than one occasion. Yet as humans, we're wired to fear the unknown, and tampons were as foreign to me as friendly chupacabras and UFO's.

Fast forward to adulthood.

The year's 2008 and I'm twenty-five, fully aware tampons aren't going to kill me, even if I'd never used them. My good friend Jeremy and I are at a party, another summer outing that would end on someone's couch; two friends and their insatiable hunger for fun and bullshit on a Saturday night.

It's midnight and Jeremy's huddled in a corner already past the point of no return, trying to buy a girl drinks as she explains that it's a house and drinks are free. I excuse myself from some sweaty guy attempting to pick me up so I could go to the bathroom. As I shut the door behind me and turn on the lights, I see my monthly has struck and I've spotted a bit on my underwear. I quickly finish my business and look for a girl named Linda whom I vaguely remember as the owner of the house.

Me: Dude, I just got my period.

Linda: That blows.

Me: Uh, yeah. So... Do you have a pad I can borrow please?

Linda: Pfft! A pad?! Who the heck uses those?

Me: My grandma.

Linda: Hahahaha. You're funny. Come, I'll get you some tampons.

Two minutes later and I'm back in the bathroom holding two plastic containers Linda just gave me. I could've been holding a couple of dead goats and been less clueless. It is at this juncture where I resort to calling my best friend and pray to Jesus she answers, which she does after five rings.

Olivia: This better be good.

Me: It is super urgent, so listen up. How do you use a tampon?

Olivia: Oh my God, say you're kidding. Aren't you almost thirty?

Me: I'm twenty- five, until the day I die. Seriously, I'm freaking out. What do I do?

Olivia: It's easy. Just take it out of the wrapper, put it in, and make sure the string hangs. That's it.

Me: That's it?

Olivia: Yes, babe. Super easy. Have fun!

So this was what the big fuss was about? I couldn't believe I hadn't resorted to tampon usage a decade before. I grabbed my little Tampax applicator and shoved it in there, making sure the string hung like Olivia had instructed. After zipping my jeans and making sure the situation down there was secure, I went out to the party to fetch me a much-deserved drink.

I hadn't taken eight steps when it struck me:

The morning after, Olivia and I were in hysterics over the fact I'd left the plastic applicator inside, which pinched my skin with every attempt to walk.

That night, it wasn't so funny.

As soon as he spotted me in a corner with a possible look of constipation, Jeremy made a beeline in my direction. "Yoooo, are you alright, fuck face?" He asked, barely taking his lips off the cup to utter the words.

I said nothing, dragging him to Linda's room instead and explaining my dilemma. He didn't seem to be very interested or sympathetic to my tragedy but then said, "You must've done something wrong. Take it out."

Me: I can't just take it out. I'm going to bleed all over the place.

Jeremy: Well can't you just shove some toilet paper up in there until tomorrow?

Me: I'm bleeding like a race horse and you think toilet paper's going to solve it? Get a clue.

Jeremy: What about paper towels? Them Bounty's are fucking absorbent.

Me: You're ridiculous.

Jeremy: Call Olivia and ask her if it's supposed to feel like that. You must've done something wrong.

Me: You said that already.

Olivia didn't answer the second time around and after much deliberation, I was reduced to letting Jeremy convince me to take it out. "I'll put the other one in for you. I know how it's done."

Me: And how exactly do you know this?

So that was the night I let my friend Jeremy help me insert a tampon properly right after two shots from a flask of whiskey he always carried with him.

The next morning... We found ourselves on Linda's couch (no surprise there).

I woke up groggy in his arms, with fuzzy recollections of the previous evening's shenanigans and sans hangover.

"You know, Annah, I had the strangest dream last night," he turned to me. "We were lying in bed and all of the sudden you tore off your pants and showed me your you-know-what. Isn't that weird?" He laughed.

"Very," I said, promptly excavating the depths of my mind to find a pool of bloody mortification waiting to wash over me. An exit strategy out of that conversation was needed immediately.

"So... What happened to that blonde girl?" I nudged his shoulder playfully. "Did you buy her any drinks or what?"

He yawned and looked confused for a moment before answering, "Why would I buy anyone drinks at a house party? They're free, you idiot."

And that was the end of that.

Point Of Insertion: Part I

Sometimes in order to understand certain things, you need some direction. This is the case with tomorrow's post, an anecdote about my traumatic first-time experience using a tampon at the ripe old age of twenty-five.

If you unfollow me as a result of the following video, I will come after you with the bloody jaws of life, a secret torture device I've invented for the easily offended. I swear my boobs don't look that terrible/lopsided or that I say "um" that often in real life.

Love Soon

"Why is it that we always fall in love with the people who don't love us in return?"

I sigh and look up at him, pretending not to have the answer as I flip a page in my book, my heart breaking in spite of itself.

"Really, though..." He prompts again. "Wouldn't it all be easier if we fell in love with the ones who already love us? Why does it all have to be so complicated?"

"I wish I knew," I reply, but he's aware all along that the answer is you.

How I can't get the way you smile down at me as my reflection lives in your eyes out of my mind. How my heart goes into a frenzied state at the nearness of you and nothing but your touch can resume it to its normal state. How no one else can compare to the essence of you, and no one ever will.

How nothing, is as intoxicating as the mere thought of you, and every breath you take brings purpose and meaning to my otherwise mundane existence. How there's no being walking this earth whom I'd rather get lost with, whether exploring the world or each other.

How my endless thoughts of you went out into the universe and transformed themselves into the energy that pulled you here with me. How people eternally questioned my loneliness and I didn't care, because I knew something they didn't. How unlike the others you let me be just as I am, mostly erratic and bordering on unbearable on any given day, but yours just the same. How when I look up at the sky on those rare nights when stars are visible, they align themselves to spell out your name, a constant reminder of why waiting was the only option for me.

How you pierced through a heart otherwise impervious to things of that nature, too consumed in life to make time for love. How every single wrong I encountered along the way was merely an obstacle to the only right I ever needed, you...

We sit here in silence this afternoon and the rain pours into my balcony when he asks me what I'm thinking of.

And the answer is you. Whoever you are. Wherever you may be.

So This Is What It's Come To.

Tonight I've decided to forgo writing, not because I'm having a bit of a blockage problem and don't want to burden you with yet another shit post.

But because I really want to watch The Help, a movie based on a book written by a woman whose manuscript was rejected 60 times.

(If that doesn't give an aspiring writer hope then I don't know what will).

Before I go though, I wanted to tell you about something that happened yesterday. Not sure if I mentioned that my mom was laid off about a month ago and is now on a little thing called unemployment until further notice.

Because of her new situation, she spends a lot of time pondering on life and staring at the lake, talking to her dogs and filing her nails. If she's not doing any of the marvelous aforementioned activities, my dear mama will be plopped on her couch watching television. Wednesday morning she calls me at work, excited over something.

Mom: So I was watching some show there and a commercial came on for a company that's looking for office managers.

Me: Oh, yeah?

Mom: Si. Why don't you take down the number and give 'em a call? You were the manager at that church.

Me: Give me the number.

Mom: But only if you're going to call!

Me: I'll call, I promise.

(Gives me the number and two hours later):

Mom: Have you called yet?

Me: No, mama. I'm busy working. This is what people do when they work.

Mom: I know you're watching videos on the internet.

Me: Okay, okay. Good grief.

(Five minutes later).

Me: Well... I called.

Mom: And?

Me: They want to hire me. Only that they're not looking for office managers. They're looking for appointment setters.

Mom: Bueno, that doesn't sound so bad. What did they say?

Me: He said they needed bilingual people for the job and that I "give good voice." Whatever that means.

Mom: And what do they do?

Me: They book strippers and prostitutes.

Mom: Ay, Dios mio. Lose that number.

And the beat rolls on.

Bitches Be Crazy!

Semi-related pre-post sidenote: I have to give a major shout-out and kudos to all the men of the world for keeping their public bathrooms clean and neat! Nevermind how I know this, hmmkay?

-------

The other day a few of us went to our local pub for some nachos and beer (this was before my diet started so get off my back!) when it was time to break my seal.

***Breaking the seal: The initial time you have to urinate after ingesting alcohol during your evening. Once said imaginary seal is broken, you will pee over and over again every thirty minutes until you’re fully dehydrated or home sleeping.

So Britt comes with me to the bathroom and as usual the line is from here to Morocco and we’re just chatting along and waiting our turn like good girls. There are a few girls standing around gossiping and doing their makeup, when it’s finally Britt’s turn and then mine. When I enter the stall, there’s urine all over the toilet seat, which really irks me, but what can you do? Part of ladies’ bathroom protocol. I pop a professional squat because I'm the squat master and then I exit feeling rejuvenated and satisfied and sober again. As I’m walking en route to wash my hands, I tell Britt, “I hate it when people pee and then leave urine all over the toilet seat. Seriously, what’s the issue with cleaning it?”

Suddenly, some drunk lady butts in and is all, “Well why didn’t you clean it?”

Me: Because that’s not my urine. Gross.

Her: Then you shouldn’t be complaining about it being dirty.

Me: Yes I should. It’s a little thing called “principle.” I understand that sometimes as you’re squatting things won’t always fall where they should, but if the toilet was clean before you entered the stall, it’s your responsibility to restore it to that state once you exit.

(The lady's getting worked up by this point and I’m clearly not giving a shit).

Her: But someone needs to set the example, obviously.

Me: I’ll set the example by throwing away napkins or tipping the bathroom lady, but I’m not cleaning after someone’s pee and then leaving a note saying, “Hey! I did it, now it’s your turn.”

Her: I clean up after my daughter’s pee all the time.

Me: Well, I don’t have any daughters, so I guess I’m okay with not having to clean anyone’s pee. Except maybe my dogs.

Her: You’re disgusting.

Me: And you’re obviously crazy, lady.

Britt: Woah! Time to go, now. (pulls me by the arm and leads me back to the bar).

Me: Can you believe that nutjob?!

Britt: Yes, I can.

Me: Say… You’re a mom. Would you clean up after someone else’s pee?

Britt: Hell no! ‘Sides, I always wear gloves when I clean up after my sons. Manicures are expensive and I’m grossed out easily.

Exactly.

Hi. I'm On Drugs Today!

I hate this post so much I'm going to burn it with fire and spread the ashes over someone's sandwich when the time is right. I hate me for making you read this and will probably beat myself with a hamburger patty once I'm done but I just can't make this right since I'm on Percocet/Vicodin.

-------

On Tuesday night I found a perfect home for the chow chow I rescued ten days back. I was so happy I think I burst a blood vessel in my right eye from joy but then I find this big-eared harlot on Wednesday.

Reunited her with her owner on Thursday and f*ck yeah, I 'm feeling good and ready for the weekend. I saw this dog on Friday right before happy hour and I swear I was going to keep going but some kids were throwing rocks at her and I simply couldn't do it.

Refrain from repeatedly beating the boys with my 6" heel because I don't think I'd thrive to my full potential in jail. Pick up the dog instead and take her home. Sit on my couch and decide to make it a relaxing weekend when Janet calls and says I should join her and some of her friends at a bar. Everyone's fresh out of college and they drink Bud Light and I'm feeling old but it's okay because I need vodka and they seem like nice people so whatever's clever, Trevor.

------

I wanted to say something else here but I'm practically drooling on my keyboard at this point. I think after we went to a club called The Big Kahuna or Big Cojones and I danced like a video vixen on speed because I hadn't been for a while (two weeks). One of my new friends is dancing with a girl whose ass is bigger than my car and tiger crawls across the floor as her signature dance move.

(I literally just spent five minutes trying to figure out how to spell signature)

Anyway, here's a picture of my friend and the tiger floor crawling butt girl.

We got home at five and ate Colombian hot dogs that set my diet back about ten years. The next day I woke up and couldn't get out of bed because my back felt like the Incredible Hulk had gotten into a fist fight with it. Killing me is an understatement. It's possible I'm too old for gettin' down like I used to but I suspect it's just premature arthritis.

Broken back and all I and put up a million fliers for Gloria Estefan (that's what we named the last dog) and lo' and behold her owner called me crying like a big fat baby that same night. After giving putting her in his car I scolded him like a school boy under the rain and I didn't give a fuuuuuuuuh.

Then I stayed home and woke up on Sunday to spend all day on the couch being wild by eating popcorn and watching tv when my roommate proclaims she's having a scary movie night and I flee the scene because scary movies scare me. (what a concept). That night I drove to Lola's house to watch True Blood but no one was there so I let myself in and put happy juice in the only cup I could find and plopped down on their couch.

Now it's Monday and I decided to listen to Katie and take some drugs for my back pain and here I am, a loopy drooling mess. I hate this post already but it took me three hours to write so now I will hit 'publish' and proceed to lose fifty followers but it's okay because nothing matters right now and apparently that's the beauty of drugs.

Axing Is Wrong

When I was younger, potential suitors or boyfriends had to possess certain pre-requisites before they got the green light. As age ate away all my delusions, the reality  not much really matters except him having a job and being taller than 5'5" sunk in.

Granted, we all have our "deal breakers," and I have a few of my own that will land any suitor on the chopping block. Today, I am here to talk about one in specific: axing.

I realize this is something that doesn't only bother me, nor does it relate to one gender only. You see, "axing" is a phenomenon that seems to afflict people from all walks of life.

Being the good-hearted person that I am, I couldn't stand around listening in as someone got axed yet again. Some things are just unacceptable, guys, and once and for all, I'm here to vanish axing with your help.

Have you ever noticed how 50% of the population can't pronounce the word "ask," as in, questioning something? Why is it that this happens? Everytime I hear someone say they want to "ax" me something I die a thousand deaths inside, yet I smile and say nothing on the outside.

A battalion of axes march daily everywhere around you, all equally as cringe worthy.

The Present Ax

The Past Tense Ax

The Futuristic Ax

The Shy Ax

This is such a simple thing to remedy. If you or someone you know has a problem prounouncing the word ask or asking, it's very easy. Think of the bad word for buttocks and combine it with a powerful and mighty king.

And there you have it, a nice and breezy way to remember how to asssssk away.

The Ticking Clock

Lately, it seems like everywhere I look, someone's popping out a baby. On Facebook, at the grocery store, a family party, my local bar... Everywhere! Babies.

I couldn't help but notice that about six months ago, my biological clock officially started ticking. Where before a cute baby would induce feelings of indifference, now they bring panic attacks and strange lower stomach pulls and tugging of my heart strings and I seriously can't take much more of it.

I realize that in order to make babies you a) need a man and b) need to be financially stable. For the moment, I'm lacking both of these crucial factors, so I console myself by making notes on what I've dubbed "the baby scale."

Certain things tip the scale towards baby, while others just make me aware that it's probably best I don't.

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When my friend's baby makes a little fist while sleeping soundfully on his bassinet like this:

My biological clock erupts.

When I see a screaming child throwing a tantrum at a nice restaurant, while the parents look around sheepishly and try to calm down their little gremlin.

When I'm at the grocery store and a cute toddler smiles at me and offers me a piece of whatever they're eating.

When my friend Janet tells me, "Sometimes in the middle of giving birth, you don't know what part of your body you're pushing, so you shit yourself."

When I see baby pictures of my father, and think of how wonderful it'd be to give him a grandson.

When I realize all that people give up to have babies, including their sanity and eight hours of sleep.

When I go visit Lola and her baby does this:

And when I marvel at how lovely it'd be to have a tiny servant to fetch me martinis and take out the garbage.

I don't stand a chance.

I guess babies win by default, and I really really want one, and this biological clock will not cease its ticking until I give it what it wants. For now though, I think I'm happy with what I have.

 

  

So maybe not having a baby isn't such a bad thing. But, if I change my mind anytime soon, one of you is going to have to find me some top notch sperm.