Bockshtabber

Things are more fun when you say them like you're Sean Connery.

I use this technique whenever I can't quite spit something out that I want to say. It works well, and I highly recommend it. Example, when you need to tell your shitty friend that they've hurt you and you want nothing to do with them anymore. And cue eye-rolling. It's been quite the week. However, it rained today, and that was most excellent. Things are greenin' up 'round these parts. Smells like both spring AND teen spirit. A lovely combination, if I do say so myself.

I saw some interesting gals today. They were toting Starbucks cups and cell phones; D&G sunglasses and perfect manicures. They were trying on shoes and talking about other girls. I felt so L.A. watching them, as if I needed to be behind velvet ropes and surrounded by paparazzi. Blonde highlights. Lack of brain cells. The fuckability factor was off the charts, I'm sure. Pure plastic and ready to melt. Fascinating stuff, really.

How a person's image can make others all feel completely different emotions amazes me.

Negligent Bitch

I'm so cranky.

I've got a lot of stress floating in the ol' bloodstream as of late, and I simply cannot find time to do the things I actually want to do. It sucks madcore amounts of feces, and I'm hoping that things will start looking up (probably) around mid-May.

So, uhh...funny story. Not particularly "ha ha" funny, but...you'll see. So, a month back, myself and some friends were vamping it up in an old cemetery near my homestead late at night. We were rockin' the paranormal researcher angle, and it was a solid deposit into the memory bank. Well, on our departure in my car, the ladies were distracting my and I managed to back into a fairly dense mound of dirt. Also, I drive it like I stole it and hit the bitch at about 35 km/h going backwards - not so good. Everything seemed fine, though. No damage, no dings - nada. Here's the recent strain of this, though: the other day I noticed my muffler was flying lower than usual. Being the handy-woman that I like to think I am, I grabbed the muffler and pulled it back up. It seemed fine. Then, a day later, I noticed the muffler hanging even lower, so again, I pulled it back up and it again seemed fine. No biggie, right? Well, this soon turned out to be a daily ritual, and every time I got into the car, I'd make a pit stop to the rear and yank up the muff. Last night, I had someone who actually knows what they're doing when it comes to cars look at it, and guess what? That dirt mound fucked up my muffler. I managed to snap the pipe off somewhere up the line, and eventually the muffler will just...fall off. And when it does bite the dust, ye ol' Sunbird is going to be plenty loud. Dope. In the mean time, though, it's suspended quite securely with, of all things, a coat hanger. The one instrument typically reserved for polyester suits and back alley abortions was the necessary tool to "fix" the bitchmobile. So trailer park chic.

It's great.

"Receding Hairlines, Nice Cars." - Just for you, Diane.

Boy, oh boy and girl, oh girl.

All I do lately (see: the last 3 days) is scream along with Conor Oberst and be Napzilla. I'm such an obvious mess. That aside, I'm great. Why so great? Well, I had the utmost joy of scoring quite possibly the coolest necklace tonight at vintage shop downtown. It's the most unconventional looking owl necklace I've ever seen, and I believe it dates from the early 70s. I feel like a total hipster, and it's actually a shitty feeling. Whatever; the thrill of the hidden treasure hunt always makes my heart go pitter-patter. Best part? $10. Worth every germ-laden penny. I also subdued the foody part of me by getting my chow on at a fancy-ish eatery with my friend's mom (hot, I know) in celebration of her birthday. Hellz yeah, pushing 50 and still lookin' fine. I can only wish to be so blessed in the collagen department. Wrinkles are scarce now, but I'm pretty confident my face will eventually look like a map.

You know what's hilarious? Small town hick boys. Characteristics: Ford trucks, Carhartt outerwear, (occasionally) hats, shitty taste in music, love of the ladies. No joke, I got hit on like mad tonight, and as adorable as that may seem, it's just not flattering when it's coming from a dude with fucked up teeth. Yeah, I'm finicky when it comes to oral hygiene; don't even act like you aren't.

Suggested good times: go to your local Wal-Mart (or pharmacy or any big box department store) just before it closes and hang out where the condoms are shelved. Don't be obvious about the fact that you're lurking in this section; be casual. Count how many awkward teenagers come in fixin' to buy some rubbers right before closing (thinking that the chances of seeing someone they know will be significantly lower, perhaps?). Count the shifty eyes and the obvious embarrassed looks. Keep tally of Trojan vs. Durex. Make note of sizes snagged and how many guys pick "her pleasure". Watch how fast they split after they've made their hasty anti-reproducing choice; it's almost like they're running the 100m or something. Silly kids; I don't understand why contraceptives have to be so contraband.

Anyways, hilarity ensues, so give it a try.

I am, I said, have I ever been so mellow?

Gadzooks! It's been 3 days since the last post.

This is disappointing to me because I started out strong. I started this blog with true Olympian stamina, like the internet was a gold medal and all's I gots to do is type. Being realistic though, I'm no top dog, and unlike the dailies, well, I'm just not up to par.

Interesting things happen in grocery stores, you should know. Last night, just as was ready to split from work, a guy who looked like a cross between Steve Buscemi, Silent Bob and Bubbles came through with puffed wheat, organic orange juice, Teddy Grahams and (the highlight of this story) a Kinder Surprise treat. I'm pretty sure Kinder Suprises are a German thing, yes? Anyways, I did the usual check-out girl song and dance until I got to his chocolate eggy-weggy and he felt the need to tell me that it wasn't actually for him. Inquiring minds, my friends. I was all ears. He told me that he chucks the cheap chocolate, does the same with the "made in China" mini-toy, and keeps the little container the toy comes in. From that point, he drills holes in it and laces it with a string, then fills the container with catnip. He gives this little present to his kitties, which he also went into full detail describing to me. Late-night grocery shoppers, I tell ya!

You should also know that couscous is the food so nice, they named it twice.

Peace out, nucka.

Mood: Apathetic

"We single devotchkas have it good."

That's the thought that crossed my mind tonight as I feverishly scarfed down armloads of pub snacks with a few friends. There are no limitations on the fun you can have. Fuck, you can make impromptu plans to sit in a bar and eat pachos with your pals on a Saturday night. No boring plans; no leash and collar. You can check out every ass that walks by. You never have to worry about looking fancy-shmancy for someone. It's incredible. Let's face it: dudes complicate things. I, for one, am sick of being mental about relationships when I have the potential to just exist without being "complete". Call it an epiphany if you will, but I came to the realization tonight that off-the-market lassies are in a totally shitty position. Well, most of the time.

I'll admit it; there are times when I get junior high and wish that I had a b-friend. In actuality, I'm pretty confident that there's no XY specimen in my dating radius that can handle all my fiendish antics and flaws and still adore me. Maybe not even anywhere in the world! But hey, that's okay. Who wants happily ever after when you can live life the E! THS way? Best. Selling. Biography. Watch for it out on store shelves sometime when I'm old.

FYI, pachos are amazing. Potato nachos = crissy-crossy deep fried potato disks covered with cheese and served with honey mustard. So good, I could have cried.

Friday night

Writer's block is weird, yo.

I'm not even blogging for the benefit of anyone else, and I still haven't had anything really interesting to say (even to myself) for the last few days. I'm just going to pretend like it's downtime, and that I'm still a fascinating person.

I bought some new kicks yesterday worth mentioning. Whilst cruising the dude footwear section, I spotted a very fresh pair o' black strapped Converse One Stars. Now, I'm not usually one to sport Converse, because of the stigma that Converse = emo (however, that's totally unfair because Chuck Taylors were meant for all), but when I saw the price, I simply could not resist. $20 for motherfuckin' Converse? I dropped chedda, fo' shizz. Plus they were One Stars and had STRAPS. Too epic to pass up!

Here's an interesting thought you may want to consider. Asian people aren't small. Everyone else is just abnormally gigantic. It's possible, right?

Fuck, I'm tired.

finding morality/mortality

You know what's a not-so-good idea?

Allowing heavily intoxicated Neanderthals to operate vehicles near open and blazing fire pits. Case in point: Last night, at a really inappropriate and duncecap worthy bush party, some very liquored up dudes decided it was absolutely genius to back their truck up near the fire as to sit on the tailgate and stay warm. Of course things backfired on them, as most things do when you're swimming in Budweiser and higher than a kite, and the truck ended up in the fire. Yes, in it. The cab was situated directly over the open flame, and black smoke was a-plenty. I fled, as I am accustomed to do when shit goes bad, because I'm not partial to having my face melted off in a fiery truck inferno explosion. Also, I don't like talking to cops and as one of the two (unfortunately) sober witnesses, I kind of figured I'd be a prime choice for interrogation. Nuh-uh, man. Cops? I'm out.

So, I went to my first funeral today, and let me tell you: they are heavy. In fact, I don't really think I like funerals. Worse yet, it was uber Christian and I just don't roll with God, you know? And I didn't cry, which made me look like an awful, apathetic robot girl.

"Martha, look at that awful girl over there. She's not even crying. I bet she also hates Jesus. Ugly, blasphemous girl. I spit on you!"

Story of my life.

Night owl

Who can sleep when you're literally twitching with anticipation?

No sir, not I. Big day later on today. Bigger day on Sunday.

Sometimes I wish there were more things to do in this strange town after the sun sets. 'Round here, humming neon signs on even the most incognito coffee shops cease lumination around 10 pm. The shopping mecca ushers out last-minute clientele and locks it's doors at 9. Even the McDonalds has a closing time, unlike the big city 24-hour ones.

Some nights, it really takes a creative mind to survive a place like this. Clubs will only entertain you for so long. And strip clubs? Fuggedaboutit! Of the 2 or 3 that line the skeeviest part of the downtown core, only 1 has decent peelers and that's only because they truck 'em in from Vancouver with the promise of a dental plan. The most textbook hang-out spots for the voluntary insomniacs simply do not suffice for people like me.

So, what does a disenchanted gal like myself do on a mundane Friday night? Drink burnt tasting coffee at an all-night diner. Eavesdrop on the conversations of compelling people who also let the night breathe life into them. Cruise the less populated world without worrying about activating the turn signals - there's simply no one else around.

Sure, it lacks the frenzy I sometimes long for, but it's mellow in it's deserted state. Calming, almost. It's the kind of world where you can float on late-night anonymity if you want to. Is this how truckers feel? If so, I might just have to invest in a Peterbilt.

Chills and Thrills

Today is my niece's 4 month escape from the womb-iversary. Time flies, man. It flies!

Bump is getting bigger everyday, accomplishing a little bit more every minute. She is completely astounding, and definitely the still point of my turning world. Babies are cuh-razy!

So, I'm having a shitty day today because I feel like I'm a total bargain basement friend. Don't ask me why; I don't feel like sharing the gory details, just know that if you ever befriend me via the world wide web, there's a pretty good chance that I'll avoid you like the plague in person. I'm painfully, awkwardly shy. It's the nature of the beast, I s'pose.

And I'm super sorry to the person who'll probably never see this, but would know that I was talking about them if they did. I luff joo, laike, sew mush (but not in a creepy, hair doll making way).

no disponible en español!?

I wore flip flops yesterday.

It's a sure sign Canadork is coming outta permafrost when I, the gun-shy barbarian, can proudly sport my signature purple flippers. Sure, I got a few befuddled looks of disapproval, but I'm as firm as shitty implants when it comes to footwear.

Funny Games looks decent to me. I think I might even dare to venture out of the bitchcave to go see it! It looks viewable because:

1. The 1997 version was die scheiße.
2. This version has a solid cast, in my opinion. And even if the acting turns out to be shitty, I'll at least have the image of Michael Pitt to girlishly swoon over. MP on screen makes everything else sound like the adults in a Peanuts special. Also, I adore Tim Roth in an almost awkwardly uncomfortable way.
3. This displays the same general tone as A Clockwork Orange which, like any good cinephile, I have deep appreciation for. It's the mystifying nadsat speak that does it for me, I think.
4. The trailer is kickin' it with Eddy Grieg. So pure.

I'm no Ebert; I'm just basing things on outwards appearance (like I usually do, because I'm a surmising bee-yatch). This could be the film that finally justifies the $8.95 I pay to see it.

Yeah, like that'll ever happen.

You better sit down because..

..I'm pregnant.

Whoa, chillax! April Fool's, man! Geez, wrangle yourself a sense of humour ASAP.

The only way I'd be pregnant is if, by some strange "miracle", immaculate conception were real (see: I'm not getting any) and my uterus were hosting a new & improved Jesus. Let's be reasonable, though, I'm probably the least likely candidate (minus Andrea Yates) to be anyone's mom, let alone the mommy of JC. This is one of those things I can't be modest about. I'm a fucktard when it comes to kids.