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This is my blog, and it is dangerous. Do you think I want to die like this?





Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Drunk Fest, Y'all.

2:05am: The night begins. These assholes (my mother and step dad) have just now begun to have a twinkle in their eye about dinner. They're having "dick taters" and at least one of them is really proud of this. I simply propelled myself out of bed and stole some mashed potatoes and corn before the real shit could start. I had to run away to my bedroom, because the dog tried to eat me. More later!

2:11am: I really like corn. Need beer soon. To get rid of my headache from earlier beer.

2:18am: They still haven't started eating and my mother had to yell at the dog to stop trying to chew me, after inserting myself into the living room experience.

2:21am: "I don't want to be in love prison. I'm done." ~the tv show my parents are watching, while I pour beer down my face.

2:28am: Fuck. They're watching Jeopardy, and I just got shooshed. Drunk fest is taking for freaking ever. *pouts*

2:52am: It gets worse. They're making me watch Dancing With The Stars. DVR is an evil invention. This is horrible, it's Halloween-themed. It's like a visible fart.

3:15am: I was lounging on my back, dejectedly eating more mashed potatoes, mouthing off about Lea Thompson's wooden performance, when my mother abruptly turned off the show and announced it was bed time.

While step dad was putting her to bed, I began to set up camp. He waltzed out, and saw me trying to plug in my laptop. His response? "Why don't you ass-up the whole living room? You wanna put the couch in the kitchen?"

I was moving a tiny chest of drawers two literal inches. At this juncture, he threw a cigarette at me and told me he was going to be back later. I tried to talk to him about how it was okay to tell me he needed to poop. He informed me that some things are sacred, and now I'm here, unsure how to work this remote. But at least beer.

3:25am: I put on Kimbra, then banged my glass of beer into my upper lip. Such an expert.

Anyway, let's talk about my levels of drunk as it relates to the dog. She's a yorkie/pomeranian mix shithead.

Sober - "Gah, your dog. She's barking, fuck her."
Slightly Buzzed - "Her ear is floppy. Fix your ear! You fuckstick dog. No, stop biting me, seriously."
More Buzzed - "I am going to buy a bigger dog to eat you, you cute little fuck."
Totes Buzzed - "Smell my foot. It smells like a donut, I'm serious. I smelt it myself. Unglazed. You like that foot."
Getting Drunk - "This dog is okay, I wish she'd stop eating me. Get the spray bottle so I can tell you a story about when I was 15."
Almost Drunk - "I might nap with this adorable rat in a dog costume. Stupid dog. We never cuddle anymore. Fuck you! All you want is treats. Oh come here, I can't stay mad at you. Ouch, you bit me."
Drunk - "I can't even. *giggle* This asshole is chewing me. Oh my god, she does have a cute face. We should throw shit at her. Then I'll tell you a story about when I was ... what was I saying?"
Drunk as Hell - "I am going to poop on her. I mean it. Oh, she's licking my arm. I love you stupid dog. You are the only one who ever understood me. She bit me, fuck her. Fuck everyone. Let's play Mad Libs. Yes, I can work a pen. Give me a pen." *flips pen across room* "Mad Libs is OVER."

3:44am - Sober step dad just taught me how to break into a car with a tennis ball. We are totes gonna try this later. "Send us some numbas so we can call from jail." he says. He's from Staten Island.

3:59am - There is no way I'm this funny. I've been riffing on the tv for a billion minutes with the sound off and he keeps giggling. He ate too many mashed potatoes. I am so glad I didn't eat any of the hot dogs, since he just told me they drove from Va with them, like, eight hundred weeks ago, and they weren't stored in a cooler. He might die tonight. Let's put that on the record. I did not kill this man.

4:50am: We just went on Omegle. I will post that conversation at a later date. Mostly because I saved the screen caps with names I'll never remember now.

4:55am: Step dad forces me to promise not to show him my dick. I can keep this promise, I promise.

addendum - he wants me to make it clear he has not and will not show me his dick. so it's not weird. fucking beer. "that doesn't sound right," he says, "that sounds weird."

Also, "why don't you stick a tape recorder up my ass, so you can get everything I say?"

Someone, explain to the young people what a tape recorder is.

4:59am: "God, I'm dying." he says.

I suspect hot dogs.

He just claimed to have used rancid milk in the mashed potatoes. I threatened to punch him in the tit.

5:29am: Step dad wants to talk about a dogs balls (I'm barely listening, he probably said it was time to take his medication) but I wanted to report my recent conversation, which was how if my ex-husband won the lottery, he'd be like, "you have a house bitch!" and if I won the lottery, I'd be all, "hey you have a house now and your dream has come true. no more work, all day boys", which ... is probably the wrongest way to explain what I mean. I'm just saying he loves raising the children, and would love to Mr. Mom them all day.

Someone needs to confiscate my beers.

Also, private note to my really awesome ex. "WHY THE FUCK IS VANESSA BAYER STILL ON SNL, SERIOUSLY. I CAN'T HANDLE IT. FUCK."

6:46am: it's harder to type. I am only here because step dad needed to pee. Oh fuck, shh, I think he's back. I still have too much beer yet to drink, tomorrow will be hard. hepl.

Wait, he is still peeing, let's talk about hiccups. They have something to do with once being fish. I read it on the internet, seriously, it's a real thing. Gills and stuff. I think step dad approaches. He finds me so amusing, but does not want me to tear the giant television off the wall. I will do my best, kittens.

Speaking of kittens, he likes kittens but not cats, oh fuck here he is.

7:07am: I just tried to say "bum's nutsack" to my step dad (about my right arm pit), but totally said, "bum's nut snack." which is a totally different conversation.

He's also informed me that it took ten minutes to type that. He also wants me to tell you that he no longer has a tape recorder up his ass, he has upgraded to the 90s and has a CD player up in theres.

7:18am: okay this happened. my right arm pit was so bad, I totally grabbed some like normal lotion and rubbed it into my pit. Step dad gagged. He said it was worse than the tiny dog licking in-between my mother's toes. Wait, I'm gagging now.

It's fucking light out. The sun demands the party end, FUCK THE SUN. I have a whole more beer to drink. "Let's get a Ouija board." step dad says. HELLS YEAH.

7:23am: I am demanding step dad smells my arm pit. I banged his face with my pit. He is totally disturbed, and wiped his face with a lotion-infused tissue, but agrees is smells better than before. He feels my use of men's deodorant does not do me any favors. I feel he is running out of cigarettes. Oh wait, it's on the kitchen table. Walk to Wawa averted.

7:47am: I can't even explain - step dad went to piss, yet keeps trying to sell me every single thing in the hallway. He keeps using the word "illustrious." Who on this planet, drunk or sober can not fall on the floor laughing as he tries to sell me two for one lotion - oh my fuck, he just walked out singing "smelly cat," with a trail of toilet paper out of his pants. I can't. With this.

addendum, I am dead serious. This all happened to me.

aLSO, what ARE THEY FEEDING YOU.

8:27am: I hate to report this, but my step dad dared me to fart. And I did. I promptly covered my head in the nearest blanket and died. Then, my mother woke up and threw the dog at us. 

New level of drunk. I love this stupid dog. We are one.

8:33am: step dad tries to convince me to walk through like, the McDonald's drive through and get extra hashbrowns. As I can barely type, I doubt this is happ'ning. I mean, I need to hug the dog. That's where I am, I love this stupid dog.

4:38am no wait, 8:38am - so the dog made this sound like she had a bell face and walked into a wok. A WOK of all things. Step dad suspected she had something in her mouth, but that little rat ran all ups under the couch. I can't fit there.

Step dad threatens to cook fish sticks. Also, he thinks I have more farts. I do not.

9:27am: the keyboard is fulla boogers and step dad wants to know if he can go to jail for this. To put it simply, some asshole called asking for my step dad. I refused to give his oh shit it's later.

9:53am: after harassing - thoroughly - the woman who dared to call while we were basking in 80s videos, step dad accidentally called a friend of mine and we left a criminal message for him. I love you, person, you know who you are. We are both so sorry.

The dog barks. Will Drunk Fest ever end? Who knows? The shadow? Oh, the squeaking of this toy, while we try to enjoy New Order.

9:58am: we have decided to get matching Members Only jackets.

10:19am: why doesn't McDougals deliver the hashbrows? Hungry. Hungry. "ya killin' me Smalls." I have no idea why he said that, but Smalls, ya killin' us.

10:38am: hiccups. abort. put rest of beer back. the hiccups have bested me. Drunk Fest OVER.

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Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Tasting Food

My mother is obsessed with bringing home any snack food that has been recently created, especially if it's a flavor that probably shouldn't be. She honestly needs a separate storage closet just for the bags of various chips she buys that are sampled, rejected, yet never thrown away. She bought me a bag of sweet roasted corn potato chips, because she knows I love corn a whole lot and she's seen me eat potato chips. I ate about five of those chips, only because I was amused by my mouth's "oh, come on!" reaction to them. Imagine the flavors of two great things - two great things that hate each other, and brawl about it on your tongue.

Some history on my mother's new relationship with food ... my step father told me she once ate a frozen roll that was four years past the expiration date. I don't at all have a problem believing this, since there was a package of just-expired bakery-bought cupcakes when I moved here in July and they are still in the fridge, and it's October dammit, despite my trying to throw them away. She insists she'll eat them.

Which brings us to my current experiment - seeking out food items which I'd probably never eat unless I was trying to win a bet or find something to talk about on my blog.

Let's begin with tamarind nectar.


Just one letter away from being monkey juice.

Doesn't that look appetizing? It tastes like your gums are bleeding. Granted, that could have been the indestructible can it came in. After my first taste, I put it right back into the fridge, spilling a little bit on the shelf. I thought I'd cleaned it up, but when my step dad tried to move it later as I slumbered, it was so very stuck that he ended up spilling more of it during his unsticking efforts. If I were him, I'd have thrown it at my bedroom door, like my mom always did with anything I left somewhere in her line of sight while she was also in the mood to be throwing stuff.

Basically, don't drink this unless you require a liquid glue that comes in a weapon and your mouth doesn't taste enough like blood that day.

~~~~~

Let's eat something in a pocket now.

You can feel the organic lack of GMOs right through the box.

I love spinach and feta! What could go wrong?

I use paper plates, because ripping the cooked food away from the paper is half the fun.

That is what it looked like cooked. It's also what it looked like frozen, but trust me, it was hot enough to make you regret your lack of patience yet again. One thing I can say for this is that it's clearly magic of some sort. The spinach and feta on its own tasted the way almost anyone would expect - pretty good, once it made contact with a non-sizzled taste bud. But that pocket. That virtuous, pasty, tricksy pocket. Its lack of flavor was so power-filled, it drew in all hints of flavor within the realm of my bedroom and rendered them non-existent. I even tried licking my wall and ... nothing. Nothing has a taste as long as that dough exists.

~~~~~

Something sweet, now.


Cacao to cacao.

Dark? Sure. Sinful? Probably. That bar is nearly as long as my foot. Pear? Eh.

I expected so much weirder from this, but I couldn't detect any pear, and I'm not hard of pear-detecting at all. Trust me, you put something pear-flavored in my mouth, and I will immediately report tasting pear. This is just a highly edible dark chocolate and almond bar. If you like that sort of thing, please come over and help me finish this. I swear I didn't touch it with my foot.

~~~~~

They go with everything.

These are fantastically fun, although impossible to eat once you apply them, unless you've applied them to a friend. I did not think this one through properly. But, I definitely got quite the reaction today when I had to run to the middle school to pick up my mom's Market Day order.

I have a decision to make, though. Do I risk life and nipple to rip these off now, find the patience to wait for my night sweats to melt them off, or invite a non-diabetic friend over to treat me like a moveable, if slightly reluctant sugar rush?

~~~~~

Not a casserole, a PIE.

Let's heat this, according to the package directions.

Hurry up and bring me a fork!
What can be said about something that smells like unwashed socks and only has one slice of black olive laying on it? This was edible. I know this because I got it into my face and it didn't come back out of it immediately. I can't confirm that it has three layers, because the gluten-free tortilla broke apart like someone on hour eight of an interrogation for a crime they never wanted to commit.

This is something you have to eat quickly, before it cools down and before it's exposed to too much Earth air, which clearly rejects its very existence. This is something you might happily eat if you were deployed, because it tastes better than sucking on your uniform. If you're not in the military, this is something you should Hasselhoff from your living room floor after pouring a lot of strong beer down your throat.

Eating it ended as most unpleasant things do - with a measure of relief, but way too much salt all over my bed. I almost felt as though I should keep the tray, because I suspected this meal would enter me, then reassemble itself after incorporating the unholy amount of corn I'm always eating, then emerge as a fully-formed, yet slightly improved version of its past self I could convince the dog to eat.

Cedar Lane gluten-free Enchilada Pie is preposterous as a human food.

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Tuesday, October 14, 2014

I Play Sims 2 (part3)

I see you're wearing your job search kimono - and not a moment too soon, we'll be needing more money for a bigger place.
That's it - the very morning you move into the new house, shove that hand in the dirt and find a man in a sweater to date.
I'm sure if you tried, you could move faster.
Yes, I know. Too much grilled cheese can be binding.
Well, at least Geneva didn't let a floor baby disturb her brunch.
It's good that you're hosing her down, though. Let's call her Maura.
No need to look thoroughly depressed, I'm sure she'll eventually grow some hair.
Why the hell is everyone so bummed out? You have a nice, mature, child's bun now, Maura. Cheer up.
Ah, pretty pretty teenaged Maura. People might almost forget I named you terribly.
*sigh* Only a Maura would dance like that.
Melissa, you're old! What will you do with yourself now?
I'm not sure messing around with that lamp is a groovy idea.
"Fuck this shit" is exactly the stance I would have taken. You're a smart old lady.
Maura. Sounds like a cow mooing "Laura".
Yeah, I just now realized it, too.
Hey, there's a guy in a hat hanging around, have you met him yet?
Oh, I see you have. It seems like just mere minutes ago you didn't even exist.
Now Melissa is dead?! You can't even pass out drunk without all sorts of shit going down.
Yes, Geneva - I'm aware of you.
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Tuesday, October 7, 2014

I Play Sims 2 (part2)

Well, look at how pregnant you are, you little slut.
Let's call her Melissa.
They grow up so fast and festive these days.
That hair is not putting me a party mood, though.
You're a child now! Time to do your homework!
Once that dog I told you not to talk to finishes eating it.
Meanwhile, I've decided you're going to be immortal, Geneva - so start juicing.
Also, quit it with the fires, you're irritating the whole department.
And no more flopping your grilling meats around. That's irritating me.
Plus, you've got to stop staring at the pasta. The neighbors are starting to talk.
Melissa's a teenager now! Time for her to make some friends, I guess.
Maybe one with a less curious nature.
Screw it, just turn into an adult and have a nervous breakdown like everyone else.
I know a guy who can give you a great face sanding that'll fix you right up.
See? All we have to do is get you wearing something that won't attract the wrong kind of Sim.
Now get downtown and find a man.
But try doing something other than stuffing cookies into your face with a random old lady.
Yeah, I suppose that qualifies as something different.



I Play Sims 2 (part3)
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Wednesday, October 1, 2014

I Don't Know How She Does It


Ugh. Okay, I think when my best friend Bunny Walker recommended I watch and review a movie with Sarah Jessica Parker in it, she was thinking the main issue I'd have is the hatred I used to harbor for her based on my scorching Matthew Broderick crush - but I've grown out of that. Way out of it.

You see, my best friend's favorite reviews of mine involve films I despise - and even without still obsessing over SJP's husbro, being forced to watch something she's in is a pretty safe bet I'll volunteer to throw a rock at my television and quit the planet for the evening.

But I love my Bunny Walker, and I'll do almost anything she asks, except watch this damnable thing a second time.

Allow me to heave a sigh and get started.

First thing's first - as Netflix took its time loading, this is the image it offered me as I waited:

It felt like I was looking into a mirror that turned me into Sarah Jessica Parker, and I was pleading with myself not to go through with it. I didn't listen. I never heed the warnings of my heart.

Kate (SJP) and Richard Reddy (Greg Kinnear) are working married parents who haven't yet figured out that it's no longer the 60s and that everything involving the house and children isn't momma's sole responsibility. I mean fuck - when was the critically acclaimed novel this film was based on written? Oh, just 2003. Back when girls were girls and men were men. Those were the d--well, maybe the book was better. I pray it was.

None of the characters were truly likeable. Kate Reddy's friend Allison (Christina Hendricks) was tolerable most of the time. Digestible, even. Everyone else gave me gas.

As you can guess, Kate tries to have it all, and does none of it as well as it could be done. Man, when was the last time I ran across this theme? You mean to tell me every single story about a working mother is this same boring, predictable, gender role stereotyping, corny bullshit? No wonder I'm holding a fistful of my own hair.

At least this movie had totally different and innovative stuff in it, like misunderstandings involving e-mails sent to the wrong person, grass-is-always-greener moments, judgmental mother-in-laws, snarky fellow mothers, getting-it-right-alright musical montages and freeze-frame fourth wall bashing - plus really clever crap like calling yourself a "giant, un-tweezed eyebrow". Ahahahahaha. Ha.

I almost gave up completely when Kate Reddy was questioned about a spot on her blazer and she responded by tasting it. Tasting it. What ever happened to smelling things?! I have two kids and there is no way I could be convinced to put my mouth on a mysterious stain - I don't care if I even had a pretty darn good hunch it was made entirely of squished pot brownies - I am not just throwing it willy-nilly against my tongue, not even for comedy.

What is there really to say about this film? It just sucked. I mean, it wasn't even so bad it was good. It was just ... there ... doing all the things that irritate you into needing a nap. It was like a forced two-hour coffee date with a guy who thinks fart jokes are hilarious. You just want it to end, and don't really much feel like talking about it later. So, how did it end? I don't fucking care, and it doesn't even matter. I'm just glad it's over.

So there you go. Don't watch this. Do anything else on Earth.

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Tuesday, September 23, 2014

I Play Sims 2 (part1)

I started playing Sims 2 again recently - wait, I mean obsessively - because I'm on a borrowed laptop that wouldn't cheerfully run Sims 3 and would definitely be ticked off if I tried to run Sims 4 on it. I kind of needed something to do with my depressed self, other than sitting on my bed waiting for Autumn to fully hit, or for someone to take their Words With Friends turn.

When I was writing stories with Sims 3, I used a lot of cheats, so I could concentrate on trying to capture something worth talking about. This time, other than an initial money cheat to get my family started, I haven't used any - which is fulfilling in the same type of way that experiencing ducks trying to peck you to death is good at passing the time.

I did have a moment of panic when I couldn't figure out where in the fuck the pictures saved to. Once I found them, I had several moments of agitation when I realized they do not save in the order you take them. But I am nothing if not completely unwilling to give up on something irritating and pointless, so here we are. Let's see where it goes.


Meet Geneva Becker. Like me, she enjoys sandwiches.

She's also slightly crackers - another thing we have in common.
Unlike me, she searches for men right outside her front door. I just get on the internet for that shit.
As it turns out, this fella is some sort of boobie-grabbing sourpuss ...
... which is why she didn't share any of her sandwiches with him. You just stay on that couch, jerky.
Geneva appears to be using the sign for "cup" - I suspect because it's quicker than finger spelling "vodka".
This was going to be my next suggestion, heading to a night club where the decor is
seizure-inducing and ... all the models in the paintings have apple heads.
All that's left to do now is have an exciting bowl of chili while the other patrons try out
some experimental handshakes ... and wait for the right man to show up.
I've spotted him! Get your ass outside, Geneva, this is your guy.
I betcha his name is Venkat Custer. He looks like a Venkat Custer if I ever saw one.
It's time to hear what this gentleman has to say about butter.
Those must have been some compelling opinions. He probably even threw in some
ideas about bagels, since she's trying to break him with her love.
I almost can't stand to watch, either.
Oh awesome, this tree is on fire.
Now that tree is on fire.
The kitchen's on fire, too - and a chef came to visit for some arcane reason.
They need to rename this game "Sims 2 - Everything's On Fire And So Are You".


I Play Sims 2 (part2)
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