Hungry? Blog tapas.

Feels like forever since we had some tapas. Let's start with a story.


Apparently, after I left the detox center, I was meant to go directly to some sort of appointment - of which I was not informed - possibly because I am not yet psychic. So, two days after leaving the center, I'm just cooling out in my kitchen preparing a sandwich when I hear a sharp knock at the door. Husband answers it, and I hear a female voice asking for me. Since I know exactly zero people in this entire state who would show up at my door looking for me, I responded in the only appropriate way possible: "Holy crap!"

It's this chick, wearing way too much perfume, telling me that although I'm not in "trouble", I missed that "mandatory" appointment and she was coming to check on me. Basically, she was there to make sure I'd filled my prescriptions (thank god I decided to!), I hadn't had any alcohol since leaving the detox center (nope), and that I wasn't in a bathtub with my wrists all slit and stuff (so far, so very good on that one).

Yadda yadda yadda, she hands me a card, and to prove that I'm diligent I immediately turn around and move to put it on the bulletin board behind me. Right on top of a birthday card for husband which reads, "BEER BEER BEER BEER BEER is the answer". Grate.

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Anti-depressants sort of make my properties noticeably ... slowed. I can often be found just staring at shit that doesn't warrant being stared at. Which will explain these next two pictures.

 

Not sure why the idea of Pop Tart "gear" vexed me so much, but it did. Am I going to have to start gearing up for eating toast and bagels too, or is it only fruit-filled items I'll be toasting? I'm exhausted already.

Thank god they're still putting directions on things that should be self-explanatory to any sentient being, because when Husband isn't applying the toothpaste tube itself directly to his teeth, he's smacking himself in the face with the box of Cheez-Its, lamenting his continuing hunger.

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Just over a year ago, I used to spend a lot of late-night time on the Sims 3 Facebook fan page, largely being annoyed (because I wasn't yet drinking all the time), and thus spending a huge amount of time just reporting annoying 11-year-olds and spammers, because sometimes you need to take a break from trying to write your blog. I've had this picture sitting in a folder since then, and I still can't figure out why it tickled me so at the time, especially since I didn't actually report the page.

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Celebrity-themed junk mail!!!

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Facebook ads!

...and finally, one of my last drunken Skype dates with my sister. It is my very mature reaction to her accidental spillage of liquid cheese.

That's my "very, very drunken hair" happening there. It's having a party of its own.
Anyhoo, love you all. Some of you more than others, but if you play your cards right ...

Rearranging Katy Perry's Face

Now that I've discovered Katy Perry's errant eye, it's impossible not to slash her face in half to mirror it.  Thankfully, I've managed to balance caring for my home and children while also howling with laughter at the results.

I'll start with the most human looking example.

The original:

The left, cute alien side:

The right, brutal alien side:

The original:


The cutesy left (with one central tooth!):

The vulcan, testosterrific right:

The original:

Kaitlin Olson's secret reject sister left side:

Fran Dresher's secret love child with a carnie right side:

Good luck with your dreams, pets.



No to Katy, but hell yes to Ke$ha.

Why?  I think the looming and obvious answer is that Ke$ha doesn't try to pull any of that cutesy little girl crap, all mixed in with her sexuality - she's not trying to have her cupcake tits and eat 'em too.  She's picked what she's going to be, and she's sticking with it:

Total scuzzball - and I'm okay with that.  I'm kinda scuzzy myself, so maybe it's a tribal thing - you know, I'm recognizing one of my kind or something.  Don't get me wrong - I'm about as anal retentive as they come.  I will organize the shit out of my closet, and don't even think about messing with my system.  But I will also go to bed with makeup on without a second though - and you really don't want to enter a "who can go the longest without a shower" contest because I will soundly defeat you.  I could probably even beat Ke$ha.

This isn't to say that I'm not slightly embarrassed to admit that I dig on some Ke$ha songs - but not nearly as embarrassed as I'd be to admit to enjoying Katy Perry's music - which I don't.  Katy Perry's a good singer - but her music is, for the most part, completely vile.  It's the difference between, "I'll refer to your penis in a cutesy and euphemistic manner ... teehee, my tits shoot whipped cream!" and "Alright, you can come party with us - but you'll probably shit glitter for a month, so don't say you ain't been warned." 

Maybe there's something wrong with me, but I'd much rather party with the dumpster diving dirty freak who's wearing crap on her face that looks like it came out of my craft drawer.  I just think I'd have more fricking fun with her.  She'd probably have boots I could borrow, and wouldn't be a little priss about sharing her hairbrush.

Ke$ha's also not under the misapprehension that she has an important message to impart - there's no pretension.  She's aware of the fact that she makes pop music.  I don't see her all over the place yapping about her "process" or thinking we need to hear every damned fart that comes out of her brain.  

Katy Perry makes me groan for womankind.  Ke$ha makes me wish I was still young enough to go clubbing without it being a potentially pathetic scene.  So, Ke$ha, with your bad self - do continue.

Yes, it was something you said...

My militant working boy* put a little bug in my brain by mentioning in the comments of my last blog that Katy Perry's eyes were two different sizes.  (Thanks, by the way.) 

"But everyone's eyes are two different sizes!" I said to myself as I poked my fingers into Google. 
Alls I can say is: Wow. It's pretty damned noticeable.  Impossible to ignore, actually.

It's like one half of her face is possessed, and the other half is kinda screaming for help.  That's right, kittens - Katy Perry is 1/2 pretty girl, 1/2 demon ... and the proof is right here, if you're strong enough to handle it.

Observe, the pretty girl half:

Now brace yourselves for the demon girl half:

I rest my case.

*If you like movies, check out the blog: http://celluloidkitchen.blogspot.com/

If you don't like movies, dig a hole, crawl in and try to be quiet while you rot.

No, Katy Perry. No!

There are so many things I have to say to you, Katy Perry.  So many things you need to hear.

First and foremost, you desperately need to make a choice: cutesy, innocent girl or whoretastic cupcake-breasted demonslut requesting to see a penis.  You can not be both, because that is disgusting.  Those twain should not be meeting.  Every single time I hear the phrase, "feisty girl power" in reference to you in that zit commercial, my face involuntarily screws into a mask of indignant disbelief, and I am once again glad that I do not have daughters.

You called yourself a "skinnier version" of Lily Allen, but then pulled a "just joking!"  Well, Katy Perry, I'm the "non bobble-headed version" of you.  Just joking!  Not really.

When you talk, I lose IQ points.  This is why I'm forced to plug my ears any time you stop singing and your mouth is still moving.  But you know, that's fine with me - you really have nothing to say anyway.

This brings me to your stupid song Firework.  Sigh, Katy Perry, sigh.  I know the world has worked out nicely for you - you have a thriving singing career, despite your absolutely abysmal start in gospel.  Yes, Katy Perry, I had a listen.  It sounded like you tried to use every instrument invented to back yourself, including a kitchen sink.  It's possible you were even singing from under the kitchen sink. 

I'm getting off track.  My point is that your life is awesome - you're rich, famous and married to Russell Brand.  But, unlike what your stupid song would profess, we're not all going to have charmed lives, if only we would just ignite our sparks - or even lives that don't fucking suck from start to end.  Are you retarded, Katy Perry?  We are not all snowflake-shaped.  Stop telling people they are - a lot of misguided people look up to you and they'll believe that flapdoodle - you're just setting them up for a huge disappointment when they finally figure out how the world really works.

Allow me to explain it to you.  You can't swing a dead cat with feisty girl power without hitting someone who is completely unremarkable.  Most people are not going to show the world anything, least of all what they're worth, in any meaningful and sparkly way.  Even very talented people are a dime a dozen.  Every single day, truly talented people go unnoticed and get absolutely nowhere.  You think there aren't thousands of girls who can sing and perform as well as you, if not better?  Think again, California girl.  You're one of the lucky ones.
This is not even taking into account how many dull, talent-free people get attention for doing nothing of consequence except for jamming our heads so full of crap we start to forget the rest of us actually have to work hard to get nowhere.

The point I'm laboring to make, Katy Perry, is that you need to shush.  While you're at it, take your voodoo spell off Russell Brand, for the love of all that's right.  And if you still have those fucking Easter egg colored highlight things in your hair, fucking take them out.  You look like a mental patient.
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