I’ve been MIA, I know. I’d apologize, but I’m not really sorry. Girls never are!
I’d like to say I’ve been doing wonderful, important things, but that’s not true. I’ve been sitting on my ass most of the time, watching episode after episode of Top Gear on Netflix, and debating on an hourly basis whether or not I should go look for a damn job.
Yeah, I’ve stopped saying just “job.” It is always, inexplicably, preceded by the word “damn.” And, if I’m really annoyed at being broke and knowing that the solution to said brokeness is getting a job, it’s a “fucking job.”
I hate this whole grown-up thing. Who the hell wants to go to work every day? And who in their right mind wants to pay the stupid bills? Gah, I want to sit at home and play Barbies all day. And also, eat candy. Lots and lots of candy.
And now that we’ve established that I’m a 6 year old trapped in a 26 year old’s body…
You weren’t expecting this blog to have sustenance, were you? Pssh, obviously you’re new here.
Anyway. My husband and I planted a vegetable garden! And things are starting to GROW!!! I’m so excited. However, I still have the feeling that all of my vegetables will be poisonous. I don’t even know how, they just will be.
I’ve already noticed a few things that I’ll have to do differently next year. Like, making sure my rows are straight. It kinda looks like I was drunk off my ass when I was planting. I also need to mark what’s in each row. I know where the corn is, but beyond that? We’ll just have to see what pops up.
I also need to work on canning. And figuring out what can be frozen and what can’t be. And investing in a chest freezer so I have room for all of those delicious veggies.
Holy shit, I’m boring myself. Sorry, dudes.
There, now you’re interested again!
I suppose you expect that to followed up with a picture of boobs. Ha, good luck with that one. Just type “boobs” into a Google image search and you’ll be very, very happy in less than 3 seconds.
Well, now that I’ve lost everybody… nice to see ya again, and I’ll try not to be such a stranger!*
*By “not be a stranger,” I mean that I might post like, once a week. Maybe.
I wasn’t feeling very amorous this week, so I asked some of my favorite bloggers to write a love letter for me to post on my blog. One of my very favoritist people ever, Courtni over at Living Wicked, submitted the following letter.
She rocks my world, and you should definitely check out her blog.
(I should probably warn you– this is dirtier than pretty much anything I post. Maybe I should find one of those “parental advisory” pictures to put on here…)
Dear Mr. Jax Teller,
Let us be honest here: I want to fuck your face off. I want to fuck it off, so that I can fuck it back on to give me the ability to fuck it off again.
And then repeat.
If I knew where you lived, I would sit outside your house and hope that you would see me there, naked … and invite me in for a good fuck-face session. And by fuck-face … I mean me literally fucking your sexy face off of your body repeatedly. Your face wouldn’t smell like my vagina … my vagina would smell like your face.
But don’t get upset about this. I plan to return the favor. As much as I want to ride your face like the teacup ride at Disneyland, I also would like to see your cock placed into my mouth. While it is carefully placed there … I just wanna look up at you and have you smile at me.
I don’t love you. Shit, I don’t even know you. But I want to fuck you so hard that it hurts my feelings.
Listen, we don’t need to talk. I don’t want to be your girlfriend (unless you want me to be please?) … I just want your penis. Like regularly.
I can haz cock?
I can haz motorcycle ride?
I can haz face ride?
I’ve been thinking lately about some amazingly awesome jobs I could have. After all, since I’ve been unemployed for 2 months, I have lots of time to fantasize about what I’d like to be doing.
For instance… I’d love to be on Mythbusters. They get to build cool machines, perform bizarre experiments, and blow shit up for a living! How awesome is that?
Then there are the people who come up with the games for The Price is Right. Sure, no one will ever top Plinko, but I’d love to build the machines for each game and conceptualize new ones.
(My husband and I just got this game for the Wii last week. We’ve won hundreds of thousands of dollars, at least 30 new cars, a dozen spas, and roughly 17 bedroom sets. I expect our prizes to arrive within 4-6 weeks.)
Heh, I got distracted thinking about the car dealership we’re going to open up. Cause really, the only car we actually wanted was the Corvette.
Another job I’d love to have? Editing. For a publishing company. I want to be the one who decides which books get published. Unfortunately, I’d drive a lot of writers to suicide. I might be a little too blunt with my criticism. I’d save the NYT Bestseller list from a lot of crap, though. Just sayin.
There’s another job that overshadows each and every one of these, though.
I want to be a stripper.
I have no idea why. Ok, so I do. I realized this hidden dream while listening to “Another One Bites the Dust.” I don’t know what it is about that song that makes me want to take my clothes off.
Then there’s the tight-bodied aspect of a career as a stripper. Sure, I’d have to drop 30 pounds and tone up before I could pursue my dream, but I’ve seen some really hot strippers with amazingly tight bodies. I mean, how can you get fat when you spend your evenings dancing and your days getting high on meth?
Ok, ok, I won’t be a druggy stripper. I’ll be the one who does it strictly for the enjoyment of driving men crazy with my hot body.
How about the money? I’d work for a high-class strip joint (is that an oxy-moron?) where I’d earn at least $600 per night. Man, that would be awesome. I could work one day a week and have plenty of money to live on. I won’t even mention the sugar daddies I might meet there…
All that attention would be cool too. What girl doesn’t derive at least a little bit of guilty pleasure from having every guy in the room drooling over her?
I think stripper is definitely the most likely job choice for me. Mythbusters and The Price is Right both require me to move to California and be a lot more scientific than I actually am. As for editing– I wouldn’t last long. I’m pretty sure I’d get fired after 3 or 4 writers killed themselves because of me.
I wonder if I’d be eligible for unemployment after that?
So, stripping it is.
I love you. I don’t even know your name, but I would marry you in a heartbeat if you asked me.
I’m sure everyone is surprised to find out I’m in love with you. After all, you come off as a total jackass in the video. It takes a special kind of douchebag to do that without saying a word. With the way you blew off Britney for a phone call (Really? Who does that to Britney Spears?) and the vase that you pitched at a wall, not to mention the photographer you attacked– wait, where was I going with that?
Oh yeah. I really do love you. It’s that moment at the end, where you desperately pull Britney out of the water and look at her with so much remorse. It just proves that no matter how much of of a dick you can be, you still really do love her.
See, I think I can fix you. What does that mean, you ask? It means that the perfect guy, the one you only show for a few seconds, is in there somewhere and I can draw him out. Eventually, after years of me feeling inadequate and you telling me that I should “just go” on a weekly basis, you probably still won’t be that perfect guy all the time. However, you’ll show me glimpses of him often enough to convince me that I am, in fact, fixing you.
Hey, I never said our relationship would be healthy.
Youtube won’t let me post the “Everytime” video here, but here’s the link: Everytime, Britney Spears
I’ve been awake since 5:00 am. I know, that’s normal for a lot of people. For me, being awake that early usually means I haven’t gone to bed yet.
I decided before I rolled out from under the covers that I was going to be productive today. Three hours, a shower, and a big cup of coffee later, I’ve accomplished… absolutely nothing.
I want to be writing right now. “But you are writing!” you argue. Sure, it looks like I’m writing. What I’m actually doing is thinking while my fingers are on the keyboard– that doesn’t count as writing. Writing is what I do when I have a notebook and a pen and a story idea that my hand can barely keep up with.
I started this story a few months ago. It’s called Finitely Endless (mostly because I love the opposition of that title), and I think it has potential. I’d tell you about it, but chances are someone here will read all the details and make it into a complete, marketable novel before I do. Maybe I should just hire a ghostwriter– I supply the idea, they supply the filler needed to create 300+ pages of literary gold.
I got a page and a half in before I started to doubt myself. I went back to read what I had written before, and I don’t like it.
I really need to find a more forgiving critic to look over my work. Unfortunately, my only choice is my husband, and he’s a little biased.
So now what? I’ve read the few blogs that have already been posted today, and I’m feeling ready to lay down and go back to sleep for a few more hours. I could play some Super Mario Brothers, but I’m guessing my lack-of-sleep attention span will make my game a disaster. It’s a perfect day to go garage saling, my favorite spring activity EVER, but I’m broke. Sigh.
And also? My office smells like a litter box. I’m not sure exactly what my cats have marked– whatever it is, I need to find it and get it the hell out of here. Quickly. I swear, I have the five most possessive cats who ever lived. I’m surprised they don’t pee on me in my sleep to remind each other who I belong to.
I should probably work on a more detailed outline for this story. I’ve already decided what I want to accomplish in the first few chapters, but I don’t have a detailed structure to work with. Seems like as good a place to start as any, I suppose.
I’ve decided to start treating writing like a real job– granted, I’m not sure this commitment will last more than a day or two. I want to be at my desk by a specified time every day, and write for at least a few hours. I figure since I’m unemployed, I can at least pretend like I have a real job.
This was a lot more fun when I was little and the careers required less work… just saying.
If I were my boss, I’d tell me not to come back tomorrow.
But beginnings are hard! And so are middles! Endings, on the other hand– I can handle those. I can make endings my bitch.
At least I’ve got a good title…
To my fellow writers– got any tips to help me get started? Any words of encouragement? Is it possible to make my story write itself?
My boyfriend is dead.
He’s not the first, either.
Well, wait… maybe he is. I’ve had so many over the years that I can’t keep track of them all. Remember my love letter to Ike, the pirate/cowboy who didn’t say a word?
I’m taking the devastation pretty well. After all, I only had a short time of loving him before he passed. I’m disappointed in myself for being angry at him when he died, though. See, he was inamored with another girl, and he died trying to protect her.
Poetic, isn’t it?
He took a bullet to the left side of his lower chest. If modern medicine had been available, I know he would have pulled through. He may have still had a tough road to recovery, but he would have made it. But he was shot in the mid-1800s, and all they could do was make him as comfortable as possible and sit with him while his life wasted away.
You know what really hurts, though? My husband knew that Ike’s death was imminent, and he knew how much I cared for the quiet cowboy. Still, he refused to tell me that Ike was going to die soon. I’m angry– maybe knowing that he would die would have softened the blow. However, my last moments with Ike weren’t tainted with his impending death, and there’s comfort in that. I suppose I’ll never know which way of knowing was better, being surprised or learning of his death before it happened.
I’ll miss him, as I’ve missed all the other boyfriends I’ve lost.
There was Jake Fox, who was traded from the Cubs shortly after I fell in love with him. When I set my sights on Ryan Theriot next, he was traded as well.
Then there was Tony Romo, my quarterback husband who sustained a season-ending injury as I declared my never-ending love for him during the 3rd game of the season.
I’ll never forget Eric Brady, the man who took Dr. Mike’s place in my heart after he was gone with Carrie. Eric was sweet and handsome, and he took his shirt off just often enough… But then he was written off Days of Our Lives as well.
I fear I may be responsible for the demise of all these men… They seem to go away as soon as I declare my love for them. I should probably just keep my feelings to myself, but what’s the point in that? Besides, Ike’s fate had been decided 20 years before I admitted my feelings for him.
I’ll never stop falling in love with these ideal men who inhabit my dreams. I can only revel in what we have while it lasts, and remember them all fondly when they’re gone.