I really wanted chocolate.
Maybe even some jolly ranchers.
Candy.
I wanted some fucking candy.
But all I had were apples.
Healthy, crunchy apples.
As I stood in my kitchen,
taking unenthusiastic bites
chewing with resignation
I realized
What a poor substitute.
Like going home drunk and alone.
But still horny.
Having to fight through inebriation
for an unsatisfactory climax.
My apple was a sloppy masturbatory attempt at satiation.
*sigh*
Happy New Year.
Loins on Fire
Sphincter Quivering
This is Love
I found this saved in an old folder – I decided to move to San Antonio, Texas in March of 2011. I made the ridiculously long drive from Chicago, Illinois. Sharing is caring – don’t stay at the Ranch Motel i.e. plan ahead. Always make sure there’s gas in your car. Stay away from late night Waffle Houses.
The Drive…In short.
Every state is the longest state when driving alone southward and the only radio stations being picked up by the scan button are either A. Country B. Christ related or C. Classic Rock. You might get lucky and hit that ONE station that combines two of the three, but let’s not get your hopes up. MAYBE if you’re going through Arkansas.
Hitting a Waffle House at 11:30 at night in a po dunk(sp?) town of Oklahoma is a wonderful idea for women traveling alone who happen to be height/weight proportionate and possess all of their teeth… if they desire to be potentially followed by swarthy, unshowered trucker type men who look like the ONLY place they’ve ever eaten at their entire lives has been The Waffle House.
But know what? Oklahoma ain’t too bad. One billboard simply read “thinkimpregant.com”. H’m… okay. A mile later another billboard stated “Need to talk?” and held below that a suicide hotline number. Awesome. Yet, not nearly as brilliant as the giant sign reading “Going to Hell?” Um. Not sure – haven’t checked my mail lately and I very rarely ever check my voicemails. And if the notification went directly to Spam in my junk email account – well, I just don’t know! However, I’m not pregnant and have no suicidal intentions, so I think I might be in the clear. Let me get back to you on that.
Lastly, after becoming slightly confused, I tried to take the US-69 route only to find that it was a looooong stretch of unlit country road. After checking my gas gauge and seeing that I only had a quarter tank left, I began to panic. There were NO gas stations in sight and I began to fear being stranded on the side of the road with an Ed Geins kind of person waiting in the shadows to rape me/kill me/skin me and use my dehydrated flesh as his new kitchen curtains. While I think I’d make a lovely set, not really how I wanted to end up.
Obviously, I found my way. (yaaay…)
The Arrival.
Due to obscene traffic in Waco and Fort Worth, I arrived late. That’s okay… the boyfriend was supposed to have rented a room and I could use a shower and a comfortable bed.
Wrong.
Spring break/Musical festivals/Conventions – every decent affordable place was booked. The place we ended up deciding on out of sheer exhaustion and exasperation was called the Ranch Motel. I’d like to skip past this part. Still traumatized. Think the movie “Vacancy”. Only dirtier. With worse lighting. Minus impending torture and death… for that night. But on the bright side, there was a nice hole next to the bottom of the door in case rats or snakes wanted to get in or out. How considerate.
Current Status.
I’m here. I’m alive. Going through job lists… and I’m not freaked out. I thought I’d be more of a wreck. Normally, I’d be in a situation like this and be mortified, beside myself with anxiety and planning my escape posthaste. Yet, I am strangely at ease in this new environment and have met with little to no nervousness when evaluating my future prospects. After voicing my concern over my lack of unease to my cousin Venus, she said, “That’s just a sign that you did the right thing. It means you’re supposed to be here.”
I can live with that.
Everything turned out okay – 4 1/2 years later, the drive back home North was MUCH better. Next time, I’m flying.
Apathy My Friend
We Are Quite Indifferent
Shortest Bond Ever
Found this while cleaning out folders… Yep. Still one of my faves.
Obviously, pulling a rabbit out of a hat is related to magic. So, when it became transformed into “pulling a rabbit out of my/his/her/their ass”, we come to understand it means that someone did the impossible when needed right that moment – Voila, MAGIC! However, my mind being the cesspool of ridiculosity that it is, I began to think of a completely different scenario.
One guy says to the other, “Hey, bet I can pull a rabbit out my ass.” The other guy thinking the first guy is either clowning, high or crazy, says “Sure you can.” So first guy (we’ll call him Bob) throws his arm to his back and it becomes very clear to second guy (eh… George) that Bob’s hand is, indeed, reaching up into his butt. After grimacing, grunting and some gathering of a minor amount of forehead sweat, Bob pulls his hand out and presents to George a hand full of feces and says, “Ta-daa!!!” George, quite disgusted yet somehow stuck on the fact that Bob just did what he did, says to him quietly and very matter-of-fact “That’s not a rabbit, Bob. That’s a handful of shit.” Bob looks down at his hand and then at George. He asks, “But it kinda looks like a rabbit, huh?”
And I wonder why I am still single. This is GOLD!!!!
If I were a dog, I’d be a mutt. A medium sized, wiry haired canine who would constantly knock over the garbage can and sniff through the contents for food. Not all food, just the stuff I had a preference for. Also, I’d lay on the bed and lick my butt on the newly washed sheets. Then after the awesome butt cleaning, I’d jump on your chest to be affectionate and to show you how much I loved you, I’d give you sloppy doggy kisses all over your face. That’s right. Juicy, just licked my asshole clean, I love you so much smooches. By the way, the couch is mine and if you try to shoo me off, I’ll just bare my teeth and growl at you until you eventually get the hint that I’m not freaking moving. Once resigned to sharing your comfy sofa with me, I’ll curl up next to you and warm you with my doggy farts, which will smell especially noxious since I just ate the spoiled ham that I dug out from the kitchen trash.
The otters don’t like the dolphins. The dolphins don’t like the otters. It’s like the Greasers and the Soc’s, man! The dolphins are all arrogant, thinking they’re better than everyone else. The otters are just trying to kick back at the Ottery (not to be confused with the Otter House. The Ottery = a couple Oyster Shooters too many, headache in the morning. Otter House = possible need for antibiotics and a REALLY pissed off significant other), minding their own business when the dolphins (always three. Don’t know why, they just travel in trios.) come waltzing in, trying to jack shit up. However, dolphins should never mess with a group (ten or more) of intoxicated otters. Shit gets real.
And in other dolphin related news, the dolphins at the aquarium… hate you. They’re not catching semi-deflated soccer balls in their mouths as a trick taught to them to entertain you. No. They’re exercising their jaws so that they may crush your inferior skull when they finally rise up to take over the world. The cartoon, The Simpsons, covered this fact and actually, unbeknownst to the writers, delayed the Dolphin Apocalypse. Thinking the humans were wise to their plans, they decided to play stupid for another decade or two. You’ve been warned.
My spirit animal is a stray cat with a chewed up ear and a wonky eye that constantly gets into fights. It may or may not have fleas. But most definitely a wonky eye. And a hairless tail. That’s how my spirit animal rolls. And what.
(Time to stare at the bedroom ceiling and come up with more idiocy.)
Trying Not To Shout
“Ready to Go?” At A Wake
To My Deaf Grandma
But Otherwise Fine 