I'm much better at taking things apart

So, clearly, I really suck at blogging. Or at least keeping up with it. Really, though, my life has been pretty uneventful since I last poured my heart out. Following is a list of my accomplishments:

• Getting drunk and dressing up as Amy Winehouse



• Getting high while dressed up as Amy Winehouse



• Creating very convincing looking track marks while drunk and dressed as Amy Winehouse



• Throwing up after getting drunk, high, and eating lots of bean dip while dressed as Amy Winehouse



• Dancing to the extended version of 'Get Me Bodied' while drunk and dressed as Amy Winehouse



• Vacuuming while dressed as myself *
  

That was all during Halloween, by the way. I wish I could dress as Amy Winehouse everyday, but I don't have enough narcotics to sustain the illusion.

In any case, after what feels like forever (nine months; I would suck at being pregnant), my family has finally started to get serious about moving. This means we've been cleaning the house for Christmas. That's really it, though.

Oh, there is one tiny thing: I got floor seats to Britney Spears' concert in March, which basically means I spent $500 and almost shit a few bricks. Now I only have to hope that Britney doesn't:

• Break something



• Crash into something



• Get carried away on a stretcher again
  

Which is exactly why I bought insurance.

*I couldn't find a picture so you'll have to use your imagination.

I Used to Date A Stapler...

I'd like to give a shout out to FIN for making me feel like I matter. Thank you, hun. But as I said, when more than four people share that sentiment I might start to believe it.

So I went to get my haircut today, which is one of my favorite things ever. There's just nothing like having a stranger massage conditioner into your hair and then blatantly flirt with you. It's flattering, but, seriously. Today, the girl I got, totally wanted my cock (Who could blame her? It is pretty nice.). In any case, as much as it makes me feel all giddy inside, it also gives me a nervous feeling. The Oh-shit,-this-bitch-is-going-to-fuck-up-my-hair-because-she-can't-think-about-anything-but-making-love-to-me kind of feeling. But she seemed super sweet so I thought maybe she could tell that I preferred to bat for the other time. I mean, "Not many guys use conditioner," as she so aptly put it. So if she figured I was a 'Mo, I reasoned that she would hook me up with a sweet do.

But no. No, no. She definitely wanted me to journey down her tunnel o' love. I walked out of there completely content and feeling irresistible delicious like I always do after I get my hurr did. Then I got in my car and looked in the mirror. All I can say is that the mirrors in the shop, which shall remain nameless to protect all the innocent hair stylists across the nation, must have been manufactured by the same people that make the mirrors that go in fun houses. She didn't buzz my hair evenly, and I had longer patches on the side near my left temple and in the back. The front was too long...it was just not fly. She did give me $3.00 off of a pomade, though. So technically, I only gave her a $1.00 tip. Right? I hate math.

Another thing I did earlier was text my ex boyfriend, "T." After a drunken night about two and a half months ago, in which I proclaimed my undying love for him via text message (It happens a lot; you'd be surprised.) we started talking again. I hadn't heard from him in awhile so I texted him and we've been going back and forth all day updating each other on our lives. I have a strict policy: When people whose opinions matter to you, and who you want to impress, ask you what you've been up to? You lie. So when questioned, as opposed to saying "Oh, I've been great. Most days I play Grand Theft Auto for at least four hours before I read for another eight and then pass out by ten 'o clock" I opted for "I'm redecorating my whole house!" I did, however, let an "and trying not to lose my mind..." slip out at the end.

At about this time I started to get my shit ready to dye my hair again, since Slutty McIwantyourdick cut all my color out. I glanced back at my phone and saw that I had a missed call, which I didn't hear because it was on vibrate (and wouldn't have answered anyway). And who should happen to call but my ex, T.? Silently praying that he would leave a voicemail I went back to the business at hand and finished my hair. When I got back there was indeed a voicemail. This is it, I thought to myself. This is him calling me and telling me to stay strong, to not give up. That he misses me desperately and that I have to believe in our love to get through the days ahead until we are again reunited! Preparing to hear his voice again for the first time in almost two years, I lit a cigarette, dialed my voicemail, and entered my password, my heart thumping in my chest.

And then I heard it.

It sounded like the phone was shuffling in between people, possibly being thrown out the window of a moving car. Oh, bless him! He got so nervous he dropped the phone! I knew I loved still loved him for a reason! I patiently waited for him to regain control. And then I heard a voice. The voice of a woman. From far away. Very far away. More shuffling. Barely audible voice. Even more shuffling. And then...stapling? A pitching machine? Silence...more stapling...

Designing Women or Why You Should Clean Your House

I totally suck at this blogging thing. I'm so sorry you guys. I know there are a ton of you who were total depressed that I haven't blogged in like two weeks, but, ya know, I've got a life to live (not really).

Seriously, though, maybe if people actually read my blog I'd have some initiative to update it and not just let it sit in cyberspace collecting dust.

So, my family decided a few months ago that we were going to move to South Carolina. Right now we're in the process of sprucing up our house so that by the time we get ready to sell it it'll be all shiny and newish. This whole thing pisses me off, though.

First of all, my grandmother, god bless her sweet little granny heart, has the memory of a fruit fly. And on top of that goes through manic phases, meaning some days she can't find the energy to do anything more than pour herself onto the couch and do her puzzles (Seriously, I do NOT UNDERSTAND why everyone, mostly women though, over the age of 55 fucking LOVES to do puzzles!). On her "good" days you can find her, maybe, running around the house cleaning everything. The only problem is that she kind of doesn't have any method to her madness. For example, she'll start vacuuming the living room and then four and a half minutes later you can find her under the bathroom sink trying to replace a pipe. Then, before you even realize you've blinked, you'll hear the lawn mower start up outside. Yeah, it's like that.

This explains why our house now looks like Delta Burke's after her little obsession with hording everything manufactured since 1972. There are desk drawers, old bills, candles, old Playboys, family photos, dog toys, perfume bottles, etc, scattered throughout our dining room. I'm half expecting a colony of gnomes to move in and stake their claim. And then what would we do? We couldn't clean it then. How can you make a colony of gnomes homeless? Especially if they were all really cute and stuff like that one from the Expedia commercials.

Bare Walls = Depression

This is the conclusion I came to after tearing down all the pictures of my favorite female celebrities that have been on my walls for the last 6 years, since I was 14.

Now that I'm kind of a grown up, have absolutely nothing better to do, and would like to add some value to our house before we sell it, I've started the process of sprucing it up a bit. Basically all I'll be doing is painting and switching some handles. But until yesterday I didn't really realize that not having the eyes of the Olsen Twins, Christina Aguilera, and Angelina Jolie staring down at me from all four walls was causing me to feel a little blue. The walls just look so sad and lonely. And boring (which fits with the rest of my life quite nicely).

I have a headache.

I Regret This....SO hard....

So, funny story. About a week ago I decided to start taking Hydroxycut. I made the decision to take this course of action after buying pants in the size that I always wear (30x32) for a wedding, only to actually try them on and find that they were 9078 sizes too small. Obviously, my ego took a big hit from this. In any case, I have a shitton of friends who take energy supplements and the such so I figured why not.

After I took it for the first time I pretty much proclaimed it to be my personal Jesus. I literally could not remember the last time I had such unbridled energy. I felt like I could accomplish anything. The only issue is that while you take HydC., as I will henceforth refer to it since I am far too lazy to type out the whole thing, you're expected to also diet and exercise. Now the diet part I've been keeping up with for the most part. Since it involves a lack of doing something I excel at it, actually. The exercise part, however, is another story. In the week that I've been on this miracle pill that makes me feel like Superman I still haven't exercised. Until yesterday, that is.

After pissing about on the internet for awhile, and not really knowing what else I wanted to do, I decided to finally make an effort it my weight loss plan. So I jumped right in (huge mistake) and started doing curls with the barbell that's been sitting on my bedroom floor for the last six years, since the first time I was overweight and decided I needed to actually *cringe* work out. This is easy, I thought to myself. At this point I still felt no pain.

The last time I really, like, worked out was before my senior prom, after which I completely lost all interest in it for whatever reason. I was always confused because it wasn't like I was doing it to fit into my tux. But whatev. So yesterday, after what felt like 24 years of working my delts, biceps, and triceps, I figured I was good. I had a nagging feeling that I would regret my hasty decision to act like Iron Man. Right I was. When I woke up this morning I discovered that almost everyway I can move my arms is painful. This means that even the smallest tasks, like masturbating or bringing a cigarette to my mouth to inhale its sweet death, carry with them such angst that I don't even feel like doing them. And those? Are two of my all-time favorite things.

In any case, I'm trying not to let this discourage me. I'm not sure which I dislike more, though: pants not fitting or me not being able to inhale fiberglass...

Fat Becomes Him (Not really, though)

So right about now I'm going to assume that anyone who is reading this has seen the amazing movie known as Death Becomes Her. If you haven't you should probably move to Malaysia. In any case, the other night while I was watching this movie, it dawned on me that I'm beginning to really identify with the character Helen. I mostly identify with her in the sense that I'm basically locked in my house eating my feelings and watching movies. I feel like I'm slowly becoming this person. And I can sort of forsee myself ending up in an institution discussing the ins and outs of Brangelina and Lindsay Lohan's battle with addiction, since this is pretty much my area of expertise.


Just thought all of you should know.

I;'m a lont of fgun, gomdammit!

Gwen steafani is ginging to mr and I feel like i knwo what she means. Tje song "don't Slkeak" is so deep. I feel like it's ertering my soului.

MN other news:S I'm a pussy whou hade too meny whinee coolkers and im shintty.

fiRHt drunk postooo? Wokooo!