1. When people say shit like, “No regrets!” “Never live with regrets ya’ll!” “I’ll never regret any decision I’ve ever made….ever!” Really? You don’t have a single regret? Ummm….yeah…I’m calling bullshit on that one….
…because I’m pretty sure you regret whatever you did last night or I wouldn’t have awkwardly run into you at the local CVS pharamacy picking up your weekly prescription of plan B now would I?
“You know it’s only one pill now.”
“Oh is it?”
“Yeah…no regrets…”
2. Those god damn mother-fucking “CO-EXIST” stickers that I see on every god damn liberal hippie douches Datsun. That’s not even an eco-friendly car. Jesus Christ. I swear to god, it just has the fucking word “sun” in it, so now you think it’s all pro-environment. Who isn’t pro-environment?! Oh wait…I’m not.
…I swear to God there must be requirements to buy this fucking sticker.
“Do you have dreadlocks?”
“Yes.”
“Do you shave your legs?”
“Only in the summer.”
“Close enough…you are now the proud owner of the douchiest, of the douchiest bumper stickers.”
“Will some pale peusdo-ginger whose awkwardly cute come and kick the back of my car now?”
“Oh absolutely.”
…and I will (and have), too.
3. Nature.
….not a fan.
4. People who buy PBR because and I quote, “I like the taste.”
….douche.
5. People who like, no…looooooooooooove nature.
…douche(s).
6. People who don’t understand that there is an imaginary line separating your seat from there seat on the MEGABUS.
…there is an imaginary line separating your seat from my seat on the Megabus! So get your fat ass off the god damn imaginary line!
7. Running.
…I’m pretty sure running is the root of all evil.
8. Orange juice.
…stop being such a sour bitch, orange juice. No seriously, if you weren’t so fucking sour I’d probably like you.
9. People who have never tasted a Zero Bar before.
…Go straight to hell, I say! STRAIGHT. TO. HELL.
10. This whole, “no pants, no service” policy.
…look, sometimes I don’t want to put pants on…and sometimes I want to buy a couple of forties sans pants. And let’s be honest here…don’t the two go hand-in-hand really? I really hope your nodding your head because you agree and not because you are trying to distract me from the fact that you are calling the police. I applaud your effort, but I really want that fucking forty now, cashier lady-man!
My family knows me well...
Why don't they make mayo flavored candles?!?!
...by the way, the candle smelled like Type 2 diabetes, so yes...I was pleased.
Oh wait? What is that? Mayo? In a bag?!?! It's all the rage in London.
That's dog shit! Well not really, it's just chocolate...I hope...because I definitely still ate it.
Actually, I lied...it's a glob of melted meth in a christmas bag. It. Was. Awesome.
You little fucker, Monte. You're cute as hell but you're basically a demon spawn, that I love. Monte is a dog, btw.
I will say this Monte, I am impressed by your ability to shit into a bag...few possess such talent. You have a gift my friend, don't hide it under a bushel basket!
Oh Hellmann, you do bring out the best...the best in ME!
Why yes...that is Dora the Explorer. And why yes...I did proclaim, "What the fuck?!" When I saw Dora's whorish eyes staring back at me when I opened the gift.
Oh wait, what's that Dora? You say you brought me gifts? Now what could a little whore like yourself give a drunk? Check your backpack? Well fuck a duck. I did want two 24 ounce Michelob Ultra cans! I really did!!!
Side note: I was plastered by 2 p.m. and spilling beer on myself by 8 p.m. pretty sure my dad said something along the lines of "Well Nat's been throwing back the beers since twelve...I couldn't be prouder."
So yes...Christmas was awesome.
How to deal with racism...
It’s so hard to know what’s kosher to say with this generation, what with the P.C. police acting like the S.S. nowadays.
And I think the world would be a better place if we would just admit that we all are a little racist.
Every time a W.A.S.P. whispers, “I don’t see color” an angel dies.
Seriously, it’s true. Just like when it thunders angels are bowling and when there is a sun shower the devil is beating his wife. This is how science works.
Can we just all agree that we all giggle at a good black joke? Or that it warms our hearts when we see the old Asian lady back her car into a ditch? Or that Dave Chappelle’s impression of a white guy is fucking spot on?!
I’m sorry, but you politically correct people can get off your fucking high horse and kiss my fucking ass.
And I don’t care if you think I’m a racist, as long as you think I’m hot.
But the best part of this whole politically correct era is the people that are truly offended are the “Caucasians”…and first off, what the fuck are Caucasians? Seriously, what are they? Where is this elusive Caucasia? I heard it’s next to GAP, but that might just be a rumor.
Placing me within a certain group of people just because I have no pigment in my skin, well….that’s just racist. And I won’t fucking stand for it.
I like to believe that politically correct people lack acceptable personalities, have mediocre sex at best and smell like self defeat and L.L. Bean….
It’s really the only way I can really feel better about my offensive self, but fuck it, I’m not changing shit.
I bet you wont either. And if you laugh at this video….you shouldn’t change a thing.
This is why I was fat when I was younger...
1. Dunkaroos.
....i used to just hoard all the vanilla icing cups and finger to the mouth with that shit.
2. That gooey pure sugar shit that came in tubes.
....oh don't even pretend like this wasn't crack for 4-year olds...I used to sell this shit in the back alley of my private school in 2nd grade...I kind of wish that was a lie.
3. Reading.
...this probably didn't help...but god damn those Captain Underpants comics were fucking epic.
4. Corndogs.
....it's a gateway drug, really.
5. Ramen noodles (cooked or uncooked).
...god damn I could eat that shit any way/shape/form...and that is why I am proud to be an AMERICAN...and white.
6. Cake
...fat kids love cake...or so I've been told in numerous rap songs.
7. This guy.
...god damn you cookie monster...you brilliant genius you.
8. Ellio's Pizza.
...it's a gateway drug, really.
9. Eating spoonfuls of sugar...multiple times a day...
...no seriously I used to sit on my kitchen counter and eat pure sugar...then one day the sugar container was "misplaced" by my parents...only to have my parents find me hiding in the living room shoving spoons full of sugar into my mouth hours later.
10. Being fat probably made me fatter.
...well...it did.
This ain't no disneyland wedding...
What I’m about to write is completely true. I have told friends, family, hobos and drag queens about my dream wedding, all of them waiting in intense anticipation for their frilly beige invitation.
I have even reenacted various moments for a select few of the ceremony, which have left me groaning in pain as I flip backwards in a fake drunken swagger. Yes…swagger.
My parents have already said that if I even attempt to make this dream wedding come to forwishen they will not pay…let alone attend. They said they’d be “disgraced.” Bitch please; I’m the epitome of class.
But that’s cool I can rent a dad to walk me down the aisle… a black one.
Here are the basics: I want to be obliterated, stumbling down the aisle, with a bouquet of Keystone Light cans. Not that I like Keystone Light, I just think it’s a well-known staple in any white-trash life-style.
I plan on ripping about 10-27 shots of Malibu (bitch drink, I know) with the bridal party moments before the ceremony begins.
“Low rider” will be blaring in the Catholic Church, preferable with George Lopez jumping on a trampoline in the faint distance. Kegs spray-painted like tires will line the aisles. Each keg will have a ten-foot pole. (Don’t worry it will make sense in a second.)
My bridesmaids will be forced to dance on top of every pole they pass; while each groomsmen throws monopoly money or condoms at them. But not me, I’m too classy for that.
I will be staggering two steps behind my friends screaming obscenities such as, “I’m not a virgin!” or “I had sex with that guy (pointing to the groom)…and that guy (pointing to the best man)…” or my ultimate favorite (pointing to my who-hah), “Why does it burn down there?!”
At one point I hope to fall flat on my face, and pretend to be unconscious. But I probably won’t be “pretending” since I just ripped 27 shots. I will stay on the ground for 3 minutes, then jump up miraculously and scream, “I just got hammered with Jesus!”
Now, at this point in the ceremony, I’m assuming the priest will try to attempt to stop my fairytale moment for some ungodly reason like sobriety, or some stupid shit like that. But I will have already bribed him with male hookers; sodomy saves the day once again!
By this time I will have vomited on my off-white (who am I fooling) Juicy Couture pantsuit, strictly for the elastic waistband. (I’m assuming I will have gained an exponential amount of weight by the time I get married).
The look of love on my soon to be husband’s face, will again procure vomit from my black hole of a mouth.
We shall say our “I-do’s” and my husband will be forced to kiss my vomit-drenched mouth. And when you see me I’ll be laughing at the world…slipping on my own vomit, but laughing nonetheless.
Glorious.
Random facts about myself that I'm proud of...but shouldn't be
I'm basically about to ruin any chance with any dude that ever found me remotely cute.
Enjoy!
1. I buy mayo in economized sized vats as big as a horses head.
2. I used to like Vienna sausages.
3. I've had sex with a dude named Mordecai.
4. I still like Vienna sausages.
5. I've eaten a whole birthday cake in one sitting.
6. I am almost always half-naked while eating....it's really the only way to thoroughly enjoy food.
7. Web MD has brought me to tears because it made me think I was pregnant...on multiple occasions.
8. Almost threw up in class because of taking Plan B the day prior.
9. I've found Cheetos residue in my bra...on multiple occasions.
10. One time I got super duper high and dipped tortilla chips in vanilla icing. It. Was. Amazing.
11. I'm obsessed with the song "Electric Avenue."
12. The Cosby Show is probably my favorite sitcom.
13. I like Kesha...she's a lyrical genius, god damnit.
14. Cheez Whiz? Yes, please!
15. I don't believe in science....well I "believe" in it, I just don't respect it.
16. I used to have a rock collection.
17. I have a very distinct look, it's a little bit white trash...a little bit, "Does she have a roofie in her hands?"And a smidge..."Meh, she's doable."
18. I just had to Google "roofie" so I could spell it correctly.
19. When I place my cell phone on my stomach, I can't feel it vibrate.
20. I really have a gift at making friends with older black ladies in random places...I think it has something to do with my sassitude.
21. Hate sex is my favorite type of sex.
22. My first reaction to a dude staring at me will always be to check if there is food on my face...and there usually is.
23. A couple of weeks ago I killed a shit ton of nature with a stroller. It was the best day of my life.
24. I have sexually fantasized about my 11th grade AP english teacher...and I know I'm not the only one (ladies...and gentlemen).
25. I have febreezed my jeans...on mulitple occasions.
Enjoy!
1. I buy mayo in economized sized vats as big as a horses head.
2. I used to like Vienna sausages.
3. I've had sex with a dude named Mordecai.
4. I still like Vienna sausages.
5. I've eaten a whole birthday cake in one sitting.
6. I am almost always half-naked while eating....it's really the only way to thoroughly enjoy food.
7. Web MD has brought me to tears because it made me think I was pregnant...on multiple occasions.
8. Almost threw up in class because of taking Plan B the day prior.
9. I've found Cheetos residue in my bra...on multiple occasions.
10. One time I got super duper high and dipped tortilla chips in vanilla icing. It. Was. Amazing.
11. I'm obsessed with the song "Electric Avenue."
12. The Cosby Show is probably my favorite sitcom.
13. I like Kesha...she's a lyrical genius, god damnit.
14. Cheez Whiz? Yes, please!
15. I don't believe in science....well I "believe" in it, I just don't respect it.
16. I used to have a rock collection.
17. I have a very distinct look, it's a little bit white trash...a little bit, "Does she have a roofie in her hands?"And a smidge..."Meh, she's doable."
18. I just had to Google "roofie" so I could spell it correctly.
19. When I place my cell phone on my stomach, I can't feel it vibrate.
20. I really have a gift at making friends with older black ladies in random places...I think it has something to do with my sassitude.
21. Hate sex is my favorite type of sex.
22. My first reaction to a dude staring at me will always be to check if there is food on my face...and there usually is.
23. A couple of weeks ago I killed a shit ton of nature with a stroller. It was the best day of my life.
24. I have sexually fantasized about my 11th grade AP english teacher...and I know I'm not the only one (ladies...and gentlemen).
25. I have febreezed my jeans...on mulitple occasions.
I was sooooooo cool when I was younger.
“Mom, am I fat?”
“No…its just baby fat.”
It wasn’t.
I was fat. Not kind of fat. Not chunky. Not big-boned. And definitely not baby fat. Baby fat is allowed till the age of what? Five? I was at least 10 when I asked my mom this infamous question. And the truth is, I was fat. Like ate spoonfuls of sugar at one time, fat. Stole candy bars from the grocery stores, fat. Fat fat. Scurrying barefoot on the kitchen counter tops looking for the elusive sugar that my parents “conveniently misplaced” two weeks after I was discovered in a corner eating spoonfuls of sugar, fat.
Those bastards.
Walking into the grocery store on that autumn afternoon just seemed like the right moment to ask. I probably was going to steal a Snickers bar anyways, and that should have been proof enough but I wanted to hear it verbally. I wanted the words to ring in my ears; I wanted them to sear the fat right off of my love handles.
However, my plan backfired:
“No…its just baby fat.”
Wait…what? My mom just lied. Straight to my face. Wasn’t my mom, if anyone, supposed to tell her child that while yes, they had a stellar personality and yes, they were super funny, that sadly they were fat and kind of going through an, um I don’t know, ugly…I mean, awkward stage? How could she? How could she just lie like that?!
I stood there, shocked, in the middle of the crosswalk in my bright orange leggings with the elastic band since I couldn’t technically fit into jeans until I was 14, over sized black sweater splattered with bright orange pumpkins and candy corn (to divert ones eye from the fat, of course), and bright orange pumpkin bow placed strategically in the middle of my disproportionate head. Yeah, I was that kid.
My mouth opened, but there was no food to shove into the black hole.
“Nuh uh!”
But wasn’t that what I wanted to hear? Didn’t I want to hear that yes, I wasn’t fat? That yes, it was okay to steal candy? Yes, Cheese Whiz was a valid form of calcium. And yes in actuality, it’s vegetables that clog your arteries and fuck you up.
It was in this moment that I learned a valuable lesson: Mothers lie. A shit ton. Years later (and pounds skinner) I confronted my mom about this pivotal question in my chubby childhood:
“Oh god, you were huge!”
“I knew it. You lied!”
“Technically yes, but you were skinnier than your brother.”
I'm sorry.
In all honesty…I feel like I owe you guys an apology. I haven’t quite exactly been bringing my A game this blog, so to speak.
I’ve sucked…if you catch my drift. And yes, I know you laugh…but is it out of love? Or out of obligation?
…cause if you don’t laugh…I’ll cut you. …I’ll cut you with the same knife I cut my mayo-drenched sandwiches with…now laugh bitches…laugh.
I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I do all the same rituals…currently I’m half-naked, partially distracted by my boobs (they look sad from this angle….) just consumed a half gallon of mayo (on a sandwich…not by itself…freaks…okay maybe some of it was by itself…whatever, it’s not that weird.), there is a beer in my mouth (Michelob Ultra, mother fuckers) and yet, the magic is just not happening…
And it’s just not fair to you guys. You come back week after week…and for what? Some cheap mayo jokes…some light tom foolery?
Nay, I say! Nay!
You deserve more…you’re better than that. Even, my own mother said the last post sucked…talk about a reality check.
So it’s time for me to get serious…and no, that does not mean I’m getting rid of the mayo jokes…those bitches are staying forever… deal with it...mother.
It’s time to get into blind focus mode (which I must also point out, at this very moment my beer bottle is resting perfectly in between my boobies as I type this… now that’s pure talent right there).
But in all seriousness…I really am serious.
No more of this fucking around, my attention is all yours…I’ve deleted numbers out of my phone…believe me I can spend hours just randomly texting people who feel obligated to respond…it’s a beautiful system really.
…I’ve deactivating my facebook…okay…I’ve sorta deactivated my facebook…they just make it too fucking easy to get back on…god damn you Zuckerberg…god damn you.
I want to focus on you…more specifically I want to focus on you laughing at my embarrassing/awkward/sexually weird antics.
NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER!
…that being said…my A game is officially broughtededed…now laugh bitches…laugh.
Quite possibly the most accurate representation of myself via video...
So let me set up the scene first before you clickity click click.
Basically I was about to record a vlog, but got distracted when Matt and I started talking about food (specifically chips and dip) and how much we would like to be having said food items at that very moment. He then says something along the lines about how he "almost" grabbed some earlier but got lazy.
...Now watch my reaction closely...because I'm pretty subtle about my feelings on this heart-breaking revelation.
Also, the second time I laugh I have no clue what the fuck Matt said, but it obviously shocked me into laughter. I do not like being shocked into laughter, Matthew.
And seriously, this is basically who I am in a 43 second nutshell. I curse. I eat. And I'm a little bloated.
This has not been a good week for the apartment...
1. Matt's apartment key broke in half...while in the lock.
...not my key. Not my problem.
2. The fridge stopped working.
...right after I fucking bought groceries too! The only things salvagable were the fudge, cookies, reeces' cups, pecan pie and the apple pie...because we are jack asses and like our desserts refrigerated.
We are getting a new fridge today so that's cool. However, yesterday when I opened the fridge to cry at the lack of food inside...it was cold again. We just aren't going to tell the super about that one...
3. I had to kill this fucking prehistoric bug...
....and yes I cried while doing it....pure terror tears.
And let me clear up a couple of things...1. The bug was fucking huge... like three inches and it could fucking fly...so yes I crapped my pants when I first saw it. 2. Yes...that is a mouse trap...stuck to a Keurig...it wasn't the best plan...but it was the only thing I could think of at the time being...seeing as Matt said I couldn't use any of his shit to kill it... 3. Yes...it was a real bitch getting the mouse trap off of the Keurig...especially since that fucker was still alive...that was awkward. "Hey, little fella...I'm going to kill you soon...now that your wings are stuck to a Keurig coffee maker."
4. The fucking heater started leaking.
...which is conveinently located in my room...for christ's sake!
Now someone order me a pizza, god damnit.
...not my key. Not my problem.
2. The fridge stopped working.
...right after I fucking bought groceries too! The only things salvagable were the fudge, cookies, reeces' cups, pecan pie and the apple pie...because we are jack asses and like our desserts refrigerated.
We are getting a new fridge today so that's cool. However, yesterday when I opened the fridge to cry at the lack of food inside...it was cold again. We just aren't going to tell the super about that one...
3. I had to kill this fucking prehistoric bug...
....and yes I cried while doing it....pure terror tears.
And let me clear up a couple of things...1. The bug was fucking huge... like three inches and it could fucking fly...so yes I crapped my pants when I first saw it. 2. Yes...that is a mouse trap...stuck to a Keurig...it wasn't the best plan...but it was the only thing I could think of at the time being...seeing as Matt said I couldn't use any of his shit to kill it... 3. Yes...it was a real bitch getting the mouse trap off of the Keurig...especially since that fucker was still alive...that was awkward. "Hey, little fella...I'm going to kill you soon...now that your wings are stuck to a Keurig coffee maker."
4. The fucking heater started leaking.
...which is conveinently located in my room...for christ's sake!
Now someone order me a pizza, god damnit.
I'm pathetic.
There’s nothing more pathetic than the moment you catch yourself hiding in the bathroom from the two kids under the age of nine just so you can check the phone that you thought vibrated in your back jean pocket which only turned out to be your fat ass...hitting the other part of your fat ass.
Okay well there is something more pathetic….and that would be this…right now…me taking the time to write down the previous statement on a napkin….because this whore (me) is too lazy to remember to bring her god damn notebook with her even though she knows something brilliant is going to hit her….but oh no no no…this whore thinks she’s smart enough to remember everything.
….she isn’t.
Whatever…I’m about to rock this shit…J.K. Rowling style.
Boom, bitches.
But don’t expect any literary geniusness or some shit like that….but you can safely assume this post will be sprinkled with mild porn jokes and herpes…I don’t know. I don’t know.
Also…every guy I’ve ever boned that just accidentally clicked the link to my blog on facebook is freaking the fuck out right about now.
“I knew she had something, god damnit.”
Herpes was just a metaphor… for you had sex with a girl with herpes. HEYO!
Okay seriously I don’t. I like to wrap before I tap, thank you very much….well except that one time I didn’t…but I don’t.
And if you haven’t noticed…I’ve taken this post that did at one point have a sincere message, probably something about my fear of settling or my thoughts on the true meaning of life…something profound and genuine and have so subtly turned it into a joke about herpes and me somehow being a whore in some sort of a situation…
…I hope you’re laughing cause this is a gift my friends.
And now we are all just lost…
“What is this bitch talking about?”
What is this bitch talking about….I have no fucking clue….and I’m sober.
But maybe this is just what life is. Just stopping for a second and not thinking. Not a thought in the world but more of a moment, where you catch yourself in a setting that is void of words, because it’s the present.
You’ve had no time to think. There’s no need to think.
Sometimes I feel like I’m so caught up in my own thoughts/fears/online porn collection that I’m missing my own life.
For one moment in time I want to stop freaking out about the future…stop planning my every move and just chill…
Not trying to get all Ferris Bueller on your asses…but I’ve never really admitted this to myself…and I know if I don’t take the time to validate this fear it will engulf me.
And that’s what I want my life to be…just not thinking in the present of me not thinking.
Just don’t think.
….think about it.
The holidays always remind me of one thing…
MRSA.
Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.
It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.
This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to Google image “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.
“Stop being a pussy, it’s just a spider bite… “
…It wasn’t.
I think I went about two days dragging my thigh along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”
When I showed my parents “it”... “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.
"…this is not good.”
“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”
So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite” but of course not before he could say…
“You have 24 hours to live if these antibiotics don’t work.”
…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.
My parents thought I was 5 and that ice cream would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.
…it did.
“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, okay?”
“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”
Now here’s the thing…my mother didn’t understand the difference between hot…and scalding…or she did but she wan hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.
…they didn’t.
Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…
“Shit! Damn! Fuck! Holy fucking Jesus.”
“Natalie…stop being a pussy.”
After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…not having my leg amputated…
“Hey Nat, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”
“Really, cause I’m worried about you dying…good night.”
…I cried all night.
Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case if you were wondering…
Bitches be crazy.
I fucking love living with a dude (I’m not sleeping with). It fucking rocks.
I’ve lived with plenty of ladies, and let’s get real for one hot sec. Bitches be crazy. Like seriously…I’ve lived with many crazy ladies…and that shit is not fun.
Like…I don’t know what the fuck is going on up in their heads…but I am not a fan.
“YOU HATE ME DON’T YOU, NATALIE! DON’T YOU?!?!
“Well…yeah….”
Side note: I’m going to a shit ton of texts from former roommates saying,
“That post was really funny….WAS I THE CRAZY ROOMMATE?!?!?!?!?!?!”
“Well…yeah….”
But with a dude there is no crazy bullshit. No weird girly passive aggressiveness. There is no awkward
“I ain’t fucking doing the dishes, cause I did them last week” standoff that lasts for three weeks. Which leads to the crazy one to putting all her clean utensils in her underwear drawer… leaving you with only a spatula to eat your yogurt.
And I think that’s why girls get a bad rep…majority of you are crazy. I’m only weird. Weird can somehow be camouflaged as charming. How? I still haven’t figured that one out yet. But I know it’s a possibility.
Crazy though? You can’t really hide that fact for more than a week, tops. And my favorite part about crazies is they never fucking know that they are in fact crazy. They never understand why the shit they are doing is deemed crazy. They think you are crazy and a heartless bitch for not understanding the severity of their mindless crazy gibberish.
“I see absolutely nothing wrong with legitimately crying from pure rage jealousy when my boyfriend said he liked your car. ”
“Oh yeah. That’s not crazy at all. Oh no, especially after I said, “Thanks” to your boyfriend who was obviously just making small talk you ran into the apartment and locked yourself in your room for two hours, leaving me to awkwardly sit in silence with your boyfriend whom I had just recently met twenty minutes earlier… Only to have you read me a letter you wrote to me (which you managed to read while simultaneously crying…bravo!) regarding how you felt about the situation at hand. No. No. No. None of that is fucking crazy.”
Come on! Can you just get out of your fucking deluded sense of reality? If your roommates not doing the dishes is the worst part of your day…you’re doing good…also you are most definitely from the Caucasian persuasion.
Moral of the story: …crazy bitches piss Natalie the fuck off!
Boom.
My phone hates me.
Basically my phone is a piece of shit...and it hates me. At this point I'm pretty sure it's jealous of my wit and just likes to make me sound slightly learning disabled via text. Which to be quite honest, I don't really need help in that deptartment.
And since my phone is being such a cunt the only productive thing I can do until it dies (or I replace it) is talk behind it's ugly black back (it's not racist because it's true).
That's right you piece of shit, let me just list the reasons why you are such a fucking a whore!
1. I can't text numbers.
...I have to write them out...which looks really weird when you are trying to tell someone to meet you at "twelve-thirty p.m."
2. I cannot use the letter "M" without texts automatically sending.
....80% of the time if I attempt to use a word with the letter "m" the text will just fucking send. So lately, I've been doing one of two things....1. Just giving up on the conversation and throwing my phone across the room...or...2. replacing the letter "M" with the letter "N" which gets a little awkward when I need to use the word migger.
3. My phone has conveinently stopped vibrating.
...which whatever does seem like a big deal but I have had my phone set to vibrate for over a year now. I use it for everything from receiving texts to my alarm clock, since I'm such a deep sleeper normal alarm sounds won't wake my fat ass up. Now I keep hearing weird noises coming from my back pocket...and it's freaking me the fuck out.
4. I can no longer use the delete button.
...if I fuck up a text that hasn't already automatically send. I have to trash it and start all over...my life is very hard.
5. I can no longer check recent missed calls.
...what the fucking fuck?!
6. Sometimes when I go to check my voicemail...the automated voicemail lady voice will tell me, "Your voicemail is currently unavailable, bitch."
...I will find you automated voicemail lady-bitch...and I will shove lard down your throat.
7. My phone will randomly delete texts (that I have sent and received).
...whatever...I didn't want to read those texts anyways...even if it was from the dude I'm basically in love with...you just don't want me to be happy, WHORE! And to think I almost set you up with that Blackberry.
8. The bitch will randomly turn off.
...fuck off.
9. The bitch will randomly turn on.
...fuck on.
10. The fucking phone will just randomly send my number to people via text.
...the best part about this little trick, my whore of a phone likes to perform, is that no one ever realizes it's my number. They always say "Thanks for the number...whose is it?" It's mine assholes...which means you don't love me...and now I'm going to cry into a vat of Hellman's mayo.
Me and my friend, Food.
The fact that I am not morbidly obese yet baffles me.
I eat. Like a lot. Like I’ve finished whole pizzas on my own. Consumed full course dinners while still having room for a 12-inch sweet onion teriyaki chicken sub (with extra mayo) from Subway that was literally consumed in under ten minutes (and if you don’t believe me, I have people to attest to that to that glorious fact).
Condiments (with one in particular) hold a special place in my heart. I love you Hellman…always and forever.
There will be two cakes at my wedding. One for me and one for my guests…the one for myself will be bigger.
I have put chocolate syrup on bacon. On more than one occasion.
If that doesn’t scream “type two diabetes” I have no clue what the fuck does.
And it’s not like I’m fat…I mean I could be skinnier (said the white girl)…but I wear size six jeans. All the jackets that are currently in my closest rotation are size small. I’m what some would call a “little petite white bitch.”
Artery clogging amounts of s’mores, Oreo balls, cookies, etc. have been shoved into my mouth on multiple occasions. And I looked good doing it too…well I looked like I was about to vomit…whatever…tomato tomato. Hmmm…that saying doesn’t seem to work as well on paper. Whatever, fuck it. You know what I’m trying to say.
Even my roommate is baffled by my eating habits:
Matt: “I feel like you’re the monster in the village that I have to feed constantly or you’ll kill everyone.”
Matt: “I feel like in every scene you should be eating.”
Matt: “When you get famous can I be your personal assistant?
Me: “Oh god, I don’t even know what I would do with a personal assistant.”
Matt: “Are you kidding? Buy you food. Make you food. Feed you food. Go buy you more food.”
Even random people are baffled by this shit:
Waitress: “He got the single burger…she got the double (laughs). You think it be the other way around.”
…I did not leave her a tip.
And I’m not really complaining about this situation. I love to eat. And I’m lucky enough to not gain (that much) weight with my daily binges. However, I know this moment is fleeting.
Cause when this shit catches up to me…it ain’t going to be pretty.
My face has a certain "look"...
I’ve been told that I have a look that says, “I like black guys.” So does my best friend…and don’t get me wrong... we do…we really do.
But it’s a weird thing to hear from random passersby, “You like black guys don’t you?”
Granted, it probably doesn’t help that I’m usually screaming, “Yeah…uh huh… you want it!” to these random passersby as I grab my love junk, which is either my boobs/ass/belly or a combination of the three, depending on my level of intoxication.
And for the record, I’m usually joking when I say that…usually.
Now the real question is: what is the “look?” What exactly is it about me that says “I am a lover of dark chocolate/fried chicken/majority of the Waynes brothers?”
Can strangers just tell that I’ve been watching “In Living Color” since I was seven? Or that my panties get all in a twist when someone buys me a 40? (Preferably a Hurricane.) Or the fact that I have a preference when it comes to 40’s, which means one could safely assume that I’ve consumed more than type of malt liquor on multiple occasions? Preferable when I’m watching “Intervention.”
… I’m sorry but there is no other way to watch “Intervention” than a 40 in one hand, and a crack pipe in the other… it’s better than porn…ha, who am I kidding there is nothing better than porn…nothing.
And why is it that I cannot see the “look” within myself, yet I can see the “look” in others? However, I can see the black guy in me… actually that’s a lie… it’s usually too dark for me to tell.
My best friend and I have deduced that it is more of an essence than a look. An essence of sass one could say. It cannot be seen, only felt… and it feels oh so good.
There are three types of men that like obnoxiously sassy girls: 1. The hobo on uppers down the street, 2. Gay guys, and 3. Black men. And um, I’m a little obnoxious (if you haven’t already noticed) so why wouldn’t I love all three? They are FABULOUS!
White guys like obnoxiously sassy girls too, it’s just the majority of white dudes don't know how to handle them. Probably because we are wild and free, like the unicorns running rampant in your minds.
Hence, the “I look like I like black guys” look.
I'm digusting...but you should be too, asshole.
My parents think I’m disgusting. I don’t know why though.
However, I will say this: if it was socially acceptable to not brush my teeth on a regular basis…I so wouldn’t.
Gah. It’s just so fucking annoying, and you have to do it like what? Four days a week? Jesus Christ, it’s like a fucking full-time job.
Next thing you’ll tell me, I’m supposed to lather, rinse and REPEAT. Um, fuck that noise.
And don’t even get me started on deodorant. Am I right McConaughey? Am I right? It’s a biological fact that we all have a specific scent, and we are thus attracted to other people’s specific scents.
By covering our body with unnatural scents like cologne/ perfume/ febreeze we have unintentionally continued the vicious cycle of divorce/failure/Jenny Craig.
You can fake happiness all you want, but in god’s name, you better not fake your own goddamn scent.
Doesn’t the percentage of marriages that end in divorce make so much more sense now? Lying about our scents has forced us to lie to our significant others about monogamy/your late night trip to Quiznos /your penis size, until we wake up one morning to the musty smell of lies and flatulence.
“I think we need a divorce.”
“What? Why?”
“You smell like dick.”
All weather is lie-related. Don’t you get it? Denial causes lightning; masking a scent causes humidity. Just look at the world you’ve creating by just applying deodorant once a day. Can you live with yourself? I sure hell hope you can’t.
Don’t act like you’re so surprised, you knew what you were doing every time you sprayed your cologne/perfume you fascist bastard. Complaining about this heat wave? Oh wait; it’s your fucking fault.
I just blew your mind didn’t I?
Good.
I'm not that much of a heartless bitch...
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It's going to happen, I swear...
I can’t wait until religious channels sell their souls and start producing reality TV…let’s be honest it’s only a matter a months before you’re flipping through your TV guide when this gem of a show pops up….
Check it.
“Pregnant Sister with No Mister.”
The show opens with a balding British man staring ominously into camera, “Is this nun bearing Jesus Christ? Or is she just a whore in a habit…tune in next week to find out if Sister Mary Lisa is in fact the next mother of God….or if she is just another statistic.”
Oh god…I just peed a little.
Or what about… “Joseph and His 12 Under-Aged Wives Idol”?
It would be the Mormon polygamist version of American Idol. The 12 girls have to compete with each other to be the number one wife (out of the 12)….and our votes decide the winner.
Ryan Seacrest or as I like to call him…El Diablo… saunters onto the stage only to giggle and announce the next contestant.
“He married 12 girls and you, America, decides these poor unwilling contestants fate.…Up next, Mary Sue, 16, whose going to sing a little diddie by a girl named Taylor Swift.”
Only for you to roll your eyes and turn to your best friend/mom/cellmate and exclaim…
“I can’t believe that bitch thinks she can sing….Jesus Christ… I’m voting for Eunice.”
WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!
What about….”What Would Jesus Do…on drugs?”
Except Jesus isn’t really Jesus but… some illegal immigrant named Jesus (pronounced Hey-Suce)…and someone just follows him with a camera while he does drugs/stupid things/eats pickles….kind of the male version of Snooki.
And for the Jews!
Temptation Synagogue.
Ten Jewish Bachelorettes fight to the death for the love and prestige of marrying their local…and exceptionally hot Rabbi.
“Oi…I like my men jewie, circumcised and slightly smaller than average…those bitches better watch out or I’ll go all Fran Drescher on their asses…fucking whores.”
Oh god…I need a life.
Yes, I know... something is wrong with me...
I sometimes have to wonder whether or not if I actually do have a stage-5 clinger on my hands…or is this just some nightmare I’ve concocted in my head to avoid any level of commitment (with the opposite sex) yet again.
I have said it once….and I’ll sure as hell say it again…commitment makes me want to vomit. I just can’t jump on that commitment boat… it ‘s just to icky…
But I have to admit, my “love” life follows a very specific pattern:
Girl meets Boy. Boy is enchanted by the amount of racial slurs Girl is able to spew out in one hour. Girl is equally impressed by Boy constantly buying her drinks. Boy and Girl hook up. Girl says she only wants something casual. Boy agrees. Boy then says he can see this turning into a relationship. Girl excuses herself from the room. Boy reaches out constantly to Girl via text/phone calls/emoticons. Girl blatantly ignores texts/phone calls/emoticons. Boy is forced to give up. Girl is happy, once again.
There is something wrong with me and I wholeheartedly admit that. As soon as guys start saying shit like, “You’re so pretty”… “You’re so beautiful”… “I’m kind of kinky.” I bounce the fuck out of that situation. And I bounce the fuck out real quick.
It’s not that I see relationships as a bad thing…well actually that’s total horse shit…I definitely see them as a bad thing, for myself that is.
And don’t give me that, “You have to love yourself, before you can allow yourself to be loved” bullshit. Because believe me…I love myself… a lot. I think I’m awesome. And cute as a mother fucking button and quite honestly I don’t need a dude constantly telling me that.
…and seeing as I have the maturity level of a 5 year-old…a boy constantly telling you that you’re pretty is my definition of a “mature relationship.”
Will I ever grow up? Will I ever want to be “loved?” Did writing “loved” make me vomit?
Who knows…except for the last question…which was a resounding “yes.”
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