I always forget that old people like to laugh, too.
I work with a lot of older white ladies…and look…let me be frank…I know what I’m like…and I know when there is a need to “censor” my “assholines/racisimness/awesomeness” because contrary to popular belief not every one is going to find my hilarious hilariousness entertaining.
Perfect example…older black ladies LOVE ME…they think I’m filled with all kinds of sassitude…older white ladies…not so much.
And mom you don’t count. You are my mother and thus are forced to think everything I do is hilarious and perfect…mainly because I get this shit from you.
So what do I do when I’m surrounded by the enemy (older white ladies)? I conform.
…if I don’t talk…I can’t offend them. But it’s so fucking obvious that I’m hiding my real personality.
My voice raises up five octaves…
“HIGH HOW ARE YOU TODAY! YOU LOOK AMAZING! WHAT YOU THINK YOUR ARMS LOOK FAT?!? YOU SO CRAZY…don’t eat me.”
…mind you I have not blinked once while screaming into my co-workers face.
I’m so fake, that I have now gotten it into my head that all the older white ladies that I work with hate me and thus are always thinking…”why does that weird girl’s eyes look so soulless.”
Welcome to my internal hell.
I don’t know what to do honestly…I’ve been working with them for a decent amount of time now…so for me to switch it up and drop a decent black joke…you know just to shake things up a bit would be a little weird…to say the least.
I did once though…well not a black joke but I’m proud to say the words “your daughter” and “is a whore” were involved.
And you know what…it was well received.
Some days I wish I could just scribble down my blog url… hand it to my co-workers and creepily whisper….”This is the real me.”
…but I just have this hunch that that won't go as well as my whore joke.
I don't really know...
There’s nothing more pathetic than the moment you catch yourself eating in your car during your lunch hour just so you don’t have to deal with the forced social interactions that lurk within the company break room.
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 for the lunch break that she just 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 accidently 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.
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 for the lunch break that she just 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 accidently 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.
Total horseshit.
So a couple of people have been telling me that I sound just a tad bit angrier in my posts lately.
Well to you…I say this…
How would you feel if the only thing you ever….EVER… loved was suddenly taken away from you?
That the one thing that opened your eyes to a whole new world…to a whole different way of life was just so selfishly snatched away from you by some dude who “supposedly” died for your sins?!
First off…what fucking sins?! And B…I’m fucking perfect God…do you hear me?! Perfect.
… give me my fucking mayo back.
That being said…this mustard on sandwiches deal is horseshit.
Mustard sucks.
It fucking sucks…it’s all yellow and arrogant and shit…it’s all like… “Hey look at me…my names mustard and I’m so cool…and yellow…and my shit don’t stink…and fancy (if you’re going the Dijon route)… everybody just looooooooooooooooves me.”
Everybody loves you not, mustard. Everybody loves you not.
The fact that the legal pad I’m writing this post on is yellow and is evoking so many levels of hate and disdain, should prove that fact alone.
Not even a 3 hour picture marathon of weimaraner puppies would make this lady (me) happy right now.
So…yeah…a mayo less lifestyle is causing my blood pressure to rise to insurmountable levels.
And yes…my tolerance for stupidity/ignorance/grade F meat seems to be slim to nonexistent.
But on a lighter note…I have noticed this insatiable need to buy some shrubbery…green shrubbery.
I want nothing yellow in my life ever again.
Because I’m pretty sure that the devil's dick is actually in fact yellow.
...and spicy.
Well to you…I say this…
How would you feel if the only thing you ever….EVER… loved was suddenly taken away from you?
That the one thing that opened your eyes to a whole new world…to a whole different way of life was just so selfishly snatched away from you by some dude who “supposedly” died for your sins?!
First off…what fucking sins?! And B…I’m fucking perfect God…do you hear me?! Perfect.
… give me my fucking mayo back.
That being said…this mustard on sandwiches deal is horseshit.
Mustard sucks.
It fucking sucks…it’s all yellow and arrogant and shit…it’s all like… “Hey look at me…my names mustard and I’m so cool…and yellow…and my shit don’t stink…and fancy (if you’re going the Dijon route)… everybody just looooooooooooooooves me.”
Everybody loves you not, mustard. Everybody loves you not.
The fact that the legal pad I’m writing this post on is yellow and is evoking so many levels of hate and disdain, should prove that fact alone.
Not even a 3 hour picture marathon of weimaraner puppies would make this lady (me) happy right now.
So…yeah…a mayo less lifestyle is causing my blood pressure to rise to insurmountable levels.
And yes…my tolerance for stupidity/ignorance/grade F meat seems to be slim to nonexistent.
But on a lighter note…I have noticed this insatiable need to buy some shrubbery…green shrubbery.
I want nothing yellow in my life ever again.
Because I’m pretty sure that the devil's dick is actually in fact yellow.
...and spicy.
I should probably fix this
I always fall for assholes. Like, it never fails; any guy that I find myself fawning over is a jackass, with an inflated ego as big as Heidi Montag’s plastic tits.
Their ego, only adds more zing to their assholeness, since most of these guys see Kevin Bacon when they look into the mirror, when in fact they actually look like John C. Reily…
Side note... I actually think John C. Reily is good looking.
What? I go for personality, not looks. Maybe that’s my issue.
And I’ve finally realized there is only room for one asshole in my life: me.
I would like to date guys with a higher capacity for words with more than 2 syllables. I would like to date a guy that knows how to pronounce syllable. I would like to bone a man that doesn’t have to ask me for the correct definition of humble, as they preen themselves in front of a full-length mirror. Men that think expiration dates on condoms “are just suggestions.”
Men who don’t say to me, “Your body could use some work.” Oh really? Cause your “techniques” could use some work. And when I say some, I mean a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean you have a butt face. And when I say butt face, I mean your penis looks like a camel toe. And when I say camel toe I fucking hate you! You dipshit.
Men, who take more than me just flashing my boobs to make them forget whatever he was yelling at me for. And lastly, men who get my humor, and actually think I’m funny, cause let’s be honest we all know I’m hilarious.
So as you may have assumed, this is my official resignation of dating assholes, screwing assholes, and hooking up with assholes. Well, unless I’m drunk, then it’s anyone’s game quite honestly.
I’ll never forgive you, Tiger. Never.
meh.
I think it’s a common misconception that writers actually like to…well…write.
Perfect example…right now…I’m in hell.
I hate writing. Always have and probably always will. If you haven’t already guessed it by now…if it’s not smothered in mayo, then I probably hate it… and that includes you…. Miracle Whip…you sick son of a bitch.
And nothing is worse than the moment you realize your “pre-writing rituals”…also referred to as heavily drinking… alone… after my parents went to sleep at 8:30 p.m…while finding more websites based solely on cats that look like Hitler.
… and when that fails…I just stare at my boobs.
But I’m staring at my boobs right now and…nada. Ideas are swirling…but word placement is just not adding up…and that is key, my friend, key.
It’s probably not helping that I’m distracted by this insurmountable urge to pee, but I know once I leave to confines of my bedroom to break the seal, and find myself sitting on the commode…only to stare at my boobs yet again…it will all come to me, but… yet again…I will have been too lazy to grab my pen and pad to write down this epically epic idea all down…because…yet again…I think I’m smart enough to remember everything I just said perfectly in my head…
…I’m not
…but come! In my defense it’s just not that hygienic to write shit down while I’ m perusing the bathroom, now is it? And plus, where the fuck am I supposed to lean my notebook? My exposed belly?
…don’t answer that…or question why my belly is exposed?
I’m in an emotional/sexual/mayo-less rut…and while you may gawk at the theory….I’m pretty sure the sudden and massive lack of mayo-intake is directly correlated to my writing abilities…and my sexual prowess.
…we all have our vices, okay? Yours may make songs turn into colors and mine may just happen to go perfectly well with sandwiches/wraps/sex.
And that is why America is the greatest state in the world my friends! THE GREATEST STATE IN THE WORLD.
I’m also hoping that if I finally write all this bullshit swirling around in my head down...I can finally make room for some ideas/stories/mayo-recipes that don’t quite suck…as much.
Hopefully this is just a flare-up…but can we ever be completely sure?
Too bad that don’t make a hemorrhoid cream for writer’s block…
Perfect example…right now…I’m in hell.
I hate writing. Always have and probably always will. If you haven’t already guessed it by now…if it’s not smothered in mayo, then I probably hate it… and that includes you…. Miracle Whip…you sick son of a bitch.
And nothing is worse than the moment you realize your “pre-writing rituals”…also referred to as heavily drinking… alone… after my parents went to sleep at 8:30 p.m…while finding more websites based solely on cats that look like Hitler.
… and when that fails…I just stare at my boobs.
But I’m staring at my boobs right now and…nada. Ideas are swirling…but word placement is just not adding up…and that is key, my friend, key.
It’s probably not helping that I’m distracted by this insurmountable urge to pee, but I know once I leave to confines of my bedroom to break the seal, and find myself sitting on the commode…only to stare at my boobs yet again…it will all come to me, but… yet again…I will have been too lazy to grab my pen and pad to write down this epically epic idea all down…because…yet again…I think I’m smart enough to remember everything I just said perfectly in my head…
…I’m not
…but come! In my defense it’s just not that hygienic to write shit down while I’ m perusing the bathroom, now is it? And plus, where the fuck am I supposed to lean my notebook? My exposed belly?
…don’t answer that…or question why my belly is exposed?
I’m in an emotional/sexual/mayo-less rut…and while you may gawk at the theory….I’m pretty sure the sudden and massive lack of mayo-intake is directly correlated to my writing abilities…and my sexual prowess.
…we all have our vices, okay? Yours may make songs turn into colors and mine may just happen to go perfectly well with sandwiches/wraps/sex.
And that is why America is the greatest state in the world my friends! THE GREATEST STATE IN THE WORLD.
I’m also hoping that if I finally write all this bullshit swirling around in my head down...I can finally make room for some ideas/stories/mayo-recipes that don’t quite suck…as much.
Hopefully this is just a flare-up…but can we ever be completely sure?
Too bad that don’t make a hemorrhoid cream for writer’s block…
How much alike is too alike?
My mother and I are obviously alike, but to be quite honest, I never truly understood to what extent.
Well…. I didn’t understand until the exact moment when my dad accidently grabbed my ass because…and I quote, “You look just like your mother from behind.”
………..yeah.
It doesn’t end there. Oh, no no no no. Why would it? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. And while yes, we look exactly the same… is it really that weird for a 22 year-old daughter to look EXACTLY like her 52 year-old mother?
Isn’t that just the basic philosophy of Botox/Low-Carb Diets/the McLobster?
I shit you not a cashier once said to me and my mother….
“Well at least… when your mother dies, every time you look in the mirror…it will be like she never left.”
Needless to say, this didn’t exactly please my mother….
“What the fucking fuck?!”
And even with all this evidence just looming over my head, the real ephimamy didn’t quite hit until I revealed to my mother that when I iron (…which yes…is the only chore I do for them while I live in their house rent free…and yes, they also pay me to do…) I only wear a bra and underwear.
…for two reasons, assholes already judging me…1. I get really hot when I iron…I’m holding a fucking iron, god damnit….and… 2. I’m kind of a whore…
Tomato. Tomato.
….hmm. That saying doesn’t seem to make as much sense on paper…
Anywho…It wasn’t until I told my mother this quaint little fact about myself, that she dropped a doozy of her own.
“Hmm, well that’s funny…cause when no one’s home…I clean naked.”
……yeah.
Like I said….Exact. Same. Person.
And it’s kinda of weird too, you know? To know what you future entails?
Like, I can tell you that my feet will stop smelling randomly at age 40.
My voice will never change…I will always sound like I’m 14.
The addiction to porn? Never-ending.
Regrettable tattoos? None…that I’m aware of.
So while you all freak about future your weight-gain/wrinkles/drooping balls and/or boobies I’m going to do what I do best, pop open a beer, turn on the tube and stare at the Miracle Whip container until I can turn in into mayo…with the power of my mind.
Well…. I didn’t understand until the exact moment when my dad accidently grabbed my ass because…and I quote, “You look just like your mother from behind.”
………..yeah.
It doesn’t end there. Oh, no no no no. Why would it? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. And while yes, we look exactly the same… is it really that weird for a 22 year-old daughter to look EXACTLY like her 52 year-old mother?
Isn’t that just the basic philosophy of Botox/Low-Carb Diets/the McLobster?
I shit you not a cashier once said to me and my mother….
“Well at least… when your mother dies, every time you look in the mirror…it will be like she never left.”
Needless to say, this didn’t exactly please my mother….
“What the fucking fuck?!”
And even with all this evidence just looming over my head, the real ephimamy didn’t quite hit until I revealed to my mother that when I iron (…which yes…is the only chore I do for them while I live in their house rent free…and yes, they also pay me to do…) I only wear a bra and underwear.
…for two reasons, assholes already judging me…1. I get really hot when I iron…I’m holding a fucking iron, god damnit….and… 2. I’m kind of a whore…
Tomato. Tomato.
….hmm. That saying doesn’t seem to make as much sense on paper…
Anywho…It wasn’t until I told my mother this quaint little fact about myself, that she dropped a doozy of her own.
“Hmm, well that’s funny…cause when no one’s home…I clean naked.”
……yeah.
Like I said….Exact. Same. Person.
And it’s kinda of weird too, you know? To know what you future entails?
Like, I can tell you that my feet will stop smelling randomly at age 40.
My voice will never change…I will always sound like I’m 14.
The addiction to porn? Never-ending.
Regrettable tattoos? None…that I’m aware of.
So while you all freak about future your weight-gain/wrinkles/drooping balls and/or boobies I’m going to do what I do best, pop open a beer, turn on the tube and stare at the Miracle Whip container until I can turn in into mayo…with the power of my mind.
God Damnit
Well the verdict is in…and my 40-day hell is going to consist of absolutely no mayo…even though porn was a close second… you sick fucks you.
I’m pretty sure this is going to entail a shit ton of withdrawals…and a lot more ranting…
For example… so many god damn hipsters have been hating on lent…I find this fucking hilarious…I’m sorry…I’m super religious…and I’m sorry your pissed off but hey….I’ll give you your ungodly love for PBR and your younger sisters calculator-watch you just can’t seem to leave the house without…also referred to as goat’s piss and stealing your younger sister’s most prized possession…if you give me my religious upbringing.
Deal?
…douche.
Also, people give you the weirdest looks when you pull out a pen and paper to jot an idea down…kind of a “who this bitch think she be…J.K. Rowling?” look.
So, I can’t wait to see the looks I get when I finally buy a voice-recorder (because I really am too lazy to be forced to write down all my epically awesome ideas down)…. “Note: black guy acting stereotypically black on public bus…also…I’m the only white person on said bus.”
Also, Also, Also! My mother has given up caffeine …I feel a shit ton of random fights between us in the works, as withdrawals and weight gain rears its ugly head again.
My prediction is I’m probably going to revert to ranch…mayo’s, less-white trashy…but still equally as embarrassing cousin…when you pull out a bottle from your purse.
My only question for you guys is am I allowed to eat Miracle Whip? Oh, god what am I saying?!?! Miracle Whip’s is Satan’s…well…I think you can put two and two together… a lady shouldn’t speak of such things.
All right, well I think its time for me to embark on day three of this hell, with some light tomfoolery…and maybe dancing…I don’t know…I don’t know.
I’m pretty sure this is going to entail a shit ton of withdrawals…and a lot more ranting…
For example… so many god damn hipsters have been hating on lent…I find this fucking hilarious…I’m sorry…I’m super religious…and I’m sorry your pissed off but hey….I’ll give you your ungodly love for PBR and your younger sisters calculator-watch you just can’t seem to leave the house without…also referred to as goat’s piss and stealing your younger sister’s most prized possession…if you give me my religious upbringing.
Deal?
…douche.
Also, people give you the weirdest looks when you pull out a pen and paper to jot an idea down…kind of a “who this bitch think she be…J.K. Rowling?” look.
So, I can’t wait to see the looks I get when I finally buy a voice-recorder (because I really am too lazy to be forced to write down all my epically awesome ideas down)…. “Note: black guy acting stereotypically black on public bus…also…I’m the only white person on said bus.”
Also, Also, Also! My mother has given up caffeine …I feel a shit ton of random fights between us in the works, as withdrawals and weight gain rears its ugly head again.
My prediction is I’m probably going to revert to ranch…mayo’s, less-white trashy…but still equally as embarrassing cousin…when you pull out a bottle from your purse.
My only question for you guys is am I allowed to eat Miracle Whip? Oh, god what am I saying?!?! Miracle Whip’s is Satan’s…well…I think you can put two and two together… a lady shouldn’t speak of such things.
All right, well I think its time for me to embark on day three of this hell, with some light tomfoolery…and maybe dancing…I don’t know…I don’t know.
The choice is yours...no seriously...I'm letting you decide.
Well shit…today is Ash Wednesday, and being the good Catholic that I am…I completely forgot.
…so seeing as I’m a total Catholic douche…I am going to let you (the viewers) pick what I give up for lent!
No seriously…you get to decide…and then watch then watch me blog about my living hell…
What are the choices you ask?
1. Porn
2. Unsolicited bitchiness
3. Mayo…I don’t want to talk about it….
4. Eating sandwiches…while watching porn
5. Fruit
6. Unsolicited cursing
7. Unsolicited cursing…while watching porn
8. Unsolicited cursing…while watchin porn…while eating a mayo drenched sandwich
9. Michelob ultras?
10. Hot chocolate
11. Hot chocolate…while eating mayo…while watching porn…while eating a sandwich
12. Salt
13. Diet coke
14. Crack
15. Cocaine
The choice is yours.
…so seeing as I’m a total Catholic douche…I am going to let you (the viewers) pick what I give up for lent!
No seriously…you get to decide…and then watch then watch me blog about my living hell…
What are the choices you ask?
1. Porn
2. Unsolicited bitchiness
3. Mayo…I don’t want to talk about it….
4. Eating sandwiches…while watching porn
5. Fruit
6. Unsolicited cursing
7. Unsolicited cursing…while watching porn
8. Unsolicited cursing…while watchin porn…while eating a mayo drenched sandwich
9. Michelob ultras?
10. Hot chocolate
11. Hot chocolate…while eating mayo…while watching porn…while eating a sandwich
12. Salt
13. Diet coke
14. Crack
15. Cocaine
The choice is yours.
Oh yes...I'm talking about you.
Okay…so I want to preface this post with the fact that yes, I am not the best driver in the world.
And that yes, because I am a girl, when it comes to driving, on a scale of 1 through 10…10 being the highest…I can only score a 5.5…at best.
…6 if I could parallel park… which I can’t…and unless I’m rewarded with mayo packets…I don’t plan on learning…deal with it.
Now…on with the post….
Oh. Dear. God. You Maryland drivers SUCK.
There. I said it. And believe me…I’m not the only one thinking it…in fact there’s probably another 48 states thinking the same exact thing…I’m not letting you vote Jersey…we all hate you, too.
And you can’t even get mad at me cause I’m from Baltimore…Middle River, motherfuckers…and everyday I praise the lord I was not taught to drive in the big M.D.
Let’s say it together Maryland drivers… “turn signals are designed to inform the drivers around you that you are about to turn/merge/politely ask (without being to intrusive) your fellow drivers to allow the adequate amount of space (in this never-ending traffic jam of a hell hole) so you can safely and sufficiently squeeze you unnecessarily douchy McDouchster escalade (which is always being driven some timid woman with the worst mom haircut I’ve seen in ages) into the space in front of me.”
And when you don’t use your turn signal while you are cutting me off…then please by every means take it personally when I tailgate your sorry ass, only to get right beside you, put my window down to flip you off ….or moon you…one the two.
…and yes it is physically possible for me to moon you while I’m driving, way to doubt my integrity, douche.
And yes, I will scream. And yes, you will hear a combination of words that will make you assume I’m a Russian/Asian/ some sort of illegal immigrant….and if it were me…I would go with a combination of all three.
And yes, my face will vaguely resemble that possessed chick from The Exorcist…not that I would know what her face looks like cause I’ll never fucking watch that movie…and if you have watched that movie, you will at one point be possessed by the devil…how do people not understand that?!?
And yes, you will fear me…because I will find you…and you know it…so you’ll shutter every time you see a car with the same color/make/vanilla vomit smell as mine.
…and fuck you for judging the smell of my car…I dropped a slim fast shake in it last week, shit happens, alright?! Is that okay with you, Mr. I don’t use my turn signal but I’m sure as hell going to judge the innards of your car…douche.
And when I find you, I would safely assume that I’m going to throw whatever the fuck is in my passenger seat directly at you… oh, you know…mayo packets…plastic Tupperware…empty slim-fast shakes…a black dildo…and those bitches can do some damage…believe you me.
So all in all…you’ve been warned.
And that yes, because I am a girl, when it comes to driving, on a scale of 1 through 10…10 being the highest…I can only score a 5.5…at best.
…6 if I could parallel park… which I can’t…and unless I’m rewarded with mayo packets…I don’t plan on learning…deal with it.
Now…on with the post….
Oh. Dear. God. You Maryland drivers SUCK.
There. I said it. And believe me…I’m not the only one thinking it…in fact there’s probably another 48 states thinking the same exact thing…I’m not letting you vote Jersey…we all hate you, too.
And you can’t even get mad at me cause I’m from Baltimore…Middle River, motherfuckers…and everyday I praise the lord I was not taught to drive in the big M.D.
Let’s say it together Maryland drivers… “turn signals are designed to inform the drivers around you that you are about to turn/merge/politely ask (without being to intrusive) your fellow drivers to allow the adequate amount of space (in this never-ending traffic jam of a hell hole) so you can safely and sufficiently squeeze you unnecessarily douchy McDouchster escalade (which is always being driven some timid woman with the worst mom haircut I’ve seen in ages) into the space in front of me.”
And when you don’t use your turn signal while you are cutting me off…then please by every means take it personally when I tailgate your sorry ass, only to get right beside you, put my window down to flip you off ….or moon you…one the two.
…and yes it is physically possible for me to moon you while I’m driving, way to doubt my integrity, douche.
And yes, I will scream. And yes, you will hear a combination of words that will make you assume I’m a Russian/Asian/ some sort of illegal immigrant….and if it were me…I would go with a combination of all three.
And yes, my face will vaguely resemble that possessed chick from The Exorcist…not that I would know what her face looks like cause I’ll never fucking watch that movie…and if you have watched that movie, you will at one point be possessed by the devil…how do people not understand that?!?
And yes, you will fear me…because I will find you…and you know it…so you’ll shutter every time you see a car with the same color/make/vanilla vomit smell as mine.
…and fuck you for judging the smell of my car…I dropped a slim fast shake in it last week, shit happens, alright?! Is that okay with you, Mr. I don’t use my turn signal but I’m sure as hell going to judge the innards of your car…douche.
And when I find you, I would safely assume that I’m going to throw whatever the fuck is in my passenger seat directly at you… oh, you know…mayo packets…plastic Tupperware…empty slim-fast shakes…a black dildo…and those bitches can do some damage…believe you me.
So all in all…you’ve been warned.
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 broughted…now laugh bitches…laugh.
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 broughted…now laugh bitches…laugh.
I'm against children...
I’m against children. Scratch that. I’m against certain people having children. Myself included.
You better believe I wrap it before I tap it. I don’t want any mini-me’s popping out of my butt hole anytime soon.
I’m doing America – no -I’m doing the whole world a favor. I’ve even thought about getting my tubes tied, but I don’t think they allow women to do that until they are of a certain age. It’s kind of like you have to be 35 to run for president, but more sexist.
I get the need to pro-create, kids are here for no other reason than to replace us. But I’m so surprised people don’t see the huge error in our ways. We are replacing America with our mistakes; our self-involved, self-obsessed, possibly ugly mistakes.
This is not good.
Only talented people should mate. Yes, mate. That is the ONLY reason animals/insects/Ryan Seacrest are supposed to have sex. None of this “it feels good” shit. Leave that to the dolphins.
The rest of us should be sterilized and set free amongst the beautiful. It’s a win-win situation. Us heathens still get to have sex, while not ruining God’s divine plan of creating a perfect universe.
This isn’t communism; it’s let’s-stop-ugly-people-from having-sexism.
Perfect example: Spencer and Heidi Pratt. I’m pretty sure all that’s popping out of that vag is a Barbie doll. A black one.
People tell me I’d be a great mother, um no I wouldn’t.
We are supposed to give our children values. I don’t have any of those. I’m not a talented person. I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t have sex with two men at the same time.
My genes need to end.
I’m making this sacrifice for you America. Well, not the "not having sex" part, fuck all of you I need to get laid.
You better believe I wrap it before I tap it. I don’t want any mini-me’s popping out of my butt hole anytime soon.
I’m doing America – no -I’m doing the whole world a favor. I’ve even thought about getting my tubes tied, but I don’t think they allow women to do that until they are of a certain age. It’s kind of like you have to be 35 to run for president, but more sexist.
I get the need to pro-create, kids are here for no other reason than to replace us. But I’m so surprised people don’t see the huge error in our ways. We are replacing America with our mistakes; our self-involved, self-obsessed, possibly ugly mistakes.
This is not good.
Only talented people should mate. Yes, mate. That is the ONLY reason animals/insects/Ryan Seacrest are supposed to have sex. None of this “it feels good” shit. Leave that to the dolphins.
The rest of us should be sterilized and set free amongst the beautiful. It’s a win-win situation. Us heathens still get to have sex, while not ruining God’s divine plan of creating a perfect universe.
This isn’t communism; it’s let’s-stop-ugly-people-from having-sexism.
Perfect example: Spencer and Heidi Pratt. I’m pretty sure all that’s popping out of that vag is a Barbie doll. A black one.
People tell me I’d be a great mother, um no I wouldn’t.
We are supposed to give our children values. I don’t have any of those. I’m not a talented person. I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t have sex with two men at the same time.
My genes need to end.
I’m making this sacrifice for you America. Well, not the "not having sex" part, fuck all of you I need to get laid.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)