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.

This better become a real fucking show.

I've never laughed so hard in my life.

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...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Obsessed with this dude...

Sexually that is.

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.