Thursday, April 28, 2011

I'm Always Somewhere Else & You're Always There Alone

If you're married and you end up with a reality show, you're gonna get a divorce.


Yep.

Can't mess with facts.

I don't watch a lot of reality TV, unless I have an urge to shut my brain off for thirty minutes or dumbass curiosity gets the best of me (yet again), but this is something I realized years ago.

The 'stars' on reality shows tend to fare well in their lives as a general rule. They get the exposure, become famous for no apparent reason, and suddenly they're a hot topic and every major market wants a piece of 'em.

That is, except for the married ones. They just get divorces. Huzzah!

It seems inevitable; can't avoid it. Every married reality show couple that I can think of (and I'm no expert, so forgive me if I'm unusually incorrect) has broken up after trying to depict a perfect relationship for their far-too-invested viewers.

What's that, you ask? You need examples?

Well, tra la la... I got 'em.

Nick What's-His-Boyband-Face and Jessica Simpson : Divorce
98 Degrees of Separation

   Travis Barker and his blonde-wife-thing : Divorce
She threw a 'divorce party' with his money, and now hosts Bridalplasty. Classy chick.

Hulk Hogan and Mrs. Hulk Hogan : Divorce
It's over, brother. For all times.

Carmen Electra and Dave Navarro : Divorce
Never steal your dude's eyeliner, or you're askin' for divorce papers.

Britney Spears and Kevin Federline : Divorce
Can I just say that whoever allowed these two to procreate should be shot? Come on now..

 Jon & Kate Something-Or-Other : Divorce
Jon & Kate Plus 8 divorce lawyers. They both creep me out.

So, y'see boys & girls.... it's simple.

If you find someone you love and decide to settle down and marry them, it might be a good idea to not have a film crew living in your bedroom and ruining your lives and coupledom. Crazy, I know. But reality TV facts surely don't lie. And this is why Gene Simmons still has his chick and his TV show.

Facts.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Happy Songs for Happy People

Lately, a few different people have referred to me as a "socialite" and "party girl". It wasn't meant in a negative way, but it did serve to make me laugh.

Let's look at the terms closer, shall we?

Socialite - is a person who participates in social activities and spends a significant amount of time entertaining and being entertained at fashionable upper-class events (according to Wikipedia).

I know nothing about fashion and have no interest in it. And an upper-class event to me would be going out to dinner at some place that didn't give me packets of ketchup on the side of my Big Mac.

Nope! Not me. Next...

Party Girl -  a girl who wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the tiiiiime (according to Eddie Murphy.)



Truthfully, I wonder if people would be at all surprised to know how much time I spend in sweatpants and old band tshirts, hanging out on my couch with the dog, a bag of chips and some Helluva Good Dip. (Yeah, I just name-dropped. It's cuz I'm a socialite.)

While I do like to go out with friends for a few beers, meet new people and make up songs about their names and occupations, I don't necessarily spend all of my time "out". I'm very social, but also a homebody.

I'm a Social Loner Dork.



And tonight I'll be going to see Mogwai with a friend... not because I'm a party girl. Because I'm a chick that digs live music and good times.

So Eddie Murphy, if you'll kindly change your lyrics to "my girl wants to party some of the time, party some of the time, party some of the tiiiime", then yeah.

I'd say it described me perfectly.


Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Things That You Say Don't Need To Prove That What I Have Is Much To Lose

Ever since I moved into my new place, Daisy has had these random bursts of crazy where she obsessively sniffs certain areas of my kitchen and tries to squeeze her little body into tight spaces to get at imaginary prey. She is, after all, a hunting dog.

Turns out she's not so nuts, and it's not so imaginary.

If my eyes were not failing me the other night (and they were not), I do indeed have a mouse in my house.

Get outta my apartment, you summabitch.

Oh yes. A mouse. I have named him Justin Bieber, since he makes the bitches go crazy. (I almost named him after one of the Beatles, but thought better of it. That damn rodent hasn't earned it.)

Ah, the joys of living in an older house that, although renovated, has all sorts of fun ways for those suckers to get in. I have no doubt that he was here long before me, and likely resents the four-legged presence I've brought him.

Let's not kid around here - I'm terrified of it. I screamed and punched out a ball of lint yesterday after mistaking it for the Justin Bieber Mouse. I'm on my guard, still sick and not sleeping properly, and I may need someone to come hold my hand at night while protecting me.

Thank god for Daisy.

Hey- Justin Bieber Mouse! You'd better watch yourself...


She's gonna getcha.



Monday, April 18, 2011

Years Of Listening Taking In, To One Day Take Away

Forgive me for anything stupid I may type today, for once I actually (sorta) have an excuse.

A nasty cold has hit, and fogged up my once-functioning brain. I just sat here staring at the screen for a few minutes before remembering exactly what I was doing.

Concentrating very hard. Keep concentra - oooh, shiny!

Anyway.

So, I don't know if you've heard of this Book of Face, or Face Book... but if you're on it, take a gander over yonder. (Yes, I just typed "gander" and "yonder". Get down with the old-timey.)

If you choose to "like" the page, maybe we'll be friends forever. But aside from that, my li'l writing business is going to be getting a bit of a makeover. I've got some talented folks on board, and a 'one-stop creative shop' is in the process of being born. Stay tuned for more, drop me a line if you'd like to be a part of it, or let me know if we're just what you need (cuz we are).

And if anyone ever finds out who put the hoodoo on me to gimme this damn cold, please - send them my regards in the form of a smack to the head.

Love 'n sneezes.


Friday, April 15, 2011

I Wouldn't Want You To Want To Be Wanted By Me


This... is a knife.

A big damn knife.

Used for big damn heavy duty cutting of big damn heavy duty things.



This is a big dog treat with amazing powers. Mainly the power of doggie oblivion.

While chewing this tasty drug-like treat, my usually perceptive dog would become completely oblivious to everything, including:

- me leaving her alone
- the apocalypse
- Mickey Mouse kicking the shit out of the Jonas Brothers.

This stuff is pure gold in a yellow package.

And so, since I had both of my doggies yesterday and had to leave them alone for a few meetings, I decided to use the big damn knife (pictured above) to cut the treat (pictured above) in half, so each of my JRTs could be in blissful treat oblivion.

Instead?

Well. When you're headed out the door and in a bit of a rush, it's probably unwise to wield large knives, especially when attempting to cut something that absolutely does not wish to be cut.

And so... the knife slipped.



The scene looked much like this, but with the addition of screamed expletives and blood everywhere. And I do mean everywhere.

My finger resembled a scene out of Hobo With a Shotgun. That is to say that the stream of blood was closely matched by the stream of four-letter words from my mouth. So... neverending.

Ouch, with a side order of panic and pissed off-edness.

Now, I'm no fan of blood... and if you find it puke-worthy, you may want to skip the next pic. I took it when I thought the blood had finally stopped so I could text it to my friend for sympathy points, and he could take part in my plight.

Yep, this was as close to "normal" as it was getting.



Now? The jerk still hurts, and I'm scared to take off the bandage.

So let this be a lesson to you boys and girls. There's a moral here, and that moral is:

If you're an idiot, don't cut stuff. You will bleed.
 
The end.



Monday, April 11, 2011

Just Like The Fiction Rushing In Your Riverbed, Arise Like Applause In My Head

Oh, hello friends and neighbours.

I suppose it's time for some type of update.

I've been filling up my spare time as much as possible - distractions are necessary for me, since I dwell on negative crap a lot, and have a few things that need "fixing".


So, fix 'em I shall... but things take time.

Til then, I'm just trying to enjoy the city.


... and its failing teams. Le sigh.



Speaking of failing, lemme tell you a story. A story about gross shit that makes my girly skin crawl.

Yesterday I bought Daisy some dog food. I dunno if you've heard this rumour, but apparently dogs are supposed to eat. Weird, I know.

Just before I was going to feed her, I did what I normally do, and put the food into her dog food container. So I emptied the entire bag into it.


The food looked weird. There was a strange substance on some of it, so I stupidly touched it to see what it was.

That's when I noticed the moths crawling in her food... which was bad enough, til I saw the larvae.

Oh yes. Larvae.

Creepy, crawly, disgustingly puke-worthy little suckers all over her food, crawling out of the bag and onto my kitchen table. I grabbed my sneaker and started bashing the crap out of anything I saw moving. My ninja skills always pay off.

I had one garbage bag left, so I poured the larvae-ed food into it and closed it up tight.

Lo & behold (and just my friggin' luck), there was a hole in that bag. And so, the food, moths, and slithery larvae found their way all over my kitchen floor. Not only was it a fun treat to try to clean THAT crap up and put it into a broken bag (the key - tape. Lots of tape), but keeping a hungry dog from mowing down on some wormy floor creatures wasn't all that easy.


So, is it the store's fault? The company's fault?

Hey, Beneful - care to explain? cuz when the bag said "little bites for small dogs", I surely didn't think you meant larvae. What silly assumptions I have.

If you'll excuse me, I think I have to go throw up.

(Pssst - go here and listen to The Weekly Wrap (April 8th) to hear your friend the Shambled Rambler, talking about the radio show host's Quarter Life Crisis - around 8:45 in the clip)

And remember - I larvae you!



Wednesday, April 6, 2011

You're Hungry, But I'm Starving

Slight blog hiatus occurred. Je m'excuse.

So, I was going through my "Spring 2011" photo folder, and found a bunch o' randoms. Some I had forgotten about.

And so, allow me to try to explain each photo in less than four syllables. Mostly cuz I'm a dork who enjoys syllable restrictions.

A dart win, bitch!


The crotch dart dude.


Some bar art... B'art?

Two-headed thing.


Candid monkeys.


Run, Daisy! Run!


What the shit's this?


Happy drunk Matt?


Blurtastic girl.


Domestic freak.


I am a witch.


Alright, I won't lie. Those captions suck as much as captions are permitted to suck.

Be my friends - gimme better ones. That's your challenge today, jerkturkeys.

Aaaand go!


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