Monday, February 13, 2012
Hi All....Do Me A Favor and Start Following My New Blog!!
This blog is officially going extinct. Tragic, I know, but if you could please refer to http://lewierossandthefword.blogspot.com.au/ that's where my new one is....and the more followers, the better. Thanks guys, love you all!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Short Story Contest
I need to delete this story for a bit as I'm unsure if it being posted will affect my eligibility in some contests I've entered....stay tuned.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Eyeballs, Dryballs...Jolene Needs to Tone it Down
Again, Ray LaMontagne is an unrivaled talent. So is Zac Brown Band. If I took anything enriching from this last relationship, it is a love for the song Jolene...that and maybe an unhealthy taste for hops. Hardly enriching but definitely enjoyable. Thank you Ex #4. I probably shouldn't be numbering them. I've only had 4 over the last 10 years, and only two years off total in between. That means I've averaged two years per boyfriend. Pretty solid stat if you ask me.
Longevity: pro or con? I think it's a con. It just means time was wasted that you could've been living life......Ouch......That thought shouldn't have manifested itself digitally for the very same reason I shouldn't refer to my past relationships in the numeric sense. I change my mind, none of it was time wasted. They all gave me something lovely....with the exception of Ex #1. He was a real shit. Ex #2 gave me faith in the existence of good men. #3 gave me his heart. All of it. And #4 gave me a special experience I won't forget. Ever.
Heartbeats...they're more than a living flutter. Heartbeats become souls. I think souls are alive somehow. Living, tangible things. Maybe souls are the 21 grams we lose, maybe not. We'll never know. But I hope so.
I admit I've felt like a self-destructive Ray now and again...2010 being no exception. I've seen and experienced a few things during my almost 3 decades that are darker than most people raised in a good environment. But I am more of the Jolene persuasion than the Ray persuasion.
Everyone has their sad sad sob story. It's just my nature to stay in control, keep composed and avoid the great big tragic saga that is Ray. Tragedy is beautiful and I can see why so many fall into the trap of being a pitiful, beautiful wreck. I spent a 5 month period indulging myself that way earlier this year. Shamefully. I doubt that being the mascara monster I was, I exemplified the "beautiful" part of a pitiful wreck, but nonetheless, a wreck is what I was. I'm not one of those people naturally, it was just a cumulative effect of semantics I think. Maybe self-imposed and maybe not. I can't be bothered to analyze it more than I already have done. All I know is I owe my best friends an apology of Titanic proportions. They supported me and I disappeared without so much as a "thanks for for helping me, oh, not commit suicide."
My great weakness may just be that I run away from things at times, rather than stare them in the face and overcome them. That's how I got here in Australia. I've done this I think to mitigate the expense of emotion required to deal with the lows in life. What I've realized is that I can face any adversity, beat it and do so with strength and dignity. You don't need to melt down.
Unfortunately my eyeballs have dried out it seems permanently. It feels like I have wooden marbles rolling around in my head. No amount of water will make them return to their normal state of hydration. This didn't occur from crying - I haven't really even cried - but literally it came about from dehydrating myself by undertaking behavioral habits that are far from being good for me on a health level. Yet another Sunday was spent out on my Australian town, until around 2am when I decided it was an acceptable hour to return home and immediately fall asleep. Sleep keeps you from thinking. Thinking gives you time to acknowledge things that you don't really need to break down and analyze, because they don't matter in the end. Just being happy, fair, honest, living and not hurting anyone intentionally while you're living is really what matters.
I've put 24 new names in my phone over the last three weeks. Just counted. Four of those have faces I don't remember though. I am a friend-making MACHINE and averaging about 4 texts a day from new friends asking me to meet up and fill their awesome cup. Another solid stat. Breaking up his hard to do but it definitely has its upside. Pre-2010 Carrie is returning in full effect. All my old go-to stories are re-surfacing out of the haze. The dry wit and silly banter is slowly creeping back into my social repertoire. Blair and Erin would be so proud that I've been honing my networking skills to such a degree that I'm more criminally friend-hungry than even the seasoned professional friend makers Blair and Erin tend to be at even the most molecular level. They're genetically prone to savagely recruiting people and trapping them in their overpowering friendship web of happiness. If they could just see how goddamn charming and magnetic I've become, they would likely assume I time traveled back to Single Summer 2005 and swapped places with Manhattan Beach Carrie. She was pretty awesome, if I do say so. Erica would probably say she was manipulative and abrasive, but fun nonetheless.
I think the real highlight from these last three weeks being single occurred yesterday at a fine place in town, when Hercules himself asked me for my number.....while I was wearing a cut off t-shirt with a toddler smoking a cigarette on the front of it. Not exactly the most wholesome T, but Apollo the Sun God seemed to like it. No kidding, the guy probably descended out of the heavens on a fiery chariot clothed in Rumpelstiltskin-spun gold, with Cupid on one shoulder trumpeting his arrival to this temporal wasteland, and an eagle on his head dropping bon-bons that make you tall and ripped into his godly mouth.
I'm sort of regretting giving him the wrong number. What the hell was I thinking? Oh yeah, I almost forgot. This is the first time I've been single in 5 years, so maybe another boyfriend ASAP isn't such a glorious idea. Oh well, no big deal, it'll just make him like me more a few months down the road when he passes me on the street and realizes I'm the first chick crazy enough to give him the wrong number. Bingo. Totally salvageable situation.
Steady as Jolene goes....
I should go to church. No I shouldn't. Sundays are too beautiful here to spend them in church. Besides, I can have some God time sitting on a beach. Don't tell my mom that though. I will tell her that myself when the time comes. For now I'm just going to live out of my suitcase, work hard, learn to play the guitar, surf, continue to meet people who will add to my life.....and speak German. I think that's probably what Jolene would do too.
Longevity: pro or con? I think it's a con. It just means time was wasted that you could've been living life......Ouch......That thought shouldn't have manifested itself digitally for the very same reason I shouldn't refer to my past relationships in the numeric sense. I change my mind, none of it was time wasted. They all gave me something lovely....with the exception of Ex #1. He was a real shit. Ex #2 gave me faith in the existence of good men. #3 gave me his heart. All of it. And #4 gave me a special experience I won't forget. Ever.
Heartbeats...they're more than a living flutter. Heartbeats become souls. I think souls are alive somehow. Living, tangible things. Maybe souls are the 21 grams we lose, maybe not. We'll never know. But I hope so.
I admit I've felt like a self-destructive Ray now and again...2010 being no exception. I've seen and experienced a few things during my almost 3 decades that are darker than most people raised in a good environment. But I am more of the Jolene persuasion than the Ray persuasion.
Everyone has their sad sad sob story. It's just my nature to stay in control, keep composed and avoid the great big tragic saga that is Ray. Tragedy is beautiful and I can see why so many fall into the trap of being a pitiful, beautiful wreck. I spent a 5 month period indulging myself that way earlier this year. Shamefully. I doubt that being the mascara monster I was, I exemplified the "beautiful" part of a pitiful wreck, but nonetheless, a wreck is what I was. I'm not one of those people naturally, it was just a cumulative effect of semantics I think. Maybe self-imposed and maybe not. I can't be bothered to analyze it more than I already have done. All I know is I owe my best friends an apology of Titanic proportions. They supported me and I disappeared without so much as a "thanks for for helping me, oh, not commit suicide."
My great weakness may just be that I run away from things at times, rather than stare them in the face and overcome them. That's how I got here in Australia. I've done this I think to mitigate the expense of emotion required to deal with the lows in life. What I've realized is that I can face any adversity, beat it and do so with strength and dignity. You don't need to melt down.
Unfortunately my eyeballs have dried out it seems permanently. It feels like I have wooden marbles rolling around in my head. No amount of water will make them return to their normal state of hydration. This didn't occur from crying - I haven't really even cried - but literally it came about from dehydrating myself by undertaking behavioral habits that are far from being good for me on a health level. Yet another Sunday was spent out on my Australian town, until around 2am when I decided it was an acceptable hour to return home and immediately fall asleep. Sleep keeps you from thinking. Thinking gives you time to acknowledge things that you don't really need to break down and analyze, because they don't matter in the end. Just being happy, fair, honest, living and not hurting anyone intentionally while you're living is really what matters.
I've put 24 new names in my phone over the last three weeks. Just counted. Four of those have faces I don't remember though. I am a friend-making MACHINE and averaging about 4 texts a day from new friends asking me to meet up and fill their awesome cup. Another solid stat. Breaking up his hard to do but it definitely has its upside. Pre-2010 Carrie is returning in full effect. All my old go-to stories are re-surfacing out of the haze. The dry wit and silly banter is slowly creeping back into my social repertoire. Blair and Erin would be so proud that I've been honing my networking skills to such a degree that I'm more criminally friend-hungry than even the seasoned professional friend makers Blair and Erin tend to be at even the most molecular level. They're genetically prone to savagely recruiting people and trapping them in their overpowering friendship web of happiness. If they could just see how goddamn charming and magnetic I've become, they would likely assume I time traveled back to Single Summer 2005 and swapped places with Manhattan Beach Carrie. She was pretty awesome, if I do say so. Erica would probably say she was manipulative and abrasive, but fun nonetheless.
I think the real highlight from these last three weeks being single occurred yesterday at a fine place in town, when Hercules himself asked me for my number.....while I was wearing a cut off t-shirt with a toddler smoking a cigarette on the front of it. Not exactly the most wholesome T, but Apollo the Sun God seemed to like it. No kidding, the guy probably descended out of the heavens on a fiery chariot clothed in Rumpelstiltskin-spun gold, with Cupid on one shoulder trumpeting his arrival to this temporal wasteland, and an eagle on his head dropping bon-bons that make you tall and ripped into his godly mouth.
I'm sort of regretting giving him the wrong number. What the hell was I thinking? Oh yeah, I almost forgot. This is the first time I've been single in 5 years, so maybe another boyfriend ASAP isn't such a glorious idea. Oh well, no big deal, it'll just make him like me more a few months down the road when he passes me on the street and realizes I'm the first chick crazy enough to give him the wrong number. Bingo. Totally salvageable situation.
Steady as Jolene goes....
I should go to church. No I shouldn't. Sundays are too beautiful here to spend them in church. Besides, I can have some God time sitting on a beach. Don't tell my mom that though. I will tell her that myself when the time comes. For now I'm just going to live out of my suitcase, work hard, learn to play the guitar, surf, continue to meet people who will add to my life.....and speak German. I think that's probably what Jolene would do too.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Floozies Cause Earth Rumblings and IRS Audits are Fun
I know it's typical. The Mormon chick from Utah is criticizing Muslim clerics. But bear with me, folks; this sh*t is so unbelievable, my 3-year-old niece wouldn't buy into it if this guy were an animated cartoon on Nickelodeon teaching children how to say "Ammonium Nitrate" in Farsi. Kazim Sadeghi claims that promiscuous women cause earthquakes - mainly a 2003 quake that took place in a place called Bam, Iran.
2003??!! Why the hell did it take you 7 years to finally come to the conclusion that major earth-shaking catastrophes should be attributed to slutty temptresses?? Was your lady caught adjusting another operative's linen tunic? Damn those vixens for showing their wrists when they reach up to trim the hairy danglers crawling out of your lengthy noses.
In light of this revelation, I'd like to say that "I, Carrie, am a giant floozy." Not only do I wear a bathing suit on the beach, but it's a two-piece. Dun-dun-dunnnn.
Like my dad says, 80% of this world is filled with people too stupid to deserve LIFE. Translation: 8 out of every 10 people you encounter should be systematically relocated to an idyllic private isle with a giant sign onshore reading, "Location Name Irrelevant," because it's going to be INCINERATED by nuclear force, simply put.
I really don't think that mass relocation and destruction would be a grim situation. In fact, I'm totally convinced it'd be cause for celebration; similar to the way I now view IRS audits.
Upon telling acquaintances I was "summoned" for an Internal Revenue Service RECKONING, the most general reaction was an agonizing, "ohhhh no, that suuuuuuucks," as if the great William Shattner had just passed on from this temporal world (or something equally catastrophic).
As it turns out, all you have to do is show up to the boring Great and Spacious Building nearest you (Mormon joke - sincere apologies), with the documentation asked of you, and you in turn exit the massive structure either 1) owed money by the government, or 2) financially the exact same as you were when you first walked in expecting your auditor to look like the Mother Alien with a 2nd deadly mouth poised and ready to swallow your proof-positive paperwork substantiating that you're a contributing member of society and not a Jon Gosselin wannabe with less money and more beer gut (if that's possible).
Turns out my auditor was a cherub-faced soon-to-be mother of two who looked like she'd just had tea with sweet forest animals gifted with human speech in a heavenly floral garden setting.
So why do I recommend an IRS audit if there's a chance I could walk away without a refund? The answer is simple. Big government sucks, and any chance you get to flip the proverbial bird to The Man should be thoroughly enjoyed; even if your auditor looks like one of Strawberry Shortcake's rosy-cheeked friends.
Vindicated. I felt how I suspect Susan B. Anthony did in the '72 election (that would be 1872 you idiot) when she did the unthinkable.....she VOTED like the the man-eating lesbian she probably was. Luckily, me proving the U.S. Government wrong wasn't illegal like women voting was back then......and even luckier still?
I don't look like Susan B. Anthony.
Please see her mug at this link (because I'm struggling with embedding this URL for some reason): http://stories.washingtonhistory.org/suffrage/images/anthonyPortrait.jpg
GOO. Clearly that broad was not a bikini-clad, earth-quake initiating floozy.
2003??!! Why the hell did it take you 7 years to finally come to the conclusion that major earth-shaking catastrophes should be attributed to slutty temptresses?? Was your lady caught adjusting another operative's linen tunic? Damn those vixens for showing their wrists when they reach up to trim the hairy danglers crawling out of your lengthy noses.
In light of this revelation, I'd like to say that "I, Carrie, am a giant floozy." Not only do I wear a bathing suit on the beach, but it's a two-piece. Dun-dun-dunnnn.
Like my dad says, 80% of this world is filled with people too stupid to deserve LIFE. Translation: 8 out of every 10 people you encounter should be systematically relocated to an idyllic private isle with a giant sign onshore reading, "Location Name Irrelevant," because it's going to be INCINERATED by nuclear force, simply put.
I really don't think that mass relocation and destruction would be a grim situation. In fact, I'm totally convinced it'd be cause for celebration; similar to the way I now view IRS audits.
Upon telling acquaintances I was "summoned" for an Internal Revenue Service RECKONING, the most general reaction was an agonizing, "ohhhh no, that suuuuuuucks," as if the great William Shattner had just passed on from this temporal world (or something equally catastrophic).
As it turns out, all you have to do is show up to the boring Great and Spacious Building nearest you (Mormon joke - sincere apologies), with the documentation asked of you, and you in turn exit the massive structure either 1) owed money by the government, or 2) financially the exact same as you were when you first walked in expecting your auditor to look like the Mother Alien with a 2nd deadly mouth poised and ready to swallow your proof-positive paperwork substantiating that you're a contributing member of society and not a Jon Gosselin wannabe with less money and more beer gut (if that's possible).
Turns out my auditor was a cherub-faced soon-to-be mother of two who looked like she'd just had tea with sweet forest animals gifted with human speech in a heavenly floral garden setting.
So why do I recommend an IRS audit if there's a chance I could walk away without a refund? The answer is simple. Big government sucks, and any chance you get to flip the proverbial bird to The Man should be thoroughly enjoyed; even if your auditor looks like one of Strawberry Shortcake's rosy-cheeked friends.
Vindicated. I felt how I suspect Susan B. Anthony did in the '72 election (that would be 1872 you idiot) when she did the unthinkable.....she VOTED like the the man-eating lesbian she probably was. Luckily, me proving the U.S. Government wrong wasn't illegal like women voting was back then......and even luckier still?
I don't look like Susan B. Anthony.
Please see her mug at this link (because I'm struggling with embedding this URL for some reason): http://stories.washingtonhistory.org/suffrage/images/anthonyPortrait.jpg
GOO. Clearly that broad was not a bikini-clad, earth-quake initiating floozy.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
"Cocaine Flame in My Bloodstream...." ~Ray LaMontagne
Zac Brown Band's song about Jolene has been spinning around my head for weeks now. Sure, it's a legit tune, but I think it's more likely the frequency with which I've heard it that's caused this condition to occur. Also, it about sums up how I've felt since my last post IN NOVEMBER (whaaat a hackjob blogger I am).
Completely in shambles is a light way to put it: confused, liberated, lonely, excited, hopeless, ambitious....basically I'm schizophrenic. Just waiting for my Lithium perscription to get filled. For any of my friends who read this half-assed blog and haven't heard (all 5 of you), here is the "official" announcement: I am not going to be changing my last name this summer after all. Sorry my voicemail box has been full for the last 9 weeks. Anyone looking to buy an unnaturally long wedding dress? I can give you a screeeeaaaamin deal.
Easter occurred this last weekend in case you guys missed all the pastel. I spent it in San Diego with a friend I know through work. Nothing eventful happened with the exception of the earthquake but I had a pleasant time nonetheless. Pleasant is such an unfair docile word to describe my weekend. But nonetheless, it describes what I've become over the course of these last 5 months. Docile. Non-confrontational. Tepid. Pretty much the equivalent of a perfect Muslim woman, minus the burka, pork aversion and belief in an absurd religion. Man I hope there are no Taliban or Al-Quaeda operatives reading this. There you have it: narcissism rears it's pretty head. I'm sure it's HIGHLY likely they're performing covert internet reconn analyzing data from the blogs of Mormon chicks from Utah. Totally viable.
Which brings me back to my Easter story. This one is my favorite:
I was about 12 when we had our last family Easter egg hunt. We did it for Gabriel because he was just a little guy at the time. The rest of us were so cynically "cool" by the time we each hit 10 that hunting for eggs took a backseat to naps, dinner, In Living Color, Star Trek the Next Generation and pretty much everything else that typically took place at the Bowers household on the Sabbath aside from church.
Gabe was so unbalanced during this time that we were legitimately concerned he'd grow up to be a serial killer. LEGITIMATELY. He handled criticism and simple stresses like sounding out the word "h-a-n-d" about as well as Charlie Sheen and his pregnant, cracked-out spouse handle life. I still remember the veins in his bright red forehead pulsating like a Jedi light sabre any time he got angry. PSYCHO.
My older brothers, Ben & Andy, and I all obeyed my mom and hid eggs in the backyard for Gabe to scavenge. My greedy little Gollum-like brother dug around the yard like he was looking for the "precious" and surpassed all of our expectations when he'd unearthed all but one egg within a mere five minutes. Trust me, we made every effort to make the task as difficult as humanly possible for Gabe, because we simply enjoyed watching him suffer like the little apprentice cat-killer he was.
Yet still Gabe prevailed....all but for one egg. My brother Andy had taken the liberty of ingeniously hiding the last treasure in an outside light socket with a protective metal flap over it. He wedged the egg between the flap and the wall and we watched Gabe sniff around the yard looking for it eagerly while Andy positioned himself against the wall of the house right next to the spot where the action would take place.
Gabe giggled with excitement when he spotted where the egg was hidden. He ran for it laughing triumphantly because he considered the find a win versus his older siblings for once. As he neared the wall to retrieve the last, most validating Easter egg, he reached to pull it from under the metal flap, but before he could touch it, Andy beat him to it.....by smashing the flap with his hand, thus causing the egg to explode like a pumpkin dropped from 1000 feet.
The hysterics that rose out of Gabe were earth-shattering. He sounded like he'd just watched his entire family be buried alive before his eyes. Ironically, his hysterics were completely hysterical to us....in the funny way. We cried with laughter and made fun of him the rest of the day; standard procedure in our family when you embarass yourself with weakness.
I'm so glad the name Gabriel Bowers isn't a name you can find on the Wikipedia "Notorious Serial Killer" list. We're such a blessed family;) Haha. With my current state of Schizophrenia though, who knows....I've still got time to become as institutionally nutty and self-destructive as Zac and Ray were for Jolene.....or worse, I could end up like we all thought Gabe would.
Kidddddding.
Completely in shambles is a light way to put it: confused, liberated, lonely, excited, hopeless, ambitious....basically I'm schizophrenic. Just waiting for my Lithium perscription to get filled. For any of my friends who read this half-assed blog and haven't heard (all 5 of you), here is the "official" announcement: I am not going to be changing my last name this summer after all. Sorry my voicemail box has been full for the last 9 weeks. Anyone looking to buy an unnaturally long wedding dress? I can give you a screeeeaaaamin deal.
Easter occurred this last weekend in case you guys missed all the pastel. I spent it in San Diego with a friend I know through work. Nothing eventful happened with the exception of the earthquake but I had a pleasant time nonetheless. Pleasant is such an unfair docile word to describe my weekend. But nonetheless, it describes what I've become over the course of these last 5 months. Docile. Non-confrontational. Tepid. Pretty much the equivalent of a perfect Muslim woman, minus the burka, pork aversion and belief in an absurd religion. Man I hope there are no Taliban or Al-Quaeda operatives reading this. There you have it: narcissism rears it's pretty head. I'm sure it's HIGHLY likely they're performing covert internet reconn analyzing data from the blogs of Mormon chicks from Utah. Totally viable.
Which brings me back to my Easter story. This one is my favorite:
I was about 12 when we had our last family Easter egg hunt. We did it for Gabriel because he was just a little guy at the time. The rest of us were so cynically "cool" by the time we each hit 10 that hunting for eggs took a backseat to naps, dinner, In Living Color, Star Trek the Next Generation and pretty much everything else that typically took place at the Bowers household on the Sabbath aside from church.
Gabe was so unbalanced during this time that we were legitimately concerned he'd grow up to be a serial killer. LEGITIMATELY. He handled criticism and simple stresses like sounding out the word "h-a-n-d" about as well as Charlie Sheen and his pregnant, cracked-out spouse handle life. I still remember the veins in his bright red forehead pulsating like a Jedi light sabre any time he got angry. PSYCHO.
My older brothers, Ben & Andy, and I all obeyed my mom and hid eggs in the backyard for Gabe to scavenge. My greedy little Gollum-like brother dug around the yard like he was looking for the "precious" and surpassed all of our expectations when he'd unearthed all but one egg within a mere five minutes. Trust me, we made every effort to make the task as difficult as humanly possible for Gabe, because we simply enjoyed watching him suffer like the little apprentice cat-killer he was.
Yet still Gabe prevailed....all but for one egg. My brother Andy had taken the liberty of ingeniously hiding the last treasure in an outside light socket with a protective metal flap over it. He wedged the egg between the flap and the wall and we watched Gabe sniff around the yard looking for it eagerly while Andy positioned himself against the wall of the house right next to the spot where the action would take place.
Gabe giggled with excitement when he spotted where the egg was hidden. He ran for it laughing triumphantly because he considered the find a win versus his older siblings for once. As he neared the wall to retrieve the last, most validating Easter egg, he reached to pull it from under the metal flap, but before he could touch it, Andy beat him to it.....by smashing the flap with his hand, thus causing the egg to explode like a pumpkin dropped from 1000 feet.
The hysterics that rose out of Gabe were earth-shattering. He sounded like he'd just watched his entire family be buried alive before his eyes. Ironically, his hysterics were completely hysterical to us....in the funny way. We cried with laughter and made fun of him the rest of the day; standard procedure in our family when you embarass yourself with weakness.
I'm so glad the name Gabriel Bowers isn't a name you can find on the Wikipedia "Notorious Serial Killer" list. We're such a blessed family;) Haha. With my current state of Schizophrenia though, who knows....I've still got time to become as institutionally nutty and self-destructive as Zac and Ray were for Jolene.....or worse, I could end up like we all thought Gabe would.
Kidddddding.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
I Have a Problem Von Problemstein
Mmm Hmmm, yeah, lately I've been compelled to start everything I say with either a "Mc-" and end with "-ster," "-ton," and "-son," or begin with "Von" and end with "-stein." I hit an especially low point today when I called Spence "Wency McWenstenstein." Can I be any more gay?? I have no idea how this "situation" surfaced. I'd blame it on Erica if I hadn't been the one who caused her to suffer from the same verbal affliction of absolute GAYNESS. Seeing a shrink is in order. Are there shrinks that specialize in verbal communicative disorders or am I just shit out of luck? F-word. I'm banishing myself from verbal dialogue altogether until this problem disappears. Hence me actually visiting my pitiful blog for the 5th time since March to write.
Speaking of problems, I took a survey from a Camel cigarettes representative the other night pretending I'm a smoker so I could receive a prize....and I ended up with a lighter. Go figure. But this lighter was an exceptional piece of machinery that stands apart from its fellow competition: this thing had a blue flame only. There was no blemish or sign of weakness in this firestarter. This monster fire maker wouldn't deign to have any woosified yellow elements to it's flame. I could've used this thing as a blow torch to construct a bridge to Catalina. Or cleanse by violent fire an Al-Qaeda compound in the hills outside of Karachi. Unfortunately in a moment of sheer idiocy I made the mistake of pushing the button while the torch of death was turned upside down.....toward my ring finger. The blue flame made direct and extended contact. Not sure how the extended contact occurred. Probably because my brain is so slow to react to virtually anything, especially math, that it took me about 1, and then 2 seconds to notice my finger was being permanently and irrevocably damaged. Conclusion: I am a tard.
As far as tards go, I went to Jim and Stacy's ribald wedding last weekend on Halloween. Spence and I crashed it because the invitation list was for family only. Had we known those who were invited were told not to wear costumes, we wouldn't have showed up dressed like The World's Most Interesting Man and a box of Franzia (dispensing wine out of my costume to boot). Altogether the feedback was pretty positive though, and the bride and groom, being the unpredictable people they are, decided they'd prefer to have their two wedding crashers sign the documents as their two legal witnesses than say, their parents. Go figure again. Very flattering though. I was touched. But I do wish I'd anticipated that there would be multiple jokes at the wedding about my box (i.e. "Now that's a good lookin box," and "Can I get a squirt from your box?"). Woulda been nice to pre-plan some quality comebacks. Jesus the Millichaps are so wonderfully unholy.
Life is great now that I'm paying WAY less rent and live two blocks from the beach in an apartment virtually twice the size of my last.....but I've missed my only local friend Jen. She's good for the soul and makes me a better person. Luckily Jen's coming home on Tuesday and she's bringing her godly French guy with her so we can execute a "make the French dude love us and leave France" marketing campaign. I'm excited to meet her French Hercules. I have a crush on his pictures. Of course I told Jen that and of course she laughed hysterically. I love being engaged because you're allowed to have little meaningless crushes. Makes no sense? Sure it does. You commit to someone and are secure with them in every way, and vice versa, so it's safe then to say out loud "man I'd give anything to make out with that feast." Of course you typically follow the shocking revelation with another in your head that goes something like this: "but my Feasty Von Feastenstein at home is feastier than any feast.......well Eric from True Blood is pretty feasty....and maybe Tom Brady without the cleft.....but still, my Feasty is the best feast of all."
Speaking of problems, I took a survey from a Camel cigarettes representative the other night pretending I'm a smoker so I could receive a prize....and I ended up with a lighter. Go figure. But this lighter was an exceptional piece of machinery that stands apart from its fellow competition: this thing had a blue flame only. There was no blemish or sign of weakness in this firestarter. This monster fire maker wouldn't deign to have any woosified yellow elements to it's flame. I could've used this thing as a blow torch to construct a bridge to Catalina. Or cleanse by violent fire an Al-Qaeda compound in the hills outside of Karachi. Unfortunately in a moment of sheer idiocy I made the mistake of pushing the button while the torch of death was turned upside down.....toward my ring finger. The blue flame made direct and extended contact. Not sure how the extended contact occurred. Probably because my brain is so slow to react to virtually anything, especially math, that it took me about 1, and then 2 seconds to notice my finger was being permanently and irrevocably damaged. Conclusion: I am a tard.
As far as tards go, I went to Jim and Stacy's ribald wedding last weekend on Halloween. Spence and I crashed it because the invitation list was for family only. Had we known those who were invited were told not to wear costumes, we wouldn't have showed up dressed like The World's Most Interesting Man and a box of Franzia (dispensing wine out of my costume to boot). Altogether the feedback was pretty positive though, and the bride and groom, being the unpredictable people they are, decided they'd prefer to have their two wedding crashers sign the documents as their two legal witnesses than say, their parents. Go figure again. Very flattering though. I was touched. But I do wish I'd anticipated that there would be multiple jokes at the wedding about my box (i.e. "Now that's a good lookin box," and "Can I get a squirt from your box?"). Woulda been nice to pre-plan some quality comebacks. Jesus the Millichaps are so wonderfully unholy.
Life is great now that I'm paying WAY less rent and live two blocks from the beach in an apartment virtually twice the size of my last.....but I've missed my only local friend Jen. She's good for the soul and makes me a better person. Luckily Jen's coming home on Tuesday and she's bringing her godly French guy with her so we can execute a "make the French dude love us and leave France" marketing campaign. I'm excited to meet her French Hercules. I have a crush on his pictures. Of course I told Jen that and of course she laughed hysterically. I love being engaged because you're allowed to have little meaningless crushes. Makes no sense? Sure it does. You commit to someone and are secure with them in every way, and vice versa, so it's safe then to say out loud "man I'd give anything to make out with that feast." Of course you typically follow the shocking revelation with another in your head that goes something like this: "but my Feasty Von Feastenstein at home is feastier than any feast.......well Eric from True Blood is pretty feasty....and maybe Tom Brady without the cleft.....but still, my Feasty is the best feast of all."
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Katie Holmes-Cruise Has a Bigger Derriere Than I, and Gene Simmons Does Not Party Ever
Prior to this last month, the only celebrities I've seen have been professional athletes from 500 yards away, in game apparel that obstructed their actual facial features from view. Oh and maybe football players I made out with in college that are now playing in super bowls...but I guess they don't count because they weren't famous when I was in college - or very much worth the recollection anyways.
In continuation of my contempt for baggy, rolled-up boyfriends, I thought it only appropriate that I record my experience spending quality time in Boston getting to know Katie Holmes-Cruise - Tom's wife - the devil who made the horridenim trend popular for 2.8 seconds. Well....maybe Katie and I didn't exactly exchange BBM pins....or talk....or even make direct eye contact for that matter. Technically we only dined at the same restaurant and I was forced to crane my head around a table of dignified non-gawkers to take a gander at the splendid little nuclear Cruise family + bodyguard spectacle. And I must admit, I was an embarassing gawker. I was utterly mesmerized with Suri Cruise's toddler heels. What a friggin liability. I cannot comprehend that apparel companies are making kid heels when Mattel has been in deep legal shit with simple Polly Pocket and Batman figurines. I can't even walk in heels, how the hell did a toddler manage to run around a restaurant in them??! It must be some sort of hierarchical privilege for higher beings like Scientologists. Evidently there are no spiritual electrodes that these elitist anti-thetans can hook up to themselves to make their derrieres reduce in size, because Katie Holmes-Cruise has a mighty rump. Maybe her ass is a valuable scientology asset (pun intended) acting as an impregnable prison for evil dead alien thetans - similar in function to the modern landfill. I'm not exaggerating when I say her can is almost twice the size of my own. And do you know what I say to that??? Bravo, Mrs. Cruise. Bra-vo. Thanks be to Xeno, or whatever the hell they call their shotcaller god. Wouldn't ya know it but the crazy actress has a normal body. Hmm. Weird.
While in Boston I also walked through Ben Affleck's movie set of "The Town" and saw Ben in his glorious toupe. But I can't give him any pub time or my brothers could likely go into cardiac arrest. Case in point: see my facebook profile. Coo-koo.
But speaking of coo-koo, my month of celeb sitings takes an interesting turn with the celebration of the birth of Gene Simmons 60 years ago. I somehow landed myself an invite to his birthday party.....at a bowling alley of all places. It was a solid night, to say the least. I'd expected it to be one of those, "let's just go so we have a story to tell even though we're nobodies and nothing eventful will truly happen anyways but we'll pretend it did to all our friends" sort of things. Gene Simmons actually made an effort to be our friend. We laughed with him more than once. We hung out with his ex-porn star wife and her ex-porn star sister. We were accused by his son Nick of stealing his Ray Bans. We helped Nick find his Ray Bans (well, Erica did). We were given customized t-shirts to commemorate the severing of Gene's umbilical cord, and the non-severing of his foreskin back in the Jurassic era when his Hebrew mother shot him out of the womb, and sent him in a basket down the river....Oh that was Moses? Well close enough goddammit, Gene Simmons kicks ass. And according to the 1984 Playmate of the Year, Gene Simmons has never had a drop of alcohol OR recreational drugs in his life. Coulda fooled me when they rolled him out in a wheelchair with a respirator! I guess he's eaten too much challah the past 6 decades. Bread products make you unhealthy and swollen. Just ask Katie Holmes rear.
In continuation of my contempt for baggy, rolled-up boyfriends, I thought it only appropriate that I record my experience spending quality time in Boston getting to know Katie Holmes-Cruise - Tom's wife - the devil who made the horridenim trend popular for 2.8 seconds. Well....maybe Katie and I didn't exactly exchange BBM pins....or talk....or even make direct eye contact for that matter. Technically we only dined at the same restaurant and I was forced to crane my head around a table of dignified non-gawkers to take a gander at the splendid little nuclear Cruise family + bodyguard spectacle. And I must admit, I was an embarassing gawker. I was utterly mesmerized with Suri Cruise's toddler heels. What a friggin liability. I cannot comprehend that apparel companies are making kid heels when Mattel has been in deep legal shit with simple Polly Pocket and Batman figurines. I can't even walk in heels, how the hell did a toddler manage to run around a restaurant in them??! It must be some sort of hierarchical privilege for higher beings like Scientologists. Evidently there are no spiritual electrodes that these elitist anti-thetans can hook up to themselves to make their derrieres reduce in size, because Katie Holmes-Cruise has a mighty rump. Maybe her ass is a valuable scientology asset (pun intended) acting as an impregnable prison for evil dead alien thetans - similar in function to the modern landfill. I'm not exaggerating when I say her can is almost twice the size of my own. And do you know what I say to that??? Bravo, Mrs. Cruise. Bra-vo. Thanks be to Xeno, or whatever the hell they call their shotcaller god. Wouldn't ya know it but the crazy actress has a normal body. Hmm. Weird.
While in Boston I also walked through Ben Affleck's movie set of "The Town" and saw Ben in his glorious toupe. But I can't give him any pub time or my brothers could likely go into cardiac arrest. Case in point: see my facebook profile. Coo-koo.
But speaking of coo-koo, my month of celeb sitings takes an interesting turn with the celebration of the birth of Gene Simmons 60 years ago. I somehow landed myself an invite to his birthday party.....at a bowling alley of all places. It was a solid night, to say the least. I'd expected it to be one of those, "let's just go so we have a story to tell even though we're nobodies and nothing eventful will truly happen anyways but we'll pretend it did to all our friends" sort of things. Gene Simmons actually made an effort to be our friend. We laughed with him more than once. We hung out with his ex-porn star wife and her ex-porn star sister. We were accused by his son Nick of stealing his Ray Bans. We helped Nick find his Ray Bans (well, Erica did). We were given customized t-shirts to commemorate the severing of Gene's umbilical cord, and the non-severing of his foreskin back in the Jurassic era when his Hebrew mother shot him out of the womb, and sent him in a basket down the river....Oh that was Moses? Well close enough goddammit, Gene Simmons kicks ass. And according to the 1984 Playmate of the Year, Gene Simmons has never had a drop of alcohol OR recreational drugs in his life. Coulda fooled me when they rolled him out in a wheelchair with a respirator! I guess he's eaten too much challah the past 6 decades. Bread products make you unhealthy and swollen. Just ask Katie Holmes rear.
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