July 11, 2011


I Slept For The Rough Equivalent Of 2 Hours Last Night. This Was What Occurred When The S.O Called Me This Afternoon After I Finally Went Down For My Nap:

  • (Phone rings.)
  • Me: Hrelsfo?
  • S.O: Hey babe, I'm just getting done here-- DOLPHINS-- going to drive-- ELVIS-- and Eric to the airport, and then I have to go-- BASE JUMPING IN AUSTRALIA-- so I'll pick you up-- IN MY SPACE SHUTTLE-- around #%$&$%^#%$#@,
  • Me: Hrunh? So at 8?
  • S.O: No, at 6. Are you--PINK LEOPARD PRINT HANDBAGS-- asleep?
  • Me: Nap.
  • S.O: Have you been asleep since I left at #^*$**$&#^#%?
  • Me: SILLY, noooooooooooo...nap time now.
  • (Click.)
  • That would have been what I heard through my sleep-daze, and me hanging up on him. I had to text back later to confirm A.) That he really called and I did, in fact mumble at him, and B.) That he was picking me up at 6.
  • I'm quite the catch.
  • XOXO

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August 6, 2011


I was so out-of-it last night that I fell asleep debating the physics of a rebounded basketball when gravity is applied to it, and if they truly ever go back to the same starting spot.

Things that should not mix: Wine, and Dr. Eisenhouer’s CP Physics class from 2007.

XOXO

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August 7, 2011


I am one of the deepest motherfuckers I know.

XOXO

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August 22, 2011


I had a dream last night that there was a setting on a vibrator that said “patience.”

As in, you needed patience to use that setting.

I don’t which is more telling: That I had a dream which included a vibrator, or that I was downright PISSED that I needed patience for something.

My mind is an odd and unsettling place.

XOXO

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August 28, 2011


"That’s Not My Boyfriend…He’s My Really Big And Smokin’ Hot Captor."

Had the most bizarre dream last night that a helicopter landed in the front yard, and a bunch of mercenary soldiers poured out and basically reenacted the Quartering Acts of the 1760s and 1770s, when one of them, who was about 6’7”, and a dead-ringer for Chris Hemsworth in “Thor,” up and decided that he was going to be my protector/boyfriend.

…Yeah, I did not protest much.

His name was (I kid you not) Bibb, and though he was just about as dumb as a box of rocks, I decided it was worth keeping him around to look at/continuously feel his biceps. All was good and grand in HunkWorld until I had to go to a doctor’s appointment and good ol’ Bibb wrapped my naked ass up in a large bathroom towel (?) and carted me off to the waiting room over his shoulder, and put me down on the couch right next to my ex.

THAT was a GREAT conversation. 

Yikes.

XOXO

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September 14, 2011


You know it’s time to go to bed when you read “What will it do to my brain?” as “Will it rain on my brain?” Rain on my brain, like, right now, indeed.

XOXO

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September 22, 2011


I had a dream last night that Laurence Fox was a German exchange student living with us named Stephan. He didn’t know what American football was, but he did still somehow manage to score a nice, high school-style make-out session with me on the couch. At first, my conscious, lucid brain was wondering why I was POSSIBLY kissing a high school kid, like, had I lost my mind or something? and then I realized:

…I’ll take it.

XOXO

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September 29, 2011


tequilaforangels:

i like finding these. the way the blue and pink pop out at you as you’re walking down the sand. 

Ok, is it just me, or does this jellyfish look like a Chinese pan-friend dumpling in technicolor? Fuck. Now I want greasy Chinese for lunch.
WHY IS THERE NO DELIVERY IN THE COUNTRY.
XOXO

tequilaforangels:

i like finding these. the way the blue and pink pop out at you as you’re walking down the sand. 

Ok, is it just me, or does this jellyfish look like a Chinese pan-friend dumpling in technicolor? Fuck. Now I want greasy Chinese for lunch.

WHY IS THERE NO DELIVERY IN THE COUNTRY.

XOXO

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October 2, 2011


I had a dream last night that I stole this golden retriever from this really nerdy guy who wanted to date me who I dumped literally ON the second date, in front of his parents who he’d brought to meet me (strangely, his dad looked like Rusty DeWees and I was more turned on by him), and drove around town with it, looking for a bag of candy corn that cost less than $7, because I only had $4. (I’m glad to see my dream-mind kept the facts true with that figure.)

The majority of my dream consisted of me driving to and wandering around Kmart, the Dollar Tree, Price Chopper, and JoAnne Fabrics, looking for cheap candy corn and trying to convince store employees that it was ok to allow me to bring the kidnapped dog in with me, because I was “sight-challenged.” 

Eventually, I gave that up and left the dog in the car, where he turned into Shaun White and became my wheel man on my sugar quest.

…I’m going to take this to mean that I really should go into town today to get that candy corn I’ve been craving for the past few days, before I start recklessly dating and get Olympians involved in my life again.

……I met Shaun White once in high school. He thought I was cute.

XOXO

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October 9, 2011


Normal people don’t have thoughts like, “Well, maybe it’s a good thing I have this bleeding bug bite, because if some sort of vampire lord crashed through the window and demanded I sign my soul over to the Devil and seal it with blood, they wouldn’t have to cut my finger or anything; I could just use this. No need for any more pain.”

Normal people DO NOT.

…Normal people also don’t read as much fiction as I do and have active Blockbuster movie-style-leaning active imaginations going on in their head as I do.

YAAAAAAAAAAAY READERS UNITE!

XOXO

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Thank God Daddy Was A Marine.

So, while I’m house-sitting, I’ve taken up residence in the large, ground-floor, window-filled family room, and am existing on the futon in the corner. I was lounging about, watching Netflix, minding my own business, pants-less, when I saw a man’s head bobbing up the driveway, about 15 feet away, through the big bay window. I, of course, am half-naked right next to the windows he’ll be walking by to get to the front door in about .23 seconds. What do I do? Roll off the side of the futon, army-crawl across the floor to my jeans, and wiggle into them, still lying on the floor, before hopping up and running to answer the door. 

I’m a real big fan of the awkward army-crawl.

XOXO

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October 24, 2011


Had a dream that the Perfect Man (tall, curly black hair, bright blue eyes, fitter than fuck,) somehow found me and carried me around piggy-back a lot while trying to find me a job with him at the Ministry of Magic.

A.) This means I probably have some subliminal desires to either be taller or carried around all the time because I’m a lazy shit, or,
B.) I never should have watched the last 2 Harry Potter movies.

Woke up pissed when my alarm went off not because it meant that Dream Boy did not exist, but because I realized it meant that I’d be going to work at the jewelry store, and not with Arthur Weasley.

I obviously should never have watched those movies.

XOXO

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November 6, 2011


Best Dream In A Long Time, AKA: What Did I Eat Last Night?

It starts off as I’m jogging around London as part of the Prime Minister’s (who is incidentally James MaCavoy, naturally,) security detail, when I spot two gunmen holding up a school bus. Sensing a set-up a mile away, I decide now is a good time to abandon poor James and make a withdrawal from a nearby bank. I duck in; so do three armed gunwomen in their twenties who are holding up the bank to pay for their college tuition (sounds about right). Thinking fast, I duck into an elevator to try to escape, but not before two dumb bitches worm their way in with me, completely screwing up my getaway plans, and all that ends up happening for about the next hour is we try to get to a lower level, and the gunwomen keep calling the elevator back up to the bank. About now in this dream is when I consciously realize just how much I hate elevators. Finally, the doors open on the lower level, my AM appears and hands me a gun, I force said dumb bitches out AT GUNPOINT, and make my way back up to the bank, planning to blast my way out to freedom. The doors open and…there is a black-tie soiree going on. Come to find out, the gunwoman have raised enough money to bring themselves out of debt, and the city has declared an event to celebrate their pluck and go-getter-ness. I am forced to throw the gun away, and make my congratulations to the women, all while being surrounded by men in tuxes, and women in ball gowns. It’s awkward; I’m pissed I didn’t get to shoot anyone, so I decide to take the godforsaken elevator up a level to a hotel lobby.

Where I find an international summit conference on Native American history and practices in full-swing. There are live bears. I get chased by bees. And I uncover the fact that the conference and shoddily-crafted workshops are NOT, in fact, being put on by Native tribes, but rather, a casino looking to con people into spending more money. Sick of all these money-grubbing schemes, and the fact my parents and I had to spend two hours in a scary little bear observation shack, I say “to hell with this!” get back into my magic elevator, and go up another level, to where I know there’s a GREAT party going on.

The doors open, I’m in New York, and my dear friend Mike (dearly departed,) is there waiting for me with his college roommate, Andy. Mike’s friends are throwing a kick-ass party in this hotel; I’m wearing a FABULOUS sundress; I get to hang out with the boys, who think I’m pretty awesome for my vastly superior towel-whipping skills; and the balcony of this level of the hotel directly overlooks the Aqueduct racetrack. I am, of course, thrilled, and head out to catch a race, FO’ FREE, when a rather ruffled looking gent (think Gary Oldman,) asks me if I’ll cover an article on this race for him. (I must just LOOK like a journalist.) He offers to pay me, of course, and we settle of $50 for the short article, while I fumble for something to write on, because I have a pen, but no paper. Finally, I tear apart a chapstick’s cardboard packaging, and settle for that. It’s an interesting race— there are only 4 horses, and no modern gates, resulting in something like what I’d imagine the Romans did chariot racing like. Come to find out, it’s actually a TRAINING race, but fun nonetheless, especially when one white horse refuses to move, and a black Friesan goes CA-RAZAY and throws his rider off, zooming all over the track. Realizing that another horse who’s unseated its rider needs help to be guided back off the track and into the stables, I push my way through the crowd on the balcony, and drop down onto the track, where I then get on this large dun Thoroughbred and ride it back into the stable situated under a tunnel right off of the track.

The horse’s owner/trainer is waiting right there, and is all like, 6-foot-5 and 215 well-muscled pounds of appreciative, dark and handsome man-hunk. He takes me and his horse up the VERY interesting stable ramps to the second floor of stalls, where wooden floorboards and metal railings with sharp angles and turnstile gates meet stalls…with chicken-wire floors underneath the wood-shaving fluff. This creates an unsettling sort of hammock-like interior for the stalls, especially when all 1,200 pounds of horse is resting on said chicken-wire. No one has gone crashing through the floor onto the first level yet, so I shelve my worry for later. Especially since Mister Muscley Owner Man has just introduced himself to me as something-something Ty-something-bone, or maybe it’s Tyrone, but he only goes by his last name because he and his mother had a falling-out when she went to jail after stealing a $2,600 pair of his gloves. They don’t talk anymore. He goes by…well, for all intents and purposes, I start calling him Tyrone, because that seems to make the most sense to me. He’s impressed by my riding, and how the horse has taken to me. He offers that I come by any time, and visit. I take this to mean that I am free to bring a sleeping bag and set up camp in the stall. He finds this endearing and my tenacity impressive. (It would not be my dream without at least a HINT of romance.) I become the horse’s groom/jockey. And it MAY or may not be able to talk to me. We race; we win. Tyrone/I Don’t Really Care What His Name Is Because He’s So Attractive makes me a permanent fixture in the chicken-wire stall barn, and asks me to dinner. I accept, and then remember that I HAVE to go tell Mike all about my fabulous new life as a jockey living in a horse’s stall where I have KINDLY asked the horse to only poop in a far corner so that my sleeping bag and things do not get ruined. Rushing in my (still fabulous) sundress to go tell Mike about the change in plans and that he can find me in Stall #16, This Stable Must Be Held Together By Magic Or Else Ready To Cave In At Any Second, Fallen-Into-Disrepair Aqueduct Racetrack, Dead-Smack-Center of New York, New York, I climb up the balcony, and BACK into the hotel one last time, running down the hallways barefoot and smelling like horse and stable when…

…I wake up. PISSED that dinner-date with someone who roughly resembles a New Jersey version of Jason Momoa isn’t going to happen, after all, and that I am not the newest up-and-coming young jockey on the circuit. 

Bitch-ass Real Life. I hate you.

XOXO 

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December 27, 2011


I Obviously Smoke Copious Amounts Of Crack.

Oh my lawd, what did I eat last night? I had a dream that my car was stolen from the scene of an accident, right under a state trooper’s nose, but it was all peachy-keen because The Dude was dressed in football gear (read: tights and padding,) and was following me around a lovely meadow-and-pond landscape as we sang Moulin Rouge-esque coupley songs and will.i.am was there as well to play for the other team…as a vampire who needed to use my house’s bathroom and I wasn’t altogether convinced he wasn’t going to try to drain my mother.

What. the. fresh. hell.

XOXO

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December 29, 2011


A few thoughts I had last night while laying in the dark, sucking on a candy cane, listening to “Electric Feel” on repeat, and masturbating:

1.) I don’t understand how anyone has a full-time job AND a functional relationship,

2.) Every happily-employed, successful adult I know in my field would probably tell me they had to toil away at first in their youth, too,

3.) I am surprisingly into S&M after I’ve been smoking,

4.) The Dude and I started dating in THE MOST strange way,

5.) Maybe I could pitch it as a sitcom like Raising Hope?,

6.) Oh my god, my horrible dating history could have led me to my career destiny. Hmmm…

7.) …Wow, The Dude’s physicality hits me just like a punch to the gut; it’s like magnets and Christmas trees when we kiss.

8.) Lookit all the pritty stars.

9.) Spaceships are cool.

—-

…Proof that women can multitask while orgasming. And this is why you should say no to drugs, kids, say no to drugs.

XOXO

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