I do not understand the question, and I will not respond to it.

This picture is completely irrelevant, as will be the rest of them.

There is something special to be said for the endurance of a woman who is willing to go out to dinner with a man who asks the waitress if she comes there often.

Granted, said 'woman' is me, and the man is my 67 year old uncle. But the whole monthly meal-sharing scenario is a lengthy exercise in patience nonetheless, only slightly surpassed in recurring inconvenience by female punctuation week.

My uncle is an incredible man, both seriously and (often) sarcastically. He hasn't worked in over 30 years, and I'm not sure another soul on the planet beyond his own is aware of the exact ways and reasons he's managed his life the way he has thus far. Though he is incredibly intelligent, he is also one of the most infuriating, stubborn, ridiculous human beings I have in the contacts of my cell phone.

Skipping forward. No one in my family enjoys hearing from the man. He forces you to have the same exact conversation thrice times in one phone call, most time drops at least one jab at you personally and another at his chosen Race of the Day, and most always finishes it all off with a healthy dollop of guilt that he doesn't hear from you more often.

Since I suffer from a chronic case of Galuska Guilt to the nth degree, I have, within the last year or so, become accustomed to trekking down to Long Beach to dine with my uncle about once a month. Benefits: Free dinner, usually expensive, and always accompanied by excessive leftovers. Usually fairly interesting conversation and detailed stories about his and my mother's past as siblings, as well as tiny gems about my grandparents I wasn't so fortunate to learn while they were still alive. Drawbacks: He most always degrades the waiter, he definitely always mentions once or twice the dates with younger women he's been on (which has effectively strengthened my gag reflex) (and also I don't mean WOMEN he's been on, I mean DATES he's been on, and there goes my gag reflex..), and it's generally hard to tell if any of the ancestral stories are true.

But you know what? The man is friggin HAPPY to see me. There are times when I get off a call with him and would rather put a bullet in my head than answer my phone the next time the ID reads UNKNOWN, but lucky for me, my suicidal instincts are easily squashed by the promise that next week, I might be so fortunate as to hear my uncle make an off-color comment about homosexuals not having the same rights as us normal folk, and I can laugh and rest in peace accepting that times have changed but sometimes people can't and never will. And we can hardly fault them for it, sometimes it's just too late to transform.

And frankly, any amount of patience ends up being worth giving my oft disregarded relative one less nite of feeling lonely, though I could be completely making that up - he could have more friends than I do and I just don't know it.

If he has more friends than I do, I need that bullet back.

In case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.

Okay. I know how long it's been. You've probably all moved on, found someone better (which wouldn't be hard), started new lives -- I probably wouldn't even recognize you anymore.

Pretty sure this woman DOES have balls...

BUT -- let this mark the beginning of a new beginning, beginning with posting more often, even if it's pointless, and trying harder to make all 3 of you reading this uncomfortable but uncomfortably laughing.

Being jobless causes me to have very little to respond to the question, 'How was your day?' Beyond, 'wiped up baby poo and took a dog to rehab.' Since that's what's going on in my life, and doesn't show any signs of stopping, that's what you'll all have to hear about I guess. Deal.

Namaste till next time...I'm leaving these folks to watch over you.

And me, I still believe in paradise.

Thailand.  I'm officially going to Thailand.  I want to go to there, and I'm going to there.

Land of Spicy Curry and the Two-Dollar Handjob (oftentimes at the same time, I'm told), and soon to be Land of Lost Green Haired Girl and Oversized White Boy Friend - Thai Thai, you have no idea what's coming for you.

A dear friend is traveling the world, and finally giving me an excuse to spend every dime in my possession to fly to the Orient and tear some shit up.  In turn, he is also giving me an excuse to use the term 'The Orient,' which I will continue to boast as the perfect descriptive word pairing for the island paradise I will dip my hungry tongue into come mid-November.

This has no relevance whatsoever.

My mother, after railing me* for twenty minutes about the monetary downfalls of spending all my pennies on a frivolous trip to a cultural gold mine I've been dying to visit for the last four years, decided to give up by saying simply, 'I don't know why you even want to go there.  It's dirty.'  Frankly I'm proud of her for not being more concerned about the fact that I'll be traveling alone to a very foreign country, and in the dead of nite, no less.

For whatever reason, I've managed to purchase a plane ticket that gets me into Bangkok at 1:10am.  At first thought, this doesn't seem like the safest decision, but the airport isn't usually the site for most stolen-into-sex-slavery crimes, right?  No?  Seems more reserved for dark damp alleys and the armpits of freeway overpasses.  Plus we all know I can overpower a tiny Asian man.  And that's not even racist, it just means I'm a beast when necessary.

As a lovely consolation, my co-worker informed me that if I do in fact get kidnapped and subsequently sexed up by Thais and tourists, at least they'll hook me on heroine first.  So I'll have that going for me.  At least I can sleep soundly..knowing that.  If nothing else I'll come back with a new addiction and a penchant for undersized schlong.**  Afterall, the nurses always say I have good veins. (This is in reference to the addiction, not the schlong.  Was that clear?)

But none of this concerns me.  Not the fact that I might not be able to pay rent now when I lose my job in December, and not the sinking realization that I shouldn't spend a nickel for the next two months before I go.  Not the idea that consuming such foreign food and drink could make me sick for half my trip, and certainly not the worry that ohmygodwhatifican'tfindjoshintheairportwhenigettobangkok?!

Mostly I'm just imagining all the beaches, rainforests, local folks and NOODLES I'm sure to devour, and how much I won't care if any of the above gives me diarrhea or typhoid.

Because I'm finally going to Thailand.

And I'd rather have Thaiphoid than no phoid at all.

*Usually I reserve the term 'railing' for aggressive albeit delicious sexual intercourse-type activities, and I'm abhorred at the fact that I've put it in the same sentence as 'my mother.'  Not enough to remove it.  Because I"m twisted like that.

**I realize this is 100% inappropriate.  But it's who I am, and I don't know how to change that.***

***It's not that I don't know HOW to change it, it's just that I don't want to.

I read somewhere their periods attract bears. Bears can smell the menstruation.

The last three days have been chock-full of Punctuation Week-induced mood swings.  I hate admitting ANYTHING that makes me seem like a girl (which is an issue in itself), but MAN has my vig vag and it's monthly cycle been fucking with my emotional well being lately.

I'm not sure I'll ever understand why revealing any character traits about myself that fall under the blanket term of 'girly' is so repulsive to me.  I mean - I am in fact a girl (not yeeet a wo-man..), so why is acting like one such a fucking travesty?  The older I get the more I want to distance myself from the stigma that inevitably comes with behaving like a typical woman.  But when I truly think about it, the older I am, the more I'm fine with admitting that my lady parts are a huge factor in my behavior and personality.

Maybe the part that deters me the most is the 'typical' of it all.  I'm very aware of never being perceived as a typical chick, probably because I find typical chicks hard to handle.  And mostly because I don't feel I am one.  I take 5 minute showers (7 minutes if I shave, but let's be honest, that's only once a week), while my male roommate spends a good half hour.  I get ready in the morning in 15 minutes tops (I didn't say I looked good), and we all know I drink beer like I've got bigger balls than you.

Even deeper than that, I'm not big into drama or shopping, it's okay if you hang with the guys tonite, and going out to a sporting event is usually much more fun than dressing up for a nice dinner.

But lately I've realized that sometimes it's okay to have a little girl in you.  Not the kind that you kidnap (gross.  twisted.  funny?), but the kind that appreciates a good pedicure and spends too much money on shoes.  I'm finally fine with being picked up for a date and having it planned and paid for for me - which for any who knows me is irregular, if not unheard of, especially due to the controlling side of me that prefers to just plan things myself.  And the natural housewife-ish chores of cooking and cleaning?  At the top of my list of hobbies.

I think as long as I'm never typical, I'm finally ready to sack up and admit that my sausage wallet is a part of who I am, and I shouldn't be ashamed of it.  Not that I'm going to start flying a vagina flag around town, but I might not feel as bad next time my hormones make me laugh and cry in one breath.

Shit happens.

There is NO way, I am dating, a retarded person.

After writing an obscene comment about Arby's on one of my good friend's Facebook walls, I got to thinking about the reasons I don't have a boyfriend, none of which I care to/am able to change.

I've listed some highlights here, for the pleasure reading of the 3-5 people who read this, and their 1-2 single straight friends of which 3/10ths-5/8ths might still be interested in dating this hot mess:

#29 "I would take a shit on the floor of an Arby's before I would eat their food." (reference: Facebook.)

#13 My inability to curb my a) conversation about bodily functions and b) performance of bodily functions.

#17 I enjoy making shy people feel uncomfortable and relish in creating awkward situations involving strangers I've just met. This includes attractive men, semi-famous people, and any combination of the two.

This is a combination of neither.

# 1 Two words: RAIDER NATION.

#3 I prefer to go to the bathroom with the door wide open. I don't know why, I just do.
#21 Speaking of which,I pee in public on a fairly regular basis, and see no problem with it whatsoever. I do not intend to change this behavior.

#11 I enjoy wrestling and beer-chugging, even at the same time, and rarely know when enough is enough.
#3 I have a side of the bed, a side of the movie theater, and a side of the restaurant booth. Hint: these are all the same side, that side is the right, and this is non-negotiable.

#20 There are very few tall, black, Jew-y dancer-chefs around.

This hooded suit-donning deliciousness also fits the bill.

I can't tell you how many times I've uttered the words, 'and THIS is why I don't have a boyfriend...' Most of these times are escaping me. Feel free to remind me of some, I promise not to beat the shit out of you. (See #19.)

xoxo,


G-Spot

P.S. Upon further investigation of this post, it looks more like a list of 'things that make me more masculine than feminine.' I think this revelation will be instrumental in making me consider changing my conduct, before ultimately continuing to behave just the same as always.

I am down. I am totally down. Mark me down.

I may have officially hit rock bottom, depending how you look at it.

Money is an issue, money has been an issue since I've graduated. My stupid 'goals' get in the way of me keeping a well-paying job, becuase every asshole in America moves to La La Land to try to 'make it' in Hollywood. As a result, jobs out here pay assistants in ground up animal bones and loose change found in couches, because ANYONE will take these jobs for a chance to break in. Whatever that means. Most of the people who work in this industry don't actually have any skill or intelligence, they just blew the right people and got drunk in the right places.

But I digress.

In my careful perusal of Craigslist classifieds yesterday, I came across an ad looking to hire a 'phone actress.' Naturally, I was intrigued. And even more naturally, I applied. How could I not be interested in a posting searching for someone to have 'EROTIC, ADULT phone conversations...must have pleasent speaking voice, a good sense of humour and be open minded.'

That's me to a TEE! My sense of humor is wicked, and I give GREAT voice. (Or so I've been told.) Finally a skill I've developed at my ass-fuck job that I can use in the real world - I'm on the phone all day, why not do it all nite for almost 3 times the money? I'm in.*

I got a very quick response from Evan@live.com**, asking if I would be willing to send a picture and participate in a phone interview. WELL. Why the eff not?

I tried to find the sluttiest photo of me that Facebook could offer, and much to my surprise/excitement/disappointment, the best I could find was the below.
I was a sloppy mess in this picture. I'm wearing cat ears, my shirt actually says the word 'pussy' on it, and I had enough to drink that I made out with someone ELSE on the dance floor besides THAT guy I came with, and didn't find out until days later that my fit about him taking me home early was completely justified because of all of the above.

Aaaaaaand SEND.

Now here comes the best part: since I sent this photo, I have not heard back from evan@live.com. Am I offended, or relieved? I can't decide if it's more depressing that after sending in a photo for a PHONE SEX OPERATOR (I never heard word one about this being a VIDEO phone, btw) I was totally dismissed, or if it's more depressing that I'm SORRY I was dismissed. I feel like the winning contestant on Singled Out. Where the guy just loves you when you're behind that big board, and then there's the reveal when Jenny McCarthy lets you finally meet face to face, and his sinks in disappointment at the fact that yeah, you might have a great personality, but it doesn't really matter, because you're a DOG. But he has to smile for the camera anyway.

I'm sorry Evan and I couldn't make things work. I guess I'll just have to utilize my talents elsewhere and start my own Skype-powered phone sex service, kellygetsdown.com. Let's just hope I don't mistake my nite job for my day job and try to talk off a client. That could be detrimental.

*The ad also stated, 'It would be a plus if you are able to role play, ie; a cheerleader, a therapist, a dominatrix etc...' Is 'therapist' the new 'babysitter' now? Wow, porn and fetishes have really changed since I first got in the game.
**Email modified for the anonymity of this perv.

No honey you're not sick! I don't love you because you're organized, I love you in spite of that.

I had a psychotic episode the other nite. Not to an extreme, Buffalo Bill degree, but the kind that reminds me I'm dangerously close to actually becoming Monica Geller.
Right as I left work I started digressing into a muted shade of funk that I couldn't quite figure out the origin of. If I were to hypothesize, I would err towards the side of I-just-ate-everything-within-reach-all-day-at-the-office-type funk, but really who's to say. Normally this type of mood would push me to go to the gym, but for some reason my only means of getting out of it steered my car in the direction of Bed Bath & Beyond on my way home.

You know those times where you drive and drive, and suddenly you are where you end up and you have no idea how you got there? This was one of those times. Except that I didn't realize I had made it into the BB&B until I already had a Magic Bullet and spaghetti measurer-thingy in my hand, and was forced to snap out of it, drop them both and back away slowly as if from a giant domestic grenade.
I did manage to get out of there with a 30-pair shoe organizer for my closet and a tray for my desk, as well as the determination to organize the shit out of my room till I felt better.

Even after placing each pair of shoesies into the piece of crap contraption (which nearly caused a mental breakdown when I tried to put it together - $30 worth of shifty cheap plastic and holes that didn't fit the poles [did this just become a porno?]) - I still had half of my shoes un-organized and homeless.
But I don't want to get rid of any of them. I might not have space for them in my life, but each pair is important in a specific way - kind of like my friends. Most are disposable, let's be honest, but there's a little bit of something-to-laugh-at or something-to-use-them-for in each of them..enough to keep them around, even if they mostly feel like clutter.

(See what I did there? You thought this was gonna be an uplifting analogy explaining how each of my friends is unique and valuable, but I pulled the ole switcheroo. I know, sometimes my cleverness and complete lack of a heart fools even ME!*)

Anyway, at the end of the day it was the cleaning up of my physical life that made the funk dissipate, and I managed to hit the hay feeling lighter and happier. Really there is no funny conclusion to this story. And I'm getting bored of writing about it, probably almost as bored as you are reading it. In fact I'm shocked you made it this far, kudos. So. In conclusion.

...here's THIS.
*You know I care deeply about each and every one of you, Friends.** I merely jest for the sake of jesting.
**Those of you who REALLY know me know that the above aside was just for the sensitive folk who fail to realize that I don't like them as much as they like me. But at least they feel better now. And that's really all that matters.