Tuesday, September 22, 2009

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.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

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.

Monday, June 22, 2009

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.)



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.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

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.

Monday, May 4, 2009

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.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Is it number one or number two? I just want to know how much time I have.

I have a growing concern that something awful has happened in stall number 2 of the 8th floor restroom at my work.

For the past several weeks, this door has been locked from the inside. It may seem strange that I even notice, but my stall of choice is one directly to the left, and considering my frequent urination due to extensive daily water drinkage, I'm in there enough to recognize the abnormality of this matter.
There have been several times that I have considered crawling under said stall and unlocking the door, to get this nonsense over with - I mean, there's NO one in there using the toilet, what are all these shenanigans about?

So each time I consider this, a different plausible outcome stops me. First of all, the idea of getting on hands and knees in that bathroom isn't exactly appealing, but lord knows I've done my share of unsanitary things in the past, and that wouldn't be the worst. But this isn't the one that stops me.

NO that's not me. But it wouldn't be that weird if it was.

The most common scenario that drifts into my head and halts my rescue plan, is that there is something so horrible and graphic on the other side of that door, that there's a reason the custodians keep it locked. Like, what if there's a floating head in the toilet? I mean, that could happen, right? Seems the perfect scene for gruesome murder - no one wants to knock on the door and bother someone on the other side while they're doing their business....why not leave the decapitated head there?

Now if this isn't the case, there's always the plausibility that someone committed a bodily function in there so vile and unconscionable that the stall is being laid to rest and quarantined for all eternity. Even attempting to imagine the type of disgusting activity that would have had to take place in there to shut it down for life makes me gag, so I usually move past that reason fairly swiftly.

Lastly I wonder if some asshole is playing us all, and this 'locked stall' trick is just an evil ploy for some b to get a stall to herself every goddamned day. For all we know, she could have a plush toilet seat and flat screen tv in there by now! What a whore.

And then I breathe a heavy unsatisfied sigh and I zip up. And I flush. And I move on.

All this while I pee. Damn I need a life.


Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Just look at the face: it's vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who's lost a bet.

Today I look like I've been struck by lightning.

And not in the fun, neon, going-to-a-Eurythmics-concert kind of a way. More like the looks-like-I-got-laid-by-a-lion-but-I-wasn't-even-THAT-lucky kind of a way. Circles under my eyes, hair contorted into a frizzy jumble of curly slash straight slash ponytail not to be tamed, and most likely the saddest blankest look on my face since I heard they took the Jelly Belly display out of the Ralph's by my house.

Basically I'm a mess.
After 10 glorious days in Italy, downing bottles of vino daily and eating my weight in bread, cheese and marinara, I'm back. Here. At work. In LA. And I've been sleep-working for the past three days, pretending there's not a gloss of I Don't Care mixed with I'd Rather Be Folding Laundry While Getting Vag Waxed glazed over my eyeballs.

Here's the thing I discovered during my traipses in the Vespa capital of the world*: The consequences of drinking and eating and walking too much, combined with the occasional one (or four) drunken stolen cigarettes? ZERO. It feels GREAT, why can't we do that EVERY day? I am convinced that these people have discovered the secret to a happy, stress-free life, and it should be incorporated into every culture the world over.

Let me give you an example. While cruising on a nite ferry for 12 hours, I somehow managed to eat a full gut-busting meal, drink a full 2 to 3 bottles of wine, smoke a full 2 to 3 cigarettes, and sleep a full 40 minutes. Next day? Felt GREAT. Better than usual, actually, and my Italian had improved.

I'd for reals do this.

But now, back at work, back on my healthy diet with splashes of exercise, all I am is English-speaking and TIRED. The kind of tired that makes me stutter and put my underwear on inside out. The kind that causes me to mumble incoherent musings under my breath and not realize I'm even speaking aloud. I'm the kind of tired that just caused my boss to ask me if I've been drinking, because I'm laying in my chair with my head back and jaw hanging open.

But even after woe-is-me-ing myself to death about how moving to Florence would be much better than sitting in LA at my crap job, I secretly missed this little place. Not so much the place, but the people it houses - my friends, my roommates, my family, and my snowboard and bike, but on a lesser level.

I love that this weekend I'm going to ride to the beach and get day-hammied with great friends, probably fall off said-bike and re-open my skinned knees, get hung-over while I slog through a fatty dinner, and start to drink again. How could I do that in Italy, without my favorite people by my side? I COULD do it, but it certainly wouldn't be the same. Mostly because I'd have a dirty Italian trying to jump my bones while I was passed out, and that's just not ideal.

So lightning may have struck, and I may be closer to eating shit on my keyboard than eating pasta in a piazza, but all in all I'm fine with the outcome.

At least we have Jelly Bellies here.

That's a mosaic. Of Ronald Regan. Made of Jelly Bellies. And I wanna eat it.

*I also discovered there are in fact a LOT of Italians there, and my ability to blend in as the 'little dark one' on the trip allowed me to escape the grasp of most of them.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

I made you a painting. I call it "Celebration." It's sexual and violent. I thought you might like it.

I have obtained a not-so-secret admirerer to a creepy extreme. His name is Erik With A 'K,' and I have recently become certain that he is not well.

For months and months I have been getting random texts and late nite phone calls from a number I don't know. The first time I asked for his identity, I discovered it was a black guy from South Carolina who I gave my number to in Vegas. And frankly, the only reason I GAVE him my number, was because my goal was to make out with a black guy in Vegas that weekend. (You wish that was a joke, but you know that it's not.)

I thought it was weird that he had any desire to contact me when he lived in a state I'll never visit and can't name the capital of, but I let it slide.

More recently, I've received incessant texts and some calls (with only heavy breathing on the voicemail) from what I thought was the same number, and JUST discovered that this freak is not from South Carolina, not black, and not sane. In reality, the kid is a creepo from a bar in Austin who I gave MY number, in an attempt to get him to stop bugging another girl for HERS.

There isn't an ounce of logic in this story. I'm well aware.

And that pretty much sums up the writing I'll do for this post, because below, you're about to see a succession of the favorite text messages that would make my balls crawl up into my stomach cavity if I had any. (Balls that is. Was that clear?)


Note: Pretty much NONE of these original texts were sent with ANY response from ME...they just...kept...coming.....

"This is me and my cat Sam. Short for Samson."

("He goes under furniture sometimes. He thinks he's a cave cat.")

"I took this pic myself. Is good yes?"

"I own a Dodge Neon..and the road."

"This is my other cat Darto. Long for Dart. He is fast!"

And finally....

"Apainting I did of Adam and Eve."

Now...raise your hand if you're scared for me!

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Fill it up again! Fill it up again! Once it hits your lips, it's so good!

So I've started a little something my dear gay likes to refer to as 'The Dub Dub.'
That's right folks - Kelly's on WEIGHT WATCHERS! It sounds much worse than it is.....it sounds like a bunch of overweight old people sitting around discussing how they walked 5 more minutes around the office today rather than eating a donut, for which they in turn receive a reward star sticker from the WW teacher. Oh wait - that's exactly what it is.

But in all fairness, The Dub Dub has treated me quite well thusfar. In the three weeks I've been point-counting, I'm already halfway to the goal I set myself to accomplish by the end of April. Not bad, brothas and sistas! Of course I'd appreciate SEEING where the weight was leaving my body, preferably in the fatty fat tum tum and boobity boob areas. But for now I can deal with a slightly less-tipped scale, and yearn longingly for the day I can see past the ladies to my feet.

Besides my daily point allowance, I also get flexy points to use any time during the week, which are generally reserved for cocktails and chips and salsa. (I know what you're thinking: you want my life. I'm sorry, but it's mine, and you just can't have it.) And truthfully, the Lean Cuisines for dinner are totally worth it for the whiskey diets I get afterwards. (I KNOW, I'm sorry, I'll stop teasing you with the culinary delights and lonely binge drinking that fill my life.)

This picture made me uncomfortable. How 'bout you?

The best part about this program is that exercise gets you more points. More points equals more food, or in my case, more BEER. For example, a one-hour yoga class earns me about one beer, but snowboarding for 3 hours gets me FOUR! Hot DAMN! Get me on the SLOPES! I'm earning sips of frosty bevs while I kick it to the iPodular tunes of Lykke Li and Lisa Loeb! I mean...Kelly Clarkson. I mean...

But it is kind of exciting knowing that while I'm lifting my lil hand weights and crunching my stomach, not only am I (hopefully) sculpting the hottest body on this side of..my desk, but I'm also ensuring that one more round of beer circuits this weekend won't kick me off the proverbial wagon. Hey, at least I'm at the gym, right?

So essentially...I'm working out for beer. And I've never been more motivated.