tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89137944507306434622024-03-05T08:40:23.297-08:00trapper-keeper full of appointmentscan't move it. already moved it twice.Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-54734640415512137672010-02-23T23:22:00.000-08:002010-02-23T23:22:48.977-08:00I do not understand the question, and I will not respond to it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUT9NqubLp1qXE0FcINr2kdm6XGfIwcX6TSSR_KyBDTUjd1JplCVffuWFigUU1HIdbrB8Q1Q53g2Di7cHI9AOjgPWCp8bdkaUPyNvn6J5hslvDW3Bo0DgjXZnsNccandTvjPuXtdqQxvis/s1600-h/bad_date.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUT9NqubLp1qXE0FcINr2kdm6XGfIwcX6TSSR_KyBDTUjd1JplCVffuWFigUU1HIdbrB8Q1Q53g2Di7cHI9AOjgPWCp8bdkaUPyNvn6J5hslvDW3Bo0DgjXZnsNccandTvjPuXtdqQxvis/s320/bad_date.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441705856264928354" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small; ">This picture is completely irrelevant, as will be the rest of them.</span></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif; ">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">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.</span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANJEV_nDrLvmTSARXOwqjm41u8BDVm82D0aeH0J1E6Gp1-qxMI91JyUmkuSJqNh_6VDV0r9Zy-E8lcp_j5SN6qU88tD5LG7NXUe0TA3f3dcwEbsYkDD51kSHphkiX-0ZMQUWnZzLJHM2H/s320/period.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441705709890331906" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif; ">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTusXELZbMvSb3O4c0lmmQ2ty8Iz3XCa0R2h74h4G0Q-m5HWJPU8000iTOKZxtzYpI3Qzz3tBYRLB15E8hdn-f7MtRuonn_Okd6CRvqPeceSi6tVU_ph4PEhM99Z5SaAJdBZ6jjkQUfhpp/s320/guilty.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441705375519856162" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8iV44-HbdE2cuhTo5Olhk-XJLr6xn0vU6xGThx8wywbR2zmTd20zyybMxN6Osa8DimHxrCmk9J6AQ5BfVdSqBlxVi3iSntohnKbATQRHApMYomlnMuLHmDlhRwu7B8Lvp00i4fB0Js1yo/s320/Embarrassed.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441704774327687026" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">If he has more friends than I do, I need that bullet back.</span></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-91306956103913429252010-02-16T15:52:00.000-08:002010-02-16T15:52:10.936-08:00In case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif; ">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq90WauPjcStqFxNI43O20-p0fYMzGneAVeJhyKLv0OZrjjPIpnGmazp4dz0saSwO-2FbOtEJfP8nNdNv1hKIrOdGVsyMdywW2Y_QYHgQle5z-dB77PRc2K5tZ5ZZm7_9hvK0s9HJ9rMs6/s320/sooml_1.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438993107835674066" /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Pretty sure this woman DOES have balls...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;">Namaste till next time...I'm leaving these folks to watch over you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjLnQQxR6d3Jo2-bSDf_82JvsX5U2RQn5OLgwT3vdaNnZTfRDyCA2DwLbrf5Lq5DzQn_y_052nCMx6oUCVuGZ5uyDkRYmvqO2kR6IEf8DvJONboRiqUCdSsd9dJCqeSWgv9MJCi2EClvZ/s320/Brandon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438992666298333314" /></span></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-46086431991643960952009-09-22T16:35:00.000-07:002009-09-22T16:41:28.071-07:00And me, I still believe in paradise.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Thailand. I'm officially going to Thailand. I want to go to there, and I'm going to there.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP6CIxvdBwUtkyZukAewOwX8LPUXJp3GWP43ClZoaz2qb9EouGinx5dkgVxD-7gNcpHBBaV1ZEttqWa12Jzctya1wCi-Mbys7FnKTtF2UTDKOMjZrfzzlxnOymdE4s9QGL9GHHt7CQym3Q/s320/92-thailand-264-WP.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384437950680784162" /></div></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsnCWRUEwG_XOk6sFDDX3hAPFOJf9e6nsLZce-5PQIf1I3kb1TEYa6cejdTTDt0LgtpB-1VqayLydiCNMQtRCoOmhMHqoipHfW_Hnc8veqSjsQPYnRvGZsKyZrEvfi0ddiSFeWous1_vd/s320/1232048_313d_600x1000.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384437781498395346" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">This has no relevance whatsoever.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'trebuchet ms';font-size:10px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">usually</span> 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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rE5uhqXsmFmUR25xxbwwOsUDot91IIY3_7FD2YujB_wdT7etUBdDJDNZ3wFFyVS2y6gAnVxFoXnpsmSt-5C5FofXEzDXz6PTOevV5CGTHNyS-kEjvBm4hJXkrsxBbGhgH3lxzQCGoq73/s320/fat-kidnap.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384437611794013154" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">that</span>. 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?)</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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?!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ImzF4q7YVcjOreK4q7HIyNcSoCcMoMG75LO4r-_ozVtRybahQ1catBtqQKlh1VVAFZkYjaXSesMtTgRTSh8YfiNLQnPZ4N_jT15OKsUYD1RPwGpdOn8YnrsX_R4hzS_MXl_Q3WuNLniv/s320/pad_thai.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384436418714306706" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Because I'm finally going to Thailand.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family:Georgia;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiUuW4_2zD30xC5qXvHnTTeeguZBb57gBKjS0htZUz8CchKDUUgVljqBavi_3lzqRRpvRx2TY2qArkN8xQzZHJdv9qvmMVjUcnUMKFwskuQZp2FRt3WKd6n7Ce9AiGx0g1LZUXuxk4wsh/s320/phuket450.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384436950608991938" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">And I'd rather have Thaiphoid than no phoid at all.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">*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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">**I realize this is 100% inappropriate. But it's who I am, and I don't know how to change that.***</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">***It's not that I don't know HOW to change it, it's just that I don't want to.</span></span></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-9652901318674450332009-08-12T15:51:00.000-07:002009-08-12T16:24:12.998-07:00I read somewhere their periods attract bears. Bears can smell the menstruation.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FDQOIdwsy2A7VxaCFmSGXJa2gYhpvjVuAqg1gMrhP1LeiNrdbQJh15OuWSvt5piDCz6auabP_QFcIL5cdNuSD1NO5seSFlZS7FZ4MCqgBVCmh3NTu6SZJYxNvhGKesM0XF2oqvKG7ned/s1600-h/Menstruation.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FDQOIdwsy2A7VxaCFmSGXJa2gYhpvjVuAqg1gMrhP1LeiNrdbQJh15OuWSvt5piDCz6auabP_QFcIL5cdNuSD1NO5seSFlZS7FZ4MCqgBVCmh3NTu6SZJYxNvhGKesM0XF2oqvKG7ned/s320/Menstruation.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369212714206800722" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', -webkit-fantasy;">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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">am,</span> the more I'm fine with admitting that my lady parts are a huge factor in my behavior and personality.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWSOf4sHKA0E7efAZiPWa_RtpjZgG5AzPt4VdkFx79LZ4xzIoZBf2Gg_Mm1xcumYTCsbYK2j7O9TIZ7ENS7Se8hPis8OsgPp84jBKfS6Oa70CtqKlBrGE7u8WNbj2UtCRtmfWjSouV5qrW/s320/pms.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369212517667875762" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">am</span> 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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">good</span>), and we all know I drink beer like I've got bigger balls than you.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvGTSDcktJa3jyoFZaa9p2cp1f_a8yejIiuRWwQsVn7Glpqku05m7LsmOIjLnRE1dzQay6DRxqxwyyT3UiwORF8Dqr-InTE84ZN1FLYWPuAPC3Qw1f0F6GySCeIh9EosbMGTnnBRCLsd8/s320/bestworldcupfroMar.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369211710249074450" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Shit happens.</span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP09zL2fGMW8JlU2kMGBhyphenhyphenGZ8njqJ-77SMQDjex26XLHy6pOK_PXDuokUIjneLaC48Mkt3DcU_5_L0SK-vr-Jj4j1Ip9HMxEuZO9zhPnDXyBtF75EopHqYN3xO-ArorfclZLdFxSxaWCDh/s320/Woman_with_cntfai_flag.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369211223181829986" /></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-54528877974435251962009-06-22T16:56:00.000-07:002009-06-22T17:47:20.530-07:00There is NO way, I am dating, a retarded person.<div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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:</span> </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">#29 "I would take a shit on the floor of an Arby's before I would eat their food." (reference: Facebook.)</span><br /></div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350302137307685906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 198px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSk_0Hi-hF16lrILddDyNSOxPbAk5_Kk9KIyiOVUlBpikMsD7UOmZv8SQihPUOTbjIqXFQwFof9jJrcYnm5FEimlzYzXep4-EZKiO-RHSZ-gMu1thZrtXeT5ID4GH-K5eOYGuGGyjuuxr1/s320/arby's.bmp" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">#13 My inability to curb my a) conversation about bodily functions and b) performance of bodily functions.</span><br /></p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">#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.</span><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350303055952019778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 232px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwPjZY6hkW7F_kRzFuDdzIcfKSdYUN2-MXRtVSdkXgAgqNsyqbAC9Bc2Cc5MwN4S3-upm259oDvkQKxirlVqV9D7RDq2hEOhseIvQ0ISXHvl7ThNbxxtkSSW6IRlCwN0ZVuXrcHz9Fh8cf/s320/awkward.jpg" border="0" /> </p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;">This is a combination of neither.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"># 1 Two words: RAIDER NATION.</span><br /><br /></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';">#3 I prefer to go to the bathroom with the door wide open. I don't know why, I just do.</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350303304361865186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7oh2kgfyi5WUjPC9YZhp8NbTWce6GyjjfSzWL5Fth97zFMq65GYEKov0Czud7msM54ZXksOB4ythogPF1BzlXv4y96RqbYUvibIU9A5EOjB-nvZbfK_SVji881Jz4PCpc3Hd10VlOH1n/s320/pee.jpg" border="0" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';">#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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">#11 I enjoy wrestling and beer-chugging, even at the same time, and rarely know when enough is enough.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350303610826248146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 278px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbvo77ZZ1uX6i0E5bYmloT-vDqQZnbRuY76oO0ouSWN42bdJwYwnS4s-tGLzWf5-Sgtcl8qwtt07wcJojVV6411F9cmrRKOAbsXTX9clP3jdhA0x_OM_EijLdpHQZTvadCiy7wtMOs_9T/s320/beer+chug.jpg" border="0" />#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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">#20 There are very few tall, black, Jew-y dancer-chefs around.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350303742944697458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 270px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPboAOo1f-Xxgos4qo9V2vX7DisCNZIDPaetp801x3FjYcUJIpFSbkYs_Iy5pRMB1T-veOSVSEae0_sWFQ-NgRu0LdmJ7y_bAp2UuBNqvGIs2l9HOP5W2MozGKxV80Zi25moSVO-qmM5F/s320/MTV-Lamar-Odom.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">This hooded suit-donning deliciousness also fits the bill.</span></p><p align="left">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. <em>(See #19.)</em></span><br /><br /></p><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">xoxo,</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">G-Spot<br /><br />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.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350304345385127090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 231px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDsyjyxCR_0ebv0ydGO5MXbTLCbbQRvRgD5Am23ucR6mDC8cVckMFv1T87nAZGsBqNwao19uaTQf5OjWJOB-y0Z96cjosVGeKb_z9m9_JQgxTaicSjhUnBn5jVHAG7E7BYyGFNRQ6oPT0/s320/handout1.gif" border="0" /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-18194077556611690532009-05-07T13:15:00.000-07:002009-05-07T13:15:06.589-07:00I am down. I am totally down. Mark me down.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span >I may</span> have officially hit rock bottom, depending how you look at it.</span><br /><div><div><div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333174763109409858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoeObWVu4zRUg9UCg2bndrc4TaMb87qDoGjiQcY6pIb4PBQ2Qs9CHNqKPnry3v_z4AtKawSx2CEWDKqdJ_zxMXkLybf5jIVV9mR_WHIU8DWU-w35Xj16Oj6tWFH0jbNhSaECT-ZN3F7vz/s320/rock+bottom.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">But I digress.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.'</span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333175000437363650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyPJA7jdPe3Ug-O0bKgZL22RIAdsC6CCs8knIawhFoswXQwJy0dUyD5iFKHVf2Kj3jEQzVTeY7OgTrqS7gn99VblFPeP7z9c9W5afdV6lQAwUPn4veFv6vcenBx4_a2y4ocUydVUJ4Luv/s320/phones+having+sex.bmp" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.*<br /><br />I got a very quick response from <a href="mailto:Evan@live.com">Evan@live.com</a>**, asking if I would be willing to send a picture and participate in a phone interview. WELL. Why the eff not?</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333175504620033058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGUg433HuofLkx3xa5q5N18QxgcxbDmTmkBl9L0Tv8JnISROFfg8P9gWtdN8JwurPTmtt8w5Hg3Shtkg5MVyXfNE7j9e85XyVg2wce5jNuxXv-DhDcZoNTvDHZLBZRF2n-aCKnB_2rbAn/s320/slutty.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Aaaaaaand SEND.</span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Now here comes the best part: since I sent this photo, I have not heard back from <a href="mailto:evan@live.com">evan@live.com</a>. 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. </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">But he has to smile for the camera anyway.</span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333176217302560578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 234px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4UfBLxilVZMUyVuYk2xWyQ2hAo3hsCgUfILk2CQwuqnMyjyHh6tmaG-gUNaX0faHAgdalo4sabf9jPIB5HikK8e5fqCTFyyFh7hv2w77_t9LV0UF-jdrBMirZRlsra6wn1VWt5YOAK9k/s320/singled+out.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:78%;">*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.<br />**Email modified for the anonymity of this perv.</span></div></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-1361693040911710482009-05-04T18:10:00.000-07:002009-05-04T18:10:25.842-07:00No honey you're not sick! I don't love you because you're organized, I love you in spite of that.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332138724549624482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP79LBMsU68QGYtNBkWZ4qs2veVXdxKW2XL0huRaLgnHi_Qd8GvuFXI-eV4Ns5UC2aj1lxGuyEY5gy1EUKFzFdNHvv54sMlZr_bkKXw5gkLKxUMw5Wu7ss1FKAvv-3taNKGFDR4ZVBvYEG/s320/seven.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332139071153125426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 217px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQk-60HjpHFHupOJxJdCoFBPOqIMDB9vrYLuCCCHW3cToCi-oNMc45sIZMSLD3p1-TVx-yrq5qAPeMhza9ZDaKXAVihNBkVnBqyHb-kaX4C7kyRqlDMuFvnsnqg5QC5xtp22jlVHnMPZOX/s320/domestic.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I <em>did</em> 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.</span><br /><div><div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332139395051400498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 171px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtYs0oirp4Y8P9HXHJX6CLDpSRS76PXGSgxw5slsP8lnAqfbKN4RjOuyRdiIs4ade5Dyr_gCvSkPR-CywUHdyh3QbyCYxREhyphenhyphenW9RLoIqA7SJXBVnbV61hgTnAMqDoJUXqaj7zvhmQ9qbY/s320/homeless+shoe.jpg" border="0" />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.</span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">(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!*)</span> </div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">...here's THIS.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332139947023591778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWRGLWDjPpai3R7Q9vobXqo21-0xoSHVeWEfZht77lJUwP41FouZM13utTlvaDvCdItu06LbbT409MYtXspyBOPhpWeSgCxOzj-a5qogOAQNWfNhejyuYn_ASsOlxNGRlhhDNrjglYTUj/s320/Fuck_You_Im_an_Anteater.jpg" border="0" /></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-size:78%;">*You know I care deeply about each and every one of you, Friends.** I merely jest for the sake of jesting.<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:78%;">**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.</span></p></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-33715144896152590882009-04-02T19:03:00.000-07:002009-04-02T19:05:47.585-07:00Is it number one or number two? I just want to know how much time I have.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have a growing concern that something awful has happened in stall number 2 of the 8th floor restroom at my work.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320278362507480690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgskpa7OcnFshHzm0KtI-huIpaXKhPDMYwAKNSWyVd3tg69TnUwhH4ErpJggWj5HjsT7rkSiJ3USZJf6OGmmP8v_SJVm7mu3HC6cJ8U4fGqCa9dbpELjB8JI8Ddly2xNrYMAFc8NyR6o4j4/s320/stall.bmp" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320277578194636130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BFzhjo-IARviL56V05NuPDWCRaMLJkY6xD7OnfVu2nCh9HjhaAuWv7Tc7TxAx3si-hh5SBNyQh5Ba8SgZV_O21b2Og5N4950DYVEGzlNOzz67qkvJP2H9YAiNG8uZVeRfP54qegu8oy3/s320/drunk-girl-toilet-vomit-294a110907.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:78%;">NO that's not me. But it wouldn't be that weird if it was.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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 <em>there</em>?</span><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320277832548562626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5OPpYMSa_U3JECLPxwKn3NncIeYJfx_rhUwVOpIUVR2qXuuutDKFFzefv8XpkIPXh1OgSzwZ_zi-Fy599wm8bRyNvlcECd9kdxXqMsQTDMkxyT0lPqns2LKSAEGdmpibsLp5Cj10410u/s320/bathroom+head.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">And then I breathe a heavy unsatisfied sigh and I zip up. And I flush. And I move on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">All this while I pee. Damn I need a life.</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320278705977494338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 246px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQk_R8F3mRdmz7F__r187-VvVYR0CeZtAbIV33loBV_KQRr3Q6NouSVs_IEkwvRqsy6SBRjyO3pHsZn_RbzxgAARoQrkkgIDtv9yuMfDfsxKqcLRm7spoCeXc-XGldX4ZpQUFGRuTMNAnt/s320/supermarket-pee.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;">BAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA</span></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-78515797109796770392009-04-01T15:10:00.000-07:002009-04-01T15:12:53.309-07:00Just look at the face: it's vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who's lost a bet.<div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Today I look like I've been struck by lightning.</span> </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319842938022731570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 274px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZa8udS7_oFw4muC64SiAhsVwcwmvKH-Ax7uDxPOY_IL4kx6q_1m9fjkQfpLQVb4yrTA6jnXXq98Hh_FcEqP8J0zKzxdlF1QL0UB57d1o5VHgfoUHCb3vRaRkOfP5FQBu7FW9kduxr0Oku/s320/lightning.gif" border="0" /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span> </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Basically I'm a mess.</span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319845956468208674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkjqcAOHyOAe3Mhtg4tqOLjunqE7dNGjKVAEY-dNxBDllfbaLWzYqjwCRXQQwxs6CgL6xXNG5o8lDPvylqLarTdZ7I1F9gZLhJtwq84V0SU_jW9PPKwQnT-xY_pcAjw_zZgd6bKJJiOsQ/s320/tired.bmp" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319846831625935410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJsBMDjo3mefGL0f1mqPkahewMA9Bh_6faEhoTA_iQuz4KY4GKEdwjIb7oLkvO68FccPO61e7Tm5hJLp5RYUL6BWw9wzO8Bj5aNKtGUNeekEq1BRD316qxY825YRu-DXTW4KXtACpyhTx/s320/spag+wrestle.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;">I'd for reals do this.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">At least we have Jelly Bellies here.<br /></span></p><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319847574684376050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 298px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUmNFkMvocNzvvYHpRMZrlt0bb7WSb8NAskGWC2PU83kb2MMueHUdVrb8zu7hnz5bHJUpy3dIs2GzotbkgK_afZZID89vTMwmTg_evAg0jpfvlYNZzmbhlJr_TaneJlyjnI8blAfD6Glut/s320/ronnie.jpg" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;">That's a mosaic. Of Ronald Regan. Made of Jelly Bellies. And I wanna eat it.</span></p><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;"><em>*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.</em></span></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-14216814445441124202009-02-24T19:38:00.000-08:002009-02-24T19:38:20.935-08:00I made you a painting. I call it "Celebration." It's sexual and violent. I thought you might like it.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.)</span> </div><div align="left"><br /> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span> </div><div align="left"><br /> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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 </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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.</span></div><div align="left"><br /> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">There isn't an ounce of logic in this story. I'm well aware.</span> </div><div align="left"><br /> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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?)</span> </div><div align="left"><br /> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">ENJOY.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"><em>Note: Pretty much NONE of these original texts were sent with ANY response from ME...they just...kept...coming.....</em></span> </p><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306562373722649138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHicgztpBuKy0FgdjEwxxnOZxCBu3AUKPnR4juQkTKo03zJxbNIfqjWgfKlLlz00Bu749ofTHIgRWSfBmv3lUB2kSn8qEvI1GdlnVQshy2OsZWgtDJFAXHq44UUCP3vSeDSJrPt3_sFuJE/s320/erik+and+cat.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">"This is me and my cat Sam. Short for Samson."</span><br /></span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>("He goes under furniture sometimes. He thinks he's a cave cat.")</strong></span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZv7T0Stm-BCMUEm1kh3zOKCPCI6YtTpUekAZ7lclHkTWxXASppoF5J1W-Xg2NRQSrHE2PW3LUFePB8q5IbiZ223xb1vbxk7tGH_4T6ctnKAnDTXAyECq-BkkQis1EH2uqsdHZwKGFc3Aj/s1600-h/foilage.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306563228766255234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZv7T0Stm-BCMUEm1kh3zOKCPCI6YtTpUekAZ7lclHkTWxXASppoF5J1W-Xg2NRQSrHE2PW3LUFePB8q5IbiZ223xb1vbxk7tGH_4T6ctnKAnDTXAyECq-BkkQis1EH2uqsdHZwKGFc3Aj/s320/foilage.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>"I took this pic myself. Is good yes?"</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306566771787180978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rBPmlALk0Rrdm-rKBFAJrWoun8J5qDmP8Y5biYOjkTY4l_gFIKx_ttDDWXHzhfU3tHKYCvmT742N2_7_LkmfQ3fyglvZzA_27bDfAmnCVkwoRGHnH_zZJjrJ-kgX-Zt-E5bYlRqCKpTm/s320/dodge+neon.JPG" border="0" /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">"I own a Dodge Neon..and the road."</span> </span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWpvOHBhMRvILhyC_J_37TTxap53kSmrJHZAWbi0cKWmfb-9zN84-BHFlVmIruf17FkUVHx1mZxb5wEt8USNR5ED3dawu4xmD0XIFE-KDQ-FltqM1gbXIrB-7pCu6Rynt5luceaVBoA-lT/s1600-h/darto.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306573208295782146" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWpvOHBhMRvILhyC_J_37TTxap53kSmrJHZAWbi0cKWmfb-9zN84-BHFlVmIruf17FkUVHx1mZxb5wEt8USNR5ED3dawu4xmD0XIFE-KDQ-FltqM1gbXIrB-7pCu6Rynt5luceaVBoA-lT/s320/darto.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></strong></p><p><strong> </p><p><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span> </p><p><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span> </p><p><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span> </p><p><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">"This is my other cat Darto. Long for Dart. He is fast!"<br /></span></strong><br /></p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">And finally....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibTtuaAslPTrT73jNdTFl697AleDcb00cSoO6mSz5KOgNY8tP7xOsK1_UwUsqWOY1GO9txg7h7erp6MENhvab9WypW0TN5iReg6EfDQhajYxuHvEqTcZzs_Vz6fItYZkMxTutqZWOKNK0T/s1600-h/painting.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306568468731357714" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibTtuaAslPTrT73jNdTFl697AleDcb00cSoO6mSz5KOgNY8tP7xOsK1_UwUsqWOY1GO9txg7h7erp6MENhvab9WypW0TN5iReg6EfDQhajYxuHvEqTcZzs_Vz6fItYZkMxTutqZWOKNK0T/s320/painting.JPG" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">"Apainting I did of Adam and Eve."</span></strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now...raise your hand if you're scared for me! </span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-40611185153529608232009-01-29T12:37:00.000-08:002009-01-29T12:38:06.001-08:00Fill it up again! Fill it up again! Once it hits your lips, it's so good!<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So I've started a little something my dear gay likes to refer to as 'The Dub Dub.' </span><br /><div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296815765532197346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 302px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw6C-en-pLee-dG56xK7uN2l4RXFpCq7Ib7967L5gSwTI8ERPUVSa4lk_brTTg-rtVzwkDeDld7lG9m4TXqhIZPlE86TNbr6qlzEcFKDGInIXNaGdVtmqW-tlIeI_T5T9GQLAsA0Im6FJI/s320/McFat-arm.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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 <em>exactly</em> what it is.</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.</span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">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.)</span><br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296816191181521058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 269px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_NGXLIn2Vh7Q3N0KQWC1MWBiS8vOPITunTvjgLJPNYclBKmJv0YHUWP0bTmYoPNjc3f4BLzjzpr4AKETD4NH-W6rW7OS0GF9fWe-B4ADptRXzZCIoGIK2nJPtfGFtIYAgzrsRUH-HH11A/s320/fatty_mable.jpg" border="0" /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;">This picture made me uncomfortable. How 'bout you?</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The best part about this program is that exercise gets you <em>more</em> 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...</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296815945138965410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZnZBB1zzCmVXQRghnGBczMpBJJ9_VP6oDTR9LBhvS43jYRoRuMtIQm930SXxbD47pylERadPM9wXSwzeiQNhbQJSPrpTELuhdKJGvcuDc4-raLgHzCKBrt1S5kC1O6r3NdRU4coGniRm/s320/Snowboarding.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">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?</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So essentially...I'm working out for beer. And I've never been more motivated.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296816843251625522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 253px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHUTRPp6xNIL1fRkMcauKSE_kt3QdFKY437lfRpfzCgCYVQRsZaG3E2j_YI76e-szBBm3_Wsu23ng4XCH6v18LpDf8uQksZq_oRBDkZ4r0MeHcAcDVeWrgs4dZfaxj_y0NoQhE-cJlOi6/s320/exercise.bmp" border="0" /></span></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-5453824167205259472008-12-16T13:09:00.000-08:002008-12-16T13:21:09.282-08:00Sometimes I'm tempted to become a street person, cut off from society. But then I wouldn't get to wear my outfits.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> tend to differentiate 'real life' in my descriptions of my behavior, and it's most certainly a way to avoid said life-type all together.</span><br /><div><div><div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">This 'real life' specification usually comes as a pretext for something raunchy I'm about to say, or an explanation for something vulgar and inappropriate I've already done. Lest I confuse the average reader (which is probably an overstatement of the few people who read this), I cite the following examples of some real-life utterances of my past:</span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Ex. #1: 'In real life I would NEVER have peed on the street, but I had a bunch of whiskey, so.'</span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Ex. #2: 'I'm not really attracted to him in real life, but when the whiskey's flowin..'</span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280492403550564770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 178px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPxxvrMch3c5Jh7xG0P9lah0MZ88-SW94n7PKaDlZbMNnJ0C5OIfHaIlta2DkWvsmfhS5aTa6ztCh3AAIQcU-bm8DwYuW6yW37B3C46ue7wek11YW9jkS5xMEVznvYAbu15a-KM3LpNzK/s320/booze.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">So I guess whiskey tends to be my other life.</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">On the other hand, I also feel like in real life people shouldn't get sick, families shouldn't go bankrupt and misunderstandings shouldn't result in the ends of friendships. People too young to get married shouldn't be getting divorced, and newlyweds shouldn't be scraping the barrel and not celebrating Christmas this year.</span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I have this thing, where I tend to cry more at TV and movies than I do at real life. It sounds sick and unhealthy and wrong, but it's sometimes easier to get touched by the problems and triumphs of people we don't even know than it is to face the reality that is surrounding us outside fictional narrative. Easier to watch Ally McBeal get her heart broken than feel my own break, and much more satisfying to soak in the inspirations of well-written films than risk writing one myself.</span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280492162735581346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 252px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifHOFjaY8QgrMZ72aU-ZgUCQnSfMnjzucbIbplQv9Ildh9QBl1itzut1iWjx-wYN_GeNvD16KMErFJSN_fu7lW5ZMceto-0jw1DnThA3xFaAglH5KhY2dtloclD6yfzZt_QMEX5NPIwSEr/s320/ally.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Real life can just be painful and unfair in ways I prefer to ignore, and somehow with all the happy there inevitably comes an equal amount of sad. Best friends are faced with challenges impossible to comfort, and children have to parent their parents through difficult times. The most secure lose their jobs, and the least deserving lose their loved ones.</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">But with each of these trials comes a silver lining, sometimes thick enough to turn the entire cloud platinum. Character is reborn and friendships are strengthened, and people come into our lives whom we'd never have met had we not been faced with unexpected adversities. True friends reveal themselves, which is more vital than many will credit; it is much easier to stick around for a wedding than it is for a funeral, to stand as a bridesmaid than it is to sit as a shoulder to cry on.</span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280497109017793586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 202px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-7_dqPB5EYB_BmqUtTrLk5KvgN_-J1qnTopIAhPE7w2lD1qWClIVm4kceRRjbcaz8U63fGPpGX2SBQ2un3dM4HiwCb9psamobxaoXbIpBo1UQ24mREm1sIUlIJZbEcYL8DgxShfsEdg_/s320/paris.bmp" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Mostly the good and the bad remind us that people are what matter most. Not the faults we find in others, but the joy we find in their faults. I often need to be reminded that needing to cry is not a sign of weakness, but a tribute to living in the present and learning from the past. It is essential to remember that everyone has issues, everyone is crazy in their own personal way, but just because being flawed is not unique does not mean we don't each have unique flaws to deal with. No one's problems are more important, and all deserve equal attention. When I am down you've picked me up, and when you're in the shitter I'm ready to carry you.</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280497910879021698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQlNxG4bc8OUXv6p5BOPUGnhxs6YFdKxAr6QaLHvm-tpRaNLcMQlcikIG7IMeQsZhtojNmW0D5M8j5q3MfJk0pyRBHGO4b__nldZ5hx4N7CHVt17GGMJmva09_fqIJwYoro502cIVK2mX/s320/kiss.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Ally McBeal is currently my main source of wisdom, so here's a piece I've bitten off:<br /></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">'Imagine thinking when you go, it will have mattered that you lived. And then consider the alternative.'</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Know that it mattered that you lived, and don't hesitate to remind those important to you that their lives have touched yours too. Even if the cheese of it all makes you vomit, it's worth a mention, yeah? </span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">And while we're at it, let's remind some people who don't have an angel on their shoulder that their lives are worth something too. Tis the season, right bitches? Real life hurts, but it also heals. <br /></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280497631672147666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 229px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JbzTAs0DZTohLojjBmVjvuJJrWM-SuzWpM4TmhQgbe69mJKyNxYVQSsgkT5VkWpLdabKT25MvnxbiVC0lzZVsXq0AYApZDOTQQwrmWSL5sVZqBn7MYhyqBCvZ4tiuN0YWM4aot2evzGs/s320/santa.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:78%;">Creepy.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Ho ho ho.</span></div></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-70954071074086842762008-12-10T12:42:00.000-08:002008-12-10T12:48:21.844-08:00Congratulations, you're stupid in three languages.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have absolutely no ability to maintain patience with idiots. I honestly don't think I'm even capable of it. And most certainly not in the workplace.</span><br /><br /><div><div><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278263073767554610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 286px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqww-QkPzeTHgRQT3JKpZEcFLVF9t9ebBpOfKFpvMJIYJak87o0hBtp9DD-rkuB_g2N26fRS4M10-RKgPU3tG6ir3KC-g9iabGq5hc5bR3NSXgGz-s9XdSOGeICZSPob4tBgVt21ynURG_/s320/dumbass+corner.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">The fact that this acute intolerance causes irrepressible flare-ups of angry in me doesn't even make me feel ashamed, but rather justified. Here's the thing: Some people's voices make me want to commit murders and other heinous crimes as it is. When those voices ask me stupid questions or try to pawn their work off on me, I near the ragged edge of a catastrophic meltdown. </span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">To add insult to my excessive injury, many hours of the day I also wish I had disc jockey headphones to block out the cerebellum-grating obnoxious laughter from choice idiots in my general work arena, and it quickly becomes the focal point of my concentration.</span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278263900064117442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 274px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWDs9O2uhdzCDAoKlbMOYvahAOYgQSn9LRSBohK6bsThK8ISxMsUiVcvcfjyB6iwryAmMqPqljPPWBF2yAepXH9dGxR1xh7-_P5hOhG1tDSbg8U_a-A0TnVc3NkTgxVVjm_u7ABK0lkpny/s320/dumbass.png" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">How the HELL am I supposed to get my work done in a positive fashion when all I can think about is how much I want to slam that guy's idiot face into his keyboard? You're a distraction, Idiot Face Guy. Fix it.</span><br /></div><div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Mostly I think the genesis of my anger is the fact that most of these people not only perform the same job that I do, and make the same amount of peasants' wages, but many of them inhabit job titles <em>above</em> my own. And make <em>more</em> money. And don't get <em>fired</em> for being idiots.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278262694505370978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 252px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXg29yI2cSDHwxBRhP3DwM3qYb8ewJ0EpzMegxwgV7Dc1kSLEaFQNlw8iMyxtpXNv22cgvTDo9_sca3C7E-SKsQ44a15up9Idn3i73PvuSJ6ZsALw1Mqz7zp66stHc2gvN9aC68NlgT6h/s320/Jesus-dumbass-Blue_Gargoyle.jpg" border="0" />I think I might be becoming caustic before my time. I always imagined that my senility wouldn't set in till I was wrinkley, decrepit and unable to get sex* - it was at this point that I'd be allowed to make inappropriate comments and exhibit senseless animosity while sipping on whiskey neats** on my porch. But working in an industry where 'the bigger the douchebag the higher the paycheck' is the mantra has shoved me 50 years into the future on the bullet train to Crabby Town.</span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278263496465644658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 292px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr83YHk-cbuR7P6w3EaeJuIqNo7InRuaco6vZY8-x6JIR6iVh-J9VFYldrD0v698-qqY55i0GHU_FdlyInQHZ2AgQs3_s6_ztOHQGdfRLOvSj9T7cK0kJXQSsjJBn6OHRnLekrldc8n29t/s320/old_woman_smoking.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">So <em>no</em>, I will not do your work for you. And <em>no</em>, I will not put on an air of sweetness when you're asking me the same stupid question for the fourth time.</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Instead I'll put my headset in one ear and my earphone in the other, and catch up on some more Ally McBeal while I pretend not to hear you at all.</span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Choo choo!</span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:78%;">*I'm already halfway there.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:78%;">**Better make it two thirds.</span></div></div></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-29905193506602626862008-10-31T09:53:00.000-07:002008-10-31T09:55:40.256-07:00Weight, 105. Yeah, in your bra!<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I think I'm gonna have a boobie auction.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Because honestly, I have no business owning a pair as large as this one, and all they do is take up too much room. Too much room on my short upper body, and too much room in cute clothes for flat-chested women.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Here's the thing: I'm short. Shorter than average. Short enough that boys that are 5'8" are still tall to me, and short enough that my feet dangle from my desk chair. When a person inhibits such a squat amount of space, the need for bigger-than-B-cups drops drastically, though this is something the ta ta layman is seldom aware of. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I just for once would like to be able stretch my arms without popping a button. That's all I'm asking.<br /><br />This was just a brief rambling of my current complaint. Peace out.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263361923630282258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmm_Vy8ZXNBnEZpVkTi6fgjOU32LE08eGbtFVN8Ep7f8Ted3XhYcid8ihnK-JRyDs5ul8hUvysae4NLbkgqDvn0Ylil5mIY95K3rvycQoNLAlXfxYKyzLFbwfXL80cVUWJTVHpBFGrytIP/s320/warning.gif" border="0" /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-75368267769805681702008-10-22T11:41:00.000-07:002008-10-22T11:45:50.689-07:00Hi. I'm a recovering crack head. This is my retarded sister that I take care of. I'd like some welfare, please.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I've developed an unnatural and certainly unhealthy obession with television.</span><br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260042899674944098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89oPby88gtAA17GWlgBa6FGJdHVEPy-bOsPXGi4CPIE97KAPFoT2MvzAim8DEMTQlzgZsaNSabr731FAy7fUuo6NQiIKECrJLMJPNUhoL-v7uklYyvOfzEd9nx9eJoTjDc8gMdjXowMpj/s320/tv-addict.jpg" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I realize that I'm not the first person to make an assertion such as this one, but I can also say with great certainty that my issue has reached far beyond the normal human scope of HD entertainment.</span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">While it's seen as a silly mania, I cannot overemphasize the span of emotions that tickle through my body with the simple act of watching characters develop week by week. As a result, the following instances are my greatest causes of concern:</span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><br /></p><ul><li>I cry hard enough when Fishers go Six Feet Under that they may as well have been real people I've known and loved who've died in my life.</li><li>I find serial killers wildly attractive, and even the <em>name</em> Dexter brings a tingling to my unders. </li></ul><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260045525424529570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipkZ__S8wExVrNI8Npr_L7NqhmVpuP_KdUL2W7WAiU5Y5oxio7LxSAsnbAzknhIKY-fFD5F1cE8fTlE_SQL-CHIb2G4bVWM9RMMKnB3pJJPefralRb5q-XQZO-Y5sbEWiCK10AhTpbMR2r/s320/dexter+2.bmp" border="0" /><br /><ul><li>I've considered pushing more babies out my boom boom than previously intended, just to have more Brothers and Sisters around.</li><li>Sleeping around and acting like a dick have become desired qualities in a man, and David Duchovny could probably put it in anytime and I'd weather the results of the impending diseases as long as Californicating took place.</li></ul><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260043178804892658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJGwEOshgxucFbTZU7fO4rlERF1fk_zMLRK6hirjhNwf5EKhmHP2PhLOQ2WhqxXsbeN7383nB4EzvQNzh0yovZm8Lnsigg8Nzlp0cPx3QQ1JnrWvEPsamWhlpHQkRI4davnMWH1Y0zACE/s320/californication-to-abc.jpg" border="0" /> All these things.....real problems.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As can be attested to by several of my friends, I've also become a dealer, pushing new shows I discover like they're precious rocks of crack. But instead of the monetary compensation most wholesalers and pimps require for the infectious drugs they force-feed into other people's veins, the shared addiction is more than enough satisfaction to make me drool at the misfortune of another fallen tube victim.</span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260045321756181314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLii5Zkp_HigMTg15SJT67x050E3XQBVYh_FM_hi-5KIp-yeKUDbfTI68jPDOekH7aeOMAN8EEcliW4LLyZfe0ixUXtIAtyuqArsQmNioyw0JoHjPLGBc7dueOueXZQdAHL-xgr17C6kZK/s320/crack.jpg" border="0" /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So my suggestion is to tourniquet that bicep and push in the fat DVR needle, because once it flows in your over-stimulated blood you can never go back. You start to obsess over fallen President Palmer, four shitheads owning a bar, and a 60s cheating husband that just can't go wrong because his hair is too good - it's really quite invigorating, and I suggest it especially for losers with no friends, or people who wish to <em>become</em> losers with no friends.</span><br /></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Now I think I'll settle in for some whiskey and a cigarette...perfect way to start the day.</span><br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260049355500296626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWp-vlMMFCOSH181UYYDJpH3nAZuaQG9ePI4hiRZYG74PysOMZUZ1VbWJwJ_jj13eeSrvhe36owLpGtSRbPPUch6ii3nd81tdFB-L0Tl_HxkqM1curI5BCrYEm71D6STo_Li4A_yiC2WIQ/s320/mad+men.bmp" border="0" /></p>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-9710065037155510562008-08-14T16:54:00.000-07:002008-08-14T17:02:54.972-07:00I'm not too worried about it, really. I wouldn't worry about it. Don't worry about it. I'm not worried at all.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have a situation.</span><br /><div><div><br /><p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">An awkward, mildly uncomfortable pickle, inevitably involving my ass and a qualified professional.</span> </p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Let me break it down for you. </span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>BEFORE:</strong><br />My good friend and mentor, Tina the Waxer, informed me approximately 2.4 years ago of a mole she discovered while waxing my backdoor area. <em><span style="font-size:85%;">(This is included in the price of a Brazilian. This is NOT something I ask for special.)</span></em> She told me I should get it checked out, but not surprisingly, I've just lived with it since then. I've also forced a boyfriend to look at it, and he didn't seem concerned. So neither was I.</span></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234514259380086786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6iFPDdDltqaYcjrBNo9NqVACwQxvcdJ775_bsDZh4mMLfQ2e0U_YDnfvqa57BsL0rZwF_FL8j5-HYYubrom1SXMNdRPIUSrx0FF8xu6IVX67IzLVjFD6iZkQ6kodPEmEWDw7cJRpk_TE8/s320/wax.bmp" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;">This looks like George W.</span><span style="font-size:78%;"> Disturbing.</span><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br />But now, here I am, waiting to go to a derma appointment at which I should probably bring up said skin tag. And I don't effing want to. I mostly feel awkward being tricky, and getting in that sterile room and going, 'Yeah, I just wanted to get a general skin check. Oh and also, I have something suspicious IN THE CRACK OF MY ASS.'</span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Now I'm sitting here, sweating at my desk, slaving over the embarassing moment that is sure to lie ahead when I (if I decide to) drop trou and bend over. I'm more than inclined to dial the receptionist on my way over there, and make sure that this MALE doctor is old and unattractive. If not, I might be more than willing to acquire an illness as a result of this unsightly mark, rather than show it to another human being.</span><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234519758866817266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBfVfAv323y6MXeGUQFszYhiNKZbB_khQoGaGl0ZvJBfaj5m2h8zKKw_OUr9oDB9YHO6NO4ymBtzBXnrcY2nez6r98znhpalXJQPRUGWptgUKi4JMJfD7T6XobAetn7tn8QN1Z5Lta2TM/s320/moon.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"><em>**I'd also like to note that upon consulting my mother regarding this difficult matter, she instructed me not to 'show him the first time you meet him. Wait till you know him a little better, and then do it.' I in turn reminded her that this is not a man I'm trying to get into a relationship with, but rather a professional skin doctor.</em></span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><strong>AFTER:</strong><br />I did it. After a full body scan, during which the little bugger stayed hidden, I went balls out: 'Well...there's a really embarassing one I could show you. If you want.' </span><br /><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Aaaaand...he LOPPED IT OFF. That's right folks. Mole-Be-Gone. And it is.<br /><br />I was instructed to lie on my side, ala Rose in Titanic, and spread my own butt cheeks apart. (In reviewing this again, I suppose I'm grateful I was asked to spread them myself, rather than someone doing it for me.) The next part was fun - getting a SHOT in the ASS. As pleasant as this may sound to the laymen, turns out it's surprisingly painful and unappealing. I, most likely, will not ask to have it done again in the future.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234521594492713666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvhCtMq6hFUHQt_aQA9H3gcnPECfAwSWkgpTzTK1E0ogV0w3MbaGzz5ix0YUG4bHVS0eScExC0ltS36oqCWgC9lBSjKWZxesMRBxktLN-3OgeFn1XpN-W4vWvgB-H679YgqZhVwfH97SA/s320/rose.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-size:78%;">My experience was decidedly less sexy than this one.<br /></span><br />Finally, this unwanted piece of body was scraped from said ass, and I'm now mole free. There's an actual bandage in the crease of my buttocks, which is quite possibly what I find to be the the most amusing part of this entire episode.<br /><br />Thank God the doctor was old. Thank God he was old, named Millard, and all business.<br /><br />Because now I have a sore ass, without the foul play.<br /><br />It's hardly worth it.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">***How I've ever had a boyfriend is beyond me.</span></span></p></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-574444231345252712008-07-07T15:32:00.000-07:002008-07-08T09:58:25.598-07:00I didn't see where it started I saw where it ended.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220400313222784194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBN4eAWRHrdxsatWCiuceGAYuj69XDr1Sv4oueBc2ZTDbWK0GD3nkRpmtMxYfqwhnnYT3_2BxWzNBkGBbZpTeFlzzZQEiVC1noo66aRx96CHHonujqq_kPV9NIkTK-lOsV98iv-EWRHDJ/s320/donkey-2.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Fair warning, this entire entry is dedicated to the biggest donkey ding dong I've ever seen, and hope I will <em>ever</em> see.</span><br /><br /><div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Over this lovely Fourth of July weekend, I had the privelege of going to a little place called 'Hippy Hallow' in Austin, TX. This is at one of the more beautiful lakes I've seen in the states, that looks more like the Mediterranean than the middle of the Lonestar State. And along with that Euro feel comes a little something special about this part of the lake: naked gays and fatties.</span></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220401632762969234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVXX1sduVQHDw_FqtAz5VJIt_UbCb-_mi3ty4dpshc904ahYrefp1_5rfysyIkjB7sIuSMoQeOFVIJNCvHgwUTdASt_na1rSUU-K33IFdst0YZro3JMaKEwiIy8z3TGPdYUI0e6VNHlS3F/s320/Nude-Desktop.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Why is it that at nude beaches, the ONLY people who will take off their clothes are the fat-asses and women who could sweep the floor with their ta tas? Doesn't ANYONE with a semi-decent body want to show it off? Or are we forever stuck with tummies that resemble a Shar-Pei's face and saggy balls that should never see the light of day? It's almost not worth frequenting nude beaches at all.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Wait a minute - that's entirely untrue.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">After nursing a hangover with more beer and sunshine, the faux B.D.D.D. (Biggest Donkey Ding Dong - try to keep up.) arrived with his lady friend directly across from our sunning area. Now this guy had something going for him - a little <em>too</em> much something if you ask me, but to each his/her own. He sat perfectly bare-assed and spread-legged on the cliff, and his little-big friend LAYED on the rock with him. How that shit didn't third degree burn immediately is beyond me - but the tan complexion of Mr. Big Even Flacid suggested that this wasn't his first day in the sun.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">The day carried on, vaginas and nutsacks came and went. After packing up our things and hiking back up the cliff on the way to the car, the Official B.D.D.D. was finally unveiled - and there is hardly any way to describe this sight. First off, I want to note that its owner was not a particularly tall man. Granted, he was definitely more...<em>urban</em> than our first contestant, but most certainly shorter. This was a sight so unbelievable that I made the mental note to mark in my mind where this thing ended - and I'll tell you right now, it was the better part of the length of his quad.</span></div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220403080102909474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0D1qLqYx2WU6BHeFUr7Usr9drK5u3KduzCY760AAAJSXpmvvG8H1IC73Rcm59Dxa89mGVXgLwuS39wTWUWneYOD_b8xGtbLvTDgyAhRZlYsJfLh1zyS4SJ6UJTwVSOojnH12wSmtTYizk/s320/amorphophallusPL_450x450.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I'm sorry - if I were to see this monster in a bedroom situation, I might actually scream out loud. Pee my pants a little, and run for cover, mother fucker. If he's that big loosey goosey, I don't even want to KNOW what he looks like all dolled up. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">And this is the moment where I decided he was cursed rather than blessed, and sign of the cross-ed the wang in sympathy for his poor fortune. As Eric so aptly suggested, 'I bet he's a show-er, not a grower.' </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">My God I hope so.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I guess everything really IS bigger in Texas.</span></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-89345912784511393602008-06-27T18:59:00.000-07:002008-06-27T19:00:37.388-07:00Angela, I thought that was your sexy ass..<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have made the informed decision that 'So You Think You Can Dance' is the best foreplay out there on the market today.</span><br /><div><div><div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216741228798212210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusHiln7Q_KL7bxyO2qcSVtjNDvQ_7GGouBi2Jb2qhLhvvF-C-WX5JY02XJxSRBAqkBbt_o8lXhnwqXcEzVm2QRWsiZzBR0ROYkRLvvyfjcXK1VZai3aD9MCyxU_lsIX68DyFNgRML2BHE/s320/anyadanny.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I mean, think about it - you have all the elements necessary for a good time: hot writhing bodies that can dance much better than you can or ever will, and the free entertainment of watching them girate against each other to the exact rythym of your rapidly burning loins. The doctor couldn't prescribe a better antecdote to an otherwise boring Wednesday nite.</span> </div><div></div><div><br /></div></div><div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">There really is something to be said for this kind of carnal on-screen stimulus - even though some of the modern moves are classics that I perform in my own bedroom when no one (or everyone's) watching, there are also hot little numbers that make me want to grab the nearest man and never let go.</span><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216742385050476242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiei8Lh75cnrD9sQsO7Yf2_v6s9Ie2aXz64Njv3Ucquw5ff1ftiYNXTt3S24ekPV5FSFzpSWl3PY3RnOJ1ZHpRMgbHv42uI-Z9rSX_5ypqzFEW-GI1EEfMlCxSUl1zd3zsti0vUOMf83P1Q/s320/l_8c9a17f9c57b4fa5824cbe180df52440.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Such is life.</span><br /></div><div></div></div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I really do believe that shows like this one are sneaky pornos in disguise, set forth to spread horny into unsuspecting living rooms across the nation. Granted, many of the pieces are also as moving as they are lusty. I'd be lying if I said I haven't teared up. But oftentimes the innate hunger for lovin' that comes with watching this show overrules my tear ducts, and I'm okay with it.</span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Though I deeply enjoy the strange sensation I get watching these powerful dances on stage, there is also something to be said for the fact that they in turn make me loathe my pitiful non-dancing existence. My body will never move the way theirs do, and I'm pretty sure I won't be allowed to wear a half-dress and frolic onstage in front of millions of viewers any time soon. (Though the world would undoubtedly be a much more scary place if I did.)</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216745297061942386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2K8NYU0ju-zlAHm_Srdre7R91HCzq7G3JzLMxN1hTP_Sc9DYkCPebVkVBrHazXf80iiMNpMmsZPFFms9rNg4b0WtCWJWO5TJa5025OAdCSgaXzZ5VcEbbca9N2DVaQQdHA7bY7pvIwm0/s320/con_95.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">So for now I'll continue to blush from the couch, and cross my legs tighter than I thought possible while I live vicariously through the life of an artistic wonder I'll never be.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">And wonder bashfully if anyone else has the secret fantasy that a sexy dancing man will suddenly and accidentally appear in their living room.</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Yes please.</span></div></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-63493938468097875872008-06-24T14:19:00.000-07:002008-07-07T16:21:26.334-07:00I'm petrified of nipple chafing. Once it starts, it's a vicious circle.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">or, The Weekend of Mexico and a Marathon.</span><br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And what a weekend it was.</span> </div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220415974989845490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhONDZtWSEi-LcfA6t4RnQ7juJDvZoyXxX0pmKJRtpnfF3UGDgLdn6Aa7KvLZFhsQlQrCePGg7Y69Rz8RCH0JbKxxFx8gpXS7b7pPXrMeXMYuBPgpk43QqYro2NLknb87KsIfTH-iqeG_07/s320/jumping_elvi.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">That's right bros and hoes, I FINISHED the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon. And don't ask me if I ran the whole thing, most people don't. So piss off. I finished.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">But this epic and equally tragic event cannot fully be appreciated without reiterating the events that occured on the eve of the marathon, because these proceedings will go down in history (I hope) as the stupidest thing I will <em>ever</em> do.</span></div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">One thing that this evening proved to me, is that talking on the phone using a wireless headset is in no way <em>less</em> distracting than holding the phone in your goddamn hand. Because regardless of where my actual telephone was while I was gabbing to my NY running guru on the 5 freeway, I STILL took the 5 south from downtown, and STILL didn't notice until it was too late. Much too late.</span><br /></div><div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215540311738863026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJe2QRxNerHLr_AE8dfZ3nXc-khkRAEQLus-t8THzoEaO7ltt0ziI_v6AhGgL_QFc96XcDBOTojaIBP7fX3kUgHYuO-IYRVy9-e5hpCFY8ZoRs2289CvYeTGp8GCQG7d6lfyuRyIMyJq0T/s320/tj_taxi_low.jpg" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">That's right, people. I ended up in motherfuckingmexico. MEXICO. Accidentally. I ACCIDENTALLY DROVE TO MEXICO. What?!</span><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">The best part of this momentous occasion was the fact that when I phoned my friends, naturally, <em>hysterical</em> about the fact that I was LOST in motherfuckingmexico, without ANY GAS IN MY TANK, mind you, they most definitely did not believe me. <em>How could you be in Mexico?</em> 'Well guys, there's only Mexicans here and all the signs are in Spanish. Oh and there's lots of Raiders gear. So...boom.'</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">After asking a cab driver how to get back to 'Saaan Diiiiieeeegooooo,' turning the wrong way down a one-way pot-holed street, finally finding the endless line of wonder that is border control, and waiting 50 effing minutes to cross back into the land of fake-but-just-as-good-when-you're-scared-of-pumping-gas-in-real-Mexico Mexican food, I eventually arrived at the blessed window of freedom.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">'I accidentally came here.'</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">'You "accidentally" came here?'</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">'Yes.'</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">'Didn't you see the HUGE sign?'</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><em>Blank pitiful stare.</em></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Sweet lord almighty.</span><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215540487216177906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5X4gYHVv57I9X-BKO8a_vAJZV9Bd5yxbsUOXoX2Ku8i85Tvf5VgNpe2tnvzKulSpf4CiASqaHoHm7gOea52NnfVI_BTV-3ucyQK-Uw6hluppIWJIbEZ2pQmUPa0nIbXdXt_13406y3Pr/s320/funny9-1.gif" border="0" /></span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">And somehow, I ran a marathon the next day. A motherfuckingmarathon, after being in motherfuckingmexico just 7 hours before. So no, I didn't run the whole thing. And yes, the last 6 miles felt like a slow and painful death in the Desert of Pain and Misfortune, but it was hands-down one of the coolest things I've done or will do in my life. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I may have walked like a Mexican over-laid hooker for the next three days in an attempt to avoid actually <em>using</em> my obliterated muscles, but it was all worth it.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Olé.</div></span></div></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-33369730433131308512008-05-12T19:30:00.001-07:002008-05-13T10:07:20.529-07:00If it wasn't this, it'd be something else.<div align="left"> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Brace yourselves - there MIGHT be a serious tone to our lil blogosphere this evening. Uh oh. The day has come. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">I read a story today about the ways people deal with struggle - and what a fitting moment to read it. A wise old woman (isn't there always a wise old woman?) told the token naive young girl to boil three pots of water, and to put carrots into one, an egg into another, and coffee in the third. After all cooking had commenced, they were left with soggy soft carrots, a hard-boiled egg, and delicious coffee. The carrots appeared strong in the beginning, but when faced with the hot water, softened and couldn't take the heat. The fragile egg was timid at first, and after being boiled, became hardened inside. The coffee, however, when faced with the strongest adversity and proposed damage, changed for the better because of it. </div><div align="left"><br /></div><p align="left"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199901393218488162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Gf8d4dUnKLek66LwdWDOY8fca3utEMGmnFHmFDQXj5o7mGcM5PD0fZOgF3LnXIx0g67Tx3cWp84xJVxvwNmoJk1i-T_vYgEFnXlGpF-37WHIWx8T4piY1a9HJCCttmxGX1JCfy4N7MPd/s320/coffee_02_bg_040306.jpg" border="0" />We all deal with struggles differently, and none of us is better or worse because of it. But how great it would be to use hard times as a fuel for a bolder flavor and more fierce personality. Instead of becoming hard and cold to the outside world because of the things we've faced, it might actually be possible to - dare I say it - grow because of them.<br /><br />It seems that it's often easier to thrive on being angry at people we care most about purely because we'd rather do that than actually figure out what the fuck is wrong with ourselves. There comes a point when bitching about what everyone else is doing to make YOU feel bad is merely a means of filling time and conversation, and nothing productive at all. Yes we all hurt each other, and yes in the moment, we think we can never recover. But once the steam blows over, if it's something worth it, you're left with a stronger brew than you had in the beginning. <span style="font-size:85%;">(Forgive the pun. I couldn't help myself, my fingers typed it against my will.)</span></p><div align="left">Relationships of all kinds can be such beautiful disasters - that effin' Kelly Clarkson really knows what she's talking about. We fall in love with our friends and lovers, seeing something in them that reminds us of ourselves. And the moment certain barriers are broken, certain colors are shown that we don't want to see, we'd rather clam up at the struggle than let it envelope us and teach us something. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199903325953771378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ls28oVna3T6WdmW8Rk9wbBAs6KY2T9OI4oCzzsDJX7uEAQXs26BIPl5Ts0kxOANf7BPOZ5-7yJKq0R-MPCiYqZkpbT44p_oKzSg5PmXy-6Ip6hum0RPrGO2z9VJWJHYTauHVFrzCdNRt/s320/kellypuppet%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">How CREEPY is this??</span><br /></p>Ladies and gents, all I've loved, liked, laughed with and fought with, try your best to be rich, bold and hearty coffee. You might actually learn something, you lazy assholes.<br /><br />'Who can say if we've been changed for the better, but because I knew you, I have been changed for good.'<br /><br />Peace out. A town.</span><br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-71125541777662673712008-04-04T17:26:00.000-07:002008-04-03T17:26:13.778-07:00Why don't I strap on my job helmet, and squeeze into a job cannon, and fire off to jobland, where jobs grow on jobbies?<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Here's the thing.</span><br /><br /><div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The fact the the guy at El Pollo Loco recognizes me when I go in now...that makes me sad. There is also the tidbit of info involving the sorrowful truth that BUYING El Pollo Loco has become a luxury, due to the miniscule number of dollars that grace my checking account each month.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Don't worry. It gets better.</span></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185177522457763922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCxwAlhAAHxBLWILZHZivj4rb8l5qBzDWRZLNQ89t9Cwi4uvDtAcQG5V3Txol8xeuqkT1vcKQTT2c6HVbJPbp70_prSPBnP3X3Gx8Gqe4cpnLRGODX66OQ-LoYtFtTKTz_WoghsyIEoSm_/s320/el+pollo+loco.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I get to work for 12 hours a day, every other of which I have to run 5 miles afterwards, only to be right back in the beginning where I not only realize the cashier at The Crazy Chicken knows where I live, but he also knows I'm scraping by this week to dump out enough change for a BRC burrito. And you know what's the WORST? Finishing my looooong day, and realizing that the beautful crimson and gold chicken haven is CLOSED by the time I have the 2 minutes necessary to get over there and get my share of slow-roasted goodness.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And all of this, becuase of what? MY JOB. My little jobby, that pays me shit and shits on me at the same time. How could I be so lucky?</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But I do like my job. What, I do! I'm in a creative enviornment, even if that means getting creative while lying on the phone, or creatively figuring out Ron Jeremy's number for a client's 'special request.' </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185178140933054562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztry1rvhuIr9gT6M3Ko3pVDbH_9_mbkjszgQE5UtDlQSbWjp7HtmeEndzOSSAhPd1ccbwu9FECSj0PQ3RcaM5BlfXJHR4UaCblqDAN0g4F35VYrwLV6Urf3W4wLPluQAshbyA7b_j26cc/s320/ronnie.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I wouldn't like my job. No I wouldn't. If not for my boss, who recently stated: "You can't throw a glass in my family (usually a glass filled with bourbon) without hitting a person with Down's Syndrome." So eloquently said. His tasty antecdotal delights get me through the day, along with the boys to my left that keep me laughing more than I should at a talent agency. I mean - talent is SERIOUS BUSINESS. This is entertainment, folks, it's nothing to laugh about.</span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So what I'm saying is, I GUESS I could think of worse places to spend 12 hours a day, just not that many.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It's just a little bit disheartening to yearn for a time when my name can be in my email at work, and I can answer my own phone and not someone else's. Maybe a time where I'm not planning trips for rich people who bitch about other rich people not footing the bill for them, but planning trips for myself instead.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Basically, when all is said and done, jobs don't grow on jobbies. So until I pay my many dues and end up somewhere I can't wait to get to, I guess I'll have to hold out for now and get someone somewhere water or coffee - and try desperately not to break my job helmet in the process.</span></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-54441090375009346172008-02-18T22:40:00.000-08:002008-02-19T09:39:21.443-08:00You have a freak flag, you just don't fly it.<div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">People do weird shit at the gym.</span><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168571060601834370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58IKYPjkzG1c7UWy0BJQyoeh9Bigc7nRKruMlcjNxBU0Am4-GT9tJlcHJ7afzqB8mTpTtZpomucXIGuK2IwkrsA1iUD7E3cJ9h1Njb1-V5gdX_aTVE2qaCI1cBcHShYP7_h0VAFABJ9nK/s320/hampster.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Like, stuff that should be reserved for the privacy of their own homes. Or a padded room. The Santa Monica 24 Hour Fitness already has a plethora of questionable inhabitants based purely on it's location: 50% bleached blonde and fake-boobed, 50% beach bum and khaki-wearing, and 10% normal. That's right - my gym exists in a vortex where 110% really is possible. It helps you give it your all.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So people are either trying not to pop their implants on the eliptical, or exercising in the clothes they wore to work that day. Either that, or staring at and being bothered by all the bizarre specimens putting themselves on display - like me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">It turns out that the gym on Valentine's Day is one of the most entertaining places you can be on the most pointless day of the year. While others are ditching their fitness regimine and paying for overpriced food and chocolate that won't get eaten, the rest of us are at the gym thinking about how pathetic everyone else there is. <em>Who goes to the</em> gym <em>on </em>Valentine's Day<em>? </em>I'll tell you who - Biker Without A Cycle, Sings-Out-Loud-Like-No-One's-Listening, and Asian Aerobic Superstar.</span><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168571902415424402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGU-n00oPuAgYxqa4hxR2LojWYft6vXVer4LIK6jRsiS-gzoj049fIeDAqG8vQPVEg-yCdSeMOvAohyphenhyphenBdsF15YGIkOX4RITV46lzndgDqu4a4mqyyJlxg42pChdBkDHVSTD9DhiP3Cdo9Y/s320/aerobics.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;">I don't know why she doesn't have feet.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Biker man is well-equipped for a day of riding up steep hills and through rough terrain, only he doesn't realize that the gym is, in fact, not outside. He still has his racing sunglasses on to shield him from the fluorescents, and his skin-tight neon outfit to outline his ba donka donk and monkey business like no other short can. Lost without his two-wheeled friend by his side, he resorts to the stationary bike - and does interpretive dance with graceful arm-circles while he's at it.</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Rockstar jams along out loud to her ipod like she's the only one in the effing gym - what if I don't want to <em>listen</em> to to Whitney? (Who am I kidding, I always do.) But my favorite is A.A.S. - she does 80s-style aerobics EVERY DAY I'm there while she's pumping away on the eliptical. I think if she keeps it up she'll soon whither away and be nothing but negative space. But at least I won't have to wait as long for a tready. But really, can you stop distracting me from my run, because all I can focus on is how annoying your showcase of flamboyant exercising is. It's really unfair to ME.</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">There is just a really abnormal amount of weirdo in Los Angeles. </span></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5168576227447491506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJkPKB462WgsmIuHW7hkqvWu_imWK2n5VFHVPSWff645GpfYAqLJ8BDhOGgcHLuOOQnpGfyrvWgCNqishjUtEsmpn-FwWesf8MnDV91J-24NsaIFhsBBOGWsbT_97mua0ke9YRCqhCEek/s320/maniac.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">For instance, I can't help but discuss the amount of freakazoid currently taking over the patio of this Coffee Bean. I don't care if it has nothing to do with the gym, it still has to do with freaks, so this remains a cohesive entry. Boom.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">The patio: Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, 'talk to me, I feel lonely'? Do I look like I'm aching for someone to discuss wireless internet and phone companies with? I think I need to start doing my hair differently, or wearing more unapproachable clothes (jeans and sweatshirt is apparently an invitation to interrupt my peaceful evening and blabber to me about your own bullshit, even though we've never met and never will again). Also, thank you to the lady who said she'd watch my computer when I went to pee, and left before I came back. Real classy. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Also, go to the gym.</span> </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Frankly, I love living in a land where people don't care how the outside world perceives them. Not only so I can relentlessly make fun of them, but also so that I can write about it and put it all over the internet. </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">So I invite you to fly your freak flag loud and proud.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Lord knows everyone else does.</span></p>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-90995690220882803602008-01-14T18:49:00.000-08:002008-01-14T23:55:29.945-08:00Merry Christmas...Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Yes I do realize that it is no longer the holiday season, but let me pretend for the sake of the quote.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">In so many ways, the holidays are that time where the true character of all your friends and family is given permission to be unleashed upon the world, and for some reason promptly forgiven - tis the season. And by that I mean this, and by this I mean the following: There are two kinds of people in life - the ones who give shit gifts and the ones who don't.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I was granted the gift of extra FAT this year, HAPPY 2008!, as well as the haunting realization that alcohol and tacos are in fact NOT diet foods. This is the first I've learned of this fact.</span><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155526552060086242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmMznMyz3f1OjTdfOZNdYMbWHcYtvwRBC2IHAm6hNPDgS72f_tcHCAkl894UEdLLJB_hGLUwbB1Bu9teVx6eSTbmundPcvCfa9LQyy0z7Ans4h2d_x-cVaOH29PXeXOewfiZyVtq1DLhc/s320/fatties+2.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">And it is now that I formally announce, in all my muffin-topped glory, that I will be running the 2008 San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon in June. And by running I mean jogging, and by jogging I mean rolling. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">It seems only fitting. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">The first day of my marathon training really began last nite. Upon trying to doze off early for a change, I was faced with the daunting task of drowning out the Wicca meeting taking place next door. That's right, people - witch lady has only gotten stranger and louder, and I think offered up her home for regular midnite gatherings. And said gatherings are gaining more of a following, I might add, because the caucophony of voices is growing. Thank God.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">When I finally reached a state of somewhat-slumber, I was greeted with a dream that can only be described as a bad TNT crime drama. I and another faceless friend were in a park on a typical backdrop-sunny day, when we discovered two bloody dead bodies in the bathroom. I knew this was a dream immediately, because I generally don't go in rec park bathrooms, nor do I have any faceless friends. But my mind decided to go for a ride and stay sleeping anyway. As the dream became progressively more scary and weird, me and my fake comrade were being chased by two crooked cops, after us to cover up their ugly mistake of dumping their murder victims in the park we dream-frequented so often.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155529124745496562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaXmyIj-XS_wFipAy9IePKuToVRIX96tB04OaPpMxOYRlfkDOux2evYG_3zMkTMBTcxzayeAt-dNY3WFM4uavLYrNX-xY6lG7nvHjl2nZB0wpQJG8n630NkjKRmoeFwpS7CFC05zzQNCBk/s320/cop.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Thank you retarded imagination.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Due to this seemingly frightening dream, I woke up yet again at 4:30AM. But don't worry, I was immediately thoroughly entertained by my next-door sorceress, with her eerie singing and too-loud television.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">But somehow, I still managed to drag my ass out of bed and half run / half almost-vomit out my 2 miles for the day. But not without forgetting to use my inhaler and getting stuck in 25 minutes of 1.5 mile traffic on the way home from the gym, which is longer than my actual workout.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">I'm pretty sure the next training day will be a better one.</span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-14900781456046082742007-12-13T18:45:00.000-08:002007-12-13T18:46:08.842-08:00Save it for the talk room, son.<div><div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Upon completing another slobber-filled day of babysitting, I've come up with a few items I feel are vital to keep in mind when considering creating offspring. I now present... </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143650522263485794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0vPWU_wXjj-z2SCENBVIsbWAlNubgqNDIqXD6l75o6_GtfhYlMajBzndMZrko3Xsw38m2NNkd4rU2Uxp_qBUv3MM_hxTaFwNRpWlqelLQfCEeSApF9EubRKj7RcwtxxVtgSXnKVs06yp/s320/ugly+baby+1.jpg" border="0" /><br />REASONS I'M SCARED TO BIRTH A CHILD.<br />1. I know how big my vagina is, and it's not big enough.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2. I never WANT my vagina to be big enough.<br /><br />3. I don't want a boring child. I don't want the child that just stares at you when you ask it a question, or prefers not talking over talking. I would rather the child that is obnoxious and outspoken, though that brings me to fear #4.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">4. I don't want one of those asshole kids. The ones that throw shit at people they don't know, and tell strangers they're fat.<br /><br />5. Parents don't know when they're children are ugly, but I'm pretty sure that <em>I</em> would. Pleeeeease no ugly baby! </span><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143652137171189106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQJrd_vVnAGMvgnnOW_JkDGHKVIt2yxsL_5jxdo-4yC5OqtXM3GMD68ObAcbxhrHpcu-7J1_6qGnmzJqQ4-WN4MKh1pU2ETeRE4Az_ZehdEtIC8NZzlqMqXHkxiB0TdIn_ZQmVmYvc8lz/s320/quintuplets.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">6. Lactation. I don't like the idea of someone being able to juice me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">7. As far as I can tell, the first one is so easy and precious, it tricks you into having more. And from then on it's a downward sprial into being broke, yelled at and eventually abandoned, until they move out of the house and finally learn to love and appreciate you. Wait - have I had a kid already? No, just too much experience from being one.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">8. Finally, there is a certain amount of fright surrounding the fact that it might actually end up like ME, and that's no good for anyone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In conclusion, I love children and plan on popping out a few, but for now (and the immediate future) I'm keeping all my eggs in my basket before they're scrambled for good.</p></span></div></div>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8913794450730643462.post-60558873313568964312007-11-27T18:35:00.000-08:002007-11-27T18:35:24.878-08:00Am I gay for God? You betcha.<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">aka, "Why I Love Me Some Aussies, Indians and Gays."<br /><br />In a blatant oversight on my part, I neglected to mention the benefits that come with having minorities as friends. Not only are a wealth of new quips and material available, there is also the innate protection entailed in joking <span style="font-style: italic;">with </span>and in the presence <span style="font-style: italic;">of </span>the butt of the joke.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKs6huIWmGlA4ZKLny1-0oSsPBcXAZcbgYMMEwqW-iwQkF-cZ0691gCXSktVlcqI4qTFzLenzLMLHcdjHDZldvQBKPx5xTjdoIB4fo1wkpLn0F6VoDe9eVABFhlxgp1IHOpTzKq9FOeSfK/s1600-h/minorities+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKs6huIWmGlA4ZKLny1-0oSsPBcXAZcbgYMMEwqW-iwQkF-cZ0691gCXSktVlcqI4qTFzLenzLMLHcdjHDZldvQBKPx5xTjdoIB4fo1wkpLn0F6VoDe9eVABFhlxgp1IHOpTzKq9FOeSfK/s320/minorities+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137708221587619074" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Here's why I love me an Aussie. A fella from down under can get pretty much any American lassie he wants, no matter what he looks like or how weak his arms are. He can be smarmy as hell and as intelligent as Paris but as soon as that smooth-talking dingo opens his mouth, he can generally make a few girls swoon. Foreigners are the life-blood of the female American serial-dater, and kudos to them for pulling it off. There are a few Aussies that actually DO possess amazing qualities on top of the accent, and it's a wonder not all of them have been snatched up out of the single girls' lives already. And the taken girls, for that matter.<br /><br />I love me an Indian for many a different reason. Firstly, Gandhi was Indian, and I've heard he was a pretty nice guy. Indians also, surprisingly enough, enjoy Taco Tuesday even more than an authentic Mexican, and I prefer anyone who can down margaritas to anyone who cannot. Descendants from this heavily populated and beautifully clothed country tend to have a certain good spirit born into them, and even if they weren't birthed in the motherland, an uncanny ability to imitate the classic Indian Quickie Mart accent. But my favorite Indian is the one that is that voice in the back of my mind constantly pushing me to achieve the unachievable, and that's why he's my favorite.<br /><br />And BOY do I love me a GAY or two. Nothing says Sunday morning like a girly boy downing cocktails, and for this I salute my favorite gay of all. No one beats a homo when it comes to dancing like a whore or being Auntie to your children, at least I hope not, and he can always be counted on to cry at a movie when I'm the only other one that is. The gays in my life also have a special talent of being that effervescent lifeforce that keeps me going in the moments life feels dark and grey, </span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">and for that I'm forever grateful.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdvMR6PIo6UGkCNs_7BCCwKaaaQa5zaUj56c2mjC4Pb2b1ArpvbQ5IXU3LWTUGBD1DXtx8mW-gi6pL4WTlLeQPxnX-deUJk2dB8v7m-M0heRmZTbHpy7D-TNFfSJPkhRaehvE9qEPAbWU/s1600-h/friends.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdvMR6PIo6UGkCNs_7BCCwKaaaQa5zaUj56c2mjC4Pb2b1ArpvbQ5IXU3LWTUGBD1DXtx8mW-gi6pL4WTlLeQPxnX-deUJk2dB8v7m-M0heRmZTbHpy7D-TNFfSJPkhRaehvE9qEPAbWU/s320/friends.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137708943142124818" border="0" /></a><br />So raise your glass of beer wine or liquor to your favorite non-dominant racial and or social group - I know I have...one time too many.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;">**THIS HAS BEEN A TRIBUTE TO THE MINORITIES THAT LIGHT UP MY LIFE. YOU ASKED FOR IT BITCHES, HERE IT IS. :)</span><br /></span>Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13302005865909746778noreply@blogger.com5