So, I recently started a new job... I'm one week in and I hae to say that I was shocked on the first day of training. You see, there we are going through pages and pages of corporate policy and procedure when all of a sudden I turn a page and in big bold letters is a section titled BLOGGING POLICY. YIKES! Can you believe that they actually have a blogging policy?! Well they do, so, I won't tell you who it is that I work for because well, I need the job dammit. If you happen to know me, and you happen to know who I work for, please do NOT place any comments on my page that reference the said employer. I will further refer only to the employer by calling them Giant Corp, or GC for short, in this and all future posts.
This week has been trying as I have had to examine my own personality and avoid things like cussing and being openly mean. I've also been trying to control my facial expressions as I sit at the back of the training room listening to hours and hours of instruction, some interesting, some not. There is one particular person that seems to make a comment about EVERYTHING. You know the type, the "one-upper" who has to always trump a story, example or question from other people in the training class. His commentary is generally a waste of time, having only 1 out of every 5 comments or questions referencing anything useful. I haven't been openly mean... YET! But I can guarantee you that as soon as I lose all cognitive control, this guy is getting a huge fucking piece of my mind and maybe my fist! I might just have to hit a bitch!!
In addition to the one-upper, we have THAT GUY. In fact, he was refered to as THAT GUY today... you know the type: the guy that brags about everything including, according to him, the $900 watch that he was wearing today. REALLY? You are sitting in a fucking office and you feel the need to tell us tha tyou have a $900 watch on?! WHY?! Overcompensating much? I think so buddy, I think so. Poor little guy... pun intended! I forsee me putting him in his place sometime in the near future and it will be EPIC!
The beginning of this work week caused me some personal confusion. As I walked into the training room full of individuals that I have never seen before, with the exception of my interviewer, I caught myself immediately looking for wedding rings on all of the men. I hadn't even looked at their faces yet! Shocked at my own behavior, I took my seat and decided that I would simply focus on the task at hand...
4 hours in and it's time for lunch. I take my place at a table next to two gentleman who are younger than my baby brother! UGH! They are fresh out of college... I mean, you can still smell the sorority whores and cheap beer on them! They are nice guys, naive, uber excited for this employment opportunity. Another veteran decides to sit at our same table and is filling us in on all of the perks of working for Giant Corp. He casually looked at my left hand and said, "Oh, you're single? There's lots of single people who work here so it tends to be a good place to date out of as well." Since when do corporate slogans include things like "Work here. Breed here." SERIOUSLY? And why did he assume that just because my 29 year old finger wasn't covered in platinum and diamonds that I was SINGLE?! And why is it considered a dirty word?! UGH!
Only a few posts ago, it was raining men.... so, it's raining outside but in my bedroom it's a total dry spell. Granted maybe it has something to do with throwing D. to the curb (see a previous post if you don't know what I'm referring to). Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I haven't been out socially since New Year's Eve... at least not in the city anyway. Am I raising my standards or just hibernating for the winter!?? I haven't even been on a date with BOB lately and that was once a daily ritual. Maybe it's just because I've been working so much... tired, worn down, and cold.
I have a wedding to go to tomorrow which will officially leave me the last single person in my family that is of legal marrying age. The next youngest is 10. I'm sure that I'll be scoping for rings at the reception and everywhere else I go, as it's become kind of an involuntary reflex. I'm really contemplating this online dating thing...
Can't a girl just get a little penetration?
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I'm not gonna write you a love song
As another Valentine's Day has come and gone, I thought that I'd write a few "love" letters. You see, I spent my Valentine's Day single and working... just like every year before. I can't remember that I've ever been in a relationship, dating someone or even casually sleeping with someone on a Valentine's Day. Never have I received the stereotypical flower, chocolates and greeting card expression of another's feelings for me. Did I feel lonely? Upset? No more than usual.
Anyway, I spent the weekend observing Janes and Johns as they were on their Valentine's Day dates and I have to say, there are a few of them that I wanted to give a piece of my mind to... so here goes:
Dear Jane,
For a 60+ year old woman, you have amazing tits. That's right, I said, amazing! I only wish that at almost 30, my breasts could be as large and round as yours. I also wish that since you are sitting at a Sushi bar in a crowded restaurant, you would cover up your amazing tits. I mean, afterall, you are 60+ years old and sitting with a man who appears to be half your age. While you may consider yourself a cougar, you are far too old to be a cougar... more like a panther. And since panthers prey on the innocent and the young, I can only imagine that that is what you are doing with your big, round, wrinkly tits thrusting in and out of the young mans face. At least cougars pretend to love them before they rip their hearts out... panthers... prey and kill.
Nice boobs but please, put those bitches away.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Jane,
I know you wanted to look beautiful for your husband/boyfriend/baby daddy... whatever the hell you call him. Either way, you look ridiculous... I've seen clowns with less makeup on, the amount of product in your hair is single handedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer and never under any circumstances should your garters be visible under your 1980's jean skirt that is both too tight and too short. Garters? Really? I mean, I couldn't help but notice them when you stood up, and walked across the entire restaurant to go to the bathroom. Oh, and you're too fat for them too. Your legs looked like two Christmas hams, bursting through the mesh wrapper.
I don't get it... at least someone loves you... thank dog it's not me.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Family of 7 with 5 children,
Are you related to the Duggars? Why did you bring 5 children under the age of 5 to a sit down restaurant and then ask that your food be rushed because your children's calm timer is about to run out? Have you ever heard of take out? We offer it.
Also, did you think that the 10% tip you left me included cleaning up the fucking giant mess that your 5 sex trophies decided to throw all over the fucking floor and table? NOPE!
Fuck you,
That Girl
Dear John,
It is apparent to me that you have a giant sinus infection. You look terrible... the bags under your eyes, puffy face, obvious lack of energy. I almost feel sorry for you. I would except for the fact that you apparently don't know how to blow your nose at almost 30 years old. Instead, you are sitting there sucking the snot back up your nasal passages and then swallowing it loudly. You've done this at least 30 fucking times today. Stop it. Not only is it disgusting but it will only make you sicker to digest mucus that is full of infection. I know because it caused my brother to get an infection in his colon that resulted in a colonoscopy at 25 years old. Actually, swallow away. And when you're getting your colonoscopy, ask the doctor to see if he can locate your head that is obviously stuck up your ass.
Thanks,
That Girl
Dear Ghetto fabulous couples,
Yes, there were 2 of you sitting at my table. As your server, it's my job to serve you. That means that I may have to ask you questions like "What would you like to eat tonight?". That means that you should probably get off your fucking phone long enough to look at the menu and acknowledge my presence. Oh yeah, and don't act annoyed when I come back to check on you. It's my fucking job! And no, I'm not flirting with your boyfriend... I'm flirting with both of you to get a good tip. You must have though I was a 2 dollar whore because that's all you left me.
People like you are why I sought employment outside of the service industry. Stay out of restaurants until you learn some manners.
Thanks,
That Girl
p.s. I sneezed on your dinner before I left the kitchen. It was totally an accident but after your behavior, it felt like Karma was in fast forward.
Dear Fatties,
Yes, this is going out to all of you women that have gained a massive amount of weight since you got married. I'm not talking like 10 or 25 pounds, I mean, those of you who have gained like 200 pounds because you now weigh close to 400 pounds. I'm a fatty. I've always been a fatty. How did you get a boyfriend/husband? I want to know...
Was/is your boyfriend/husband a chubby chaser? I saw several of you indulging in a meal that consisted of fried rice, steak covered in butter and then you topped off the meal by drowning it in hollandaise sauce. The sight of it all made me throw up in my mouth. Your boyfriend/husband is good looking and not really overweight. I'm sure you're a lovely person but I want to know what you looked like 15 years ago. I want to know what you looked like when you met eachother. I want to know if it's true what my mother has always said, that one day a man will be forced to look past my physical appearance and will see my personality instead. I hope so, because my personality is just a skinnier version of the big sassy bitch that I actually am.
Love
That Girl
p.s. skip dessert. please.
Anyway, I spent the weekend observing Janes and Johns as they were on their Valentine's Day dates and I have to say, there are a few of them that I wanted to give a piece of my mind to... so here goes:
Dear Jane,
For a 60+ year old woman, you have amazing tits. That's right, I said, amazing! I only wish that at almost 30, my breasts could be as large and round as yours. I also wish that since you are sitting at a Sushi bar in a crowded restaurant, you would cover up your amazing tits. I mean, afterall, you are 60+ years old and sitting with a man who appears to be half your age. While you may consider yourself a cougar, you are far too old to be a cougar... more like a panther. And since panthers prey on the innocent and the young, I can only imagine that that is what you are doing with your big, round, wrinkly tits thrusting in and out of the young mans face. At least cougars pretend to love them before they rip their hearts out... panthers... prey and kill.
Nice boobs but please, put those bitches away.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Jane,
I know you wanted to look beautiful for your husband/boyfriend/baby daddy... whatever the hell you call him. Either way, you look ridiculous... I've seen clowns with less makeup on, the amount of product in your hair is single handedly responsible for the hole in the ozone layer and never under any circumstances should your garters be visible under your 1980's jean skirt that is both too tight and too short. Garters? Really? I mean, I couldn't help but notice them when you stood up, and walked across the entire restaurant to go to the bathroom. Oh, and you're too fat for them too. Your legs looked like two Christmas hams, bursting through the mesh wrapper.
I don't get it... at least someone loves you... thank dog it's not me.
Love,
That Girl
Dear Family of 7 with 5 children,
Are you related to the Duggars? Why did you bring 5 children under the age of 5 to a sit down restaurant and then ask that your food be rushed because your children's calm timer is about to run out? Have you ever heard of take out? We offer it.
Also, did you think that the 10% tip you left me included cleaning up the fucking giant mess that your 5 sex trophies decided to throw all over the fucking floor and table? NOPE!
Fuck you,
That Girl
Dear John,
It is apparent to me that you have a giant sinus infection. You look terrible... the bags under your eyes, puffy face, obvious lack of energy. I almost feel sorry for you. I would except for the fact that you apparently don't know how to blow your nose at almost 30 years old. Instead, you are sitting there sucking the snot back up your nasal passages and then swallowing it loudly. You've done this at least 30 fucking times today. Stop it. Not only is it disgusting but it will only make you sicker to digest mucus that is full of infection. I know because it caused my brother to get an infection in his colon that resulted in a colonoscopy at 25 years old. Actually, swallow away. And when you're getting your colonoscopy, ask the doctor to see if he can locate your head that is obviously stuck up your ass.
Thanks,
That Girl
Dear Ghetto fabulous couples,
Yes, there were 2 of you sitting at my table. As your server, it's my job to serve you. That means that I may have to ask you questions like "What would you like to eat tonight?". That means that you should probably get off your fucking phone long enough to look at the menu and acknowledge my presence. Oh yeah, and don't act annoyed when I come back to check on you. It's my fucking job! And no, I'm not flirting with your boyfriend... I'm flirting with both of you to get a good tip. You must have though I was a 2 dollar whore because that's all you left me.
People like you are why I sought employment outside of the service industry. Stay out of restaurants until you learn some manners.
Thanks,
That Girl
p.s. I sneezed on your dinner before I left the kitchen. It was totally an accident but after your behavior, it felt like Karma was in fast forward.
Dear Fatties,
Yes, this is going out to all of you women that have gained a massive amount of weight since you got married. I'm not talking like 10 or 25 pounds, I mean, those of you who have gained like 200 pounds because you now weigh close to 400 pounds. I'm a fatty. I've always been a fatty. How did you get a boyfriend/husband? I want to know...
Was/is your boyfriend/husband a chubby chaser? I saw several of you indulging in a meal that consisted of fried rice, steak covered in butter and then you topped off the meal by drowning it in hollandaise sauce. The sight of it all made me throw up in my mouth. Your boyfriend/husband is good looking and not really overweight. I'm sure you're a lovely person but I want to know what you looked like 15 years ago. I want to know what you looked like when you met eachother. I want to know if it's true what my mother has always said, that one day a man will be forced to look past my physical appearance and will see my personality instead. I hope so, because my personality is just a skinnier version of the big sassy bitch that I actually am.
Love
That Girl
p.s. skip dessert. please.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
My.tacky.space
Recently, as I was perusing social networking sites, something that I spend far too much time doing, I began noticing a trend. Apparently, belonging to a social networking site gives you super powers, makes your life look far more interesting than it is and gives you the creative license to becoming anybody that you freakin' want! I love it!
What is not to love? Crop your profile picture to make you look way better than you do in real life... photoshop it first, please. Oh what the hell, find an unfocused picture of a celebrity and pass it off as yourself. In fact, if you want to make it a trend, update it as your current status and see how many other people will do it! (This is how I found out that I have a frightening resemblence to Molly Ringwald!)
Okay, okay, those little games are goofy and fun and while they are somewhat annoying, fighting the urge to keep from participating is like peeing with a UTI... you know it's gonna burn but you gotta do it anyway! (eww... I know.)
I denied my mother's facebook friend request. Why? Because I could. I don't think that my parents have any business knowing that my weekends are often filled with massive amounts of debauchery and very little shame. My mother does not need to know that I "went for a run, ate a sandwich, made a happy plate, took a poop and headed to work". Not that the rest of facebook needs to know either but for some reason, people just can't get enough of it. My mother even asked me in person why I didn't "friend" her. I explained that we weren't friends. She's my mom. We don't have THAT relationship. So, I pressed IGNORE with a great sense of satisfaction.
"I can't believe that he de-friended me and then tried to re-friend me!" This overheard at work. First of all, I don't believe that the words "defriended" and "refriended", hyphens or not, are an actual part of the English language. Secondly, why are people trying to work out their personal problems on a social networking site? Confrontation is not something that you do on a facebook page! I find it incredibly immature that people will scream at eachother through instant messages by using all capital letters. AM I GETTING MY POINT ACROSS? No, just making it easier to read. That's all. My life is not going to change if you do not chat with me, write on my wall or if you "defriend" me. Oh no she di'n't. (insert ghetto head bob here)
I suppose if facebook relationships are now defining friendships, that's up to those parties involved and it doesn't affect me. However, things that people post publicly do affect me. In fact, there are things that I have seen posted on peoples social networking profiles that just seem, oh, I don't know... TACKY!
Example: (oh and these are all real)
1. pictures of your breasts, ass or any other body part that you wouldn't show your mother... seriously. If you've never changed clothes in front of me, lived in the same home as me or had sex with me, I obviously didn't want to see it then and don't want to see it now! If I wanted to see porn, I have network TV and the internet. Nasty put some clothes on.
2. intestinal updates: "can't quit vomiting", "gotta drop a duece before dinner" or any other reference to problems regarding your bowels. Eat a piece of fruit, take a laxative, open a window, but please keep your ass issues to yourself.
Dude, your dookie is your business, not mine! (Notice that this is example number two... pun intended!)
3. Putting up a status update that causes people to wonder if you are in dire straights is like wearing a giant sign that says "I'm a douche"... and no, it doens't matter if you are male or female. This phenomenon actually has a slang name: vaguebooking. It is defined by Urban Dictionary as: An intentionally vague Facebook status update, that prompts friends to ask what's going on, or is possibly a cry for help.
If you need attention, please, come see me. I will be happy to bereate, belittle, or mock you to your hearts content. It will be my pleasure. Really.
4. In reference to childbirth... I do not need to know that your child was delivered vaginally. In fact I don't think that the word vagina in any form of conjugation should be used on a social networking site. Please use the word "naturally" as it is not nearly as disgustingly visual as the word vagina or vaginal. Last I checked, babies naturally came out of vaginas so unless you specify "c-section" which sounds more like the area on a standardized test, we already knew that your pregnancy would put your baby-chute to good use! Thanks.
Okay, so this is more of a rant on my observations but I urge each of you to look closely at your social networking profile. 1. remove the word "vagina" in any and all forms, 2. paste some clothes on those titties, and 3. just tell people what the hell is going on already.
What is not to love? Crop your profile picture to make you look way better than you do in real life... photoshop it first, please. Oh what the hell, find an unfocused picture of a celebrity and pass it off as yourself. In fact, if you want to make it a trend, update it as your current status and see how many other people will do it! (This is how I found out that I have a frightening resemblence to Molly Ringwald!)
Okay, okay, those little games are goofy and fun and while they are somewhat annoying, fighting the urge to keep from participating is like peeing with a UTI... you know it's gonna burn but you gotta do it anyway! (eww... I know.)
I denied my mother's facebook friend request. Why? Because I could. I don't think that my parents have any business knowing that my weekends are often filled with massive amounts of debauchery and very little shame. My mother does not need to know that I "went for a run, ate a sandwich, made a happy plate, took a poop and headed to work". Not that the rest of facebook needs to know either but for some reason, people just can't get enough of it. My mother even asked me in person why I didn't "friend" her. I explained that we weren't friends. She's my mom. We don't have THAT relationship. So, I pressed IGNORE with a great sense of satisfaction.
"I can't believe that he de-friended me and then tried to re-friend me!" This overheard at work. First of all, I don't believe that the words "defriended" and "refriended", hyphens or not, are an actual part of the English language. Secondly, why are people trying to work out their personal problems on a social networking site? Confrontation is not something that you do on a facebook page! I find it incredibly immature that people will scream at eachother through instant messages by using all capital letters. AM I GETTING MY POINT ACROSS? No, just making it easier to read. That's all. My life is not going to change if you do not chat with me, write on my wall or if you "defriend" me. Oh no she di'n't. (insert ghetto head bob here)
I suppose if facebook relationships are now defining friendships, that's up to those parties involved and it doesn't affect me. However, things that people post publicly do affect me. In fact, there are things that I have seen posted on peoples social networking profiles that just seem, oh, I don't know... TACKY!
Example: (oh and these are all real)
1. pictures of your breasts, ass or any other body part that you wouldn't show your mother... seriously. If you've never changed clothes in front of me, lived in the same home as me or had sex with me, I obviously didn't want to see it then and don't want to see it now! If I wanted to see porn, I have network TV and the internet. Nasty put some clothes on.
2. intestinal updates: "can't quit vomiting", "gotta drop a duece before dinner" or any other reference to problems regarding your bowels. Eat a piece of fruit, take a laxative, open a window, but please keep your ass issues to yourself.
Dude, your dookie is your business, not mine! (Notice that this is example number two... pun intended!)
3. Putting up a status update that causes people to wonder if you are in dire straights is like wearing a giant sign that says "I'm a douche"... and no, it doens't matter if you are male or female. This phenomenon actually has a slang name: vaguebooking. It is defined by Urban Dictionary as: An intentionally vague Facebook status update, that prompts friends to ask what's going on, or is possibly a cry for help.
If you need attention, please, come see me. I will be happy to bereate, belittle, or mock you to your hearts content. It will be my pleasure. Really.
4. In reference to childbirth... I do not need to know that your child was delivered vaginally. In fact I don't think that the word vagina in any form of conjugation should be used on a social networking site. Please use the word "naturally" as it is not nearly as disgustingly visual as the word vagina or vaginal. Last I checked, babies naturally came out of vaginas so unless you specify "c-section" which sounds more like the area on a standardized test, we already knew that your pregnancy would put your baby-chute to good use! Thanks.
Okay, so this is more of a rant on my observations but I urge each of you to look closely at your social networking profile. 1. remove the word "vagina" in any and all forms, 2. paste some clothes on those titties, and 3. just tell people what the hell is going on already.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Pluckin' G Strings (and not the kind on your guitar)
So recently I had to do something that I absolutely loathe and trapse into one of those big box retailers to get my oil changed while picking up some muscle rub (due to sore muscles from hot yoga) and some groceries. The convience of getting to do it all in one place at one time was far too inticing, especially since the day was cold, complete with blustery wind and snow. Had this been a beautiful spring day, I would have been more than happy with leaving work and moving from store to store to shop at more local retailers while enjoying the drive between each establishment with the windows down and the music blaring.
However, on this particular day, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I pulled my vehicle up in front of the garage of the big box car lube place to find a young girl, far too heavy for her age, standing outside in short sleeves with no coat on. I roll down my window and offer to step inside to write up the ticket for the oil change to which she replies, "No, it's okay." while shivering. The snow was accumulating on her hair, her breasts and her bare arms. I thought for a moment that this girl was going to turn into a real life snowperson right in front of my eyes and I nearly giggled outloud.
As I walked through the store, in my work uniform mind you, I realize that I must pee. Seeking a bathroom, I realize that my underware has thoroughly shifted from where it should be. My boyshorts were quickly becoming a thong. Unsure of how long my panties had been migrating towards the depths of my butt crack, I quickly waved my hands along my buttcheeks to feel for my pantylines. They were definitely not where they were supposed to be. Finally rounding a corner through an aisle of permanent markers and yarn, I find the bathroom. Ah, relief.
As I exited the bathroom, I walked a little taller, not only because I was no longer weighed down by a massively full bladder but also because I confidently knew that my boy shorts were a mystery once again, having put them back in their proper place, I could now glide comfortably through the aisles.
I am fully aware that I suffer from the VPL on many occasions. VPL? Visible panty line. They aren't generally attractive but there are moments that I don't care. Those moments tend to be when I am at work. I am currently between pant sizes and the larger size are too saggy while the smaller size tend to lie like latex on my ass. Oh well, I'm at work... I figure that most people aren't looking at my ass because I spend my days facing my guests and talking directly to them. Also, I can't work in certain panties as my job is incredibly active and there are certain underware styles that just don't mesh with active movement.
Contemplating all of this as I walk through the big box aisles, shopping quickly for my list: Bengay, fresh spinach, cereal, turkey, apples, I realize that the VPL really isn't that big of a deal. Figuring that my vehicle is probably done getting it's lube job, I make my way to the back of the store and find a woman sitting on a bench crocheting. "She must be getting her tires fixed or something," I think to myself as I sit down on the end of the bench opposite her. There is nobody at the counter... no employees in sight except for one woman on crutches who is apparently in charge of staring at the door that nobody is going in or out of.
After sitting for a good 5 minutes, I glance at the counter and see some papers with my car keys on top. I look at the woman on crutches and say, "These are my keys, my vehicle must be ready." to which she replied, "Oh, I don't work back here, I'm just standing here because I got hurt."
My head cocked to the left, a perplexed expression on my face, I can't help but wonder how much she's getting paid to stand next to a door. "Someone will be back in a few minutes," she says. At this point, I could feel my blood start to boil, I had things to do, the weather was crappy and I had been at work all day. I just wanted to get home and make dinner and settle in for a cozy evening with my roommate.
As the clock on the wall ticked by, I could hear my blood pressure rising. A single piece of paper lay on the floor under the door woman's feet. Turning around and bending down to pick it up, I find my eyes popping out of their sockets at the same time that my mouth dropped open! I could not believe that this woman was not only wearing pants that were incredibly too tight but that I could see the perfect definition of the whale tail of her thong right through her pants! This was a total OMG moment as I could not believe that 1. she was wearing a thong to work at a big box retailer, 2. that a thong could be comfortable with an ass as big as hers, and 3. that her pants were so tight you could see the nearly invisible underware right through them!
It was at this moment that I realized that my VPL's were not nearly as impressive or as important as this womans. I no longer felt insecure where as you might think that I would be now more insecure regarding the visibility of my panties through my pants. I wear only black pants to work which naturally minimizes what you can see. This woman was wearing light colored khakis. And ever since that moment, I have been noticing that more and more women have taken control of their control tops and that you don't see too many whale tails or other forms of the visible panty line. I have instead noticed that in order to avoid such fashion faux pas, we are now getting to see more butt cracks than ever. I'm not sure which is the lesser of the two evils.
Ladies, take notes, if your pants are so tight that you have incredibly visible panty lines, putting on a thong is not going to fix the problem. Buying bigger pants or losing some weight will fix the problem. I don't like spending my day picking my underware out of my butt and readjusting them. I have more important things to do. However, if you want to spend your day pluckin' your own g-string, be my guest.
However, on this particular day, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I pulled my vehicle up in front of the garage of the big box car lube place to find a young girl, far too heavy for her age, standing outside in short sleeves with no coat on. I roll down my window and offer to step inside to write up the ticket for the oil change to which she replies, "No, it's okay." while shivering. The snow was accumulating on her hair, her breasts and her bare arms. I thought for a moment that this girl was going to turn into a real life snowperson right in front of my eyes and I nearly giggled outloud.
As I walked through the store, in my work uniform mind you, I realize that I must pee. Seeking a bathroom, I realize that my underware has thoroughly shifted from where it should be. My boyshorts were quickly becoming a thong. Unsure of how long my panties had been migrating towards the depths of my butt crack, I quickly waved my hands along my buttcheeks to feel for my pantylines. They were definitely not where they were supposed to be. Finally rounding a corner through an aisle of permanent markers and yarn, I find the bathroom. Ah, relief.
As I exited the bathroom, I walked a little taller, not only because I was no longer weighed down by a massively full bladder but also because I confidently knew that my boy shorts were a mystery once again, having put them back in their proper place, I could now glide comfortably through the aisles.
I am fully aware that I suffer from the VPL on many occasions. VPL? Visible panty line. They aren't generally attractive but there are moments that I don't care. Those moments tend to be when I am at work. I am currently between pant sizes and the larger size are too saggy while the smaller size tend to lie like latex on my ass. Oh well, I'm at work... I figure that most people aren't looking at my ass because I spend my days facing my guests and talking directly to them. Also, I can't work in certain panties as my job is incredibly active and there are certain underware styles that just don't mesh with active movement.
Contemplating all of this as I walk through the big box aisles, shopping quickly for my list: Bengay, fresh spinach, cereal, turkey, apples, I realize that the VPL really isn't that big of a deal. Figuring that my vehicle is probably done getting it's lube job, I make my way to the back of the store and find a woman sitting on a bench crocheting. "She must be getting her tires fixed or something," I think to myself as I sit down on the end of the bench opposite her. There is nobody at the counter... no employees in sight except for one woman on crutches who is apparently in charge of staring at the door that nobody is going in or out of.
After sitting for a good 5 minutes, I glance at the counter and see some papers with my car keys on top. I look at the woman on crutches and say, "These are my keys, my vehicle must be ready." to which she replied, "Oh, I don't work back here, I'm just standing here because I got hurt."
My head cocked to the left, a perplexed expression on my face, I can't help but wonder how much she's getting paid to stand next to a door. "Someone will be back in a few minutes," she says. At this point, I could feel my blood start to boil, I had things to do, the weather was crappy and I had been at work all day. I just wanted to get home and make dinner and settle in for a cozy evening with my roommate.
As the clock on the wall ticked by, I could hear my blood pressure rising. A single piece of paper lay on the floor under the door woman's feet. Turning around and bending down to pick it up, I find my eyes popping out of their sockets at the same time that my mouth dropped open! I could not believe that this woman was not only wearing pants that were incredibly too tight but that I could see the perfect definition of the whale tail of her thong right through her pants! This was a total OMG moment as I could not believe that 1. she was wearing a thong to work at a big box retailer, 2. that a thong could be comfortable with an ass as big as hers, and 3. that her pants were so tight you could see the nearly invisible underware right through them!
It was at this moment that I realized that my VPL's were not nearly as impressive or as important as this womans. I no longer felt insecure where as you might think that I would be now more insecure regarding the visibility of my panties through my pants. I wear only black pants to work which naturally minimizes what you can see. This woman was wearing light colored khakis. And ever since that moment, I have been noticing that more and more women have taken control of their control tops and that you don't see too many whale tails or other forms of the visible panty line. I have instead noticed that in order to avoid such fashion faux pas, we are now getting to see more butt cracks than ever. I'm not sure which is the lesser of the two evils.
Ladies, take notes, if your pants are so tight that you have incredibly visible panty lines, putting on a thong is not going to fix the problem. Buying bigger pants or losing some weight will fix the problem. I don't like spending my day picking my underware out of my butt and readjusting them. I have more important things to do. However, if you want to spend your day pluckin' your own g-string, be my guest.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Crack is Whack
Tonight the President of the United States of America spoke the annual "State of the Union" address to millions of viewers. I was not one of them. I was at work wondering if he was telling me anything that I didn't already know... the state of the union sucks right now. Unemployment blows ass unless you are lazy and incredibly comfortable with living off the system and it's at it's highest in years. There are multiple issues that the President didn't address that I feel are more much pressing though. These issues became incredibly impressive on me this past week and I feel that I must address them in order to finally find some peace with them.
For those of you who know me and those of you who don't, I've begun taking hot yoga classes. This is simply a 90 minute intense cardio yoga class done in a room that is heated to one hundred and ten degrees farenheit. This literally causes you to sweat your ass off while contorting your body into multiple pretzel forms. In fact, while leaving the first class, I'm pretty sure that I stepped in more than one puddle of melted ass. Now, don't be confused, I'm not turning into one of those "fully centered, focusing on my third eye" weirdos... I'm simply trying to build strength and flexibility. However, there are plenty of yogi's... yep, that's the actual term, in the classes that are into all that bullshit. I mean, I felt completely exhilerated after the class, relaxed, and yes, centered, but I think it had more to do with endorphines than some damn sun salutation.
There are things about the class that I didn't expect though... I didn't expect a man in 1970's short shorts with a giant (I'm talking puts Santa to shame!) sized beer belly to be in the class. Thank dog that he was in back, but seriously, does the room have to be lined in mirrors? Talk about finding a focal point... his giant belly button was it! I didn't expect Big Foot to be taking the class. Or maybe it was a Wookie. Either way, this had to be one of the hairiest individuals that I have ever seen! Add 110 degrees, tons of sweat and I swear to dog, he looked like a lake creature from one of those bad 1960s B movies with the screaming girls and the terribly impossible plot lines! (Swamp Thing is what I will refer to this individual as in future blog posts.) I mean, after 90 minutes, this guy smelled like he'd crawled out of a toxic sewer! I'm just glad he was behind me and that I wasn't downwind.
There are two rules to taking hot yoga:
1. You must wear spandex or very little clothing. This has more to do with the changing of positions than it does with the sweating, but I think if I had layered up, I would have literally died due to dehydration... would have looked like one giant piece of beef jerky. (Btw... sorry for everyone who had to look at my fat ass in leggings but holy shit, was it hot in there!)
2. You must abstain from eating or drinking anything but water for at lest 2 to 3 hours prior to taking the class. Too much heat + digestion = puke. No bueno. Also, there are plenty of moves that put pressure on the internal organs, massaging them to create a release of toxins thus resulting in a better body balance.
Now, when you don't follow either of these directions, this is what happens: strange sweat stains and farts. Yep, farts. That's right. Try keeping your mind focused when the fat ass in front of you has his oversized basketball shorts firmly tucked between his puckered ass cheeks. Why were they puckered? Perhaps it was because he was trying to avoid blowing ass in class. Too bad... he did it anyway! Multiple times! Apparently this is normal, as I can remember my older brother telling me that HE was the one who farted in a yoga class, packed his things, left and never went back. However, this jackass just kept on ripping them like they were going out of style. 40 people, 110 degrees and this jerk doesn't flinch as he flatulates all over the place! Nobody else seemed to notice except me and my friends who tried desperately to keep from busting out laughing at each flutter of his ass cheeks.
I was releasing endorphines. That guy was releasing last nights fourth meal! Thanks for the leftovers asshole!
Now, I wish that this had been the most interesting part of my weekend but this was only second to the events that occured on Saturday night. You see, in typical fashion of celebrating a friends birthday, I ended up in a strip club. Not unusual as I have been multiple times and actually quite enjoy the outing, often viewing it as a sociological experiment. I spend most of my time people watching, sitting at the side of the stage, intently watching the men, both old and young, as they view each dancing woman as if they are pubescent teenagers catching their first glimpse of a naked body. This particular evening did not provide this sort of entertainment however. Instead, I began critiquing the girls, their outfits, facial expressions (or lack thereof), and taking particular interest in their pole tricks.
I'm going to pause here and give props to the athleticism that is demonstrated by strippers. Most of these women were doing moves that even the advanced yogi's in my yoga class couldn't do and they did them while completely naked, in front of a crowd on a cold stage. Kudos ladies... kudos.
Okay, I regress. As a tall blonde entered the staging area, all three of us verbally noted that she must be older because her hair was covering her face. We were right, she was 38 as we would later find out. As we sat watching, tossing singles on the edge of the stage to draw her towards us, her long legs twisting and turning across the floor, our conversation became more intriguing than the dancer. A moment later and I noticed that she was right in front of us, fully nude. "There ya go buddy! Happy birthday! Here's a crotch shot for ya!" I said to my friend. "I don't think she's looking at me," he said. And sure enough she wasn't. She had her eyes right on me, legs spread open, waving at me with one finger.
So where am I going with this? I think that if you are going to have a job stripping, you should probably get your hemmorhoids taken care of prior to showing up for work, removing your clothing and then spreading your butt cheeks in front of someones face and expecting them to give you money. I wanted to give her money, to have hemmorhoid surgery... not to keep her dancing in front of me. Long story short, she later came over and wanted to give me a lap dance. As flattered as I was, I sacrificed my friends' wife to the wolves and let her get the hemmorhoid rub down.
So this weeks lessons: a. get your butt fixed and b. don't eat before yoga.
If only all of life's lessons were so simple!
For those of you who know me and those of you who don't, I've begun taking hot yoga classes. This is simply a 90 minute intense cardio yoga class done in a room that is heated to one hundred and ten degrees farenheit. This literally causes you to sweat your ass off while contorting your body into multiple pretzel forms. In fact, while leaving the first class, I'm pretty sure that I stepped in more than one puddle of melted ass. Now, don't be confused, I'm not turning into one of those "fully centered, focusing on my third eye" weirdos... I'm simply trying to build strength and flexibility. However, there are plenty of yogi's... yep, that's the actual term, in the classes that are into all that bullshit. I mean, I felt completely exhilerated after the class, relaxed, and yes, centered, but I think it had more to do with endorphines than some damn sun salutation.
There are things about the class that I didn't expect though... I didn't expect a man in 1970's short shorts with a giant (I'm talking puts Santa to shame!) sized beer belly to be in the class. Thank dog that he was in back, but seriously, does the room have to be lined in mirrors? Talk about finding a focal point... his giant belly button was it! I didn't expect Big Foot to be taking the class. Or maybe it was a Wookie. Either way, this had to be one of the hairiest individuals that I have ever seen! Add 110 degrees, tons of sweat and I swear to dog, he looked like a lake creature from one of those bad 1960s B movies with the screaming girls and the terribly impossible plot lines! (Swamp Thing is what I will refer to this individual as in future blog posts.) I mean, after 90 minutes, this guy smelled like he'd crawled out of a toxic sewer! I'm just glad he was behind me and that I wasn't downwind.
There are two rules to taking hot yoga:
1. You must wear spandex or very little clothing. This has more to do with the changing of positions than it does with the sweating, but I think if I had layered up, I would have literally died due to dehydration... would have looked like one giant piece of beef jerky. (Btw... sorry for everyone who had to look at my fat ass in leggings but holy shit, was it hot in there!)
2. You must abstain from eating or drinking anything but water for at lest 2 to 3 hours prior to taking the class. Too much heat + digestion = puke. No bueno. Also, there are plenty of moves that put pressure on the internal organs, massaging them to create a release of toxins thus resulting in a better body balance.
Now, when you don't follow either of these directions, this is what happens: strange sweat stains and farts. Yep, farts. That's right. Try keeping your mind focused when the fat ass in front of you has his oversized basketball shorts firmly tucked between his puckered ass cheeks. Why were they puckered? Perhaps it was because he was trying to avoid blowing ass in class. Too bad... he did it anyway! Multiple times! Apparently this is normal, as I can remember my older brother telling me that HE was the one who farted in a yoga class, packed his things, left and never went back. However, this jackass just kept on ripping them like they were going out of style. 40 people, 110 degrees and this jerk doesn't flinch as he flatulates all over the place! Nobody else seemed to notice except me and my friends who tried desperately to keep from busting out laughing at each flutter of his ass cheeks.
I was releasing endorphines. That guy was releasing last nights fourth meal! Thanks for the leftovers asshole!
Now, I wish that this had been the most interesting part of my weekend but this was only second to the events that occured on Saturday night. You see, in typical fashion of celebrating a friends birthday, I ended up in a strip club. Not unusual as I have been multiple times and actually quite enjoy the outing, often viewing it as a sociological experiment. I spend most of my time people watching, sitting at the side of the stage, intently watching the men, both old and young, as they view each dancing woman as if they are pubescent teenagers catching their first glimpse of a naked body. This particular evening did not provide this sort of entertainment however. Instead, I began critiquing the girls, their outfits, facial expressions (or lack thereof), and taking particular interest in their pole tricks.
I'm going to pause here and give props to the athleticism that is demonstrated by strippers. Most of these women were doing moves that even the advanced yogi's in my yoga class couldn't do and they did them while completely naked, in front of a crowd on a cold stage. Kudos ladies... kudos.
Okay, I regress. As a tall blonde entered the staging area, all three of us verbally noted that she must be older because her hair was covering her face. We were right, she was 38 as we would later find out. As we sat watching, tossing singles on the edge of the stage to draw her towards us, her long legs twisting and turning across the floor, our conversation became more intriguing than the dancer. A moment later and I noticed that she was right in front of us, fully nude. "There ya go buddy! Happy birthday! Here's a crotch shot for ya!" I said to my friend. "I don't think she's looking at me," he said. And sure enough she wasn't. She had her eyes right on me, legs spread open, waving at me with one finger.
So where am I going with this? I think that if you are going to have a job stripping, you should probably get your hemmorhoids taken care of prior to showing up for work, removing your clothing and then spreading your butt cheeks in front of someones face and expecting them to give you money. I wanted to give her money, to have hemmorhoid surgery... not to keep her dancing in front of me. Long story short, she later came over and wanted to give me a lap dance. As flattered as I was, I sacrificed my friends' wife to the wolves and let her get the hemmorhoid rub down.
So this weeks lessons: a. get your butt fixed and b. don't eat before yoga.
If only all of life's lessons were so simple!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Go text yourself.
As the information age and technology continue to grow and take over our daily lives, the way that we communicate is changing rapidly. We communicate quicker than we ever have before rapidly sending emails, voicemails and text messages with the push of a button. I mean, if it weren't for the interweb, my blog wouldn't exist. It would simply be a fifty cent composition book with a hard cover and woven binding, "My Diary" scribbled in permanent marker on the front, modge podged with cutouts from magazines read too many times.
I'm a big fan of the quick communication. I like sending an email to someone at my leisure and getting a response at theirs, often only minutes later. I enjoy chatting with people on social networking sites, having hours long conversations that don't require holding a hot, sweaty phone up to my ear, elbow cramping all the while. I am especially a big fan of text messages for short, simple conversations.
However, as I continue to navigate the world of "relationships", seeking out my perfect soul mate, the text message seems to be making or breaking said relationships. How? It's simple. Any "relationship", be it friendship or other, can be evaluated by the text message.
1. If you text after the hours of 11pm and all the text says is "Yo", the text is not the invitation to begin a conversation, but instead an invitation to copulate... er... it's a freakin' booty call.
2. Text messages should never be received before 8am unless it is an emergency or prior arrangements had been discussed.
2a. DON'T TEXT ME AT 7AM TO SEE IF I WILL WORK FOR YOU AT 2PM, ESPECIALLY WHEN I WAS STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU AT 11PM THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!! Texts should not replace a face to face conversation when the conversation was so simple and could have happened without waking me up! Jerk.
3. Dates should not be made and/or confirmed through text message. This lesson was recently learned the hard way (no pun intended so get your heads out of the gutter!). Said date was scheduled via text message. No communication was had the day of the date, so I knew I was going to be stood up. I decided not to humiliate myself and stayed at home instead. At four o'clock the next afternoon the following text was received:
LL: Yesterday was that spoken word thing wasn't it? Oh shoot, I completely forgot.
First of all, "OH SHOOT"??? WTF? What are you? 60? My mom says oh shoot... not my boyfriends. And it was apparent that you were fully aware of the obligation that you made as you completely avoided communication the entire day when the previous 7 days were filled with text conversations during your lunch break and your evening.
Oh shoot, guess I forgot to respond. Shuckey darns.
Now, there are parts of text messaging that I find enjoyable. For example, I like flirting through text. Sometimes it's just really nice to be able to send a little somethin' somethin' in their general direction to entice them and make sure that they are thinking about you throughout the day. I do NOT condone sending pictures through text of yourself, your body or anything else. (See previous blog regarding the boy who texted me a picture of his erect penis... impressive and disturbing, especially since I'm pretty sure that those weren't HIS flowery pillow cases in the background based on the last time I had been in his bedroom.)
There are other parts of texting that I hate though. This would be the annonymity of it all. I do not know who some texts are from, in which case I generally respond with "Who is this?" or I do not respond at all. Recently, I had a 6 week long fling with a gentleman that I will refer to from this point forward as D. D. is/was a passionate lover (I know, it's geeky but true). He and I had a wonderful time for awhile and then things just started cooling off. I began working more, he wasn't working at all (laid off, but who isn't these days). Here's the lowdown on D.:
*has no job and isn't looking for one
*has been drinking every time that we've talked
*apparently has a couple of kids that he STILL hasn't told me about
*has changed his phone number 4 times, yes, 4 times!!! since I've met him.
When D. texts me, I have no idea who it is and he disappeared, totally M.I.A. for over 4 weeks, then texts me at 2am with "Yo" as the message. The following conversation was had yesterday, times included:
Random number: 2:05am Yo
Random number: 8:39am oh yeah it's d
Random number: 7:24pm so u not tlkin 2 me anymore at all?
Me: 7:56pm Really? I haven't heard from you in like a month and I've been at work all day on a double.
Random number: <7:57pm> oh sorry bout bein mia
Me: 8:03pm Yeah? What happened? Do you even know that T. moved to Wisconsin?
Random number: 8:04pm yea
Random number: 9:46pm so how u been
Now, there are multiple things that bother me regarding this particular text. Emotion is absent. He obviously didn't understand that I wasn't going to respond after not hearing from him for so long. He copped an attitude with ME and then can't type a full sentence or use punctuation. I know for a fact that he owns a phone with a full QWERTY key board so there's no excuse for a lack of vowels, consanants, or ending punctuation.
Guess what... D. now stands for DONE! I'm done!
Make it or break it, but the text message is a helluva way to evaluate a relationship, or lack thereof. Text messaging is great in social situations that require a level of discretion, such as business meetings or large dinners, commenting things that shouldn't be overheard. But don't abuse the privilege. Don't use it as a primary form of communication, only secondary... especially if you're trying to establish a relationship with me. There's nothing sexier than looking into someones eyes while having a deep, heated conversation. The kinetic energy that occurs between two people can't be felt or embraced through some plastic and a computer screen (I'm not knocking internet porn people! But remember, those girls/guys aren't performing for just you... just you and 12 crew members (pun intended), the director, and 4 million other people that are watching the same website you are!)
I'm sure I'll revisit this topic again as there is so much more to say! I didn't even get into confrontation via texts. Til we meet again... go text yourself!
I'm a big fan of the quick communication. I like sending an email to someone at my leisure and getting a response at theirs, often only minutes later. I enjoy chatting with people on social networking sites, having hours long conversations that don't require holding a hot, sweaty phone up to my ear, elbow cramping all the while. I am especially a big fan of text messages for short, simple conversations.
However, as I continue to navigate the world of "relationships", seeking out my perfect soul mate, the text message seems to be making or breaking said relationships. How? It's simple. Any "relationship", be it friendship or other, can be evaluated by the text message.
1. If you text after the hours of 11pm and all the text says is "Yo", the text is not the invitation to begin a conversation, but instead an invitation to copulate... er... it's a freakin' booty call.
2. Text messages should never be received before 8am unless it is an emergency or prior arrangements had been discussed.
2a. DON'T TEXT ME AT 7AM TO SEE IF I WILL WORK FOR YOU AT 2PM, ESPECIALLY WHEN I WAS STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU AT 11PM THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!! Texts should not replace a face to face conversation when the conversation was so simple and could have happened without waking me up! Jerk.
3. Dates should not be made and/or confirmed through text message. This lesson was recently learned the hard way (no pun intended so get your heads out of the gutter!). Said date was scheduled via text message. No communication was had the day of the date, so I knew I was going to be stood up. I decided not to humiliate myself and stayed at home instead. At four o'clock the next afternoon the following text was received:
LL: Yesterday was that spoken word thing wasn't it? Oh shoot, I completely forgot.
First of all, "OH SHOOT"??? WTF? What are you? 60? My mom says oh shoot... not my boyfriends. And it was apparent that you were fully aware of the obligation that you made as you completely avoided communication the entire day when the previous 7 days were filled with text conversations during your lunch break and your evening.
Oh shoot, guess I forgot to respond. Shuckey darns.
Now, there are parts of text messaging that I find enjoyable. For example, I like flirting through text. Sometimes it's just really nice to be able to send a little somethin' somethin' in their general direction to entice them and make sure that they are thinking about you throughout the day. I do NOT condone sending pictures through text of yourself, your body or anything else. (See previous blog regarding the boy who texted me a picture of his erect penis... impressive and disturbing, especially since I'm pretty sure that those weren't HIS flowery pillow cases in the background based on the last time I had been in his bedroom.)
There are other parts of texting that I hate though. This would be the annonymity of it all. I do not know who some texts are from, in which case I generally respond with "Who is this?" or I do not respond at all. Recently, I had a 6 week long fling with a gentleman that I will refer to from this point forward as D. D. is/was a passionate lover (I know, it's geeky but true). He and I had a wonderful time for awhile and then things just started cooling off. I began working more, he wasn't working at all (laid off, but who isn't these days). Here's the lowdown on D.:
*has no job and isn't looking for one
*has been drinking every time that we've talked
*apparently has a couple of kids that he STILL hasn't told me about
*has changed his phone number 4 times, yes, 4 times!!! since I've met him.
When D. texts me, I have no idea who it is and he disappeared, totally M.I.A. for over 4 weeks, then texts me at 2am with "Yo" as the message. The following conversation was had yesterday, times included:
Random number: 2:05am Yo
Random number: 8:39am oh yeah it's d
Random number: 7:24pm so u not tlkin 2 me anymore at all?
Me: 7:56pm Really? I haven't heard from you in like a month and I've been at work all day on a double.
Random number: <7:57pm> oh sorry bout bein mia
Me: 8:03pm Yeah? What happened? Do you even know that T. moved to Wisconsin?
Random number: 8:04pm yea
Random number: 9:46pm so how u been
Now, there are multiple things that bother me regarding this particular text. Emotion is absent. He obviously didn't understand that I wasn't going to respond after not hearing from him for so long. He copped an attitude with ME and then can't type a full sentence or use punctuation. I know for a fact that he owns a phone with a full QWERTY key board so there's no excuse for a lack of vowels, consanants, or ending punctuation.
Guess what... D. now stands for DONE! I'm done!
Make it or break it, but the text message is a helluva way to evaluate a relationship, or lack thereof. Text messaging is great in social situations that require a level of discretion, such as business meetings or large dinners, commenting things that shouldn't be overheard. But don't abuse the privilege. Don't use it as a primary form of communication, only secondary... especially if you're trying to establish a relationship with me. There's nothing sexier than looking into someones eyes while having a deep, heated conversation. The kinetic energy that occurs between two people can't be felt or embraced through some plastic and a computer screen (I'm not knocking internet porn people! But remember, those girls/guys aren't performing for just you... just you and 12 crew members (pun intended), the director, and 4 million other people that are watching the same website you are!)
I'm sure I'll revisit this topic again as there is so much more to say! I didn't even get into confrontation via texts. Til we meet again... go text yourself!
Monday, January 18, 2010
Speak no evil... or just don't speak. You pick.
WARNING: This blog contains many vulgarities and use of cursory language. It also probably contains some ideas that you aren't going to agree with. Bite me. It happened and I thought it and then I wrote about it. If you're curious, keep reading!
The past few days, there's been something that's been bothering me. I've been listening to the "girls" that I work with lately. Most of them aren't ladies so yes, even though they are all over the age of 21, I will continue to refer to them as girls. (Not sleeping with somebody on the first date does not make you a LADY! It makes you a prude.) By the way, I was sticking my tongue out as I wrote that, all the while singing "na na na na na"... just like a child!
Anyway, I've been listening to the dumb things that they say. Generally, I would just ignore them and their pettyness, but Saturday night, I overheard a doozy! Oh my! As we, my coworkers and I, were discussing the pending events of the evening, one of the girls says that her boyfriend doesn't want to go out and she doesn't want to walk downtown alone. "It's cool," I tell her. "I live downtown and I walk it all the time. The other girls have walked it with me. There's tons of cops, people everywhere and it's VERY well lit. Really, you have nothing to worry about. Just don't take a ton of cash with you and pay attention to where you're walking. Look confident and nobody will fuck with you." I'd like to think that I gave her good advice... most of that is the same crap they teach you in every basic self-defense class.
Apparently, my words of wisdom were not enough because she quickly retorted, pony tail swinging, with "But I have rape in my family and I don't want to have that shit happen to me."
In a room full of MY friends, you would have been able to hear crickets chirping and the sound of the world stopping directly on its axis. But the other girls seemed to agree with her mentality. I am pretty sure that I quit breathing for a minute as I contemplated the words that she said, studying her face and all of its' seriousness. I stared blankly at her. Her pony tail still shaking from side to side as if the wind were somehow blowing inside; she seemed so confident in her... stupidity.
The following conversation occured between the minutes of 11:21pm and 11:23pm in my head:
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? ARE YOU MOTHER FUCKING KIDDING ME YOU STUPID ASS BITCH?!? Do you even know what rape is? Because I'm pretty sure that if you were to look it up you would find that it is not genetic. It is not hereditary (unless you have a pedophile in the family that preys on generation after generation but I know that you don't)! You've got to be the biggest waste of tits and ass I've ever seen. I mean, seriously, did you even think about those words before they came out of your mouth? Just because someone you know was raped doesn't mean that YOU will be raped. I mean, what makes you even think that you are rapeable?! Yes, rapeable... able to raped. I said it. I mean, do you seriously think that every guy that resides downtown will want to fuck you right there on the street corner? Well, guess what honey, you don't even have an ass. And your little bitty boobies... you don't even have hips that shake from side to side. You have nothing to entice men when you are walking down the street at night in a winter coat. ARGH! I can't believe that you are so dense to think that just because your grandmother was a rape victim that you will be too. It's not breast cancer or herpes!
Now, I will admit, my anger was out of control as I was tired, covered in soy sauce and my back hurt. However, this is a girl who has a simplistic beauty, natural really, and is highly intelligent in all other aspects of her life. However, in being a woman... she's a dumbass.
She's not the only one. There are lots of women dumbasses out there. The ones that really get me aren't just the general dumbasses... but the dumbasses that contain a lot of potential. The girls that seem to have all their shit together in all aspects of their lives, except for the part that requires a decent level of commmon sense. They have boyfriends that they cohabitate with fairly successfully. They made decent grades, are involved in campus organizations that will potentially secure their futures based on membership alone, and they seem really good at balancing being emotional beings with being intelligent beings, until moments like that when all of my faith in womankind is challenged and then destroyed.
Please ladies! I urge you to think before you speak! I realize that far too often I am incapable of doing so and that I often end up on a steady diet of shoe leather. However, I generally keep my "foot in mouth" moments to suffering from the effects of alcohol or calling dumb girls out on their dumb shit. Okay, I admit, sometimes my timing is just off but whose isn't? Seriously though ladies... it only takes a moment and it doesn't hurt... it can be contagious even. ... please, think before you speak, especially when your thoughts are stupid.
The past few days, there's been something that's been bothering me. I've been listening to the "girls" that I work with lately. Most of them aren't ladies so yes, even though they are all over the age of 21, I will continue to refer to them as girls. (Not sleeping with somebody on the first date does not make you a LADY! It makes you a prude.) By the way, I was sticking my tongue out as I wrote that, all the while singing "na na na na na"... just like a child!
Anyway, I've been listening to the dumb things that they say. Generally, I would just ignore them and their pettyness, but Saturday night, I overheard a doozy! Oh my! As we, my coworkers and I, were discussing the pending events of the evening, one of the girls says that her boyfriend doesn't want to go out and she doesn't want to walk downtown alone. "It's cool," I tell her. "I live downtown and I walk it all the time. The other girls have walked it with me. There's tons of cops, people everywhere and it's VERY well lit. Really, you have nothing to worry about. Just don't take a ton of cash with you and pay attention to where you're walking. Look confident and nobody will fuck with you." I'd like to think that I gave her good advice... most of that is the same crap they teach you in every basic self-defense class.
Apparently, my words of wisdom were not enough because she quickly retorted, pony tail swinging, with "But I have rape in my family and I don't want to have that shit happen to me."
In a room full of MY friends, you would have been able to hear crickets chirping and the sound of the world stopping directly on its axis. But the other girls seemed to agree with her mentality. I am pretty sure that I quit breathing for a minute as I contemplated the words that she said, studying her face and all of its' seriousness. I stared blankly at her. Her pony tail still shaking from side to side as if the wind were somehow blowing inside; she seemed so confident in her... stupidity.
The following conversation occured between the minutes of 11:21pm and 11:23pm in my head:
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? ARE YOU MOTHER FUCKING KIDDING ME YOU STUPID ASS BITCH?!? Do you even know what rape is? Because I'm pretty sure that if you were to look it up you would find that it is not genetic. It is not hereditary (unless you have a pedophile in the family that preys on generation after generation but I know that you don't)! You've got to be the biggest waste of tits and ass I've ever seen. I mean, seriously, did you even think about those words before they came out of your mouth? Just because someone you know was raped doesn't mean that YOU will be raped. I mean, what makes you even think that you are rapeable?! Yes, rapeable... able to raped. I said it. I mean, do you seriously think that every guy that resides downtown will want to fuck you right there on the street corner? Well, guess what honey, you don't even have an ass. And your little bitty boobies... you don't even have hips that shake from side to side. You have nothing to entice men when you are walking down the street at night in a winter coat. ARGH! I can't believe that you are so dense to think that just because your grandmother was a rape victim that you will be too. It's not breast cancer or herpes!
Now, I will admit, my anger was out of control as I was tired, covered in soy sauce and my back hurt. However, this is a girl who has a simplistic beauty, natural really, and is highly intelligent in all other aspects of her life. However, in being a woman... she's a dumbass.
She's not the only one. There are lots of women dumbasses out there. The ones that really get me aren't just the general dumbasses... but the dumbasses that contain a lot of potential. The girls that seem to have all their shit together in all aspects of their lives, except for the part that requires a decent level of commmon sense. They have boyfriends that they cohabitate with fairly successfully. They made decent grades, are involved in campus organizations that will potentially secure their futures based on membership alone, and they seem really good at balancing being emotional beings with being intelligent beings, until moments like that when all of my faith in womankind is challenged and then destroyed.
Please ladies! I urge you to think before you speak! I realize that far too often I am incapable of doing so and that I often end up on a steady diet of shoe leather. However, I generally keep my "foot in mouth" moments to suffering from the effects of alcohol or calling dumb girls out on their dumb shit. Okay, I admit, sometimes my timing is just off but whose isn't? Seriously though ladies... it only takes a moment and it doesn't hurt... it can be contagious even. ... please, think before you speak, especially when your thoughts are stupid.