Tuesday, June 29, 2004

I'm a little tired and pissed off today, because this morning at oh, about 2:45 or so I was roused from a sound sleep by a group of drunken fucknuts outside my window. I live on what is technically the first floor of my building, but my apartment is actually about 10 feet up from the street level because of the basement that is sort of above ground, if that makes any sense. I don't know--I'm still half asleep.

Anyhoo, when I first awoke I was a bit confused, thinking my alarm had gone off or something and it was time to get up (why else would I be awake?) I glanced at the clock and realized it was a quarter til 3:00, and that's when I heard the drunken voices outside shouting and laughing, and the sound of some dude just repeating over and over "No way, man. No fuckin' way." (Real brainiacs, this crowd). I was like, okay, who are these dickweeds and why are they parked outside my window at this hour? I stumbled out of bed to peek outside saw this group of lamers having a pow-wow on the front stoop--one of them strumming tunelessly on a fucking guitar! Cursing to myself, I started slamming all my windows shut, then flipped on the lights and began searching through the packet of papers from my apartment office. I thought surely there was a number to call for noise complaints or drunken asshole removal or something. I didn't find a damn thing in all the papers, so I called the main office number hoping there'd be info on the recorded message about who to call in situations like these. Sadly, there wasn't a damn thing--just a number for "emergency maintenence." I tossed the papers to the floor in disgust, and realized I could still hear the little fuckers with the windows closed and the fan going. I thought about calling the police, but I didn't know any number besides-- of course--911. At that point I said "fuck it," stuffed my ears with cotton balls, pulled the covers over my head and somehow managed to get back to sleep after about a half hour or so. As I was lying there, I was wishing I had a 7-foot tall African American boyfriend named Icepick I could send out there to kick the shit out of them. Or a hand grenade I could just lightly toss out the window and shut them up permanently. I'm completely unashamed of my murderous thoughts--lying there listening to these primates cackle and strum an out-of-tune guitar at 3:30a.m. would be enough to send Gandhi over the edge.

No fuckin' way, man.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Hey, Pat Robertson is giving you the finger! Go kick his ass!

Bossman just walked past me humming--I swear to God--a song from The Wizard Of Oz. Man, is he a dick.

So, life is going well. I'm exercising every day, I'm keeping up with my writing, I had an article published by 3am magazine, and I made some money at my bead sale over the weeked. I can't complain, but I will...

...cause Emily sucks! She sucks so hard she blows! Like a hurricane she blows! She took the TV. Bitch took the damn TV. This was about a month ago, so I guess I'm a little behind on my bitching. But unlike her, I can live without a TV. Because I, you know, read and stuff when I'm home instead of being zombified by America's Next Top Model or whatever the hell she watches. The original plan was for her to take the large TV, which I had, and let me borrow her small TV with the attached VCR until I get my own or move, whichever comes first. But, like a total douche, she reneged on the deal. When I asked her why, she said "It's my stuff--I don't have to justify my actions to you." Sadly, it's about what I've come to expect from her. She's emotionally retarded. You know what though? I don't care. She can keep the TV and shove it sideways, 'cause she sucks!

And, oh yeah--did I mention that she sucks?

Monday, June 14, 2004

I just want to go on record saying that I don't give a crap about Reagan kicking the bucket. And it has nothing to do with my political leanings, really. I just don't care. Dude was 93. That's seven years away from being 100. He lived long enough--let it go! What I'm really pissed off about, though, is that since the mail wasn't delivered on Friday, (National Day of Mourning and all), I didn't get my paycheck this weekend, which blew. I guess one could argue that it's not really the fault of whatever dildo decided to close the post office that day, or even the fault of Reagan for dying so inconveniently. It's my own damn fault for not getting Direct Deposit like a sane person, in which case the late delivery of my paycheck would have been a moot point. But it's so much easier to blame other people--especially dead ones. A good life strategy, I think.

Speaking of dead people (or "dead" people), I learned something new today. Remember the novel Go Ask Alice? It was the real life "diary" of some chick from the sixties who smoked a joint, fell in with the wrong crowd, then quickly became a junkie (heroin, 'ludes, and probably some LSD, since it was, y'know, the sixties) ran away, sold herself to dirty hippie dudes for drugs and/or cash, lived on the street, and died of an overdose of some sort. Anyhoo, throughout her fall from grace she apparently kept this diary detailing every minute detail (even, according to the sidenotes, scribbling down entries on paper bags, scraps of paper, etc.) I read this book when I was about eleven or so. I remember the tagline on the front cover: "You can't ask Alice anything anymore..." (Ooooh, eerie!) Well, it turns out that the book was/is totally fake! It was penned by a ghostwriter and intended as a cautionary tale for any impressionable young kids who may have been contemplating smoking a joint or staying out past curfew. The book's bogus-ness (hey, I just invented a word!) has probably been common knowledge for quite some time, but I'm just now finding out about it. And all this time I thought it was real. I feel so used.

Thursday, June 10, 2004

I'm having a little too much fun with this site...

It totally reminds me of that scene in the '80s classic Better Off Dead when John Cusack's father sits him down for a heart-to-heart and he's trying to use an outdated book of slang to relate to him. "Lane, you are really--" (glances at book)--"bringing me over, man." Apparently this site is for youth ministers, teachers, parents, etc. who want to be clued in on the meanings of teen lingo. I'm sure it's a useful tool for the intended audience, but for the rest of us smart-asses, it's just good snarky fun. Here is the "disclaimer":

This dictionary isn't so you can try to talk like someone you're not. But it is a good reference for those who are seeking to understand a piece of youth culture today. These words are used differently by various teens around the world. Some of these words may have different meaning for teens in one area than another. But overall, this list contains words actively used by mainstream teens today. You will not find many "old school" or outdated terms such as "bad" or "radical."

You mean those crazy kids today don't say "bad" or "radical" anymore? Then again, neither did I. Guess I just wasn't "cool" back in my day.

More highlights from the definitions (see my comments in italics):

1. ask. "Let me ax you somtin!"

1. n. Someone who flaunts money. "Check out that baller over there . . . let's jack his car!"
(yes, this is, in fact, the first thing I think when I see a "baller").

for sheezy
1. (derived from "for sure") A statement of agreement. "Are you sure you want to go to ice cream?" "For sheezy!"
(I'm totally going to use this next time someone in the office asks me to lunch).

1. alright. A little above mediocre. "Do you like that youth pastor?" Yea, he's M&M."
Or, in the case of rapper Eminem, it can also mean--how you say?--"sucks."

1. A very foul term for someone’s mother that is very attractive. The word is an acronym for a “Mother that I’d Like to Fu**”
See also: American Pie

1. Wide wheels, sometimes with white walls.
There's a Madonna joke in there somewhere. If not, there should be.

Okay, I'm done now.

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Holy shit, no posts for two weeks? What the hell is wrong with me? I have no excuses, other than that I've been a bit preoccupied with my jewelry and other assorted artsy shit lately (I'm in another craft sale this week). My latest creation (and addiction) are duct tape purses. I've made two and I'm working on another. Seriously. Duct tape comes in different colors now (red, black, white, etc.) and you can make really cool shit out of it (the finished product comes out looking like vinyl). One duct tape manufacturer holds a contest for the best prom dress made out of duct tape, which, in red or black (maybe even white?) would totally rock. You'd definitely have to line that sucker with some kind of fabric, though, because unless you have nipples of steel, the chafage (is that a word?) would kill you. I'd totally wear a duct tape prom dress. Too bad I'm not in high school. I should start trolling, like, shopping malls and Taco Bells for cute high school boys so that next year I can be someone's 31-year-old prom date and wear a bad-ass duct tape prom dress. Come to think of it though, it'd probably be pretty hard to find a high school kid cool enough to appreciate a duct tape prom dress. He'd have to be as perverted as I am, and that's saying something.

Can I just talk about my cats for a sec? They rock. I woke up yesterday morning to find Riley (fluffy Maine Coon) and Shelby (little gray and white kitty) all curled up together; Riley was lying behind Shelby, totally spooning her. It was so cute I nearly pissed myself with delight. I love my cats. In fact, I am dangerously obsessed with them. I'll probably be committed for it one day (but at least I'll have a lot of time to make my duct tape purses!) Seriously, though. I make up nicknames for my cats, I sing to them, and I hold lengthy one-sided conversations with them. Skeptical? Here are some nicknames I've come up with for Riley (just a few): Mr. Cat, H.R. Fluff n' Puff, Big Guy, Big Boy, Rile Cat, Big Rile, Rile Dawg, Fluff Daddy, Mr. Big Fluff, and holy shit I need serious professional help. I've also walked around my apartment singing (to the tune of Christina Auguilera's What a Skank Wants): "What a cat wants, what a cat needs, whatever keeps you purring sets me free..." I don't know what's scarier--the fact that I sing bad pop songs to my cats, or the fact that I'm freely admitting it, right here in front of God and everyone. I would blame the copious amounts of marijuana I've been inhaling over the past year, but I've always been like this about my cats. They just have that effect on me.

Okay, here are some obscure movies that you need to check out:

New Waterford Girl Good movie, although it's a bit slow. It's really funny and well-acted, if you can get past the leisurely pacing. Andrew McCarthy is in it, playing a high school English teacher. Since the story is set in the 70's, however, his character sports some unfortunate-bordering-on-pork-choppy sideburns, but he's still cute.

Blue Car Another coming-of-age, losing your virginity/innocence, blahblahblah movie, but a good one. It's much "heavier" than New Waterford Girl, though, and a bit on the depressing side. If you rent the DVD, be sure to watch the director's commentary.

Lost and Delirious Sigh. Love this one. It's about lesbians, it's set in a boarding school, and the three lead actresses are extremely cute...especially Piper Perabo. She does such an amazing job in this movie, it's hard to believe she was the same chick skankin' it up in a big ol' turd of a flick like Coyote Ugly. Oh, and my buddy Graham Greene is in it! If you know me and I've never bored you with the story about the time I met him at the Denver airport a few years back, email me and I'll give you the full scoop.

That is all!