I'm not sure how the highways are around your parts but around these parts, they're bumpy. And full of pits, pocks, and pot-holes. They're lumpy, hilly and bouncy. Especially at an advanced speed in a giant, rattling tin can.
When you have to pee and you've forgotten to go before you left work and pounded a Coke on your way out the door, they're damn formidable.
Don't even think about going at the bus-station. That's simply asking for crabs or some other creepy venereal critter. Labia lobsters or something. (A quck aside: Are you aware that you can search the Merriam-Webster online dictionary by voice? I do not recommend however that you voice search the Merriam-Webster online dictionary for the word 'venereal' to confirm your spelling of it while on the afternoon commute home. Unless you're in the comfort of your own vehicle by yourself.)
So you just sit on the bus and try to read which makes you sea-sick and then you want to yak so you think about having to piss instead which only brings you back to the original problem.
I really must remember to piss before I leave work.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Wisdom of a Best Friend on a Girl's Birthday
Today is my birthday. (:
Naturally I am bitching about getting old except for the fact that this year I became 3 years younger. But anyways I was bitching to my best friend and this is what he said: (I wish I could be this brilliant.)
What does a young person have that we don't have?
Besides a healthier liver and fewer sexual partners.
I just found this way too appropriate not to share with the blogosphere.
Naturally I am bitching about getting old except for the fact that this year I became 3 years younger. But anyways I was bitching to my best friend and this is what he said: (I wish I could be this brilliant.)
What does a young person have that we don't have?
Besides a healthier liver and fewer sexual partners.
I just found this way too appropriate not to share with the blogosphere.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Moxy on the Move - Guitar Center
Moxy is a hip uglydoll. Yesterday she wanted to broaden her musical horizons so off to Guitar Center we went.
At first the folks at guitar center wanted to know if I was trading her in on a guitar. I told them no, but they seemed as if they really wanted an uglydoll. Then Moxy told them she wasn't for sale or for trade and to buzz off. Which they really didn't do so much. Apparently the boys at Guitar Center don't see many girls during their day at work.
Moxy really enjoyed playing the drums. She's totally a bad-ass drummer chick. The drum guy agreed as well.
Okay so maybe she isn't a classically trained concert pianist but she is pretty classy. Classy ladies always love the piano. Granted most of the time they're splayed across the top of it but this is just a digital piano and Guitar Center really isn't that kind of place if you catch my drift.
Moxy was very sad that Peaco had to stay behind but he wasn't feeling too well. And he wouldn't fit in the bag but we're pretty sure he would have danced his way around the store and had a blast in the DJ room. There's always next time!
 | ||
| Moxy loves the blissful sounds of a good Ukulele. |
At first the folks at guitar center wanted to know if I was trading her in on a guitar. I told them no, but they seemed as if they really wanted an uglydoll. Then Moxy told them she wasn't for sale or for trade and to buzz off. Which they really didn't do so much. Apparently the boys at Guitar Center don't see many girls during their day at work.
 | ||
| Moxy is ready for her drum solo. |
Moxy really enjoyed playing the drums. She's totally a bad-ass drummer chick. The drum guy agreed as well.
 | ||
| You weren't aware Moxy is a classically trained concert pianist. |
Okay so maybe she isn't a classically trained concert pianist but she is pretty classy. Classy ladies always love the piano. Granted most of the time they're splayed across the top of it but this is just a digital piano and Guitar Center really isn't that kind of place if you catch my drift.
Moxy was very sad that Peaco had to stay behind but he wasn't feeling too well. And he wouldn't fit in the bag but we're pretty sure he would have danced his way around the store and had a blast in the DJ room. There's always next time!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
You're just going to have to cut me some slack.
You may or may not have noticed if you've interacted with me in the last week or two that I'm slowly cracking up. It's because it's February. February has always carried some sort of anxiety with it. Always. The closer it gets to my upcoming 2nd 25th birthday (Remember the time warp folks.) the more and more scattered I become.
I'd like to say it's because I've been super busy at work. Or the fact that I took out my Ring which was keeping my hormones on an even keel. Hell I could even blame it on the zany weather we've been having. We've already established that the crazies come out when it's warm but I think this would be a disservice. It's because my birthday is in February...
Birthdays, like Holidays, make me nervous. Really nervous.
This year I said to myself 'I'll be armed with tools to fight the anxiety!'
'I'll have lost 15 pounds and have the exercise to fall back on!' While this is true, I've lost 13 pounds since my last birthday (Somehow I've gained 4 pounds in the last two weeks because apparently the weight loss gods HATE ME) it doesn't seem to be helping too much. I'm still pretty much bananas. I thought that exercising would burn off all that extra energy and it does do that, it just creates twice as much energy as I had before so now I'm really on a rampage.
'I'll have had another whole year of being single and appreciating a single life!' I'll say this about that. I've had my fun this past year, but not too much fun. Actually is was almost exactly zero 'fun' but I did manage to get some practice in right under the deadline. I'm still almost practically celibate which according to the Church works for some people. Not me. And when you're just a bit off-kilter it helps to have someone around to yank you back down out of the clouds. Not that I'm super-duper crazy but I am a little aloof. But like normal woman aloof. Unless I'm besought with a demon and in that case maybe celibacy is the right path for me. I'll starve the demon out or something.
*Although Sex on Skates did move in next door to me which is either extremely fortuitous or God has a really sick sense of humor. I haven't figured out which one yet. I'm still working on that one. Next on the list of culinary treats is banana pudding. Boys like banana pudding right?
But if you get right down to the meat of the problem, ignoring the issues with mortality that birthdays bring, ignoring the anxiety that planning a fun-filled event that people will enjoy brings, ignoring the attention people shower you with on your birthday whether you deserve it or not, it comes down to one thing and one thing only.
For one entire evening I'll be forced to sit and choke down a meal with both of my parents all the while praying they'll behave. That they won't make asses of themselves in public, in front of my friends or even in front of me. They'll sit there and do their cute flirty, angsty bantering back and forth and people will laugh and I'll cringe because I know what it really means.
That they're about one asinine comment away from stabbing one another in the eyeball with a fork and creating an incident. An incident that only I can deal with because they thought it necessary to beget one singular progeny. Me.
I'd like to say it's because I've been super busy at work. Or the fact that I took out my Ring which was keeping my hormones on an even keel. Hell I could even blame it on the zany weather we've been having. We've already established that the crazies come out when it's warm but I think this would be a disservice. It's because my birthday is in February...
Birthdays, like Holidays, make me nervous. Really nervous.
This year I said to myself 'I'll be armed with tools to fight the anxiety!'
'I'll have lost 15 pounds and have the exercise to fall back on!' While this is true, I've lost 13 pounds since my last birthday (Somehow I've gained 4 pounds in the last two weeks because apparently the weight loss gods HATE ME) it doesn't seem to be helping too much. I'm still pretty much bananas. I thought that exercising would burn off all that extra energy and it does do that, it just creates twice as much energy as I had before so now I'm really on a rampage.
'I'll have had another whole year of being single and appreciating a single life!' I'll say this about that. I've had my fun this past year, but not too much fun. Actually is was almost exactly zero 'fun' but I did manage to get some practice in right under the deadline. I'm still almost practically celibate which according to the Church works for some people. Not me. And when you're just a bit off-kilter it helps to have someone around to yank you back down out of the clouds. Not that I'm super-duper crazy but I am a little aloof. But like normal woman aloof. Unless I'm besought with a demon and in that case maybe celibacy is the right path for me. I'll starve the demon out or something.
*Although Sex on Skates did move in next door to me which is either extremely fortuitous or God has a really sick sense of humor. I haven't figured out which one yet. I'm still working on that one. Next on the list of culinary treats is banana pudding. Boys like banana pudding right?
But if you get right down to the meat of the problem, ignoring the issues with mortality that birthdays bring, ignoring the anxiety that planning a fun-filled event that people will enjoy brings, ignoring the attention people shower you with on your birthday whether you deserve it or not, it comes down to one thing and one thing only.
For one entire evening I'll be forced to sit and choke down a meal with both of my parents all the while praying they'll behave. That they won't make asses of themselves in public, in front of my friends or even in front of me. They'll sit there and do their cute flirty, angsty bantering back and forth and people will laugh and I'll cringe because I know what it really means.
That they're about one asinine comment away from stabbing one another in the eyeball with a fork and creating an incident. An incident that only I can deal with because they thought it necessary to beget one singular progeny. Me.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Post VD Vag Thoughts
I'm cynical. Yes, never fear Captain Cynical has returned; no applause needed. I'm cynical and I should have blogged about this yesterday but I didn't. Mostly because I had to install my mother's garbage disposal.
Yes I'm handy as well.
Do you know what I find interesting? All the different ways we dress up snatch. Kind of like in the Vagina Monologues where they ask what kind of hat your vagina would wear. (Mine would wear a mother-fucking crown bitches.) But think about it. We put it lace and satin and ribbons and bows. We groom it, clip it, cut it, shave it and those hardcore bitches, they wax it.
I mean I appreciate a well groomed groin as much as the next person but does it really make a difference?
I've never actually had the experience of getting ready to seal the deal and someone say to me:
'If you say so, but I'm reasonably sure they had sex in the 70's and I'm also reasonably sure they all had plenty of That.'
Maybe this happens more than I know, maybe it doesn't. It's never happened to me. And from a biological standpoint it's stupid. The hair is there to concentrate the smell and in that smell is the pheromones. The pheromones are supposedly what makes you want to get it on and get to work. Unless you've got stank snatch and then you just need to wash that shit. No one appreciates that.
That being said, I'm still going to practice grooming practices. I'm just not sure why I do it.
I'm trying to perfect the landing strip look but we all know I'm impatient so it ends up crooked and I just keep taking a little more off the top and then I end up with more of a postage stamp look which just goes to support the notion that I really do suck at life.
Yes I'm handy as well.
Do you know what I find interesting? All the different ways we dress up snatch. Kind of like in the Vagina Monologues where they ask what kind of hat your vagina would wear. (Mine would wear a mother-fucking crown bitches.) But think about it. We put it lace and satin and ribbons and bows. We groom it, clip it, cut it, shave it and those hardcore bitches, they wax it.
I mean I appreciate a well groomed groin as much as the next person but does it really make a difference?
I've never actually had the experience of getting ready to seal the deal and someone say to me:
'Excuse me, but what is that?'
'What? You don't know what that is? I am not having that talk with you right now. What do you mean what is that? Aren't we a little too far into this to be discussing what that is?'
'I know what that is. I didn't mean that. I meant That.'
'For serious you're going to have to be more specific. You could make an entire sentence out of pronouns which is what I'm pretty sure you just did.'
'That.'
'Oh, That.'
...
'What? I wasn't anticipating this pleasant turn of events so I am unprepared.'
'Well we're just going to have to reschedule until you take care of That.'
Maybe this happens more than I know, maybe it doesn't. It's never happened to me. And from a biological standpoint it's stupid. The hair is there to concentrate the smell and in that smell is the pheromones. The pheromones are supposedly what makes you want to get it on and get to work. Unless you've got stank snatch and then you just need to wash that shit. No one appreciates that.
That being said, I'm still going to practice grooming practices. I'm just not sure why I do it.
I'm trying to perfect the landing strip look but we all know I'm impatient so it ends up crooked and I just keep taking a little more off the top and then I end up with more of a postage stamp look which just goes to support the notion that I really do suck at life.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Of course you're chatting it up with your invisible friend Leonard, it's warm out.
Say what you will about our unseasonably cold winter but it does do a good job of keeping the crazies inside.
Today it is 69 degrees outside in the middle of mother-fucking February.
No, I'm not complaining but you have to understand something. I just saw a guy on the corner throwing jabs and boxing.
Without an opponent.
I know what you're thinking. Maybe he's running in the nice weather like every other skinny 20 year old with a vag because people just need to see you in those booty shorts that say 'BOOTY' across your ass for those of us who mistake your face for your ass. Maybe he is stuck at a long light and is trying to keep his pulse up. No, no he wasn't doing that either.
(Two things about the twenty year olds though. First, put on some clothes! This is what you would call 'Pneumonia Weather' and just because it's warm out doesn't mean you need to run around half naked because you're going to get sick. Secondly, follow the damn pedestrian crosswalk signs. Don't jog across a busy intersection holding my freaking bus up while you 'jog'. Run bitch.)
Anyways people need time to adjust to the prevalence of the crazies. It's bad news bears when they all come out at once.
Just know that while you're bitching about the cold George is talking to Lenny from the comfort of a warm, safely sequestered non-public area. That's all I'm saying.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Anticipatory yakking done right.
Do you know what I hate? Anticipation.
Why do I hate anticipation? Mostly because it blows and makes my stomach hurt. I sit around gnashing and gnawing all the while stirring up the gastric juices in my gut and next thing you know I yakking my brains out because I'm nervous. And it's that nasty yellow bile stuff and that's even grosser so I yak again and there you have it. Puke everywhere. In technicolor.
Today at work I got an email that our vacation accrual time is increasing. Naturally I'm excited, I'm anxious to know how much extra time I'll get this year. I've got plans to actually brave the post office and get a passport this year so maybe this extra vacation time will come in handy. Even if it isn't much then maybe I can take a quick day trip to the zoo or a shopping excursion. I go to the link and look and guess by how much my vacation accrual time increased.
I am now the proud owner of 15 minutes more vacation time this year than last.
Yes you've read correctly. 15 minutes. That is 0.25 hours. Now I can take that super long vacation I've always wanted and actually think about going! Seriously, where am I going in 15 minutes? NOWHERE. Thinking is about the only thing I can get done in 15 minutes. I might be able to walk down the hall, out of the building into to street and wave at the plane that should be carrying me to my foreign exotic vacation and still have time to make it back into the building to change my clothes from where I yakked on them. From disgust, not excitation.
The point of all this is that I'm no longer getting excited about anything. Especially vacations.
Why do I hate anticipation? Mostly because it blows and makes my stomach hurt. I sit around gnashing and gnawing all the while stirring up the gastric juices in my gut and next thing you know I yakking my brains out because I'm nervous. And it's that nasty yellow bile stuff and that's even grosser so I yak again and there you have it. Puke everywhere. In technicolor.
Today at work I got an email that our vacation accrual time is increasing. Naturally I'm excited, I'm anxious to know how much extra time I'll get this year. I've got plans to actually brave the post office and get a passport this year so maybe this extra vacation time will come in handy. Even if it isn't much then maybe I can take a quick day trip to the zoo or a shopping excursion. I go to the link and look and guess by how much my vacation accrual time increased.
I am now the proud owner of 15 minutes more vacation time this year than last.
Yes you've read correctly. 15 minutes. That is 0.25 hours. Now I can take that super long vacation I've always wanted and actually think about going! Seriously, where am I going in 15 minutes? NOWHERE. Thinking is about the only thing I can get done in 15 minutes. I might be able to walk down the hall, out of the building into to street and wave at the plane that should be carrying me to my foreign exotic vacation and still have time to make it back into the building to change my clothes from where I yakked on them. From disgust, not excitation.
The point of all this is that I'm no longer getting excited about anything. Especially vacations.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
My thoughts on this crazy busy week.
This week has been totally cr-aa-aaa-zy.
I'm not sure why I felt compelled to make a simple two syllable word 4 syllables but I'm running with it.
Here are a few thoughts I've had this week:
1. Apparently Chico's has a intimates line. This spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E. I've now worn my new underoos for 2 days now (They're two different pairs for the record. I'm not gross.) and am seriously considering throwing away the other 85 pairs of panties I own. It looks like I may have to go take the store hostage until they give me what I want, which is clearly more underwear. (Yes I know. No person needs 85 pairs of underwear but actually I used to have around 120 so I'm doing better.)
2. I also bought jeans. 'Curvy' is the adult woman euphemism for 'husky.'
3. Speaking of jeans I have a bone to pick with American Eagle. DAMN Ya'll! CAN YOU NOT MAKE JEANS FOR PEOPLE WITH AN ACTUAL ASS? DO THEY ALL HAVE TO BE SUPER LOW RISE? There is simply not enough material to cover my ass. The pants fit great as long as you don't mind seeing half of my ass. Which maybe you do, I don't know.
4. I've decided I would be a freaking awesome house wife. So blogosphere, go forth and find me a husband. As a housewife I'd have lots of free time so I'd be super fit and there would the added perk of all the sex pie you can eat. I think both of these are admirable qualities in a housewife.
So go! Find me a husband! I'm too freaking busy otherwise I'd do it myself.
I'm not sure why I felt compelled to make a simple two syllable word 4 syllables but I'm running with it.
Here are a few thoughts I've had this week:
1. Apparently Chico's has a intimates line. This spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E. I've now worn my new underoos for 2 days now (They're two different pairs for the record. I'm not gross.) and am seriously considering throwing away the other 85 pairs of panties I own. It looks like I may have to go take the store hostage until they give me what I want, which is clearly more underwear. (Yes I know. No person needs 85 pairs of underwear but actually I used to have around 120 so I'm doing better.)
2. I also bought jeans. 'Curvy' is the adult woman euphemism for 'husky.'
3. Speaking of jeans I have a bone to pick with American Eagle. DAMN Ya'll! CAN YOU NOT MAKE JEANS FOR PEOPLE WITH AN ACTUAL ASS? DO THEY ALL HAVE TO BE SUPER LOW RISE? There is simply not enough material to cover my ass. The pants fit great as long as you don't mind seeing half of my ass. Which maybe you do, I don't know.
4. I've decided I would be a freaking awesome house wife. So blogosphere, go forth and find me a husband. As a housewife I'd have lots of free time so I'd be super fit and there would the added perk of all the sex pie you can eat. I think both of these are admirable qualities in a housewife.
So go! Find me a husband! I'm too freaking busy otherwise I'd do it myself.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Welcome Monday
I understand that you must come every week, that it's just a part of life. Even if I protest, even if I whine and moan and groan, Monday, you still come.
It's not that I have to go work, although I will say Monday's are much easier sitting on a beach, it's that you're Monday.
Saying the word strikes fear into the hearts of small children everywhere, knowing they'll have to go back to school in the morning. It strikes fear into the hearts of more than one grown up I know for the same reasons usually. Unless you're of the those freaks who actually enjoys going to work then there is no hope for you at all. None.
But must you come with a busload of screaming children?
Have you no mercy?
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Captain Cynical has been mortally wounded.
It's a bleak outcome for our hero Captain Cynical.
I am actually digging someone. Emotionally. Not just physically, which is a big step for me.
You'd be proud of me. I actually used my big girl words to tell said person that I like him instead of my normal method of shaving my snatch and hoping he can interpret what that means. I'm not an ace at communication.
It's tough though. Being that vulnerable.
We've met me. I don't do anything in moderation, nothing. So now I'm sitting here kicking myself because all I can think about is you know what.
Caring is kryptonite for Captain Cynical.
Kryptonite.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
You want me to do what exactly?
The other day my trainer (I know, I know.) wanted/expected me to climb the rock wall in our gym for exercise. I protested and he wanted to know why.
Nevermind the fact that I have T-rex arms, you know the whole 'teeny arms that cannot support body weight' argument, but have you seen a rock climbing harness? They're hideous.
He of course wanted to know why. So for the first time in our relationship as trainer and trainee I was painfully honest.
I told him that I was not climbing the rock wall because I was not putting on that god awful rock climbing harness. "I've seen people in these things and if you think I'm going to put my ass in that contraption and scutter up a wall for God and all of his creatures to see, you're crazy." I have a nice ass. I know this because I notice people noticing it in an admirable fashion not in a 'oh my God, that's a big ass' fashion. You can tell the difference because the former is has a subtle affirmative head nod and the latter carries an expression of widened eyes and a slightly agape mouth. But I've seen fat people at our gym in the rock climbing harness and it's less than flattering. (I tried really hard to find a picture of a fat person in a rock climbing harness and the google has failed me yet again.) This is why there are people out there that free climb. They've realized how hideous their nether parts look in a rock climbing harness and they've made the proper fashion choice and left the fucking harness at home.
He was less than pleased but I didn't climb the damn wall.
Nevermind the fact that I have T-rex arms, you know the whole 'teeny arms that cannot support body weight' argument, but have you seen a rock climbing harness? They're hideous.
 | ||
| Look at her ass? It's like right there. |
He of course wanted to know why. So for the first time in our relationship as trainer and trainee I was painfully honest.
I told him that I was not climbing the rock wall because I was not putting on that god awful rock climbing harness. "I've seen people in these things and if you think I'm going to put my ass in that contraption and scutter up a wall for God and all of his creatures to see, you're crazy." I have a nice ass. I know this because I notice people noticing it in an admirable fashion not in a 'oh my God, that's a big ass' fashion. You can tell the difference because the former is has a subtle affirmative head nod and the latter carries an expression of widened eyes and a slightly agape mouth. But I've seen fat people at our gym in the rock climbing harness and it's less than flattering. (I tried really hard to find a picture of a fat person in a rock climbing harness and the google has failed me yet again.) This is why there are people out there that free climb. They've realized how hideous their nether parts look in a rock climbing harness and they've made the proper fashion choice and left the fucking harness at home.
He was less than pleased but I didn't climb the damn wall.
I'm about to cut a bitch.
Her name is: Katie.
She is: skinny.
With: Red hair. (Where the fuck am I going to get red hair?)
Why I hate her: You may or may not have met 'Sex on Skates' but he's totally in love with me. Well maybe not, but I'm working uber-hard at making him in at least lust with me. And then I find out I'm not the only one making Sex Pies. WTF?
For serious ya'll there is about to be a bloodbath, I'm not kidding.
PS - Somebody tell me a good pastry recipe with bourbon. SOS loves bourbon!
She is: skinny.
With: Red hair. (Where the fuck am I going to get red hair?)
Why I hate her: You may or may not have met 'Sex on Skates' but he's totally in love with me. Well maybe not, but I'm working uber-hard at making him in at least lust with me. And then I find out I'm not the only one making Sex Pies. WTF?
For serious ya'll there is about to be a bloodbath, I'm not kidding.
PS - Somebody tell me a good pastry recipe with bourbon. SOS loves bourbon!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Reasons why no one would write my biography.
Thank goodness no one writes biographies about people whom no one really gives a shit about. For example, when is the last time you read a biography about your somewhat loony-toony aunt Louise who collects bottlecaps and chia pets? Bingo. No, people write biographies about other people that accomplish things. I imagine Buzz Aldrin has a biography, as well as Lance Armstrong, Tina Turner, and Charlie Manson.
Now wait before you go flying off the handle about my consideration of Charles Manson as accomplishing things consider this: The man brainwashed people into killing people for him. While he is a horrible, horrible person and believe me I'm certainly glad he's incarcerated for the rest of life, (As another aside: Have you seen the creepy art he makes in prison? You'd think after a few years in solitary confinement a person would adjust to the normal social mores because eventually you'd just bore the crazy out of a person but apparently this is not the case. He's still a total-wacko. I saw his art being confiscated on that jail show that comes on MSNBC; I watch it in case I'm ever incarcerated I'll know which prison gang to join. I was thinking about the Mexicali Kings but I'd look funny with a shaved head. So I'm kind of in gang-purgatory right now.) I guess my point about ol' Charlie Manson is that eventually if you're fricking wierd enough people want to read about that too. Probably because people love tragedies. I guess you could say that's why people would read Tina Turner's biography as well. What? Do you remember all that business with Ike? T-R-A-G-E-D-Y.
Anywho, here are some reasons why no one would ever write my biography:
1. They would get tired of the repetitive scenes in which I lose my keys on a daily basis. Or other pertinent items to which I must use to run my life.
2. I don't write letters to anyone and I'm told that biographies often use letters to elucidate the daily intracies of a person's life. I guess they could use all those emails of the LOLcats that I send to people. I'm not sure what intracies those would elucidate.
3. If people were to write my biography it would involve falling down. And lots of liquor, which has the possibility of making my life interesting but only marginally so. Well let me take that back; we'll go with moderately so.
So what if my life up to this point may be a study in moments of sobriety in a seamless lifetime of intoxication?
At least I'm fucking fun.
Now wait before you go flying off the handle about my consideration of Charles Manson as accomplishing things consider this: The man brainwashed people into killing people for him. While he is a horrible, horrible person and believe me I'm certainly glad he's incarcerated for the rest of life, (As another aside: Have you seen the creepy art he makes in prison? You'd think after a few years in solitary confinement a person would adjust to the normal social mores because eventually you'd just bore the crazy out of a person but apparently this is not the case. He's still a total-wacko. I saw his art being confiscated on that jail show that comes on MSNBC; I watch it in case I'm ever incarcerated I'll know which prison gang to join. I was thinking about the Mexicali Kings but I'd look funny with a shaved head. So I'm kind of in gang-purgatory right now.) I guess my point about ol' Charlie Manson is that eventually if you're fricking wierd enough people want to read about that too. Probably because people love tragedies. I guess you could say that's why people would read Tina Turner's biography as well. What? Do you remember all that business with Ike? T-R-A-G-E-D-Y.
Anywho, here are some reasons why no one would ever write my biography:
1. They would get tired of the repetitive scenes in which I lose my keys on a daily basis. Or other pertinent items to which I must use to run my life.
2. I don't write letters to anyone and I'm told that biographies often use letters to elucidate the daily intracies of a person's life. I guess they could use all those emails of the LOLcats that I send to people. I'm not sure what intracies those would elucidate.
3. If people were to write my biography it would involve falling down. And lots of liquor, which has the possibility of making my life interesting but only marginally so. Well let me take that back; we'll go with moderately so.
So what if my life up to this point may be a study in moments of sobriety in a seamless lifetime of intoxication?
At least I'm fucking fun.
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