Married Employee: Of course, sweetie. I’ll be ready when you are.
Married Boss: I can’t wait.
Married Employee: I just need to pick up my dress.
Married Boss: I can’t wait to see you in it.
I have an interview in three hours. Elsewhere, obviously. Should go great. We know of each other, professionally, and have worked with the same people at different times. If it results in an offer, cross your fingers that the money is right. This area pays abysmally low. The only remaining good thing about my current position is the pay. The aforementioned Hush Money. It’s not wonderful on a national scale, but it’s fucking stellar on a local scale. Fingers crossed?
Okay. Music time.
Day 16: A Song that’s a Classic Favorite
Some of these feel redundant. I’ve used “classics” for other themes. But “classic” is a relative term, anyway, isn’t it? Bleh. A classic favorite. As in a favorite that’s considered a classic? Or a classic favorite in the sense of “Of fucking course that’s one of your favorites.” Let’s go with a “classic song”. From my perspective, anyway.
I fucking love this song. Ever since watching American Beauty when it came out, I’ve associated this song with that film. But I still love it on its own merits, with or without the movie (which I also love). (There I go abusing that word again.)
I’m having a bad day. No. I mean, a really shitty day. I’m pissed the fuck off, and wanna tell my boss where he can stick it. And it won’t be anywhere fun, I assure you. I used to like this job. No. I used to love this job. At least, as much as one can love a job in this capitalist hellhole. I actually looked forward to coming in to the office. But things have rapidly taken a turn for the worse (worst?), and I’ve put myself back on the job market. Let’s throw some bullet points at it, shall we? Because I need to vent.
Favorite attorney left the firm a few months ago, because of some serious bullshit she was protecting the rest of us from. (Not that she didn’t have her own baggage. But I loved working with her and miss working with her.)
The only attorney left, the boss man whose name is on the door, changed. Rapidly.
Leapt off the wagon and is drunk by 10 AM most days.
Shifted gears from someone who fosters teamwork and a “family” environment, someone who not only values honest input and feedback but also asks for it/expects it/demands it, to someone who has eyes for only one employee and refuses to hear feedback from anyone else – to the point where if you bring up any ideas/suggestions, you’re branded as argumentative and/or jealous of aforementioned employee. If you really need an idea pushed forward, you have to plant it in her mind. Then she will mention it to him, and voila. Like magic, it’s the bestest idea in the whole wide world.
Began fucking said employee. (They are both married.)
Vehemently denies anything inappropriate going on, though the community/clients have been openly asking questions.
Became careless and left extensive proof of aforementioned affair (just last week).
Began targeting employees based on his whore’s whim. (I’m not woman-blaming. They’re both pieces of shit, and I have zero respect for either of them.)
Everyone is, one by one, being pushed out by the whore. And slowly replaced with inexperienced “hot chicks” that they both find attractive and willing to work for much lower wages.
I’ve been the safest one for quite some time. Until today. Now I have a target on my back, because I’m not kissing the whore’s ass. I was even flat out called a liar today. By my boss. When he asked me about something. I provided him with printed proof and haven’t spoken to him since.
Yeah. It’s bad. Unfortunately, I’m probably stuck for a while. It will be hard to find something that pays as well as he does, at least around here. Feels like hush money, but he pays better than any other firm in the area.
So. I’m glad there’s music to be had. And that I had an “excuse” to come here and get some of this toxicity off of my chest.
Day 12 is an interesting one. (Okay, that’s silly to say. They’re all interesting.) But I’m struggling with how to approach it. Let’s get to it!
Day 12: A Song from Your Preteen Years
This one is from pre-preteen years. Which I suppose would still be preteen? Chronologically speaking, at least. I was really young when I ran around the parking lot of the apartment complex singing this song at the top of my little lungs. I remember telling my father that I wanted to look like Cyndi Lauper when I grew up. I’ve never forgotten his response: “You ever do some shit like that to your hair, you can find your own place to live. No daughter of mine will run around like some fucking whore.” (Yeah. When I call some cheating-ass cuntbag a whore, I’m not talking about a coolass chick with an orange undercut.) Anyway, I’m still scared to do anything wild with my hair. Related? Who knows. But I still love me some Cyndi Lauper, and this song takes me all the way back to that parking lot in South Louisiana.
Here’s one from 1992. I was twelve, so it’s probably a bit more accurately called a song from my preteens. This song was EVERYWHERE that year. Every. Where.
Same goes for this one, but I much prefer it! The other one just came to mind first.
So I’m at this bar, right? I’m not actually in the bar; I’m standing outside, hiding in this little nook, waiting for someone. It’s cold. It’s fucking cold. I’m wearing two pair of socks in my docs, jeans, a cami, a t-shirt over the cami, a flannel over the t-shirt, a hoodie over the flannel, a beanie snugly perched atop my skull, and the hoodie pulled over that. As I said, fucking cold. (And apparently, that turns me into someone whom “looks like she’s standing in line for a Pearl Jam concert in 1994.”)
I’m near the East Coast now. Near. Definitely in the Eastern Time Zone (is that even what it’s called? I don’t fucking know.) Standing outside on a frigid October night. Downtown. Outside a metal bar. Yeah, you read that right. A metal bar. With this incongruous name. Like “Gilligan’s Island,” only that’s not the name, but it’s close enough to give you an idea of the incongruity.
This metal bar is a haven for disenfranchised twenty-somethings, who aren’t really disenfranchised. They just like a certain look and a certain style of music, and they think it makes them cool to pretend to be disenfranchised. It doesn’t, but they’ll figure that out in a few years. Or they won’t, and they’ll turn into the old fucker who wouldn’t leave me alone. “Why are you standing over here in the corner, looking all beautiful and alone? You’re so beautiful. You’re like an angel. Can I touch your face?” Please. Don’t. Thank you so much, but please. No. “But why are you over here in the corner? Why aren’t you out on the sidewalk with everyone else? Why aren’t you standing in the street?” (Yes, he was fucking hammered.) I’m standing here, because I’m hiding. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want to be noticed. I’m waiting on someone, and this is where I’m comfortable waiting. “But but…” (you get the idea) So yeah. I hope they figure it out before they turn into that walking pile of sadness.
I end up trapped in my little corner (that’s what happens to corner-seekers, FYI), hemmed in by this pack of Goth Metal Grunge hybrids. Gretals? Yeah. Let’s call ’em Gretals. So the Gretals are initially three dudes. Bitching about their ex-girlfriends whom “just totally didn’t get metal, man. She like didn’t understand that there are genres within genres and shit.” (I think the word you’re looking for is “subgenre,” Gretal.)
Then their new girls show up. The ones who are “so metal, man. I’m so glad to finally have a metal bitch.” (Yeah.) The following snippets are from the She-Gretals:
Oh my god, girl. (Restaurant X) would like ohmygod so totally hire her cuz she has dreads and everyone hires dreads like totally.”
Yeah. Their new girls are so metal, man. This was followed up by a serious conversation about how one can determine another chick’s “metalness” by the colors she dyes her hair.
And then there was this.
There are like no hot available men in (X City). And all the hot chicks are bitches, including my friends. I’m like attracted to two different types of people, so we just share each other. That’s living metal, baby.”
I feel so spooky, and I love that you’re spooky. We should fuck.
Blood wrestling. I love blood wrestling. (What’s blood wrestling, inquires He-Gretal.) It’s like when, like, instead of mud, you cut yourselves and wrestle in blood. It’s so fucking hot. And metal. (Looks at the she-gretal she keeps drooling over.) We should totally finish our wine, then blood wrestle.
Most of that was said by the she-Gretal who kept showing off pictures of a scar that looked like a skull when she pulled the bandage off. “Isn’t that like totally the most metal thing you’ve ever seen? I’m so metal right now, I can’t even.” Yeah. Neither can I.
Now, here’s the thing. I’m not a metalhead. Never have been, and I don’t pretend to be. But I have a niggling suspicion, call me crazy, that NONE of that was metal. It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. I instead entertained myself by live-texting the ridiculousness to the person I was waiting for.
Once I was rescued, we fled the scene for a bit – so as to shake the proud robber of abandoned hurricane homes. Yeah, “you’re just like a little angel lighting up the corner” dude was from Louisiana. Bragged about robbing homes of the wealthy during hurricane evacuations. Real winner, that one. (He got all mopey and apologetic when I failed to be impressed and was instead saddened by his tales. But that’s hardly a credit to him.)
Anyway. So. Hi. It’s been a long fucking time. I’m in a different place now, physically, emotionally, spiritually. But I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m actually fucking happy.
And C is for suck it, Ezekiel. I finally wrote again. Now, piss off.
My boss is an epic bitch. I don’t mean like one of those passive aggressive bitches. I mean a full on, in your face, self-proclaimed bitch bitch.
For the most part, I’ve been fortunate enough to not be on the receiving end of her first-class bitchery. I usually witness it from the sidelines, as an anecdote, or just watching her lambast some poor fuck.
Today, that poor fuck was me. And I almost let her have it, right in front of her precious little committee. Fucking committees. I’m a fucking committee person now. Why couldn’t I be a gangsta? Huh?
The skinny little cunt insulted me in front of her favorite little pet committee. Repeatedly. Had I done anything wrong? Au contraire. She’s pissed off because someone else is leaving the company, so she’s taking it out on those closest to her. And as her rightfuckinghand, I’m the closest one at work to take it out on.
If she keeps the shit up, I’m gonna volley Little Miss Former DA’s shitstorm right back at her. She thinks I’m sweet and quiet. She has no idea what simmers beneath the surface (and boils on days like today).
I can hang with her on most days. And at least I didn’t take it personally – like getting upset or crying or thinking I was a fuck-up. I just got pissed. I’m mostly calm now. Mostly.
Good thing the weekend cometh. There’s a cider or three with my name on it.
Y’all. Something is up with Oregon. I mean aside from triple-decker man buns, obsessions with microbrews and whiskey, and wannabe hipster bro-boys. I’m talking about the ridiculously high ratio of gingers to the rest of the population. At least, I mean that’s at least a thing in the dating pool. Not that I’m complaining; some of these gingers are smokin’ fuckin’ hot. (Uhm. Maybe most of them. Which is weird, because as an aesthetic, I was never interested in gingers. I mean, I’ve always been a fan of ginger flavor – ginger beer, ginger snaps. But ginger boys? Too…pale. Oregon is changing my mind.)
If you stacked all of my dates up on a weirdass live human bar chart, the tallest bar would be gingers, by far. (This is not intentional.) At one point, I may or may not have been casually dating three gingers at once. One of them was pretty simple, but funny and wild as hell. Another of them was a super country libertarian boy (yeah, I passed pretty hard and fast on that one). The third was fucking brilliant – this weird dichotomy of former military and current anarcho-philosopher turned psychotherapist with a fucking PhD. Oh…was he yummy. Lemme tell ya… Too bad he was emotionally inaccessible and a bit of a sociopath.
Last night, I had a date with yet another ginger. A math professor. Yep. Another weilder of a PhD. (No, stop picturing a 65 year old in a tweed blazer with elbow patches. Fuck, I just planted that image, didn’t I? Stop picturing it!) Shy and awkward over text. Funny, witty, and deep in person. In between covertly checking him out (holy shit – since when do nerdy geek boys lift??) and getting coached on how to play pool, I was alternately laughing my ass off and diving off into deep conversations about math, the universe, string theory, self, other, the Bhagavad Gita, and Eastern Philosophy. With wild fucking abandon. Yeah, that’s the kind of thing that rocks my socks.
We did a bar crawl – my first ever, I think – and drank. A lot. Well, my a lot is just a little compared to seasoned drinkers. I don’t drink often. So, the two jumbo-sized ciders and the sangria had me in orbit. (Oregon makes sangria with wine AND tequila, y’all, at least at rooftop bars in college towns. My name is Stephanie, and I approve this message. (That fucker also came in an oversized, don’t think you can call that a pint glass anymore, pint glass.)) I wasn’t wasted – those three drinks were spread over about three hours – but boy, I got spirited and (only slightly) wobbly.
We walked it off, then looked at the stars. Man, there’s so much less light pollution in that little town than where I live. It was glorious. We listened to Irish folk music and Ravi Shankar and had the deepest conversation I’ve had in ages, punctuated with sass and smartassery, crude jokes, and ribald laughter.
It was incredible.
That charming, brilliant, Irish bastard.
And it’s almost a 100% certainty that I’ll never see him again.
Why? Because out of this abundance of gingers, only one of them has been interested in more than a single date (see simple but wild boy – and he’s not in it to win it, either). And it seems the smarter and more philosophically inclined they are – ginger or not, but especially the gingers – the less likely they are to be interested in anything even remotely serious.
Unfortunately, what dating is teaching me is that my interests border on the fucking unattainable. If the guy isn’t a deep thinker, I’m not interested. If the guy can’t banter, I’m not interested. If we can’t talk until 4 in the morning (yep, last night was a late one) about anything and everything, with no filter, I’m not interested. If we can’t enjoy comfortable silences, I’m not interested. If all conversation is all about him, I’m not interested. If all conversation is all about me, I’m not interested. If conversations are about things or people, I’m not interested. If conversations aren’t about ideas and thoughts and philosophies and weird little eccentricities of self and universe, I’m not interested. If I’m not laughing until I’m doubled over in pain, I’m not interested. If he isn’t a little….wild, rough around the edges, I’m not interested. And every. Single. Motherfucker. That I’ve met that has those qualities – the ones I AM interested in, are “ethically non-monogamous” or “polyamorous” (welcome to fucking Oregon) or strictly interested in an “FWB” or “NSA” situation (yeah, I’m learning a lot of fucking acronyms lately).
And it feels strangely like the longer this carries on, the less interested *I* am in something long-term and serious. Sometimes I think I’m *too* fucking adaptable, because I don’t want to compromise my personal convictions, the ones I have just for me. But at the same time, I don’t want to go back to being a complete and utter hermit, either, afraid of the opposite sex and what they do or don’t want from me.
Dating is nice. But it’s also terrible and unpredictable and scary. And I’m fucking sick of it. And also wish I had one tonight. (Oh wait, I did. But after the stellar night with the Jacked and Ginger Buddha, there’s no way I could meet this other guy. It would have been a soul-sucking exercise in tedium. So I canceled.)
See. If I don’t even know what the fuck I want, how can I expect others to know what they want? I mean. Every time someone does want something serious with me, I’m the one that’s not interested. I “don’t feel a connection,” or something on that laundry list of elusive but critical qualities is missing. I’ve totally ditched boys for lack of banter. And I just ditched one for lack of depth/connection. I don’t wanna talk about tv shows and YouTube political commentators all the damn time. I wanna talk about Plato and Buddhism and Experiencers/Enlightenment. Fuck those fucking gingers for dangling that fucking carrot and running off because they wanna be deep…with a shallow girl.
Fuck those fuckers for making me think it’s possible, because there’s no way in fuck I can settle now. I know what’s out there. I’ve known it for a long time, and I’m just getting it reinforced now and then. (Don’t get me wrong, most of the people I’ve been on dates with are horrible. I have some horror stories to share with you people! But sometimes…the veil is parted, and I get a glimpse of what could be. And I know…fucking. I know, I’m not digging too deep or searching for something imfuckingpossible.) So fuck those guys…and thank those guys.
People are going batshit fucking crazy over the impending apocalypse solar eclipse. Freeways are backing up like a motherfucker. Stores are already selling out of staples like water, toilet paper, and marij…yeah, just the water and toilet paper. This is Oregon; nobody’s selling out of pot or potsnacks any time soon.
Traffic here is already unpredictable. Some days, it takes 15 minutes to get to and from the office. Other days, it takes 45. (I’m not necessarily bitching about the commute time – I have a damn short one for the area. But what would be nice is some modicum of predictability. First world problem, I know. Shhhhh. I need a rant. Err. A rantlet, because this is definitely weak compared to my usually rantypants nature.)
But now? NOW? Pfft. It’s either 15 minutes or 2 hours. As we crawl further into the week, the big number gets bigger. More people come in to claim their $300 primitive campsites (not even an exaggeration). And why the fuck are the eclipse chasers clogging up the roads during rush hour?! Do they LIKE IT? Is it a big fat fuck you to Oregonians for price gouging the shit out of private and public properties alike to profit off of these eclipse wankers? GRRR.
I think I’ll carry my fussygrumps ass to the grocery store after work. Wait any longer, and I legit won’t be able to find any potsnacks water.
Oh. Oh! I’m thinking of following one of those writing prompt idea thingamajigs in an attempt to get myself back into it…. if anyone’s still lingering around here (first off FUCKING HI)…any suggestions?
P.S. It’s fucking sweater weather. In August. Fuckyeah.
One of my new favorite things to do is go to a barcade. It’s a place for grownups, where distinguished ladies and gentlemen meet up to…whoop each others’ asses at arcade games, while getting nice and toasty on beer (ahem: cider for me, please) and sharing some sloppy-ass nachos (not to be confused with sloppy ass-nachos).
Louisiana girl here had never heard of barcades before. (Do y’all call ’em barcades? Cuz that’s just me doing my portmanteau thing. But I bet I’m not the first on this one.) One of my date people person dudes took me to one, and I’ve been hooked ever since. You wanna see The Stephanie in full form – giggling, talking smack, cursing and laughing and choking on cider, raising fists into the air – in either victory or defeat (people are SUCH cheaters, I swear) – take her to a barcade.
I’ve only been twice now, but I will be going back. With sacks of quarters (hehe she said sacks), a 15-year-old mentality and a winning streak itching to be released. Hashtag suckmytopscorebitches.
The second time I went was just a couple of weeks back, and it kickstarted a wave of drama that I semi-anticipated but am still supremely disappointed by. People are such brainless dickwhistles. It would be fun to watch them running around, scratching their heads (you know, the ones between their legs) and launching all sorts of wild accusations…if I weren’t one half of the target.
A former coworker (from Louisiana – formerly known as P. Whipped right here on Stephellaneland) and semi-friend was passing through Portland. He was on an epic Road Trip slash Personal Quest slash Work Assignment, and he messaged me on his last night in Portland – letting me know he was in town, asking if I’d be interested in meeting up for drinks. I’m like, dude. Dude, Yeah! Where’s the fire! I told him about the barcade, and he was down. Because DUH BARCADE.
We met there, and I commenced to smashing him on pinball and old-school arcade games. He cheated a few times and “won.” We had drinks and laughs and traded stories about the shitty stuff that lead us each to begin our Personal Quests. He took a selfie of us – aka The Selfie Heard Round the World. And then? You guessed it. He posted in on Facebook. Made it a public post so the whole world can see it.
So. Fucking. What.
Because apparently, nowadays, first comes pinball, then comes marriage the fuckening. Back in Douchetown, Louisiana, I’m becoming known as the girl who banged Anklebiter’s fiance relationship detritus that she threw away for the dude she was (allegedly) cheating with. What. On Earth. Gave them that idea?
Why, the smiling selfie taken in a barcade on “Henry’s” last night in Portland, of course! Nevermind the fact that we were at the same shindig maybe three times when I still lived in Douchetown. Nevermind the fact that I didn’t think the dude even knew my name before that night. NEVERFUCKINGMIND the fact that PINBALL shouldn’t imply that I was interested in playing with HISBALLS.
For fucks sake, what is wrong with people? I had two ciders. He had about five crown & cokes. We played arcade games for about 2 hours, then chatted for about an hour. He gave me a hug just before I walked back to my car and drove back to my apartment, and he took an über back to his hotel. He left the entire state the next morning. And guess what? I don’t owe that explanation to anyone.
But nooooo. I’m a homewrecker (in a situation where there is no home to wreck). A PINBALL PLAYING WHOREMOUTH. I need a Scarlet P. I’ll sew it onto my homewrecker cape, right above my high score. And a new selfie of me flipping off Senorita Anklebiter and her minions.
The Pinball Prostitute
*Thanks to Tikeethafor reminding me of this gem. I used to go around singing it, but I’d forgotten about it somewhere along the way. Highly appropriate for today!
I took myself to a movie last night. Masturdation, yay!? Yeah, no. You’d think this would be cause for celebration. Alas, no, for I watched a “film” that I never intended to see. One of those where you see a teensy snippet of a preview, and you go…”That looks stupid as fuck.” You scornfully scoff at the screen, because your cinematic tastes are far too refined for such drivel. So why, pray-tell, did I take myself out to see Passengers?
Why. The Fuck. Would I do this to myself? I’ll tell you why. One of my besties (yes, I said “besties,” because I’m pretty sure it will annoy the shit out of him) is a bully. That’s right. The author of stupidityhole bullied me into going to see this “film.” You see, he wanted me to be enlightened by the…no. I just snorted. No. I can’t even finish that sentence. He wanted me to share in his misery about this film, because that’s how bullies behave!
I wasn’t gonna do it. No. Fucking. Way. I’ve been wanting to take myself to a movie, but not this…this thing.
I refused. I outright refused.
And then he said the three magic words. You guessed it. “Cryognically-frozen chicken.” Motherfuck. I was undone, and he knew it. He refused to tell me what that meant. I’d simply have to see the film now in order to understand that. So. Over the course of, I dunno…a couple days. (He says it was more like an hour. Pfft.) He tormented me by randomly blurting out, “cryogenically-frozen chicken”…or…”ice-cold bock-bock if you prefer.”
And I caved. WHO WOULDN’T?! I had to know what the fuck he was on about. Look, I’m weak, okay? I mean. What the fuck is he talking about?! ARE THERE CHICKENS IN CRYO-CHAMBERS?! WILL THEY FROLIC AROUND IN SPACE?! IS THIS A MOVIE ABOUT SPACE-CHICKENS?! OHMYFUCK I’VE SEEN THE FUTURE, AND IT’S CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN! Fucking hell. This is what happened to my brain after being bullied for days. Weeks. Months. (Maybe two hours.)
So I acquiesced: I’d see the “film.” I’d resist the urge(s) to walk out before it was over. And I’d sit through at least forty-five seconds of the end-credits. I already knew, going in, that this was probably all some big trick. One of the many schemes I’m subjected to on the regular.
In Dreams become…
Two or three days ago. Maybe last week. Look, we already know I’m shit with time, okay? At some point in the not-so-distant past, I even dreamed about this shit.
In the dream, I saw the damn cryobock movie and never understood the cryochicken reference. I panicked. In the dream. Because I knew what this would mean. That shit would make me watch it again!
Also in the dream, Laurence Fishburne looked just like his Morpheus character from The Matrix and simply wandered around, shaking his head and muttering “damn” at random, unexpected intervals. (We can also blame this one on stupidityhole, who told me “Morpheus is in the movie. And he says, “damn.” Now you have to see it.”) (What is wrong with me?)
At another point in the dream, Laurence Fishburne was actually more like HAL in 2001. And all throughout the ship, anytime something pseudo-dramatic happened, his voice would echo throughout the ship…”Daaaamn.”
I woke in a cold sweat. Holy fuck. Okay. The Fishburne/Morpheus/HAL shit was funny. But missing out on cryobock and being heckled eternally until I watched it again? Fuck. This can’t happen.
…Reality (Spoilers ahead and blah blah)
It was all I could do to stay awake during this…this thing. But I knew falling asleep would be signing my death warrant (aka: having to see this fucker again). And oh did I get restless. I even messaged stupidityhole shit like this randomly during the movie:
MAY I PLEASE WALK OUT
-Something about punching his face off.
And, SHOCKER, he didn’t reply to any of those. He was reveling in my misery. Fucker.
Space Ghost Notes
I entertained myself by jotting little notes on my phone. Would you like a sampling? Sure you would!
Jock wakes after asteroid collision
Wonder how long it will be before they show his ass
Ship is to travel 120 years (total) and can’t get through a MFing asteroid belt?
CALLED IT. Jock boy nudie shower shot.
Oooo Bob Dylan music playing…while Jocky McGee models clothes?!
What the fuck am I watching
HOW COULD BOB DYLAN AGREE TO LEND HIS MUSIC TO THIS
Thank you for a moment of peace Bobby
He passenger not crew
I do like the scene where he wanders out in space, thinking, feeling, lost…adrift, afraid, alone, desperate, hopeless
Nearly suicides afterward w/o spacesuit
I would too if I was in this fucking movie
He woke blondie on purpose!
Also WHERE’S THE FUCKING CRYOBOCK! I WANT CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN RIGHT NOW I NEED TO LEAVE
“It’s the ultimate geographical suicide.” This is her line, and she’s a writer?! i’m gonna piss myself
Hm. I wonder when spacehumping begins
I’M SORRY HE WENT WOMAN SHOPPING FOR FUCKS SAKE AND SHE HAD NO CHOICE
space flying yay
CUE SPACE HUMPING
ugh lots of space humping
OH YAY! MORPHEUS!
“How long were you alone?”
~ A year
OKAY. I GOT MY DAAAAAMN. WHERE’S THE FUCKING CHICKEN?!
how many times do i have to watch blondie swim?!?!?!
crazy half-naked gravity field failure in pool
yay i get to watch blondie suspended in a spacebubble…dangling in her swimsuit
on the bigscreen
WHY AM I HERE
Ship falling apart
that wasn’t predictable at all
morpheus bites the dust
holes in the ship
“How’s that even happen? I thought this ship was supposed to be meteor-proof.”
“I guess one got through.”
who the hell wrote these lines
There was one other dude in the theater. He either fell asleep or slid down in his seat to whack it to spacehumping. Ew. He’s nasty. Nasty dude. Bad.
Three chicks came in at some point. Looked like mom and two daughters. They laughed at the “serious” moments. That was entertaining.
In conclusion… NO. JUST. NO.
So remember that dream I told you about?’
Sometimes dreams do come true.
No. Fucking. Idea. What the hell he meant by “cryogenically-frozen chicken.”
Credits start, and I’m thinking…it better be in the forty-five seconds of this he told me to sit through.
I’m the last one in the theater. The others hauled ass.
I sit through half the credits.
I get up. Walk down the aisle and am about to leave. But then, I think…what if this is part of the trick? I’ve sat through all this, no way am I leaving yet.
Prop myself against the wall (ewww, why is it sticky?) and watch – EVEN READ – the credits until it’s completely over. Screen goes black. Lights come on.
There’s a simple solution to all this.
I’m gonna kill him.
Best part?! My car is stranded there at the theater. The snowstorm that was supposed to start at 10 PM started several hours early.
Yeah. I called an uber, and he got me almost “home.” Then I walked the rest of the way. Only about half a mile. Was kind of fun, actually.
Car is still there, because there’s been over a foot of snow where I am, and I can’t get out.
But I got to be out and about in the snowstorm! Driving around Portland, chatting with a cool driver. Then walked the rest of the way in the snow!
AND I STILL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK STUPIDITYHOLE MEANT BY CRYOGENICALLY-FROZEN CHICKEN.
You know what he said, right? Guess you’ll have to see it again, hey? Dreams do come true! Or something.
Question for Peopleaneous
Did anyone see this movie and actually LIKE it? I’d love to know what the hell I missed that has like twelve people on earth raving about it.
I like fireworks as much the next guy, okay. They’re pretty and all that shit.
But you know what fucks me right off? Setting my fucking tax money on fire.
Fireworks are pretty, sometimes. But every time I hear them going off, the sound of my tax dollars going up in smoke drowns out even the loudest of the explosions.
I’m all for privately funded explosions. I am American, after all. But I don’t want my motherfucking city tax dollars going toward them, when they can’t even fix the sewage lines and the fucking potholes and the ridiculous areas that need new stoplights, but they let the fancypants rich pricks dictate what happens in this shithole town.
So go on, motherfuckers, set my money on fire and send it flying into the sky in colorful explosions while I struggle to pay the fucking flood insurance for a house that has never flooded.
Happy Day of Murdering Your Own Family – We were British, remember? At least the ones who came over to do the mass slaughtering and land-stealing.
I hate bitches who don’t know their place. Bitch gon’ try to throw me under the bus. What she has yet to figure out is I’m now driving that fucking bus. And she’s Target Numero Only. I was asked to advise my supervisor on a situation that has arisen. You see, apparently the company is hemorrhaging money (which is nothing new – but the source is new). And Queen Bitch is the primary suspect, only she’s doing what she always does: pointing fingers. She pointed fingers in both my direction and that of my former department. I was called into the meeting, and I stated clearly that this is the first I’ve heard of any issue (dudes, this issue is massive and jeopardizes our largest account…which would shut this subsidiary down, period). I explained exactly what the problem is and what needs to happen to fix it. Queen Bitched huffed and puffed, and guess what. Nobody’s fucking house blew down. But the air around us got suspiciously smelly. Next I’m called into my supervisor’s office privately, where he asks for my full analysis of the situation and what we should do to move forward. I didn’t even have time to be flattered, because I launched right into it. I don’t care anymore. I’m not here to placate Queen Bitch, and I’m certainly not interested in scratching anyone’s back or licking anyone’s ass. I carefully explained exactly why it is not in fact my former department’s fault, as it is QB’s responsibility to provide them with the information they need for the projects in question. When it looked like I was losing it, I brought out my secret weapon: an overstuffed folder full of the exact information QB used to provide to my former department. I had that shit because those jobs used to be my responsibility in that department. And because I strongly believe in good ole CYA (Cover Your Ass) in Corporate America, I still had all of it. So he’s shocked. “Queen….Queen Bitch did this? When you were in x department?” Yup. How else was I to know what the project consisted of? “B-b-b-but she says she’s never done anything of the sort.” *points to QB’s initials* She shoots. She scores.
Tomorrow should be entertaining. I really fucking hope that bitch steps up on me. I’m burning that bitch down.
You know what else I hate?
Motherfucking FedEx. Motherfucking FedEx put a heavyass box down against the porch today. Against it. Not on it. No no. It wasn’t on the porch. You know what it was on? My motherfucking twenty dollar azalea bush. You know, one of the ones I just fucking planted. Speaking of bitches that need burning down. Those motherfuckers are about to feel my wrath. Not that they’ll give a fuck. Still. I’m done being a doormat. I’m gonna practice telling motherfuckers off when they act like motherfuckers. Well guess what, I bet my mother has the herp. How do ya like me now, MOTHERfuckers?
You know what else I hate?
Motherfucking Comcast. I ditched AT&T for the same fucking reason I’m about to ditch your useless, lying ass. When your twatnose rep promises me something and you do the exact fucking opposite? Don’t act shocked when I ask for the number to your Retention Department. Heh. Didn’t think I knew about Retention Departments, did you? Think again, shit snorter. Where’s Ted Kaczynski when you need him? (Too soon for that kinda joke? Fuck you, I’m American. Apparently all I’m good for is getting thrown under buses and shooting people or blowing them up. Speaking of things I hate. Fucking douchecanoes.)
You know what else I hate?
That I forgot the rest of my list. There’s a lot to be said about making handwritten notes. Ahem, Ezekiel. Make fun of my handwritten lists. You little shit. So now I have something else to hate: my lack of post notes. Fucksticks.
Anyway. Yeah. Believe it or not, I’m in a pretty damn good mood. Now.
However. I Really Fucking Hope that rotted cuntwhore has the audacity to get in my face tomorrow. She will regret forgetting the last time we spoke, when I said, and I quote, “If you ever speak to me again, it should only be to apologize for what you’ve done. Otherwise, you keep my name out of your filthy mouth.” Oh yeah. That was a huge feat for Ms. Pushover. I finally allowed myself to stand up for myself, and that’s what came out.
Bonus thing I don’t give a fuck about: editing. Fuck editing. I’m letting this bitch fly. I’m all hardcore and shit.