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.
Y’all know damn well I don’t do formal reviews. I’m just gonna talk a bunch of shit and label it a review(ish). If I wanted to write an essay, I’d knock your fucking socks off. But I’d rather talk shit. So I’m gonna talk shit. Once more for those in the nosebleeds: SPOILERS, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Brienne & Tormund
Dudes. DUDES. Tormund being a total horndog toward Brienne, and Brienne being wildly uncomfortable….was, without question, my absolute favorite part of the season. Rare is the occasion when I laugh out loud if I’m watching or listening to something by myself. I don’t really know why that is. But oh man, I busted a gut in these few scenes. Look! Just look at their faces! Brienne is a badass and has been one of my top characters since I met her. Same with Tormund. They should totally do it. And he’s a wildling, for fuck’s sake. I bet once you go wildling, you never go back.
This chick right here needs no introductions. She can introduce her damn self just fine. Seriously. She is an epic badass. When Jon and Sansa approach her to ask for the support of her house (read: her knights), she gives them hell. And rightfully so. No house worth its salt will throw its banner behind a cause without knowing fucking well it’s not only for a worthy cause but also that the knights will not be fighting a guaranteed losing effort. The Starks begin with simple pleas, but Lady Mormont isn’t having it. When all is said and done, she devotes her entire army to the cause: 62 fighting men, which makes them all the more valuable to her house and to Bear Island. And she didn’t just devote her troops, she’s active through the entire effort between the Starks and the Boltons (Ramsay).
Seriously. Team Stark. Team Mormont. Team Dothraki (I only seem to like Daenerys when she has a Dothraki horde.)
The Dothraki Horde
Am I the only one who’s happy to see these motherfuckers back in action? I mean besides the yum factor (*sniff* I still miss Khal Drogo), they’re simply badass. Look, I’m in the MAJOR minority here in what I’m about to say: I think Emily Clarke is seriously lacking as an actress. Like hardcore. I get tired of watching her. Now, I love her story-line and her role. I love Daenerys. I just don’t think Emily Clarke is right for the part (it could very well be a problem with her direction, though). So I focus on other things, like The Dothraki, or her cool counselors. Oh. And of course the dragons. Duh.
But I really fucking hate this guy:
I mean, really. Whatever happened to the real Daario Naharis? He was smug and cocky and arrogant and mysterious.
Hmmmm. What else?
Oh! Oh! This Crazy Bitch!
Cersei has gone full on Mad Queen on us. How many times did she threaten to burn cities? To burn it all to ash for the sake of her children? Over and over and over and fucking over again. And then she did it. She burned the fucking sept, with everyone in it: Margaery, Loris, The High Sparrow, Lancel, Mace Tyrell, Kevan Lannister, etc. Anyone in the sept boiled alive by wildfire. (If anyone survived it, I’ll be pissed because it’s simply not possible the way they filmed it. They were all trapped.)
The best part? It instantly bites that crazy bitch in the ass.
But hey, at least she got the throne, right? For now…
Who else do I wanna talk about? I mean, Jon Snow doesn’t surprise me, except it was really nice seeing his ass. He’s always a brooding, emotional, thoughtful badass. I love Jon Snow. And I fucking KNEW he was a Targaryen. Absolutely one of the best good characters. I love what has happened with Sansa. It took her long enough, but she’s certainly earned a place in my good character book. She reminds me a lot of Catelyn, her mother’s character. And that’s a good thing. Hmm. (I am curious how it will play out once it comes to light that Jon is not Ned’s bastard and doesn’t belong in House Stark afterall. But Sansa, Arya and Bran still in the picture.)
Oh! Oh! I was superpumped to watch Sansa watch Ramsay get eaten by his own dogs. I’m glad Jon spared him on the battlefield so we all got to have that moment.
I never in a million years imagined Theon Greyjoy returning to my good graces, but it’s a testament to good writing and good acting that he’s there now. I’m proud of what he’s become now and look forward to seeing more of him next season (which very well may be our last season).
Things are shaping up nicely, and while I’m sad to see the end so near, I’ll kinda be glad when it’s over, too. I don’t watch much TV…so I tend to put off GOT until a season has piled up. Then I lose a day marathoning the fuck out of it until I’m caught up. So…this is six seasons so far? I’ve devoted six full days of my life to this show! Doesn’t sound like much, but it is. Hell, it’s a phenomenal story, though.
Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! I can’t finish this post without Arya.
I’ve been worried that Arya is losing her humanity and, just as importantly, her identity. I don’t want a girl to be no one. I want a girl to be Arya Stark. And I want Arya Stark to get back to the rest of the Starks, bringing with her all of her newfound badassery! Suffice it to say, I’m superpumped that a girl is Arya Stark and not no one. That scene with her and the little bitch was badass. By the way, Arya is totally Batman.
Also. I read what I thought was a massive spoiler before I ever watched the season. Someone wrote, after some episode, that Arya died. I didn’t mean to run into that. You know how the internet is. And I was fucking livid. It’s part of what took me so long to finally watch the season and get caught up. I was dreading it. So yeah. I’m thrilled.
Oh! Oh! And Oh My Fuck, this scene!
OHMYGOD AND THE HOUND
I fucking knew he was still alive. On Game of Thrones, if you don’t actually watch someone die, there’s a damn good chance he or she is still alive. I acted a damn fool when this motherfucker showed back up on the screen. Fistpumping the air, screaming, “YEAH! YEAH MOTHERFUCKER! YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” I shit you not. Welcome back, my friend.
Sometimes I think about weird things. Weird, random things about which I have no clue where my curiosity came from.
Exhibit A: Getting ready for work this morning, the following thought train barreled through my head.
I wonder how many people snore while they’re in comas.
Seriously, can people snore while comatose?
Ohmygod, can you imagine? What if you had to share a room with a comasnorer?
What if you were a comasnorer’s nurse or hospice person thingy?
Can you imagine sitting bedside and listening to twelve hours of chainsaw snoring?
For twenty fucking years?!
An entire lifetime of comasnoring?!
I FUCKING HATE YOU, COMASNORERS!
I pose the question to a friend. Who promptly destroys my perfectly rational comasnore rage with less rational reasonable rationale. Yes. Less rational rationale. Shit about life support and definitions of coma and blah blah blah. Thanksafuckinglot, Ezekiel, for derailing my thought train. Again.
Exhibit B: Whose idea was it to remove all the bones from chicken? You know. For boneless chicken.
What sick fucks figured out how to debone an entire chicken, leaving slabs of seemingly undamaged chicken meat stuff after?
Dude. I wish I had that patent. Imagine how much boneless chicken I could afford.
Wait a damn minute.
Eggs are chicken. Right?
Those motherfuckers are boneless!
CHICKEN CAME UP WITH BONELESS CHICKEN! They…they literally gave birth to it!
I don’t know what to do with this information. But I’m glad to have it.
Exhibit C: Have you ever wondered how many people, in any given moment, are shitting at the exact same time?
I have. Especially Monday. I thought it a lot on Monday.
Like…what if we could harness all the pushing power happening this very second?
I bet we could circumnavigate the globe.
Maybe rocket straight to Jupiter.
With all the horse ass power happening simultaneously each and every minute.
I mean, I’m guessing it would be a messy ride. But still.
This is useful information. To whom, I know not. But I know it’s useful! It’s probably not useful.
I know I’m not alone here. What’s the most recent weird shit you remember thinking?
I told myself I wasn’t going to talk about this here. “It’s too private,” I thought, “and it’s entirely too embarrassing and uncomfortable. …no. Fucking. Way.”
But you know what? That’s selfish of me. What if someone out there is afraid like I’ve been? Too embarrassed to see a doctor and talk about what’s going on, too afraid of receiving terrible news. What if someone reads my words and, as a result, looks after his or her own health? It hasn’t been too terribly long since I would have been (genuinely) willing to die before seeing a doctor. Embarrassment and shame do voodoo on the psyche. But I’ve recently got some awesome people in my life (you know who you are, and you know how I feel) – and this community is priceless. Fucking priceless. And you have lifted me up, encouraged me and offered me a world of new perspectives. Shouldn’t I try to do the same?
Shit happens, and the sooner I learn how to roll with it better, the more chill my life will be. And I’m a chill dude, man. It’s one of the few things I like about myself: I’m chill as fuck. So yeah, why not spill my embarrassing health issue – that shouldn’t be embarrassing at all, because it’s the human body and sometimes it fucks up, or we fuck it up – and maybe, just maybe, being candid about it will help someone. The more willing we are to speak openly about the things that scare or embarrass us, the better prepared we will be to move forward and heal. Knowledge is power, but it takes communication to gain that knowledge. Let us communicate.
If you’re squeamish, back away now. Back away. And if you’re not, then you’re about to see another layer to the title I used.
I have a lot of health problems. I’d say each of them is not a big deal, but stacking them all together gives me really bad days sometimes. But I’ve learned to deal, push it out of my mind, compartmentalize the fuck out of things, and keep on keeping on. Granted, I’m not always very good at it, but for the most part I try not to dwell on things.
Lately I’ve been seriously kicking ass. For me. I’ve been on a really good track to improve my life, and I’m getting good feedback and results. Personally, professionally, whatever. I’ve been hesitantly optimistic.
Did I say I’ve been kicking ass? I have been. Fuck it, I’ll own it. I’m nowhere near where I need to be. I’m only just beginning. But we all have to start somewhere.
Only now, my ass is kicking me. Yeah. You read that right. Are you ready? I’ve given more than enough intro, and now I’m just stalling. Let’s go…
My latest health issue started about three weeks ago. Or at least, I think it did. (I’ll explain that part shortly.) I went to the bathroom. I had to, you know………………fuck, I’m so embarrassed. Fuck it. Fuck it. Let’s do this. I had to shit, right? Everyone has to shit. No big deal.
Except, there was blood.
It was only a tiny amount, though. And it was bright red. It’s not the first time that’s happened, so I’ve read about it. It’s a hemorrhoid. Simple, whatever. I pissed the fucker off, and it bled a little. Little bastard. Case dismissed.
Except, it got worse.
Over the course of a week, the tiny bit of blood grew into a small amount of blood, which then grew into a semi-scary amount of blood. Only semi-scary, though. At this point, I knew I should see a doctor. I was semi-scared, for fucks sake. But who the fuck wants to go to their doctor and say, “Yo doc, there’s blood coming out of my asshole! What’s good, homeslice?”
Yeah, not me. So I ignored it and told myself that it would go away. The thing is, you remember that bit I said earlier? That “I think it” started three weeks ago? Yeah. That bit right there. For much longer than that, I’ve been having…problems…going…to the bathroom. It’s either one or the other: I can’t go, and it hurts like a bitch…or it’s like a motherfucking faucet. Either way, I’ve been having severe abdominal cramps. Mhm. So it has occurred to me that whatever this is…could very well have started much longer than three weeks ago. Fuck, I hope not.
Anyway. I fucking ignored it. Because that’s what I do. I stick my head in the sand and pretend the bad shit isn’t happening. And I carry on smiling and laughing and cracking smartass remarks in very poor taste. Because that’s what I do. Deny, deny, deny. And carry on not taking care of myself, dumping shitty (haha that’s punny) food in my body, wallowing in bed and wasting my life away.
And now I’m paying for it. Even if it’s nothing, I’m suffering at the moment, and most likely because of my abuse of my body.
So the next week, you’ll never guess what happened! You’ll never guess! You guessed it, didn’t you? Yeah. Shit got worse. (Heh. I did it again. SHIT got worse. Get it?) It got to the point where I’d have an urge to shit. My body’s telling me I gotta go, and it makes my abdomen rumble and cramp, and it’s urgent. It feels urgent. I go to the bathroom, and what comes pouring out? Shit?
Just. Blood. Copious amounts of blood. And it’s not as brightly colored anymore. It’s still relatively bright, but I tell myself…”just give it a bit more time. This is nothing. It will go away. You’ve just really really pissed Hank off.” (That’s the name of my friend’s asshole, but I’m stealing it.) I pissed Hank off, nothing more. No fucking way will I go to the doctor about this. I’ll fucking bleed to death first.
So the first week, I ignored it as best I could. The second week, I became terrified. The amount of blood filling up the bowl scared me. And it wasn’t bright anymore. I was barely shitting at all. For the most part, when I went to the toilet, it was Only Blood. The third week (this one), I had to start lining my underwear. Yeah. That fucking bad.
Yesterday, I went to the bathroom three times with that problem. Oh. And coupled with the blood loss, I’ve been experiencing significant dizziness, drastically increased fatigue, some disorientation, etc. Very woozy, all the time, and I have little to no appetite.
I called the doctor.
I had made a promise to call the doctor yesterday, and not only did I have to keep it, but I had finally gotten scared enough to seek treatment. The doctor got me in right away. The nurse said she’d call me back..she called me back within five minutes and asked if I could be there in fifteen. I texted my boss and left.
I told the doctor everything. He asked some questions pertaining to pain (location and severity), color of the blood, shitting schedule, etc. After I’d answered all of his questions, he said,
“You need a colonoscopy.”
I cried a little. Just a couple tears, and I practically whispered, “What about other tests first, like a stool sample?” (I’ve been researching…) And he calmly, quietly repeated,
“You need a colonoscopy.”
He sent me across the street to the hospital, to test for anemia. I bypassed admissions, no check in, no paperwork, and went straight to the lab where I was seen ahead of everyone and immediately. I don’t mind saying I cried all the way out of the hospital and all the way home. The urgency did more to scare me than anything else.
I got the results of the blood work today. In a bit of good news, I was told I haven’t gone anemic. Whew.
I have a colonoscopy Tuesday morning. I have to be there at 5 AM. And because of the prep that has to be done beforehand (drinking a tanker truck of vile liquid and subsequently shitting your brains out for hours on end), I’ll have to take both Monday and Tuesday off work.
I’m scared. Yesterday, I was really fucking scared. I shed a lot of tears. And then I got immense encouragement, which I am endlessly grateful for.
Here’s where I’m at now:
It could be lots of things. I could have a tear. I could have irritable bowel disease. I could have Crohn’s (don’t think so on that one). I could have angry polyps or some shit (ha). I could have colon cancer. (I watched one of the most important people in the world to me slowly die of colon cancer. He was diagnosed at 44 and passed away at 46. It wrecked me, and I’ve lived in terror of it ever since.)
Simple or complex, odds are very good that it’s something treatable. In which case, I get it treated, I heed the wake-up call and take better care of myself, and I go on about my life – more mindful than before.
And if it’s terminal, which my mind can’t help but wonder, then that will be alright, too. I’ll sell my house, quit my job, try to raise some funds, and I’ll travel and adventure until I drop dead with a smile on my face.
I can wallow in bed, feeling sorry for myself, or I can live. I choose life, regardless of the test results.
As for today, I’m going to my storage unit after work to pick up my camera. I said I’d do that today. It will be good for me. It will give me more reasons to get out of the house. Go find something beautiful and interesting, photograph it. Get back to what I used to do: finding something beautiful each and every day.
And hopefully some time next week, I’ll find out exactly what’s going on and what the next step is.
If there’s something you’re scared of, something you don’t want to face, especially if it’s something that presents a danger to your mind or body, it’s worth the risk to say something.
The doctor is not going to laugh at you.
Real friends will not laugh at you.
You will be encouraged. You will receive help. You will feel better. And you will know that shame and embarrassment are merely other forms of fear.
You’re worth it. There’s too much left to do. Your story doesn’t end here.
There are mountains to climb, oceans to swim, photographs to take, trains to ride, planes to jump out of, people to embrace, stories to hear, stories to tell, raucous belly laughs at vulgar jokes, souls to touch, music to dance to.
Confide in someone, be encouraged and seek help. Go to the ass doctor. Go to the gynecologist. Go to whatever doctor grabs your nuts and makes you cough. Get a finger stuck up your ass. Have satan’s claws shoved up your ladybits. Seek. Help. Now.
What? How did? I mean it’s not like I put it in the title. What? Fucking hell, I put it in the title, didn’t I? You people are supposed to keep me from doing shit like that. What am I paying you for?
Sigh. Well, since somebody (cough, cough) let the cat out of the bag, I may as well get to it. How about some background music first, shall we? Haven’t done that for a while.
Got music; let’s go. I am officially a copywriter now. It’s already on my resume as freelance work. But you know how some people fudge their resumes? I’ve never once lied on my resume, but I did use some creative word choices. Such as “freelance writing and copy-editing.” It’s not actually a lie: I’ve done a good bit of editing and writing for other people over the years, though it was largely unpaid work. Research papers, articles, book reviews, theses and dissertations, etc. That line on the resume did the trick, though. And it was a happy accident, really.
So. Local VIP who has contact with other company VIPs all over the country? The one who put in a good word for me in the Portland/Vancouver area? Yeah, that guy. I had to give him my resume so he could send it to his homegirl. Shortly after I emailed it to him, he stormed into my office and says, “Why didn’t you ever TELL anyone you’re a copywriter?” I’m surprised and say, well it was never in an official capacity, and I have told people. “Well you didn’t tell the RIGHT people. Didn’t you know we were looking for someone a while back? And that’s why (your dumbass supervisor) hired that giggling idiot in there!” Nope. I sure didn’t, VIP. You know damn well everything is a secret around here.
Long story short, the guy (just a year or so younger than I am) is being groomed for major leadership. Major. And he’s finally stepping up for real and actually getting involved. (I used to make fun of him. He’d come in the office to chat. “What’s going on in here!?” And I’d say, “Work. Ever heard of it?” Or I’d ask him if he learned a certain vocabulary word from a cracker jack box. I think that’s why he respects me, strangely enough. I’m one of the only people in the building who doesn’t lick his asshole for him.)
He asked me to give my opinion on some blog articles the new girl wrote, the one who was hired to be an in-house copywriter. I asked him how candid he wanted me to be, and he said “be the you I know and love to hate.” HA. So I ripped it to shreds. I didn’t rip her. This shit isn’t her fault. He said straight out that my super hired her because she’s cute and didn’t even bother to ask for writing samples. I feel bad for her, because no one is talking to her or trying to fix the situation. Anyway. So I do that, and he then asks me to comb our website for grammatical errors. I spent an entire day tearing it up, and then he had one of our web dev people fix it.
A week or two pass, and I hear nothing back from him – except that everyone is pleased with what I did. And my super calls me “our resident scholar” now. It’s…fucking lame. But it also feels good.
Yesterday, VIP emailed a document to me. He wanted my opinion. It was several pages long, fucking endless walls of text, so I just gave it a cursory reading and replied to him that I would suggest significant changes. We met for three hours yesterday afternoon to go over what those were, with the end result of him tasking me to rewrite the entire thing from top to bottom. He asked for design critique, too, but I could only give ideas – I don’t actually know design. (Oh. And to be fair, the meeting wouldn’t have been so long if we hadn’t been cracking so many jokes and laughing our asses off to the point that people came and griped at us to shut up. Put the two of us in a room together, and you have an HR nightmare. Alone, we behave. Together, we’re terrible.)
Anyway. I spent all day today rewriting the brochure copy and trying to adjust graphics and shit (that is once I got Archie to stop entertaining every fucking hen in the house – seriously, dating advice, recipe exchanges, cleaning tips – what the fuck, man). The fact that VIP is even allowing me to touch it is funny, really. He befriended me on FB just before asking me to do this…and he asked me anyway. My FB page is pretty much super tame – when I even bother to post anything. Park pictures, the occasional music video, cool art…shit like that. But I DO occasionally drop an f-bomb. And VIP, well, let’s just say his page is full of hunting videos, pictures of his children and bible verses.
Tomorrow, he and I are meeting with creative to look over the brochure, talk about design and layout changes and make sure the copy is cool. Once that’s done? We’re also gonna talk about completely overhauling the website. Those two will be responsible for design, the web dev department will handle coding, and I will do every single word of copy.
It’s daunting, but exciting.
If I have to work in corporate hell, I would rather do something that interests me or that I’m more suited to. I have to say that brochure was a pain in the ass, and I loved every minute of it – even when I was grumbling under my breath at how shit the original copy was. I’ve been wanting to transition in to some sort of writing job for a long ass time now…but it’s hard to do when your degree isn’t in communications or journalism. So this is a HUGE boost for my resume.
I’m officially a copywriter, y’all! That copy is gonna be off the fuckin’ hook. That was a lame attempt at a joke. I’m sorry. No, really. I’m sorry.
P.S. I’m not sorry. To make it up to you, here’s a pretty picture. Clicky.
I love lots of things, really I do. Flowers and bumblebees and the color of carrots and precocious kids and witty adults and mountains and cheese puffs. But this post isn’t about things I like.
This post is about bullshit. “But Stephanie,” your innocent minds inquire, “why do you think it’s bullshit?” Because it is, children. Because it is. So grab your blankies and your juiceboxes and gather round for Ms. Stephanie’s Lullabies of Bullshit.
People who scratch their nuts in public. They really get down, don’t they? I mean, they really get in there. And look, I don’t discriminate. People who scratch their nuts in public are bullshit; I don’t care if they’re man or woman. The people, not the nuts. Henuts, Shenuts, I don’t care. If you’re scratching your nuts in public, you’re bullshit. Seriously. You look me in the eyes, scratch your nuts, reach out to shake my hand with that shiteating grin, and you really expect me not to call stranger danger on that one? I don’t know where the fuck your henuts or shenuts have been – I don’t want the slimy residue of those sweaty fuckers on my hand (or anywhere else for that matter). It’s bullshit. Keep your nut shenanigans to yourselves, please.
People who attempt to master the art of conversation…while you’re taking a piss. Seriously, Potty Paula, you’ve never spoken to me a day in your life. Why the fuck do you think I want to have a conversation with you about this year’s crop of turnip greens…while urine trickles out of my body? It’s bullshit. Shut the fuck up.
Mammograms. People, people, people. Listen. We can print entire legs. Print them. On printers. But we can’t identify breast cancer without pancaking our boobs in Satan’s fist? You know what that is? Say it with me, boys and girls: It’s bullshit!
Parents with fat kids. You’ll notice I’m not talking about fat kids. I’m talking about the parents of fat kids. The ones that are fat from eating. Yeah. Those. I don’t give a fuck about fat adults. I rank among them. But I do give a fuck about fat kids. I was a fat kid. I know what that shit felt like. I know what it’s like to be bullied or invisible. And you know what? Most of you parents with fat kids are also fat, so you know what it’s like, too. I don’t give the asses of all the rats how many ho-hos and dingdongs you smoosh down your gullet. Stop setting your kids up for a lifetime of struggles, you abusive pieces of shit. Yeah, that’s right. I’m looking at you, little sister. I’ve seen the pictures of my nephew. And you know what I think? You’re bullshit.
People who say chemicals are dangerous. Dude, your fucking FACE is a chemical. (Fine, a mass of chemicals. Semantics.) You’re bullshit. That is all.
Microaggressions. Fucking seriously? Are you fucking shitting me right now? I’m so sick of hearing and reading about microaggressions. You’re either the victim of aggression (active or passive), or you’re not. The only thing I wanna read about being micro- is a microwave or microbiology. Microaggressions are bullshit.
Meta. Oh my god, Becky. Her analysis. Of her own ass. Is like. So. Meta. Please fuck off with this meta shit. It’s bullshit.
People who say shit like, “I’m not racist, but…” We all know what you’re really saying is, “I’m not racist, but I’m about to say something so fucking racist you’ll think I invented racism.” Yeah. So next time you say, “I’m not racist, but I think all niggers should be in prison”? I swear to fuck I heard the second part, and you’re not even bullshit, Archie. You’re the festering maggot sputum drizzling down the top of the pile of bullshit. Yeah.
Having to upload a resume and filling out an application with the exact same fucking information. Guess what that is? Complete and utter bullshit. Do you want me to show you how good I am at copying down shit from my resume? Verfuckingbatim? Kudos to you, then. Look how good of a copier I am. Do I get a gold fucking star? You douchecanoes.
Parents who let their spawn play on xbox live chat. Listen up, thundercunt. When your precious angel calls me a fat whore when I whoop his ass, don’t get your granny panties in a wad when I call little Billy a nob swallowing penis wrinkle. It’s bullshit. Demote that little fucker back down to Candyland until he can learn how to respect his fucking gamer elders. The little prick.
Deconstructed coffee. Are you shitting me right now? I don’t even drink coffee, and I’m offended at this insult to coffee. If I want a cup of coffee, I don’t want three fucking glasses. One with hot water, one with milk or cream, and one with liquefied coffee beans. “It’s so you can make it how you want it!” Oh please. That’s why people go to Starbucks and order their Venti Grande Shorto Hot Iced Decaf Skinny Caramel Macchiatos with Extra Whip and two shots of Espresso. Fuck your deconstructed coffee and do your jobs, you bullshit hipster twatnozzles.
There. I feel better. Do you have anything to add? Pile on the bullshit, Peopleaneous. I’ve got extra shovels.
…so I’m here. With nothing to say. Shall we see if I end up saying something anyway, like yesterday. Why not. [(Fuck question marks. Question marks are squiggly little pricks that make it sound like I lack confidence in what I’m saying.) (See, this is the kind of bullshit that escapes when I don’t have a plan! Who the hell has problems with question marks. I do, apparently. Who knew.)]
How ’bout them Yankees. No. Shitty topic, seeing as how I don’t give a fuck about them Yankees.
How about cookies. Archie brought cookies in today, some elaborate recipe with oatmeal (who knew), raisins, coconut, some other shit, some additional other shit. She said her Mr. Archie complained they were too dry, so she brought them to work. They were too dry. I ate two anyway. For breakfast, because I’m a gangsta. Also because I’m out of oatmeal so I ate dry oatmeal cookies. Fair trade.
Well that got old fast. What now.
There’s a video going around of goats jumping on a trampoline. It’s pretty awesome, and reminds me that I want a trampoline. I need one to have a bouncing army of Garry Goats. Shit, that means I need goats, too. Good thing I want goats. And chickens. And my own personal library. One of these things is not the same, but I still want them all.
This is really fucking boring. Do I sound sufficiently blasé. Uhm. Uhhhh. How can I liven this post up.
Explosions. That works in Hollywood. But what do they know. They worship volcano aliens. Ohmygod, maybe that’s how the aliens get here. All those fucking explosions are really eruptions, shooting evil alien overlords over the masses. Only they travel via airwaves, so they’re distributed among the masses at summertime popcorn explody movies. Yeah.
Topics are good. I should probably make a list of them or some shit. For days like today, when the lack of said list results in a rambling post about grammar, oatmeal and Scientology. Fucking weirdo.
My shoulder is hurting like a motherfucker. Pain shooting down my arm like needles, fingers going numb. Pinched nerve, I bet. Just what I need. My shoulder is a dick. (Ohmygod I just said I have a dick. I don’t. Unless you count my shoulder, in which case I do have a dick. And my foot that hasn’t healed in nearly a year. That’s also a dick. So’s my head. It hurts like a motherfucker. (Ohholyhell that means I’m a Motherfucking Dickhead. Wow. (I wonder what happens if all those dicks get erect at once.)))
Damn, I’m nasty. That’s okay. Y’all already knew that. And if you’re new here, Welcome to the Gutter. (Please sing that to the tune of “Welcome to the Jungle.” It has the same number of syllables, so it totally works. Trust.)
Going to the orthopedist today to have another x-ray of my foot. I don’t see the point, as I can tell him for a fact it isn’t healed. I’ll give you a hint as to how I know: PAIN. Yeah. Damnit. Gonna ask him if he can either check my shoulder as well or make an appointment to do so very soon. I’ve been putting up with it for a few weeks now, but instead of getting better (as I’d hoped), it’s monumentally worse. Yay.
That’s okay. I’m gonna beat these assholes somehow, someway. How else will I go hiking once I hit the PNW. Exactly. So these assholes have to heal, so I can hike. I will it so. Damnit.
House. Almost ready to list. I realize I keep saying that, but it’s superclose now. Repairs made and just needs a hard scrub. (My shoulder’s gonna loooooove that.)
Jobs applied to with the company I currently work for – in the PNW. Fuckin’ aye. I’ve got an in with a local VIP who has an in with a PNW VIP. So, while there are no guarantees and it may take a while, it would enable me to keep my current insurance and bennies. Fingers crossed.
Speaking of PNW, considering taking on a roomie when I move. Could save me shittons of money or get me slaughtered in my sleep, my guts churned into a breakfast smoothie. Worth the risk? I dunno. I value my privacy too much, probably. And my guts. Sometimes.
Mental Health. I’ve taken myself off of all psych meds, and my brain feels better. I still wake up wishing I hadn’t, but none of the drugs I was on ever took that away. So. Fuck it. Why pump my body full of drugs just to feel the same way in the end. So fuck that psychiatrist. Gonna get my GP to prescribe the sleepytime med and stop pouring money down that pill-pushing hodonkey.
Uhm. Those are the shortest updates I’ve ever given. Heh.
Okay. That is all. Good day.
And don’t forget: McGruff the Crime Dog says to Say No to Drugs. I say take a bite out of McGruff.
Today is a difficult day for me. Not because of the beasts within, but for a very specific and deeply personal reason. So, while it’s highly unusual for me (especially lately), I’m gonna do my second post of the day. This one is gonna be fun! I’m in need of fun diversion, and I think some of you will wanna do this fun little thing for yourselves, too!
Over at A Momma’s View, the lovely blogger issued a superfun list of 35 questions for her readers to answer. She also asks her readers to come up with a question of their own. So. I’ll do hers and add the ones her commenters asked, and I’ll try to come up with my own to add for you.
Let’s do this thang, chickenwang. ((That was really fucking lame, but it popped into my head so it stays.) (You’re welcome.))
1 – Boxer shorts or budgy smugglers? Bam. I can already tell these are gonna be my kinda questions! So. Chick. I don’t wear either. But if I’m gonna get to see a man’s underwear, I really hope they’re boxer briefs. Gray or black. Hm. But if he has dark skin, white ones look awesome. Hm, I bet white looks good on pale skin, too. You know what? Fuck the color, just make sure they’re snug. (What? Aren’t these Essay Questions? No? Piss off. They are so.)
2 – What color of underwear are you currently wearing? Black.
3 – How long have you been wearing them for? Let’s see, it’s 3:10 PM at this very moment. So I’ve been wearing them for 8 hours. Geez, why does that sound gross? It’s totally not!
4 – Do you ever use binoculars to watch people? No. But good idea! No, I take that back. My street is filled with old people and college kids. Wait. There’s the Lebanese guy a block down. Anybody have a pair of binoculars I can borrow? I need to find out his answer to the first question. (Look. I’m not a pervert, people. I’m a human. A fucking perverted one.)
5 – Have you ever kicked someone in the groin? Not no, but fuck no. No one has ever done anything to me that would come close to warranting that. At least not once I was old enough to consider retribution. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even now. Even if he or she deserved it. I just couldn’t be that cruel.
6 – Would you pull a trigger? No. No, I wouldn’t.
7 – If you met your favorite celebrity, and they wanted to make out with you, would you? No. Because making out leads to sex. And that ain’t happenin’ without an STD-free permit and exclusive relationship rights. Call me a prude. Don’t give a fuck. (Not without the STD-free permit, anyway!)
8 – Have you ever slept in the same bed with someone you were not in a relationship with (not talking about sex and one-night-stands)? Fuck no. Why the fuck would I be in bed with someone I didn’t want to have sex with? If you crawl into my bed, prepare for the fuckening. Unless you’re a chick. Then get out.
9 – Have you had one-night-stands? Not exactly.
10 – Does sex have the same importance to you now compared to when you were younger? Fuck. No. It matters a great deal more, now! And I’m single – what kind of bullshit is this, universe?! HUH? FUCK YOU. No. NO. No “fuck you.” If I’m not getting laid, neither are you! UNFUCK YOU!
11 – Have you ever eaten a worm? No. But I made my little sister eat one when we were kids. I felt like a god. It was awesome. And then I felt guilty, because I’m a softy. (Fuck off, I am, too.)
12 – What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever eaten? Bread. Nah, I’m kidding. Broccoli. Fucking broccoli. And mayonnaise. And cream cheese. And potted meat. And…I’m going to go puke now. Thanks a lot.
13 – How long do you spend sitting on the toilet? Uhhhhhh. I don’t like this question. Damnit. If I have a book or iPad with me (I know I know germs bleh), my ass will go numb. Good enough?
14 – What do you do when you sit there (besides the obvious)? Read or play games or pet my cat. (Not THAT “cat,” sickos. I don’t do that kind of petting on the toilet. One of the cats always follows me to the bathroom….)
15 – Have you ever been peed at? Yes, yes, I’ve been aggressively peed at by a legion of angry toddlers. It was like walking through a warm sprinkler. Ew. NO. I’ve never been peed at or on. WAIT. YES I HAVE. FROGGIES. FROGGIES HAVE PEED ON ME.
16 – What’s the grossest thing you have ever swallowed? This is a dangerous question. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna say cum. Piss. Piss with cigarette butts in it. Yeah, I’m not fucking kidding. I wish I was. Someone pissed in my soda can and put a cigarette out in it, because he thought I was done with it. Yeah. Fuck, I’m gonna hurl.
17 – What’s the constantly dirtiest place in your home? The kitchen. Ugh, I hate cleaning the kitchen.
18 – Why don’t you clean it? Because I fucking hate it. Dishes and shit. The oven. The sink. Ugh. I fucking hate it, that’s why!
19 – Do you eat your boogers? Fuck. No. But my sister used to. How do you think I knew I could easily convince her to eat worms? Nasty little shit. She was still sneaking them in her twenties. I bet she garnishes her dishes with them now.
20 – Can you describe the one smell that makes you gag? Human. KIDDING. Hmm. The one smell that makes me gag. Rotten milk or eggs. Yeah, that’s two things, but they both popped into mind as something guaranteed to make me gag.
21 – Have you ever had head lice? Yes. My sister brought them home, and we all got ’em. Fucking nasty. And she KEPT bringing them home until mom finally figured out exactly which friend they were coming from.
22 – Have you ever been utterly disappointed in someone? Yes. Yes, I have. And it’s a devastating feeling. To be utterly disappointed in someone, you have to have a high level of trust and expectations. And unfortunately, I’ve been disappointed many times in life.
23 – Have you ever been scared of someone? Yes. I’d have a real urge to piss my pants if he showed up even now.
24 – What do you do when you’re drunk that you wouldn’t want anyone to know about? Uhm. I’m honestly a pretty fun drunk. I just get silly and giggly. If I get too drunk, I run into shit. But that’s normal. Uhm. That I wouldn’t want anyone to know about? Does “get aroused” count? Not really. I think that’s pretty standard, too. I dunno! I’m fucking awesome when I’m drunk. I should probably drink more. (Kidding. I don’t drink often, and I plan to keep it that way.)
25 – Have you tried pole dancing? Not the kind you’re talking about.
26 – Have you been in a strip club? Nope. I’m not into window-shopping of any sort.
27 – Have you ever run over an animal? Yes. And I sobbed so fucking hard…every time…sometimes for days.
28 – Have you ever peed in snow? No! Bucket list!
29 – Have you ever made fun of someone and then regretted it? You bet your sweet ass I have. I regret it still. It’s shameful. Shameful.
30 – What’s your favorite kind of question on Cards for Humanity (if you know the game)? Uhm. Sex ones. DUH. Anybody wanna play?
31 – If the father of your best friend hit on you, what would you say to him? I have a specific man in mind, and my usual timid self would be out the window. I would strongly tell that bastard to fuck right off, stop breathing my air, and I hope your dick falls off.
32 – Would you go out on a date with someone half your age or double your age? No. Half my age would be 17. I have no interest in boys. Twice my age would be 70. I have no interest in changing diapers.
33 – Do you clean the sink after brushing your teeth? Isn’t that what toothpaste is for? Kidding. I don’t. I’m a fucking slob, okay? Sometimes.
34 – Have you ever spat in someone’s food or drink? No.
35 – Have you ever kissed someone only to be grossed out afterwards? Oh god, yes. Patrick, you sleaze.
36 – What is your number one goal in life, and are you living it? Contentment. Yes. I think that’s what it all boils down to. Contentment. And no. I’m not. But I’m striving for it.
37 – Do you spy on your neighbor(s)? If yes, why? No. I don’t give a fuck about their lives. Does that make me an asshole? Perhaps. But it also makes me NOT A CREEPY SPY! So there!
38 – Have you ever danced and/or cried in the rain? I know I’ve cried in the rain. I think I danced in the rain, but I could have dreamt it. Do you have “memories” like that? Where you aren’t sure it ever happened? And maybe it was just a dream? Yeah.
39 – Have you ever ditched work to just chill out on your own (with or without Netflix)? Fuck yes.
40 – And this one is from me: What do you wish you were doing right now (anything goes)? I wish I were sitting cross-legged in a mountain-rimmed meadow, laughing and talking and wishing and sharing and getting righteously baked with a companion. Maybe some guitar playing. Maybe sex under the stars. But mostly a boatload of giggles and exchanges of ideas.
What up, homeslices. See how hip I am? I still say “what up” and am so gangsta I didn’t even use a question mark. Yeah, bitch.
So. Y’all already know I’ve been pushing myself lately. More than usual, I mean. You know I had the April thing get canceled and I carpéd the fuck out of those diems (I just indecently Latined all over your faces. You’re welcome.). With the haircut. Masturdating with Deadpool. At the bookstore. At the park. At the park again. I even willfully introduced myself to a stranger! And the little turtle peeking out of the shell didn’t get her little neck cleavered! Do wonders never cease?
They do not.
For the tale I am about to tell is a tale of public Stephanie in public at public places with public people doing public things.
Did I mention I did more things in public. Because I did.
I publicked my ass off. (That’s the correct way to past-tense verbify public. I know. I’m an expert on these matters.)
Ass Publicking Chapata One (That sounds so fucking wrong. So I’m leaving it.)
Rewind to Friday, April 22. That’s, what? Two Fridays ago? This dude suggested Happy Hour to me months ago, as a great way to loosen up, kick back and just enjoy life a bit. But I was adamant in my refusal. No. Fucking. Way. Was this ever going to happen. And then this dude pushed me to go “network” at Happy Hour for weeks. Relentlessly for weeks. WEEKS, I tell you! So I finally relented, but it was no easy task.
There’s a cool (and very popular) Irish pub within walking distance of my house. I’d been once before when the greatest history professor to ever walk the earth took all his Historiography grad students out for a couple of rounds on him. But that’s the only time I’d ever been.
Other than that, I was always on the outside looking in. I drive past the joint on a regular basis – in fact, I did so daily for several years.
But I was always outside.
At the people looking out.
At the people unwilling or unable or uncool enough.
To come in.
But this would be the day that I’d make the transition. I was fucking determined. But I was not going alone, damnit. That’s just pathetic. Single fat chick sitting alone at the bar during Happy Hour on Friday night? No.
So what’s a girl to do?
Round up a posse of course.
I was having a slow work day, so I wandered around the building herding geeks. Y’all know those little decorator crabs? The ones that wander around, plucking pretty debris from the seashore and affixing it to their shells? So that they may adorn themselves in their very surroundings and be hidden and protected?
That was me.
Unwilling to remove my shell, I wandered the building plucking rogue geeks and affixing them to my shell. They followed me around like Mother Fucking Goose. I was the Pied Fucking Piper of Geeks, trying to lead them down the path of rowdy drunken carousing.
At one point, I had about seven geeks straggling behind me. I’d formed my own posse. And we were going pubbing.
If we could get The Sloth to go.
See, these boys are a unit. And I was going to be the ultimate Dungeon Master, corralling them all for drinks and vulgarity and laughs.
Well, The Sloth would only agree to go if we could get Pookie to go.
So commenced The Hunt for Red October Pookie.
We couldn’t find him. I texted him silly pictures of The Sloth and Buttermilk doing slothy semi-gay things on warehouse equipment.
“LOLOLHAHAHA” came the mature and measured response.
Posse in tow, we rounded corner after corner until we had Pookie in our sights.
Naw man. It’s not pay week.
I told him I’d buy the first round.
I said, “I’m not being weird, you little fucker. Bring your damn girlfriend.”
He blushed again.
Well, I’d HAVE to bring my girlfriend.
I stared at him.
He blushed harder.
I stared at him.
He looked down at his book.
I stared at him.
I just really can’t. I’m broke! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!
“Pookie,” I glared into him with rage in my eyes and condescension dripping from my voice, “you’re dead to me. Now The Sloth won’t go. And then Buttermilk will back out. And then no one is going to go.”
What about Thundercat and Lebowski?
“I asked THEM before I asked YOU. But Thundercat is home alone with his spawn tonight, and Lebowski has to go to some viewing for a dead uncle he never met. You’re dead to me, you understand?”
As I walked away, he was laughing, blushing and apologizing.
I flipped him off without looking back.
So, as anticipated, everyone backed out. I nearly had The Sloth convinced, until he remembered he had other plans. Looking up at me from the filthy warehouse floor, looking every bit like he’d just disappointed the potty-mouthed version of Mother Teresa or gotten caught sniffing his finger after scratching his ass, all wide eyed and hesitant, he tells me…
Aw fuck, I wouldn’t have been able to go even if Pookie went. I promised Dangerhole I’d drink with him tonight.
“That’s a thing? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me right now, Sloth?”
Noooooooooo. It’s his drinking weekend, and last time I wasn’t there to keep him calm, he broke someone’s face and went to jail. That cost us a month of drinking money, man. I’m sorry, but I promised.
I called them all lousy motherfuckers, told them to enjoy their weekends jerking off in their mothers’ basements and stalked off. This whole mission lasted about two hours.
I had a decision to make, and fast.
To Happy Hour alone? Or to Home?
And then I remembered: you don’t have a home. You have a dwelling. A domicile. A house. Is that where you want to go? You want to go cry in bed? That’s preferable to going out just because you don’t have the support of a group of semi-friend stoner geekboys from work? You barely fucking know them anyway.
Decision made, I clocked out early and determined to open the place. It opens at 4:00, and I knew I simply Would Not Go if there was already a crowd before I got there. So if I was gonna tackle this, I was gonna do it on my own terms.
Fuck the Geek Squad.
Everything happened in slow motion:
I pulled into the parking lot.
I braked to a stop.
I put the car in park.
I looked at the guy unloading liquor from the back of a pickup.
I looked at him look at me.
I killed the ignition.
I palmed my keys and wallet.
I pushed my shades atop my head.
I opened the door.
I stepped out.
I closed the door.
I walked to the front (because I wasn’t a regular and didn’t realize there was a back entrance).
I opened the door.
I observed the old men at the bar.
I chose a stool near the register.
I sat on it.
I put my things down.
I made eye contact with the regulars observing me, the stranger.
I smiled back at the bartender.
Do y’all have cider?
I opened my very first bar tab.
Haha no, I’m not new in town. I’m just new. To going outside.
A big exhale.
My first sip.
And I was in.
Listening to the old men, who trickled in one at a time, talk about golf and wives and exes and crooked dicks and business trips gone wrong.
Right about the time I agreed to try Irish Champagne (apparently just some sort of Irish beer mixed with cider), Wes plopped down beside me.
Soft. Blonde. Blubbering. Gay. Twenty-something. College student. Clearly a regular. At some point, he simultaneously cracked open a Miller Lite and a lame joke. I laughed politely.
Then he showed me the picture he had up on his phone, “That’s my granddad.”
Is he flexing?
“Why is he in his tighty whities?
“Haha Haha………Haha. I don’t really know. I took a picture of the picture, and I think he must have been posing for grandma back then.”
The bartender, a chick, chimed in, “So that’s where you get it from.”
Haha no way, he was definitely posing for grandma, not some guy.
Much much laughter.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, “although…but I meant the flexing in your underwear.”
He laughed and agreed that must be the case.
Wait. Wait. You flex in your underwear? And people…people know this about you?
“Hahahahayeah, wanna see another one??”
And from that point forward, I called him Flexy Wes and finally just Flex.
At some point in the midst of all this, I took a phone call. Laughing my ass off, I went to one of the tables by the window for the call. And I saw it. I became aware of what I was doing.
I was one of the ones on the inside.
I was looking out.
At the ones looking in.
I was looking out.
At the ones unwilling or unable or afraid.
To come inside.
I wasn’t one of them anymore.
By the time Flex left, I was about four or five ciders in and was feeling righteously buzzed. Also, the Friday night crowd was fast filling up the place, and I felt it was time to make my exit.
Fucking proud of myself, too.
I sat in my car for quite a while, waiting out the buzz. It was worth it. Totally worth it.
Ass Publicking Chapata One, Part Two
I got home. Changed clothes. Plopped down in bed. Updated stupidityhole about my “networking.” Played on my iPad.
And then The Anklebiter texted (about two hours later). She had been updating me off and on throughout the evening, telling me that she would perhaps, maybe, eventually make her way to the pub. But she never did. She kept trying to get me to go to this big party. I refused.
And now she was texting.
“Where are youuuuuuuuuuuu?!???????? Are you in bed???????????????”
I replied, “How did you know?”
“LOLOLOLOL that’s where I’d be! Come back! We’re here! Pleeeeeease! It’s my biiiiiiiiiirthdaaaaaaaaaay!”
So you know what I did?
I went back out. Met up with The Anklebiter and her friends. Wished her a happy birthday. Had more drinks. Listened to the band. Had more laughs.
And had a fanfuckingtastic time.
Booyah. First Happy Hour a rousing success.
Ass Publicking Chapata Two
Chapata Two occurred this past Friday. And it was happening because of me. You see, I had asked a certain group of people to do Happy Hour with me before I ever tried to get the Geek Squad. But most of them had prior engagements and promised they could go out next week. But I couldn’t wait. I had to go that first night – it was a now or never kinda thing.
I no longer wanted to go, though. I knew it would be fun, but I had a raging day-after headache from the Modest Mouse concert I’d gone to the night before. I always have head-splitters on the day after a concert. (And I went to that fucker by myself, was the only one standing in my section, danced and sang and cheered and had a blast. An absolute blast.)
But I took care of my headache, drove home from out of town, gave myself a pep-talk and went to the pub.
And this time was soooo different.
It was me, Anklebiter and Her Little Dog Too, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong, The Woman Formerly Known as Crankles, UberGeek McHottiepants, and even my supervisor, McFly, for a half hour or so. (Thanks a lot, Anklebiter.)
And I laughed so hard my stomach and chest hurt.
And then I drank some more.
A lot more.
And then I laughed so hard we became that table. We were outside, under the covered patio part, and we were the obnoxious ones.
And it was one of the most fun nights I’ve had in my adult life. Hands down.
I got there before anyone else – had to open the place to quell my anxiety. Got a cider or two in, and the old men from the first Happy Hour talked to me this time. Called me a snob for drinking cider. And I called them cheap old fucks with their PBR.
When the crew got there, UberGeek McHottiepants made me follow through on my promise to do an Irish Carbomb with him. HOLY. SHIT.
Everyone laughed and asked, “how was it?”
And the antics continued. There’s photographic evidence of me cringing as I slammed the carbomb with Uber. There’s photographic evidence of me sucking on a lime wedge after slamming Patron with Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.
It was hilarious and vulgar and fucking fantastic. Uber and I made some of the dirtiest jokes…but we were at a separate table for a bit, so we had a blast making the others wonder what was so fucking funny.
Once the band started setting up, everyone wanted to leave and go to Anklebiter and Her Little Dog Too’s house. Everyone except Little Miss. She bailed. (And McFly had been long gone, though he did witness the carbomb.)
Ass Publicking Chapata Two, Part Two
I went because I didn’t have a choice. Uber and I couldn’t drive yet, so we rode with The Woman Formerly Known as Crankles over to Anklebiter’s place.
There was talk of Karaoke and mixed drinks.
But we mostly chilled and talked about the concert I’d gone to the night before, concerts, 90s bands, gardening.
We listened to music. They learned how vulgar I was (this group had no idea – well Uber did. And Little Miss did. But the rest had nooooo idea).
I only had one more drink once we got there, because I needed to sober up to drive.
It was nice. Chill. We played with the dogs and had a fuckton of laughs.
And it made me question my judgment of The Anklebiter. She’s not what I thought she was. She’s not what she presents as. Well she kind of is, but not in a malicious way.
Before we left, Anklebiter had us all take a group selfie. One of them has a dog licking my boob. And the other one has Her Little Dog Too’s bare abdomen in it.
Not low enough for Grandma’s mustache.
Ass Publicking (Future) Chapata Three
And tomorrow night?
Happy Hour at a Mexican restaurant for three dollar margaritas with The Anklebiter and The Woman Formerly Known as Crankles.
I don’t want to go. It’s going to be extremely crowded. But The Woman Formerly Known as is like me in the sense that she’s trying to put herself out there for the first time. I never knew that. But she shared it with me, because I told them it’s what I was doing. They knew, anyway. I’ve rejected everything I’ve ever been invited to – granted, it has never been much. But I’ve never participated.
So. Even though I hadn’t gotten along so well with The Woman Formerly Known As back when I first started working here (she reminded me of my mother – and that’s a bad thing), she’s working on herself just like I am. And she asked me to go, so I’m gonna go.