I don’t want to end my streak…

…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.)]

Uhm.

Uh.

How ’bout them Yankees. No. Shitty topic, seeing as how I don’t give a fuck about them Yankees.

Uhm.

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.

Uhm.

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.

I changed my mind. He’s now my McHomie. As soon as he gets out of prison, anyway.

To Cleave or Not to Cleave, That is the Question

Okay Peopleaneous. I’m about to perform a little exercise in exposure therapy. Here goes. Are you ready?

Breasts.
Boobs.
Jugs.
Tits.
Tatas.
Funbags.
Bouncy pillows of joy.
Those jiggly things.
Gazongas.
Hooters.
Knockers.
Rack.

Whew. I hated that. Like seriously, I’m cringing. You see, while I wasn’t raised in some sort of puritanical household, I was raised in the South where boobs are hidden except by tarts and women with boobs that defy the laws of nature and could never be covered even by the quilts of a thousand grannies.

It has been pointed out to me that I take it more seriously than most. Like. Super seriously, man. It’s not that I’m a prude, though I’m prudeish. I don’t mind sex jokes. I can handle sex scenes in movies, though uncomfortably at times. I’m totally vulgar and crude at times. To the point where I’ve embarrassed some of my male coworkers. But those instances rarely have to do with sex. As far as I’m concerned, no one in the world is having sex. I don’t want to know about your sex life. And I sure as fuck don’t want you to even think I’ve ever had sex in my life.

And I don’t have boobs. My shirt just sticks out up there. That’s all. And you don’t have boobs, either. And you don’t have dicks or balls. Except, we all do. No. Wait. We all have something. But few of us have all at once. Whatever. You get my point.

But when it comes to dressing myself. Y’all. Seriously. If I even think a top is gonna reveal cleavage, I won’t buy it. I won’t wear it. I won’t even consider it. Unless I can be assured that the cami I will wear beneath it will cover the rest and preserve my modesty.

The only person I want seeing any part of my breasts is whomever I may be intimate with. Which is not something I wanna get into here, but suffice it to say my sexual experiences have been rather limited.

So. Bible Belt upbringing + Inborn modesty + Hardcore aversion to attention + Not wanting to be perceived as one of those girls (like my sister who lets all that shit hang out, Free Willy style, except Free Boobies) = Stephanie blushing like mad when Geeky Boy Scout casts his eyes downward because fuck, my sweater slipped. Today, for example, I’m wearing a light sweater, a cami beneath, and a scarf! All to hide cleavage and any extra chins I may or may not have. (Dudes, I just like scarves. I don’t actually use them to hide cleavage, though it’s a serious added bonus.)

I not only cannot handle my own cleavage, but I cannot handle seeing the cleavage of others. Because while I’m straight as an arrow, exposed cleavage draws the eye. Period. I don’t care if you’re a man or a woman, you’re gonna look. You can’t help it. And I don’t wanna think about your tits! I don’t wanna see the cleave! Cover yourself, you harlot of Satan!

Oh My God, Zooey! No! Bad! Bad! Cover thyself, heathen!

You know I’m exaggerating, but for seriouses. Cleavage makes me super uncomfortable. For the most part, around where I live, I don’t see it often. So lack of exposure makes it shocking and appalling when I do see it. I’ve been told, “You’re gonna HATE it if you ever come to Sydney, because chicks walk to the shops in bikini tops sometimes.” Or, “You’re gonna be in for a major shock in Seattle, because the rivers of cleavage rival the mighty Amazon.”

And I know. But I can’t help it. And if you do so happen to see my cleavage or my traitorous nipples poking through my top, please don’t stare too long. I’ll blush like a schoolgirl and cover myself with the nearest thing possible: my hands, shirt material, stapling paper to my chest. You know. The logical choices.

So ladies and gentlemen, pervs and pervettes: tell me. To cleave or not to cleave? For that, my dears, is the question.

The One Where Stephanie Finally Does A Top Ten Post (AKA Stephanie Posts Again in the Same Week. It’s a Christmas Miracle!)

I’m not big on “Top Ten” or “Top Anything” posts (unless they’re snarky and funny), but there are some things I need to get off my chest. (And I don’t mean the spaghetti noodle that I dropped down into my decolletage a couple weeks ago, that had to be peeled from my boob. We need adult bibs, people.) So let me get right to it.

Top Ten Things My Coworkers Need to Cease. Immediately. Or I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole.

Numero One-o: Ladies, I know you like to hover over the toilet. It’s probably the only time you ever hover over anything. Maybe you get off on it. Maybe it’s a workout for your quads. Maybe you’re doing some weird, fucked up kegel exercise that can only be done while hovering over the toilet. Look, you do you. And I’ll do me. (Or wait. Yeah, okay, I will. But hopefully not only me. Wow, can I digress.) But please, for the love of all that is good and dry, please wipe up your little piss puddles that you dribble all over the motherfucking seats. And while you’re at it – you know that can of Lysol on the back of every tank? CLEAN YO SHIT UP. Nasty twaffles. (That’s twat + waffle for those not in the know.) (Now you’re in the know.) (It’s better than being in the no.) (You’re welcome.) Oh. And one more thing, you nasty hagwipes.

Numero Two-o: I know you’re on your little New Years’ Resolution health kick that you’ll scrap in a few more weeks. Some of you have already scrapped them. (You’re my favorites.) I get it. Okay? I could stand to lost a donkey’s worth of pounds. And I know I should get on that, but fuckin’ hell I find it hard to self-motivate. (AND she’s off! Digressing again!) But you and those fucking green drinks. I have a bullet (I’m talking about the juicing bullet, not the one in my nightstand. Perverts.), and I used it for a while. Perhaps I’ll use it again when I’m feeling brave. They taste great if you do them right. But please, please, on behalf of everyone in this godforsaken room, please do not drink a thirty-two ouncer and then happily go about your day while you choke us all with the noxious fumes coming out of your exhaust pipe. I’m seriously choking on your colon clouds, and I can’t fucking take it. It brings tears to my eyes, and my clothes smell like your asshole. And I hate you for it. I fucking hate you for it. Cut that shit to a small drink every other day. Or I’ll kill you. Slowly. With a spork. Stinkhole.

Numero Three-o: Not exactly a cease immediately, but more like a WHAT THE FUCK. Ladies, again, I’m talking to you. Why the fuck are there footprints on the back of the stall doors in the bathroom? Are you propping your feet up  and using that for leverage while you push out the mess you’re about to leave on the toilet? Are you so backed up that you have to damage the lock on the door with your pushing? Are you propping your feet up to hide so that no one can see your feet and know it’s you making us plug in a candle warmer by the sink? (We totally still know it’s you, because we can recognize the ringtone on your phone. You do realize you’re getting the assgerms of everyone who’s ever used that stall today ON YOUR PHONE, right?) Are you in there getting fucked, propping your feet up? If so, I hope it’s not by Panel Van Paco. Because I’m pretty sure he prefers little boys. (Yes, I work with some fucked up people. And yes, I’m being mean and leaping to wild assumptions.) I don’t get it. But those footprints are about a size ten. So I’m pretty sure I know who’s doing it. Ahem. Queen Bitch.

Numero Four-o: Stop with the ginormous attention-seeking huffs you make at every little thing you’re working on. Every five fucking seconds. I don’t give a rat’s ass, and I’m not going to ask you. Every five fucking seconds. What the fuck is wrong with you. I’m not doing it. It’s bad enough I have to listen to your ragehuffs, I sure as hell am not going to willfully subject myself to your asinine rants that you only brought upon yourself by being such a fucking bitchwhore.

Numero Five-o: Could you please stop asking me every single time I cook soup, why it makes exploding sounds in the microwave? For the Last. Fucking. Time. It’s the carrots, people! Carrots go boom in the microwave. Next time you ask, I’m gonna tell you that you have 10 seconds to reach Minimum Safe Distance. And then Kablooey. Because I say we nuke the entire thing from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

Numero Six-o: Stop showing me pictures of your baby. It’s ugly. And I don’t give a fuck. It’s all wrinkled, and I know it came out of your or your wife’s vagina, and that squicks me out. Stop making me think of your vagina. Stop making me picture your vagina. Stop telling me how many stitches it took to make your wife’s vagina fuckable again. Stop telling me about your precious babe’s head that was misshapen by your wife’s vagina. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT ANYONE’S VAGINA. And I don’t want to look at eighteen thousand pictures of your baby Every. Single. Day. You’ve done what almost every human in the history of ever has done. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Popopopopopopopopopopop. Like gremlins. And gremlins were mean, and mischievous and stole all my candy. And had to be exploded because of their vaginas. Stop. It.

Numero Seven-o: Stop spoiling shows and movies that you know I have every intention of seeing but haven’t gotten around to it yet. You know who I’m talking about, geek boy. I know you’re doing it on purpose. You even admitted it. Stop it before I stab you in the nuts. And I know all about the pain you suffered for your vasectomy to keep from reproducing again with your cheating-ass wife. You’re a good dude. You’re fun. You make me laugh, uproariously. But if you don’t stop willfully spoiling shit for me, I will stab you in the nuts with those scissors you keep in a little leather case on your waist. What the fuck is that about, anyway? FOR NUT STABBING, SPOILERHEAD!

Numero Eight-o: For the umpteen-zillionth time, I don’t drink coffee. I’m not gonna suddenly sprout the coffee drinking gene today. Yes, I’m human. Yes, I’m an adult (mostly). Yes, I’m American. Yes, I’m tired. I don’t like coffee. I love the aroma, but I hate the bitter flavor. Yes, I’ve tried it with milk. Yes, I’ve tried it with sugar. Yes, I’ve tried it with honey straight from a bee’s asshole. (Yes, I know that’s not how bees make honey. Shut up.) No, I’m not gonna change my mind when you wave a mug of coffee fresh from the shit piles of Guatemalan bats that’s been further flavored with hazelnut or vanilla or your grandmother’s earwax. I. Don’t. Drink. Coffee. You’ve quizzed me about this every fucking day for three and a half fucking years. Leave me alone! Or I’ll steal your cane and beat you with it!

Numero Nein! Nein! Nein!-o: I know it’s January. I know it’s cold. I know you can’t wait for summer. I know you’ll say you can’t wait for cooler weather when summer does hit. I know it’s Wednesday, and we’re “halfway through the week, yay!” I know you can’t wait for Friday. I know you can’t wait for the weekend. I know the supervisor is a lily-livered dickwhistle. I know you can’t wait for lunch. I know the time is dragging. I know it’s 3:00, which means fresh coffee time. I know you’re pissed because he got “your” parking space again. I know you hate me and the world and life, because you say so every fucking day. I know the networks are running slow. You say these things. Every. Single. Day. Almost all of you. And I’m sick to death of it! I hate the office humdrum. I loathe the monotony. I hate Corporate America with my whole being. And I know I’ve been guilty of the same. And I know it’s not all your fault. And I know you’re just trying to find ways to make it through the hell of working for the man. But I’m fucking sick of it. And you’re not helping.

Numero Last-o: Please stop looking at the clock and reminding me of the time every quarter hour. You are not helping the day pass any faster or easier. You are, in fact, making it drag on indefinitely. You are reminding me that my life is slipping away second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month…and I resent you for it. I know you’re a sweet lady. Aside from your raging racism. (Thankfully, you actually let me gently point out when you say racist things.) But please. You’re lengthening my work days, and it pains me so.

Numero Bonus-o: You know how you always bitch and moan about people interrupting you when you’re so clearly mired knee-deep in a hodonkey of a project? You know how when you’re done and you see me so clearly mired knee-deep in my own hodonkey of a project? You know how you do that thing you hate other people for doing, by interrupting me for mindless chit-chat or to brag about your life, or to complain about your life and how you have it worse than anyone else on earth, or how if you were in charge you’d change everything because you’re so obviously doing all the work around here while you surf Facebook and Pinterest or take phone calls about your upcoming cruise, or by finding something you need to one-up someone about? You know? Ringing any bells? Stop. Fucking. Doing it. Queen Bitch, I’m looking at you again.

~

I know I’ve missed a shitton. I’ll probably think of heaps more right after I hit publish. But these still stand. What are your biggest work-related pet peeves? Or hell, any! Oh Oh, I just thought of one! (See Numero Bonus-o.)

~

This post brought to you by:

Assholes and butterbeans. Because butterbeans are assholes.

Queen Bitch for inspiring so much of this post.

Cold green tea with honey and ginseng. Because I’m trying not to drink soda, and I’m tired of water.

People that soothe my soul and make it all okay. You know who you are.

Eduardo Spotted Philandering In New Mexico

Y’all….Eduardo has been spotted. Though I don’t know what it means that he requested Chili Peppers while bumpin’ uglies. (I swore I’d never use that phrase: bumpin’ uglies. Fuck, I just did it again.) I introduced him to the peppers…I’m reading too much into this. Oh dear.

Anyway, this has made my night. 😀

All Things Chronic

https://stephellaneous.wordpress.com/2015/11/11/eduardo-the-company-man/

A local reporter caught this shot of Eduardo leaving a well-known brothel early on Tuesday morning. (Photos taken yesterday.) The ladies who serviced Eduardo said he was very polite, a good tipper, and that he asked to listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

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Eduardo*: The Company Man**

~

*The protagonist of this true story tale of whimsy shall be referred to as Eduardo. (Make sure to roll the “r,” or the fake name loses its charm.) His true identity shan’t be revealed. I assure you this is quite necessary, as I would meet a certain death were I to reveal it.

**Eduardo insisted I refer to him as Company Man rather than Company Lizard. He called me specist, but I think he’s just being sensitive. I say we should refer to him as the Company Being and be done with it. He told me to stop being an asshole.

This is a true story, except for the parts that aren’t almost all of it.

~

Chance Encounter with a Company Man

I first met Eduardo the night he appeared outside my bathroom window. I was startled, to be sure, but immediately smitten. As soon as I laid eyes upon him, I clasped my hands and gave a sopranic* shriek of delight before dissolving into a mass of giggles. (*Sopranic is definitely the adjectival of soprano; trust me on this.)

He hadn’t meant to blow his cover, and he blames me for the Lavatory Rendezvous. You see, he’s drawn to the light. It’s a serious weakness for someone in his line of work. But so long as the bathroom light beckoned into the darkness, Eduardo was my prisoner and I was in control. (Eduardo is an opportunist, you see. And nighttime lights provide a veritable buffet of light-drawn insects.)

Before we parted, I asked Eduardo to pose for a photograph. He tried to refuse but knew I would have my way so long as the light switch was in the up position. But he did adamantly protest a portrait. I readily acquiesced; after all, I wouldn’t want him being taken out. So long as I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup, there remained plausible deniability. Besides, he said, his belly is his best side.

Eduardo, fearlessly and shamelessly exposing his soft underbelly. He asked me not to tell you that I pet his belly through the glass. Oops. Sorry, Eduardo.

Eduardo returned every night for weeks after that initial encounter. Drawn by the light that I switched on at dusk and left on until bedtime, summoning him to the window.

I learned that it’s tough for a lizard (skink, whatever) in The Company. Shower times are particularly problematic. People don’t seem to understand his need to climb the walls and peer down, flicking his tongue at rogue water droplets in hopes that one of them turns out to be a bug. So now he showers alone, but he hasn’t found anyone to turn the faucets on for him. No thumbs, you see.

Besides, he’d always aspired to be an Observer.

The resemblance is uncanny.

I told him the Observers weren’t real, and he said, “You know nothing, human.” This time I called him a specist, but he only snorted in derision. According to Eduardo, the requirements to become an Observer are far more rigorous than those of The Company. But it’s on his bucket list. For now, he just tries to avoid being called a spook. He prefers Company Man to that.

Over the course of our nightly visits, Eduardo filled me in on his life story. He’s Brazilian, which you may have surmised from his chosen pseudonym. It was no accident, that, though he hasn’t worn a ponytail since his days as a capoeira instructor when he used it as a weapon.

We talked about music – he turned me on to salsa and water drumming; I turned him on to the Chili Peppers and LL Cool J. And he spoke of his wandering eye, his philandering ways, hence why he’d chosen this life over settling down and having a passel of lizardlets. I swear I saw a glint in his eye, the tiniest scintillating hint of a tear, but he dismissed it as a shimmering scale left behind from his last meal. I let it go. A lizard man has his pride.

~

It’s been nigh on a month since last we met. I’ve all but given up on the nightly lighting ritual. Try as I might, I can’t help but think the worst.

Eduardo is most certainly floating face-down in the Mediterranean Sea, subsequent to being shot when he had a change of heart in the midst of an assassination attempt. I can only hope that some gruff but kindly fisherman will happen upon Eduardo and rescue him before he freezes to death.

But until I know for sure, I’ll leave the light on.