okay guys. i have a confession that isn't really a confession to make: i have a super-obnox case of ADD. (i had it *before* it was cool, thanks.) most of you who know me enough know this already, but i thought i'd throw it out there into the blogosphere anyway, and i will add that yes, it is legitimate (my GPA makes a handy-dandy bell curve chart based upon whether or not i'm medicated with those little pumpkin-colored triangles of poor man's speed), but i try to ride with it. some folks use it as a crutch, i use it as a surfboard. in other words: some people limp along and bitch about it, i choose to be optimistic, throw myself on it, ride the wave and glee 'weeeeeeeeeee!' before a wave curls over my head, i wind up pummeled into the sand-soaked ocean floor and totally gasp for air before bitching, 'frick, i hate surfing.' but it's charming and fun anyway. at any rate, it's why you all love me, if only because i make the rest of you feel normal by comparison, or that you can say 'strawberry' and it will lead us on a tangentastic conversation about ice cream, perfume, serial killers and yodeling.
so, for better or worse, my mind tends to not pay any attention at all to you or your stories or your commands if you happen to be my boss (this *could* explain why i got fired that one time but i like to pretend it's because the dude was 4'9" if he was an inch and i'm 5'10" and i threatened him with my very existence. also, he looked like a monkey. also, this was a pet store, so i know from animal faces, y'all), and as i was saying before i interrupted myself, like, way to fuckin go, me, i really can't take the time to listen to you. sorry. it's not that i don't want to, it's that i can't. or is it that i don't can't won't not but...wait...what the fuck? the hilarity of this is i'm totally sober while dribbling this refuse from keyboard into blogger box, so, i guess y'all are just that lucky.
anyway, what happens while i'm busy not being able to or not wanting to or won't notting or whatevering in the paying attention department, is wishing i could get proper health insurance so i could get me some ADD meds again. for real. also, though, my brain is just having little synapse blots left and right and wondering about this that and the other existential (or non) thing. i'm sure you know what i'm talking about. you're in a meeting and someone in a suit that looks like it was fashioned out of cotton that interbred with blue playdoh is all 'blah blah blah rate structure blah blah plans are not sufficient for unsecured creditors blah blah donuts in break room' and you're all 'mmm, donuts...my stomach commands i feed it some glorious boston cream chocolate sugary goo-- wait...did i feed my hamsters this morning? shit. they're going to die from malnutrition and here i am, fat and happy with nutrients. i suck. i am the worst pet owner EVER. maybe *this* is why i got fired from the pet store. nah. it was totally bc the dude was a monkey. a short monkey. for real, what's with short men? why they gotta be all napoleon? napoleon. OH MY GOD, you know what would go SO WELL with those donuts in the break room? NEOPOLITAN ICE CREAM! and i know that's totally not 'napoleon' ice cream but you try telling me you haven't ever made that linguistic leap. omfg linguistic leap-- dude, that sounds like a new hero for nbc to try out mid-series. 'he could learn whole languages in a single bound! communication will never be a problem for...lingua frank!' but frank isn't really a good hero name. it's too...well...it sounds like a hot dog. mmm. hot dog. see, this is why i'm a fatass. i have a donut and yet i also want ice cream and a damn hot dog. AND I'M A VEGETARIAN. because i love the animals. which doesn't explain why i'm accidentally starving my hamsters. oh frick on a stick i was supposed to be taking notes. maybe if i just nod and look like i'm taking it all into my head and not my notebook they won't fire me like the pygmy chimp bossman from petland. dammit. i'm out of coffee. and clearly i need a donut to go with it.'
for real. i'm not lying. this is not entirely unalike what was going through my head between the hours of 10:15-ish and 10:17-oclockness a few days ago, though hell if i was actually keeping track. the beauty of this retard-o-sphere that i call my brain, though (awesomely enough, the firefox on-screen spell check does not have a problem with the phrase 'retard-o-sphere', leading me to believe in its utter validity) is that it totally gives me filler for this blog when i neglect it so sorely. because for real, i'm averaging, what- a few paragraphs every couple months? for a writer, i suck ungodly amounts of suck. (______) (that right there is the space i left for you to insert your own 'suck' joke. it's like choose your own insulting adventure.)
anyway, i'm bored and need something to do because quite fucking frankly i'm not in the mood to watch a movie and snark at continuity errors or read or do anything halfway amusing. i've got lyrics i could work on, or books i could read, netflix to watch and a house to clean but f that s, i'm just gonna jot down a few of the brain rumblings that polluted my occipital lobe this week instead. and because i love and hate you all at the same time, i leave them here for you to read if you are just as le bored as i am.
ten things that slipped between the frootloopy cracks of my brain while i probably should have been paying attention to the shit i was scanning and filing, bc for real, the paralegals are going to eat me alive if they get another chapter 7 in their chapter 13 box, but omgsrsly4real i'm a newbie and i claim immunity:
1. yes, the writers' strike is necessary. 110%.
but if it in any way fucks with my ability to see the scrubs series finale, i am not kidding, i will probably suffer an aneurism and bleed out through my nose and cry into my porridge and curse the world. if one has time to do that after their brain short circuits, anyway. also, i have no idea why there was porridge in that sentiment. perhaps the brain malfunctioning has already begun. in short: give the writers their 2.5%, because without them there is no show, and also, i don't want to find pieces of my brain in the breakfast cereal. the end.
2. upon the thoughts of three religions in one department somehow managing to coexist without murdering each other but not without stealing each others paltry shit or possibly coveting mp3 players, you really could shorten the 10 commandments into 'don't do anything i wouldn't do.', and bonus: 'the commandment' just sounds so much cooler and easier to follow, y/y?
for real. george carlin backs me up on this (oh, okay, so my spellcheck protests carlin, but doesn't protest retard-o-sphere? i'm not sure what i believe anymore)- you really could pare down the commandments if you wanted to make managing your mortal soul's eternal salvation more manageable. and no i'm not religious and don't even pretend to be but i got A's in every religion class i ever took, so shut up.
aaaaaaanyway, so basically the thing is this: sir godly mcdemandsalot is all 'don't do these TEN THINGS! others we'll talk about, because i guess i never specifically called out little altar-boy sodomy and/or blowing up abortion clinics in my edicts, so, my bad. oh dear me, i made a bad. according to kevin smith and alanis morissette in a tutu, universe goes splodey right...about...now. but it doesn't because kevin smith made 'jersey girl', proof that even the greatest fuck up. that's right, god gets a mulligan. awww yeah.'
so basically back to the original point of this drivel- i'm looking at this list of ye olde commandments in a handy set of 10 and well, i think mainly what dude (or dudette, bc really, as others far more comedically inclined as yours truly have pointed out, god may just be a chick bc who else has that kind of interior *and* exterior decorating skills? no straight man, at any rate.) was trying to say was this:
"so i totes don't wanna brag, for realsies, but oh my gosh, you guys. for real? i am most probably totally perfect. i honestly, truly can't help that sunshine and rainbows spew out of my ass and butterflies and starlight vomit from my mouth and that i can take and give life in a snap, oh and have you *tried* sunday school? divine! in case you're a terrible horrible godless heathen, though, check it:
coveting its bad, m'kay?
killing is bad, m'kay?
stealing, lying, cheating, all that crap- it's bad, m'kay?
also, i'd appreciate you not worshipping anybody else other than me. i'm wicked insecure and kind of new at this edict stuff, so, yeah. just obey me and everything will be chill, we cool?
and finally, oh my me, SERIOUSLY, anything you think might be remotely bad? IT'S BAD.
so, to sum up: don't do anything i wouldn't do! this does not include, however, raining frogs and flooding things. or creating the platypus. so feel free to wreak global warming havoc and play mad scientist. clearly the 11th commandment was to get rid of al gore."
man, god is a prick. but i can't fault the guy, cause, well, he likes the things in lists of 10.
3. fat cells have too many friends
okay seriously. have you ever noticed that when you glee and break out the self-congratulatory squeals for losing 10 or 15 or howevermany pounds because honestly 10 is but a drop in the vast ocean that is the gelatinous mass of america's thighs (my own included), that if you don't keep a tight lockdown on that shit it comes roaring back with twice as many friends? for freaking real, people. lookit- unless you spend the unnecessary dollars on atkins cereal bars or the south beach frozen meals or whatever cockamamey fad diet is in these days, and/or spend every waking moment at the gym or thinking about going to the gym or berating yourself for not going to the gym, those pounds just come back. and not only do they come back, they come back with some added squish to make you feel all the more ridiculous trying to fit into your skinny jeans. (which, btw, we should all stop doing, bc not even twiggy supermodels can make straight-leg jeans look good. for real. just, no.)
so why this fat phenomenon? because your fat cells are not meant to be loners. they need friends and family and loved ones. they are the most extroverted body part ever conceived by whatever created the human anatomy and they can't survive on their own. if you try to get rid of them, they will pull themselves up by the fatstraps and multiply. if they can't multiply, they call their friends to come over for a fritos-n-margs party. if they can't do *that*, then they cry and their tears turn into new fat cells. seriously. THEY HAVE TOO MANY FRIENDS. your ass will never be lonely, because it's like the freakin spider club for lipids. your stomach? it's the freakin fat cell south beach. upper arms? forget about it, it's fatty tissue U where everybody drinks, hooks up, pukes, and then procreates.
and you know it's true, too. so the next time you realize your fat cells are costing you friends because the world is judgemental even though it shouldn't be because, holy frick, how many of us are fat now, for real, just remember this- your body has its own myspace, and it's multiplying every time you eat a donut.
4. people can get away with anything on the road if they have a good bumper sticker.
alright folks, you can't tell me you haven't witnessed this firsthand. you know how it goes down. you're minding your own beeswax, business, bidness, crap, whatever it is you mind while you should be minding the rules of the road but you're totally fiddling with the radio dial instead, when from out of NOWHERE, a rogue suv busts out of the right lane, cuts you off like it's a pair of scissors and the road is its asphalt ribbon, and speeds through the light before you get the chance, leaving you crammed in the intersection in a cacophony of honking horns and tire squeals. and yet? you're so not mad. why? because that suv, that honking, gas guzzling excuse for a vehicle that nobody needs unless they are perhaps toting the detroit lions to and from a game, totally had a bumper sticker on it that said "say NO to proposition 104!"
omg, you DID say no! holy frick! it's like you're ideological, political soulmates! so what's a little bit of tire shred and engine grind to make sure you don't collide? that car's got *morals*, man. conversely, a cute little vw bug could give you the courtesy wave and let you out of a supercrowded parking lot onto a main drag to hang a left onto an even more crowded yellow-lined artery through town, and before you can give the wave back, you notice this blight on the front bumper:
"W in 04!"
enough said. sure, cute car with a nice person did something good semaritainly, but now you're totally struggling not to say 'GODDAMN YOU! if i lose the rights for my uterus, IT'S ON YOUR UNEDUCATED HEAD, YOU JACKASS!' as you're totally cruising down the street because of their charity of lane space.
what the hell is this driving etiquette cockery? the world may never know, but to be safe from asshattery of a judgemental and vehicular degree, you should probably just cover your bumpers and trunk and hubcaps if you so choose with stickers for everything. every band, every political affiliation, local cause, national cause, awarness ribbon, honor rolls at all the local schools, snarky rebuttals about how your kid beat up the honor roll kid, and carefully placed shout-outs to icanhascheezeburger and homestar runner can cover your rear windshield. on your back bumper you can support the troops, support cancer research, support and celebrate equality, visualize whirled peas, say you voted in every election since nixon came about (hint: it doesn't matter if you weren't born yet, who's going to look?), promote tax breaks, promote public programs, support a woman's right to choose and throw one of those jesus fish up there too. on your front bumper and side windows, be sure to say you honor god but question everything, are an alum of approximately a dozen universities and colleges worldwide, tell drivers to be safe and give bike riders 5 feet while also letting us know you'd rather be shopping at nordstrom and your other car is a broom, the amnesty international candle logo is pretty, and also, you love every mlb, nfl, nhl and nba team. if that's not enough, you can always post the stickers for any and all harry potter hogwarts houses and throw the radiohead toothy bear logo up there, cause nobody doesn't like that guy.
you should now have free reign to cut people off and be a jerk as you see fit. however if you can even see out of any windows, clearly you haven't posted all the stickers, because to support everything and thus piss off everybody/nobody and secure yourself a front-row seat to badassery on the open roads should cover every inch of any vehicle, from a miata to an excursion. c'mon. keep stickering. it's fun. i promise.
5. what's going to happen when hyphenated-name folks' kids start getting married?
i feel like i'm qualified to comment on this because i spend enough time at my job parsing through a client database to find whoever's behind a certain claim, and it's painful enough to find out i have to search for them based on married name versus maiden name versus new name versus changed name versus whatthefuckever, like, MAKE UP YOUR DAMN MIND. even more obnoxious are the hyphenated names, like so and so smith-kincade and joe schmoe-doe. but nay, will this be the end of it? oh no. for i fear our hyphenated friends are starting to pair off and marry and spawn. what, then, i ask, are their children going to go by on that first day in kindergarten when the poor bedraggled sap who got suckered into teaching the finer points of fingerpainting when all she wanted to do was teach calculus, calls roll:
underpaid educator of the youth who will totally be our future, so basically, we're screwed: amber addison?
girl named amber, which, wow, are kids still getting named after rocks?: here!
cog and peon in the education system: johnny bledsoe?
kid named johnny who will inevitably eat paste for money by third grade: heeeere!
lady who wishes she'd majored in drinking instead of education: madison smith-kincade-schmoe-doe?
kid with a name longer than she is tall: ...i think so.
kid with pretentious parents: i don't know if i'm here. i mean, there's 4 of me to keep track of. that's a damn lot of responsibility for a kindergartener, for pete's sake I'M ONLY SIX.
teacher who will need a shrink soon: oh...i...well, yes. you're here.
kid who will be bogarting that shrink bc her parents probably have the money while teacher's craptacular school district health insurance doesn't cover acts of the brain: FOUR NAMES, IT'S INSANITY! WHY DON'T YOU JUST CALL ME CYBIL RIGHT NOW, YOU WHORES?! YOU'RE ALL WHORES!!
paste-eater: ...what's a whore?
amber: daddy says me, when i hit 10th grade!
cybil: i will murder you all, each with a different pointy end of one of my last names. MARK MY WORDS.
so you see, this is a problem. but quite frankly i'm too lazy to fix it.
6. why do we say 'omg you made it?' when someone shows up to a party?
i mean, they were coming from halfway across town, were they not? they weren't, like, crossing the tundra or deuling a yeti or marshalling a parade on the way over, right? there was no fear of decapitation or blizzard warnings or stock market crashes so far as i can tell, so why the hell are you so amazed when people show up to a gig, shindig or soiree you're having when you invited them and there would clearly be no hardship in driving a few blocks? seriously. stop it.
7. is anybody else incredibly alarmed that dane cook is making music now?
go check it out on itunes and witness the godawful emfaux for yourself. yeah i know, i tried to mate 'faux' and 'emo' and clearly they don't go together bc their child is an ugly bastard. and dane cook is adopting it. does anybody else remember when nobody remembered him?
8. why doesn't 'facon' exist yet?
for those with their 'wtf?' faces on, i'm talking about vegetarian bacon. there are some questionable choices available for those of us who don't (or can't) eat meat, and, well, nobody has named it 'facon' yet. IT'S LINGUISTICALLY PERFECT. morningstar farms, get on it.
9. how much more badass would your life be if it had soundtrack backup music?
think about it. based purely on musical clues, you would know as you rounded a corner whether you were about to meet-cute, meet your doom, pratfall, or find your ex totally making out with the new ho under a streetlamp of cruel, cruel soft focus and you could turn and run accordingly. when you met someone for the first time, you would know instantly based on the plucking of quirky strings or the hop of heartfelt bells that you either met someone who is totally awesome or going to break your heart in a million pieces. need to know if you should go into that room? listen to the music marge, it's evil!
also, you'd never have to charge your ipod again. you could time your typing to the rhythm of your personal theme while bored out of your skull at work. putting groceries in the cart would be hilarious for the offbeat arrangements crafted out of bongo drums and a sitar. and, most importantly, you would always feel important. need to give a presentation at work? you could cue up one of those inspirational speech type sonatas and sway the clients in an instant! want a fun date with the guy you totally did meet cute with because you listened to the musical contextual clues? cue up the latest pop treat by the rip off of whatever new disney upstart is hot these days, and you're bound to be having some good times. want a really effective break up? a full string section has you covered.
okay fine. i just want my life to win a grammy, and i may be too lazy to write the music myself.
10. people you think are hot have radar. embarassment radar.
i mean seriously- i just want to know how it is that the person you would least like to catch you sneezing so hard that it propels you out of your chair or possibly date-stamping your hand instead of envelopes manages to catch you every time. it's like they are hardgoddamnwired to not only be wealthy in wallet and good looks, but in embarassment. yes yes, riches of embarassment. take THAT, carrie bradshaw, i can pun you outta the park. it's probably cause i smoke less.
anyway, point is, whoever's in charge of probing the general public's brains should look into this phenomenon, because i know it's not isolated. bitches please, you've all told me stories that are akin to my own humiliation- whoever you're totally lusting to make babies with suddenly knows your every location like you've been implanted with sonar and a tracking chip. nasa should clone that shit. think of all the crime it could solve! actually i don't know if i can think of all the crime it could solve except for perhaps preventing crimes of fashion or stupidity, but this is my blog and fuck you very much, i'll go on rambles if i so choose.
in short: if you're crushing on anybody, be prepared for them to somehow find you dropping your ipod and bleeding out of your nose while laughing and possibly falling out of your chair or off the desk or running into the cash wrap or dropping a stack of freight, date stamping yourself or pricetagging the mannequin or pushing the 'detonate' button or whatever it is you're not supposed to do at whatever job you have. the end.
alright folks, that's all for me. i'm out to enjoy the seasonal delights of turkey day, the drastic influx of diamond ads (sidenote, fuck you jewelers, i'm WAY more special than a rock could ever be, stop telling men they have to resort to sharp, shiny bedecked clichés to win the game of luuuurve) and the inevitable onslaught of christmas cookies and latkes. oh yes that's right. i'm not jewish but oh how i adore those little pancakes. mmm. winter wins. my fat cells (and all their friends) rejoice at the thought of stuffing and cocoa and loafing by the fireside. oh wait, i live in the desert. fuck. okay, so, mojitos, wheat thins, and lounging by the poolside is the apparent order of things.
screw it, i'm actually just going to bed with a book. this is why i'm hot.