My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives. But really? I hate people.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
So Sayeth the Maven
Life, by its very nature, is a character building exercise. Some folks
choose to be Jiminy Cricket, whereas others can't help but personify
Cruella Deville.
So Sayeth The Maven
Relationships are like bank accounts: if you
put nothing/nothing but negative shit into them, you’ll get
nothing/nothing but negative shit out of them.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
On Dildo Advanced Directives
Channeling my inner Sophia Petrillo:
Picture this: The Jersey Shore. 1977. A nine year old me, helping my parents empty out my great* aunt's house which we inherited, and I was tasked with emptying out the cupboards in the bathroom. I emerged with an item not unlike this item, and demanded my mother tell me how the hell does one dry their hair with this?
The memory unearthed in the previous paragraph is no doubt the genesis of the fact that I, in fact, have an advanced directive for my *ahem* adult novelties. Yes. Advanced directive. I've got all that shit in a brown paper sack with the words, "In case of death, dispose in trash directly without looking." And inside the bag has a note that says, "fuck you for peeking. I shall now commence haunting your nosey ass. See you on the flip side, fucker."
*Great? Or is it great great? Or great grand aunt? She was the sister of my dad's grandmother. Even though I'm the family genealogist, I get a wee bit bogged down in this particular distinction. If my great grandmother had a sister, is she my great grand aunt, or just great aunt? Ruminate. Or not.
Picture this: The Jersey Shore. 1977. A nine year old me, helping my parents empty out my great* aunt's house which we inherited, and I was tasked with emptying out the cupboards in the bathroom. I emerged with an item not unlike this item, and demanded my mother tell me how the hell does one dry their hair with this?
The memory unearthed in the previous paragraph is no doubt the genesis of the fact that I, in fact, have an advanced directive for my *ahem* adult novelties. Yes. Advanced directive. I've got all that shit in a brown paper sack with the words, "In case of death, dispose in trash directly without looking." And inside the bag has a note that says, "fuck you for peeking. I shall now commence haunting your nosey ass. See you on the flip side, fucker."
*Great? Or is it great great? Or great grand aunt? She was the sister of my dad's grandmother. Even though I'm the family genealogist, I get a wee bit bogged down in this particular distinction. If my great grandmother had a sister, is she my great grand aunt, or just great aunt? Ruminate. Or not.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
You Might Be An Asshole If...
If you work with me, and it's clear to all that I do not have an office, hence I lack an actual DOOR, you might be an asshole if, you interrupt what I'm doing by prefacing your request with "KNOCK KNOCK!" Because I'll tell you what, asshole, it just makes me want to KNOCK KNOCK your big fat bucked teeth right out of your head.
STFUAGDIAF!
See also: Horsey McBigtooth Edition.
STFUAGDIAF!
See also: Horsey McBigtooth Edition.
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