I attract weirdos.
I know I've said this before, but I think it may be more than just attracting weirdos. I almost wonder if they were all completely normal human beings who some how, one day, received my subliminal "come creep me out" signal and a switch flipped in their brains and without reason they find themselves marching in my general direction only to do horribly creepy things. Maybe I not only attract the already weird, but turn the not so weird into creepers.
Last night I was pulling into my driveway, and had just gotten my front tires onto the sidewalk in front of the driveway when I noticed a man squatting on the side of my driveway, very far into it... like, across from my kitchen window (which is towards the back of the house so pretty deep in there). This man did not look homeless. He had on nice jeans, a clean t-shirt and a dark blue baseball cap. In other words, there were NO visible reasons for him to be squatting in my driveway. I, of course, freaked out. I threw my car into reverse and hit the gas... or at least I thought I did. What I actually did was put my car in neutral and revved my engine.
As I did this, the man stood up, and pulled up his PANTS. At this point I start screaming "AHH AHHA AHHHH. THERE'S A MAN TAKING A SHIT IN MY DRIVEWAY!!!" I'm horribly scared because he's staring straight at me, and my car won't back the hell up. I look down, and finally get my car into reverse and speed away.
I called my guy friends who were already on the way to my house "AHHH!!!! AHHH!!!! HELP ME! THERE'S A MAN POOPING IN MY DRIVEWAY (sob sob sob) AHHH!!!"
By now my friends are all used to my encounters with the strange and the boys calmly responded. "Ok, We'll be right over to check it out, just go park somewhere for a minute. And stop crying." and hung up on me. HUNG UP ON ME! Jerks!
As I'm sitting in front of my favorite sushi place in the world, wishing with all of my heart that it was open so I could go inside and drink some green tea and maybe eat a tuna roll to take my mind off of more disgusting matters, the boys went to my house and searched the area around it and the driveway for my mystery man and his feces.
They saw no sign of the man, nor his bowel movements and gave me the OK to come back only to tell me, that since they saw no poop, he was probably just jacking off. I'm not sure which is worse. Since there was no more question of dangers, we went inside and tried to have a good night.
This morning, I wake to my roommate screaming "AHH AHHH I FOUND IT!" She had been washing dishes when she looked up and out of the window and straight at a large pile of black, clumpy diarrhea. Seriously, this mound of shit was as big a round as a dinner plate. HOW did my boys miss this last night, I wonder?
I mean, I have an idea how a couple of boys can miss a big pile of poop, but I'll save that for another post.
Creeps: Five Bazillion and One
Marion: Zero.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Bombs Away
In my job, as a manager at a children's party place, I get a lot of stupid customers. Now, I know that in any customer service job, at least 75% of customers are complete morons (the other 25% is made up of veterans of the CS industry), however I feel that I get waaaay more than any other profession, except for maybe prostitutes.
The customers are so idiotic, it almost feels like they're trying to torture me with their stupidity. It literally feels like customers throw hand granades of stupid at me; Stupid Bombs is what I call them. Once you've been here long enough you can almost see the customers pull the imaginary bombs out of their back pockets, purses, or diaper bags, pull the pin, and then aim it straight at your head. The worst thing about these bombs is that they're impossible to dodge. Even if you duck under the counter right as they leave the customers' hands (which believe me I've tried), they still manage to explode all over you.
These bombs leak a horribly deadly gas that some how travels its way through your skin, and any other pore in your body, into your veins, up to your brain, past the blood brain barrier and straight to the middle of your brain. There, the gas not only suffocates your brain so that minute parts of it shrivel up and die, but it creates a build up, and after a certain number of attacks sections of your brain start to explode. I'm telling you, these things are dangerous.
Just today, a customer shot three at me, and then came back for a sneak attack, tossing another straight over her shoulder when my head was turned. I had barely any reaction time. I'm surprised she didn't knock me out. After working here for two and a half years, I'm surprised I still have my frontal lobe in tack.
I'm going to print out this blog and send it to President Obama as a lobby against Dumb Asses. They, and their Stupid Bombs, should be outlawed.
Are ya' with me?
The customers are so idiotic, it almost feels like they're trying to torture me with their stupidity. It literally feels like customers throw hand granades of stupid at me; Stupid Bombs is what I call them. Once you've been here long enough you can almost see the customers pull the imaginary bombs out of their back pockets, purses, or diaper bags, pull the pin, and then aim it straight at your head. The worst thing about these bombs is that they're impossible to dodge. Even if you duck under the counter right as they leave the customers' hands (which believe me I've tried), they still manage to explode all over you.
These bombs leak a horribly deadly gas that some how travels its way through your skin, and any other pore in your body, into your veins, up to your brain, past the blood brain barrier and straight to the middle of your brain. There, the gas not only suffocates your brain so that minute parts of it shrivel up and die, but it creates a build up, and after a certain number of attacks sections of your brain start to explode. I'm telling you, these things are dangerous.
Just today, a customer shot three at me, and then came back for a sneak attack, tossing another straight over her shoulder when my head was turned. I had barely any reaction time. I'm surprised she didn't knock me out. After working here for two and a half years, I'm surprised I still have my frontal lobe in tack.
I'm going to print out this blog and send it to President Obama as a lobby against Dumb Asses. They, and their Stupid Bombs, should be outlawed.
Are ya' with me?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Vacation, all I ever wanted...
Growing up, every summer, and most winters, we would "take a vacation" and go visit my grandparents. While I love my grandparents to death (rest their souls) this was in no way, shape, or form a vacation. My grandparents were on SSI or welfare, or whatever kind of government income there is for strange old people, and lived in a tiny little shak that fell apart every other week. I used to have nightmares that the back room they had built on would detach from the house in a storm and I would go flying away with it off to some redneck version of Oz. My mother, their most well off daughter, always felt the need to buy something, repair something, and restock both of their fridges and their outdoor freezers, plus cook and pay for any and all meals we ate there and clean the whole house. Meanwhile, my very ungreatful grandparents would bitch, complain, and manipulate my mother into thinking whatever she was doing just WASN'T enough. By the time we left, my whole family was emotionally drained.
Non-grandparent visits were spent with my father and I at each other's throats while my mother tried to mediate to no avail leading to massive amounts of anger filled tears. I think maybe we went to Disneyland once (which I hated... I was a bitch even as an 8 year old), and then we drove through the redwoods or something ridiculous like that.
As I got older, I began to take vacations with friends, which while fun, were always nerve wracking. We had to plan, to spend money that we'd earned on our own, and to see how well we could handle ourselves as friends out in unfamiliar settings. Some were fun, and others were eye openers... big learning experiences. I feel it defeats the purpose of a vacation if you have to learn too many hard lessons.
Needless to say, vacations make me very, very uncomfortable. As much as I complain about real life, homework, work, bills, and other various responsibility, I'm comfortable with them. The stress has become a normal, everyday thing. While the stress I feel on a daily level would probably give a more normal person several ulsers, and a few mild heart attacks, I've come to almost crave it. Real life is my security blanket. How twisted is that?
This vacation, though, was much much different. It had all of the makings of a traditional tear and angst filled vacation, being that I was broke, the people I was going with were also broke, I was going with a friend I'd had to two and a half year rift with and wasn't sure if I could be around her that long, and another friend who, on past vacations I'd had painfull experiences with.
Though I expected pain and frustration, I was met with nothing but pure relaxation, fun, and maybe a bit of healing. We had four days of mutual agreement, food, sun, exploration, laughter, and of course booze. I think the addition of the ex best friend actually balanced out the dynamic between my best friend and me. I think the most frequently used phrase of the trip was "we're never gonna get this again", and I think we might've been right. It was great.
Even though it was an amazing trip, I, being a real life junkie, was still over joyed to get back to the real world. The lack of responsibility made me a little bit restless, and after four days of care free fun, I was more than ready to charge back into school and work. At least I thought I was until I got to work this morning and the customers started bustling in. Now all I want is to lay out by the pool.
Oh life! Will you never satisfy me?
Non-grandparent visits were spent with my father and I at each other's throats while my mother tried to mediate to no avail leading to massive amounts of anger filled tears. I think maybe we went to Disneyland once (which I hated... I was a bitch even as an 8 year old), and then we drove through the redwoods or something ridiculous like that.
As I got older, I began to take vacations with friends, which while fun, were always nerve wracking. We had to plan, to spend money that we'd earned on our own, and to see how well we could handle ourselves as friends out in unfamiliar settings. Some were fun, and others were eye openers... big learning experiences. I feel it defeats the purpose of a vacation if you have to learn too many hard lessons.
Needless to say, vacations make me very, very uncomfortable. As much as I complain about real life, homework, work, bills, and other various responsibility, I'm comfortable with them. The stress has become a normal, everyday thing. While the stress I feel on a daily level would probably give a more normal person several ulsers, and a few mild heart attacks, I've come to almost crave it. Real life is my security blanket. How twisted is that?
This vacation, though, was much much different. It had all of the makings of a traditional tear and angst filled vacation, being that I was broke, the people I was going with were also broke, I was going with a friend I'd had to two and a half year rift with and wasn't sure if I could be around her that long, and another friend who, on past vacations I'd had painfull experiences with.
Though I expected pain and frustration, I was met with nothing but pure relaxation, fun, and maybe a bit of healing. We had four days of mutual agreement, food, sun, exploration, laughter, and of course booze. I think the addition of the ex best friend actually balanced out the dynamic between my best friend and me. I think the most frequently used phrase of the trip was "we're never gonna get this again", and I think we might've been right. It was great.
Even though it was an amazing trip, I, being a real life junkie, was still over joyed to get back to the real world. The lack of responsibility made me a little bit restless, and after four days of care free fun, I was more than ready to charge back into school and work. At least I thought I was until I got to work this morning and the customers started bustling in. Now all I want is to lay out by the pool.
Oh life! Will you never satisfy me?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Beat that, Cher!
There is something about me that turns straight men gay and makes gay men want to take me home. Ok, so maybe I don't TURN all men gay. Just the tiny little Asian ones, but seriously, who wants those ANYWAY?!
I can still remember the first time I realized I had a secret power over gay men. I had just turned 18, and my friends were taking me to my very first gay club so that they could get some ass while celebrating my birthday. I didn't mind though; I thought it would be better than going to a straight club, where with my luck, I'd undoubtedly get a roofie slipped into my water and end up being kidnapped by a large black man.
After hours of sweaty dancing, my now drunk ass friends and I went outside to the smoking area to take a fag (what else do you call a cigarette at a gay club?) break and while I was standing there, minding my own business, this dude and his posse of very cute faeries (and one lesbian) walk over to me and begin to very obviously stare. I swear, gay men have NO shame.
I wearily smiled at the leader of the pack, who took this as an invitation to grope me.
"Oh my God your boobs are so amazing. Are they real?"
And of course, stunned and a bit drunk I said, "yes of course they are!" He then proceeded to grab as much of each one as he could in each of his hands and then ask permission to feel them.
"Oh my god, they are so nice. I fucking love your boobs" and then, all at once his friends reached out and started squeezing and caressing my boobs, including the lesbian.
My friends were too drunk to do any more than stare on in a mixture of surprise and jealousy so I didn't even try and as for help in getting those breast zombies off of me. Instead I stood there calmly, puffing on my stoge as they got their fill. They continued to feel me up for a few more minutes, a few rouge hands finding their way to my ass in the process. Finally, satisfied, they thanked me and told me how gorgeous I was and finally headed back off into the club to do more of whatever it is gay-men-who-like-boobies do in gay clubs, leaving me stunned and slightly violated, but of course flattered to no end.
Since then, it seems as if every time I go into a gay club I get more action than my poor gay friends. There is always some guy trying to get me to dance with him, make out with him, or take me home. I have gay guys coming over to me telling me how cute and small I am, and how great my ass and tits are, and I KNOW these guys like dick, but they barely even pay any attention to my fabulous boys around me.
I wonder if they think I'm a Tranny. Oh well, at least I'm a convincing one, right?
I can still remember the first time I realized I had a secret power over gay men. I had just turned 18, and my friends were taking me to my very first gay club so that they could get some ass while celebrating my birthday. I didn't mind though; I thought it would be better than going to a straight club, where with my luck, I'd undoubtedly get a roofie slipped into my water and end up being kidnapped by a large black man.
After hours of sweaty dancing, my now drunk ass friends and I went outside to the smoking area to take a fag (what else do you call a cigarette at a gay club?) break and while I was standing there, minding my own business, this dude and his posse of very cute faeries (and one lesbian) walk over to me and begin to very obviously stare. I swear, gay men have NO shame.
I wearily smiled at the leader of the pack, who took this as an invitation to grope me.
"Oh my God your boobs are so amazing. Are they real?"
And of course, stunned and a bit drunk I said, "yes of course they are!" He then proceeded to grab as much of each one as he could in each of his hands and then ask permission to feel them.
"Oh my god, they are so nice. I fucking love your boobs" and then, all at once his friends reached out and started squeezing and caressing my boobs, including the lesbian.
My friends were too drunk to do any more than stare on in a mixture of surprise and jealousy so I didn't even try and as for help in getting those breast zombies off of me. Instead I stood there calmly, puffing on my stoge as they got their fill. They continued to feel me up for a few more minutes, a few rouge hands finding their way to my ass in the process. Finally, satisfied, they thanked me and told me how gorgeous I was and finally headed back off into the club to do more of whatever it is gay-men-who-like-boobies do in gay clubs, leaving me stunned and slightly violated, but of course flattered to no end.
Since then, it seems as if every time I go into a gay club I get more action than my poor gay friends. There is always some guy trying to get me to dance with him, make out with him, or take me home. I have gay guys coming over to me telling me how cute and small I am, and how great my ass and tits are, and I KNOW these guys like dick, but they barely even pay any attention to my fabulous boys around me.
I wonder if they think I'm a Tranny. Oh well, at least I'm a convincing one, right?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
I'll never be as bad as Gabrielle Solis...
This week's episode of Desperate Housewives finds Gabrielle Solis back at the top of her world and rich once more. In one scene, she brings her cream puff of a daughter into a homeless shelter to have her work with the poor and appreciate what she's got. She asks a priest to gift her daughter with this enriching experience as she cringes at a smelly old man and scurries away from the community soup kettle.
While my dream is of course to be some lucky man's trophy wife and float forever in his swimming pools of Benjamins; I hope to at least maintain some sense of reality.
Therefore, if you, Spinner of My Fate, grant me one exuberantly wealthy husband, I vow:
1.) Never to forsake Target. I'll always remember my roots (though I doubt I'll shop there too often... without wearing a big sunglasses and a hoodie)
2.) To spray smelly homeless people with only the highest quality mace when they get too close, instead of that cheap stuff that smells OH so bad.
3.) Spend every Thanksgiving working at a soup kitchen... or at least send my personal assistant in my place.
4.) Teach my kids the value of a dollar by making them get a part time job as soon as they're 15. I'll place all earnings straight into my personal bank account... I mean, their college funds.
5.) Give any underprivileged children I can find (as long as they don't steal my jewelry) jobs doing my laundry, and waxing my Porsche to keep them off of the streets.
Ok, so maybe I'm beginning to understand Gabrielle's position just a little bit better. It must be tough being a Trophy Wife. Who would of thought?
While my dream is of course to be some lucky man's trophy wife and float forever in his swimming pools of Benjamins; I hope to at least maintain some sense of reality.
Therefore, if you, Spinner of My Fate, grant me one exuberantly wealthy husband, I vow:
1.) Never to forsake Target. I'll always remember my roots (though I doubt I'll shop there too often... without wearing a big sunglasses and a hoodie)
2.) To spray smelly homeless people with only the highest quality mace when they get too close, instead of that cheap stuff that smells OH so bad.
3.) Spend every Thanksgiving working at a soup kitchen... or at least send my personal assistant in my place.
4.) Teach my kids the value of a dollar by making them get a part time job as soon as they're 15. I'll place all earnings straight into my personal bank account... I mean, their college funds.
5.) Give any underprivileged children I can find (as long as they don't steal my jewelry) jobs doing my laundry, and waxing my Porsche to keep them off of the streets.
Ok, so maybe I'm beginning to understand Gabrielle's position just a little bit better. It must be tough being a Trophy Wife. Who would of thought?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
I've got the power!
Every morning when my cell phone alarm clock goes off I fumble for my sidekick, which is usually sort of where I left it on the pillow next to my head, I look at the phone, and the time it says I set the alarm for and I accuse it of lying.
"You son of a bitch, its not EVEN 8:30 yet. Lying piece of..." and then I turn my head and look at my powerpuff girl clock that I never put batteries in and curse myself for not making it run so I could have a second opinion on the time of day. I then try and make my computer wake up and tell me, but even it is resisting my alarm. (Computers are really way lazier than humans, they're always going to sleep, or into hibertnation... I'm not sure what good will come of replacing us with them.)
Finally, I decide that even if it IS 8:30, I'm not going to get up. Why should I? If I'm so important that I have to be somewhere in an hour then everyone should just be able to wait since they can't do ANYTHING without me, right?
As all of these thoughts come about, my alarm is still bleeping at me and it seems to be getting more and more persisitant "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAAAKE UPPP!!" It gets to the point of where I can't even think anymore. I don't really know what time it is because the powerpuff girls hate me, my computer screen is a fucking lazy ass piece of plastic and weird chip things, and my cell phone is obviously a menacing patholiogical liar.
So what do I do? I hit the snooze button and smile. I fucking win. I get to sleep for as long as I like and you, fucking alarm, get to try and wake me up again in five minutes, and I WILL press snooze again. I put my head back on the pillow and close my eyes. Then, just as quickly, I jerk back up in bed and decide that I will get up after my alarm told me to, but only because its MY decision and then I leave the room as quickly as possibly so that, when it goes off again in four minutes, no one will be there to hear it scream.
Ultimatly it is my decision to get out of bed, not some stupid four inch cell phone's. I've got the power back over my life without the help of the powerpuff girls or my PC. I win, because, in the end, its my life and I get to decide what to do with it.
Right?
"You son of a bitch, its not EVEN 8:30 yet. Lying piece of..." and then I turn my head and look at my powerpuff girl clock that I never put batteries in and curse myself for not making it run so I could have a second opinion on the time of day. I then try and make my computer wake up and tell me, but even it is resisting my alarm. (Computers are really way lazier than humans, they're always going to sleep, or into hibertnation... I'm not sure what good will come of replacing us with them.)
Finally, I decide that even if it IS 8:30, I'm not going to get up. Why should I? If I'm so important that I have to be somewhere in an hour then everyone should just be able to wait since they can't do ANYTHING without me, right?
As all of these thoughts come about, my alarm is still bleeping at me and it seems to be getting more and more persisitant "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAAAKE UPPP!!" It gets to the point of where I can't even think anymore. I don't really know what time it is because the powerpuff girls hate me, my computer screen is a fucking lazy ass piece of plastic and weird chip things, and my cell phone is obviously a menacing patholiogical liar.
So what do I do? I hit the snooze button and smile. I fucking win. I get to sleep for as long as I like and you, fucking alarm, get to try and wake me up again in five minutes, and I WILL press snooze again. I put my head back on the pillow and close my eyes. Then, just as quickly, I jerk back up in bed and decide that I will get up after my alarm told me to, but only because its MY decision and then I leave the room as quickly as possibly so that, when it goes off again in four minutes, no one will be there to hear it scream.
Ultimatly it is my decision to get out of bed, not some stupid four inch cell phone's. I've got the power back over my life without the help of the powerpuff girls or my PC. I win, because, in the end, its my life and I get to decide what to do with it.
Right?
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