I submit to you a poem that I wrote entitled: Contemplations of This Day of Existence.
I’ll be awaiting my Pulitzer Prize in Poetry.
Okay. So since I have made some poor life choices and gone and gained a bunch of weight back, therefore morphing myself into a gelatinous blob of grossness, I have had some unexpected problems with life. (Namely, that I suck at it.) Anyway, carrying all this extra weight around has become murder on my back. I’m talking that moving was becoming an issue. It was so bad that I was reaching old lady levels on infirmity up in this bitch. While this was a major setback, it did get my one step closer to being a Golden Girl. (I fucking call Sophia, bitches.)
Anyway, so major back pain was not at all helpful in the cause of getting this fucking weight to disappear from my belly region. Namely, because anytime my trainer had me doing anything that require movement by back would decide to revolt. And by revolt, I mean go full on terrorist against the rest of my body.
Desperate for some kind of relief to this pain, I opted to listen to the people at the gym about getting acupuncture. Now, I have never done acupuncture before, nor have I ever wanted to. Contrary to what my attitude may allude to, I really have no desire to be repeatedly stabbed over different portions of my body. And I never really saw myself actually volunteering for the process. Like who just up and says, “Stab me.” No. This shit is not The Hunger Games and I do not volunteer as tribute.
Okay, so it might not have just been the whole stabby thing that I objected to. Maybe I was making assumptions about the whole thing. Maybe in my mind, I pictured acupuncture as me sitting in a room, choking on the smell of incense while sitar music played in the background and a hipster with dreadlocks lathered me with patchouli oil before sticking me with dirty needles. And yes, I am aware that that probably makes me a little racist. (Shhh. Don’t tell.)
But, I was desperate, so I tried it.
Now, I will not lie. When I went into this little woman’s office, I was basically in so much pain, I would have done anything for it to stop, including jabbing a pen in my eye if someone told me it would help. Granted, that is pretty much what I thought was about to happen.
We went through whole process of getting all sorts of information that seemed to have to relevance to the fact that my back fucking hurt. When accomplished that pointless goal, I mentally prepared myself to get stabbed in the back. And I totally planned to say, “Et tu, Acupuncture Lady” when it happened. But it didn’t happen.
Acupuncture Lady proceed to stab me in the wrist repeatedly with her tiny needles of doom. Immediately, I am all, “Da fuq”. And then a minute later, my back started to feel better. So clearly I shout, “What kind of witchcraft is this?”
I do not understand how this worked, and I have a feeling the explanation would put me to sleep. From this day forward, I am going to assume that it is some weird form of voodoo in which I play the part of the doll.
In other news, I told her I wanted to quit smoking and she stabbed me in the ear. The actual fuck, y’all?
I am fucking tired. Like the kind of tired that makes one contemplate moving to some tropical locale that offers fruity drinks with umbrellas served by scantily clad men who speak little to no English because clearly your life choices have failed you in some way to bring on this level of exhaustion. While this sounds wonderful in theory, knowing my luck, my locale would end up being some enchanted forest where I would end up sleeping under the crumbling bridge. Which may not be that bad when you come to think about it. I think I would make an excellent bridge troll, what with my vast knowledge of useless trivia questions. (I have the Trivia Crack scores to prove this.) And I could have a cool troll name, like Troll McBitchface.
Why so tired you may ask? Well, because I am all kinds of stupid, for the past year I have been teaching night classes at the local community. That’s Professor McBitchface to you. I have been teaching English classes to adults trying to learn English.
I am going to really need you to take a second to let that sink in. And if need be, you might want to scroll through some of my other posts (or read my book Room Service is Closed – available on Amazon and Audible) to get the full shock of what I just said. I am in charge of people who are trying to learn the English language. That means that my nights are spent trying to instruct people on the use of proper grammar. Me. Proper grammar. Is that not the most ridiculous thing in the whole world? This is basically the equivalent of having Kanye West write a heartfelt essay on the importance of humility.
I literally do not believe I have ever met a sentence fragment that I didn’t immediately love. And as for the run on sentence, give me some of that. And this is not to mention my complete disregard for the rules of punctuation and spelling. And yet someone has deemed me worthy of instructing people on the formation and usage of the present perfect progressive tense. (And yes, I totally had to google that tense before I taught the class.) And don’t even get me started on gerunds. Like da fuq? Did I sleep through that day of Junior High English when that was introduced? Most likely yeah. That shit was wicked boring.
Anyway. I’m in class right now. As I am writing this. Because they are taking a test. That’s right, I’m giving them a test. Because I’m boss like that. And they are probably totally cheating because I am not effectively monitoring them. Because like I said before, I am fucking tired. My feet hurt and I cannot possibly walk around this room right now.
And add that to the fact that I just let out a silent but deadly burp that miraculously no one caught me on, it’s probably best that I park my ass right here in this chair. No seriously. This wasn’t like an ordinary burp. This was a straight up mouth fart. Don’t no one need to be near that.
So it’s been a little while. I know I am an asshole. But it seems that the powers that be have decided that I should have no life whatsoever. I mean really, who needs a life when you can be a powerless cog in the machine that is this world. So my days have been in constant uproar for the past couple months. My days are filled with constant activity that apparently requires my full attention to the smallest details of monotonous bullshit. And my nights have become filled with exhaustion fueled marathons of couch sitting. I mean there are some nights where I more resemble Garfield the Cat than an actual human being, you know laying around dreaming about lasagna except for too lazy to actually get up and find lasagna because that would mean I would have to deal with separation anxiety from my couch. And who the fuck knows where Odie is. And yet, none of this explains the fifty pounds that I have managed to gain in the past few months.
Needless to say I am less than pleased at this. Somehow I have to get Project: FatassNoMore back on track and we are just going to go out on a limb and say this fucking sucks. I am learning an all knew hatred for the gym that surpasses my hatred for all things, including mayonnaise and words on the ass. (I mean, really?)
This is also not helped by the fact that I seem to have no life anymore. But what the powers that be have failed to realize is that if you overwork someone to the point of them not being able to move from sheer exhaustion, then sooner or later, that person is going to stopping giving a shit. And that’s where I am now. It’s like Harry Potter and the Goblet of No Fucks up in this bitch.
That would be why I am sitting here writing this instead of doing the all-important work that I have no intention of doing for the rest of the night. And just because I can multitask, I am throwing some Hulu into the fucking mix. (Correct me if I’m wrong, but is Hulu an actual word? Microsoft word apparently recognizes it as one. That’s just kind of fucked up, like it insisting that Kardashian is a real word. Clearly this is the first sign that society is collapsing.) And when I am done this, instead of doing something productive, I am going to open my file and continue working on my new book, Help Wanted, because dammit, I want to. And the world will just not be complete until I write another book that someone can call “sarcastic bullshit” because they didn’t read the description.
So stay tuned for all the bitchy ass stories that I have been too exhausted to write about. My couch will probably have to be put on anti-anxiety meds to deal with the separation.
I have found a whole new place to post things that piss me off. Secretly I am hating myself for not thinking of it sooner because it seems like a perfect place for me and I am kind of hating on everyone else for not telling me that I should do it because it’s like people are actively trying to keep me away from, what I consider to be, my mothership. This is a bigger blow to me then when I was walking through the store and discovered that they actually sell bread in a can. I’m serious. Google that shit. It’s real and it’s disturbing. Anyway. What follows is an account of a trip I took to Denny’s that I have posted to Yelp. Yes, I understand it is Denny’s and I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’m just trying to keep this shit classy. Read as follows:
If you have ever felt the need to wonder if you have died and no one bothered to tell you, then you should go to Denny’s because you will be treated like a fucking ghost. You will sit there for so long that you will begin to suspect that you are there only as some astral projection that no one can see because you haven’t quite mastered your astral projection powers because you missed that episode of Charmed where Prue learned to use hers.
Just as you are about to attempt to call some mystic shaman to see if it is possible to reverse this horrible mistake of witchcraft, the manager arrives to see if anyone has come to take your drink order. The manager will take your drink order and assure you that she is going to send your server right over to take your order. Ten minutes later, you will realize that this was a lie and then begin to suspect that you are on some hidden camera show. It’s at this point, you will begin wonder what your life will be like as the next Youtube sensation as the guy who picked his nose for five consecutive minutes in the middle of a Denny’s, when you realize that only thing that is going to stop you from slowly starving to death is flagging down the manager again to see if your server has been sucked into a quantum singularity and been transported to another dimension where everything is backwards and the customers serve the waiters. Clearly he has not been because he has been diligently assisting the four tables surrounding you, including two that were seated after you.
The manager will be seemingly nice, while at the same time, making it clear that she has no time to take care of you, but she will take your order anyway. While she is doing this, she will explain that your server is really busy at the moment with a large party in the back that keeps changing their mind on their order and it’s very frustrating. Because you have two legs of your own and smell the distinct aroma of bullshit, you will take a trip to the back to find no large party back there at all. Unless it is a party of actual ghosts, and then I feel that there should be some sort of disclaimer posted at the door that people are entering a haunted Denny’s. Because you aren’t equipped to communicate with the spirit world, having forgot your Ouija board at home.
Your meal will continue uninterrupted because your server will still have not made an appearance and the manager is far too busy for such trivial things as refills or making sure your order is actually correct, which it will not be, but at that point you’re like “Fuck it, close enough.”
You will not see another soul until you are about ready to throw your overcooked leftovers at someone and flag down the manager yet again to ask for the check. That will of course come promptly because they have all of a sudden remembered the rules of customer service. You will then discover that the manager was nice enough to not charge you for your drink, because, clearly, three dollars is the appropriate compensation for being served by the invisible man, or an apparition, or some other non-visible entity.
But on the plus side, you will save a couple of dollars because if you don’t actually have a server, are you obligated to leave a tip?
There are many joys in life. I think it’s pretty well documented that I actively choose to not acknowledge them. Because you know, fuck that shit. If I focused on all that joyful noise bullshit then I would be morally obligated to kick myself in the ass I just don’t think that is physically possible. Though it might be funny to watch. It could be the next viral sensation on YouTube. Because let’s face it, my shit needs to go viral and quickly so I can quit my job and basically get paid to not leave the house. And really that is only going to benefit the world.
Anyway, as I was saying, there are many joys in life and while I’m willing to ignore most of them, there is one that must be acknowledged. And that would be calling your mother only to discover that she is fucked up drunk. I’m talking full on child celebrity out on the town drunk.
I’m just going to say that my mom is a bad drunk. Not in like the horrible sense, but more in the sense that she can’t hide that shit. This is one trait that I’m glad I didn’t inherit from her. You usually can’t tell when I’m drunk, except for the people at Jack in the Box. I’m just saying that my body as a physical reaction when alcohol and bacon cheddar potato wedges are combined and that totally gives me away. It’s really cheese’s fault.
Another reason my mother is a pretty terrible drunk is that she totally doesn’t plan ahead. No one in the history of ever has started the night with saying, “I’m only going to have one,” and followed through with that statement. Alcohol is like Pringles. Once you pop, you ain’t about to fucking stop.
So this leads to the predicament that she is totally plastered and so is her coworker, who for anonymity purposes I will call Kessica. And after that much drinking, the think they are perfectly cool to drive home whenever they want. They’ll just have some coffee.
What followed was a ten minute conversation on why they were, in fact, not cool to drive that resembled an argument one might have with a four year old about why it is not cool to decorate the walls with their own poop. The final solution was they she was going to sit there until 1 in the morning, drinking coffee, until she could drive home. I told her good plan and wished her well in the endeavor.
For all those out there who are cursing my name and saying how horrible I am for allowing this to take place, I will have you know that I am extremely awesome because immediately following that conversation I drove to Smoothie King and got an Angel Food smoothie. (It was fucking amazing, by the way.) And then I drove all the way across the city to pick up my step dad, so that we could drive even farther across the city to North Bumble Fuck Street to pick up Drunky McDrunkerson.
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that my mother drunk is a hot fucking mess. Being dragged into the restaurant, I discover that my mother treats drinking like most college kids treat Spring Break, over indulgence to the point of Girls Gone Wild. She’s going to deny the fuck out of this, but I’m shocked she wasn’t flat on the floor.
I’m just going to say this right now. There is no joy greater for an adult human being then seeing your mother amidst her own personal booze cruise. And also being secure in the knowledge that you are never going to let her forget about it for the rest of her life. (Or if you’re me, knowing that you are going to talk smack about it on the internet.)
But discovering that my mother can’t hold her alcohol is not the only thing I found in that dimly lit Mexican restaurant. That is also where I came face to face with quite possibly the rarest creature known to exist on the planet, an honest to Popeye’s Biscuit fan. Kessica, who might have been just as drunk as my mother, immediately began gushing about how much she loves my writing and how she’s read everything I’ve ever written. This, of course, made me question her mental stability because anyone who has read everything I have ever written must have gone insane at some point. While my very nature dictates that I show no excitement breaking through my inky black soul, on the inside, I was dying from all kinds of pure joy. The conflicting emotions raged through my body only to be expressed in some sort of amalgam of features that I’m sure gave the impression that I needed to take a shit. So while I was overjoyed to meet Kessica and immediately wanted to pepper her with questions about what her favorite think I have ever written was, I maintained my cool. Which I guess is a step towards my life goal of making even people that I like think that I hate them.
So at least my five year plan is on track.
So I have been very busy. Like super busy. Okay, so I have been sitting at Starbucks. You don’t know my life! But I haven’t been JUST sitting at Starbucks. My time has been equally split between reading Star Trek books (Yes, multiple) and eye sexing the guy who thinks it’s okay to wear white shorts with a black jockstrap. I’m just saying it’s a crime against fashion, but it’s a prize for the eyes.
But while I have been doing that, I have also been working hard on a new book entitled Help Wanted: My Life in Resume. And I’m just going to say that you might think being bitchy on demand is easy, but it’s fucking hard, so step off my junk. Anyway, I am working on that and hopefully I will be able to devote as much time as I can to it so that it will be out and there will be more bitchy ramblings that will inevitably prove that someone should just slap the fuck out of me already. (You know you want to, don’t lie.)
But in the meantime, I was able to go about a different pet project of mine, so while not of the bitchy variety, it’s excellent. I’m just saying that it’s a work of literary genius and will probably win a prize someday, so if you know of one to nominate me for, you know just go on and do it. Just do it, dammit!
So here it is, available in paperback, kindle, and soon to be an audiobook (because I’m fancy like that).
Read it, love it, review it. Amazon will love you. I will love you. The Almighty Popeye’s biscuit will love you.
P.S. It’s coming, Jessica. It’s coming.
Okay, so if by some chance you are blind, deaf, and/or headless, I am sure that you have heard the big news. If you haven’t then, I am sure you might have happened to notice that the internet apparently shit a fucking rainbow over the weekend. So, yes, the homos can get fucking married. Whoop de fucking shit. So, being a homo myself, I am apparently supposed to be overjoyed about this. Well guess what? As my rainbowless Facebook page says, “When your single, it’s just another damn day!” (And yes, I am well aware that it’s grammatically incorrect. I dare you to say something. You really want to take that chance right now?)
So while it’s all well and good that the gays can get married, are we really ready for it, as a civilization? I mean, not in the society is going to crumble kind of way, but the kind of way that is going to fill the world with so much drama it’s going to be like a Mexican telenovela up in this bitch. Because where there is gay marriage, there will now be gay divorce. I don’t think the legal system is quite prepared for that.
Can you imagine the mediation that is going to be happening in lawyers offices across the land? Oh my Popeye’s Biscuit, it is going to be amazing. Like I’m thinking about buying a lifetime supply of popcorn just to enjoy the show. Like you realize there are going to be several week long meetings happening because neither side will relinquish their rights to the tickets to the Celine Dion concert. (Is she even still singing? I have no idea, I have not exactly kept up with the gay icon’s, namely because I think at this point, I think I have been disinvited from the whole club.)
But do you know what I am waiting for more than anything. Gay Divorce Court! Of course to come on right after the People’s Court. I would quit my job just to watch that shit every day. Fuck DVR. I need to see that shit live! That is going to be some Must See Tv, right there.
So in conclusion, I would like to say congratulation to all the homos across the land. But I would also like to say, chill the fuck out. Not everyone wants to hear about how your love has one. Some of us are bitter and alone and not allowed to eat ice cream because it doesn’t fall into our diet. I’m not saying you shouldn’t get married or anything, but I am saying that you probably shouldn’t invite me because you might get something other than rice thrown at you at the end.
So my car, aptly named, Katniss Neverclean, has been through a lot. I have done a bunch of shit to my former cars, but the things that have been done to this car should cause me to be brought up on domestic violence charges. Like for real.
It wasn’t enough that I bashed in her side view mirror because my ability to operate a moving vehicle in reverse leaves something to be desired. Like you would be seriously surprised how much damage hitting a hitting metal pole going a whopping 3 miles an hour can do. So basically that is fucked.
And if that weren’t enough, and I am not taking the blame for this one, a mysterious crack appeared on my windshield. I do not know how it got there, but I have my suspicions. I firmly believe that the city of Houston has its own life force and that it has decided to do everything in its power to fuck my day up. And I think to accomplish that goal it conjured a rock out of nowhere and dropped it right on my windshield. No enough to fuck it up, but enough to ensure that I am going to have to get it replaced before inspections time comes along. Which will probably be a while seeing as how my registration sticker expired in February and I ain’t done shit about that.
But then. BUT THEN! What do I have to go and do? Text and drive. (Keep your judgmental gasps to yourself, bitches. I know what I did was wrong.) So yes, I looked down to send a text message. I was at a red light and thought I was safe. Well I let up on my brake and BAM! right in the back of a pick up truck. Now here is a true testament to what a good fucking person I am. I could have run away. It would have been so easy. No one was looking. The guy pulled off to the side of the road and parked and was in no way able to see my license plate. I could have gotten away with it. But I stopped. So take that all you bitches who want to say I’m a horrible person. Not so evil after all, now am I?
What proceeded was a five minute game of charades that had no fucking winner. It turns out that the person I hit had the English skills of a newborn and didn’t understand a word I was saying. And since I know about three words in Spanish, our communication ground to a halt pretty fucking fast. When I saw that there was absolutely no damage to his car, and it was pretty clear that he had no insurance, I was good to go about my life. But then he started miming that his back was hurting. Yeeeeah. I wasn’t buy that for a second. I could have walked faster than the speed in which I hit him. So there was no way that he was hurt in any way. Let’s just say that his acting abilities were on par with your everyday soap opera actress. But he continued his attempt for a few minutes, but when he realized I was not going to give him any money, he quickly stood straight up and walked to his car and left.
So needless to say, I got off fucking easy. Which was totally awesome, because I could have hit someone like me who would have bitched a fit in the middle of the street and basically made a spectacle of myself. And let’s face it. What is that going to accomplish, except probably get me arrested and I can promise you I would not look good in a mug shot.
So I would like everyone out there to send some prayers to poor Katniss Neverclean. And if possible, could you forward a number to a good shelter? She needs to find a safe place.
P.S. I am adding this here because Mircosoft Word says that this post is 666 words long and I don’t need that kinda shit on me.
Dear Ronald McDonald, (I am assuming you are the one to receive these customer service emails as you are the face of the company and how busy can the life of a ten foot clown be?)
Generally, I am not one to file any kind of complaint. Mostly I would just bitch a fit and stew in my own juices until I am left with no other choice but to write mean shit on the internet about you. But then I thought, ‘Wait a minute. I’m a homo. Homos don’t take things lying down.’ (Well, they do, but that’s a while other topic entirely.) So I’m embracing my homo roots and bringing my outrage to you.
Since I have undertaking my journey called Operation: Fatass No More, I have not had much opportunity to visit your establishment because I think we can both agree that your menu is about as healthy as injecting fat directly into your bloodstream. I mean I know you are on a big kick and trying to call your food healthy, but I could take a shit in a bowl and call it healthy too and it still wouldn’t be true. So don’t think you are fooling anyone.
But in a supreme moment of weakness I succumbed to the temptation that is your restaurant. I was stopping at Kroger for some thoroughly disgusting food when the smell of whatever the fuck you do in that kitchen of yours slapped me in the face like a soap opera character. I was defenseless to its power and do you even know how damn long it has been since I had a chicken nugget?
So knowing that I would regret it, I joined the masses and took my place in the drive thru (really? Is it that fucking hard to spell this correctly) line. I would like to present for you a replay of the twenty one minutes of my life that I will never get back.
10:47 pm : I place my order. Speaker Box is less than enthused. Granted life must be hard when your job is to stand outside every night and have drunk people yell at you constantly, but a little professionalism is required sometime.
10:48 pm: Pull up to the first window with my payment ready. I have made the mistake of waiting to get my wallet out and it has displeased the window person greatly. Do not feel like having my food spit in, so I do my best to appease the food traffic controller.
10:49 pm: Cashier turns away from conversation she is having with fellow coworker. Do not know her name because there are too many consonants for my brain to process. She is even less pleased by my presence than Speaker Box was. Suspect there is some correlation between the two. Secret lovers, perhaps?
10:50 pm: Can I Buy A Vowel Please processes my payment then promptly drops my credit card on the ground. No apology is offered, only the sound of the window closing.
10:51 pm: Retrieve my card from the pile of dirt that has accumulated on at the base of window one and proceed to window two where I meet another vowel deficient worker. I Can’t Solve The Puzzle greets me and by greet I mean opens the window, barks “Pull up to the red line”, and slams the window in my face.
10:52 pm: Take my place at the dreaded Red Line of Waiting. I am no stranger to this line. It seems that this spot is reserved for me. Settle in for the wait.
10:53 pm: Car behind me is directed to the reserved space for drive thru clients.
10:54 pm: Next car promptly receives food and pulls out of the parking lot.
10:55 pm: Second car gets food and pulls around me while I continue to sit in the McDonald’s dunce corner. Notice gentleman sitting at table near the window. Our eyes make contact. We will marry as soon as state legislation allows it.
10:57 pm: Four more cars get there food. Am content to wait because my future husband and I are content to make sideways glances at each other. Am fascinated at the way he inhales his burger. Make mental note to ask if he is into food porn.
10:58 pm: Getting slightly irritated when person who was directed to parking spot after me is hand delivered three bulging bags of food and is able to drive off. Light cigarette to calm my nerves before rage to kill people becomes too great. Future husband does not approve. Realize that he is a bit of a judgmental bitch. Vow we will get through this.
10:59 pm: Two more cars get there food and leave. Wonder if perhaps employees are killing and plucking chickens in order to make my food. Contemplate honking my horn to get the consonant friendly staff’s attention. Choose not to because Future Husband and I have hit a rocky patch. The spark may be gone. Briefly do cost/benefit analysis of couple therapy.
11:00 pm: Future Husband is an adulterous whore. Instead of working through our problems, he has decided to go back to his ex wife who just returned from the restroom. Hope that she gives him whatever she has that caused such an extended stay in the restroom. Vow to never love again.
11:01-11:04 pm: Am forced to watch Future Husband talk lovingly with his old/new love. He feeds her a French fry. Want to vomit. Am also forced to watch five more cars get there food and go. Not sure which sight is more devastating.
11:05 pm: Begin to question my life choices that have led me to this point and ponder if there was something that I could have done differently. Start making plans for the funeral that will be held at the spot I died, the dreaded Red Line of Waiting.
11:06 pm: I Can’t Solve The Puzzle brings me my food. Is offended that I am not more grateful. Try to run over her foot on the way out.
11:08 pm: Stop at a red light and reach in to ease the pain with a warm French fry. Discover fries are cold. Curse consonants everywhere. Also discover that my order is in fact wrong. There is double of everything I ordered. Still does not explain the wait.
While I should be more pissed off about the whole situation. Namely that your employees do not know how to provide good customer service, tell time, or do simple math. I am not. Sure a relationship began and ended while waiting, but it taught me a very valuable lesson. For the sake of my heart, my waistline, and the control I have to not curse out your employees. I cannot return to your establishment. Though you should consider changing your Fast Food title. Twenty one minutes is not fast and someone who is not lazy could consider filing a lawsuit for false advertising.