I don’t shave that often.
Well okay, I shave my face because everybody can see that right away, but not necessarily my legs, bikini line or underarms. I’ll let those slide for a few weeks until the leg hairs start poking through my pant legs… baggy pant legs.
What? Is that bad? 1-800-I-don’t-give-a-shit.
Yes, I shave my face. No, I do not have a beard. I have peach fuzz that women of a certain age get, barring the occasional tree branch that tries to grow out of my upper lip. I used to be a beautician and would have to tweeze those things out of my older client’s faces, now I have ‘em.
Life is cruel.
Actually, life isn’t cruel. If it was, I’d have hairy knuckles.
I’m single so why bother shaving? When I was in my youth, shaving was something I did religiously; I was in the shaver hall of fame! I started a shaving cult, because hair on a woman is evil, God be praised! For a long time I believed women weren’t supposed to have hair on their bodies, even though we do have hair on our bodies, for fuck’s sake.
We have hair everywhere men do (yep, same places) but women are made out to believe it’s some sort of genetic mistake; something grotesque that should be permanently removed. That’s how effective the media is. They make women believe they’re hideous creatures so we’ll spend thousands of dollars on their products.
“Hair on your body? You’ll never get a man! Here, buy this overpriced pink razor, which will appeal to your feminine side, and you’ll get rid of that unsightly body hair at the same time!”
“Gained weight? You’ll never get a man! Here, go on this diet for $300 dollars a month, which you’ll gain back within a year anyway because these diets don’t work.”
They’re all centered around getting a man too, as if being single is a crime. If it is, then lock me up and give me twenty! *snicker* *snort*
I mean, what man doesn’t want a chubby woman with hair all over her?! Shit, maybe that’s why I’m single. Naw… couldn’t be.
I’d shave if I had a man in my life. He has to shave too, though, and no, I’m not talking about shaving “down there” because that is so wrong. Look, if I wanted to sleep with a hairless, pubescent boy, I would. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. What I mean to say is, I’m not afraid of getting a pube stuck between my lips!
I like a man with hair on his body. Some hair, not a lot of hair. I’m not crazy about a mass of chest or back hair.
What I mean is, the man has to shave his face. He doesn’t have to be clean shaven; a goatee or Fu Man Chu is great, just no full on fucking beards. Jeez, I can’t wait ’til that goes out of style.
You know how when you’re at a restaurant enjoying your meal and then you feel a hair as you’re chewing your food and you go to pull it out and it’s long and not your color and you can’t eat your food anymore and you start to feel queasy? I can imagine that’s how having a beard is.
Gosh, I hope you’re not reading this while you’re eating something.
Why do people ruin things by doing something stupid when you’re just trying to be nice or polite? For instance, when someone thanks you for asking how they’re doing.
I’ll give you an example:
Person on the phone: “Hi, it’s Jason from (whatever company, who cares) how are you today?”
Me: “I’m doing well, how are you?”
Person on the phone: “Hey, I’m doing great, thanks for asking!”
There it is: Thanks for asking. Why are you thanking me for engaging in a societal norm? Should I thank someone for holding the door open for me? I think not. Well, okay I probably should.
If I thanked them for thanking me (which would be ludicrous) it would go something like this:
Me: “Thank you for thanking me for asking.”
Person on the phone: “Oh, well thank you fo…”
I just want to ask these people: Has the world become so full of apathy that no one ever asks you how you are, including your parents, so you have to thank some stranger on the phone because they asked? Is it that bad Mister?
If you’re hanging all your hopes on me, you’ll be very disappointed to find out I don’t really give a shit. I’m only asking because I’m responding politely to your question (I may be apathetic, but I can still be polite… to an extent).
By the way, not only do I not give a shit, I’m also annoyed that you’re being obsequious and you sound way too perky. I hate perky, it’s contrived. I know you want something from me; something I’m not prepared to give, and I don’t want to be bothered by you, so let’s get on with it already.
This whole thing… this, “thanking me for asking how you are” thing… reeks of corporate drivel. I’m picturing some bored executive sitting at his expansive desk, in his equally expansive office (you know, something big enough to contain his massive ego) thinking of ways to make people’s lives more miserable, when he comes up with this asinine idea and decides it would be wonderful if all his minions would respond to the question in this manner.
Memo from the office of Mr. Jackass, of The Jackass Corporation:
From now on, when you address someone, ask how they’re doing, and when they ask you how you are, thank them for asking you!
Don’t ask why, just do it.
“What a great idea, thank you!”
“Thanks for thanking me!”
“Why are you thanking me for thanking you?”
“Because you told us to.”
How ‘bout this one:
When someone is wanting to cross the street where they’re not supposed to, so you stop in the middle of the road for them so they can (illegally, but safely), cross… but then they ruin it by impatiently waving you on with these over exaggerated arm gestures (suddenly they’re a goddamn traffic cop) instead of just giving a wave of thanks and crossing. Is this a power play? Because it’d probably be safe to say I’d win since I’m in a car and you’re not.
I impatiently wave you on because I’ve already stopped in the middle of the street to be nice, and I’m trying to get you to understand that, but you’d rather make me feel stupid for stopping for you in the first place. Don’t you dare wave me on again Mister… just cross the fucking street already, I’m not getting into a waving contest! You created the problem, now you need to see it through.
As soon as they start to cross, that’s when I like to gun my engine and watch them run for their lives.
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that most of us single women are sick and tired of dating and all the work that’s involved.
That’s a no-brainer.
It takes a lot of time and effort for not a lot of return. As the proverbial saying goes, “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your Prince Charming”. Well ladies, you’re in luck! I’ve come up with an effective vetting system that’s been personally tested, over and over and over… pant, wheeze… and over again, and it’s based on one simple principle: The type of take-out food the guy orders correlates exactly with how he treats women.
If a guy doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about what he puts into his body, do you think he’s going to spend a lot of time thinking about what he puts into yours? Uhhh, what I mean is, if he doesn’t take care of himself, he’s not gonna take care of you either. If he eats a lot of shitty fast food, well, “You are what you eat”.
I’ve discovered that you can rate what kind of man you’re dating solely by the take-out sauce packets he has in his kitchen. I know, sounds too simple, but remember: KISS. No, no, no… not your favorite rock bank from the eighties… it’s an acronym, Keep It Simple, Stupid.
Let’s start with his kitchen: He’s gotta have one… and it’s gotta be his own, not his mother’s. Once you’ve established that, you’ll need to do some investigating, so start opening drawers. How do you snoop around without it being obvious? Easy. Well, the way you get into his drawers *snicker* is by bringing over a bottle of wine and conveniently forgetting a wine opener. That way, you have an excuse to go into the kitchen to look for one.
You’ll know you’ve found what you’re looking for when you get to the drawer that has nothing in it but some crumbs, a book of matches, a plastic fork, and some napkins. Bingo! This is where he would keep the take-out sauce packets.
And if there aren’t any, you ask? Don’t panic, that’s a good thing. It means he doesn’t keep them for ten years like some men, and/or doesn’t get take-out that often, which means he knows how to cook (bonus!!!) Hang on, before making that assumption, check his fridge to see if he’s actually savvy enough to store them in there. If there are none, there is a slight possibility his mother still cooks for him. If she does, I strongly suggest reconsidering the relationship; guys like that, have sex with their socks on.
If he does have take-out sauce packets in his fridge, carefully remove them using oven mitts or a set of tongs… you don’t want to touch them with bare hands. Take note of what kind of sauce packets they are. Are they taco sauce packets from Taco Bell?
GET THE HELL OUT NOW!
Yes I’m serious, have some self-respect! Make an excuse, it doesn’t matter if it’s believable or not, you’ll never see him again. If you can’t identify where the sauce packets are from, they may be from a restaurant that delivers, which could be a really good sign: He orders something decent from a local joint, like the Thai place a few blocks over.
Take another gander in the fridge. Does he have large bottles of ketchup, mayo, yellow mustard, and a corresponding package of Oscar Mayer bologna? He’s a fucking savage and great in the sack, so have sex with him, but don’t hitch him to your trailer. The only thing you can expect with this guy over the weekends is a lot of meat sandwiches on shitty bread while you sit on the sofa to watch the game. No amount of great fucking is worth that.
If you see a basket of fresh strawberries, some champagne and imported cheeses, with a pepper grinder and an espresso maker on the counter, you’ve just scored! No, not a romantic partner, a gay best friend! And hey, sometimes that’s better than a boyfriend anyway.
Pass the hot sauce, hot stuff.
Shoot, is it Thursday already?
There was absolutely nothing that happened this past week that stood out. I mean, as long as you don’t count the woman who was rude to me over the phone yesterday. Actually, rude may not be best word to describe her. Let me think… hmmm, how would I best describe her behavior? I guess… I guess it was more like fucking psychotic. Yes, yes, that’s definitely better, it’s much more succinct.
You see, I made a business call (which was my first mistake) and this secretary asked me to call back, as the person I was trying to reach was on the other line.
Call me a stickler, but isn’t the secretary supposed to take messages, not ask the caller to call back? Just a thought.
Anyway, I called back a short time later and she went ballistic. I mean, she lost the farm and everything. She screamed something about me calling back too soon. She was horribly upset, the poor thing, I think she was drinking or something. Maybe she’s bi-polar.
“LOOK, YOU JUST CALLED FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO, HE’S STILL ON THE PHONE ON A VERY IMPORTANT CALL TO IRELAND!!!!”
Wow… I’m, I’m terribly sorry lady. I should not have called at all, even though this was an important business call. I should never have bothered you, even though it’s your job to answer the phones and be professional. Gosh, I should have known that was beyond your capabilities. I’ll just go ahead and get the fuck off the phone before you explode and your guts go flying all over the office. Hope you feel better.
Wait, she’s probably gutless because she screams at strangers over the phone, so that wouldn’t happen.
You know, it really was my fault. You see, I’m supposed to be a mind-reader and I guess I missed clairvoyant class in college and now I deeply regret it because if I had only attended, I would have known ahead of time not to call this absolutely psychotic woman and destroy her afternoon.
I actually didn’t go to college at all. Unless you count beauty college, which really worked by the way, I’m absolutely stunning!
So anyway, the person I was trying to reach, who happens to be this woman’s boss, called me back, then began defending her behavior and I thought to myself “The coffee they’re drinking over there must have some serious alcohol in it.” He went on to say that she told him I was rude to her over the phone. Yes, it’s true, I can’t make this shit up (note to self: never drink their coffee).
I’m not shocked that there are such liars and delusional people like that out there. Hell, the world is full of them. I’m just shocked at my reaction to it all. I got pretty upset and allowed it ruin my afternoon, and then I felt worse that I was allowing people like that to get to me.
I feel much better today though, now that I have some perspective and can add humor to the situation. Plus, I can be passive-aggressive and write about what a cunt that woman is, along with her fool, idiot boss, right here in my posting *snicker*, *snort*
She’s gotta be one of the worst bottom-feeding, lying manipulators I’ve encountered. She’s actually giving Rudy Giuliani and Donald Trump a run for their money. She could totally run for office. Her pathetic, loser of a boss condones her behavior because he has all the personality of an egg-sucking contestant. He’s an incubus to her succubus and together, they’re out to ruin lives!
Yesterday was World Kindness Day, which was totally lost on Ms. Screaming Banshee and her boss, Peenie Weenie.
Glad it’s not today.
Something irritated the hell out of me yesterday.
My boss was telling me what he had for breakfast, he had a slice of apple pie, a banana and some sashimi, but instead of saying “sashimi”, as it is properly pronounced, he said “shashimi” and I nearly spit up my kombucha.
It took all my strength not to correct him, mostly because I need to let clowns be clowns but also, I was certain he would continue to pronounce it incorrectly because he’s stubborn and wouldn’t like the fact I corrected him, therefore continuing to bastardize the word. There’s nothing more I hate than someone who mispronounces a word and then is passive aggressive about it.
That’s not true, there are plenty of things I hate more than that, but that one’s up there.
Sure, it seems benign, but it’s not. If you want to label misuse of the English language as benign… okay in this case it’s Japanese, but whatever… if you want to say it’s nothing to get so worked up about, you couldn’t be more wrong! Words have to be properly pronounced, spelled correctly and applied in grammatically correct form, otherwise, where are we as a nation, under Dog… I mean, God… indivisible, with liberty and justice for all?!
That right there is a misuse of the English language. It should read “… with liberty and justice for all, as long as you have lots of money and political connections, otherwise you’re fucked.”
I suppose I should be more disgusted with what he ate for breakfast: apple pie, a banana AND raw fish? That’s disgusting! I can imagine how his stomach felt (and by the looks of it, not happy). How could someone have such little respect for breakfast that they would defame it in such a manner, and then brag about it like they did something extraordinary?
Because he was clearly proud of himself. He stood there reciting his meal like he was telling his mommy how he held his weenie and peed in the toilet without getting any on the floor, his face aglow and a twinkle in his eyes. It was like he was waiting for me to say, “What a good boy!”
Now I can’t decide what’s more disgusting.
I can only imagine some poor Japanese chef when my boss goes into his establishment to eat and refers to him as the “shushi chef who makes shashimi.” The Japanese have a very precise and dignified culture of respect and honor, and to have some fuzzy American come in and bastardize, not only their language, but also the chopshticks, the shoy shauce, the washabi, and everything else… is horrible. We already dropped a nuclear bomb on them, now this?!
You know what I wanna do when someone does shit like that? I wanna punch them in the face. But first, I want them to don a clown costume. Yeah, that’s right, a clown costume with a wig, full face of makeup, red nose, big, clumpy shoes, the whole bit… you know, like Ronald McDonald, who perfectly represents the “… with liberty and justice for all, as long as you have lots of money and political connections, otherwise you’re fucked” credo.
Then I wanna thrust my fist into their big, fat noses and watch as their smug expression gets smashed off the side of their face, a long string of gooey saliva flinging out the side of their mouth… all in slow motion complete with sound effects. For instance, the nose making a honking sound as my fist connects.
Actually, what’d be even more appropriate is if I smacked him across the face with a giant salmon… you know, on account of the whole sashimi thing.
What? Is that not normal? Because I implore you to find someone who’s never wanted to punch someone in the face before. Okay, maybe not with a fish while they’re wearing a clown costume… although with almost eight billion people here on earth, I can’t possibly be the only one. Just think about how many people would love to punch what represents corporate America in the face.
I just want you to know I’ve properly kicked off the fall season and upcoming Holidays by eating an entire loaf of pumpkin bread from Trader Joe’s don’t judge me.
No, not all at once… what type of chubby, middle-aged woman do you take me for?
Before I start, I just want to say: fuck pumpkin spice. Why is it every year around the start of Autumn does everything that’s known to man have to be flavored and/or scented with Pumpkin Fucking Spice?
The most disgusting thing ever created by man, the Pumpkin Spice Latte, has its own Twitter account and my questions is: how savage do things have to get?!
I know I’ve said this before, but I hate cinnamon. It’s cloying, it makes me gag, and it overpowers whatever you mix it with, so instead of a nuanced blend of flavors, all you get is a mouthful of cinnamon… blech! Why even bother making a chocolate dessert if you’re going to ruin it with cinnamon? Why destroy the delicate flavor of fruit if you’re just going to douse it with cinnamon?… unless it’s an apple pie?
Cinnamon is only good for one thing: toothpicks. And some Moroccan dishes… and cinnamon rolls.
Yes, I realize that’s two things. I mean, three things. Actually four if you count the apple pie.
Yes, there are cinnamon-flavored toothpicks, and those are delicious. No, not to eat, to chew on.
There are certain things that go together and certain things that don’t. Cinnamon is tree bark (did y’all know that?), so it makes sense to put it onto a wooden toothpick, but why on earth are you putting tree bark on desserts, chocolate and coffee?!
Look, it would be safe to assume most of you love sex, right? But you don’t have sex in church because the two don’t go together. Unless you’re a priest. What I’m trying to say is, there’s a time and place for everything and that goes for cinnamon too.
Anyway, back to the pumpkin bread. It’s a box mix from Trader Joe’s that’s only available around this time of year, and it sells out very quickly, and once they run out they don’t restock it, it’s gone until next year. Part of the problem is, it’s very easy to make and it’s even easier to eat; this stuff is addictive. I like to add walnuts and raisins to mine because when at all possible, I like to cram as much deliciousness into anything food, as possible (that’s bad English right there).
Anyway, I ate the entire loaf in a few days (meaning two) and the only thing that saved me from being the ultimate porker, was a friend stopping by and eating two slices that I purposely made extra big so I wouldn’t feel so guilty about eating the rest of it.
You know, the loaf is really not that big, is what I told myself as I was licking the crumbs out of the empty baking dish. I was just lucky I didn’t have any butter sitting around because then I’d really be in trouble. I vowed many years ago I was never going to buy their pumpkin bread mix again because I always eat the entire thing, but I was weakened this past weekend *snicker*
I succumbed to Trader Joe’s evil empire of pumpkin bread. If you want to go buy yourself some, it’s in a bright orange box, you can’t miss it. I highly suggest adding some hazelnuts or pecans to it if you don’t like walnuts, which I wouldn’t understand because why dislike something so innocuous as the walnut?
Anyway, I know what you’re gonna say… “Doesn’t the pumpkin bread have cinnamon in it?” and my response is: “Aww, it’s okay, pumpkin.
Bright eyed, good looking, middle aged woman with increasing waistline looking for workout partner to help with weight loss. Totally platonic, no exceptions. Unless you’re really hot and there’s chemistry… but under no circumstances can it be sympathy sex (grudge fucking is okay though). Must know a tremendous amount of varying exercises and weight training techniques to help stave off the mundane routine of working out, which I never fucking liked as much as I do eating; there are so many delicious things to eat, and in so many wonderful combinations, it never gets boring. Must have all necessary workout equipment, if you know what I mean *snicker… snort*
ahem… you know, like weights ‘n shit.
Must enjoy the unknown as there’s no way I can commit to doing this every damn day. Look, I have a life, unlike some of you gym rats, so don’t expect me never to call you and demand we work out on a whim. Also, must like to shut up. You can’t talk too much, or at least, you must know how to hold a goddamn conversation and not go on an incessant monologue like a lot of people I know and avoid (so annoying). Must like cats. No, not because I’ll be bringing them to the workouts, but because I like to talk about them like they’re my kids, as that’s what middle-aged, childless, single women do. No, not really, I’m trying to fit into everyone’s stereotype for approval because I have low-self esteem. No, not really, I’m making a point: middle-aged women can’t get a break, whether we’re accused of having low-self esteem, too many cats, for being chubby (okay, that part’s true), for being desperate, or having lost any interest in sex. Wait, I never said anything about being desperate!… and I still want sex, I’m just no longer willing to put up with bad sex! Which leads me to believe, men, of any age, who date younger women, do so because they know they can get away with giving them shitty sex because they think they don’t know any better. Not that I dated older men when I was younger, yuck… I didn’t want some old guy touching me! But in a sick twist of fate, now I do! I like those older men, find them attractive and want them touching me all over!
Younger men are not off the table though… just depends.
Oh, and I can’t pay you anything, this has to be totally free because there’s one stereotype about single, middle-aged women that is unarguable; we generally don’t make a lot of money, and we certainly don’t get paid as much as men for doing twice the work, all while wearing high heels, might I add (or flats when we need to kick some corporate ass!) And more than likely, there’s been a male charmer… aka, freeloader, user, manipulator, narcissist… in our lives at one point or another who took advantage of us financially and otherwise. Ironic, since women are the ones who are constantly being called gold diggers. You do realize that phrase was attributed to the male gender, don’t you? Remember the ’49ers? No, not the football team, the actual gold diggers from the turn of the 19th century during the California gold rush? Yeah, them. Funny how things get turned around. Anyway, this ad is costing me a small fortune because I like to use words; big, small, intelligent, foul, you name it.
If interested, call me at: 1-800-yourealonelypieceofshit
You guys probably don’t know this about me, but I have a serious physical disability.
It’s been really difficult, so I don’t really like to talk about it. But I’ve concluded that if I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable, to open up and share with you people a very profound part of me, then how can I be an inspiration to other fucked up handicaps?
If you saw me in person, it wouldn’t be immediately apparent. For instance, I don’t have to use a wheelchair or crutches or anything, but it’s still a serious physical disability. It’s called Menopause.
When this first happened to me, I was very upset because I knew what struggles lay ahead… and if you don’t, just Google it. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking “How can you be upset that you’re not fucking bleeding once a month anymore?” and I’m here to tell you, it was so much more than that.
For instance, I could use it as an excuse to get out of, well, pretty much anything. Especially work, exercise, and sex. I could use it as revenge. I could use it to mark my territory, like with a boyfriend; I could easily leave a smudge on his jeans, or wallet, or sock, so everyone understood that, yeah, he’s mine.
Look, periods have meaning, period.
I should have seen it coming, I had all the symptoms: weight gain, hot flashes, an unusual fascination with anything cat related. Like I’m obsessed with watching cat videos because not only are they entertaining, they’re really educational. Have you guys seen the one with the cat that gets caught on the ceiling fan and is spun around and around until it gets flung off and thrown across the room? I learned a lot from that one and so did my cat.
I just can’t get enough of cats, I even went out and bought hand towels with cats on them. Not only that, if I don’t stay on top of my semi-annual Botox injections, I’ll have resting Grumpy Cat face.
I’m in deep.
I just want you to know I didn’t take this lightly. As soon as I got diagnosed, I did the responsible thing and immediately went to the DMV to get my handicapped placard.
I always do the right thing.
I’ve discovered once you’re in Menopause, you’re automatically banned from the opposite sex, did you know that? Men want nothing to do with me. It’s like I have leprosy or something. I guess I’m not desirable anymore just because I’m handicapped… how fucking rude! Okay, so I have some gravitational pull on my tits too, big deal. It’s not like I look like a dog that’s had several litters. However, every time I jog, I get slapped in the face by two water balloons.
Which is bullshit because I’m willing to tolerate everything that’s wrong with a man… starting with his own sagging body parts; two used wet tea bags and matching coffee stirrer (they come in a set). I am truly perplexed as to why men choose to ignore their own disabilities while judging a woman’s.
I’ll have you know, this isn’t my first time at the handicap rodeo, I have other physical disabilities that have affected me my entire life: being a woman, chubby, and blonde. But despite my physical limitations, I’m still mentally strong!… sort of. I mean, sure I have some issues like forgetfulness, suicidal thoughts, and then there’s the cat thing… but nothing a little medication could probably take care of, if I were interested in that sort of thing.
But hell, who’s got the inclination for that crap, huh? I certainly don’t. I hear it just numbs you and turns you into a zombie fuck. Well, screw that, I say! Unlike my body, I need my brain to work at full capacity in order to navigate this thing called “life”.
Admittedly, I sometimes do some really stupid things, and sometimes I don’t find out how stupid until much later; there’s like a delay… a stupidity delay. Anyway, I got to find out what one of those stupid things was this past weekend, and it was drug related.
I don’t do illicit drugs. I don’t like the feeling of being too high or the feeling of loss of control. I do, on occasion, take a drug prescribed to me for my IBS when it rears its ugly head. Now, I’m super sensitive to any sort of medication; even a normal dosage can sometimes be way too strong for me, so I’m very careful about what I take.
Well Saturday morning I took a pill because my IBS was really bothering me, and later that day, as I was driving home from L.A. I still wasn’t feeling right; I was overly nauseous and I attributed it to my IBS, so I decided to take another pill. About 15 minutes later, I started to feel really, really high, like abnormally high… like, there’s something seriously wrong here, what the hell is going on?
It got worse very quickly; I couldn’t catch my breath, I was getting very dizzy and I started to freak out. I realized I needed to get off the freeway immediately or something very bad was going to happen because I felt like I was going to pass out, and I had to cross several lanes of traffic in order to exit. Luckily I managed without incident, found a quiet street and pulled over, and I sat there trying to calm myself down.
I even pulled out my phone and went on Facebook to feel some sort of normalcy, which is a problem in itself, but that’s a post for another time. So I’m sitting there wondering what the fuck is going on? I mean, this is not normal, and I’m thinking, there’s no way the medication is that strong; I’ve taken many times before and never had this reaction. Anyway, I stayed there for some time before I felt the high start to subside a little.
I decided to get back on the road because I think “I’m going to be okay”, which is ludicrous because someone that high, cannot determine for themselves whether they’re okay enough to do anything. Plus, there are varying levels of being “okay”… I think there are ten levels, and I was only at level one.
For some reason, the nausea had something to do with it: Every time my stomach rolled, this wave of being really fucking high would wash over me and I had to brace myself, then I had to be prepared to pull off the freeway again at any moment. Now you should know that this is a very thrilling, heart-racing activity; being over medicated and risking your life like this. I mean, if you’re the adventurous type at all, I highly recommend it.
At one point I look at myself in the rear view mirror and my pupils are like pins and I’m thinking, if I get pulled over it’s going to be a dead giveaway I’m high as fuck. So I started practicing the conversation I’m going to have with the police officer, assuming before any evidence presents itself, that it’s about to happen. You ever do that? Practice what you’re going to say when you know you’re in deep shit?
So now I’m almost home, but instead of going straight to my house like a normal, abnormally high person would do, I think to myself “You know what I need? I need to get something to eat in order to settle my stomach and absorb some of these drugs, so I’m going to stop off at the dollar store. I fucking love the dollar store!” You can only really love something that shitty when you’re high, by the way.
The dollar store has cheap, interesting snacks. They carry ones you’ve never heard of before; snacks that were rejected by society and the FDA. Nobody eats these snacks except poor people, because poor people will eat anything. They don’t care, they’re hungry, they’ll try anything, even if it’s got poison in it… and everything in the dollar store has poison in it.
We don’t know where this stuff came from, really. I mean yeah, some of it’s got the English language on the packaging, but some of it doesn’t; some of it has foreign language on it, but we don’t really know from what country. Hell, it doesn’t matter… even if it’s American it still doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous… probably even more so. I try not to think about it while I’m filling my basket.
I couldn’t even wait until I got to the register, I ripped open a bag of rice crackers, and started munching away while I was walking around the store, which looks completely different when you’re high, by the way; it’s much more fun and interesting. I started to feel so much better after having some crackers… and some pretzels… and some fruit… and cookies. Look, I was hungry, okay? I think I bought enough snacks to last a month.
The next day I kept turning it over in my mind: What the hell happened? Then it dawned on me… and here’s where the stupidity delay comes in: I had taken an older bottle of medication and dumped whatever was in there in the newer bottle, without checking for the expiration date on the old ones first, which doesn’t even matter, you should never mix medications anyway.
Now I know why they put expiration dates on drugs.
What do quilts, masturbation and driving have in common?
I don’t know but let me tell you about my shopping experience.
If there’s one place I feel the squeeze of overpopulation (besides the freeways), it’s at a local shopping center. This one is particularly annoying because of the layout: the only two entrances are each situated on busy streets, so there are always tons of people pushing and crowding into its parking lot. Clearly, whoever designed the center died before statistics of population growth were published.
I wish I could avoid it altogether, but I can’t since that’s where I go to buy a particular brand of cat food from the only pet store that carries it (cat people will understand this).
The shopping center contains Joann Fabrics, Tuesday Morning, Home Goods and Marshall’s clothing store, all in one place. This may mean nothing to some of you if you don’t recognize them, but they’re all popular, corporate, suburban shops for the criminally mundane. They draw all the women in town, especially Joann Fabrics.
Do we really need so many goddamn quilts ladies? Don’t you have anything fucking better to do? Is sewing what your life has amounted to? Do you really need those chocolates you plucked off the shelf by the cash register?
For the amount of women that go into that store to buy fabric or what have you, you’d think there would be more unique and fashionably dressed people around, but nope… everybody looks the same, and since they all sew quilts, it leads me to suspect there’s some history of incest in this town; we may very well be the Arkansas of the west coast.
People from Arkansas, do not email me.
Look, there’s no denying there were a lot of poor mountain folk in the Ozarks sewing quilts who never left their small towns and married people who may or may not have been their first or second cousin. They even made a movie about them, so it has to be factual.
Wait, did I just hear a banjo?
Anyway, back to Joann Fabrics: that store is the main offender because sooo many women go in and out of it all day long… in, out, in, out, in, out. If they were doing more of that activity at home, they wouldn’t be wasting their time at Joann Fabrics, I’ll tell you that much! And if there were any sewing of quilts it’d be because the old ones got stains on them, not because it was some sick hobby.
And by the way, who in the holy hell thought putting chocolates by the registers of all the stores where women shop would be a good idea and not insulting to our intelligence? Because that’s what they do now; put chocolate in every line up to the cash register. It’s not enough we try to fulfill our empty lives by shopping for crap we don’t need at poorly designed shopping centers, now we need chocolate to placate ourselves further?
Do you see fish bait at registers where men shop? No! That’s because… hmm, that’s not a really good example, is it? I mean, not all men go fishing. Okay, let me rephrase it: Do you see porn at all the registers where men shop?
Come to think of it, yeah! They have those dirty magazines at the counters of liquor stores, which is where all men shop… isn’t it? I don’t know, it’s been so long since I’ve had a man, I can’t be completely sure. Sounds right anyway; drink some whiskey, look at porn, wiggle your noodle.
But back to the annoying shopping center, the easiest entrance for me logistically is right next to Joann Fabrics, but I discovered there is a route that runs behind the back of the stores, you know, where the trucks go to make their deliveries, so I just pull in, drive around to the back and make my way to the opposite end where the pet food store is, avoiding the riffraff in the process.
It’s not foolproof though. Upon leaving the other day, I was almost at the exit when some yahoo cuts in front of me from the side. I hate when people do that! You all know the type: the driver with the “me first” mentality. They see you coming but they can’t wait two fucking seconds, so they cut right in front of you because they need to be first, even though you have the right of way.
When I caught up with the greedy bastard, I had to see what type of animal would do that to a lady, so I unrolled my window, and wouldn’t you know it? It was a Millennial Bro! I tried to give him a dirty look, but he beamed this roguish grin at me, which was his way of acknowledging his assholeness, and I just couldn’t be mad anymore, which made me even more frustrated!
But as he sped off, I came to the realization that he was likely rushing home from his “shopping”, if you know what I mean…
…probably makes quilts, too.