Have a Seat, Dumbass

I don’t know what you guys had planned last weekend, but I’d bet good money it wasn’t to be a dumb-ass. 

You know how I know this? No one ever plans on being a dumb-ass, it’s inadvertent (inherent for some, but that’s an entirely different post). It happens because of some choice or action which turns into a mistake. Not to say that every time someone makes a mistake, they’re a dumb-ass. We all make mistakes and it’s not to be looked down upon. 

But some mistakes do make you a dumb-ass; it’s a universal law, and just how much of a dumb-ass is determined on a sliding scale. Let’s say it’s from one to ten, with one being only a very slight mistake, so no dumb-ass, and ten being an oh boy, are you an ever-loving fucking dumb-ass… you dumb-ass! 

Hey, I don’t make this shit up.

Anyway, I don’t know if this happens to you, and if it does, whether you’re even aware of it, but have you ever had a thought about something that you wanted or needed, and then you let it go and kind of forgot about it, but then it shows up in your life? This happens to me frequently. Some call it coincidence, some call it the law of attraction, some, serendipity.  

Whatever thoughts one cultivates, their life experiences reflects those thoughts. If you have a positive mindset and tend to see things on the bright side, your life experiences will reflect that, and you will have mostly positive things happen in your life, where if you think life is shitty and full of assholes, more assholes will come into your life to make it more shitty and you’ll have negative experiences.

Personally, I can’t relate to the latter because I always see the glass as half full… or even, refillable.

“Get out of my way, asshole!”

Sorry, I’m driving while writing this and some dumb-ass is gesturing wildly in my direction. 

Where was I? Oh yes, a couple months ago I thought about how nice it would be to add a big, comfy chair to my room; somewhere I could sit and read instead of reading in bed, which always puts me to sleep, and as I was driving down my street, I saw a big, comfy chair sitting curbside with a sign on it that said: Free. 

Literally, this happened just days after my initial thought, it was amazing! The only thing was, the chair didn’t really match my decor, so I passed on it. Well lo and behold, a week later, I see another big, comfy chair in my neighborhood. Yes I’m totally serious! I passed on that one too though because I thought it was just a little too big.

Well after that, I was anticipating the next big, comfy chair coming into my life, but nothing happened. Zippo, zip, niente, nada.  

Then it occurred to me that the Universe had responded to my wish, but then I rejected it not once, but twice, so no more big, comfy chairs and I thought perhaps the Universe was giving me the finger for rejecting the first two. 

Well I let it go and hadn’t really thought about it since, until this past weekend, when I was perusing online garage sales and saw this big, comfy chair on sale for only twenty bucks, and I thought to myself “I’m going to get that chair before I fuck this up again.” I looked at is as a sign, and for twenty bucks, I’d be a dumb-ass to pass it up. I arranged to go look at it right away. 

It was big and comfy looking and although I really did not like the color (it was a poopy brown), I decided to take it because I didn’t want to piss off the Universe again, which I found out later, is not a good basis for making a decision. When I got home, I struggled to get this large, awkward chair onto my patio so I could vacuum it and remove the pillow covers for washing, then I struggled to get it into my bedroom and once it was there, that’s when I noticed the smell.

Note: Do not buy used furniture from people who have dogs.

I was looking at this shit-brown sofa chair sitting in my room, thinking “What the hell did I just do?” I tried to make the best of it. I thought once I wash the pillow covers, it would help with the smell, then I could buy a slipcover for the thing, which would hide the hideous color, and it would all work out just fine.

Well try sleeping in a small room with a piece of furniture that smells like a dog’s ass all night. 

That was it, it had to go. I would never get rid of the smell, it was all a big mistake, and the Universe was getting a big ‘ol laugh outta me. So the next morning I put the pillow covers back on, hauled the fucking thing out of my bedroom, and over to the local Goodwill store, the whole time praying they wouldn’t reject it because then what? Dump it somewhere? 

Well they took it, thank God (suckers) so it was gone, out of my life for good! However, the Goodwill store, no matter how much good will they offer, could never take away the fact that I was a dumb-ass.

Let me break it down for you: I paid twenty bucks to haul away someone’s shitty smelly chair for them, plus time and gas. 

On the dumb-ass scale, I’d rate this a solid fiver. 

 

Smells Like Man Spirit

I wish I had the luxury of self-confidence that men have.

You know, the kind that comes with living in a patriarchal society where you can behave anyway you want, anytime you want and flaunt a negative aspect of yourself without any blowback.

You can be the biggest crook, or jerk, or aggressive, or narcissistic, or selfish, or a total weenie, or sooooo not fucking funny, and still get away with it because you’re a man (mainly a white man, but any man, really).

Our president is the perfect example of this.

You’re a “bro”, dude! You’re part of that special group of human species where you can get away with practically anything. You can guzzle beer and vape and grow a beard on your face that looks like a mountain goat’s ass and still get a promotion because no one is gonna look down on you. That’s because you’re already above the glass ceiling.

You can have an enormous gut spilling over the top of your pants, and you’ll still think you’re hot shit because society won’t judge you like they would a woman with the same physique.

It’s not self-confidence more than it is hubris, ignorance, and flat out blind to just how privileged men are. Not that I want to have any of those character defects, but still, I like the idea that if I were to have them, I wouldn’t be judged for having them while simultaneously being called a bitch or a cunt.

Being called a whore would be alright though.

Hubris.

Like this guy, who I don’t even really know, asked me out on a date the other day, through social media, which, by the way, is not the way a proper whore wants to be asked out on a date. He has no car (which he posted about on Facebook), but that didn’t give him pause; he still had the hubris to ask me out. Naturally it would imply that I would need to pick him up for our date if I agreed to one, which I would not… ever.

Okay, in all fairness, I was without a car last week and posted about it on Facebook, so he probably saw it and said “Eureka! I found my soul mate!” Or maybe I should say “sole mate” as we’d probably be walking.

Hahahahaha… hahahaha…. aha… aha… ha… ahem, sorry.

Who asks someone out on a date when you have no car and live in the suburbs? How are you supposed to get around, bus? Bicycle? Okay, there’s Uber but then it left me wondering if he would ask me to pay half. The guy works as a barista too. Not a bad occupation if you’re in your twenties. I mean, you can hardly support yourself on that wage, much less be on the dating scene.

I’m not knocking the guy for his lifestyle, but… wait, I am knocking him for his lifestyle, and why shouldn’t I? He asks me out when he doesn’t have any transportation and nothing to show he has more to offer; he doesn’t even know me and is probably making all kinds of assumptions about me based on my Facebook postings, which is what I’m doing with him right now, but never mind that, let me finish my point…

My point is… my point is…

Oh yes, my point is that he assumed a woman would just accept him and his situation without demanding he try harder. He’s a man, he doesn’t have to try harder so why wouldn’t he just put himself out there? No matter how he comes across, society won’t hold him accountable. He’ll probably get a back slap, a high-five, and a “Hey buddy, good job for trying!” from his beer-swilling man friends!

He would be better off focusing on improving his situation before seeking out dates, but men don’t have to think twice about that before hitting on a girl because they’re the cat’s dinner no matter what their situation is… at least, in their own minds.

My reply to him was “I’m going to say no, but thanks.” and then I was irritated that I felt the need to soften my bluntness by adding that “thanks” at the end because I wasn’t even thankful he asked me out! But I didn’t want to be thought of as a bitch or a cunt or a whore because I rejected him. 

Have something to offer besides just your bro-ness and the need to get laid, for fuck’s sake. And shave those hideous beards while you’re at it. There’s food stuck in there!

Thanks, But No Thanks

Do you ever have a difficult time handling compliments?

Yeah, not me.

Okay, that’s not completely true; I’m not very good with handling compliments when it comes to my writing. It’s not that I don’t appreciate them, it’s just that I get shy about it. I know, hard to believe I’d be shy, but… anyway, I find it difficult to respond with something other than a simple “thanks” or, “it’s appreciated”, and most likely without punctuation or an emoji, because if I add anything, it’ll feel like I’m fawning.

I really dislike it when anyone oozes with insincerity; I want to have a shower afterwards.

I like getting compliments that are original. If someone’s going to say, “You have beautiful hair” it’s boring, who cares? I’ve heard it a million times. Now if you said something like, “You have beautiful nose hair”, well now, that’s original.  

I would appreciate it if the complementor (yes, that’s a word) would compliment me on my sick sense of humor rather than my outer appearance. The exception would be saying I look really skinny… that never gets old… because it’s not true, but in the other person’s mind it is, so who’s to argue they’re being insincere? Now saying something like “Wow, you have the tightest pussy” would get my attention.

Do you ever have a difficult time handling someone who tries to tell you what to do? 

Yeah, not me.

I’m adamantly opposed to having someone telling me how to live my fucking life or giving me unwanted “advice” which turns out to be criticism thinly veiled as advice. It drives me nuts.. suck it, okay? Don’t tell me what to do.

Well, it happened yesterday, so it’s fresh in my mind. This woman, who I never really gelled with, would come on my hikes (I run a hiking group) and would talk my friggin’ ear off, which was annoying because she never engaged me in conversation, it was always her vomiting onto me about herself and her life, and I could barely get a word in edgewise… another thing that drives me nuts.

If you want to have a conversation, great! If you want to go on an incessant monologue, go see a therapist (or write a blog like this one). She had no concept of respecting the personal space of others; she was just all over the place… no boundaries. 

Anyway, I send out a monthly newsletter to my group, and this last one was a bit snarky, so she took it upon herself to send back an email lecturing me, telling me how I should edit myself because she was offended; how I need to hold myself to a higher standard because I have an obligation to her and my group, and then proceeded to tell me what and to whom I should say things, and my immediate reaction was “Seriously? Go fuck yourself.” 

But then I thought about how responding with that phrase would be such a waste of my talent with words, so I crafted an exquisite response. It wasn’t difficult, I just laid out my boundaries and spoke honestly. I was proud of myself and how I used the English language without cussing. 

Among other things, I told her to use the delete button if she didn’t like it, or leave the group, which she ended up doing, and you know what? It made me really happy. Not because I want to be mean, but because I would feel so put off  whenever she came to one of my events. I dreaded it, because as much as I tried to set boundaries with this person, she would inevitably find another way to try to cross them. And I would feel irritated and frustrated having to deal with her, so it’s a relief.

But as irritating as it was dealing with her, I came to a realization: I need to thank this woman, not be upset with her. Every time I had to interact with her, she was teaching me, giving me examples of what I was willing to put up with and what I wasn’t. It was strengthening my resolve. 

Wait a second… I sound like friggin’ Tony Robbins again, this is bullshit! What’s wrong with me? Listen, thanks for the “lesson” you freaky, annoying lady, but you know what? I’m good. I don’t need to learn that shit from you or anyone. I’m over it. Goodbye. Fuck off.

That’s better.

Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot

I have yellow fever.

No, I’m not into Asians in the sexual sense, unless you count food as porn, then I’m definitely into Asian sex. 

I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been eating a lot of Asian food… almost daily, and not the shitty Chinese take-out either. Wait, I take that back… I did have really shitty Chinese take-out a couple weeks ago but I’m trying to forget the experience. How can you fuck up rice and vegetables? Go to this restaurant, they’ll show you.

I’m seriously loving spicy, spicy food and Asians really know how to blow your fucking taste buds out of your mouth with the spicy: Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Indonesian… all of it.

I think as I’m getting older, I’m losing my sense of taste (especially in men, but let’s not go there). Okay, let’s go there… there’s a very narrow scope of available men who have any sense of quality, integrity and looks, who are in my age group. Plus I live in suburban hell, so the good ones are married and have a bunch of kids, and who the hell wants that? 

Not me.

So I may or may not be seriously compromising my taste in men… I don’t know. I haven’t had a lot of action as far as dating, so I’ll have to get back to you on that one. 

So let’s get back to the deliciousness of spicy Asian food because it’s way better than sex: It’s not as messy and it tastes better… and it’s free…

ahem

No, I do not pay for sex.

Not only do I pay for sex, I watch it on video!

ahem

That’s not what I meant! I meant sex as in food, okay? Let’s not confuse the two. I pay for spicy Asian food (sex) and I watch it being prepared on the internet (porn). See? There’s a difference.

I don’t know if you knew, but there’s a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos out there who make these Asian food videos and there’s a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos who watch them.

Do you know what Mukbang is? (just Google it). It means Monster Eating in Korean and I’m totally obsessed! Whenever I feel like a fat pig, I watch these videos and I don’t feel so badly. 

There are the two Cambodian girls who live in the country and they eat everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. They eat every single part of whatever poor creature they’re preparing. I’m talking feet, innards, beaks… plus insects, reptiles… you name it. It’s gross; it’s truly horrible and disgusting and it’s like watching a train wreck; I can’t take my eyes off it. But it’s their culture, that’s what they eat. They’d probably be disgusted watching an American eat fast food full of sodium and preservatives.

Not me, by the way. I don’t eat that stuff. 

I’m not saying I’m perfect. Okay, I am saying I’m perfect… and better than you, because I’m a vegetarian… almost vegan, if you will. 

Mostly… sort of.

My fridge is full of spicy sauces, spreads, and pickles. Every time I see something that looks good, I’ll buy it. Now, is that strange considering I have the weakest digestive system on the planet? Maybe. But it doesn’t bother me for some reason. You know what bothers me? The fact that I can’t eat chocolate or ice cream without my digestive tract getting revenge. 

There are a lot of things that bother me, come to think of it. I’ll have to get back to you on that though. I’m hungry.

 

 

 

Well Read

I live in the suburbs about 35 miles northwest of Los Angeles. We’re not that hard to find, and if you happen to be a flat-earther it’s even easier: just head north on the 101 freeway and right before you drive off the face of the planet, take a hard right. I go to L.A. a lot, but I avoid certain parts, like Venice Beach, because I eat carbs, exceed the weight limit and am considered fat. 

Okay, I’m not really fat, I’m chubby. I certainly don’t fit into the L.A. stereotype of a woman (or the entire North American continent’s stereotype of a woman): the type who exercises and starves herself to death just to fit into someone else’s ideal of what a woman’s body should look like.

Fat was in the cards for me. I was a fat kid, which was difficult because no one likes fat kids. I got fat-shamed by pretty much everyone: schoolmates, teachers, my parents, and especially the media.

School was difficult also. I hated it because it had nothing to offer me. Kids were mean, teachers were mean, what was the point? The only thing I was learning was to hate myself even more. I didn’t fit into the narrow mindedness of school administrators and teachers; I was a round peg and they were square, rigid, and tried to fit me into their square holes. 

No thanks. 

I ended up dropping out of high school. Yep, I’m a high school drop out. They really should change that phrase though, it makes it seem like I was the failure, when really, it was high school that failed me, so I left. 

In elementary school, I did have this one teacher who, although wasn’t the nicest person, was really into books and reading, and I loved that because I did too; books were my escape. I was a voracious reader, I always had a book with me. I would hole up in my room, safely tucked away from all the heartbreak the world was offering me, my nose inches from the pages that were capturing my attention. 

So this teacher would read to us every day for an hour after our lunch break, which was my absolute favorite part of the school day. I remember her reading us The Hobbit, which would not necessarily be one of my preferences, but she made it magical. Every day I looked forward to resting my head on my desk, closing my eyes, and listening to her bring Tolkien’s characters to life. 

One day, she thought it would be a good idea to have her students learn speaking skills by reading aloud from a book in front of the class, like she did, which would be a good idea if you weren’t a fat introvert like I was. She brought in a big pile of books and told us she would go through a stack, call out the title of the book, and when you heard one you liked, to raise your hand and she’d hand you the book to read.

Well, the way my mind worked, there was always a delay in processing any information I would receive, so it would take me a moment to capture it, process it, and then respond. The teacher called out this one book that sounded really good to me, but because of my mind’s delay process, it took me a moment before I excitedly raised my hand. 

By that point, she has already moved on to the next title, which ironically, was called The Fat Cat… and can you get where I’m going with this? As the title suddenly registered with me, the enthusiastic hand that was suspended above my head slowly sank, and any joy I had about the task completely drained out of me. 

I sat there frozen.

My teacher, the one I counted on to guide and educate me, asked out loud, in front of the entire class, “Do you want to read The Fat Cat?” To say she was insensitive is like saying Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump have bad manners. 

You could hear a pin drop. The entire class was staring at me, waiting in anticipation for my answer, because they knew my life at that moment was over, and they wanted to bear witness.

It was a lose-lose situation: If I said no, I was going to be humiliated because everyone was gonna know I didn’t want to read a book titled The Fat Cat… but if I said yes, I was going to be humiliated because I’d be reading from a book titled The Fat Cat.  

See what I mean?

The pressure was building. I sat there contemplating my fate, and I could sense my teacher’s impatience, so I blurted out a shaky “Yes.” Then I had to get up in front of the entire class and read from this fucking book! I could’ve said no. I could’ve ran out of there crying, hopefully garnering some sympathy in the process, but I didn’t. I stood up, took the book from my teacher’s hand, and proceeded to read it out loud. 

It was a kid’s book, sorta like Dr. Seuss, so every other sentence was talking about the goddamn Fat Cat. I must have said that phrase 20 times, and each time I said it, the class snickered and guffawed. To make matters worse, the boy I secretly had a crush on was sitting in the front row. 

I was inadvertently fat-shaming myself.  

It was one of the toughest days of the school year. But you know what? I finished the book, walked back to my desk with my head held high, pretending I wasn’t humiliated and that it didn’t hurt me to the core to have my fellow classmates laugh in my face, and took my seat with as much pride as I could muster.

I did it, and I survived, and I found out I had a propensity for public speaking. It made me a little stronger, and I believe I made a tiny dent that day, momentarily taking the shame out of the word fat. Not for them… not for my classmates or my teachers or my parents or anyone else that was cruel towards me… but for me. The kids could snicker and point and laugh at me, but they couldn’t take away my my resolve… my bravery and courage.

And to me, that lesson is more valuable than anything that comes out of a school book. 

 

 

 

In a Jam

If you’re a man and you’re confused about us women and how and why we operate the way we do, I can totally understand because I do shit all the time that confuses me.

For instance, I was in the market yesterday during my lunch hour buying some items I didn’t need, to fulfill something that isn’t there. Along with those items, I bought a bag of pretzels, which I did need, because I had an upset stomach, and pretzels always ease my upset stomach. 

But I was debating whether I should buy them or not because this particular market only had large bags of pretzels, not small bags, and they were almost four dollars… for fucking pretzels?! (is what I said to myself), so I almost didn’t get them. But I did.

After I ate a couple, I wished I hadn’t gotten them because they weren’t that good. You’d think you couldn’t screw up a pretzel, but you can. Anyway, as I got back to work, I remembered our office vending machine sells small bags of pretzels and I laughed about it because if I had just waited ‘til I got back to work, I could’ve saved a few bucks. 

I forgot to bring some of those mediocre, expensive pretzels to work with me today, and I was craving some, so I went downstairs to the vending machine and bought a small bag.

It seems I have a problem remembering pretzels. 

Anyway, what’s my point? Well, my point is… I was taking issue with how much the bag of pretzels cost at the market, but I didn’t hesitate to buy some from the vending machine, which are .85 cents for a very small bag, and I could buy two large bags of expensive pretzels for how much I spend weekly on the small ones from the vending machine. So I’m not only buying a large bag of pretzels I don’t even like, I’m spending extra money on the small bags at work; money I could use to just buy a large bag of pretzels I do like* 

You follow?

If you’re a man and you don’t follow, or are perplexed about my reasoning, I just want to say… I fucking get it. I get you, man. 

*This may not be a gender issue. There may be plenty of men out there who would do the same pretzel thing I do, but I can’t be too sure. 

But it doesn’t stop there. I bought some jam jars online because if you can fucking believe it, I’m making more fucking jam because my life sucks right now!!!*

ahem… I’m making more jam. 

*Confused? Read my post from a couple weeks ago.

Yeah, I found this peach tree down the street from my work and this time, I wasn’t stealing the fruit. No, not at all… I was helping myself to the fruit because the branches of this fruit tree were hanging over the wall of the owner’s property and California law states that “Any fruit that is hanging over the wall or fence of the owner’s property is fair game for anyone to take”… or something like that (I’m paraphrasing), so that wouldn’t make me a thief, I’m a… I’m a…

Okay, okay, okay… I stole the fucking peaches!

I’m a fruit thief.

Say that five times quickly.

So I made some peach jam when a few weeks ago it was apricot jam. Where I am going with this anyway?

Oh, yes… I bought more jam jars online, which cost more than the ones I initially bought at the dollar store a few weeks ago. I hesitated buying all of the dollar store jam jars because I didn’t want to spend too much money, so when I made this second batch of fucking delicious homemade jam, I needed more jars, and by the time I went back to the dollar store to get them, they were all gone. 

I could’ve saved time and money by just buying all the goddamn dollar store jam jars in the first place. 

Now, one could argue that this is really a money issue, not a “you’reafuckingcrazylady” issue, but I can’t be too sure.

Want some jam?

Bang!

Independence Day, a.k.a. Fourth of July.

Meh.

I dunno know… I’m just not that into it; call me un-American. No really, call me un-American because I’m not a natural born citizen of this country, I was born in Italy. Not that I don’t love it here… sort of. 

Listen, I’m not a fan of Italy’s politics either, but at least they’re honest about how corrupt they are. Plus, they elected a porn star to parliament in the eighties… how bad could it be?  

So, a couple things: 

The Declaration of Independence wasn’t actually signed until August 2, 1776. I have no idea why we celebrate our supposed independence on July 4th… and I don’t care.

Francis Scott Key wrote the Star Spangled Banner while sitting in Chesapeake Bay after the Brits bombed the shit out of Fort McHenry. When he awoke the next morning, he saw an American flag waving in the dawn and was inspired. He promptly pulled out an envelope and wrote the first initial verse. The poem later became a song, which ironically, is sung to the tune of a British drinking song. Remember that next time you’re singing it with your hand across your heart. 

It’s interesting how few people refer to this day as Independence Day; we call it Fourth of July. Probably not a coincidence.

We don’t actually have independence, do we? I mean, we’re dependent on a lot of things. China, mainly. Maybe in a hundred years we’ll be signing a totally new Declaration of Independence. Unlikely though, since they supply the things we savagely consume, like smartphones and other electronics we can’t seem to disconnect from. Plus we owe them trillions of dollars. 

We’re dependent on oil from the Middle East, too. But hey, wave that flag because it represents our “Independence”… from Britain… two hundred and forty-something years ago. 

I suggest a revolution. I’d start one, but I’m too busy writing this. 

I used to love watching the fireworks; that was the best part about Independence Day, but after 50 or so years of watching them, year after year after year after… you get the idea… they just don’t thrill me anymore. And how can they when Flint, Michigan still doesn’t have clean water after five years and we’re putting innocent children in cages at the border?

The only fireworks I wanna see are the ones going off in my head when I’m with the right guy doing the right things to make a bang, know what I mean? 

At least I’m starting my day out with a bang… just had an earthquake while sitting here writing this.

It must be California’s way of saying “Happy Birthday America.”

In a Pickle

I decided to sell my homemade apricot jam to my neighbors because I’m a great person. 

I happen to make some fucking delicious jam. I’m not a homemaker type in the least; I really can’t stand living in the ‘burbs and talking about this kinda shit, but that’s my life at the moment until I can get a more reliable car and get back to chasing my dreams and being a menace on the highways of Southern California.

Anyway, I got these beautiful apricots from a neighbor down the street. She wasn’t really “down the street”, it was more like three blocks down and one block over… and she didn’t really “give” them to me… it was more like I did her a favor and took some off her hands because her giant apricot tree was overflowing with them and they were falling all over the ground, going to waste.

I always ask her first if I can have some and I intended to ask her this time too, but it was nine o’clock at night by the time I remembered to get some and I didn’t want to bother her. 

Okay, okay, okay… I stole her fucking apricots.

So I made a big batch of delicious jam and put them in these jars that I decorated with an idea I got off Pinterest and Jesus Christ I sound so pathetic. This is not me, people… I don’t log onto Pinterest ever! 

I have way too much time on my hands. See, the thing is, my car is not running well and I’m afraid to drive it too much and I’ve been looking for over two months for another car and I don’t want to get into detail about it… let’s just move on.

You know what? Thank God I am an apricot thief, otherwise my reputation would be fucked.

So I packed up these pretty little jars of jam in a cute basket like the friggin’ moron I’ve become and walked door to door in my neighborhood to sell them. You know, you can learn a lot about your neighbors when you’re trying to sell them something. 

Like, for instance, the woman down the block: when I told her I was selling my delicious jam and would she like to buy a jar? she said “Maybe, how much is it?” and when I told her eight bucks, she acted like I was asking for a thousand. She said that was too expensive, even though she had two BMWs in the driveway of her huge house. Poor thing… couldn’t afford it.

Then there was the guy two doors down and across the street; he’s a builder, and right now, he’s adding onto his house and it’s a major project. It’s annoying as hell because of the noise, the trucks coming and going, and the general nuisance that goes along with building.

I used that to my advantage though… he knows he’s being a big pain in the ass so of course he would buy a jar, and he said apricot happened to be his favorite. Doesn’t matter if he hated apricot jam, he was gonna buy a fucking jar whether he liked it or not.

I sold a couple to his builders, too. 

The mom of the nice family that lives next door to the builder has her dad visiting from Czechoslovakia and I can hardly believe I spelled that correctly, but anyway, he invited me in after saying the rest of the family wasn’t home.

He then proceeded to tell me in broken English how he escaped communist Czech during the Eighties. At least, I think that’s what he was telling me, I could barely understand him. After about fifteen minutes of listening to him talk, I knew exactly how it felt to want to escape. 

The one neighbor at the end of the block, I didn’t even bother going to because it looked like no one was home. I noticed he had one of those statues of a footman on his walkway, you know the kind I’m talking about? They’re called lawn jockeys, and his was a black footman… so I knew right away he was a Southern white dude, and we all know the implications of that: he would never buy apricot jam, Southerners only eat peach jam. Plus, those accents make me want to plug my ears!

Whenever a neighbor said they didn’t have any cash, I told them I accept PayPal and Venmo because I’m persistent and persistence pays off. Plus, I wanted to sell the goddamn jam, which was getting really heavy. 

The good news is I sold every last bit of it and let my neighbors know next month, it’ll be plum jam. 

I’ll be sticking needles in my eyes if I’m still making jam next month. 

 

Show Off

I was watching some of America’s Got Talent yesterday. 

I don’t have a television, got rid of it years ago, which was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, along with getting divorced, quitting smoking, and forming the letters F U C K in my mouth to make a special sound whenever the need calls for.

I was watching it on YouTube, which is great because you don’t get as many commercials and you don’t have to watch all the riffraff between acts. It’s the acts that I’m most interested in because they’re fascinating! They all have back stories that pull at your heartstrings, which is all part of how the show manipulates you.

So this one kid, about nine years old, comes out with a violin, and he’s understandably a little nervous. The panel of judges start asking a few questions and it turns out, he developed leukemia when he was four years old, and was bullied in school when he lost all his hair. He felt ostracized and took up the violin so he would be known as the boy who plays violin, not the boy who has cancer.

*sigh*

At this point, a large lump developed in my throat and I knew what was coming. So he starts playing his violin and he’s really good. Plus, he’s wearing these really cool shoes that lit up. After he finished, he got a standing ovation. When the crowd settled, the judges asked how he felt, and through tears, he said “I feel proud of myself”.

That was it, the fucking tears started flowing; I just lost it. Here I was, sitting on my bed, watching this show and blubbering like an idiot.

It’s totally relate-able. We’ve all been challenged, have overcome and have been left with a feeling of pride, and that’s what makes you cry, because we all know the feeling.

I watch the show solely for that reason; I know it will make me cry and laugh.

It’s completely contrived, as all “reality” shows are. They know who will be a contestant, what act they’ll do, and how the judges will vote, ahead of time. Everything else, is to elicit emotion from you so you’ll watch year after year and they’ll continue to get viewership, which in turn will get them advertisers so they’ll make millions of dollars. Plus, they’ll get to enslave the contestants with a binding contract to perform, making them even more money.

I know all this, yet I still get caught up in the thrill of it all. That’s the manipulation.

So I’m enabling this multi-million dollar show to enslave performers so I can be emotionally moved and entertained.

Sounds fair.

HAPPEE

I decided to conduct a little social experiment last week.

I work in an office building with a bunch of so-called professionals, and the reason I refer to them that way, is because these “professionals” behave like a bunch of monkeys in the bathroom. Every day, these people leave a mess in there, and as the day wears on, it gets messier and messier: paper towels thrown on the floor, scraps of toilet paper littering the stalls, not flushing the toilet properly, water and hairs all over the sink… you get the idea.

In all fairness, not all of them are fucking monkeys, just some of them.

Countless times I’ve witnessed someone coming out of a stall, running their hands under the water for a few seconds, not using any soap, taking a bunch of paper towels they don’t need to wipe their filthy hands, and throwing them in the trash bin, but since it’s overflowing, they fall onto the floor instead and the person leaves them there with impunity. No one thinks to pick them up and dispose of them either. I don’t even want to think about what goes on in the men’s room *shudder*

Like I said, monkeys

Just remember all this next time you go to shake someone’s hand.

People refuse to just push the towels down into the trash bin to make more room because they don’t want to touch ‘em. God forbid they use the same hands they just wiped themselves with and didn’t wash with soap to do that! I use my foot to do it because I don’t want to touch those towels, for good reason.

Anyway, I was beginning to resent these fucking monkeys, and I didn’t want to harbor those negative thoughts and feelings about my fellow womankind. No, really.

So an idea popped into my head:

Flowers.

I would get a bouquet of flowers and put them in the bathroom to make it nice, and then watch to see what happens; see if the behavior of these women changed.

I quickly forgot about it, but later that day as I was walking through the park, low and behold, there on the park bench, was a small bunch of carnations… just laying there. No one was around and they looked like they needed water, so I picked them up and continued on my walk and would you believe… in another fifty yards or so I came across another bunch?

This continued five more times and by the end of my walk, I had a big bouquet of beautiful flowers. I knew immediately what I was going to do with them too; put them in a vase and keep them in my kitchen!

What, you thought I was going to put them in the bathroom at work?

Well, I thought about it since that was my first intention, but I gotta tell ya, it was hard because these flowers smelled divine and I kept imagining how great it would be to come home every day to the scent of them. But I knew that my first intention, which was to bring them to work in one of my pretty vases and put them in the bathroom for everyone to enjoy, was the right thing to do… so that’s exactly what I did… after some back and forth, arguing with myself about why I should keep them instead.

No one said I was perfect.

The next morning, I put this lovely bouquet of flowers in the bathroom at work and went about my day. After about an hour or so, I had to go pee, and… excuse me? Well, how else am I supposed to refer to it, that I needed to go tinkle? I’m not five years old! Let’s call a spade a spade, I had to pee. Can I get back to my story now?

So I went to the bathroom and someone had put a sticky note on the mirror next to the flowers saying thank you so much to the person for bringing them in. No only that, the ENTIRE day, there was not one single towel or toilet paper scrap discarded on the floor, the sink was kept relatively clean, and as far as people washing their hands properly, I have no fucking idea.

It was fantastic and I was so happy that these flowers brought everyone joy and that this experiment worked in my favor! That is, until I came in the next day and the flowers were gone. Some fucking asshole stole them, along with my vase!

That was the second part of the experiment.

 

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