Rant: Ass Chappers

Lets talk about things that are chapping my ass today, shall we? What is the deal with people trying to eat out of my plate? That’s rude. That’s unsanitary. That’s just gross and, as Aline found out, it will get you stabbed in the hand with my spork. Do people not get it? I’m fat. I don’t share. I’m a fatty that doesn’t share and will CUT you if you eat out of my plate.

What’s the deal with immigrants crying “You’re discriminating against me because I’m not from the United States and I don’t speak Engligh?” I didn’t turn off your service because you aren’t from here. I didn’t cut off your service because you speak Spanish. I cut off your service because you didn’t pay your flipping bill.

What’s up with the passive aggressive beyotch vibe that people are exhibiting? I miss the old fashioned days when people said what they felt. Don’t be overtly beyotch-y. Be upfront about it. I’d probably like you better and be more inclined to do what you want. News Flash: the silent treatment won’t work on me. I don’t want to hear you talk anyway, so your silence is nirvana for me.

Did my apartment complex *really* think I would renew my lease when I can get a 2 bedroom, 2 bath for $50.00 cheaper than what they’re charging me for a 1 bedroom, 1 bath? The new complex has a volleyball court, a tennis court, 2 pools with jacuzzis, saunas, a gym with flat screen tvs, on site maintenance, and it’s right across the street from my job. Did you honestly think you could compete? No need to tell you how hard I laughed when I got off the phone.

Know what else is chapping my ass? T.V. Let’s start with Lost. I have to wait until next year to find out what the heck happened to my beloved Juliet. I could care less what happens to Izzie or George on Grey’s Anatomy. It’s hard to get invested when you can see the contract negotiations on all the gossip sites. I want to know what happened to Poppy on Gossip Girl because Georgina is the devil and I want to know how she can be Blair’s roommate at NYU when Michelle Trachtenburg is getting her own series on NBC. I’m trying to figure out why I stopped watching Ugly Betty. I’m trying to decide if I want to watch Flash Forward. Now I’m up in arms about if I would want to know the future. Stupid trailers. Why do you have to make me think?

I will be evil and grumpy until next spring when Lost comes back on and I refuse to acknowledge that it will be the last season. If I didn’t have the DVD’s, you would see me on the nightly news. And please, don’t even get me started about the demise of Guiding Light, how many people I will hurt if my TnT addiction (that’s Todd and Tea on One Life to Live) doesn’t play out the way I want it to, or how who I want to strangle for killing off Stuart Chandler on All My Children. I refuse to think about the decline of my beloved General Hospital and the ABC executives that I will slaughter if they get rid of Lucky Spencer. Take note, alphabet network execs, if you get rid of my eye candy, there will be an international incident of epic proportions. There won’t just be a disturbance in The Force. I will eat the whole frocking Force for lunch…….

State of the Union: Crabby as Hell
Listening to: Long December by Counting Crows

Edited: June 1st, 2009

Rant: You Get What You Get

The moral of today’s lesson is: don’t take on a project and expect to get thanked for taking on the extra responsibility and people will not appreciate anything you do because they think they can do it better. It’s a fact of life. Oh, but I’m putting the cart ahead of the horse. Let me backtrack.

I volunteer for the Junior League. Yes, how Southern of me. One of the girls is a chronic complainer. She has all these ideas of how to make things better, she thinks she can do everything better, and she comes up with all these plans, yet she complains about having to do the work required to make all her ideas come to fruition. I chaired the Hunger Drive last year and this chick was the #1 Grouser, so this year, I decided to sit back and let her do the work for a change.

She stepped up and I sat back to watch. It only took her two weeks and she saw what I had been dealing with the year before: everyone had an idea of what they wanted to do, but no one wanted to put in the effort or time to make it work. She got stuck working long hours with no one to help her. Everyone had a plethora of excuses for why they couldn’t show up or help out. Her efforts were criticized and picked apart. Then, when she complained about it, she got the same response I did: You signed up for it; Deal with it.

You get what you get. You have to make the best out of what you have to work with. If I was an evil person, I would have done her like she did me: I would have left her to her own devices and let her sink or swim on her own. I would have made fun of her behind her back. I probably would have made veiled references to her ineptitude on MySpace the way she did me and had all my friends join in. Heck, I probably would have made a scathing blog about her and had all of you trash her. If I’d have been a true bitch, I would have made sure that it wasn’t friends only where she could read it and be humiliated.

But I can honestly say that a year does make a difference. This past year has truly changed me. Am I a goody goody froo froo feel good person now? Absolutely not. I have, however, learned to look at things from both sides. I think this experience has taught her to do the same because she apologized to me. She said that she understood why I was so frustrated last year. She told me that she took some of my comments the wrong way (which people are wont to do when they don’t know a person very well) and, instead of seeing that I was asking questions for clarification, saw it as me challenging her.

I think that some of the mothering and understanding that I get from some of you has rubbed off on me (You know who you are as the three of you made my top friends on MySpace). That is the only reason I can think of for why I am waking up at the buttcrack of dawn during Spring Break to help her distribute fliers.

State of the Union: Surprisingly upbeat considering this was supposed to be a rant
Listening to: Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood by Nina Simone

Edited: June 1st, 2009

Rant: Infiltrated

To quote my girl, Amy Winehouse, what kind of fuckery is this? My blog was infiltrated. I know it’s out in the open and everyone in the free world has access to it. That’s never really been a big deal. Most of my friends have read it at some point and some are dying to be a Fool For Love. Everyone knows my blog is therapy. It’s where I go to let loose with the petty, evil thoughts I have, where I go to work out my issues, where I vent so that I don’t f*ck up and say something to my friends or family in anger that I won’t be able to take back. I come to my Bloggy Peeps and you calm me down and say the right thing to keep me from being a lead story on CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, Dateline News, MSNBC or Headline News. Or even worse, to have my life turned into a Lifetime Movie. *shudders*

Today, someone purposefully directed one of my friends to a couple of entries that were written about her when I was mad. The only reason this person would do this is to be malicious and spiteful under the guise of being “a good friend.” What kind of person would intentionally lead their friend to something that would cause them hurt? The person that I wrote about doesn’t read my blog. She knew I had a couple of blogs (okay, so I have more than a couple, but whatevs) but she never read any of them until today when some busybody so-called friend read the entries I wrote and then went back and told her. They didn’t point her to all the *nice* things that were said about her, completely skipped over every single good thing, and led her straight to the stuff that I wrote when I was pissed.

Name one person here that doesn’t realize I don’t mean the majority of the things I say on here? How many fucked up entries do I write about my father? How many times do I talk smack about my mother? How many times do I ream out myself? Does that mean I don’t love my dad when I talk about how controlling he is and what a fucker he acts like sometimes? Does that mean I don’t honor and revere my mother when I talk about how irresponsible and flighty she is? Does anyone on here honestly think I am not my own fan club president, despite all the mess I write about myself? Grab a clue: If I will talk shit about myself, I will talk shit about anybody. Bottom line.

I write when I’m angry, when I’m frustrated, when I’m drunk (hangs her head in shame), when I’m happy, when I’m excited. You name it, I blog about it. Yes, I said some things that weren’t very nice, but *breaking news* IT’S MY FUCKING BLOG. I can write whatever I want, I’m entitled to however I want to feel and I’m entitled to my own opinion. My emotions change as quickly as I discard boys, so you know they don’t last long.

I refuse to make my blog friends only. That’s giving this buttmunch power. I refuse to censor myself for fear of offending someone. If you don’t like it, if you don’t agree with it, DON’T FUCKING READ IT!!!! In case you missed my header, it says, “Untamed, Unfiltered, Unfettered.” In case that’s too many syllables for you, that means I can say whatever the fuck I want to, Dodo. I didn’t ask my friend who told her about it because A) my first notion would be to call them and cuss them out for not learning how to mind their own goddamn business B) my second notion would be to punch them in their face the next time I saw them and C) I was being perfectly honest about how I felt on that particular day at that particular time and I’m not ashamed and I refuse to apologize for telling it like it is on, lest we forget, MY OWN FUCKING BLOG. Oh and D) the ploy only managed to make me and the person in question hash out our differences. Instead of dividing us, which I have to assume was the point, it actually drove us closer together. So, thank you, you passive-aggressive fuckhead, for helping us get back to a good place. Let me know who you are and I’ll return the favor. *daps*

So, in case you are my friend or my enemy and you’re reading this, let it be known that I am going to talk shit about you at some point during my lifetime. ANYTHING I say on my blog, I will be MORE than happy to say to your face because I am not a hypocrite. I will tell you what I said, why I said it, where I was and what I was wearing. In case you didn’t know, nice, sweet me has left the building. I tried really hard to be someone different, someone better, someone nicer, but I have to be me and to quote Gossip Girl,”It’s human nature to be free. No matter how long you try to be good… You can’t keep a bad girl down,”

Did they not get the memo that Slayer really *doesn’t* give two fucks anymore?

State of the Union: Brassed Off
Listening to: Bia Bia by Lil Jon (who contributes to all my “get-crunk” entries)

Edited: February 27th, 2009

Rant: Bitter Beeeeeeyotch

Okay, so I have like twelve rants to write about, but this one is fresh, so here goes. Anyone that has read any of my “dating diaries” entries knows that I have issues with men. We all know that, in a sea of men, I will pick the one psycho, the one stalker, the one perv, the one mama’s boy, the one …well you get me drift. So, for a rare change of pace, I posted something nice, because I actually had something nice to say. There’s nothing wrong with Jonathan. There’s nothing I need to fix, nothing that drives me insane. He’s just chill. Everyone that read my entry has been nice and supportive. My friend, Michelle, well….not so much.

She read the same entry that everyone else read and, instead of being glad that I met someone cool that isn’t off his meds, isn’t an ex felon, isn’t a crackhead, isn’t a wifebeater (need I go on?), she’s full of *dire* warnings about how I shouldn’t trust him, how he obviously has an agenda, and I’m going to get hurt. Ummmm…..*how* did she get any of that out of what I said?

What is it with these bitter bitches that can’t stand to see someone be happy for a change? It’s like they thrive on drama and crazy “Ike and Tina” loco-ness and, if I’m feeling comfortable about a situation, they feel like they have to sabotage it. You all know a bitter bitch. She may be your mother, your sister, a coworker, or one of your girls. If you get roses, it’s because he’s cheating on you and feeling guilty about it. If he takes you out to dinner, it’s because he secretly doesn’t like your cooking. If he doesn’t answer your phone call or text right away, it’s because he’s trysting telephonically with someone else. He can’t be nice for the sake of being nice; there’s always some angle he’s working, something shady he’s done that he’s trying to hide, or (always the first place she goes to) there’s some wife and kids posted up somewhere that you know nothing about.

I love her to death but, sometimes, I want to clock her upside her head. Yes, he could turn out to be this huge perv, or raging alcoholic, a big-time gambler, or a womanizing fuckhead. When you date someone, you always run that risk that the person may not be what you glamatized in your head or who they represented themselves to be. It goes with the territory, but what you can’t do is go around thinking that every person that likes you is trying to play games with you or is trying to be deceitful. Sometimes, you just have to give them the benefit of the doubt.

She said that I was being too trusting and I’m obviously delusional about his intentions. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she had a bunny-boiler woman crush on me. I was ready to write it off and then she told me that I she’ll be there for me when he “fucks me over like every other man on the planet has ever done me.” Maaaan. That was harsh. Guess we know one person that won’t be getting a Christmas present from me, huh?

This is *exactly* why I love my guy friends. You don’t have to deal with crazy crap like this. Seth read the same entry and all he said was, “He does you wrong, I put my foot in his ass,” and that was it.

See, people? That’s a *real* friend.

State of the Union: So over it
Listening to: That Girl is a Cowboy by Garth Brooks

Edited: December 4th, 2008

Rant: Tell Me Something I Didn’t Know

Okay. I like Science. Well, I like it when other people are doing it. I understand that research is a valuable tool that leads to all kinds of discoveries that can better mankind. Some of them are perfectly valid. Others leave me scratching my head. I was reading this article on MSNBC.com about compulsive shoppers, a.k.a. shopaholics. They made people take this test:

The new test includes six statements, for which individuals answer on a 7-point scale from strongly disagree to strongly agree:

* My closet has unopened shopping bags in it.
* Others might consider me a “shopaholic.”
* Much of my life centers around buying things.
* I buy things I don’t need.
* I buy things I did not plan to buy.
* I consider myself an impulse purchaser.

Respondents who score 25 or higher would be considered compulsive buyers.

Who the heck wasted money conducting this survey? Anyone with two brain cells knows the answer to this. I know I’m a shopaholic. I answered strongly agree to each of these. I didn’t need a survey to tell me this.

Could someone please contact the knuckleheads in charge and advise them to cut off stupid studies like this and to start focusing their time, energy, and money to something worthwhile like Alzheimer’s or Cancer research?

State of the Union: In awe at the stupidity of people that are supposed to be intelligent
Listening to: Shut Up and Let Me Go by the Ting Tings

Edited: September 22nd, 2008

Rant: The Cookie Monster Tells It Like It Is

The Cookie Monster has graciously agreed to provide the pictorials today for my rant.

My Mac desktop is almost out of hard disk space. That’s the computer I download all my music that “doesn’t have their papers” to. Now, I need to find some geeky Mac boy to help me.

I’m on a diet. I’m supposed to be eschewing carb and sugar packed goodies in favor of healthy snacks.

I’ve been doing this for about three weeks now. Wanna know where I am in terms of progress?

I left my phone at home yesterday. I had to go home during lunch and get it because I felt bereft because I couldn’t text. Yes, I am a texting crackhead.

Everyone is seriously annoying me today. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I am in a crap mood and your best bet is to leave me alone. People keep calling me and texting me and coming up to me to solve their problems. I am two seconds away from exploding.

I actually watched Sesame Street with my friend’s little girl. Why is the Cookie Monster not allowed to eat cookies? That’s a bunch of crap. He’s the COOKIE monster, people. Grrr.

School starts next week and my tuition is out of this world. I agree with Margaret Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility. Piracy is our only option. At this point, there only seems to be one other option open to me.

I need to hang up all my clothes. No, I still haven’t done it. I have not been looking like my usual fashionista self because I can’t find all my coordinating accessories because they are buried under my clothes. My closet looks like Mt. Vesuvius exploded and left clothes everywhere. Oh well, I have to remind myself that even fashion icons like Heidi can’t look 100% “on” all the time……

State of the Union: In dire need of COOKIES!!!!!

Listening to: When I Grow Up by the Pussy Cat Dolls

Edited: August 26th, 2008

Rant: Now Seating Bitter, Party of One

I’m no doe-eyed twenty year old. My body has taken some beatings by the hands of time. A lot of the pain I have inflicted on myself. I’m not twenty three anymore. I’m not a size two anymore. I’m not a perfect C cup anymore. My belly poufs out. My hair has barely grown back out to my chin. I am built Tonka tough. But dammit, I still look good.

I take pride in the fact that, at 30, I can still pull a twenty year old. I take pride in the fact that I look like a lady at all time. I’m learning how to deal with these melons I call breasts that keep growing and growing. I find it amusing that men like me better now, now that my body is imperfect, now that it isn’t skin and bones, than when I was rail thin and perfectly symmetrical. Like my nana used to say, “Only a dog wants a bone.” It tickles me that, when I deign to go out, younger girls just don’t get how I can get attention, how I don’t have to ask men to buy me drinks or to dance without flashing what my mama gave me. I don’t have to dress like a whore, or show my girls, or dance like I’m coming to the stage. All I do is stand there. I don’t flirt like mad. I don’t make out like a bandit (anymore, anyway) and I don’t promise untold sexual favors.

A friend of mine made some really snide comments about me tonight at the bar and it took every fiber in my being not to tell her off. Fourteen years separate us and I guess she was feeling every one of them today. She’s a very attractive woman. You’d never guess how old she is by looking at her because she ages well. Tonight, however, she was dressed up like a tart: low cut shirt, short, short skirt and hooker high heels. I, on the other hand, was wearing a high-neck shirt, jeans, and low heels with hardly any makeup on. I was repeatedly asked to dance and she sat on the sidelines and she was upset. She made disparaging comments about the size of my breasts, about how I must not be going to the gym because my waistline isn’t getting any smaller, about how I must not be black because I don’t have a ghetto booty. You name it, she commented on it. I held my tongue but in my head I was thinking:

I get why she was angry and I know it had nothing to do with me. She’s getting divorced. Her eldest daughter just had a baby, so now she’s a nana. She’s no longer the one garnering all the attention and it is galling her to no end. Our mutual guy friend was getting upset because, as the night progressed, she was getting bitchier and bitchier I think, in part, because I refused to rise to the bait. I know I’m not a beauty queen. I know I’m not a supermodel. I know that I am plain old ordinary every day me and that’s all I’ll ever be. I don’t walk around like Paris Hilton telling everyone that I’m hawt, because I don’t really think I am. I’m not hot; I’m just me. The difference is, I’m okay with that. I’ll never be a superstar or anything extraordinary and I’m okay with that. I’m content with knowing that I clean up nicely. I have a slew of friends that like me. I have a family that loves me. Most importantly, I like myself. I think that, if she learned how to do that, she would lose that pinched look and crabby demeanor and be more approachable.

You can’t tell someone this, though. It sounds mean and condescending. Women don’t like advice, especially when it comes from someone younger than them. This kind of self-awareness is supposed to come from within. If I had some advice to give, all I could possibly say is:

State of the Union: Fed Up

Listening to: Sexy Can I by Ray J

Edited: August 26th, 2008

Rant: No Best Friends Allowed in Mexico

Brace yourselves, people, because I’m about to rant about my best friend. I love Julie. I love her to death, but I will never go to a foreign country with her again. There are lots of things that I love about Julie, but there are certain personality characteristics that she has that make us incompatible when it comes to going on vacation together. She is one of those people that cannot be left alone. She can’t do anything by herself or be by herself or she goes batshit crazy. She has to be the center of attention and all activities have to be fun for her or else she will make life miserable and she doesn’t care about other people’s feelings or other people’s opinions of her.

We’re Americans. There are all kinds of stereotypes out there about how spoiled we are and how demanding we can be, so I go out of my way to not rise to people’s low expectations. I met this Dutch guy, Jan, when we were at the pool. He was well read, highly intelligent and into world politics. He and I could relate to each other because we were both on vacation with a couple. We started talking about Europe and places we had both had been to, American politics and books that we have read. Julie has never been to Europe, has zero interest in politics and (by her own admission and to my own great shame as a bibliophile) does not read books if they aren’t required for her classes. Basically, she didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation, so she kept trying to steer the conversation to what she wanted to talk about: scuba diving, shopping and clubbing, none of which he was interested in. He would answer her questions or listen to her stories to be polite and then he would go back to our conversation. His friends came over and we all started talking about politics.

Julie was bored and wanted to leave and get something to eat. I told her to order from the server and they would bring it poolside. She orders nachos from the server and asks for salt. (Julie is a *huge* salt fiend and sprinkles mountains of it on her food) The waitress brings the nachos and then tells her that the salt is in a glass container and no glass is allowed poolside. Julie gets pissed off because the server could have brought the container out to her and then took it back in, so she lets the nachos sit there and refuses to eat them and takes great pains to let everyone know that she refuses to eat them and why. I think she’s being ridiculous, the Dutch people think she’s being ridiculous, and we’re rolling our eyes over her head. Five minutes later, the server comes back with salt packets (that she had to go clear to the other side of the hotel to get) and leaves them by the nachos. Julie still refuses to eat them because, according to her, the food is cold now. Keep in mind that we are in Mexico, it’s 90 degrees outside (32 for you, Twisty ) and the food has been sitting in the open sun, so how in the HELL is it cold? She has this pinched look on her face and she looks like a pissed off child and she says, “She should have brought the salt when she brought my food. I want what I want when I want it and I don’t want them now. Call me a bitch, but…” (Okay, all together now…….BITCH!!!)

She then picks up the plate of nachos from the table and stomps over and DUMPS THEM IN THE TRASH. No, I’m not kidding. I am BEYOND mortified by this point. The server walks away looking like she’s about to cry and the Dutch people are looking at her and shaking their heads and I know what they’re thinking: Rude, obnoxious, spoiled Americans. I’m pissed off by this point because Julie is looking like she’s justified in her bitchiness and all she’s doing is propelling the stereotype. I motion the server over, reach in my purse and pull out a fiver and hand it to her. I tell her in Spanish that my friend is being rude and that I apologize on her behalf. I start gathering my things to leave and Julie starts in on me for tipping her, but I ignore her and turn to the Dutchies and said, “Thank you for the conversation today. My friend has obviously had too much sun, so we’re going to go inside where, hopefully, her disposition will improve.”

We were walking through the lobby and she asks me why I’m mad when she is the one that should be upset. I told her that she is a prime example of why people from other countries feel the way they do about Americans. She could have been gracious and accepted the food, or asked someone else if they wanted to eat it, but no, she has to act like a spoiled brat. Everyone was having fun and she had to go and ruin it. She embarrassed me, she made a fool out of herself, and she made everyone around her feel uncomfortable.

This. This is why I am selective about who I go on vacation with. I hate people that act like her and make the rest of us Americans look like Neanderthals with no couth and no manners. There are about 50 instances I can tell about our vacation where she has done something or said something like this or worse. Then, when you try to tell her about herself, she gets defensive and bitchy and tries to turn it around and make it seem as if I’m either a) blowing it out of proportion b) being bitchy myself or c) jealous of her. (This is a whole other entry in itself)

Sod it. Next year, my annual trip to Cancun will be done solo. It’s so much easier that way.

State of the Union: Mortified still
Listening to: Check Yes Juliet by We The Kings

Edited: August 26th, 2008

Rant: OMFG! Can I *Be* Any More Annoyed?

I am irritated at everything right now. My last two finals are this week and I feel just as dumb as I did at the beginning of the semester. I have sat through almost sixteen weeks of Spanish IV and I can speak the same amount of Spanish as I could at the beginning of the semester. That is no bueno, people, let me tell you. I have to get my teeth cleaned tomorrow, then my wisdom teeth taken out next Monday. That’s too many teeth things going on in a short period of time. I can’t decide which boy I want to keep. Both of them have traits I love and, together, they would be the perfect man, but it’s downright greedy to keep both of them, so I have to pick. I hate decisions. I can’t find the coin bra that I want for my next belly dancing costume. I have to move into my new apartment in two months and I wonder if that’s enough time to pack all my crap. I can’t decide whether I want a PSIII or an XBox 360 or if I should stick to my guns and wait for a Wii console. And the true source of this mini tirade? I leave for Cancun in ten days and my damned zebra bikini top is not here yet. Damn you and your slow-ass shipping, Victoria’s Secret! Damn you for being the only company that I know has sturdy material and metal to hold down my girls. I sit at work waiting for the UPS man to show up day after day to no avail. I WANT MY FLIPPING BIKINI TOP, DAMMIT!!!!!!!

Okay, I’m back now. I’m back. *deep breathing*

State of the Union: Aggravated
Listening to: Check Yes Juliet by We The Kings

Edited: August 26th, 2008

Rant: I’ll Show You What Going Postal Is

OMFG. I have had it with the Cuban dillrod that works in the post office by my mum’s house. I order my belly dancing gear from Ebay and it ships from places like Egypt, Turkey, or Hong Kong. They don’t have UPS or DHL (they do, but if you think it’s overpriced here, you can imagine how outrageous it is in a foreign country.) so everything ships through PayPal to the post office. Dillrod is on some power trip and feels compelled to enforce rules that no one else even remotely cares about.

As proof of receipt, the seller requires that you show i.d. Every time I go in there, this dickhead (to quote my friend Twist) gives me shit because the address on my driver’s license doesn’t match the address at my mum’s house. I tell him, time after time, that my PayPal address matches what’s on my credit card and my statements go to my mother’s house. Every time, he acts like it’s a federal offense. This time, I got slick and took my passport, which doesn’t have an address on it. No address, nothing to bitch about, right? Wrong!

He starts giving me hell about how I don’t look like the picture. Excuse the fuck out of me for getting extensions in my hair and losing weight. I was a straight up porker when that picture was taken, but I still look recognizable. I kinda lost it. Keep in mind, we go through this song and dance every time I come to pick up my gear, or approximately six times in the past three months alone. I told him to get my bleep bleep package and to keep his insulting comments about my physical appearance to himself before I report him. He goes off in a huff and returns with my package and tosses it on the counter.

I told him, as I ripped the package open, that I wished there was another way for my items to be sent because I can’t stand dealing with him. I told him that, if he doesn’t want to deal with the general public, then he needs to ask for a transfer to a nice, cushy desk job in an office somewhere because his customer service skills are non-existent. He starts hemming and hawing and I cut him off. I told him that he is acting like an ass over a hip scarf and a coin bra, a flipping coin bra! I then pull the bra out of the packaging and start shaking it at him, saying,” Oh, yeah, national security breach right here! I’m going to destroy the world with my DD coin bra. Oh, yeah, baby!”

The man behind me in line was laughing outright and the lady working behind the counter with him was shaking with laughter, but trying to hide her smile behind her hand. I told him he was more than welcome to attend my performance in May so that he could see my “weapons of mass destruction” in action (and no, perverts, I’m not talking about my boobies). I then scooped up my package and left, head held high and coins jingling.

No one else had better piss me off today or there will be an international incident for sure.

State of the Union: Brassed off
Listening to: Migrate by Mariah Carey

Edited: August 23rd, 2008