Shorty

Today the Internet's been full of weird things. Like this Buzz business that appeared in our Gmail and that I (and some of you) have been abusing like crazy little demons of mischief.

I also read about Michael Jackson’s autopsy results. They were way less interested in his cause of death (insomnia medication overdose) than they were in the fact he had a tattoo to cover his receding hairline, his nose tip was held on with a band-aid and he was gaunt and pale. Which...I mean, I don't know about you, but I was floored. Michael Jackson did weird shit? Really? And a dead dude's gaunt and pale? Since when?

And allegedly Billie Jean was not his lover.

Then I read this thing about that slimy assloaf, John Mayer, who I think looks like a cross between the ice truck killer from “Dexter” and old Skeletor, Marc Anthony. He was spouting off through his twisted little racoon face about how amazing Jessica Simpson was in bed. Which surprised me because previously, I’d always envisioned sex with Jessica Simpson to be like lying on top of a cold, scaly, dead fish while she farts, stares at the ceiling and asks questions like, “Is Germany like…really full of germs?”

Honestly, I’m joking. I’ve really never, ever thought about sex with Jessica Simpson till right now. And if it helps, yes, I feel violated.

So that’s how I procrastinated today away. Reading titillating details about celebrities and feeling superior while trying to figure out how I could get a whole Creme Egg in my mouth at once.

You’re welcome.

Weekend Shenanigans Or Lack Thereof

Monday, yay!

I jest.

I seem to have done a thing to my neck. Last night I couldn’t turn my head more than a few degrees in either direction without looking like I might be attempting some eighties’ robotic dance and every time I rolled onto my left side in the night I emitted a yelp that sounded like I’d accidentally bloated up to about 600lbs then decided to sit on a puppy. It was most disconcerting.

I blame the weather. It snowed all weekend long meaning I frowned more than usual and all that extra upper body muscle contorting meant I cricked things that shouldn’t be cricked. That and the fact I went to the movies twice this weekend and had to sit still for two hours straight both days, didn’t help at all.

Incidentally, one of the movies I saw was “The Road”. I didn’t go into it expecting to be rolling in the aisles holding my sides (unless an unexpected bout of appendicitis reared its ugly head) but really. Is there any more depressing movie in the history of movies? I have a feeling if you watched “The Road”and maybe “Schindler’s List” in a row, one grey Sunday afternoon, you’d consider sticking your whole head in the blender. I mean, I liked it and everything. I just wanted to drink an entire bottle of tequila after it.

The other movie was “Up In The Air” which a lot of people didn’t like, calling it boring and slow. Me though, I loved it. It’s my speed, because you know…I’m boring and slow myself. Especially in the mornings. Jesus Christ. I make no sense at all. I’m like Nicolas Cage trying to play a physics professor.

Anyway, I think George Clooney is fast becoming my favourite actor. I mean this sincerely. I don’t find him attractive practically at all, so saying “George Clooney might be my favourite actor” is frustrating because people assume you’re just hot for the guy like every other woman on Earth seems to be. And well…I’m not. But I think he’s a good actor. I like most of his movies. I like his characters even though they’re often pretty much the same character. I can’t think of anyone else I find as watchable yet don’t want to do sexy things with. I can’t explain it really.

Plus the movie just spoke to me. I identified with it a lot, since I’m so fond of being on the move, of limiting my ties. I liked that they didn’t cop out and give it a standard happy ending, making me hate it. It was real. It didn’t preach. I like that. Well done, Jason Reitman. Sorry that tripe “Avatar” is probably going to overshadow you at the Oscars.

And no, I did not watch the Superbowl. I couldn't even tell you who was IN the Superbowl let alone who won, that's how much I care. I wouldn't care about the Superbowl even if it was sitting on my head singing sea shanties.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have stuff to do before I get yelled at.

Fragmented

Today’s an exciting day. I really don’t want to do anything productive at all. Nothing painty or wordy or any other –y word you can think of. It’s about anticipation!

How will it all end?

I don’t mean the world, I’m not that deep. No, I mean “Lost”. Because tonight sees the beginning of the end - the very last season. Where we might stand a chance of finding out what the bejeezus we’ve been watching for the past six seasons. Where we anticipate another 20 something weeks of scratching our heads going “What. The. Fuck.” and trying to figure out what time zone we’re in and who the shit IS John Locke anyway?

I’m constantly amazed at my love of “Lost”, what with my severe hatred for network TV shows in general and convoluted ones in particular. “Lost” is preposterous. It is. You know it and I know it. But it’s preposterous in the most brilliant, thought provoking and exciting ways imaginable. There’s never been a show like it and there never will again. It’s the adventure show to end all adventure shows.

In other news, if you’re bored and you want a fun online pastime, I have just the thing for you. Just go on to YouTube, pull up a Taylor Swift video and say something mean about it. The comments of utter indignity you get in response will amuse you for hours.

I’ve been thinking a bit about Taylor Swift the past few days since everyone’s been going on about her woeful Grammy performance. I don’t know much about her or her music so I pulled some up to check it out so I knew what the hell everyone was talking about and I think I’ve sussed the whole Swift phenomenon. Her record label obviously thought, “This girl is a package deal. She’s a little bit of everything. She plays guitar, she writes some of her own cute little songs, she’s pretty, she’s fresh faced wholesome American, she’s super marketable, she pronounces words all country like, she’s young as fuck, therefore, it really doesn’t matter too much that she can’t actually sing”.

Because I know that sounds mean right – after all how many Grammy’s do I have? None. I know, fuck you Veg. But have you actually listened to her sing? It’s not great. I mean on record she’s passable, but let’s be honest – these days you could put a chimp in front of a mike and produce a great song with all the gadgetry that exists for vocal enhancement. Live though, you can’t hide behind gimmicks. Her voice might fly in an indie garage band or a karaoke club or something but big time country singers have voices. Big, huge, rednecky, sassy voices. She does not. At all. I’m baffled at her success. She seems like a nice enough girl. I don’t mind her. She seems good natured and perky and her songs are annoyingly catchy. But singing? Not her forte. There I said it. I should’ve pointed that all out on YouTube and gotten a response from some goddamn 14 year old professor of music, like:

‘U R h8r bitch can U sing no. Taylr is awsum h8r U no nuthin’

I guess if none of your fans can even spell out a whole word, they’re not going to give two shits if your singing’s a little substandard, right?

YouTube comments are my favourite thing ever. It’s like a special club where security frisk you at the door, only in the case of YouTube it’s to make sure your IQ is less than that of a cabbage, you have anger issues and that you can’t tell the difference between a computer keyboard and the text pad on your phone.

Good times.

I Give Up

You can all stop asking me now why I haven’t mentioned my Bloggies nomination thing. I’ll tell you why I haven’t. Firstly, I’m not really into the vote trolling thing as I’m shy and I get all bashful and start blushing and hiding behind stuff and itching really badly in my moist areas, and secondly, I didn’t know about it till recently, when Buffy told me she’d voted for me. And I was all delighted even though I had no idea what she was talking about. I just thought she was high, you know?

So basically I didn't really know, because sometimes – and don’t faint here or anything – but sometimes, I’m a little late to the party. And I’m usually a beer short of a six-pack.

Then other people kept emailing me or commenting that they’d voted for me too. And because I wasn’t born yesterday I thought, “What the hell IS this Bloggies thing anyway?” as I’ve been blogging for years and I’d never even heard of it. If it’s not cake or about ways to acquire cake, it’s not really on my radar.

Then I forgot all about it again because I have the attention span of a piece of toast. Until Mr. London Street congratulated me on making the finalists last week sometime. And I thought, “WTF, I’m a finalist at something?”

Because let’s be honest here, I’m usually only ever a finalist in police line-ups.

I’m totally kidding. I’m not a criminal.

You’re not a criminal till you’ve been caught.

Tonight the lovely Miss BeckEye demanded to know why I hadn’t been pimping myself out for votes and I thought, “Hot damn, maybe I need to look into this Bloggies business in case it’s important or something. Maybe it’s expected of you and if you don’t do it you’re a substandard human being?”

So here I am. Asking you to go on over there if you feel like it and maybe vote for me for “Best Canadian Blog” which is my category. I just checked their site for the first time tonight and it seems voting ends on Sunday. I don’t mind if you vote for someone else, I’m totally fine with that. I’m completely secure in my Blog skin, whether you all appreciate my fabulosity or not. I will not have a giant purple-faced tantrum or threaten to kill you or hold your babies ransom or send you poop in the mail or tap your phone if you don't do it.

I might tap your ass though. It’s a fine ass. Don't worry, I'm not hiding in that tree outside your bedroom with my binoculars. Not till the ankle bracelet comes off anyway.

Anyway, I’d like to thank all you people who inexplicably did vote for me to get me this far. Whoever you are, thank you. And say hi or something. And I’ll sew all your lovely photos onto my favourite pyjamas so I can be near you even while I sleep.

Did that just cross the borderline into Creepyville? Well that’s what I’m all about, baby.

I’m going there now to see if any of my peeps are nominated for anything so I can vote the fuck out of that category for you. (I should clarify I mean the Bloggies, not Creepyville, I'm already there.)

You guys…

The Meaning of Life

You know what I haven’t done in a while?  That’s right, a meme!  I can virtually hear the crackles of excitement rippling around the Interwebs in anticipation. 
Or was that you all logging out?  You fuckers.

Anyway, the delightfully perky miss Cora - I don’t know how she maintains her perk really as I am a bubbling pit of growls before about 2pm and she’s all sweetness and light because she’s flying high on the fumes of love and crystal meth (or something) – tagged me to do this meme where I have to list seven traits about myself that are evident in my blog.   I’m still trying to decide what that even means, but you know me – not knowing anything worth a damn on a subject never stopped me from actually doing it.  As if!

So here you have it.  Seven blog traits about me.

1)  Well let’s address the elephant in the room shall we?  I like to swear.  I like to swear a goddamn lot.  Some of you will remember that a while back I tried to cut back on the swearing.  I tried to save those special words for special occasions where they would be effective and cutting and have just the right amount of spice.  That worked for oh….five days or so before I thought, “Fuck this shit!” and decided that in my life, swearing was a necessary decoy to me killing things and the world should just thank me for it.

2)  I am a touch paranoid.  I think the whole insect world is out to get me by either infiltrating my food or plotting to stage a coup by entering my body through my ass.   I admit it, I’m a freak. 

3)  I’m fairly creative.  Mainly when it comes to describing things “that mosquito was the size of a fucking dinosaur!” ( actual: that mosquito was maybe the diameter of a dime but it was really quite frightening and I have to justify me running around flailing my arms like a windmill) but also physically.  For example, I post my paintings because I am insecure and need validation and confirmation that I am the greatest human who ever lived.

4)  I’m a bit grouchy if it’s before noon.  I don’t feel I have to defend this, it’s merely that I am normal while people who are full of joy in the mornings are on drugs.  Just say no, kids.  This is also why, if you say something nice to me before noon I might reply, "Go die in a fire."

5)  I’m an insomniac.  That’s why I’m constantly posting entries at 4 am and leaving people comments at ungodly hours, that make no sense.  Some may argue that comments I leave at 3 in the afternoon make equally little sense, but to that I say, “screw you, hippie”.

6)  I have an unnatural devotion to pie charts and flow charts.  To be fair though, I’ve done fairly few lately.  I used to be all about the charts.   Then I hit rock bottom and did a Venn Diagram one time and everything just fell apart after that.  I’ve been through chart rehab and it won’t happen again.

7)  I might be just a tiny smidgeon sarcastic.  Someone said I was anyway, I hadn’t even noticed.  I’m pretty sure you’re all sitting there in silence now, too shocked to speak.  But it’s true.  If you go back and read a few entries you might find my well hidden and discreet sarcasm lurking between the lines.  I don’t think it’s obvious or anything, I think I got away with it.  

I’m supposed to now tag a bunch of people to do this but you all know me by now, I’m far too lazy to pick people out so I say you all just do it and knock yourselves out.

I Am (an) Invalid!

I have a big, stinky cold.  I’m really not appreciative of this as I’ve successfully spent months and months deliberately not getting sick and being quite smug about it, then out of the blue there it is, like an uninvited relative on your doorstep with a suitcase that’s just too substantial to be for a weekend visit.

I could feel it moving in yesterday with its scratchy sore throat and its big box of 700 wet sneezes and the fact I couldn’t breathe worth a damn and sure enough, today, there it is, all squatting in my head like douchebag Jared Leto in an eyeliner store.
 
I actually got up at 4am this morning to wish a ginormous happy birthday to the fucktastic miss Buffy at Hip Hop Hippie.  I’m that dedicated to you people feeling cherished. May your big day be filled with nachos and liquor and being awesome, Buffster.
 
OK, maybe I didn’t get up at 4am just for the birthday thing, let’s say maybe I also was cranky and annoyed because I hadn’t managed a single breath through my nose since about midnight and I was sick of it, so I thought, “Eff this noise, I want orange juice.” and I got up, put on a horribly ugly but soft and comforting big GAP cardigan thing over my pjs, (seriously, who buys stupid GAP knitwear, it goes all knubbly and nasty after one wash, then shrinks to the size of a Barbie outfit?) grabbed a giant glass – a bucket really – of Tropicana from the fridge and went and sat at the computer for four hours, while I drank OJ like it was going out of style.

Something to note for the future:  Don’t drink three giant buckets of OJ on an empty stomach, even when you think you need to be mainlining vitamin C.  I’ll tell you why.  Your belly will fall out with you.  Your belly will be all, “Hell no.  Hell. To. The. No.” and it will cause a cramp that feels like someone just fired up a curling iron in your gut and then when you go to the boudoir to relieve that cramp (you all know what I mean, everybody poops, boys and girls) you will create a stench like someone left the decaying corpse of Michael Jackson in there.

Did I go too far with the MJ joke?  OJ=OK, MJ=ex-communication?  Cheesus Crust!  Hahaha! 

Why does everything sound like it’s in a tunnel? 

So happy weekend.  Really.  May your weekends be disease free.

Drink to This

I don’t think it’s any secret in these here parts that I like to drink. I like to drink a lot.  And I don’t mean alcohol (although I like to drink that too),  I just mean drinks in general.  Liquids.  Because I dehydrate easily. Even when I was a child I was more thirsty than hungry ever.  When my parents would take us to a local cafe for ice cream, I’d ask for a Coke instead.  In a glass bottle. With icy condensation running down the bottle and a stripy paper straw. You can keep your ice cream and your * milk shakes. I love drinks.  They are so ultimately satisfying.

*Milk shakes are not drinks.  They are melted ice cream.  Ok?  OK.

These days I’m trying to be good where my drink intake is concerned.  My biggest vice is Diet Pepsi. Sure it has no calories and tastes ok but it does have artificial sweeteners that apparently make you insane and deformed and give you a hunch back and a forked tongue and make your belly button close up.  Like a dirty-minded, motor-cycle riding, tobacco spitting boyfriend, I know it’s no good for me, yet it’s so damn tantalizing.  That icy coldness.  The intense aggression of the fizz almost burning in your throat.  I love it.  I am addicted to it.  I would happily drink it until I explode in a giant blast of C02 and happiness and guts. I need my Diet Pepsi, damn it.  For the sake of all humanity and any future peace on Earth.
 
But I have been limiting myself to one small bottle a day.  One small bottle.  It almost hurts me to say it.   The rest of the day I drink water  as I am clearly insane.  Because water doesn’t have a taste or any thrills at all.  And because I am quite inconsolable about drinking it when I could be feeling that chilled, caffeinated bottle of Aspartame drip down my throat like sweet, sweet honey.  Only, you know….fizzier and Pepsier.

I have my one Diet Pepsi with either lunch or dinner.  Whichever I choose, I will fixate on it for hours before.  “Only three more hours till my Diet Pepsi” I mutter under my breath while trying not to twitch in anticipation.

It’s really as sad as it sounds. 

The other day there was no Diet Pepsi in the house but a foreign bottle of Coke Zero on a shelf of its own in the fridge, shunned by vegetables and cheese alike, due to its alien presence.  Even the condiments didn’t want to be around it and those little sluts will hang out with anyone.  So reluctantly I drank it. And it was satisfactory I suppose.  For an inferior beverage.  It was too….Cokey.  I felt like a spy infiltrating foreign waters. But it was ok.  I mean it wasn’t Diet Coke at least. That trashtastic whore. I draw the line at Diet Coke. Diet Coke steals all your money and tries to sell sex tapes of you to the National Enquirer.

And it tastes like ass.

So yes, I’m determined that my water intake needs to be constant and gigantic.  I need to flood my innards with cold, refreshing aqua. Flush out my toxic system and let my skin bathe in the glow of health it contains.  I need to drink so much water I am 99% water and make water-bed noises when I move or else I’ll turn into a reprobate or a serial killer, according to all the health articles I read.

On the alcohol side of the fence, I also have a substantial urge for some icy cold beer and possibly some Malibu.  I love me some Malibu. I know, I know, it’s a lame lady drink but it tastes so good. So good. All coco-nutty and fruity and rummy and delectable.  I want it in a tall glass with ice, a wedge of lime and chilled 7UP.  No substitutions.  No Coke.  I know Malibu and Coke is the norm, but since when am I the norm?  Huh?  Since never that’s when. I dilute all my liquors with 7UP or Sprite.  It’s the only way to be a classy lady like me. Coke mixers are for Plebians and perverts.

Tomorrow, I may have to stop at the liquor store and procure a bottle of Malibu and just put myself out of my misery. 

Yes I did.  I wrote an entire entry about drinks.  Worship my deviance.