Back off, I bite.

It’s Monday- which effectively means I’ve spent the day fantasizing about punching a kitten or lighting something on fire.*   Last night, my unconscious self must have thought it would be flippin’ hilarious to play a trick on my it’s-6am-are-you-fucking-serious? self. I found my phone/alarm clock wedged between pillows, which were lodged between the mattress and the wall.   It’s hard enough for me to wake up just enough to hit snooze for thirty minutes when my phone is sitting peacefully on my bedside table. When I have to dig like a motherfucking gopher just to hit snooze, the world had better watch its back.

I learned months ago that public transportation in Toronto at 7:30am is the modern day version of Chinese Water Torture, in that it will test your patience until you find yourself slinging your free Metro newspaper at the face of the nearest son-on-a-bitch that keeps bumping their oversized bag into your hip.  Plus everyone smells like bad breath and unwashed sheets.  Someone needs some Downy, stat.

So, to avoid the inevitability of being arrested for violent misconduct (that’s a thing, right?), I’ve resorted to biking to and from work, where I am free to flip off whoever the hell pisses me off, without having to then stand next to them in a confined tube, filled with rage and discomfort. Biking isn’t without its frustrations, but at least I don’t have to smell anyone’s coffee breath 3 inches from my face. (Unless something goes terribly wrong, but then the coffee breath probs won’t be the main concern at that point… but I digress.)

When I do have to resort to taking the subway during rush hour, I am rapidly transformed into an impatient efficient, don’t-take-no-shit-from-no-one, speed-walking bitch- and the rest of the world suddenly can’t walk in a straight line.  Either I missed one hell of a party last night, or you asshats need to figure out your left and rights before you leave the house.  If your excuse is that you’re still drunk, it’s 7:30am, buddy. We should probably just be friends. I’ll put up with your inability to navigate the subway system, if you’ll supply me with flasks and mints to cover the shame.

Somehow I’m back to talking about drinking.

Perhaps the main problem with the Monday morning commute isn’t (entirely) the cattle that can’t walk, it’s really that I’m wineless and I have a full 5 days to wait before morning drinking will be acceptable once again. And by acceptable, I mean ‘gets you dirty looks from parents with young children in the park.’

*I don’t actually punch kittens. Please don’t send me angry letters about animal cruelty. Kittens are super-awesome-furballs-of-joy.

I don't care if you really are Italian.

I understand that Jersey Shore exists solely for entertainment purposes. I get it. They’re drunk and messy and smell like last week’s dirty laundry. Ha.  I will also admit that I, too, fall victim to its humour from time to time- allowing its greasy, tanned, guido hands to wrap around my brain long enough to make me wonder if really there is going to be a ‘situation.’

But at night, when I am alone, I feel the shame deep inside of me.  Why couldn’t I look away, I wonder. Do I look like that when *I’m* drunk?  I ask myself.

When it boils down to it, I’ve likely exhibited enough Jersey Shore flavour in my time, but it went untelevised, and therefore, it was okay. Only the poor souls in my direct vicinity were subjected to my awesomeness humiliation and that, my friends, is the acceptable kind of trashy.  Sure, I’ve had to send those awkward “Hey, can you take that picture down, my nipple is totally showing” facebook messages, but who hasn’t?

There is no shame in drinking, but there is shame in fake tans and hair bumps- and also, calling yourself anything that starts with “the”. Just don’t do it.  I know your friend thought calling you “the circumstance” was a hilarious idea, but you guys were stoned and that was circumstantially funny. Ha. Just don’t do it.

So, go ahead and punch a chick in the face, throw up glitter, faceplant into a fucking cactus, whatever- but recognize that you’re an embarrassment and buy some Gatorade before you pass out under the front porch- and for the love of god, stay away from video cameras.

*Also, I generally recommend forcing everyone you’re with into the obligatory 8 shots of tequila, just so their lines will be almost as blurry as yours. Bring those judgy motherfuckers down with you.

If they can’t remember either, it’s like it never even happened.

Touch Charles

My friend and I were recently having a conversation. I would tell you what the conversation was about, but I was probably drunk can’t seem recall what could have possibly brought us to the following topic.

Sometimes we stop everything we’re doing to make plastic-surgery-faces at each other.

Coulda been that. Who knows.

Regardless, he enlightened me with a gem of a story, and possibly a very up-and-coming new game in all the school yards. Watch out, hopscotch.

He tells me, “In high school, my friends and I played a game called ‘Touch Charles.’

We often played it during lunch time.

We would squeeze Charles, pinch Charles and twist Charles.

We loved to touch Charles.”

I bet you’re wondering who the shit Charles is?  In fact, you’re likely pitying Charles because who the fuck wants to get pinched and twisted every lunch hour?  If you’re nodding and secretly wishing your name was Charles, that’s your business.

Well, my friends, rest easy, cuz I bet you didn’t guess Charles is actually the skin over my friend’s left abdominal muscle.

True story.  Soak that in.

He later turns to me and says “Damnit, now I can’t stop touching Charles.”

*

Thinking this was the most fantastically strange thing anyone’s told me in awhile, I decide to share this insane hilarious game with a friend of mine.

She laughed a little and then said “Well, I named my cleavage hair Charlotte.”

Moral of this story: I need some new fucking friends. You guys are weird.

P.S. I love you very much.

Accurate.

Thank you, Urban Dictonary, you've explained a lot.
My problem isn't alcohol, it's all the dinosaur in me.  Thank god.


Define  Brittany:
One who was a dinosaur in a previous life. She usually demonstrates her past life through excessive roaring when stressful situations are encountered. .

Roar, bitch.

It's like asking me to smell your fingers.

Have you seen that Downy commercial that gets all these different people to lie on this bed out in a park? They are all “Smell this pillow! Take a big whiff!”

Then Downy goes “we washed these sheets a week ago.” And the people in the commercial are all “Wow, that’s incredible!!!!” 

Stop right there, Downy. If I were one of those people, I’d be all “WHAT THE FUCK BRO! Why did you ask me to put my face against this shit? How many people have rolled their filthy bodies against these sheets? Are these Doritos crumbs?”  
 

Also, why is there a bed in the park?  Do the homeless sleep in it? And is this soap strong enough to cover up the smell of hobos? Cuz I know some select people that might get excited about this.

And if you haven’t seen it… you can see it here… But you’ve been warned:

...Just wash your sheets more often, people. Just because it smells clean doesn't mean it's not covered in your grime and juice. For real. 

I just said "wassup" aloud to a pigeon.

Working in the financial industry isn’t colourful, to say the very least.

Sure, I get to work on accounts for people named Mehboob, and people like to yell at me in French a lot, but I don’t like to brag.

I am, however, lucky enough to have a stalker friend awesome enough to keep me entertained throughout otherwise monotonous days.

She is hilarious and crazy. Together we get to bounce insane offensive disgusting sexual brilliant ideas off of each other.

Since these e-mails brighten my day so much, they may also do the same to yours.

Or you’ll go cross-eyed and get kicked by a mule.

Either way.

It’s your life. Do what you want.

For all of our sakes, I am only posting my favourite lines from some of these e-mails. No one needs to see the banter. Except us. MEMBERS ONLY, BITCHES.

*Please note, names have been changed. Ivan is a girl. Get used to it.             

***

Ivan: The lifestyle choices you just described sound like some sort of epic Monty Python wet dream.

***

Me: I think stapler violence is underrated. Nothing says "get smarter" than a stapler to the head.

***

Ivan: I imagine her as an extremely anxious gerbil. Like, if you don’t feed her enough, she’ll just pee all over your hand.

***

Me: I have a terrible ability to be ladylike in a skirt and end up with my legs apart, flashin’ the world. Leggings just seem safer, and far more effective for avoiding accidental pregnancies. THAT SHIT JUST HAPPENS, YO.

***

Ivan: I miss being able to chew like a normal person. Instead of, you know, drooling all over my badass self. It makes me significantly less badass when it looks like I’m my own retarded cousin.

***

Me: ... I'm not sure what kind of signals I'm sending out, but to me it feels a bit like death/stabby/herpes/anger.
Not necessarily in that order.

(probably in that order.)

***

Ivan: I respect your buttboundaries. A LADY HAS STANDARDS. Unless she pays for a lobster dinner- then all bets are off, biatches.

Me: I only put out for lobster, but first they have to get me to eat it.
Hint: I don't eat lobster.
Hint: I need to start eating lobster :(

***

Ivan: I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO FLY PORTER. Dayum, gurl.
Can you like, steal some plane memorabilia for me? Like a cappuccino machine? Or a flight attendant? I feel like they’d be handy in some sort of crisis. They’d probably know where all the emergency exits are located.
AND I WOULD CALL HIM/HER STEVE. Just because.

Me: I will steal 3 flight attendants.
We'll call all of them Steve and make them wear different coloured boas. The Boas will determine how much we like them. The suckiest one gets yellow. The best one gets purple and the middle one gets a kick in the face, because honestly, if you can't stand out for being good OR bad, you just don't deserve a boa.

***

Me: I take all my dates to all-you-can-eat buffets. I let them go first and then I just eat a salad.
FEEL BADLY ABOUT YOURSELF, BITCH.
:) I'm the best date ever.

***

Things Ivan shouldn’t Google from work:

-          Midgets
-          Mexican midgets
-          Funny Mexican midgets playing dodgeball
-          TIT CUPCAKES

Self-Appointed Watchdog.

My roommate has decided the reason I hate Anne Hathaway’s face is because she has “too much face on her face.” I’m still trying to understand that, but she also managed to find a several Facebook groups dedicated to hating Hathaway’s face.  For that reason alone, I will continue to use Facebook. 

***

I recently saw an old man carrying a small white and red cooler as he crossed the street. He had a wicked hunchback and sported a pretty swag baseball cap. All I could think was That man totally has organs in there.  He seemed pretty chill and really, carrying organs around with you only makes you cooler (especially if you’re badass like Ke$ha and you eat that shit for dinner), but now I really wish I had been able to peak inside. Next time I see someone carrying a red and white cooler, I’m Chuck Norris’ing that shit from them.

On an unrelated note, last night I was watching the news thinking There should be more coverage of unicorns and less coverage of sadness, when all of a sudden this man appeared on the screen, standing in front of a gas station in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. I don’t know what the hell he was talking about, but the caption under his name read “Gas Price Watchdog.” Now wait just a minute. Is that his job title? How does a person become an official watchdog?  How much do you have to watch gas prices to be considered a watchdog?  And more importantly, is he a watchdog in other facets of his life?

We need to be friends.

Good Ol' Fashioned Throw Down.

I just got back from a 5 day weekend, and seriously, whoever advertises ‘vacations’ as ‘relaxing’ can go fuck themselves.

I need a vacation after my vacation.

But then I’d just be more exhausted.

This is getting complicated.

More tequila, please.

Since my brain is still drunk  turned to mush  on vacation still, I will let my friends help me out.  When I was in Montreal this weekend, I had the liberty of chatting with some pretty fantastic people. Half way through some of these conversations, I had to stop to take note.  

Behold… Great Ways to Start a Conversation:

“Let me start by saying, my sister is certifiably crazy.”

“The last time I blacked out…”

“Hi. Your boobs look amazing.”

“She threw a wine glass, full of wine, at me. Glass included.”

“A minister called me a cunt.”

“Can I just ask… why is Sarah Jessica Parker allowed on TV?”

“Tall women are the giraffes of lesbians.”

“After visiting prisons, I realized they remind me a lot of high school.”

“Drinking is a lot easier if you don’t work.”

For those of you who know think I have a drinking problem, thank blame my friends. They’ll probably challenge you to some cunty, giraffey, prison-like wine battle.    

(But watch out for some of them, because they bite. I have the marks to prove it.)