Sexier Than a Drunk Chimpanzee

Everyone envies someone, for something, sometimes.

If you pretend for a second that you don’t envy anyone, ever, then I’m going to recommended you get the fuck out of here and go look in a mirror for a few minutes until you can accept that you’re not a real human and your life is probably a pretty big joke.  I’ll wait for you to come back.

….

Back?  Okay good.

Now that you’ve come to terms with all of the people you envy all the fucking time, we can get down to business. While I don’t believe that envying is productive, I do believe it’s inevitable and ‘normal’. And shut the fuck up if you’re thinking of lecturing me on the use of the term ‘normal’. I don’t give a circlejerkingmonkeyfuck if it’s not PC to say “normal”.  I do what I want.

Now that I got that off my chest, let me tell you about some of the things I wish I could do.

Some might say I “dream big.”

I Wish I Could Draw/Paint

I don’t think people with drawing ability appreciate it enough. Sure, I can draw ridiculously awesome pictures of squirrels using MicrosoftPaint, but that took me more time than I’d care to admit, and quite frankly, these basic abilities aren’t enough. If I could draw, I’d draw constantly. I’d sketch everything, all the time, and everyone would fucking love it, OK? I’d drawn to explain myself, I’d draw myself punching the assholes on the subway, and  I’d draw what I’d do to your face if you fucking shush me.  I’d spend a lot of time illustrating my feelings.

For example: If I was hungry (yes, that’s a feeling, shut up), I’d sketch myself eating a giant burrito. I’d be sure to include some helpful arrows, pointing out the different components of the sketch so that people could look at the image and know exactly what the fuck was being shoved in my piehole. I would point out the burrito sauce dripping off my chin and the lone jalapeño that tumbled onto my shirt, celebrating its escape from my angry, chomping teeth.*  Oh, what a glorious life I would live. With my current amateur drawing abilities, there is just no way I could ever successfully draw burrito sauce dripping down my chin without it looking like I’m eating a jizz sandwich.

Damn you incapable, non-artist hands. My dreams=shattered.

*I’d just like to note that if I’m ever eating and a jalapeño falls onto my shirt, I eat the shit out of it. No jalapeño left behind!

I Wish I Could Dive

That’s right guys, dive. I’m talking about the diving that occurs off of a diving board at the end of a (probably) public pool. Easy, you say? Believe me when I say that I’ve tried. Believe me even more when I say that I’ve failed. Relentlessly.

As an adult, I don’t really swim. It’s not a ‘hobby’ or even really something I enjoy doing, but I’ll admit that sometimes I wonder if all of that would change, if only I could dive like a motherfucking mermaid. I’ll tell you this much: I can do that Ariel hair-flip move like no one’s fucking business. 

I Wish I Could Speak Spanish

Everything sounds sexy in Spanish. If I could be a Spanish speaking mermaid diver, I’m pretty sure I could rule the world. With sexiness.

I Wish I Could Punch Christina Aguilera

To my knowledge, I don’t have anyone in particular to be envious of for this one, per say, but I think it should be known that I’d really like to punch her in the face. And in the left boob. Why not the right boob? Because I don’t fucking know. The left one just looks like a giant asshole... Figuratively speaking.  

Watch your back, Christina. And your face. And your boob.

 

I Wish I Could Walk in High Heels

Ever wonder what a drunk chimpanzee looks like in high heels? Well look no further! I’m your girl! (... minus a lot of the body hair and feces slinging. Probably.)

The deceiving thing about heels is that for the first 2 minutes I wear them, I feel like a motherfucking diva.  I walk around like I could school Tyra Banks and my farts are made of glitter. But once those 2 minutes are over, it becomes painfully clear to me that Satan himself made my shoes and has plotted out my downfall in the form of numb toes, burning arches and throbbing ankles.  To the women (and men) strutting your stuff around in your fancy high heeled boots/shoes, I just want you to know that I want to be hate you.  I hope your heel gets stuck in a subway grate, bitch.

While I realize it’s a waste of time to long for the unattainable, sometimes it’s impossible not to. So, if you see me staring at you from across the street, or glaring at you on the subway, it’s probably because I want something you’re wearing, wish I could do something you’re doing, or I hate your fucking face and you need to learn how to shut your mouth before I come and shove my unheeled boot in it.   

Either way, you're going to get slapped. 

Or should I say... De cualquier manera, te vas a una bofetada.

Sexy. 


UPDATE!!!

When I started this blog, I decided to post my updates on Facebook so my friends could find out how truly annoying funny I am. 
BOY, am I glad I did! 
Today, the wonderful Madison Conlin surprised me with my very own portrait. Eating a burrito. 
And from the looks of it, that burrito is motherfucking hilarious. 

My hands aren't that small, that burrito is just MONSTROUS. The way I like 'em.

 

It May be Offensive, but Goddamn Can I Gyrate.

I know I come across as extremely put together and mature, and what you’re about to read could blow your mind, but there are times when I’m pretty ridiculous. When I say ridiculous, I mostly mean silly/awkward/probably offensive to many cultures.

My parents raised me well and taught me how to act appropriately in public. I can usually get by, day to day without committing any sort of major social faux-pas, but when I’m alone, all bets are off. Let me enlighten you with what you might find me doing if my roommate has left me home alone, and I am left to my own devices to entertain myself.  

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that I love to sing. While some people might tell you that I have “talent”, I prefer to take pride in my ability to sing in a wide variety of styles and accents. This is more of a ‘private’ skill- sort of like a little secret I have with myself (and I guess now with all of you, too. Whaddup.) While I don’t have a preference for any particular type of song, I get a lot of joy out of singing songs that the American Idol judges would say “is too big for me.” In other words, songs sung by such divas as Whitney and Mariah.  Often, as I’m singing my throat out to I Will Always Love You, or Alicia’s Fallin’, I realize that singing it ‘normally’ is both boring and stupid. Don’t get me wrong, those bitches can sing, but it’s a bloody fucking yawnfest to sing that shit alone in my room. I only ever last half a verse or so before I get tired of it and decide it needs to be sung differently.

More often than not, my go-to style is a Hindi/Bollywood inspired voice. Coming from a white, Irish-Canadian girl’s mouth, I imagine this is pretty offensive to overhear, but when I’m alone with myself, it isn’t remotely offensive; it’s just plain awesome. Sometimes I’ll convince myself I should get into the Bollywood industry, if they could just overlook my nationality. I mix in some dance moves I’ve seen on late night Hindi TV stations, throw political correctness to the wind and fantasize about the glory days to come. Usually by the time I finish the song, I come to the conclusion that I’m not that good, and switch to a good ol’ country twang. T-Swift has got nothing on me, y’all. I’ve had tears on my guitar since she was sucking on a placenta. (I’ll be the first to admit I’m pretty clueless when it comes to pregnancy. Babies suck on placenta, right? Whatever. T-Swift totally would be the type to suck on one. She’s totally one of ‘those’ girls.)

I don’t mean to hate on Swifty. I think I may have gotten off topic.

You would also find me dancing- probably in my underwear, maybe in the mirror, and most definitely to Hiphop and/or Pop music.  Much like my un-blossomed Bollywood career, I’m also convinced that if I could just get into shape, I could totally be a badass backup dancer to such rockstars as Ke$ha, Beyonce or Britney. (Brit and I would tots be BFFs. We already have the name thing going for us, plus I could learn how to do a sick weave, and we could sit together on mounds of hair, giggling about how much she needs to get her shit together. Brit would confide in me. I just know she would. I’m not sure why she’d be giggling, but goddamnit the bitch will giggle if I tell her to.)  

When I was a kid/pre-teen, I took all sorts of dance lessons, with a focus in Jazz. I don’t know about you, but if someone said “She was jazz dancing”, even after all of the years of classes, I still probably wouldn’t know what that meant. I’d just assume she was throwing some mad Jazz Hands, and leave it at that. Needless to say, that dance style will not be coming in handy when I’m backing up Brit. My one year of Hiphop lessons, however, will definitely pay off. Not only did we learn how to gyrate like no one’s watching, we also learned some pretty sick stripper moves, including the classic “drop to your knees and slap your palms against the floor”, and a sexy “walk like an Egyptian” variation that would have made The Bangles blush.  These moves have become the stepping stone to my budding dance career. (If you can call dancing in the privacy of your room and/or when you’re wasted on the dance floor having a dance-off with a gay man a ‘budding career’.)

While dancing and singing alone can make for hours of entertainment, I’m also a big fan of making faces in the mirror to see how outrageous I can look. Turns out: I can look pretty fucking outrageous.  If I’m alone and I catch myself in the mirror, I’ll smile a little to see how my teeth are looking that day. Once I look at myself mid-smile, I’ll decide that it’s ridiculous that I’m smiling at myself and instead I’ll stretch my mouth as far as possible, throw my head back and make googley eyes at myself. I then think to myself Damn I’m sexy, choke on my saliva, and go about my business. While this mostly only occurs in the privacy of my own home, it has been known to happen in fitting rooms, as well. Sometimes, if I get an image of the sales person walking in on me mid-mouthstretch, all googley-eyed, I’ll start laughing hysterically and have to stop before I choke on my own tongue.

My outrageous faces aren’t limited to this one monstrosity, but it’s a personal fave.

In case you are wondering, I have yet to get caught.

While I do a lot of other ridiculous things when I’m alone, I’m pretty sure nothing can beat when these three things get thrown together in a clusterfuck of crazy.  No song is safe from my Bollywood-style serenades.

Akon? Oh fuck yes.

Neil Young? Duh.

The Beatles? The more the better.

Katy Perry? It’s really the only way to make her songs sound good. 

Like any blossoming rockstar knows, if you can dance while you sing, you’re pretty much set for life. The sexy faces are just an added bonus.

So, in the throes of a Hindi inspired Rolling in the Deep, I’ll get my booty shaking, throw my palms to the ground like I just don’t care, and watch myself in the mirror as my face is contorted and smushed into what can only be described as atrocious and hideous.  

I’m only moments away from stardom. I can feel it.

If I could only get Brit to answer my calls…

Better Than a High-Class Hooker

It's Friday.

If you hadn't already realized that, I'm very glad to have enlightened you. (You should probably lay off the weed, though, because even I can keep track of my days...)
If you had realized that, then you're probably like me and counting down the minutes until you can GTFO of work/school/prison... 

My attention span is pretty much non-existant today, but that doesn't mean I haven't had time to browse ye ol' Craigslist.

Today, I bring you my dream job.
If it weren't across the country, I'd be sending my letter of interest along with a picture proving I can definitely "pretend" eat someone's face.