A Lot of People Google Tits and Booty.

Guys! 

If you’re still out there- there’s something I need to tell you.

I’m not dead. 

I also want to assure you that I’m not in a vegetative state where my fingers stopped working and my brain stopped producing funnies.  I still produce funnies. Although there’s nothing funny about being in a vegetative state, so I take that part back.

This is not going as I’d hoped.

Let’s put it this way: I’m balls-deep in life stuff.

I know you don’t want to hear my excuses, but too fucking bad. 

Here they are:

1-     I got a new job. A real job. A job that allows for very little blogging-while-working-but-I’m-not-really-working-but-don’t-tell-my-boss time.  Upside? I make more money and I get to intimidate the fuck out of people…but I’ll admit that I miss you guys. You helped me get through some pretty bleak times and writing this blog at work at home was a fantastic fucking waste of time. 

2-      I am back at school.  Yes. You heard me. School. Yours truly is back on campus, playing flip cup, beer pong and banging all the frat boys from here to Nantucket!*

*I’m not doing any of those things. Being in night school is like going to an Overeater’s Anonymous meeting in a church basement - full of greasy weirdoes and no motherfucking cookies. I’m totally up for a game of flip cup, though, guys. BRING IT. 

3-     I’m in, what some may call, a “serious” relationship.  Despite wanting to throat punch whoever coined the term ‘serious’ when it pertains to relationships, I will embrace the term because this is serious. fucking. business. Love is a whole lot of crazy, guys.  I know this blog isn’t here for me to ramble on about the perfect love of my life, but you know what? She is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so deal with it. I’m talking about it.  I never expected to get so engulfed in someone. ever. But here I am. (Read: I’m too busy having sex and cuddling to write blog posts.)

I promise that I do still creep through your blogs to catch up and giggle. Although I haven’t completely disappeared, to those of you asking Where the FUCK have you been, Skank!? You now have your answer.  

I’m sorry that I cannot tickle your tonsils and diaphragms with my wit and charm like I used to (let me have that), however, I sincerely appreciate all of your encouragement and perversion over the course of this whole blogging experience. 

You guys are the motherfucking tits.



P.S. I also got my driver's license. After 10 years of procrastination. Watch the fuck out, world. Mama's gunna run you over.

If You Need Me, I'll Be Locked in the Bathroom.

I want to talk to you about my relationship with bathrooms.

Before you click away from this page with your nose high, thinking “I don’t need to hear about poop, thankyouverymuch”, let me assure you this post has nothing to do with bodily functions. At least that’s not the plan… I can’t make any guarantees. 

If you’re my sister or my parents, the content of this post will come as no surprise to you. I should mention, however, if you are my parents, please stop reading this blog and pretend you never found it. Your daughter is a sweet, innocent girl who hardly ever calls people motherfuckers. I promise. Probably.

Now back to bathrooms…

I grew up in an old house in Ottawa, with my mom, my dad and my older sister. That’s right, y’all, I’m the baby of the house. I’ll be the first to admit I was a temperamental little bitch of a child, and I had no problem letting people know exactly how I felt. About everything. All the time.  I know it’s pretty hard to imagine me as an outspoken little twat, but try and use your imagination.

When I reflect on my childhood ‘traumas’ two things come to mind. 1) I was very prone to getting the wind knocked out of me. 2) I was very prone to making shit hit the fan and losing my cool.

Let me clarify that the first of those two things is not related to some sort of health problem. I liked to roughhouse. A lot. And more often than not ended up rolling around on the floor, gasping, as my lungs tried to recover from the sudden shock of my body slamming against the ground.  It’s important to note that more often than not, I caused the fall on my own. I think it goes without saying that I was a pretty cool fucking kid.

Now let’s talk about the second item on that list. That’s right, ladies and gents, my childhood is rich in shit-covered ceiling fans*.  Every child deals with stress and anger differently. Some kids throw stuff. Some kids break shit. Some kids punch people. Some kids throw feces. I, however, would lock myself in the bathroom. Every. Fucking. Time.  I didn’t do this in a peaceful manner, I did this in the most bratty, slap-worthy manner possible. The door would need to be slammed at least two solid times, depending on how close the adult was on my trail. Rest assured I would also scream a lot, but only from behind the safe solace of a locked door coupled with a hefty supply of toilet paper to soak up the tears. To this day I can’t scream without crying. If I’m furious, I will weep like a little bitch. It’s just the way I’m wired, and it’s just what’s going to happen if I yell at you. Don’t be fooled by the tears. I will fucking cut you if I have to. But, you know, remorsefully.

*Not literally. Sweet jesus!

I couldn’t tell you how many times I ended up in a screaming fit with the back of the bathroom door. I’m pretty sure if I went to my parent’s basement bathroom, I’d find dents in the wall from my pounding fists/face.  The problem started at a young age. I can recall my babysitter missing an exam because yours truly was a jumbo piece of shit and decided a temper tantrum was more important than a future. Let’s not talk about what that babysitter is doing now.

My personal favourite bathroom incident took place in a hospital. Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, I was a jolly young tot who found a tree full of caterpillars. It was the best fucking day ever. The caterpillars lit up my world. So much so, that I got a plastic bowl and filled it with them. Then I proceeded to run the short block home, yelling bloody murder for my mother’s attention so she could witness my earth-shattering, delightful discovery.

The show and tell didn’t go quite as planned.

I fell. Hard.

I don’t even want to think about the caterpillar genocide that took place that afternoon.

With my mom standing at the edge of the porch, she saw her possibly-mentally-challenged daughter wipe out on the curb with a bowl full of caterpillars. Unluckily for me, there also happened to be broken glass and pebbles present at the scene of the crime. These things ended up in my knee.

Screaming and bleeding, I was rushed to the hospital. Once I finally got to see a doctor, they decided they would not be putting me asleep to remove the clutter from my knee.  What does an injured, traumatized child with a knee full of pebbles and glass do?  Make a b-line for the bathroom of course!  Using my advanced conversational skills, I informed the doctor that I needed to pee. I got up and began to saunter to the handicapped bathroom.  A light bulb in my mom’s head went off and she quickly began to follow me. The woman knew I was heading for the only bathroom I could lock. My injured leg did not hold me back. I got in there and locked the door. SWEET VICTORY.

My stay in that bathroom is a little bit foggy. I may have been losing blood, but I cannot be certain. I can recall a team of people outside of the door, trying to coerce me to come out. If memory serves, I indulged in a can of grape soda and a cookie after they fixed up my knee, so it’s probably safe to assume I was bribed.

Side note: You can no longer bribe me with grape soda and a cookie. Liquor, however, is another story.

Needless to say, locking yourself in a bathroom accomplishes very little, but man can it be a fun time. For years, I could have probably listed all of the ingredients in the shampoo and told you exactly how many bandaids were left in the medicine cabinet, but I don’t mean to brag.  

I’m proud to say that I no longer lock myself in bathrooms. On an unrelated note, I do have to look behind the shower curtain every time I pee. Oh look, a bodily function reference. Like I said, no guarantees.

***

 Did you have any special childhood hideouts when you got in trouble? 

Sex on the Beach! Everybody's Doing It!

The beach is full of whores. 

Found in all shapes and sizes, beach whores are a breed of women who lose all sense of dignity the moment they smell that breeze coming off of the water. Once the sun hits their greasy, orange skin, all bets are off. Except for slut bets. Those are still on. They're always on.

After spending an extended weekend at Wasaga Beach, a place near and dear to my heart, namely for the day drinking, my awareness of this slutnomenon (slut-phenomenon, stay with me folks) skyrocketed.  The most shocking discovery? Age is not a factor in ones whorability on the beach.  I’m 90% sure one of the skanky grannies even had her ladybits cornrowed. Why do I know this? Well, my friends, no one can wear a hot pink mesh thong and expect discretion.

Beach culture perplexes me. Everyone is nearly naked and covered in oil. Women lay straddling their boyfriends on their beach blankets, as if passersby aren’t being forced to imagine them bangers’n’mashing, as children sit nearby indulging in the delicacy of sand pie and lake tea.  You would think watching a bunch of screaming kids eat dirt and pick their wedgies would be enough of a bonerkiller, but it would appear that the beach whores are impermeable to such blatant reminders of their sexual indiscretions. Let’s go bang in the lake, baby! The water is pretty much a condom anyway.

Watching men and women interact in the sand is like watching Animal Planet. My homosexuality allows for objective observations. (It doesn’t really, I just wanted to use the word homosexuality today. It’s just one of those days.) Mating behaviours between men and women are not unlike those between two women. When it boils down to it, we all just really want to get it in. Am I right girls!? … Ok, so maybe some of us are also looking for companionship and other hot topic items I’ve heard T-Swifty sing the living fuck out of, but let’s be real. Generally speaking, when you’re flailing sand around like a drunk walrus with heat rash to get some beefcake’s attention, you ain’t looking for a hubby. You lookin’ for an STI scare.

Despite the overwhelming abundance of cellulite, I’ll keep the discussion of “beach bodies” to a minimum. Much like nude beaches, those who chose to bare all/close to all are rarely ‘sexy’(I realize this is a very big overgeneralization. Suck it.) This is probably going to surprise you, but I’m not going to complain about it. If you’re comfortable flaunting your stretch marks, saggy tits, microballs or thunder thighs, all the power to you. You’re a fucking rockstar and I hope you don’t get skin cancer on your labia. 

Regardless of what you wear or who you do on the beach, the most important thing is to be sure you keep hydrated... (before you start thinking I’m offering a piece of legitimately responsible advice, let me elaborate) with liquor.  If you’re not drunk, you’re not going to appreciate the beach whores or skanky grannies nearly as much as you should. Besides, sand tastes way better after a 26 of vodka and a handful of weed cookies.

Trust.

Pop Quiz! 

What's your favo(u)rite beach moment?  

Me? Oh, you know, stepping on a used syringe is up at the top of my list... right behind getting my foot run over by a car. Ain't no thang. 

----

In the spirit of blog recognition, I have appointed a winner to last post's challenge! 

It was tough because I'm extremely in love with all of you, and your rhyming techniques do not fail to impress. 

The winner of the rap challenge is.... my dear fucking hilarious friend at Cerebral Milkshake!

Her submission: 

You know I fucking suck at rhymes
'Cause I don't do it all the time
Awe, don't throw a fit,
'Cause, chicka-check it, it's Britt
She all up in the boozing and baking
The writing she do is funny making
She lives up north in CanAyDia
And likes to drink Vodka and Gatoradia
Check her rockin' the fu manchu
She be in style when she says "achoo"
Now I gotta stop 'cause I'm laughing hard
'Cause this rhyme proves that Imma fucktard.

THE END.

(She had me at 'fu manchu'.)

Let's Not Talk About Slapping Hoes

I’m going to admit something to you, and you’re going to judge me.  I want you to know that your judgment cannot permeate this tough, rugged exterior. I’m tough as nails, bitches, and you can keep your raised eyebrows and audible sighs to yourself.

Actually, no, wait. Please share them. I’m a sucker for a little abuse. (Ok. Seriously? Two posts in a row that talk about punishment and/or abuse? This is a whole new side to this blog. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m excited.)

Ok, where was I? Oh right.

I love hip-hop.  Seriously. I love it. 

I love how offensive it is; I love that it makes no sense, I love that it makes grown men make silly rhymes and pronounce words like ‘baby’ as ‘babay’ because it’s more badass. I love that grillz exist. 

I love that wearing a Band-Aid on your face can be cool. I love that even in all of my pasty-white glory, I get an obscene amount of joy out of shaking my ass like a poorly-endowed Beyonce while whipping my hair and making milkshakes. (We’ve talked about my dancing before. If you missed it, you can read about it here. I’m available for back up dancing anytime. Inquire inside.)

But my favourite thing about hip-hop is, hands down, the lyrics.

The beats are catchy, they’re hypnotic and they’re distracting.  That last one was the most important. By distracting listeners with make-your-hips-move beats, those motherfuckers can say anything they goddamn want to. They can tell me that they like fluffy pink slippers and sipping earl grey in their mom’s Jacuzzi, and it’ll sound fucking badass if it’s accompanied by a dirty beat and some sexy auto-tuned bitch singing about hundred dollar bills and private jets. And guess what? I’ll eat it all up with a giant fucking spoon because I love it all so much.  

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes the lyrics are hard to miss. They’re in your face like Christina Aguilara’s tits, and sometimes I’m okay with that. (The lyrics, not the tits. Ms. Aguilara needs to put those puppies to bed.)  Geniuses, such as the always-sexy Snoop Dogg, make no apologies for their disgusting, offensive, crude rhymes that make me want to shield old ladies’ ears. 

To say the very least, this dude is not subtle. Here is an excerpt from one of my latest favourite songs.

Disclaimer: It’s fucking poetry.

Can you be my doctor, can you fix me up?

Can you wipe me down, so I can lick you up?

Make you give it up, give it up 'til you say my name

Like a jersey, jersey, shittin' down the game

Make it, make it, make it wet

I wanna get you wet

Tell tell me, baby, are you wet?

I just wanna get you wet

Wet, wet

I can’t be 100% positive, but I’m pretty sure Snoop wants to make someone’s vagina wet.

I might be misreading this and making some pretty lewd assumptions, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Oh, Snoop, you sly dogg, you.

(See what I did there?)

The other great facet of hip-hop lyrics includes what I like to call ‘quick rhymes’. Awesome rappers do it effortlessly. They rhyme itch, bitch, witch, switch, snitch and junkwich* like no one’s business and you can’t even question it because they’re fucking pros.

*Why yes, junkwich is, indeed, short for ‘junk sandwich’. I’m glad you asked.

This song by the ever-talented David Guetta (Feat. Taio Cruz) is a great example of this kind of rhyming brilliance.  I never would have thought to rhyme stackin’ with slappin’. I’ll leave it to the professionals.

She got my heart jumpin'

And my adrenalin pumpin' and gunnin'

Like ain't nobody ever seen (seen seen seen…)

As a matter of fact I've seen this woman all up in my dreams

Whippin' and flippin' and stackin' and slappin'

I'm attacking after she back it up and make it DROP (Drop drop drop…)

I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never seen a woman all up in your dreams whippin’ and flippin’, but now I’m feeling like I’m missing out on some pretty valuable life experiences.  To say the least, this is a new life goal.  Makin’ mama proud, one dream at a time!

I’m 90% sure that some of you are probably closeted rappers. Maybe only when you’re shitfaced, and maybe only when you think no one is home, but regardless, you rap the shit out of a beat and you drop it like it’s hot.

With this in mind, I’d be interested to know if any of you have any real rapping abilities. I’d request a recording and/or video, but I realize that’s probably a lot to ask and none of you love me enough to do such a grand gesture of awesomness. (Why yes, I am using guilt to get you to do something. Is it working?) IF you don’t love me enough for that, but still want to show off some of your skillz, share some of your rhymes below! I will be forever indebted to you for the joy and entertainment it will bring me.

*Disclaimer: If you wish to leave a comment, it doesn’t have to rhyme, but, you know, you’d be a lot cooler if it did rhyme. But it’s your life. These are your choices.

***

Some of you participated in my last post’s word challenge.

I want you to know that each and every one of them made me giggle to myself in public like a drunk schoolgirl.

One in particular took the cake. I’m probably biased because it mentioned boobs.

Join me in giving a round of slaps to Méthodique Boisson of Scientific Facts... I just made up!

The winning submission:

"When I think about side-boob, it penetrates my brain until I want to rub myself so much it almost feels like punishment."

I recommend reading all of the comments, though, because you guys are flippin’ brilliant.

Sexual Chairs and Dumb Faces

I’ve been a very bad blogger.

No, that wasn’t a cue for you to get out your paddle and punish me for being neglectful and lazy. Ok, maybe it was, but you’re all the way over on the other side of the internet, so I’ll have to punish myself.

(Side note: Dear god, ‘punish’ sounds so sexual. Much like the words ‘penetrate’ and ‘rub’. I dare you to use all three in a sentence. GO!)

I’ll admit that summer takes away a lot of my normal ‘free time’ that I spend blogging. (read: I actually get off the couch to go outside when it’s nice outside, so I’m not on the computer all the goddamn day.)  I thank you for putting up with my unreliable blogging behaviour. If you’re ever in my neck of the woods, tequila shots are on me. If you show me your boobs.

It will come as no shock to you to hear that I’ve been steadily shaving years off of my liver.  Toronto Pride happened a couple weekends ago, and I think I heard my insides crying while I made sweet love to the porcelain gods and I prayed for sweet salvation. (In other words, I spent a day throwing up street meat and vodka. It was dreamy. I can tell you’re jealous.)

Lots has happened in my world as of late, and I thought I’d make a little list of important mentionables.  Think of this as our personal little update huddle time. No farting please. (Oh god, did I just make a fart joke? I must be rusty.)

10 Things Worth Mentioning (In No Particular Order)

1)      Technology is not indestructible, despite what you may have heard from Arnold Schwarzenegger. While my Blackberry put up a good fight, it eventually had to accept defeat.  (I dropped my Blackberry off of my balcony on the 24^th floor. Suffice it to say, it did not survive the fall. WHADDUP iPhone.)

2)      Eating almost an entire carrot cake before bed, will make you have crazy dreams about tremendous poops and breakdancing. Not necessarily in that order.

3)      Instagram brings out your inner hipster, even if you don’t want it to. It’s like the STI of apps. You didn’t want to admit you’re a goddamn whore, but the warts are there, slutpup, so embrace it and move along.

4)      I spend a lot of time in the sun, but I’m still really pasty with the exception of my feet. Fact: Tanned feet will bring all the boys to your yard.

5)      If you tell a Starbucks barista that your name is Brittany, there is a high likeliness she will decide you’re better suited to another name.

6)      Channing Tatum has the dumbest face of all the faces.

7)      In related dumb face news: Someone decided that Anne Hathaway could sing and pull off a buzzed head. As far as I’m concerned, it was probably dumb Channing’s face who made that call. Regardless, she shat all over my favourite musical of all time. Seriously guys, the world might be over.  Stay tuned.

8)      Shopping in the USA is ridiculous. All of the allegations of Target’s almighty power were not even remotely hyperbolized. I was so tantalized by the deals I may or may not have purchased a solar-activated waiving Queen. Don’t judge.

9)      Don’t tell your dental hygienist you work in investments. You will have to sit there and hear about her investment decisions and you can’t do a goddamn thing about it because the bitch has her hands so far in your mouth, she may as well be filming it to make a profit.  In related news: investments are boring, but dentist chairs are very sexual. Who knew?

10)  Banana popsicles were sent to earth by the Gods of Mouthgasms.  Now I just need to find a way to add vodka to them. Please provide suggestions below.

I have lots of catching up to do on your wonderful blogs. I hope that you will remain patient with me and my douchebaggery. I promise to be much more reliable in the near future. There is just far too much sangria to be consumed and not nearly enough hours in the day to do so.

A small piece of advice: Vodkarade is your friend. Until it’s not.

CHEERS!

An Open Letter to Hot Sauce

You spicy little bitch, you.

I see the way you sit there on my shelf, taunting me with your red glow, beckoning me to pick you up and cradle you in my arms. I see the way your label warns me that you’re going to burn, and you know what? I don’t even care. I don’t love you in spite of the pain you cause, I love you because of the pain you cause.

You get me. You get inside of me like no one else. (Heh. Gross)

You play on my food like a drunk skank on the dancefloor. By which I mean, you’re messy and I like it.  You get all over my fingers (let’s back away from the skank analogy now) and I’m okay with that, but we have an agreement, remember? Stay the fuck out of my eyes. I know you’ve stuck your spicy self in there before, and we managed to get through it, but times were rough for awhile and I didn’t like not being able to trust you.   Please don’t make me question you again. We have something special.

Together, you and I are invincible. The tasteless, grey world of cheap, shitty food is not of concern to us. We dominate that shit and make it our bitch. When all is said and done, I can bask in the orgasmic burn of my stinging tongue, satisfied by a job well done. You kick me from the inside to remind me you’re still there. Thank you for that. I remember you fondly when you’re gone. (Mostly. I’ll avoid talking about burning poop. For now.)

But you know what, you crazy, firey SOB? There once was a time when you and I were not friends. I’d look right past you in the fridge; I’d turn you down at restaurants. I’d walk by your slender, crimson body as I wondered what was missing from my bland, melancholic pizza. It was you all along. You were the banana to my peanut butter.  I could tell from your demeanor that you had been waiting for me to grab you and envelop your spicy, glorious juices with my eager taste buds. And you know what? I did just that. Oh yes, I fucking did. And you were everything a person could ever want in their mouth. And you still are.

Just stay away from my snatch, k?

XOXOXO

Love,

Britt

Tell me, friends, do you like it hot?

I Like Your Necklace, Can You Cook? (Alt title: Everyone is a Slut)

A little while ago I posted about going through a break-up and all of the shitfuckery fun that that entailed. I got a lot of lovely words from readers (read: lots of useful advice on how to drink my problems away) and it helped a lot (my doctor might disagree).  Now that summer is upon us, it’s become clear to me that I need to push myself to get out there and meet some new motherfuckers.  What’s the best way to meet people? Online dating sites, of course!

I’m mostly just looking for more people to drink vodka slushies with while dodging the cops in shady areas of town… but apparently I’m supposed to play coy and appear like I have my shit together so that I will be elusive enough to draw in attention from unsuspecting girls on the internet.  (When I say ‘unsuspecting girls on the internet’ it really just makes me sound like a predator, doesn’t it? …Ya, that’s what I thought.)

I’m not going to dick you guys around and pretend online dating is a foreign phenomenon to me. I’ve rode that bicycle before… numerous times. I’ve met a lot of people off of the World Wide Web, and for the most part, it’s actually worked out very well (says the single girl.) I’ve made some great friends and my liver has met many highly capable contenders, but let me tell you, it takes patience.  And by patience, I mean balls of steel. Allow me to elaborate.

When you online date, you have to brace yourself to feel like a sack of shit, covered in boogers. In other words: You will take your time writing out a witty, concise message to someone you think you’d get along with, take a deep breath and hit ‘send’, and wait for their response. A day later you will see that they’ve since been online, they’ve looked at your profile and decided that you aren’t worthy of their time.  What the fuck? You complimented them and made it clear you were just looking for a friendly chat, but they’ve decided you’re a hideous beast from the depths of their nightmares and you should go fuck yourself. (Okay, fine, I may be overreacting, but I’m in a vulnerable place, guys, and these bitches be whack.)  Maybe I should consider adding more bling to my profile pics. I hear women like shiny things. (Why yes, I am talking about vajazzling.)

I have only been on the site for about a week and while I’m already pretty fed up with it, I’m trying to stay positive. I have learned, however, to steer clear of it after a bottle or two of wine. Trust me when I say that there is nothing but shame and horror emanating from the computer the following morning when you browse the ‘sent’ folder of your newly pimped-out profile. You probably should have reconsidered messaging that girl to tell her she’s “hot as balls”, or from sending that girl with the boyfriend and kid two ‘e-roses’ alongside an e-card reading “i cuold be yerrrr evreythinging.”

Live and learn, right folks?

The Prevention of Shit Bombs

I’m not homeless, bitches!

We’ve moved into our new apartment and so far, it’s fucking awesome. There is so. much. space.

Keep in mind that my roommate and I had been living in a glorified cardboard box for the past 2 years, so our concept of space has been seriously warped. We had a cubicle-sized living room and our hallway had a kitchen in it. Just the idea of having closets was luxurious. And guess what? We have a lot of fucking closets now.

I’ve danced at least twice to celebrate having a linen closet. Don’t even get me started on the broom closet. (No one said I was cool.)

As with any move, there will be a whole slew of things to get used to in the new building; the most notable adjustment will be the pigeons.  In case you were wondering, spending your Saturday morning hungover, scraping pigeon shit off of a balcony using a very potent bleach concoction is not as sexy as you might think.  In related news: what the fuck are pigeons eating that causes them to shit so fucking much?

It’s clear to us that the previous tenants never used the balcony. They obviously neglected it all together, leaving the pigeons to host whatever kind of shit party/feather plucking rave they desire. (Seriously, there were feathers everywhere… and shards of metal. I’m pretty sure they were building some sort of shit-bomb. We stomped on their dreams. You’re welcome, world.)   Soon, we’ll be putting up a net to keep the diseased beasts away, but for now we’ve decided to spend our time yelling at each one that lands on our balcony. (When I say ‘yelling’, I really mean “yell until you realize they don’t give a shit how much you yell, so you decide to go outside and start flailing your limbs around until they get nervous and move to the edge of the balcony and then you start kicking at them until they move to the balcony one unit over so they’re far enough so you can’t reach them, but close enough to mock you with their douchey cooing.”)

Remember that time my roommate suggested we could take over the world with pigeons? This may be the first step, guys. Stay tuned.

In other apartment news, I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it, but we’ve moved to the 24^th floor. In case you haven’t been paying attention, that’s fucking high up.  I’m pretty much on top of the world when I sleep.  

Being so high up means I have a great vantage point. It’s too bad I retired from my part-time sniper job, because I probably could have gotten a lot of work done from home. (Nothing says ‘dream job’ like snipering (that’s a word) in PJs and a housecoat, am I right, girls!?) Fortunately for me, I’m fully equipped to entertain myself with the second best thing: people watching with binoculars. 

A little back story: 

Before moving to Toronto, I lived alone in a fifth floor apartment in Montreal. While the view was measly in comparison to that of our latest home, it felt incredibly high up after living in a partial basement, and I was very excited by my newly acquired ability to spy on people. The next time he visited, my dad came equipped with binoculars for my disposal. To say the least, those bitches have gotten a lot of action over the years.

Before you say it, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a total creep. I shamelessly watch people and spend a lot of time listening to other people’s conversations. Naturally, people watching/stalking with binoculars from the 24^th floor is exhilarating to me.  With endless amounts of targets in sight, there’s a very real possibility that my sleeping pattern is about to get all sorts of cray cray. Or I’ll get arrested. One of those.

Who knows, maybe I’ll catch a fellow creep binoculating* on me as I binoculate on them.

Yep. How’s that for a sexy sentence to kick off the week? 

You’re welcome.

*Binoculate/binoculating may or may not be real words.

Sweaty Tits and Heavy Boxes

Fact: If you make an awkward joke to your gynecologist when she’s doing her ‘business’, things will get uncomfortable.

Fact: It’s totally worth it.

*

So, it’s hot as balls in Toronto right now.  Walking around with sweaty tits and impending pit stains makes a girl feel pretty sexy, if I say so myself.  Nothing removes panties faster than tit sweat. 

Don’t quote me on that.

(Actually, I changed my mind, please do.)

There are many reasons to curse this heat, but overall it’s pretty awesome. The season of park drinking is upon us and that pretty much means that life is worth living again!  Nothing says vacation like a bottle of wine (vodka?) on a park bench surrounded by a bunch of crazy, strung out junkies. (I’m looking at you, Allan Gardens.)  Seriously though, fuck all y’all and your tropical vacation pictures on Facebook. I’m tired of looking at your stupid face on the stupid white sand beach in your stupid bikini. Befriend a junkie and lie in the sun in your underwear like the rest of us.

*

Since I’ve been bitching and moaning about moving for far too long, I figured it was worth throwing in a little bit of an update/you don’t have a motherfucking choice and you’re going to hear about my move whether you like it or not.

:)

Update 1: Uhaul vans smell like corn.
Update 2: We kicked moving’s ass, and made it our bitch.

All of our shit is now sitting in our (soon to be) apartment with a stranger while I crash at my wonderful friend’s house until Friday.  I am 89% sure that the stranger will not steal/break/pee on my stuff. I probably should have put in a special request for ‘no urine’ when dropping off our shit, but what can I say? I like to live on the edge a little.

So now I’m covered in tiny bruises and a grimy feeling that doesn’t seem to want to go away. If I left the house 2 hours earlier this morning, I probably could have been mistaken as one of the hookers that hang outside of (endearingly nicknamed) Hooker Harvey’s.  (Yes, I did just compare myself to a prostitute.)

Moving out of the apartment was a little bitter sweet. I said my silent goodbyes to Keith and Roberta and thanked them for imposing their presence upon me over the past 2 years.  Without them, I never would have known what a raccoon fetus looks like, or what it sounds like to have something living in your wall, scratching inches away from your head at 5am. 

Sorry, I don’t mean to brag.

In honour of Keith, and leaving him behind, I’ve dug up an old text conversation my good friend Ivan and I had after one of my Keith encounters.

If you don’t want to lower your IQ, you should consider skipping this all together.

Raccoon Conversations

Interpreted and reenacted by Britt & Ivan

Britt: Do u think, when raccoons communicate, they ever talk about -or even have the ability to talk about- things that have occurred in the past? 

Ivan: Like, 'Hey man! Remember that pizza crust from last Thursday? IT TASTED LIKE TITTIES.'

Britt: Yes.

Ivan: ... then no. 

Britt: Example… Keith would be all "Yesterday this crazy fucking woman yelled at me that it was time to get up and told me to get my act together."

Ivan: "I GOT SKOOLED, YO."

Britt: "Oh no way, bro. I got poked by a child carrying a stick. Pretty annoying."
Britt: "Daaaamn dude. That shit’s one of my pet peeves"

Ivan: "You should have seen this pigeon, homie. She was aaaaall up in ma grillz"

Britt: "I hope you fucked that pigeon up. They play their games. Get all risky and fly all close for no reason."

Ivan: "I found me a boob slingshot. Epic, bro"

Britt: "Do you mean a bra? Like, for boobs?"

Ivan: "Dude. Don't ruin this for me."

Britt: "Let's go sling our shit at other animals. I got beef with a squirrel."
Britt: "Also: totally ate blue cheese today by accident. You know that shit makes me allll bloated, gurl."

Ivan: "IMMA CUT THAT BITCH SQUIRREL. She stole my nuts"
Ivan: (Wink)

Britt: Aw hellz nah!

Fin.

Craddle the Whiskey: A Fun New Game!

It’s hump day y’all, so you’d better be humping. And if you’re not humping, you’d better be thinking about humping and cradling a bottle of whiskey between your tits to make yourself feel better for having an inadequate sex life.  

I’m not going to apologize to you guys (I’m an asshole, remember, assholes don’t say sorry), but I am going to give you a heads up that my life is fucking crazeballs right now so my ‘free time’ has been stunted. This means that I’m finding less time to be funny, and more time to be insane. (On an unrelated note, does anyone have any suggestions on how to go about burning down a house without it being retraced to me? Just kidding! (Probably. LOLZ*))

*For those of you new here, I promise I don’t use LOLZ on a regular basis. Maybe.

My roommate and I have (I think) finally narrowed down an apartment to move into. This means that I’m in the throes of moving and all of the glory that comes along with it. (Listen, I know you don’t want to hear about it. Listening to someone talk about moving all the motherfucking time is extremely annoying.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that if you were in my general vicinity for even 2 hours you’d probably try to wrap my telephone chord around my neck and gag me with a stapler. Okay, fine, maybe that’s my fantasy. Whatever. You get what I'm trying to say.)

Stapler gags and office sex jokes aside, I should probably just admit to you that there is no point to this post and you’ve wasted however many minutes it has taken you to get to this point. (2 minutes? … maybe 10 minutes if you’re fucking slow and/or have been cradling aforementioned tit whiskey. I'm hoping for the latter.)

If you need me, I’ll be on the floor in my rubber gloves.  

I Hope You Like the Taste of Slaps

I’m going to be honest with you guys, there is a lot of shit that pisses me off.

You can pretend to be surprised by that statement, but I’ll know you’re just being polite- and quite frankly, if you’re the ‘polite’ type, I’m not sure we’d get along. You should just call me a crazy bitch like the rest of ‘em so we can move forward and develop a normal relationship.  

Good.

What was I saying? Oh right, a lot of shit pisses me off.

I don’t think I’d classify myself as an ‘irrationally angry’ person. Generally speaking, my anger is entirely rational and it spawns from other people’s ignorance and general douchebaggery. If you’re going to parade around like you’re the motherfucking king of Asshole Castle, then chances are I’m going to want to slap you. Really fucking hard.

I decided to make a list.

People I Want to Slap Really Fucking Hard

• People who don't know how to walk

A word to those of you who decide to randomly stop walking to check your phone/pick your ass, if I’m behind you when you stop, you might wake up with a new hole.

• Loud cellphone talkers

Seriously. Shut the fuck up. No body wants to hear about Becky’s questionable decisions and your inability to hold down tequila. You’re just as slutty as Becky and you know it.

• People who let their kids run amuck in public washrooms

Your 4 year old can’t be trusted not to piss on everything. Keep that thing on a leash.

• Girls who relentlessly look at themselves in the reflection of windows they're walking by

 Let me make this easy for you: You look like a bedazzled asshat. With a cameltoe.

• My Landlord

To put it lightly, this man deserves a hot iron to the testicles.

• Guys who are constantly 'adjusting' themselves

Everyone knows you have a penis. Congratulations! Chances are if you need to touch your junk that much, you should probably get that checked out. Or you need to lay off the G-Strings. One of those.

• People who drink light beer

Fuck you. Drink better beer, pussy.

• People who always try to top your story

Listen, I understand that something sort of, kind of, not really at all similar happened to you once, but I don’t want to hear about it and quite frankly, you’re about to learn what my foot tastes like. I hope you’re hungry.

• People who breathe really loudly at the gym

Seriously, broseph, are you giving birth?

• People who wear UGGs

You’re wearing boots named after the abbreviation of the word ‘ugly’. It is no coincidence that they’re motherfucking ugly.  People really will buy anything, won’t they? Maybe I should start a purse line named “VAG”. (You can bet your ass they’d all be made with a soft, pink lining.)

• Elderly people who chew really loudly

Just kidding. I’d never hit an old person. Probably.

• The guy that never toasts my bread correctly at the sandwich place where I get my breakfast

Who the fuck likes burnt toast? Probably your mother. I hope you like the taste of slaps.

*

I know you guys will have some good ones, so let me hear ‘em. What makes you want to shove your fist through someone’s face? (Now there’s a sexy mental image!)

It's 4am, I'm Probably Drunk on Your Porch.

Breakups are fucking stupid.

Sure, it’s nice to have an excuse to be a snotty, puffy-faced, teary disaster for awhile, but overall, I’d say the whole breakup process is pretty fucking douchey.  I’m not going to say that I wanted to use my guitar strings to slit open my wrists while wheezing out the painful, melodic tunes of Melissa Etheridge… but something a little less bloody, butequally as humiliating has most definitely crossed my mind.

For the purpose of this entry, I decided to browse the internet for helpful ‘tips’ on how to get over the person you broke up with. This is going to come as a pretty big shock, but everything I found was fucking stupid.

In my search, I stumbled on this helpful picture:

This image was paired with the motivational message “Let go of your negative emotions!” 

Ummmmm…..

This guy isn’t letting go of anything. He’s giving a thumbs up while holding a shirt that says “Negative Emotions.” If you ask me, it looks more like this giant douchecanoe is excited by his recent acquisition of a shitty t-shirt promoting an even shittier emo band. 

Also: The 90s are over, dudebro. Smiley face t-shirts are out.

...Oh, and this guy is most definitely about to kill those birds. 

Dealing with a break up? Go kill some motherfucking birds!

One particularly helpful article suggested that I call all of my friends and force them to hang out with me. They encouraged calling everyone, including the people I haven’t spoken to in ages. Apparently, if you’re a disgusting, emotional disaster, everyone has to understand because you’re in a ‘time of need’. 

They also suggested I look at all of my old photos to make myself cry like a motherfucking suicidal banshee. 

The article assured me that my friends will still love me, though. I mean, who doesn’t love an anxious, wheezing bag of hysteria showing up at their door at 4 am?  

 

I think I might test out their theory.

WHADDUP former elementary school friends. Shit’s about to get real.

*

As a side note, midway through this article, a helpful advertisement let me know that there are nine magic words that would make my man addicted to me.  (That’s the dream, right?) 

 

While I didn’t actually click on the link, I’m going to guess what those 9 words are:

1-     Anal

2-     Threesome

3-     Boob-job

4-     Blowjob

5-     Anal

6-     Letmemakeyouasandwich

7-     Brazilian

8-     Anal

9-     Idon’twantkids

Listen. I realize that list is hardly fair to men and I’m being rudely presumptuous in thinking this magical list of keywords will keep a man addicted to his woman, but bitch, please. Y’all know you’d be excited if your woman said she’d make you a sammie while you screw her in the pooper.

How sexy was that sentence?

Yep.

Moving along.

I also stumbled on this picture, displaying the utter sadness that one feels when their heart is shattered into a million pieces. 

 

You guys.

This bitch is sad.

She’s so sad she’s using an umbrella when it’s sunny out.

Her sadness is so powerful she can’t even handle the sun.  Except on the bottom half of her face… that part of her face is not so sad.

Oh, and the best thing about this article? It was linked to an even more helpful article called ‘How to Deal with a Broken Rib.”

I’m going to leave the domestic abuse jokes aside.

For now. 

*

It's most definitely time for a drink. Or 12.

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.

 

Get Out of My House! (Oh F*ck, You Live Here, Too)

They’re in your home, they get into your shit, they leave a mess, and they bring you shame. 

Ah yes, roommates.

At one point or another, most of us have found ourselves living in close quarters with a stranger, acquaintance, close friend and/or significant other. For the sake of this post, I’m going to skip over ‘significant others’ all together, because that’s a totally different category of ‘communal living’ and I don’t have the time or energy to delve into that shitstorm of emotional carnage.

(Dear current roomie, I’d like to assure you that this post is not even at all about you.  For those of you unfamiliar with her, you can read this, this or this. Huzzah.)

Where were we?  Oh right, the phenomenon of cohabitation.

Over the years, I’ve had my share of roommates, which inevitably means I’ve had my fair share of ‘interesting’ living conditions.  Why yes, that does mean I spent the better part of 6 months locked in my room, praying not to get stabbed in the face. How did you know?  

As much fun as that was, let’s move right along…

I’ve noticed that living with roommates as a ‘young professional’ is quite different than it was when I was a student.  As a student, I was constantly seeking distractions, eating my weight in late-night snacks and guzzling energy drinks like I imagine Paula Deen guzzles butter.   As a young professional, I drink a lot fewer energy drinks.

I don’t mean to brag about all of my personal growth.

Despite the leaps and bounds I’ve clearly made towards growing into a fully functioning adult, it’s important to note that I still have some pretty big set backs.  Needless to say, living in an enclosed environment with another individual will inevitably bring out some of your pre-existing personal ‘issues’, but it will also help develop some new ones! For example, you may not know it yet, but you might really hate the smell of garlic in your bathroom the morning after your roommate decided to try a new ‘acne fighting remedy’ she learned about at the bar the night before.  Or perhaps you will learn that there is no fouler smell in the world than rotting ‘mixed bean’ salad. The exciting options are endless, really.

While they say you can’t teach old dogs new tricks, I assure you that you can teach people new pet peeves until the day they die.  Keeping with this ‘old dog’ idea, let’s talk about how roommates are sort of like pets.

1)      They shed. 

I am hugely guilty of this, in case you failed to pay attention, I’ve got a shit-ton of curly hair and it makes a habit of forming little spider-like balls that nestle in a corner until they have decided you’re bored and want to scare the fuck out of you.  You’re welcome, roomies! But I’m not alone. You wouldn’t believe how much foreign, long hair I find on my clothes on the regular. It’s alarming at times, but mostly I’ve been trying to figure out a way to capitalize on it. Human hair scarves, anyone?

2)      If you leave food out, they’ll eat it. 

This may not apply to every roommate, but it definitely applies if your roommate is a stoner and/or alcoholic. Personally, when I’m wasted, I feel like I could eat the world, and on some occasions I think I’ve come pretty fucking close…   

You may also wake up in the morning to find food all over the kitchen floor, in a puddle, with the fridge door wide open. But guess what? They also left the front door wide open, so in comparison, what’s a little rotting food?

3)      You might find them sleeping in your bed.  

Again, this probably only applies if your roommate has a heavy drinking problem, but who doesn’t these days? Additionally, you may be fortunate enough to come home to them passed out topless, wrapped up in your sheets like a skanky burrito. Keep your fingers crossed you came home before it turned into a Urine Fiesta on your new duvet.

If you’re really lucky, you may also have to:

- Clean up their puke.

- Stop them from humping guests.

- Strip them down, stand them in the shower and hose them down with hot water to keep them from getting hypothermia after faceplanting in the snow.

I guess I’m just a pretty fucking lucky person.

When it comes down to it, roommates can be a fucking blast, or a motherfucking nightmare, and it’s impossible to know how the cookie will crumble until you’re in the throes of a hot oil fight, holding scissors to their face and threatening to call their parents to rat them out for their growing drug dependency. 

Either way, cheaper rent!

Your Pictures Are Stupid; I Can't Look Away

In today’s day of social media sites, there is one megabeast that has made everyone its bitch. Yes, my friends, I’m talking about Facebook. This ‘social’ media tool has allowed for me to know when my friends are grocery shopping, if they’re still friends with that bitch from high school and how often they poop. While we all have a handful of friends who ‘won’t join Facebook out of principle’, I’ve decoded their reasoning to mean one of the following three things:

1)      “I’m worried I will look like a loser because I don’t have enough friends.”

2)      “I don’t understand social media websites.” 

3)      “I go out on a lot of heavy drug and drinking benders and don’t have the time or energy to untag myself from photos on a regular basis.” 

Whatever the reason may be, let’s just be clear about one thing: If you don’t have Facebook, you’re not getting invited to parties.  If you’re part of reason #3 for not joining Facebook, you’re probably doing yourself and your future rehab bill a favour. Jussayin’.

Like so many of you, I fucking hate Facebook. By this, I mean: I can’t stop fucking checking it.  I hate that I care what you did last night; I don’t know why, but I hate your face; if you post one more political status, I’m fucking deleting you and your pictures of your stupid bachelorette party make me want to stab myself in the shoulder/WHY WASN’T I INVITED!?

Whatever your relationship might be with this mind-numbing site, we all have different categories of people in our friends list. Some of them you care about, and others… well, you find yourself wishing them a firey death on a regular basis. I know what you’re thinking, but unfriending would just be too easy.

I’ve broken these people into 6 categories.

The Significant Other

There are a few things to consider when communicating with your shmoopy on Facebook:

First of all, do you have any shame? No? Then go ahead and post all of your disgusting love-filled messages all over their wall and let us judge you while we eat spicy peanuts in bed.  If you do have shame, keep in mind that with every cheesy message you write, it becomes increasingly challenging to think of you as an equal. (Sidenote: I know 90% of people with smartphones use them while they’re on the toilet. Don’t pretend you don’t. With that in mind, when I see horrifically sappy Facebook posts, I like to think of the author of said post sitting on the john while they profess their love. Take this wisdom with you, folks. Life just got a little brighter.)

Secondly, how many pictures have you posted of you and your poopybear kissing? If there is more than 1, that’s too many and you deserve a good swift chair to the face.

Lastly, if you’re the kind of person that updates your relationship status on Facebook, then please, for the love of god, only change it once you know you’ve broken up and/or started dating someone for realsies.  Keeping with this theme, I’d also like for you to keep your emotional status updates to yourself. I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re quoting some song you heard that touched your inner being; you sound like a whiny twelve year-old and I’ll assume you spend a good portion of your time crying and watching Twilight. Guess what? We’re not friends anymore.

The Good Friends

In a perfect world, my Facebook friends list would be compiled solely of my good, dear friends. These are the people I care about, and they post shit I want to read. I can tease them to their face about the dumb shit they write about, and we can bask together in our shame every weekend when the photos of our latest drinking binge surface. It’s not a perfect world, though, and Sue from accounting is going to add you as a friend, and you can’t do fucking shit about it. This brings me to my next category.

The Coworkers

Way to rain on my fucking parade, colleagues. Now I have to create a whole new limited profile for you, so you can’t know about the sex shows I attend and all of the blow I did last night. When I call in sick on Monday, you’re going to rat me out and I’m going to have to stab you in the bathroom. If you had just minded your own business and kept your friend request to yourself, we wouldn’t be standing here in a puddle of blood, hashing it out Freddy-style.*

*Not exactly an accurate depiction of real life. Dramatics added for color.

The Former Friends

These are probably the people I spend the most time stalking. You know those nights when you end up looking at someone’s wedding photos where you don’t know a single attendee, but you find yourself judging the décor and thinking that these people are fucking lame?  Ya. We’re never getting that time back, guys.

Seriously, though, stalking former friends can result in you missing them, hating them and/or envying them. Sometimes, all three emotions can occur when browsing through a single photo album, and you find yourself lingering over the ‘like’ button and wondering if it would be weird, nice, or creepy to click it. It’s probably creepy, since the album was from 2008, but go ahead a click it. Stir the pot a little. 

The Acquaintances

These are the people you contact once a year because Facebook told you it’s their birthday.  You should probably delete them.

The Family Members

Your relationship with your family will really affect how you perceive this category. If your family members are your BFFs, then la-dee-fucking-da, keep everything public and embrace your Honesty is the Best Policy way of life.  For the rest of us, yet another limited profile is created, double checked, triple checked, and checked again on a regular basis every time Facebook goes and changes their motherfucking privacy settings.

There are, of course, members of my family who have an all-access pass, namely my sister, who probably wishes she didn’t sometimes… but as for the aunts and uncles who saw me play baby Jesus during our reenactment of the nativity scene once upon a Christmas, it’s probably best to keep them at a distance.

I’ve contemplating deleting my Facebook dozens of times, but who are we kidding? That’s the cyber version of social banishment and I’m not ready to become a pariah just yet. When I’m alone with my 14 cats, living an envy-filled life spent observing the trips, parties and excursions of friends-gone-by, I’ll reevaluate. But for now, I’ll continue to judge you from the comfort of my peanut-filled bed.


****

OH! And I thought I should share with you the cookies that I made for my birthday/St. Patrick's day.
I thought of you guys with every polka dot I dropped on those godforsaken clovers. (If you remember... this was supposed to be a baking blog, but I'm far too vulgar.)