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!