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.