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.

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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.

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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.

I just said "wassup" aloud to a pigeon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way.

It’s your life. Do what you want.

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

(probably in that order.)

***

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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Things Ivan shouldn’t Google from work:

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