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.

*

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.

Don't Wear Crusty Sweaters

Don’t pretend for a moment that you’re interesting 100% of the time. At one point or another, you fail at being exciting.

We’ve all been there before.

You’ve found yourself talking to someone, only to realize halfway through your story that not only is the topic fucking stupid, but you really have no point. Even you are bored and you’re the asshole who’s talking. You start clawing desperately to come up with some sort of punch line or some miniscule detail that will relieve the discomfort of the moment… but guess what? You can’t. In that moment, you’ve lulled your conversation buddy into a glazed-over, open-eyed slumber and they’ve probably spent the past five minutes coming up with a way to gracefully bow out of ever having to talk to you again.  

Congratulations! You’re a boring motherfucker.

I’ll give you some credit, though. You realized you were drowning halfway through the conversation and you tried to save yourself with a couple of puns and I offered a faint smile and a half-hearted single-syllable ‘ha’, just so you didn’t feel so alone.

That was awkward, wasn’t it?

You know what’s even more awkward? The people who don’t realize their stories suck. We all know at least one of these people. You know who I’m talking about. They’re those individuals who aren’t able to recognize that they tell stupid fucking stories about stupid fucking things that no one wants to hear about. 

Examples? Don't mind if I do!
 

Listen, I’m happy you have a baby. I’m sure your vagina has recovered miraculously and I’m going to pretend that I haven’t been suffering through graphic mental images of your husband suckling your milky teats during your rigorous hormonal sexcapades. But I don’t need to know the colour of your baby’s poop. I don’t need to know if it farts regularly or the fact that you’re so used to its puke that you just wipe it off and strut around town with your crusty sweaters like it’s a new, trendy style.

It’s not.

Puke is gross.

I don’t care if it came out of a bouncing baby, or a fuzzy bunny. If one is puked on, one changed their clothes. That’s just the rules.

P.S. Stop talking to me about your baby’s digestive cycle.  (The same thing goes to you crazy fucking pet owners. I’m sure it’s concerning that your dog’s poop is runny and green. But guess what? I’m trying to eat and not picture a leaking dog anus. Go figure.)

Moving on…

“I had the craziest dream last night…” is one of those conversation starters that has two possible reactions.

1) The person is genuinely intrigued, and responds with an enthusiastic “Oh no way! What was it about?”  

OR

2) The person is frantically looking around the room for an out. Not another fucking dream story, they think, as they reluctantly say “Oh?” and accept that they’re going to hear about it whether they want to or not.  

(The only exception to this is if the dreamer states “I had a dream about you last night.”  Everybody wants to hear about a dream that involves them. This is true tenfold if it involves nudity.)

No matter how convoluted the dream may be to hear about, the person describing their dream are likely riveted and excited by this retelling. They feel like they’re digging into their subconscious to expose a world of fuckery and passion that is unknown to their conscious self. You know how I know this? Because I’m one of the asshats that is constantly talking about my dreams. I know you’re probably thinking “What a fucking hypocrite!”, and you know what? You’re absolutely right. I realize that my dreams are not interesting to hear about. If you read the first paragraph of this post, that’s pretty much exactly how I feel every time I recount a dream. I never learn, though, so instead, you’re just going to have to sit there and take it. I’m not going to apologize for boring you. I have, like, 250 dreams a night and someone other than me has to fucking hear about it. Suck it.

(But don’t talk to me about your dreams because that’s just fucking boring.)

I could probably talk about bad conversationalists forever, (Ha! Then that would make me a bad conversationalist! Oh the irony! Wait… is that irony? Fucking Alanis Morissette really fucked with my understanding of that term) but I’m not going to.  

Instead, I’m dying to find out what makes you tick. Do you have any conversational pet peeves? Talk to me people! Just not about poop, or your dreams… but maybe about poop dreams. That sounds pretty funny.

Shut Your Face, Princess.

Ever notice how people talking loudly in a group when you’re alone is just about the most annoying thing since crying plane babies? Ever find yourself gripping your seat to avoid throwing slapbombs and yelling irrational, crude insults that warrant serious suspicion of Tourettes? Ya, me too.

Recently, while riding along on a particularly empty subway car, I sat perched across from a group of 4 to 5 ‘young adults’.  (This is a term I use loosely, since I can’t tell the difference between 16 year olds and 24 year olds anymore. Thanks, hormone-infused-food, you make me pervy even when it feels like it should be legal.) These punks were loud, laughing and having a jolly fucking time and were, therefore, extremely irritating. Everything that came out of their chirpy mouths felt punch-worthy.

What’s that? Your super-new sparkly jacked up phone has all the cool shit your friends are envious of?  Congratulations, asshole.

Your new haircut is tots not what you wanted? OMFG!  How will you go on!?

Your friend’s boyfriend’s cat’s lover’s owner’s cousin is having a party and didn’t invite you? NO FLIPPING WAY. Let’s go burn down his house.

Here’s an idea: instead of talking, you should consider shutting your stupid face.

…

P.S. I am totally one of those annoying twenty-something bitches, except everything I say is a gift. You’re welcome, world.

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.

***

Things Ivan shouldn’t Google from work:

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

Good Ol' Fashioned Throw Down.

I just got back from a 5 day weekend, and seriously, whoever advertises ‘vacations’ as ‘relaxing’ can go fuck themselves.

I need a vacation after my vacation.

But then I’d just be more exhausted.

This is getting complicated.

More tequila, please.

Since my brain is still drunk  turned to mush  on vacation still, I will let my friends help me out.  When I was in Montreal this weekend, I had the liberty of chatting with some pretty fantastic people. Half way through some of these conversations, I had to stop to take note.  

Behold… Great Ways to Start a Conversation:

“Let me start by saying, my sister is certifiably crazy.”

“The last time I blacked out…”

“Hi. Your boobs look amazing.”

“She threw a wine glass, full of wine, at me. Glass included.”

“A minister called me a cunt.”

“Can I just ask… why is Sarah Jessica Parker allowed on TV?”

“Tall women are the giraffes of lesbians.”

“After visiting prisons, I realized they remind me a lot of high school.”

“Drinking is a lot easier if you don’t work.”

For those of you who know think I have a drinking problem, thank blame my friends. They’ll probably challenge you to some cunty, giraffey, prison-like wine battle.    

(But watch out for some of them, because they bite. I have the marks to prove it.)