A Letter to My 13 Year-Old Self

Dear thirteen year-old Britt, 

 

It’s been awhile since I’ve thought of you, but there are some things we should establish, since you’re in the throes of awkwardness and I thought you could maybe use a little light at the end of your pubescent tunnel. (No, that wasn’t a euphemism for vagina.)

Firstly, I’m pleased to announce that you finally figured out how to deal with your hair. I know it seemed like the undefeatable beast for most of your youth, but we pushed through and guess what? Afro Thunder is no longer.  (Don’t ask your present-day girlfriend, though. She’s seen you in the morning and you and I both know that’s when it’s at its finest state of ‘fro.) Oh ya, I guess I should also mention that you’re gay now. I know you wondered a little bit back then, but I can assure you that your five year fixation on Pat Waller was merely a schoolyard crush, and you are, without a doubt, a gaymo. Also, we don’t call people ‘gaymo’ anymore.

Secondly, I would like to congratulate you on growing out of your awkward, crooked, small, yellow teeth. It’s a miracle, really. For awhile there, things were looking pretty bleak for your not-so-pearly whites. I’m 93% sure the tooth fairy took a shining to you after you pulled your own teeth out on a regular basis, allowing her to prosper in her newfound, tooth-filled richness.  She did you a solid and let your teeth grow in nice and straight and not-so yellow. One of these days, I’ll start flossing regularly. Probably.

Remember that time when you got caught skipping school and shoplifting on the same day? That was a fucking awful day, wasn’t it?  You know what was even more awful? The outfit you chose to wear that day. I remember it clearly. You sported crushed velvet pants, that old purple and turquoise puffy jacket with floral lining… and the best possible sweatshirt of all time. Don’t look down in shame. That shit was legendary. I wish I still had that sweatshirt. It was (probably) from Northern Reflections, with little drawings of birds on it. Under each bird was a clever little name for the bird. That shit was pimp. The only thing that would have made it better would have been this vest: 

The security guards didn’t see you coming. In fact, I can even remember one of them saying “You don’t look like the type to shoplift…” That asshole had no idea who he was messing with. That $4.99 lipgloss should have been YOURS.  

The good news? We never got caught stealing stole again. Clean criminal record FTW!

You’ve also successfully avoided breaking any more bones. After the embarrassing stint when you broke your wrist doing a Backstreet Boys dance, you learned your lesson. You still continued to play the trumpet for two or three more years, but eventually learned that the guitar was a lot cooler. Ask any lesbian and they’ll tell you that singing and playing the guitar guarantees 75% more titties than the trumpet. Fact.

Without getting into great detail, there are a few more things I’d like for you to know.

#1 When you’re older, coming up with your own choreographed dances becomes much less ‘cool’. Also, your parents probably won’t come watch you do them in the attic anymore.

#2 Don’t shave your eyebrows. Ever.

#3 Glitter is best used in moderation. (With the exception of extra-gay events an/or Ke$ha concerts)

#4 Plaid pajama bottoms are not to be worn in public.

#5 Alcohol does get better the more you drink. Keep at it.

#6 If everyone hates the girl in your class for being a mean, angry bully, don’t try to befriend her and change her. This rarely works out and her newly-out-of-jail brother will come find you in the school yard to tell you you’re an ugly hoe.

#7 Locking yourself in the basement bathroom rarely accomplishes anything.

#8 When a boy punches you, it doesn’t mean he likes you. (WHADDUP Rihanna. Take some notes.)

#9 Things got much, much worse for Britney Spears. (But we love her anyway because she’s a sticky, hot mess.)

#10 Oh, and the world didn’t blow up with Y2K. What a fucking letdown.

One last thing before I let you go. I found your diary. You know the one I’m talking about. Quite frankly, I’m a little disappointed by the lack of juicy details. You mostly just sound like a boy-crazy kid with severe ADD. It was pretty hard to follow what the fuck you were trying to say. I think you misunderstood the concept of poetry.

I did, however, notice that you signed your name at the bottom of every entry and sometimes wrote a little secret or factoid that future-you would find interesting. I couldn’t help but notice you wrote:

My dream: To become a famous singer.

Well, I’m here today to tell you that you failed.

Keep up the good work. 

Love, 

Britt

P.S. You’re going to get 50% in math this year.  Get ready for the parental wrath.

Yes, I Can See Your Tampon String.

It’s getting hot outside and all I can say is: Fina-fucking-lly. 

My pasty skin is tired of being layered up and suffocated by itchy material that regularly convinces me I’ve got flesh eating disease and/or bedbugs.

Bring on the sunburns, motherfuckaaaah.

While I am most definitely celebrating the recent warm weather shift, I’m going to have to take a minute to be a hypocrite.  Stay with me, guys.

This past winter was the fucking tits. Why?

a)      I didn’t slip and fall once.

b)      It never got too cold for me to stop sleeping in my underwear.

Those are my criteria for determining the ‘titliness’ of a winter. I’m sure there are other (smaller) factors to take into consideration, but who the hell has time for smaller things. AM I RIGHT, Girls!?

While I can recognize that there were some pretty unpleasant days that made my face burn like a prostitute’s urethra, I feel like I need to remind people that it’s March.

It’s March, guys.

We didn’t even get snow in Toronto until January. That’s 2 months of marginally uncomfortable weather. So, congratulations to those of you who invested a small fortune in your douchey Canada Goose jackets. I’ve been meaning to tell you that you look like Queen of the Asshats when you’re sweating up a storm on the subway because you don’t know how to dress yourself appropriately. I’m willing to bet you’re the same classy skankasaurus who chooses to bare your droopy asscheeks in 15 degree weather, hoping no one will notice the tampon string or the fact that they’re three sizes too small.  

Believe me. We notice.

Having said that, I’m pretty fucking happy that it’s warm outside because it makes me feel less dead inside. There are a lot of reasons for this exaltation, but I’m going to let you guess what the MAIN one is…

….

Are you guessing right now?

….

Guess or I’ll cut you…

…

Ok, fine. I’ll tell you.

It’s booze.  More specifically: daytime boozing.

There is nothing more enjoyable, and downright awesome than drinking under the warm glow of the sun. Soaking in the cancer and giving myself early onset liver failure is what life is all about. And I’ll be honest with you guys. During the colder months, I spend several hours a week perusing my summertime photo albums on Facebook. I don’t care if you think it’s pathetic. Your mom is pathetic.

Last summer I discovered the beauty of Gatorade & Vodka (Vodkarade… or Gatorka, for you awkward types). I’m pretty certain it’s Jesus’ gift to mankind… but don’t quote me on that… I hear Jesus gets pretty pissed when he finds out people are wrongfully saying he invented cocktails.

What have we learned today?

1)      The world is full of giant douchewranglers.

2)      The season of butt cleavage is upon us.

3)      ‘Summer’ is just a glorified term for ‘alcoholism’.

4)      And most importantly, Jesus makes wicked cocktails.

This week’s assignment: Use the term ‘titliness’ in a sentence at least three times.

***
Update!

It is with great pleasure that I accompany this post with a wonderful image.
Thank you to Jen Hladkowicz, who helped dream up this masterpiece.

You'd Better Be Drinking

Saturday is my birthday. 

If you’ve been paying attention, it’s also St. Patrick’s Day.

That’s right, ladies and gents! Yours truly was born on the International Day of Drinking. 

Surprised?

Me neither.

I love St. Patrick’s Day so much that it’s a shock that I don’t shit clovers. (Apparently that’s not how the digestive system works. Who knew?)

In the spirit of the upcoming Day of Debauchery, I’ve come up with some T-Shirt ideas that would tickle my blarney stone if I saw them around town on St. Patrick’s Day. (Maybe not if there are children around… or elderly people. Oh, who are we kidding, elderly people love fart jokes and anal sex.)

Introducing:

 Britt’s St. Paddy’s Day Tees 

 

 

Just in case my week continues to be as busy as it has been, I’ll wish you all a wonderful St. Paddy’s Day ahead of time!

I expect you’ll all be drunk by 3pm, drinking green beer, making out with ‘Irish’ people and shoveling potato-based food items into your piehole whilst doing a drunken jig. 

If you're not, I'm judging you. 

Cheers, beers and queers, my dears.

Xx

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.

There Are No Tacos Here

Today deserves a good, swift kick to the crotch.

Kind of like your mom.

(Okay, that was rude. I take that back. I’ll leave your mom’s crotch out of this. For now.)

If you’re new to this blog, you may want to turn your head away from this post before your first impression of me is tarnished and soiled like your Friday night knickers.

If you’re not new, then I should still probably warn you that what you’re about to read bears no relevance to the current season and is really fucking dumb. You’re welcome.

What the shit am I going on about, you ask?

Well, my friends, I wish to embark on a journey with you. A journey into pet costumes. More specifically, ridiculous dog costumes that make me fear for the general public, dog owners and the poor canines that suffer through this embarrassment.

Why am I talking about this, you ask?

Because I fucking want to and sometimes I have way too much time on my hands.  In case you’re wondering, no I do not have a dog (or any pet, for that matter.)  

Before we get this party started, I’m sending a special shout out to DP, who is singlehandedly responsible for getting me sucked into this douchetastic insightful topic through a discussion on this up and coming website you may have heard of called Facebook.  Thanks, DP, I’m sure my readers are really grateful. (Probably) (Not)

The Loneliest Bride

This is probably one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen in my life. That dog looks suicidal and was probably plotting its owner’s death as this picture was being taken.

I made the mistake of inverting this picture into ‘negative’ and may never sleep again. I call the original picture “Dear Dog Owner, It’s Time to Join eharmony” and the inverted picture “I Will Eat Your Soul.”

....

I warned you.

The Cheerleader

Another suicidal dog, folks.

This costume has sucked the cheer right out of this furry fucker’s heart and it’s going to take a lot more than high-kicks and human pyramids to bring it back. I’m offended, the public is offended, and most importantly: your dog is going to eat that motherfucking tinsel and you’ll be singlehandedly responsible for reaching your hand up its ass to untangle your dog’s intestines.

Give me an EFF! You’re a dumb slut!

Ketchup

What. The. Fuck?

When you were considering all of the possible things you could dress your dog up as, how does a condiment come in as the winning option?  That must have been a really good joint you were smoking.

I seriously can’t tell if this is one of the most inventive ideas I’ve ever seen for a dog, or just the fucking stupidest. I’m definitely leaning towards the latter.  If this were hot sauce, however, I’d be giving you a round of applause  

(… I do love ketchup, though…)

The Raptor

I’m not going to lie; I think this is the best thing I’ve ever seen. If you dress your dog up like a raptor, I’ll probably have sex with you be your best friend.  This is just bad ass. 

Dora the Explorer

I am pretty certain that I’d pay to watch another dog pee on a dog wearing this costume. Dora the Explorer is a giant douchetwizzler. That being said, I’d also really like to buy this for a friend’s dog and make them walk their dog around in public wearing it.  The humiliation both the dog and my friend would undergo could be life altering and therapy-worthy.

No one said I was a good friend.

The Redneck

If I ever have a dog, they will wear this 100% of the time.

End of story.

I’ll always look hotter than my dog.

(That’s why people have dogs, right? So they can look hotter by comparison?

That’s what I thought. I’m glad we’re on the same page.)

I was going to post a picture of a dog dressed as a taco, but then I realized that the proportion of dog costumes that I like would start outweighing the ones I'm mocking, so that one will have to stay between me and the dog-taco.

…  Guess what, guys?

You will never get those 10 minutes of your life back.

If it makes you feel any better, those dogs will never get their pride back. So far, I think you’re winning.

---

What’s the best pet costume you’ve ever seen?

Eat That Beaver!

Happy Leap Year, Motherfuckers!

I have a secret to tell you.

When I hear the term “Leap Year” it makes me think of that horrendous, mind-numbing movie with Amy Adams where she goes to Ireland to propose to her boyfriend.

This makes me feel a little bit dead inside.

The excitement of an ‘extra day’ has been shat on by a shitty rom-com, and quite frankly, I think someone needs to shed some blood for this. And not in the menstrual bleeding kind of way.

I’m also very disappointed in John Lithgow for participating in this monstrosity. He doesn't deserve any blood shed, though, because he has since redeemed himself, and I’d like to stay on good terms with him so I can cast him as the role of my father in the movie of my life.

(… I definitely didn’t intent to spend so much time talking about that movie, so let’s move on, shall we?)

Tina of Breakfast at Tina’s recently tagged me in a post asking 11 questions about myself. 

I’d hate to be a party pooper, but I have the attention span of a gold fish and those questions are fucking hard.  Thank you so much for thinking of me and I hope one day I can redeem myself for not doing what is asked of me. I did, however, read through the post and I saw that it also asked me to post 11 random things about myself. Like all other self-involved bloggers, that shit shouldn’t be too hard.  I’m breaking the rules, yet again, but I’ve said it once twice twelve times: I do what I want.

Eleven Things You Probably Don't Care to Know About Me

1) I can’t pee if the shower curtain is closed.

Every time I go into a bathroom and the shower curtain is closed, I will look behind it and/or open it before poppin’ a squat on the porcelain prince. The only exception to this is if the shower curtain is clear/see-through. Obviously. I’m not crazy.

2) I have an extreme fear of being pushed onto the subway tracks.

This may not be a ‘rare’ fear, but my reasoning is ‘irrational’. For example, sometimes I’ll walk along the subway platform while putting on lipgloss and I’ll notice a girl a few feet and think ‘that girl over there looks like a bitch. Maybe she’s a crazy bitch and didn’t like the way I put this gloss on. Maybe she’ll push me into the moving train to teach me a lesson. RUN!”

3) Every time I see a weirdly shaped/coloured thing ahead of me on the sidewalk that I can’t identify, I assume it’s a dead animal fetus.

For those of you who have been reading this for awhile, you’re familiar with the raccoon fetus incident. At that time, I hadn’t discovered the joys of contact lenses yet, and often opted for walking around semi-blind. You can imagine the amount of ‘possible fetus sightings’ was extremely high in those days, but I’ll admit that even with the contacts, a potential sighting still occurs at least once a day. Fuck you, Keith.

4) When I was camping in a trailer park in Venice, Italy, I locked myself in a stall of the communal showers.

I don’t want to get into too many details here, but I used my toothbrush to jimmy the lock. There was nothing not uncomfortable about being locked in a shower, naked in a foreign country.

5)  My bones crack like an 80 year old ex-stripper.

6) Often, as a kid, I would say things without thinking and even after everyone laughed, I still wouldn’t know where I had gone wrong. (I say “as a kid”… but this still proves true)

There is a home video of me and my family exploring a museum that featured some taxidermied animals. In the video, I turned to my mom, excited and overjoyed and said “Mommy, eat that beaver!” Little did I know that I’d be the one eating beavers. HAR HAR. A lesbian joke!

(I meant to say “pet”, in case you were wondering.)

7) In middle school, I broke my wrist trying to reenact a Backstreet Boy dance.

You know the music video where they hop over chairs and look cool as shit?  Ya. Well it turns out an awkward 13 year old does not look cool as shit doing it. Especially in the middle of their school gymnasium… when they fall on their stomach, and roll around on the ground with the wind knocked out of them. Who would have guessed?

8) I hit a girl in the collarbone with the cast from that injury.

The bitch let it slip that she had egged my (then) best friend’s house.  I may not be coordinated, but fuck with my friends and I’ll motherfucking hurt you.

9) For the first 6 years of my life, I could not pronounce the letter “R” in English, but I could pronounce it in French. I also couldn’t whistle.

According to my memory, my ability to whistle and my ability to pronounce the letter R happened on the same day. That may not be accurate, but fuck all y’all who say otherwise.

10) I will cut a bitch who shushes me.

11) I once got so drunk that I thought I went blind.

Turns out, I was staring at a pile of snow.

That is all.

*

Any funny/embarrassing facts you’d like to share with me today, on this holiest of days?

You Make Me Urinate with Joy

It’s impossible for me to be objective when it comes to this blog. It is chalked full of the random shit that gets stored up in the cavities of my brain that is then spewed out, gets formed into sentences, and (sometimes) reluctantly gets published for the internet to pick apart as they see fit.  The fact that you take the time to read it means a lot to me, even if I tell you that I hate you and that you should get fucked upside down with your mom’s dildo. (Okay, fine. I’ve never said that last part, but I’ve been trying to find a polite way to integrate it for ages.)

Regardless of my inability to be polite when I write, it is with EXTREME excitement that I announce today that I’ve won an award! Of the blogging variety!

It is with the greatest of motherfucking pleasure that I accept the Liebster Blog Award from the wonderful, funny and fashion-forward L-Kat of Dear Diary.....Love, Deranged.

I’m not one for ‘speeches’. (Seriously, if you saw me attempt to speak in public, you’d witness a girl who may or may not have had the wind knocked out of her, who looks like she has to pee and has no idea what to do with her hands. For real, though, guys. On the hips or off the hips? ON OR OFF?)

Picturing people naked is just ludicrous. How in the fucking world would that make me feel better? Do you have any idea how many people I don’t want to see naked? Most people. That’s how many. I’d rather picture everyone as brain-hungry zombies, who can only be tamed with witty banter and brilliant speech-giving techniques.  

Wait.

Who am I kidding.

I’d just rather not give speeches.

While this is a ‘written’ speech, and my nerves aren’t ‘technically’ an issue, I’m still going to save you the long drawn out acceptance speech where I claim my undying love for blogging and how much I adore all of you. Instead, I’m going to post a picture of myself. Riding a motorcycle. In a blonde wig. With a blow-up pink air guitar.  

Why?

Because you guys make me feel like I’m that badass.  Electric-guitar-playing-on-a-motorcycle kind of badass.

WHAT the FUCK is UP.

 

I love you all.

(Especially those of you with filthy fucking mouths like me.)

*

In keeping with the Liebster Blog Award rules, I’m going to proudly pass this along to five deserving bloggers. In my opinion, five isn’t nearly enough. Every one of you deserves this like Madonna deserves a punch to the throat.

Without further ado...

The award(s) go to…

Amelie of Those Who Can’t Write, Write Blogs.

Amelie is a loyal, hilarious reader from the UK who writes witty, clever retellings of her life’s colourful happenings. I knew I loved her when she explained that her “Mum's-On-A-Budget” version of Hungry Hungry Hippos was “Somewhat Peckish Dogs.”  Seriously. Love.

Shane of Wag the Dad.  

Many of you may be familiar with him. If you’re not, you should be. He writes well thought-out, clever, opinionated blogs that tend to generate a bit of controversy. Plus he writes about fake vaginas and penis enhancement drugs. Win.

Jana of Shut the Front Door.  

This bitch is funny.  This is a new blog, but goddamn is it funny. She’s witty and you should go check her out. I knew I was hooked when she agreed to sleep with a homeless man ‘if he could catch her.’ Gold.

Allie of I’m Not Really a Barista.

She is one funny fucking lady. She writes amusing posts, including my personal favourite: her “unqualified” advice column. Her most recent is about masturbation. Oh yes.

Mel of Preposterous Pace.

I’m breaking the rules right now because I know she was just nominated for this award, but she’s my blogging BFF and I have to nominate her so TOO FUCKING BAD. Nobody said I follow rules.  Mel is hilarballs (hilariousballs just sounds weird), and awkward. Plus she has taught me so much about cooking in my underwear. You should follow her. Plus I hear her house is really easy to break into.

Congratulations, you hilarious fuckers. Keep on doing what you’re doing!

***

The Rules 

 

If you are awarded the Liebster Blog Award, here are the rules you “have” to follow.

1. Link back to the person who gave you the award. (You can give me a really offensive nickname if you want. I won’t cry myself to sleep. Probably.)

2. Pick five deserving bloggers to give the Liebster Blog Award to (who have less than 200 followers) and let them know why you think they’re motherfucking awesome.

Keywords: Teenage Mutant Ninja Boners!!!!

Like all other bloggers, I tend to keep my eye on how many people have stumbled onto my blog, which posts they decided to read, and where the hell they came from.

I remember when I first started blogging, I nearly pissed my pants when I saw someone from Norway found my blog, and immediately felt like I was a motherfucking international rockstar. (My dreams of becoming a Norwegian princess was quickly coming true!) Now that more time has passed, I’ve learned that the Norwegian was probably drunk and left my blog as quickly as he found it… but regardless, I was famous* in my own right.

*Thanks to Ms. Annah Rondon of Red Means Go, I find myself constantly saying “famosity” in my head as if it’s a real word. I hereby declare that the dictionary is a giant doucherag and Famosity is, in fact, a word. Suck it, Webster.  Oh, and in case you haven’t already, you should totally check Annah out.

When I write a blog post, I’ll admit that I start writing with very little concept of what my ‘theme’ will be for the day. Sometimes I use my blackberry notes for inspiration, but most often, my fingers just start spewing what I like to call Verbal Diarrhea. (I have never in my entire life spelled Diarrhea correctly on the first try. Seriously. Never. Fuck you and your double ‘r’s, and what the fuck is that ‘h’ doing in there? I hate you.)

I know that my blog has no real ‘structure’, but I can guaran-fucking-tee that I get the most joy out of slandering idiots, bitching and drawing attention to all things douchey. With this in mind, I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that the key searchwords leading to my blog are fucking ridiculous. And wonderful.

It shocks me every day that I have loyal readers who ‘get’ my sense of humour and it brings me even more joy to know that my blog is being found by crude, horrid things that people are searching on Google. This morning I checked my key words for the month and nearly spewed coffee out of my nose.

I bring you:   

This Month’s Most Searched Keywords

Some thoughts.

1)      Kristina Kustra is a dear friend of mine and I’m sure whoever was looking her up was delighted to come across posts about dead raccoon fetuses. Delightful.

2)      Ms. Doubtfire searches have generated an alarming number of blog hits. People really love that film and I don’t fucking blame them. That shit is gold. The post can be found here.

3)      Polkadot clovers. Well, that one makes sense. Logic pisses me off.

4)      “Squirted so much” Puddle. This is a personal favourite of mine. Sharon and I were recently discussing this one and decided that some poor weeping girl must have been devastatingly embarrassed when her boyfriend made her squirt that she took to the internet to find some answers. All I can hope is that her boyfriend now calls her Puddles and only fucks her in the tub like the classy bitch she is.

5)      Crying in my underwear made it in there twice. This makes me feel less alone, but it also makes me feel like a cliché. I’m willing to bet I’m the only one who had beets involved in her weeping display of distress. Those fucking beets will haunt my dreams forever.

6)      Polkadots vs run the world. I told you guys I’d become Norwegian royalty, and everyone knows that when you rule Norway, the next step is running the world. (Probably with pigeons).

 

7)      Sex Valentines Shoot. I can only hope that ‘shoot’ means ‘pictures’ and not ‘gun’.

8)      Sharon Pigeon Nude.  You just know that someone out there was looking for pigeon porn. Sorry to disappoint, but I have a strict No Nude Pigeons rule on my blog. 

9)      Teenage Mutant Ninja Boners!!!! My favourite part about this is the enthusiasm expressed with those exclamation marks. I can’t even try to understand what the fuck the context of this was, but boy am I glad it found my blog.

A couple other favourite keywords that found my blog this week:

1) Eldersnatch

2) Ninja Slut

3) How to deepthroat*

I can’t even begin to express how proud I am. 

This must be the feeling my parents were talking about when they talked about "success."

*Holy shit are you ever in the wrong place, darling. 

 ---

Are there any funny keywords that found your blog?

Hand Me a Tissue... For My Nose, Perv.

F my L!

I’m sick. 

I’m snotty and my voice is starting to resemble a phone sex operator who smokes 45 cigarettes a day and takes her daily vitamin with a stiff mug’o’whiskey. (I didn't say I sounded like a hot phone sex operator.) Also, my brain feels like it’s been covered in bubblewrap… and not in a fun kind of way. (I know you were probably thinking ‘That lucky little bitch. That would be so much fucking fun. I’d smack my head against everything all day long just to hear those glorious popping* sounds.’ Not today, guys, not today.)

*I think it’s important to tell you that I first spelled it ‘pooping sounds’.  Glorious pooping sounds.

While I realize a run-of-the-mill headcold is something that gets and deserves very little sympathy, I’m going to demand it anyway.

Sympathize with me, bitch!

I’ve killed too many brain cells in my life to be able to afford this sort of mental blockage. Soon people at work are going to wonder if I’ve been spending my breaks taking a stroll with Ms. Mary Jane. 

As a general rule of thumb, I try my best to get through the work day using the minimum brain power necessary. This means two things: 1) Out-of-the-ordinary questions can make my face turn as red as a constipated hippo and 2) I stare off into space a lot.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve spent a great deal of time mastering the art of spacing out. Rookies make the mistake of staring off into the far distance, seldom blinking and often, inadvertently, in the direction of someone who is now convinced they’re being glared at. Stupid. Amateur. Don’t do that. If you want to give your eyes a lil’ rest in the middle of the day/meeting/conversation/on the subway, look down, and pretend you’re looking at your phone/newspaper/planned parenthood pamphlet and let your eyes drift off into that sweet glazed-over haven. No one has to know that you aren’t actually reading. If they challenge you, I recommend a swift kick to the throat.

All of this is to say that when I’m sick, my glazed-over haven becomes my permanent expression. Even now, as I’m typing, I’m only half-focused at the screen. If you’d like to consider this a skill, I’d be fine with that.

Despite my crippling illness, I’ve been assigned to sit with one of the (how shall I word this…) slower trainees to try and iron out some of his blatant shortcomings in learning the ropes of the position. While I may not be the most patient person in the world, I’m still (mostly) understanding when it comes to learning. Want to know what I’m not understanding about? Body odor.  The big BO. That’s right, folks. This motherfucker stinks worse than Paris Hilton’s cooter and I’m forced to sit 4 inches away from him. All day long.

I can tell that you’re pretty jealous right now. My life is pretty fucking glamourous.

In case you’ve already forgotten, let me remind you that I’m sick. Snotty. Stuffed up. Congested. Booger-y. Before you roll your eyes and tell me to get the fuck over it, there’s a reason I’m reiterating this. I’m sure you’ve all been here before. You’re leaking from your face and no matter how often you blow your nose, it makes no fucking difference. Your snot has set up shop for a second by second drippity drip and it don’t care who it gets on. (Re-read that sentence 3 times and it probably still sounds just as bad and nonsensical.) My point is: When I can barely breathe out of my motherfucking nose and I can still smell your vile eau de stank, you’ve got bigger worries than not being able to click the right links on our website. JUSSAYIN’.

I probably should be taking the day off of blogging to save you all from this horrendous pile of steaming fuckery, but too effing bad. It’s my blog and I do what I want.

Since you can’t see me, I figured I should tell you that I’m also sticking my tongue out at you right now.

Yep.

I’m 12.

You Have to Love Me, I Don't Eat Your Friends

I’m going to take a minute to talk to you about animals.

Before you run away screaming like your ass is aflame, I will assure you this is not a PETA post. Nor is this going to be a post about how yummy and delicious kangaroos taste.  Cool?  Sweet. I’m glad we got that out of the way.

Some of you may remember such posts as Meet Keith: He Probably Eats Poop and Hey Roberta, GTFO! If you haven’t read them, let me give you a quick rundown:  My landlord is an idiot, I found a dead raccoon fetus on my back porch, Keith is a teenage raccoon who likes to give me sass, and Roberta is the Queen Bitch squirrel who used to reside in the wall at the head of my bed.  Feel all caught up? Good. Me too.

I’m sure you’re thinking “Britt! You must feel so fulfilled with all of these wonderful critters in your life!” Well, sadly, you are mistaken.  As much fun as raccoon fetuses and squeaky squirrels are, I find myself wanting more.  When I stroll down the street and see a cat, I will run after it and force it to love me. Not in a creepy, predatory way (probably), but in a why won’t you just snuggle with me and love me forever kind of way. I’m pretty good at making sure they aren’t alley cats before I smother them… mostly.

So why don’t I just shut the eff up and get a pet, you ask? When it comes down to it, I am not in a place where I can own an animal. (Dear PETA, I know people don’t ‘own’ animals in that slavery kind of way, but fuck off. I say what I want.) My apartment is itty bitty, and I don’t spend enough time at home. I go away for extended periods of time, and I’m not nearly financially stable enough to replace all of the electronics/wires/shoes that the sonofabitch will undoubtedly stick in its mouth/butt.

I adore animals (particularly of the cat/dog/bunny varieties) and dream of a day when I can have one of my own to dress up in dragqueen outfits to love. Want to know a sad, little factoid about me? I’ve never had a pet.  Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true. I once had a pet guppy for a couple of weeks. (I can feel the jealousy radiating off of you from here, folks.) I got him for free at a garage sale. I named him Bob. I kept him in a rose bowl I also got for free that same day at the garage sale. It was all pretty glamorous.  I don’t mean to brag.

Bob and I had a gay ole time. We rolled in the grass at the park. We took long walks through the neighbourhood. We joined a pet playgroup and made all sorts of pals. Oh no wait, we didn’t do any of that. He was a fucking guppy and didn’t even have a face.

I was a very responsible fifth grader and ended up bringing Bob into the science lab at school when I went away for a week with my family. I told people I wanted to be sure he would get fed, but truthfully, it was a relief to be rid of him. I’m pretty sure he died shortly after (probably from separation anxiety.)  Now, don’t get the wrong idea. This is not an indication of my ability to have a pet. It’s an indication of how motherfucking boring guppies are and they have NO place being a pet of a 10 year old.  Plus they look like sperm.

After Bob, there were no other pet prospects. When I got old enough to move out, I lived vicariously through the pets of my friends, roommates and girlfriends. They always brought me so much joy, but not the same kind of joy as I always imagined people felt when it was their own animal. (I mean, people call their pets their ‘babies’ and they call themselves “mamma” or “daddy” of the animal… which I’ve always found really weird, but hey, who am I to judge? I guess I could have been Bob’s mama, but, like I said, he didn’t even have an effing face.)  What was I saying? Oh right. I lived vicariously through other people’s pets. Actually, I don’t know why I’m writing this in past tense, because I still fucking do. While I may seem really calm, cool and collected when I’m playing with your pet, chances are my brain is saying something like this: HE LOVES ME MORE THAN YOU AND WANTS TO BE WITH ME FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER.

And you know what? He probably does because I carry bacon in my pocket I’m awesome.

So, I’m sure you’re wondering what the fucking point of this post is. And you know what? There isn’t one.  Aren’t you glad you made it to the end?

Good.

Me too.

Now give me your pet and no one gets hurt.

Humps, Rumps and Ladylumps

In the spirit of the holiday of love, I wanted to wish all of you wonderful fucklepuffs an extra love-induced day (read: Eee-ooo eee-ooo... that's the sound of bedsprings. Obviously.)

While I recently expressed my overall disdain for being forced to deepthroat Romance, I will also admit that sometimes my insides are gooey and soft. (If you tell anyone, I'll fucking cut you.)
So, instead of throwing punches, today I will try my best to nice.
I won't laugh at my girlfriend when she says sweet things to me and I won't spit on the couple making out on the street (probably).

I'm pretty much like Saint Valentine himself.

That being said, happy humping, friends!

And if you're looking for any last minute gift ideas for your snuggleboogiefuzzywuzzybearboopysnoopypoop, consider this. It's guaranteed to bring you closer together and in NO way would it ever contribute to a suddenly lowered sexual attraction to your partner.*

Toilet for Two! Don't spend even a minute apart!

*In the lesbian world, we call this Lesbian Bed Death. Or if you're my girlfriend, you call it Lesbian Death Bed.

Tomato, to-mah-to.

Valentine's Day (Alt. Title: Shoot Me in the Face)

V.D.

It’s no coincidence that Valentine’s Day shares the same initials as Venereal Disease. They both come with a lot of discomfort, shame and anxiety.

Can you tell that I’m a hopeless romantic? I’ve got romance seeping from my veins, motherfuckers.

Obviously.

I know what you’re thinking. “This bitch just needs to get laid.” And you know what? You’re absolutely wrong. I get my lay on plenty. Really, when it boils down to it, my problem with V-Day is much like everyone else’s: Shut the fuck up and stop telling me that one day in the year I should be spending all this money on stupid pink and red crap that will get me NOWHERE closer to my ultimate goal of being a Sex Goddess. That’s everyone’s goal, right? No? Whatever. Shut up. It totally is.

Regardless of my general distain for the concept of the holiday, I’ve found myself attached this year and figured perhaps we would take part in something somewhat festive. After some brief brainstorming sessions and a stupid amount of back and forth texting with me declining pretty much every suggestion she made, I think we’ve come to the conclusion that Valentine’s Day is really just fucking dumb.

Everything that would qualify as romantic on an ordinary day suddenly seems cliché and douchetastic.  If I woke up some random morning in May and found roses all over my room and a fun-filled day of sex and adventure planned, then FUCK ME SIDEWAYS I would be happier than a pre-teen skank at a 50% sale at Forever 21. But, on Valentine’s Day, these gestures feel forced. If you weren’t paying attention in the previous post, I don’t like it when people tell me what to do. Hallmark is telling me to shower my babyboo with love, affection and edible strawberry oil that tastes like cancer, and it makes me want to throw some slaps. (Come to think of it, that might just be the perfect gift... but you don’t need to hear those details. Let’s move along…)

Regardless of the ludicrousy (shut up, spellcheck! That’s a fucking word.) of horoscopes, I’ll admit that I get sucked into them from time to time. I want to disregard them and claim them all to be a giant pile of great fuckery, but I am a Pisces through and through and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, astrology gets me. (Stop judging me.)  So, one slow afternoon at work, I found myself perusing a website that told me all about how my Piscean waterself is compatible with my Scorpion counterpart. What riveting literature!   To my delight, below the detailed description of our passion and fervor was a list of suggestions on how to spend Valentine’s Day.  I couldn’t pass this by, folks, I really couldn’t.  So, in the spirit of the impending blood bath lovefest, let me introduce:

Valentine’s Day Ideas 

Brought to you by: The Biggest Asshat Website in the History of The Internet

On this Valentine’s Day reenact the first date of yours, followed by a walk with your palms clutched together, she'd definitely adore the idea of violins and a Valentine’s Day cake, if you can arrange. Make her feel loved by singing a love song for her on this Valentine’s Day. Do something which would move her, which would mesmerize her like making a photo collage of her which should showcase her in all moods. This would make her feel that how closely you observe her and know her.

 

Like women, even men like being pampered and spoiled, that's our take. So, this Valentine's Day even if you are bad at cooking, prepare his favorite dish and feed him with your own hands, even if you would have messed it up, he will never complain as the salt from your hands will make it even more delicious. Try to pen down some beautiful love poetry for him which would make him realize upto what extent you can go to express your love. This Valentine's Day become his best friend and share with shim your deepest thoughts and dreams and make him think that in your small nest, he owns a very prominent place.

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

I think this pretty much writes itself. I can hear the sound of all of your eyes rolling into your heads as you scanned those suggestions, but if any of you at any point thought “Hey, that’s a good idea” then I hate you. (Baaaaah, fine I don’t hate you, but seriously? SERIOUSLY?  Go smear your salty hands over someone else’s food.)

I could spend an afternoon ripping through those piece’o’shit suggestions, but I’m going to hold back a bit because I know y’all have lives and whatever.  There are, however, a few things I can’t let slide.

1)  If you’re going to sit me down and sing to me about how you feel, things are going to get fucking awkward (especially if you can’t play an instrument). I would know, because when I was 17, I did it. I learned the hard way.  Nothing is more uncomfortable than having a one person accapela version of Boyz II Men’s I’ll Make Love to You* sung to your face as you sit there silently. Seriously. Don’t do it.

*I did not sing that song when I was 17. I wrote my own song. It was shameful.

2)  Don’t ever try to show a girl all of her moods via collage. She probably knows she’s a moody fucking bitch, and she doesn’t need you reminding her.  That, my friend, is how you get a fork in your face.  

3)  That thing about the food? False. If you cook me something disgusting, the salt on your hands is not going to help. Also, why the fuck are your hands so salty? Do we need to take you to the doctor? Wash your hands more, you filthy motherfucker.

Here’s an idea: Stay in bed this Valentine’s Day, get your fuck on (or masturbate if you’re alone) and shove a shit ton of delicious food into your face.

Romance.

**

UPDATE: 

This was my favourite follow-up 'suggestion' from a reader.

What. Is. Wrong. With. You.