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!

Your Pictures Are Stupid; I Can't Look Away

In today’s day of social media sites, there is one megabeast that has made everyone its bitch. Yes, my friends, I’m talking about Facebook. This ‘social’ media tool has allowed for me to know when my friends are grocery shopping, if they’re still friends with that bitch from high school and how often they poop. While we all have a handful of friends who ‘won’t join Facebook out of principle’, I’ve decoded their reasoning to mean one of the following three things:

1)      “I’m worried I will look like a loser because I don’t have enough friends.”

2)      “I don’t understand social media websites.” 

3)      “I go out on a lot of heavy drug and drinking benders and don’t have the time or energy to untag myself from photos on a regular basis.” 

Whatever the reason may be, let’s just be clear about one thing: If you don’t have Facebook, you’re not getting invited to parties.  If you’re part of reason #3 for not joining Facebook, you’re probably doing yourself and your future rehab bill a favour. Jussayin’.

Like so many of you, I fucking hate Facebook. By this, I mean: I can’t stop fucking checking it.  I hate that I care what you did last night; I don’t know why, but I hate your face; if you post one more political status, I’m fucking deleting you and your pictures of your stupid bachelorette party make me want to stab myself in the shoulder/WHY WASN’T I INVITED!?

Whatever your relationship might be with this mind-numbing site, we all have different categories of people in our friends list. Some of them you care about, and others… well, you find yourself wishing them a firey death on a regular basis. I know what you’re thinking, but unfriending would just be too easy.

I’ve broken these people into 6 categories.

The Significant Other

There are a few things to consider when communicating with your shmoopy on Facebook:

First of all, do you have any shame? No? Then go ahead and post all of your disgusting love-filled messages all over their wall and let us judge you while we eat spicy peanuts in bed.  If you do have shame, keep in mind that with every cheesy message you write, it becomes increasingly challenging to think of you as an equal. (Sidenote: I know 90% of people with smartphones use them while they’re on the toilet. Don’t pretend you don’t. With that in mind, when I see horrifically sappy Facebook posts, I like to think of the author of said post sitting on the john while they profess their love. Take this wisdom with you, folks. Life just got a little brighter.)

Secondly, how many pictures have you posted of you and your poopybear kissing? If there is more than 1, that’s too many and you deserve a good swift chair to the face.

Lastly, if you’re the kind of person that updates your relationship status on Facebook, then please, for the love of god, only change it once you know you’ve broken up and/or started dating someone for realsies.  Keeping with this theme, I’d also like for you to keep your emotional status updates to yourself. I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re quoting some song you heard that touched your inner being; you sound like a whiny twelve year-old and I’ll assume you spend a good portion of your time crying and watching Twilight. Guess what? We’re not friends anymore.

The Good Friends

In a perfect world, my Facebook friends list would be compiled solely of my good, dear friends. These are the people I care about, and they post shit I want to read. I can tease them to their face about the dumb shit they write about, and we can bask together in our shame every weekend when the photos of our latest drinking binge surface. It’s not a perfect world, though, and Sue from accounting is going to add you as a friend, and you can’t do fucking shit about it. This brings me to my next category.

The Coworkers

Way to rain on my fucking parade, colleagues. Now I have to create a whole new limited profile for you, so you can’t know about the sex shows I attend and all of the blow I did last night. When I call in sick on Monday, you’re going to rat me out and I’m going to have to stab you in the bathroom. If you had just minded your own business and kept your friend request to yourself, we wouldn’t be standing here in a puddle of blood, hashing it out Freddy-style.*

*Not exactly an accurate depiction of real life. Dramatics added for color.

The Former Friends

These are probably the people I spend the most time stalking. You know those nights when you end up looking at someone’s wedding photos where you don’t know a single attendee, but you find yourself judging the décor and thinking that these people are fucking lame?  Ya. We’re never getting that time back, guys.

Seriously, though, stalking former friends can result in you missing them, hating them and/or envying them. Sometimes, all three emotions can occur when browsing through a single photo album, and you find yourself lingering over the ‘like’ button and wondering if it would be weird, nice, or creepy to click it. It’s probably creepy, since the album was from 2008, but go ahead a click it. Stir the pot a little. 

The Acquaintances

These are the people you contact once a year because Facebook told you it’s their birthday.  You should probably delete them.

The Family Members

Your relationship with your family will really affect how you perceive this category. If your family members are your BFFs, then la-dee-fucking-da, keep everything public and embrace your Honesty is the Best Policy way of life.  For the rest of us, yet another limited profile is created, double checked, triple checked, and checked again on a regular basis every time Facebook goes and changes their motherfucking privacy settings.

There are, of course, members of my family who have an all-access pass, namely my sister, who probably wishes she didn’t sometimes… but as for the aunts and uncles who saw me play baby Jesus during our reenactment of the nativity scene once upon a Christmas, it’s probably best to keep them at a distance.

I’ve contemplating deleting my Facebook dozens of times, but who are we kidding? That’s the cyber version of social banishment and I’m not ready to become a pariah just yet. When I’m alone with my 14 cats, living an envy-filled life spent observing the trips, parties and excursions of friends-gone-by, I’ll reevaluate. But for now, I’ll continue to judge you from the comfort of my peanut-filled bed.


****

OH! And I thought I should share with you the cookies that I made for my birthday/St. Patrick's day.
I thought of you guys with every polka dot I dropped on those godforsaken clovers. (If you remember... this was supposed to be a baking blog, but I'm far too vulgar.)

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.

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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!

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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.