This is just a quick update because I promised Mike I'd pound something out before work.
Not a lot to say. Either FUBAR is down, or I was suspended (still deciding, got a nice little message about it).
So, until then, check out Chris's blog. He's the guy who makes this one look as pretty as it does, so be sure to give him much love.

Sorry so short, more updates about life, love, drugs and why the song The Perfect Drug is stuck in my messed up little head.

The last few days have been so fucking bad fucking ass that I can't even believe it.
It all started at Ozzfest, when I got to chill with the Black Label Society guys, meet Dez from Coal Chamber, see Rob Halford, talk to the guys in Slipknot, and chill with Down.
Awesome FUCKING show.
Little did I know that the Metallica/Godsmack concert would out do them all.
After suffering endless hours in the beer line, Sarah and I make it to our seats...directly behind an entire row of some of the most attractive looking guys I think I've ever seen.
Long story short because I still ache...
They bought us many beers, much alcohol was consumed, tattoos were shown, butts were grabbed and I found out that the entire row was not just some random good looking guys, they were actually Jabher Box.
I promised them a plug on my site, because Jason stole me flowers from a planter and sang Master Of Puppets to me (who can say no to that?!)
So there you are! Click the link, check em out, they fucking rock.

More random rants and ramblings later, I'm still worn out.

I'm getting ready for Ozzfest, then Godsmack/Metallica for a girls night out.
Hooray.

Let me fill you all in on a little bit of background, first. Jeremy and I were together. He was also together with one of my best friends, Deanne. Long story short, the entire thing blew up, almost broke up the friendship, and Deanne and I now hate his fucking guts.

I get a call from his friend.

He was arrested. Public intox and harassing an officer.

And to this I have only one thing to say.

"HA, HA!"





Oh yea, FUBAR is back up and running, I'll get my links going again as soon as I'm not being a lazy bitch.

Apparently, my really gorgeous heterolifemate was playing capture the flag or hide the salami or something in the woods and got poison sumac. She's now on prednisone (a steroid that makes you emotional, and hungry, and crazy). I'm on that shit a lot for my asthma, but finally we have an outside perspective:

HLM: I always believed you, but at least now I know first hand how you
feel
TweekerChickQC: Isn't it awful?
HLM: haha I better go to bed. I found the jar of pickles in my fridge
that look way to appealing
TweekerChickQC: How many mgs are you on?
HLM: I dunno. something really low, but I'm a pussy when it comes to
those kind of drugs.
HLM: like 4 or 14 or something per pill, and I started with 6 a day.
TweekerChickQC: 5 or 10?
HLM: umm. oh, maybe 10
HLM: its far away. I'm not getting up to look
TweekerChickQC: Lucky shit.
TweekerChickQC: Last time they gave me 40 mgs.
HLM: yours is like five hundred
TweekerChickQC: I was nuttier than a fruitcake.
HLM: yeah, see, mine's for a rash, not asthma.
HLM: and seriously, aleve makes me tweek, so I would die from that
HLM: I can drink like a true irish girl, but my ancestors were obviously
too poor to do drugs.

In the grand scheme of things, birthdays aren't that important. I learned that lesson the hard way this year. My sister is in Texas with her boyfriend, my friend Deanne was busy being an ass thus I refused to hang out with her, Chris got too busy to come visit, my parents are in Minnesota, and my best friend is off hiding with his demented and sadistic girlfriend.
I don't expect a national holiday every August 12th, although I think I deserve one, but let me tell you this, eating cake all alone in your apartment sucks a big fat nut. To top it off, FUBAR is no more and I didn't have anyone to play with. Fuck that shit.
My sixteenth birthday sucked a lot too, but at least then I had my dog to chill with. I didn't even have that as two of them died and the other one now lives in Minnesota. I'm in a bad fucking mood, so here are my list of demands for next year which I expect to be met in a timely manner, in no particular order.
1) Vin Diesel, delivered to my apartment in a very large chocolate cake with rapsberry filling and purple icing. And not that lavender color, either. Purple.
2) My friends to actually plan on chilling with me, for more than a 3 hour period.
3) A very large, very attractive male to carry me home from the bars. This person cannot be Vin Diesel because Vin will be otherwise occupied.
4) A very fast, very expensive car, somewhat resembling the batmobile, to cruise around town with. No fair having it stolen, I want the title, bitch.
5) I want my best friend to come play with me without his psychotic girlfriend.
6) I want a million dollar shopping spree, and to look like Angelina Jolie, all without the inconvenience of exercising or actually working in any way shape or form.
7) Finally, I want to own the world.

Is that too much to fucking ask?

It's good to know that you always have your friends around to help you make good decisions on your birthday.
TweekerChickQC: Hmm. Its my birthday. Think they'll let me just run around naked?
PacManJesus: sure
PacManJesus: give it a shot
PacManJesus: if you get arrested it sure as hell wont be by a guy

It's been a pretty eventful couple of days. I'm getting my apartment ready for Chris to visit (if he still is, haven't heard from him). Which entails a few things. Picking up all of the underwear I leave strewn across the apartment and vacuuming. No biggie. I felt the need to start a few of my projects, you know, that list everyone has of shit they would do if they had all sorts of time. Mine was painting the insides of my cabinets white. So I got started. Turned on my rickety old fan, got me a few cans of spray paint, and had myself a hay day.
Until my doorbell rang.
I walked downstairs, white powdery paint across my nose, to see two cops standing there. Apparently, the neighbors had called the cops. Complaining of my odd hours, chemical smell, and unusual noises. I let them up to look around (yes, without a search warrant. Spare me the legalities, I'm not doing anything wrong). Finally Barney Fife looked at me and announced "The unusual noise is from your fan, the chemical smell from your spray paint, but what about your weird hours?" "I'm in college, and I work 64 hours a week with children".
He looked at me, smiled and said "Well, your paint looks nice" and left.
It was then I noticed the white paint all over my nose.
Thank god the paint was still wet, I would've had a lot of explaining to do.

I hate going out.
Well, thats a lie. I like actually being out. It's the getting ready to go out I hate. Seriously. The guys I know take a shower, get dressed, throw on some deodorant and shave. Maybe throw a little bit of gel in the hair if needed.
I wish it was that easy for me.
I normally start with a shower, in which I have to choose between 4 different conditioners so I can decide what I want my hair to smell like. Then comes the shaving of the legs. Not only is it impossible not to miss a spot, it's time consuming. Atleast 15 minutes. It normally takes me longer because I always nick this one spot on the back of my leg (I have a scar there from it) and spend a good 20 minutes trying to stop the bleeding. It's like hitting a fucking artery, I damn near bled to death in my bathtub once.
Once out of the shower, its a choice between lotions. Flowery or fruity? Shimmering or regular? Once I choose one, and slather it on, I spend about 15 minutes writhing around in pain because I'm a dumb fuck and just put lotion in that one spot I always nick on my leg. It hurts like a bitch. If you don't believe me, try it.
When I regain conciousness, it's makeup time. The goal here is to look as good as possible without having the makeup wear off a half an hour into the night. This is impossible without looking like Tammy Fae. I've given up. Once I have a beer my eyeliner just runs down my face anyway. I just pretend its a trend. Lipstick is pointless, too. All it does is show off how perfect my teeth are, because thats where it always ends up. On my fuckin teeth.
Then there's clothes. I'm a chunky ass, thus making dressing difficult. Try finding something sexy that covers your fat ass at the same time. It's almost impossible. I've taken to lowcut shirts and anything dark enough on the bottom that helps hide the fact that my ass is so big it looks like I'm trying to smuggle two midgets into the club.
Technically I should add a paragraph on purses. I don't do them. It's just one more thing for me to lose when I get shitfaced drunk. Thus, I wear pants with pockets so I can shove my ID, credit card, cash, cell phone, lipgloss, compact, and inhaler in them. I was thinking of investing in a tool belt.
On to shoes. There are 2 options here. Slut boots that are damn sexy but kill my feet and make me look taller than everyone else, and the heels. You have to be damn good to wear heels. Heels were designed by Hitler as a form of torture. I have a ton of them, I'm still not brave enough to wear them to the club. Too many exposed toes. Not to mention, running in heels doesn't happen. Try running from the skeevy guy in the club in a pair of Manolo Blahnik heels. Actually, try standing in Manolos. I dare you. So it's the boots. Which are actually damn sexy, but come up to my knees. Thus my legs are sweaty, sticky and itchy the entire night. Which is fine. They add so much height that I can ask someone else to scratch them for me, they are about at everyone else's arm level.
The hair issue is my biggest downfall. I can leave it curly, and let it do it's own thing and look like Don King for half of the night...or I can straighten it and weigh it down with shine serums and straightening balms so it can get curly and look like shit for the other half of the night. No matter what I do it ends up the same way. In a messy bun that I sculpt out of a hair tie, a little bit of lotion and the beer that every idiot seems to spill in to my hair. I'm like MacGyver when it comes to hair.
This getting ready shit is supposed to be easy, right? Maybe I'm doing it wrong. Does any one else almost bleed to death in an attempt to go out to the club? Perhaps I just frequent the wrong places. Give me a place where I can throw on some ripped jeans and a t-shirt, and throw my hair in a ponytail. I'll probably be much nicer.

Updates are coming, I promise. Been busy.
Until then, here's a little bit of why I adore this guy.

TweekerChickQC: And by cute I mean, damn you look hot there.
PacManJesus: i was horribly hung over
TweekerChickQC: Awww. hangovers are cute as long as I dont have one
TweekerChickQC: Ive never had one, would like to keep it that way
PacManJesus: i used to not get one
PacManJesus: then i started drinking


He's good looking, too. I think we can keep him.