A friend of mine suggested I go through my long random list of links, and post a new one every day to keep him entertained.

Every day.

That's a lot of, well, effort. But I can't say no to a cute guy so here we go, at least until I forget.

First up, John Daly Motivational Posters.

It has been a craptacular week in terms of people dying.

My ex boyfriend felt the need to IM me to let me know that Billie Mays died.

Dude. It's always someone.

This sucks.

I've never been one of those people who cries when celebrities that I've never met kick the bucket. But for some reason it tears my heartstrings just a little bit when people who you can tell were super nice guys bite it early.

If they keep dying off like this, we're going to be left with people like Tila Tequila or whatever the fuck her name was and the cast of Flava Of Love. Do you really want that? I think not.

Anyway, time to send off some queries. Wish me luck!

I'm learning the hard way that it's not always easy to be friends with your exes.

I'm that idiot who always dates people that I've established really great friendships with prior to us fucking it up by dating, so when things inevitably go bad, it's never a clean break. Ever.

Generally, I've done a pretty decent job of staying friends with my exes.

But theres always that few that you still have some passion with, and no matter what you do the same fights keep creeping out of the wood work.

Part of me wants to remain friends, to try to get back what we had.

The other part of me isn't functionally retarded and knows that it's impossible and the problems we had as a couple aren't just going to disappear. I wish they would, though.

The same arguments start getting old. I'm still a bitch who isn't pretty enough for him, and he's still a worthless sack of shit with no redeeming qualities that can't satisfy me in bed.

It's the same old shit over and over again, and it's kind of sad.

Maybe I should adopt the same idea my friend did: I have enough friends, there's the door.

Boo for being a fucking softie.

I am in what seems like a never ending fight with AT&T.

I will lose that fight. It's because of this that I'm typing this blog from the lovely Bensenville Public Library, which has apparently never heard of a chair with any type of padding. Jesus H Christ, sitting in the parking lot would be more comfortable but I digress.

Unlike most of the assholes in the planet who like to call themselves writers, I hate writing in public. There is nothing that screams "Untalented, pretentious asshole" more than lugging your laptop into a public place and setting up shop on the hope that one, just one person, will stop and ask what you are doing so you have the chance to say "I'm a writer".

Actually, no you aren't, you're a pretentious dick, but again I digress.

Writing in public sucks for a few reasons. One, there is a guy snoring and it's throwing off my concentration. Two, I can't really rock out to music in the library (I won't wear headphones in public.) Three?

They insist I wear pants.

I can't write with pants on! Did Paris Hilton create her empire with pants on? Did Bill Clinton lead this country with pants on? Did Jenna Jameson become Jenna Jameson with her pants on?

I think not.

If they can't do their jobs with their pants on, how can I be expected to write with pants on?!

I can't work under these conditions, and I shouldn't have to.

I will be writing a letter to my Congressman.

So, unless you've been living under a rock, you know that Michael Jackson died.

Kind of a bummer, I really enjoyed some of his music.

That being said, Farrah Fawcett died yesterday too, and if I were her, I'd be right pissed that the King Of Pop took some of my "Died before my time" thunder away.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think that either should be ignored. They were both icons.

But I made the mistake of watching the news and had to suffer through fifteen minutes of Michael Jackson's death. Look, it's his place in Gary, Indiana. Look, it's a bunch of people who don't have all their teeth standing outside of his place in Gary, Indiana. Look, it's someone no one has ever heard of talking about how much he liked Michael Jackson. Look, it's some drunk white guy stepping between the reporter and the camera in Gary, Indiana.

Farrah Fawcett was mentioned as almost an after thought, and on one network not at all. Well played, guys.

I dunno, the media circus surrounding celebrity deaths has always kind of bothered me. It's impossible to grieve for your loved one with a camera in your face. Standing a reporter outside a place where a famous person lived when they were seven isn't news. It's obnoxious.

Can we get back to real news, like President Obama killing a fly in a fit of murderous rage, already?

Busy busy busy busy busy.

I've been so busy writing that I'm exhausted. I've been in meetings for Something-Awesome-That-I-Can't-Openly-Discuss-Yet, polishing up my proposal and query letter, waiting for a new contract and trying not to fall asleep at my "real" job which is sucking the life out of me.

I just want to wake up and write.

That's all. Perfect job for me.

All this other going to the office and getting yelled at sucks balls and I'm sick of it. Bah.

But good things are happening! Soon enough, I suppose.

Now, someone bring me some sesame chicken and a nap.

Sorry sorry, I know I am a little late with this one.

My internet is shut off at home until the next time I get paid (God knows when that is), so I'm kind of stuck using the net at work only. It sucks balls, but I suppose it's a lot of uninterrupted writing time.

Anyway, I know I'm a day late, but Happy Father's Day to all the Daddys out there.

Whee!

I'm super excited. I'm still in the middle of what I'm going to refer to as the Great Literary Agent Hunt of 2009, but there's some good news!

Turns out, a rocking author/speaker/TV/Whatever else she does person wants to use an excerpt of my stuff in her upcoming book! I'm pretty stoked. I don't want to give away too much information yet, but when I can I will.

It is nice to know that someone seems to think my writing is worth publishing, in any capacity. Especially someone who lives in Australia. It's one thing for people in your own circle to say you don't suck, but for someone I have no ties to, who lives on the other side of the world saying I don't suck? Well shit, I'll take it.

You don't have to hang around here long to know that I've got some serious asthma, and some other weird ass lung issues that cause me to be somewhat miserable a good portion of the time.

I don't feel sorry for myself, it's just one of those things I deal with. I don't go places with smoke, I don't allow people to smoke in my car, but generally I'm not an asshole about it. It's not the rest of the world's problem that I have crappy lungs.

That being said, I'm still kind of an asshole. When I can't breathe it makes me crabby, which I'm used to. But god help everyone if I haven't had any sleep. I turn into a colossal bitch, and I have been known to make people cry. I'm not kidding. I made a politician tear up because I was tired, and god damn it he started it. I do not fuck around when I'm tired.

In my apartment complex, it's against the rules to have any sort of grill anywhere near the building. No one ever really listens, and that's fine. However, there is this particular Mexican family that lives in an adjacent building that likes to grill right under my windows.

The first time, I nicely asked them if they could move about six feet to the left. And when I say "nicely", I mean just that. I am always nice at first. I told them I wasn't trying to be a pain, and I explained my lung situation and how the smoke gets into my apartment and makes me very sick.

He tells me they are almost done. Fair enough.

It happens again. I ask them again, very nicely, if they could inch it over. Again I explain that I have very bad asthma, I am very allergic to the smoke and I will wind up in the emergency room.

Again he tells me that he's sorry, he forgot. Does not move an inch.

The other day, he's grilling again. I don't know if that's the only way he knows how to cook or what, but again right under my window.

And again I walk down there and ask nicely if they could move just six feet over from my window.

This time, he looks at me and promptly tells me to fuck myself.

Well OK then. I walked back upstairs, while he proceeded to grill under my window for four fucking hours. I don't know much about this kind of thing, but I'm pretty sure after four hours whatever the hell you were cooking is done. He could've stuck an entire cow on that thing and it would be done in less time.

And because of that, I was up all night doing breathing treatments and popping steroids so I could stop wheezing. Trying to prevent a trip to the Emergency Room.

This does not make me happy. Staying up all night strung out on steroids is only fun if you're a profesional baseball player.

As I was hauling my sick ass to work, I noticed. The grill was still there. Under my window. But Paco was nowhere to be found. He left it under my window. Insult to injury.

Now, I am not a vengeful person. I am one of those people who is nice until I'm just not anymore. And I did ask him nice three times. The forth time I do not ask and I am not nice. But I'd never do anything to anyone else's property that I'd admit on a public forum.

All I know is that the grill is now missing, and I can only assume that someone who was angry with the owner maybe left a note saying "Please Pick This Up" on it after dragging it over to the dumpster. But that's pure speculation as I'd never, ever do anything like that.

So I think my neighbor learned a few important life lessons that day.
1. You should pick up your things after you're done using them.
2. Being a good neighbor only makes your life easier.
3. Don't ever piss me off when I'm sick and tired. It only ends in tears.
4. Don't pick on people who wake up earlier than you do.
5. You should be careful who you tell to fuck off.

So, in response to his suggestion when I asked him the third time to please move, I feel the need to say the following:

Fuck me? Fuck me? Oh no, my little bean eating friend. Fuck you.

Well shit!

I was having a bad day and being all crabby and bitchy, because it's what I do.

Some people paint, others sing, I bitch about random shit.

But Brian Smith, (Not Bryant!) ruined that. Because that's what he does, he's a ruiner. He ruined a perfectly good bad mood.

Nothing like sitting around and getting a text message of "I just saw your blog on TV".
Which generally means one of two things: The FBI is looking for me or...ok fine, it only means one thing.

Turns out Brian got me an early birthday present and got me Tweekerchick.com.
And, in a tribute to the greatest song ever made, he also got me Bigbootybitchwhothinkssheistheshit.com

Yea, he's hard to love sometimes.

Anyway, the show is pretty bad ass. This particular one is how to break out of police grade handcuffs. Not that I'd ever know anything about that or ever have any use for that particular skill stop looking at me that way.

If you want to skip to awesome check out the 7 minute mark, but I'm putting the entire thing because if you're reading my blog, chances are the info will come in handy.

By far one of the coolest things that's happened to me.

I've got some seriously awesome friends.

Thanks Brian, you're the best.

Now I have all this extra energy to write that book (FINE. Find and agent and write a book, rub it in), and hopefully get back to work at Tame The Bear!

While you're here, check out Blood Guts and Shiny Things. I've really been digging it lately.

So I did it.

I busted my ass all weekend, and wrote sixty-seven pages of a proposal. It seems like a lot, but when you're writing a book with fifty chapters, it's really not.

Anyhooter, it was a long weekend. Went through 2 cases of diet coke, and I ran out of coffee early in to Saturday morning. The sad thing, is that it's still not done. However, now that I have the chapter outline out of the way, the rest is smooth sailing.

At least that's what I Thought.

Sixty-seven pages. Two pages longer than my senior thesis in college, done in about 48 hours (taking into account the amount of time I screwed around on the Internet instead of working).

I finished at 9:14 PM.

And I was thrilled.

Nothing sounds better than printing that bad boy, taking a purple pen to it, editing it and being done with it so I can find someone to buy my book.

I was wrong.

Sixty-two pages into the print job, things are fine.

Page Sixty-Fucking-Two comes along, and I run out of toner. No biggie, I always keep another on hand. Pop the new one in there, click resume...and nothing.

Cancel the job and start a new one for pages sixty-fucking-two to sixty-fucking-seven.

Nothing.

Wash rinse repeat.

I do this a few times and finally, FINALLY something prints.

It's pages sixty-fucking-two to sixty-fucking-seven!

Well, sort of. Now it's only printing roughly every other line.

My eye has been twitching since. Any ideas?

I'm going to finish my book proposal today, come hell or high water.

The part that's taking forever is the chapter outlines...there are fifty chapters! Yes, I know, I've done it to myself.

I have finally put my finger on what's taken me so long.

Meeblings.

They have ruined any chance I had of productivity for awhile. Cute little addicting things that go "Meep!"

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I've been spending more and more of my time on Twitter , and because of that I've been lucky enough to chat with more than a few literary agents, publishers, editors and what have you.

And they have subsequently scared the bejeezus out of me.

Jesus Christ on a Crutch, they can be terribly scary people (Unless they are planning on representing, publishing, etc. me, in which case, total kittens. All of them.)

If you've ever met me, you'd know that I've got a set of brass plated balls the size of Miami, and it takes a special kind of person to give me pause. They've managed to do it.

Their blogs and tweets are intimidating to say the least, especially if you're a newer writer. It's always a new blog post on what some other writer did terribly wrong, as a lesson to the rest of us. I suppose they aren't paid to be sunshine and butterflies, and I'm sure a good majority of their day is filled with sifting through misspelled bullshit. At the same time, for a writer who is wet behind the ears, they can be the most terrifying people on earth.

Common sense says if you have a good idea/manuscript/proposal/set of boobs you should have no problem presenting it to an agent. Common sense also says I should stop wearing five inch heels three weeks after I broke three of my toes, but you don't see me doing that either.

My proposal is an adaptation of a piece I wrote that was published internationally, has had over a million readers on my dinky little blog alone, and has a following on Facebook that's 40,000 strong. (Forty-thousand people! Humbling, really.) I know that my book will be faboosh, and even better, marketable.

Knowing that doesn't make it any less intimidating sending it off to industry professionals to tear apart though.

The truth is, writing a proposal for other people to tear apart is scary. Writing a book is entirely more personal than I had ever anticipated, and at some level, it's really difficult to separate myself from the manuscript. It becomes an extension of yourself, and the idea of putting that out there so other people can judge it makes me incredibly nervous. However it's par the course, and I'm alright with that. I'd be concerned if it didn't scare me. Good things can be scary. Good things that can get you out of a shitty job and into a position where you can do something you love every day can be worse.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a proposal to finish and a Zanax to take.

I don't know if anyone caught the newest Burn Notice, but holy shit was it fab.

I never wanted my blog to be one of those sites where people come and talk about TV in such a serious way that it sucks all the fun out of it, so I'll keep it for what it is as a whole: Mindless entertainment that will only make my ass bigger.

That being said, the season premiere was so fucking good I felt like I needed a cigarette afterwards. Michael Westin is our generation's MacGyver but with way better hair and Armani suits, and for anyone who likes good looking men, you can't beat him in a prison jumpsuit working out. Just saying.

Plus, it's got Bruce Campbell. How can you go wrong?

Let me tell you. Fiona.

I love the character. She's bad assery, and I would not fuck with a person who would throw a block of C4 at someones head, regardless of it's stability.

However, can we get her to eat something? Please?
She is getting so thin that it's almost distracting to the story lines.

The show is in it's third season, she can afford a burger by now, Jesus H Christ. She's a great character and it would really throw a wrench in the works if she starved to death.

I am not having a good morning.

Which is really nothing new or exciting on a work day, but I digress.

I was doing my hair this morning, because I got it cut in a way that dictates I have to blow dry it every fucking day. Not my best call, but it's uber cute.

Long with chunky layers and side swept bangs. Very Ashlee Simpson when her hair was good. But again, not my point.

I know I live a high stress life, mostly because I'm just like my mother and if there's something on the planet to worry about, I'll find it and freak out about it. When you get us together, it's like a race to see who can give themselves a bleeding ulcer first.

This morning while I was busy making my bangs all side swept, and worrying whether or not I'd ever get a new contract, sell my book proposal, finish the book proposal, find someone who will tolerate me, get married, and find the perfect shoes something in the mirror caught my eye.

I have a grey fucking hair.

Well, I had a grey fucking hair, as my initial reaction was to scream "What the fuck?!" and pluck it out so fast I almost went back in time.

I am not happy. I'm turning 27 in August, and I don't feel that old. Not even close. But apparently the wrinkle on my forehead (That no one can notice but me but as soon as I get on my feet I fully plan on Botox-ing the shit out of), and my hair think otherwise.

I will not age gracefully and you can't make me.

Suck on that.

I've been cranking away at the book proposal, if only so I can get the hell out of my job. Why, you ask, do I hate my job so much? (Maybe you didn't ask. But I'm the only blogger around here, so pipe down). Because it's sales.

I suck balls at sales. The next person who tells me that they can teach me to be good at sales is going to spend the rest of the workday sewing up the new orifice I will tear them. There seems to be some misunderstanding. It's not that I hate sales because I'm bad at it. I'm bad at it because I hate it. I don't want to be good at it.

So, dear Literary Agents, Publishers, Etc:

Please save me from this hell.

Kisses,
Clare


Until then, I've been tinkering around the Internet, and I found some awesomely hilarious links that I will share with you here so it appears that I've actually written something of substance, which, if you've read this far you can tell that I certainly have not.

The first one is just what the title says. Goths in Hot Weather.

For my readers that are as mean as I am, here are the 10 most inappropriate Helen Keller things online. I can't believe you'd laugh at those. What the hell is wrong with you?

I've finally found myself a nice, good man in Chicago I'd be willing to date.

I'm super stoked about Drag Me To Hell, because I dig horror movies, and I love Sam Raimi even more. So here are his 5 Most Disturbing Moments. Sadly, Emo Spideman seems to have been left off of the list.

And finally, to make your work life a little more colorful, let's let the CIA take us on a little trip.

I was laying in bed last night when I realized that there's something I really hate that seems to have escaped my post from last night. How I missed this, what with recent media events, I'll never know but I'm fixing it now.

Whether it's the fact that she is a huge famewhoring cunt, or the fact that she pimps out her children, marriage and family for media attention, or just her stupid face, I can't tell you, but Kate Gosselin deserves a nod on my things that piss me off.

I'm pretty sure it's mostly the blatant exploitation of her children for a quick buck that pisses me off, considering that if Octo-Mom has taught us anything it's that it's alright to be devoid of all talent, style and redeeming qualities as long as you are fertile enough to have more than six kids in one sitting. I suppose sponging off of your offspring and ruining any chance of them growing up as normal well adjusted human beings is a hell of a lot easier than a nine to five, but the rest of us don't have to be happy about it. I can't wait until they turn into teenagers, band together and revolt agaisnt her using a high priced lawyer and divorce her stupid ass just like her husband should. Oh snap, I went there.

So Kate, if you ever happen to read this: You're a bitch and no one likes you. And by the way, your hair looks stupid.

Ive had a hard time finding things to write about because I've been so wrapped up in my book proposal. However, my friend over at Insatiable Blathering inspired me to start writing today with her list of things that piss her off.

So here is my list.

Shortened considerably. After all the Internet is only so big.

1. My Boss pulling me into his office for a lecture when I'm obviously on my way to the bathroom.

There are two things in the office when you walk down that hall. The door to leave, and the bathroom. Do I have my purse, sunglasses and car keys? No? Then I'm going to the goddamn bathroom, leave me alone. If you pull me into your office again when I'm going to the bathroom, I will pee in your office. Do not test me.


2. Not getting paid on time.

Believe it or not, convincing Com Ed not to turn off my power, Dish not to turn off my TV, and ATT not to axe my Internet is not my idea of fun.


3. The Black Eyed Peas.

Really? Boom Boom Pow? It sounds like names a frat boy would give his genitalia.

4.Heidi Montag

I don't know what it is about her. Maybe it's that she's not that cute and is still hotter than me. Maybe it's her douche baggy boyfriend. Maybe it's that she just wimped out of a reality show, when the proceeds go to charity, because it was too hard and she's a sniveling bitch who has never had to work for anything in her life.

Regardless of the reason, this picture of her makes me laugh my fucking ass off every time. Thanks to Matt-T over at Stealing Happy Hours for letting me steal the picture.


5. Not having dental insurance.

Twenty six years, totally covered. The minute I work at a place without dental? I chip a tooth. In front. Thanks God, I needed that.


6. Cops who ask me if I know why they pulled me over.

Here's the thing. There are measures in place to prevent people from incriminating themselves in a court of law. However, get me on the side of the road with a police officer, and suddenly every criminal activity I've ever engaged in comes flying out of my cake hole. After I run the list of legitimate reasons he probably pulled me over (ie: I was speeding, I didn't use my turn signal, I crossed 4 lanes of traffic, and I didn't yield back there) nine times out of fucking ten it's something I have no idea is even wrong. Like the fact that my tail light is out. Again.

By that point, it's too late to change your answer. Trust me, I've tried.


7. Family Guy jumping the shark.

I definitely preferred Family Guy over American Dad, but I was wrong. Family Guy seems to have turned into a half an hour game of "Let's see if we can beat Stewie being queer into the ground and then make horribly offensive jokes just for the sake of seeing if we can get away with it. Fuck being funny!" The notable exception being the most recent episode, and the only reason that gets a pass is because if you want to get technical about it, Stephen King was the genius behind the entire episode.

American Dad has been passed the torch, which makes me wrong and I hate being wrong.


8. Being told "You don't understand what I'm saying" when I disagree with someone.

Here's the thing. I'm not stupid. I understand what you're saying. I comprehend it. I just think you're wrong. And how much of a dickhead are you to imply that if I think you're wrong I'm obviously too stupid to get what you're saying?

Here's the answer: A huge dickhead. Huge.


Wow. I feel a ton better now. Time to write more of the proposal so I can quit my shitty job and spend my life entertaining the masses!