Tomorrow is going to rock so ridiculously hard.

I've been a reader of This Blog for quite awhile now. After a few emails back and forth I got to know the guy behind it (as well as you can between emails and the occasional IM).

So you can imagine my excitement when he said he's coming to Chicago for a Sox game. Do the Sox suck? Of course they do. But that means I get to meet up with one of the funniest guys on the planet.

Fucking score.

Like one of my friends said. "He's survived cancer, Clare. Don't you think he's suffered enough?".

If he wants to hang out with me, I think its obvious that the answer is "No."

Hopefully one of us gets a good story out of it. Both of us if we manage to stay out of the clink.

I think the majority of my friends back home have lost their minds. Seriously.

I woke up this morning to my friend D screeching into my cell phone. If history has told me anything, D being up early means one thing: She has done something stupid.

Now, she's one of my best friends and I feel comfortable calling her a dumb ass on the internet, because this is nothing I haven't said to her face regularly throughout our friendship. I love her, but if there is any possible way she can either break something or hurt herself, she will. It makes life interesting, and is the reason we don't allow her near fire.

But I digress.

She called me this morning shrieking like one of the girls on Flava of Love because her boyfriend proposed to her. As in, my clumsy, weird, irrefutably bitchy friend is getting married.

Part of me is really happy for her, the other part of me that is over protective is going "You've been with him less than 5 months." Being one of her best friends, I balls out told her that.

Her response? "Clare, it's one of those things you just know."

One of those things you just know. Says the girl who can barely keep from setting herself on fire when she goes on smoke breaks.

The thing is, I am happy for her. It's just strange. My best friend is a daddy. D is getting married. Other friends have careers. I'm just wondering when the hell we all grew up.

We've gone from tattoos, drugs, and keggers to careers, babies and marriage. It's not a bad thing, bit part of me misses the lack of responsibility.

Anyway, congrats D. May you make his life a living hell for many many years to come.

I know this is late, I'm a chode like that.

Happy late birthday to my heterolifemate.

You're the best friend a cranky blogger could ever ask for, and I love you.

Oh, and you're old.

I feel weird.

And that's not because I had a lot of tequila and some vodka tonight.

It's because of a guy. Yea, write that one down.

Of all people, I feel strange over a guy. And it's not what you think.

He actually likes me back and that to me is absolutely bizarre. I've spent countless hours wanting my ex back so badly that this completely blindsided me. And it's the weirdest thing ever.

He wants to do things with me. In public. That don't require drugs, alcohol and a low cut shirt. Or public indecency charges. He's met my best friend and my best friend didn't hit him in the face. He's met most of my best friends save my heterolifemate, and they all absolutely adore him. He makes me laugh, and I haven't laughed in a long time.

So whats the problem?

He likes me.

I know, how fucked up can you be Clare?

He met me a few days before some medical shit, when I was puffy on prednisone. And he still called me the next day (despite my not putting out!). And he likes me in the morning when I'm grumpy and refuse to speak to anyone. And he likes me when my eyeliner is halfway down my cheeks because I've been drinking and that's what happens when I drink. And he thinks it's cute that I'm difficult. He likes that I'm stubborn and obnoxious and a huge pain in the ass. He likes me despite the fact that I forget to eat for days at a time and sometimes my left eyebrow twitches from stress.

And I'm not sure because I wasn't ready for any of this. At all. I never thought I'd ever find one guy who liked the way I hate pickles, and only liked certain kinds of mustard. And when that one guy left I was sure that it was just it and I'd never find that again, and here it is, and it's all I can do not to completely fuck it up.

The worst part? I think he might feel the same way. His boss had to tell him to stop purposely ruining whatever it is we had. It's easy to say it's no big thing when he's not around, but when I get near him I smile. And it's been a long time since I've done that.

Oh dear lord, what have I gotten myself into?

Dear Hollywood:

I understand that this is most likely going to be hard for you to understand amid the marijuana smoke and cocaine high. And although I'm sure the fact that most of you are slowly starving to death is just hell on your concentration, I think you can handle it. But for those of you that are already too bitchy without a cigarette, I'll make this fast.

The rate in which you are all popping out children is alarming, to say the least. It occurs to me that you all may not realize that despite what Angelina would have you think, children don't actually come from countries halfway across the globe with names you can't pronounce.

One would assume that this entire Jayme Lynn debacle would have made the majority of you sit back for a moment and think "Self, why did that happen?" and furthermore "Self, how can I keep from having a child that will most likely wind up retarded simply because it shares half of my DNA."

Because y'all have been up to this point completely unable to figure it out, let me help you.

Stop having sex.

For most people I'd suggest using birth control, but since it seems to have completely flown over your heads, I'm going to operate under the assumption that something as complicated as taking a pill everyday or wearing a condom would only confuse you. After all, you're not paid to be smart or talented, just pretty.

Oh, and speaking of pretty, pregnancy makes you fat.

Is there something in the water in LA? Seriously? Because you are the most fertile group of people on the fucking planet. The problem being there are maybe 9 of you that should be reproducing.

I don't necessarily buy the idea that you all need to be married to have children, but at the same time is the idea of birth control completely lost on you? I mean you think birth control will make you gain weight? Try pregnancy.

What bothers me the most is that it's a trend. Where I come from sleeping with someone without protection makes you stupid.

In Short: It's a miracle more of you don't have herpes, for the love of christ stop having sex with each other, and everyone pray. Ashlee Simpson having a child is surely a sign that th e 4 horsemen of the apocalypse will be here shortly.

Love and Kisses

Me

PS. Stop getting tattoos in stupid places.

There are certain things by whatever force of nature, just happen.

Spring follows winter. The sun rises every day, and sets every night. Gravity will always keep us from flying randomly off of the earth. Skinned knees will always hurt more than major injuries. Much like earthquakes, tornadoes, droughts, volcanic eruptions, there are some forces of nature that just can't be prevented. The most classic example of this phenomenon is my ability to embarrass myself every single time I leave the house.

It is a force that can't be contained, at this point NASA is busy trying to figure out how mitigate the damage left in my wake.

My sleep schedule is massively screwed up at the moment. And I mean massively. Since Wednesday, I have averaged 3 hours or less of sleep a night. Now, to function as a normal human I need at least 6 hours of sleep, 8 if you want me to be nice.

I flew out of O'Hare Airport to Indianapolis on Saturday morning at 6:00 AM. This is the shortest flight in the history of the universe. It takes literally 1 hour to get there, including check in and baggage claim. By the time I got packed and to the airport, I had clocked exactly an hour of sleep on Friday night. Tired is not the appropriate word for what I was.

Sleeping on the plane was simply not an option. I am neurotic enough that I can't fall asleep in public places. I won't do it. Something in my psyche just won't allow it, and this most likely stems from a friend of mine who once fell asleep on a train and woke up in another state. I have managed to convince myself if I was to ever fall asleep on any public transportation, I will wake up in Bolivia. It doesn't matter that the Metra doesn't go to Bolivia, I am sure I will still somehow wake up there.

So, I get to my seat next to a Vin Diesel look alike, which proves that 1) God is a Woman and 2) She loves me. We chit chat for a minute, he turns on his iPod, I pick up a magazine and try to relax.

Only to wake up about an hour later, snuggled up to Vin 2.0. And I mean snuggled. My head was nuzzled against his chest and my arm was kind of draped across him.

Apparently, my inability to fall asleep in public is only limited to times when it won't be embarrassing as shit for me.

So what do you say when you wake up half laying on the hottest guy you have ever seen?

If you're me, the answer is "Oh Jesus, I didn't drool on you did I?".

Not only did I fall asleep and then snuggle a complete (and gorgeous) stranger, I then admitted I drool.

Isn't it amazing I'm single?

I am less than happy. There's basically a hiring freeze cause of the recession, so instead of laying me off, they gave me a new job.

I am now Sales Coordination Specialist. Meaning all the sales people kiss my ass, and I hate my life. I hate sales. And although I'm grateful for employment, I was so depressed when I did sales I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. I hate it that much. Not to mention, I am losing about a buttload in salary this year, provided I'm ONLY doing this for a month. If it goes longer, go ahead and double or triple that number.

So I am less than happy.

So, because I write when I am less than happy, I'd like to present you all with a list of things I'd rather do than sales.

Enjoy my pain.

• Any of my arch nemeses
  
• Take a vow of chastity
• Listen to Hollaback girl on repeat
• Give up tequila and drugs
• Watch the view
• Have any kind of oral surgery
• Poke myself in the eye
• Take it in the ass from the entire Chicago Bears football team, including Grossman who would most likely have just as much trouble finding my butt as he does a football
• Get a sex change operation
• Have a lesbian encounter with Amy Winehouse after she got her tooth fixed
• Have a lesbian encounter with Amy Winehouse before she got her tooth fixed
• Pete Dougherty
• Anything involving Martha Stewart
• Watch Catwoman again
• Befriend Paris Hilton
• Become a Scientologist
• Shove steel wool in my hoo-ha and run around the block
• Give the cast of Jackass rim jobs
• Give up caffeine
• Watch 2 girls 1 cup on a continuous loop
• Let Ron Jeremy stick it anywhere he wants
• Get a colonoscopy
• Let Britney Spears run over my foot
• Move to Utah
• Try Heroin
• Give myself a paper cut and rub lemon juice in it
• Try microdermabrasion with a sandblaster
• Pick up an STI from the guy who played the fat guy in Seven
• Lick Hillary Clinton's kankle
• Bite Ross Perot's nipple
• Vote for Bush
• Move to Canada
• Jam a fork under my fingernail
• Cut my hair into the bulldyke mullet and wear flannel
• Snort cocaine cut with laxatives
• Wear nothing but flowy clothing in earth tones like those nutty feminists do
• Sell my favorite and beloved little Pomeranian to the Chinese food restaurant near my house
• Listen to my twin sister screech
• Roll around in the snow naked in the parking lot of Pow's office
• Get caught shoplifting in Singapore with a joint in my pocket
• Go to the south side in the middle of the night and randomly call people 'Mick' "Shant" and "Paddy"
• 3 some with my ex boyfriend and his current slut (someone call him his dream has come true)
• Get myself a girlfriend and a guide on fisting
• Go blonde

There are more but my fingers hurt.


GAHHH. I think I just had a stroke.

So, I was going through comments on my last post, and I found this from Jen.
"Hey I wasn't sure if you know, but Dan Parmenter was the little and only brother of Kristen Parmenter of Augustana. You would remember her from all the drunkin nights we spent at Mis B's. I just found out this morning and thought I would help spread the word to those who know the Parmenter family. Thank you for your blog too by the way. I'm sure it really means a lot to everyone. :)"

And I think my heart broke just a little bit more.

The entire thing is just something I can't wrap my head around, and this just drove it home.

Prayers for Kristen and her family. I'm sorry I'm not in the QC to pay my respects the way I want to.

If you haven't been living under a rock you probably have heard about the shooting at Northern Illinois University on Valentine's Day. 6 people including the shooter were killed, and 16 others wounded.

And everyone has an opinion. I've had the pleasure of hearing debates on gun control. Whether or not this kind of thing can be prevented. Whether or not the campus security was up to par. Whether people with psychiatric disabilities should be forced to take their medicines.

I want to use this opportunity to tell you all to please be quiet.

Somewhere right now is a mother who's world just came crashing down. A father right now is grieving the little girl that he taught to ride a bike. Somewhere at NIU, a student is learning the hard way whether the urban legend about getting all As for a semester if your roommate dies is true.

Someone woke up this morning without a best friend. Someone woke up this morning without an older brother. There are families, students, teachers that will never know "normal" again. There is a father trying to figure out how his son who was by all accounts a 'good kid' did something so heinous I can't begin to wrap my head around it. Someone just lost the girlfriend they loved with every last bit of their heart.

Somewhere, a person picked up the phone to call a loved one, and instead got news that would change their lives forever. Somewhere someone's world just stopped. Their lives, their world, nothing will ever be the same again.

So please, just for a second. Stop bickering about gun control. Or campus safety. Or psychotropic drugs. Stop using this to justify your position or to further your political agenda. Just for a second, let the people affected put their lives back together a little bit before you use them as an example.

Like I said on another site. I am so thankful all of my loved one's are safe, but my heart is broken for the people who aren't lucky enough to say that.

So just stop.

It seems like everywhere I turn, there is another mention of someone who has a "friend with benefits". Cosmo has dedicated articles to it, there is an episode of Seinfeld dedicated to it, and it seems to have become the catalyst for a lot of stupid bullshit.

Although any sort of relationship involving sex seems to bring its fair share of drama and irritations, nothing seems quite as complicated as this "friends with benefits" thing that I keep hearing about.

I am going to do what I do best. I'm going to un-complicate this in the form of a nifty list, so you can all get back to humping and stop asking me for advice.

TweekerChick's Guide To Screwing Your Friend, Not Your Friendship:

1. For the idea of "friends with benefits" to actually work the way it should, the two fornicators should ideally be friends in the first place. This might seem obvious, considering its referred to as "Friends with benefits" and not "Some random guy who bought me tequila at the bar with benefits". This implies that you actually enjoy their company with their clothes on. I'll touch on booty calls/fuck buddies in my book (self promotion, woo!), but that's an entirely different set of rules and regulations. Now repeat after me. "If I have a closer relationship with the person who changes my oil than with the person I am about to hump, it is a booty call." See? That wasn't so hard.

2. For the love of GOD, do not fall in love with the person. This is the number one thing that screws the pooch every single bloody time. I think its something with the endorphins released after sex. One minute you're humping her and smacking her ass and the next minute you're thinking of a little house with a white picket fence and 3.2 kids and a dog named Max. Don't do it.
3. Speaking of kids, birth control is your friend. I like to give you guys the benefit of the doubt, but with whats going on in the media, I am going to give you all what I like to call "TweekerChick's Quick Guide On Where Babies and Herpes Come From". Babies come from having sex without using birth control or condoms. Herpes come from having sex without using a condom.

I don't know if people lately missed that chapter in health class in 8th grade, but not all STDs are visible, and a lot of people who are carriers of diseases that can kill you don't show any symptoms. They might not even know they have it. Stop having unprotected sex. Pulling out is not effective birth control. Praying to god for your rag is not effective birth control. Fucking hanging upside down from the ceiling fan on the third day after the seventh sabbath after the new moon is not effective birth control. Do you WANT to be like Britney Spears? DO YOU? I didn't think so. Don't do it. Safe sex. Every time.

4. There is more to this relationship than playing hide the salami. Say that out loud. One more time. Keep in mind: This person is your friend. The goal is to keep that person as your friend while continuing to see them naked when you're horny. The easiest way to do this is to hang out with them like normal as well. If every single time you two are together turns into an orgy of sin, you've already fucked it up.

5. Lay out the ground rules in regards to other people right away. I don't mean that in a "can we have a threesome" kind of way. There needs to be a very open dialog on whether or not you are allowed to schtupp other people. If you ignore this step, you have forfeited your right to be upset when you walk into the frat house to find the football team stuffing your friend like a turkey.

6. If you decide to not have sex with others, that does not in any way imply a relationship. Friends with benefits are most commonly used for that nasty time in between relationships where you need to blow a load but don't want to deal with the constant bitching of another person. When, not if, WHEN your partner finds a new significant other, you do not reserve the right to listen to Hawthorne Heights and write shitty poetry about how she broke your heart.

7. Be discreet. Nothing will bite you in your ass faster than announcing your friends with benefits status. If you want to be able to kick it with this person after they get a new boy/girl friend, I'd strongly suggest shutting your yap. Because I know few people who'd say "Oh sure honey, you go right ahead and go watch movies with the person you were sleeping with before me. I am totally comfortable with you two being alone in the dark, because I trust that you won't have mind blowing sex with them one more time". Even if you really won't cheat, it'll still be a gigantic pain that you have to deal with, all which would've been prevented if you'd have kept your mouth flaps shut.

8. You are not allowed to sabotage what could be a decent new relationship for her just so you can keep your piece of ass. Yea, I know that hurts. However, it hurts a lot less than her foot crushing your testicles when she finds out that you labeled her as a "No Touchie".

9. The "No Touchie Rule" (Essentially calling dibs on a girl to some of your close friends) applies only in your very inner circle. Normally, it is well within your rights to tell your friends, drinking buddies, etc, that they aren't allowed to pursue your girl thing after you broke up. However, this is not your girlfriend. She is your girl friend. There is a difference. The no touchie rule here applies to your roommate, your best friend(s) and potentially your family (immediate only), and that is only to prevent roommate problems and awkward silences at family reunions.

10. Whoever said you can't call the next day most likely never got to tap that ass again. If you normally call her, call her the next day and chat like you normally do. If you don't normally call her, don't you dare touch that phone. The rest of your friendship needs to stay the way it was. If you can't do that, keep it in your pants. It really isn't rocket science.

11. Keep the bragging to yourself. Yes, I know it's some weird male thing that you guys need to let everyone within the current time zone know that you did, in fact, tap that ass. But this is your friend and she deserves a little bit more respect than the sorority girl at the bar with the skirt so short you can see her ovaries.

12. If for some reason the friendship dissolves later, you do not have a green light to be a chode. Yes, sticking it in her roommates ass while yelling "You are so much better than your skanky friend!" and then blowing your load on her pillow would give you a moment of vindication. But one moment of vindication is not worth the end result, which is you never getting pussy ever again once you are out of traction.

13. If you find yourself in a new relationship, immediately let your friend know. Under no circumstances are you to show up with a Heidi Klum look alike out of nowhere and introduce her to the girl you boned last night as "Your new girlfriend". Girls are horribly mean to each other, and once they are done scratching out each others eyes and calling each other fat, they will turn on you. And you will not win.

They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. The person who said that obviously never incurred the wrath of two of them at once. If you do this, you might as well saw off your penis with your pocket knife, it'll be a lot less painful. Women are dangerously insane, and the sooner you come to realize this, the better. The ones that don't appear to be dangerously insane are the worst of the bunch. Believe this.

14. There will be absolutely no discussion of...mechanical failures, if you will. If Little Elvis didn't come for the show, fine. If she makes some weird noise, fine. Whiskey dick. Fine. Address it at the moment and then be done with it. No talking about it over beers. No sitting over a latte and discussing how your last sneeze lasted longer than he did.

15. Do not even look at that relationship status on Facebook. I am not kidding. They might as well replace "Open Relationship" And "It's Complicated" with "We totally screwed, but one of us is scared to death of commitment, and the other one is holding off for something better. Or is a huge slut." Really, all it does is beg the question, and people will ask.

16. If your best friend is of the opposite sex, they are off limits. If they are the same sex, it's slightly more amusing for people like me, but they are still off limits. This is because very few of these arrangements work out in the long term and there is nothing more soul crushing than losing your best friend because you couldn't think with the head attached to your shoulders.

In my entire life, I know of one person who ever had a "Friends with benefits" relationship with their best friend that didn't back fire. (Dad, if you are reading this, stop right here. Mom, if you are reading this, distract Dad and hide the keys for the gun cabinet).

That person is me. My best friend and I did it like bunnies on X for almost a year. When we both got into a relationship with other people it was hard, but we finally realized that it was stupid of us to ever have sex because fundamentally, we couldn't stand each other (which really is the basis for any good relationship). He's still my best friend to this day, we haven't scrogged in almost 6 years and things have never been better for either of us.

Why am I telling you this? Because I can almost promise that won't happen for you. It only happened this way for us because we were on a lot of drugs at the time. So don't do it, lest your life becomes a shitty episode of Dawson's Creek and your friends hate you because they have to listen to you consistently bitch about it.

17. Knock off that sexual tension bullshit. Put 50 people in a room and I can tell you who had sex with who, and who wants to because most people have really shitty poker faces. If Helen Keller could tell that you were storming the pearly gates with your purple headed devil, you are doing something wrong.

Really guys. I could go on all night with this, but I'm freezing my jigglies off and I'm tired. But now you have some words to live by for when you decide to Windsurf on Mount Baldy with your friend that will hopefully keep them your friend after they realize that you have no idea what you're doing in bed. Happy Humping, you dirty fornicators.

Last night, this morning. Same thing.

This post is a little over due, but that's life.

2008 couldn't come fast enough. 2007 was kind of the "The Year That Sucked Balls For Everyone On The Planet", so most of the free world was eternally excited to give it the kiss off. Even New Years Eve was starting off as a suck fest, the heat in my car broke on the way to the bar, all of my plans fell through and I was about to ring in The New Year in a shitty bar with my half-Asian brother type of person.

About ten minutes until midnight, I turned to Pittman, the half-Asian, and said words I would live to regret.

"Fuck you, 2007 there's nothing you can do to me anymore!". How the bar didn't go up in flames at that point is anyones guess.

I rang in New Years Eve sitting in a dive bar in Elmhurst IL wearing a leopard print tiara while an old guy across the bar licked his lips and stared at my cleavage. Good start, 2008.

Then, a gift from god. I get a text from a guy I know. There's a party, get your ass over here, and how nice for me, it's close to The Red Head I Want To See Naked.

Now, this particular friend. He knows me well enough to know that God hates me and punishes me at every opportunity possible. He also knows that people around me are often collateral damage. And bless his heart, he wants to hang out with me anyway. (Brave or stupid, you be the judge.)

The Half-Asian and I make it to the party where we are greeted by my friend, who in a vast attempt to prove that he is indeed a heterosexual was wearing a plaid shirt and a plaid fedora that don't match (If anyone ever makes a video titled "Two Plaids, One Guy" you know its him).

Drinks are drunk, life is fun, I'm introduced to his friend Matt, and his ex girlfriend who is nicknamed after an aquatic mammal, and is totally ok with this. We decide to go after party somewhere else, the results of which can only be labeled as "entirely my fault for testing God".

So, we all pile into a car and decide to swing by my place to grab a few bottles of wine and my glasses so I can see more than 3 inches in front of my own nose. The thing with driving with a bunch of new people is that you get to learn an awful lot about them.

Some of those things are good to know before getting into a car with them. For example: Matt happens to live next to someone I'd like to hit in the face. That would've been good to know before hand. To be honest, I would've been happier hearing "I use heroin and I am carrying a bag with me right now" than "I live next to douche bag". But whatever.

We are cruising happily along Irving Park Road when my plaid clad friend pulls over to the side of the road. And unless he was getting ready to put the moves on one of us, this was not going to end well. We had run out of gas.

At three in the morning.

On New Years Eve.

I was trapped. In a car. With no gas. With a kid wearing two plaids, a half Asian, an aquatic mammal and the neighbor of a person I hate. Thank you, God. I needed that.

A car pulls up behind us, and despite what I've learned in every single horror movie I have ever seen, the boys get out of the car. It's a short little Asian guy. He says he'll bring gas and be right back. Right. One of two things will come from this: He will come back, abduct us all and take us to some deserted farm and eat us, or he will laugh his skinny ass off as he drives straight home and goes to bed.

If any of you reading this happen to know anyone at Roadside Assistance, I want you to punch them in the gonads. Hard. Go ahead, I'll wait. It was like a game of 20 fucking questions, none of which helped us to get any gas in the car. Meanwhile, The Red Head I Want To See Naked is texting me to come get him, and the police pulled up behind us.

Great. Nothing says Happy New Year like the police. Sergent Dumb ass says he will come back and check on us in fifteen minutes. Nothing.

Then I saw something that simultaneously renewed my faith in humanity and caused me to laugh my ass off. On the other side of Irving Park Road, there was a short little Asian with a gas can, running through traffic like a real life game of Frogger towards us. He gives us enough gas to go to a gas station and refuses to let us pay for it, telling us only to Pay It Forward (which up until now I chalked up to being a big load of hippie bullshit).

So, to sum up New Years In A Few Nifty Bullet Points:

• Heater in the Car broke, which later turned out to be $1200 bucks in repairs, and I'm lucky it didn't explode and kill me.
  
• I didn't get to see the red head naked.
• I wound up sitting on the side of the road with a half-Asian, the neighbor to my arch-nemesis, an aquatic mammal and a guy who wears two different plaids in public.

Things this has taught me:

• Make sure John checks the gas gauge BEFORE we leave next time
• God is not above taking out an entire car full of people, including a minority, to give me the finger
• It is possible to wear two different plaids and still look sexy
  
• The State of Illinois owes everyone in that car a refund for the exact amount of that police officers salary
• It is possible to pee outside in freezing weather and not wind up stuck to the ground by a stream of pee (the Dolphin taught me this)
  
• Don't ever call the police, just keep a short Asian guy on retainer, it's a sure bet.
  

On a serious note, a huge thank you to Jin. You got us out of a bad situation and renewed my faith in humanity and expected nothing in return. May karma shower you with beautiful naked women clutching hundred dollar bills, or anything else you could possibly want out of life.

To God: Do you feel better now?

So, I've a new post in the works.


Tonight, dear loves.

Until then, Vote For My Friend Matt

This entire weekend was insane. Even by my standards, which is actually quite the accomplishment, as I consider a relaxed weekend one in which I don't have to bail someone I know out of jail.

It started on Friday when I agreed to go to Soundbar with one of my favorite people. He was originally going to go with this guy who looks kind of like Harry Connick Jr, but he bailed so I decided to be a good friend and go along. So I did what every girl does when they know they are going out .I got a pushup bra and a shirt whose neckline ended somewhere around my bellybutton.

I live in the hood, which is German for "absolutely retarded about parking". If you don't have a pass or guest pass, your car will be towed.

My friend finally showed up, and pulled up for a few minutes while I was finishing making myself look like a whore. By the time we got back out to his car, Corky and Friends were already in the process of towing it.

So I did what any girl in that situation would do. I pushed out my tits, grabbed a wad of cash, and asked them if there was anything I could do to make them change their minds.

"No"

Then I tried the responsible route. I actually took responsibility, and asked if I could pay the tow fee right there, instead of having to go all the way out to Guam, or wherever the fuck they tow things to.

"No"

Although anyone who has ever dated me will disagree, I am a reasonable person, but that was about it for me. I lost my mind. I stood in the middle of a slush filled parking lot, in the snow, in a tanktop with no coat and my tits hanging out, and started screaming at a tow truck driver. (If there is a competition for the White Trash Queen, I do believe this earns me a nomination).

I asked him how the hell he could sleep at night, knowing that it's his job to steal people's vehicles and charge them for it.

Then this man made the biggest mistake of his life. He looked at me and said "Miss, I understand that you're upset but...".

"But nothing. You think I'm bitchy now? If you knew me you'd know this is the tip of the iceberg to how bitchy I can be. I will make you cry. Thankyou for fucking up my night." And then I got my fat ass into my car to follow them to the tow place, while my friend pretended that he didn't know me.

The guy, who I will continue to affectionately call "Corky", lumbers back to the truck, whispering to his friend about me.

They start to pull away, drive a quarter of the way through the lot, and stopped. Corky gets out of the truck, and starts wandering to my car. So I got out, and started walking to him.

He looks at me and asks me if I was serious about being a bitch. Now, you have to be kidding me.I just finished verbally berating this guy to his face, and he wanted to know if I was serious?

"Yes, and I assumed you would've figured that out when I was yelling at you, you dumb piece of shit. Next time I'll use smaller words".

"So you really think you'd make me cry?"

"I know I would". The assumption being that I was about to get into a physical altercation with a mentally handicapped tow truck driver while I was dressed like a cheap whore.

I swear to god, the next part is 100% absolutely the God's honest truth.

He looked at me and said "I don't know how to approach this, but uh...do you really think you could make me cry? Is there any way I can get your number so we can arrange that, I think I'd like it."

Ladies and Gentlemen,the tow truck driver tried to get my phone number so he could let me verbally abuse him. You just can't make this shit up.

What do you say to that?

New Posts


Spare me the lecture, it's been a hellish month.

I drive way too fast.

This is not new or exciting, and the fact that I don't have more speeding tickets is some sort of freak miracle that I choose not to question for fear that it'll stop.

I was driving to Indiana to spend the night with a guy I dated awhile back (It really isn't as bad as it sounds), and I was plugging along rural Indiana rocking out to Puscifer. I noticed a little sports car get right up behind me on my ass. So I switched lanes.

Little Sports Car switched right behind me.

This makes me wonder, but if it was a cop he would've pulled me over by now, seeing as I was going a good 29 miles over the speed limit.

I slowed way, way down, and he slowed way way down too.

Now, any single female reading this would have had the exact same reaction I did, which was "What the fuck?" and a little pang of freakedoutness.

This guy needed to get off my ass, and now.

I quick got into the left lane and accelerated and quick got back into the right lane in front of a truck.

Little sports car followed me.

At this point, it became obvious that I was in the middle of nowhere and some obvious psychopath was following me. So I flipped on my dome light to find my cell phone.

And thats when I saw the cherries and blueberries.

When Captain Dipshit of the Boone County PD (Not making that up, either), finally got to my window, he explained why he pulled me over.

"Miss, you were speeding, and then you slowed down, and then you sped up, and you were weaving. The dome light came on, so I assumed you were under the influence".

So I did what anyone would expect someone like me to do in that situation.

I looked the man with the nightstick, handcuffs, and the gun straight in the face and said, "I was trying to get you to stop following me".

After I convinced him not to make me step out of the car, he admitted that following for 15 miles without pulling me over might have been the reason for my 'erratic driving'.

He let me off with two warnings.

Which I'm keeping as proof that there is a place called Boone County Indiana.

Next Post: Why Honesty Is NOT The Best Policy When You're Pulled Over For Speeding

I know I haven't updated in awhile. I've been sick, and honestly, sick and tired of finding my writing all over the internet with other people's names on it.

It's the most disheartening feeling in the universe and I've considered more than once abandoning this thing and finding another medium where my work won't be vomited all over the internet with 45 different people's fucking names all over them.

Don't believe me?

Go to facebook, or myspace, and do a quick search for "50 mistakes women make when having sex" or even "50 mistakes women make" and come back here and tell me exactly how many people credit me for it.

And tell me that you wouldn't be absolutely livid that some stupid cunt on the internet would steal your words because they were too stupid/lazy/unoriginal to make up their own. The problem is, for every person that does that, I potentially lose someone coming here, which drives down the traffic and makes it a lot harder in theory for me to get the book I'm working on published, which then takes money out of my checking account which we all know is a really nice goddamn way to piss me straight the fuck off.

I will say, when I call them on it or ask, most people are really good about putting a link up and giving me credit where credit is due. However, I just had 3 people in a row tell me to fuck myself. Fuck myself? Oh no, fuck you. In the ass. With the big fat copyright stick that I will soon beat you with.

So go ahead, go to facebook, myspace, or anywhere else on the internet with those idiots claiming that they wrote it, and tell them Clare sent you.

I hope they choke to death on their own vomit.

I know that one of my last posts was slightly emo.

Then I realized, my emo is not even the tip of the iceberg.

Here is my proof.

I'm back!

The fit of emo is over. Spare me the lecture. It's a part of the 'moving on' process. Some people get shitty drunk and sleep around, I write blog posts.
Well, I get shitty drunk and sleep around too but I'm actively trying to deal with my emotions in a more healthy, adult manner.

As it were, I decided I do need to write more. Perhaps, in the form of a book.
And it's looking more and more like it could happen.

The problem being...

I have nothing to say. Not a damn thing. I have writers block the size of the taj mahal.
Which is not a great start, if you ask me.

As soon as I can afford a new desk, so I have some space solely for writing, I fully plan on cranking out a lot of work. (My last desk didn't survive the move, which would be unfortunate had it not been a hunk of shit). It's hard to be a creative genius (or a creative anything) when your work space is also your dining room table, and because its a gorgeous wood you refuse to set up your 2 computers and printer on it. My work spaces eventually look like a tornado consisting of diet coke cans, post it notes and take out containers hit it, and I'd rather not defile my favorite peice of furniture in that manner.


That and currently I am right next to my front door. Meaning I can hear every time my neighbors slam their door. Which is roughly every 30 seconds. They're driving me batshit crazy.
Note to readers: If your apartment number happens to be 214, pick one. IN OR FUCKING OUT.

I'm supposed to be tossing out ideas for a title of a book, and I've got nothing. Any suggestions?

I am a firm believer that everyone has that one relationship.
The one person that you fell head over heels insanely in love with.
The one that you still miss the way that they smell. The way they look in the morning.
You know, the one who fucked you up irreparably for the rest of your life.

The one that used to be your best friend but ruined it when they ripped the last actual feeling you ever had out. No matter how hard you try you can't seem to get that back.

I've been trying to maintain a friendship with mine. And I'm starting to see now what everyone else has been telling me all along. It's impossible to stay friends with the person who broke your heart. Because eventually they call you all fucked up about someone else, and you can't help but remember when that was you they gave a shit about. And somehow, it becomes impossible to figure out why you're the one they go back to consistently.

Even worse, the day you realize you're on the back burner is usually the day the person decides to tell you they love you again. Nothing says love like giving you just enough rope to hang yourself with.

The worst part is, it's not that you don't get it. You understand that it's just a game. They know what they're doing. You cycle between wanting them to scratch your head and snuggle you to sleep and wanting to rip the head off of their adored stuffed bear with the bowtie from childhood and stuff it in their mailbox.

Your friends are right, you do deserve better. But for whatever reason you can't find someone that makes you feel the way they did. And for that split second when they tell you they love you, just for a second, you're the only person in the entire world.

Some people drown it in drugs. Others drink. Some of us sit up at one in the morning and write emo posts on our blogs and wonder what we did to deserve being an afterthought. We sit up and write word after word after fucking word and hope that the answer pops out at us, when we really know it all along.

How do you break off a friendship you worked so hard for? You know that's the right answer, but somehow you just can't. Because whether you admit it or not, the rare times you hear from them, you still get that little flutter. You get a little bit of satisfaction when they get a little bit jealous.

Write about it. Write write write write write people can relate to it. Then the realization.
I can't write without him around.

I keep telling myself to break it off. For real. For good.
Rip the stitches. Grow a set. Whatever you want to call it.

And every time, without fail, he will tell me something that reminds me why I kept him around in the first place.

So it looks like I'm stuck writing emo blog posts, and wishing he thought of me once or twice. And wishing he wouldn't tell me he loves me anymore.

Wow. This blog actually has over 333 posts on it.

Which means that I definately don't update enough. But whatever. I'm tired.

Family stuff is a little bit crazy right now, and that's never a good time for anyone. It's been awhile since I was afraid to look at my bank account...and it looks like it's going to be one of those months. Things have been going pretty well, too. My traffic is through the roof, my new job is going well, but making ends meet is hard.

And my neighbors aren't helping.

It's not that they're rude. They aren't. They're actually quite nice. Very friendly people, with a 5 year old kid.

None of the running around bothers me, really. Kids are kids, they live above me, it's apartment life. Shit, even them getting busy in the middle of the night doesn't bug me. Yes, they are bigger people, and it's quite loud, but everyone needs some every now and then and who am I to judge? It's not like it's marathon sex.

So why am I tired?

Because they are above me, and their sweet darling little kid will play in the grass outside the apartment, that's fine.

He really is a cute little guy.

Who, whenever I am trying to sleep (Which is not often anymore) will decide that he doesn't want to walk up to the 3rd floor to talk to his parents, and will instead screech at the top of his little lungs. They will then open the balcony door and yell down at him.

For extended conversations.

In Spanish.

It is driving me batshit crazy. Seriously. Nothing is that important, and make that little fucker walk up to the apartment, he needs the exercise.

Once, I even got ballsy enough to ask him to not yell. He said, and I quote "No".

Never in my life have I been so tempted to throw something at a five year old.

There is nothing I can do to shut the little fucker up.

I suppose sleep is overrated anyway.

Clare: 0 Little Mexican 5 Year Old:1

I don't have much to say right now.

Ive gotten alot of emails asking where Ive been because Ive been absent off of Netscape as well. My grandma that I'm named after passed away on Friday and I'm a little far from alright.
She's been in a nursing home for awhile now, and it was a blessing I suppose because she wasn't doing well. She decided to stop eating. It was her time to go and she did it her way.

Unfortunately that doesn't make it easier. And I kind of don't know what I'm supposed to do right now. I have this way of freaking out after the fact and it looks like this time is no different.

She was an awesome lady.

And I miss her.

I am head over heels madly in love.

From the moment we met there was this connection....

I love her so much it's sick.

Yep. I'm in love with an ornery 7 pound dog.
But believe me, she's ferocious. Especially when she tries to stick her tongue up your nose.


This is my mom's new dog Zoe. She was supposed to be mine, but it looks like I have to share custody. Bah.

I turn 25 on Sunday.

Now that I am in my 20's, 25 doesn't seem so bad.

However, when I was younger, 25 was OLD. Like, saggy boobs and Geritol style old. I'm that crazy person who takes stock of things on my birthday, which is by far the most depressing thing in the world.

Here's how things panned out.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Living in an awesome apartment in the city.
Where I'm At Now: I live in a craptacular apartment just outside the city, where the crazy ass landlord wants another $1000 deposit to let me renew my lease. Given it's proximity to the city, I'm marking this as a win, even if it is a piece of shit apartment.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Ruling my own country on a far away island full of natives who worshipped me.
Where I'm At Now: I'm marginally famous on the Internet. By that I mean, I wrote something that everyone and their brother plagiarizes. I need to work on this.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Working in my own office downtown.
Where I'm At Now: SCORE. Fucking score. We are moving downtown sometime in the winter.

Where I Thought I'd Be: Rich driving a Mercedes.
Where I'm At Now: Poor driving a Malibu. Well, working on the poor thing. Apparently it's a step by step process. I'm up to my butt cheeks in debt but I'm sure it'll get better.

Where I Thought I'd Be: In a long term relationship with the love of my life.
Where I'm At Now: Still bitter that I wasted my time with that jackass and having occasional deluded fantasies about attacking his car with a pick axe.

Well....2 out of 5 isn't bad?

I have faith that by some miracle on August 12th I will somehow be debt free and showered with flowers, cash, sparkly jewelry, new cars and affection from male models.

(And a quick early happy birthday to my twin sister, and my cousin Matthew who share my birthday. And a quick fuck you for taking my special day.)

There's nothing quite like waking up to a call from my friend D.
I love her to bits, but she really has quite the knack for drama. More than anyone I've ever met.

This morning was one of those mornings.

She called me in between sobs telling me our friend Johannah was hit by a train. I'm a logical person, and knowing D, I chose this particular time to assume that she's exaggerating. Hit by a train? Come on. That doesn't actually happen to anyone.

As usual, I was wrong.

My friend got hit by a train. A fucking train. How the hell does that happen? Shes a tiny little thing, she can't weigh over 100 pounds, shouldn't she just fly away or something?!


I'm not sure what I'm supposed to really be thinking or doing right now. I'm just sort of staring at my computer screen feeling a strange combination of "What the fuck" and "Oh my god".

If something good doesn't happen I swear to Jesus I'm going to fly into a violent rage and kick someone's ass.

Anyhooter, I posted over at Intelligent Humor.

Go take a look at it so the ass I kick isn't yours. It should be up soon.

Apparently, Stephen Colbert mentioned Netscape on the Colbert Report the other day. It was a real brief blurb, but I'm super excited for one really simple reason.

It means that Stephen Colbert and I have been on the same website.

Potentially at the same time.


Now, bear with me. This is important.

This means we could potentially vote, or comment on the same story.
At some point, Stephen Colbert is going to check who commented on his comments, and he's going to see me. My smiling face. And my BRILLIANT prose is going to win him over. He will fall head over heels for me after he sees what amazing insights I have.

Sadly, it won't work out when I develop a deep love for his coworker Jon, and we eventually run away to Barbados and I spend my time writing for an obscene amount of money while laying on the beach in a bikini I miraculously became thin enough to wear.

Seriously.

Best. News. Evar.

Having been so productive today at work I felt like sharing one of my new favorite reads with you guys.

Enjoy.

I still have both my nuts.

Im the happiest girl ever! The Man of My Dreams seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth for awhile. No emails. No calls. No comments. I was convinced he had left me for a younger, cuter blogger. You know, someone more famous, and less controversial. I was going to quit writing to force him to come back again, but it turns out that he never left.

In other words: I have no excuse not to write.

I spend a lot of time traveling back and forth from home, my parents house, and work. Between keeping up on my writing and my "real" job, I don't have a lot of time for sleep.
Consequently, I spend a lot of time in Starbucks.

The one thing I hate about Starbucks is the fact that I am not the only customer there. The place is full of young professionals with their Louis Vuitton bags and their ridiculous shoes. This, in itself, does not bother me. (Except for you girl ahead of me today. If you want me to believe that's real, make sure they spell "Prada" right). What bothers me is the fact that their coffee orders are more complex than string fucking theory.

"I want a triple sugar free vanilla latte skim extra hot with no foam"
"I want a half caf soy latte with extra foam extra hot with light whip but no cinnamon and a half a shot of carmel syrup. Sugar free."
"I want the girl behind me to put her foot in my ass because my coffee order takes 35 minutes to punch in the computer".

These people piss me off. How difficult is a cup of coffee? I mean shit, I understand that a little flavor is good, but in the end, coffee is a means to an end. Its an addictive substance I use to prevent me from murdering my coworkers, nothing more.

I finally got to the front of the line and in front of me is this urban hipster type girl. With the emo glasses and the skinny jeans, and the smug look of someone who is by far smarter and cooler than I will ever be despite the fact that she slings coffee for a corporate monster in the suburbs.

I got the same thing I always get. A triple venti skim cinnamon dulce latte with an extra shot of espresso and light whip...

And then it hit me. MY coffee order was pretentious, too. I had somehow become one of those snotty suburbanites who order things that normally come with foam without it. Who demand their salad dressing on the side, who would sooner die before they ate something fried, who never leaves the house without sunblock or a matching purse.

I can't pinpoint exactly when I became that much of a full out jackass. Sadly, I am far too addicted to my coffee to give it up now. However, to differentiate myself from the well groomed holier than thou jackasses, I will be nice to the people who give me my coffee. I will occasionally not dry my hair before work.

I am convinced if I catch it in the early stages (being a coffee snob) then I can curb it before I ever say anything so snotty that it would make my own mother want to slap the shit out of me.

I woke up this morning and something just didn't seem right.
There wasn't a strange man in my bed or anything, but something was just off. It was in the middle of my shower that I realized what was missing.

The fact that I am not famous.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not completely unknown. There are a few websites (big ones even) where you can see a picture of my smiling face. But as it stands, Kathy Griffin is more famous than I am and this is a situation that needs to be rectified immediately. For fucks sake, paparazzi were lined up to see Paris Hilton getting out of jail, instead of waiting outside my apartment for me! I'll also have you know, that while Paris was getting out of jail, you all missed a great photo op of me sleeping and drooling on myself. You snooze you lose, bitches.

So, I've decided to make some lifestyle changes that will push me into the upper echelon of famous people. They are, as follows.

1. I have decided to stop wearing underpants immediately. I don't care if its -30, in the middle of winter and I still live in Chicago. No underwear. This has worked for really famous people more than once, and my doctor has assured me that it's unlikely I'll catch something riding on the metra sans underpants.

2. I will get drunk at wildly inappropriate times. I do, however, refuse to vomit on myself. However, expect to see me stumbling over myself with a blood alcohol level that rivals my IQ.

3. I will develop a drug problem that is obvious to everyone, and somehow manage to convince my mother that I'm really sober, despite the pictures of me and some unidentified female getting higher than Robert Downy Jr on a bender in a bathroom.

4. I will never actually work, but somehow people will pay me a lot of money for being beautiful.

5. I will start a bitch fight with some cute blonde for shits and giggles. This person will be less famous than me and will somehow be a threat to the awesomeness that is my image. I will then crush her under my stiletto.

6. I will wear ridiculous shoes all the time. Four inches will be the height of the smallest heel I own, and I will wear them everywhere. Grocery shopping, the gym, you name it.

7. I will stop wearing makeup outside the house during the day to make sure that you can all see that I look like I was hit in the face with a shovel when I don't wear makeup.

8. I will bring my Pomeranian, Zoe, with me wherever I go. Because she's my baby.

9. I will change my hair color more than is reasonable, or logical.

10. I will get a nose job. Despite the fact that my nose is just fine the way it is, I will have the entire thing overhauled.

11. I will never eat again. Ever. Size zero, here I come! And when I ultimately get treatment for my eating disorder, I will bulk up to a size two. No larger.

12. I will have whirlwind romances with various attractive men I've never heard of simply because they make a better accessory than a purse. I will eventually become engaged when I find one whose name I can't pronounce.

13. I will allow you to take pictures of me while I go shopping. Specifically grocery shopping, to make you all think that I've actually eaten since 1992.

14. I will go to high profile places and then try to hide under my coat, because like my dog, if I hide my face, you can't see me.

15. I will make sure that my best friend is famous as well. We will have some falling out, and to ensure that we both remain famous, I will become very good friends with Perez Hilton.

16. I will drive my car as much as possible to increase the chances of you following me home so you can stalk me there. Don't say I never worked with you.

See, loyal reader, the effort I am going to put forth to make myself famous for you? Now all I ask in return is that you start following me everywhere and taking pictures of me so I can whine about it.

Is that so much to ask?

Paris Hilton better watch out, there's a new bitch in town.

So I've gotten a few emails wondering where the hell I've been.

I wish I had some awesome answer for you. I've just been a lazy bitch, and haven't had much to say. True story.

Nothing is really new or exciting.

My car is a piece of shit, but this is not news. The last month alone I've spent in the neighborhood of $2,000 in repairs. Again. I might not know much about much, but I do know that $2,000 a month could get me a very nice new car. Nicer than a 2000 Malibu that won't fucking run ever.

I'm looking into some cute fast little cars that fit my personality (read: they look good with their top down and are relatively cheap).
If anyone has any suggestions, feel free!

Also, I'm probably going to start writing for NewsQuake.
Yep, pretty soon you won't be able to go anywhere on the Internet without me.
It's good to be queen.

My apologies.
I was going to sit here and write about my last date, but it looks like you have to go to Intelligent Humor for that.

Ive gotten a lot of great emails and IMs of people concerned about my health. Thanks so much guys. A special shout out to the devout Christians who want to lay hands and let Jesus heal me. That's definitely an offer one doesn't get every day, considering I live in an apartment building that's predominantly Hispanic, if anyone named Jesus lays a hand anywhere on me, they're getting maced.

I've gotten a few unofficial diagnoses. The good news: It's absolutely for sure not cancer. Woot. The bad news? They really don't 100% know what it is. And to be honest, I am tired. I'm really tired of feeling like shit, I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of spending the better part of my life in doctors offices so they can tell me they just don't know.

What I do know is that by following the advice of one doctor, I bled all over my mother's bathroom. The advice of another broke me out in hives. The advice of another damn near killed me. Another put me on four times the dose of steroids I'm normally on.

I've been sliced and diced and poked and prodded and I just can't do it anymore.

Furthermore, I don't have health insurance. I can't afford to keep going to the doctor. Its been dipping into the rent money, which is hard enough to come by, and to be honest, I can't afford to pay for specialists and all that shit if they can't give me an answer.
This entire endeavor has cost me well into the thousands, and I'm not at a point in life where an expenditure like that is acceptable without some sort of result, and there's not exactly a line of wealthy old men waiting to pay my medical bills.

I know that medical science isn't perfect. However, it's not cheap either. So, I'm not dying. That's all I really know.

Thanks for all the love and concern guys.
Here's hoping that Zombie Hips are in this summer, cause it looks like its here to stay.

I am a very, very angry monkey.

I finally got a new job (Woot!) but money is ridiculously tight right now.
So I scraped up just enough money for my electric bill.

You know, because I have a thing about sitting in the dark in the middle of the summer with no air conditioning.

I just spoke to the bitchiest woman alive who works at Com Ed. Apparently, I need another $200 that I don't have. Why? Because the person I originally spoke to was wrong.
When I asked her why the hell that person would tell me something that's not true, her only response is "I can't speak for anyone else who works here".

After getting huffy as fucking shit when I asked for a supervisor, she informed me that I'd have to wait until Tuesday.

I've never wanted to kick so many people's asses.

I make it a point to not yell at people for doing their jobs. I tend to be pretty good at directing my anger to the responsible parties.
And I rarely raise my voice.

This bitch had me fucking yelling. If I could reach through the phone and squeeze the life out of her, I fucking would have. I snapped my phone shut so hard that I broke part of it.

So In short:

Fuck you Com Ed. You suck. Your customer service is a bunch of incompetent assholes who are completely incapable of helping anyone, and you should be proud that they represent your company so wonderfully. I spend the majority of my day on the phone. I make it a point not to yell at people. So when you get me to a place where your "Customer Service Reps" ask me if they can do anything else for me and I almost reply "veer your car into oncoming traffic on the way home" there's a problem.

I can't wait to talk to the supervisor. I'm sure it'll smooth things over, if my past experiences with them tell me anything.

Ugh.

I'm going to warn you all now that the picture that comes along with this post is gross, and not for the faint of heart. Actually it's attached to (whats left) of my body and it kind of makes me want to chuck, so don't say I didn't warn you.



Ive been absent the last, ever, because I'm dying. And don't give me that shit about how we are all dying every day blah blah blah, because right now I am almost positive that I am dying at a faster rate than you are. Ive even been to the doctor who decided that he didn't know what was wrong, and in turn referred me to Doctor Kevorkian who decided that a punch biopsy in my side is the best way to figure out why Im dying.

Simple in house procedure, my ass.

That procedure has rendered me with a Zombie Hip.

This is the ultimate result of that simple procedure. This is my zombie hip.

The black line is where the bruise was marked to see if it..ahem...spread.

In case your wondering, that hurts alot. That's where I've been.

Now theres a big problem. I have this gross ass zombie hip and Ive only thought of 2 things to do with it.



1. Go up to all the people I have had sex with and show them. Explain that its a rare STD I picked up, conveniently right before I had sex with them. Then tell them that they ought to get tested.

2. Wear something revealing to the bar. Tell an outlandish story about my run in with a zombie. When they inevitably call bullshit, show them my side and then chase them out of the bar.



Its a sad day when I can only find 2 ways to fuck with people.

I am all sorts of stressing out.

I need a vacation. I also need money to go on that vacation.

I feel like I'm 3 seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

What started this?

I got mail at work. Trust me, if it's from someone I want to hear from, they know how to find me.

AND it's at the wrong office, so I get to wait until it gets here to figure out what sort of fucked up trouble I'm in now.

Fuck.

I am up and it is past my bedtime.

You may be wondering why I'm up. Or not, but I don't see anyone else writing on this page so pipe down.

I love the people I work with. I do.
However, I hate the job so much that it is now offically keeping me up at night.
Im turning into the person who sleeps through their alarm.

All 4 of them. Any reason to stay in bed with the blankets over my head.

Right now, it's 11:30. I have to be up in 6 hours.
I'm still here writing this, because the thought of going in tomorrow has stressed me out so badly that I can't sleep.

I love the people, but the job is wearing me into the ground.

Get another job. Easy, right?
Well, my credit is in the shitter. It's getting better, I'm in the process of trying to build it up, but it's still bad.
That coupled with the fact that no one seems to want to give me a job, well.

I've never been this miserable, and I have no idea what to do about it. I can't quit, I have bills, and although Netscape is helping significantly with those, I can't live off of that.

Despite what you think about the glamorous life of a writer, people aren't exactly beating down my door to give me money (bastards).

The thing is, I don't want a million dollars.
Ok that's a lie. I want oodles and oodles of money and fame.

But I'm realistic. I just want to live comfortably and have a job that I don't mind going to.

Any ideas?

Wow. A friend pointed out to me this morning that I haven't updated all month.
Sorry, I'm a shitty person.

My life really isn't all that exciting.

I'm writing a book...no idea yet when it's coming out.

Despite that, it's the same old shit.

I called Com Ed to see when my bill was due. I pay about 50 bucks a month, and I'm totally fine with that. So you can only imagine the minor stroke I had when they told me my total balance was $700.

Yea. Seven hundred one dollar bills.

They "mis calculated" my billing.

By a fuck ton.

$700? For that sort of bill I should have a lucrative methamphetiamine ring running out of my apartment. But since I don't, I'm sort of screwed.
It's a good thing I look good by candlelight.

I woke up today on the very pissed off side of the bed.


Perry claims that I work magic with my lists, so here's an Intelligent Humor Exclusive.



Things That Piss Me Off.

1. Being broke. Things are a little tight for reasons entirely out of my control. I was also a psychology major. Meaning: I can't add or subtract worth shit. Well, that's a lie. I can't add or subtract worth shit once I open my check book. I know that writers are supposed to have glamorous lives and all...but until this shit starts paying off, Chase is going to continue to rape me with overdraft charges. Yes, I accidentally bounced a check. But somehow, I don't understand how charging me $200 is going to prevent that from happening in the future. Hopefully there is some super rich man reading this, thinking "Yes, I have entirely too much money! I should send some to that TweekerChick so she can do things she likes to do...like eat." (Oh, and if you ARE that rich guy, I'll totally let you touch my boob)...

It has been awhile since I wrote anything after an entire bottle of wine and a few beers.
It's been one of those weeks.
I'll spare you all the gory corporate bullshit you don't wanna hear about.

Instead I feel like talking about Dan.

You know those people that you automatically like?
The type of guy that you want to hug and kiss because right off the bat he reminds you of someone that you trust. That you love. That is always there with a smile no matter what.

That's Dan. He's a big kid. On Saturday, we were going to get a glimpse of him helping him sing Gloria Estevan,Shania Twain, and Natalie Imbrulia.

He was always up for the challenge and that's part of what made him awesome.

As far as "real people" go in the Chicago Area....they tend to be few and far between. That's what made Dan so special to so many people (besides his inflatable guitar). He was the type of guy that always made you feel right at home.

My favorite memory of Danimal was when I showed up for karaoke my second time and demanded someone sing "Smooth" by Rob Thomas/Santana.
He rolled his eyes, but he was shaking his ass anyway.

He didn't care who you are, how much money you made, what you did for a living or any other of that superficial bullshit.
If you were cool, it's cool.
As far as anyone can tell, if Dan didn't like you, you are most likely a huge douchebag, and no one else does either.

Underneath everything, what he did, who he was, Dan was an amazing person and someone I am glad I got a chance to know. If you were his friend, you were his friend. No ulterior motives, no dramatic bullshit.

I haven't been hitting the scene as hard as usual since I've moved here, and being friends with Dan was one of things that made life a little bit easier.

Sadly, Danimal passed away unexpectedly on March 30. Leaving behind Andee, 5 kids (including Andee's little girls), and a lot more people who loved and cared about him.

Anyway, everyone will miss you Dan. Just don't tell anyone I actually cried.
In honor of Danimal, "Come Sail Away" (the Cartman Version) has been retired.
I know that God has a plan for everyone, but sometimes it just doesn't seem fair the ones he decides to take away.

So, I'm getting shitfaced in the ridiculous pushup bra he used to tease me about.

This ones for you Dan.
I'll miss you.
We'll miss you.

I am a tired girl!

But things are crazier than usual.

For whatever reason, all the sudden everyone wants a moment of my time. It's insane.

Everyone seems to want to talk with me about sex and love and relationships and all that shit.

So I finally caved.

You can hear me tonight, discussing love, sex, women, men, etc. Live. In my own voice.
Tune in!

You can actually HEAR me talk shit for once!

I am pissy today.

So instead of my usual witty and informative post, I am going to give you, quite simply, a list of things that suck.

1. Blisters. Especially ones you get on the inside of your calves. Yes, I could stop wearing hooker boots. But I'm not going to. So fuck you.

2. Insomnia. I like sleep. I get to do things in my sleep like pull off heists and sleep with movie stars. Ill take a threesome with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt over being awake any day.

3. Student loan payments. Had I known I'd be broke until roughly the end of time because of them, I never woulda gone. I wonder if they'll give me a refund.

4. Insurance Companies. Give me my $150 you tight wads.

5. Writing. Dont get me wrong, I like it. But with my real job and deadlines for writing, I work about 14 hours a day. That's a lot. I wouldn't mind as much, but the same people who have deadlines don't want to do nifty things like pay me. People like to read my writing. Because people like to read it, people publish it. Now if those same people would write me a fucking check, I'd be a happy monkey

6. Getting paid. Normally this is good. Because money buys me things that I like to eat. However, the first paycheck of the month always sucks because without fail I wind up back in negative numbers. How this happens, I don't know. I don't shop. I don't go anywhere. I don't pay for porn and I don't really eat anymore. So why the hell am I $100 in the hole before I pay rent? Oh yea. Refer to #5. Gah.

7.PMS. Would someone KINDLY remind my skin that I am not 14 anymore?

8. The 300 pound black lady in my office building. Shes cool and all, until we're all crammed in an elevator. It stops, and there she stands in all her tubby glory. And somehow she finds 8 square inches of space, and says "there's room!" and proceeds to wedge herself into the elevator. I wouldn't be suprised if she took a running start.

Bah.

If anyone knows a dermatologist with an Ambien prescription who wants to be my sugar daddy, let me know.

I dunno.

I'm having some serious writers block.
I'm not sure what the deal is.

I thought maybe I'd sit down and write a blog and get it all off of my chest.
About the emo, about the lack of sleep, about the fact that I'm overwhelmed and I can't deal without it.

But I sat down to write, and it's like my words won't work.
Every sentence I string together seems wrong.

It's all forced and so much more bitter than I thought I was.
A few times I considered walking away from it entirely, but unfortuantely for me, I'm not like other people. It's not that easy for me.

I'm not sure what to say.

I'm fine?

I'm always fine.

So.

Life has gotten slightly weird.

I find myself getting a lot of attention that I can't handle by myself.

I simply don't have the time to respond to 300 some comments about why I'm a whore.

So, I am creating a new policy.

Comment away, I encourage it. But because I can't respond to every post, I'm leaving Angry Ken in charge of dealing with ruffled feathers.

Simply because he's such a sweet guy.

Keep commenting, and emailing me though. I love hearing from you guys!

I am so homesick that it's sad.

So I called my friend Jayme to let her know what's going on in my world.

Me: I miss you guys.
Jayme: Why?
Me: I just do
Jayme: Well, Deannes a bitch, I think Shawn is gay and I'm a little bit off.
Me: I still miss you though.
Jayme: How sweet, I think I might puke.
Me: Im not sure why I miss you, now.
Jayme: Its cause of your lesbian tendencies
Me: I hate you. I write for FHM now.
Jayme: Seriously?
Me: Yep. Apparently my writing is awesome.
Jayme: For what it's worth, we still think you suck.

God I miss home.

I would do anything for Sesame chicken and crab rangoons.

I don't get paid till Wed.

That sucks.

That is all.

I’ve never been a huge fan of rules. I’m sort of stubborn, and I don’t like being told what to do ever. But rules are a necessary part of being a functional member of society. There are even designated places for people who choose not to follow those rules. We call that place prison. Although our everyday lives are tempered with regulations about what we can or can’t do in certain situations, there is a serious lack of any sort of guidance when it comes to relationships.

Instead of following the normal model of society, and having a set of expectations to abide by, we are allowed to go buck wild and do pretty much whatever the hell we want. Which means that no one, especially the people in these relationships, have any idea what on earth is going on. This eventually becomes a problem. Eventually, the relationship will go sour for one reason or another. It could be something complex, like the fear that the sex tape with you and the goat that you made while she was on vacation will hit the internet. Or something a little bit easier to explain, like that rash you got from that hooker in Tijuana. Regardless, I propose the following list of rules for breaking up, if only to make life a little bit easier for those of us who don’t have the slightest idea what the hell is going on.

Rule #1: You will not dump her within 2 weeks of any holiday that Hallmark makes a card for. Really, what’s worse than being dumped on Valentine’s Day? Being dumped on Thanksgiving or Christmas. It doesn’t matter what day you dump her, it will be seared into her brain as the day that you broke her heart and completely destroyed her life. I don’t care if you are the best man on earth. The day you dump her is the day you become the lowest form of life to her and anyone she’s ever had any sort of contact with. Try not to do this on her favorite holiday. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. A day of sloth and gluttony, it was a thing of beauty to me. Until I was dumped by the love of my life on Thanksgiving. What was once a glorious day of overeating and napping is now a day marred by my uncontrollable urges to hunt him down and punch him repeatedly in the face after drinking half a bottle of tequila.

Rule #2: You will not dump her at her place of residence. Why you would want to do this in the first place baffles me. She lives there. Which seems like a good idea, less of a commute for her and you can dump her and then leave. It seems like a good idea. But so did parachute pants. This is her home. She knows where all of the knives are, and at this point in time she would have very few reservations using them on you.

Rule #3: You will not dump her at your place of residence. She will probably cry, and you will probably want her to leave. And if you want to win an award for being a heartless bastard, dumping her and then telling her to “get out” would win you the gold. Plus, if she’s smart, she would make it a point to destroy anything near and dear to you. Nothing says “I think we need to see other people” like having to replace your TV because she threw your cell phone through it.

Rule #4: There will be an arranged meeting time in a neutral public setting so you can each return the other person’s rightful property. This should happen no later than one week after the breakup. After two weeks, you relinquish ownership of that property and your ex has the right to do with it as they see fit, including but not limited to: selling it on the internet, giving it to the person they cheated on you with or burning it. The property should be packed carefully and returned in the best condition possible. This is an important part that should prevent you from getting a garbage bag that contains the shattered remnants of your wardrobe and DVD collection. Nothing that was given as a gift shall be returned, as those are things that belong to you and a major part of the healing process involves destroying them or giving them to your next significant other.

Rule #5: Saying patronizing or condescending things to the person you are dumping is strictly prohibited. After telling someone that you didn’t really mean it when you said forever, you have no right to say things such as “You’ll be fine”, “You deserve someone better”, or my all time favorite “Time heals all wounds”. If you feel the need to say something comforting, you also deserve to know exactly how long time takes to heal a kick straight to your gonads.

Rule #6: If you aren’t capable of staying friends after things have ended, keep your trap shut. Friendships are relationships and take a great deal of time and effort to maintain. If you are going to try to remain friends and then at some point down the line (probably when she gets another girlfriend) freak out and bail, stating reasons such as “This isn’t healthy for you”, “You still have feelings for me” or “I have reasons and they are personal”, you’re a jerk. Being dumped is hard enough. Being dumped by your significant other and later on losing a friend is worse. Friendships after relationships aren’t easy but they are possible if both parties are capable of acting like adults. It tends not to work so well when one party cries like a little girl with a skinned knee when the other moves on.

Rule #7: You can still have sex as long as there’s an open and honest dialogue about it. Let’s face it, good sex is strikingly hard to come by. When you find it, keep it. This is a dangerous thing to do, and requires a great deal of willpower on both sides. Both sides need to acknowledge that the relationship is simply physical and there is no implied reconciliation. I strongly suggest having a lawyer draft up some sort of contract to ensure that both parties can agree to the conditions of this arrangement, otherwise things are bound to get messy.

Rule #8: Both parties will agree to destroy any copy of any sex tape they may have been stupid enough to make. After the Paris Hilton debacle, I have hard time trying to figure out why people still think it’s a brilliant idea to tape themselves doing the horizontal mambo, but they do. And these people inevitably break up, and a few months later find out that their sex tape is being shown on a website that also streams movies that have plots that involve foreign pool boys and rich slutty white women. If you don’t want the world to see you naked, don’t take pictures of it. Be sure to follow through with regards to this, so that someday your parents aren’t surfing the internet and come across your extracurricular activities in a stray pop up window. On the other hand, I could be totally wrong and destroying your chance at becoming a celebrity. It worked for Paris.

Rule #9: You will not spill dirty little secrets about your ex partner on your website, through your friends or any other medium. I’m going to be honest here, the chance of any female that has just been dumped listening to this rule are slim to none, so prepare for your humiliation. In a perfect world, both parties would be understanding to the fact that being in a relationship gives you a unique opportunity to see the other person in the way the rest of the world wouldn’t. However, this is not a perfect world, and hell hath no fury like a newly single woman. I suggest heavy drinking, because pretty soon everyone you’ve ever met will know that you get depressed when the baseball season ends, that you watch Sex in the City, and that you cry a lot, especially over your dog that died when you were 19.

Rule #10: You will not call the day after you rip her heart out and stomp on it to see how she’s feeling. It should be pretty self explanatory how she’s feeling. She’s feeling one of two ways. First scenario, she’s curled up in bed crying into your old t-shirt, trying to figure out what she did to make you not love her. The second scenario is the one in which she’s actually fine. She’s happy. Because she’s now sleeping with your best friend, everyone in your office, and your barber to get back at you for what you did to her.

Rule #11: Try not to trash talk. This is by far the hardest rule to enforce. Simply because it’s fun. There’s something therapeutic to revenge. There’s some sort of catharsis in turning your ex in for unpaid speeding tickets, having their car towed, or dragging their parents into things. After being dumped for not being pretty enough, nothing made me happier than dragging his parents into things. There was something almost cleansing about telling his father that we didn’t work out because he was exploring his sexuality and I just couldn’t be supportive of my boyfriend being with another man while he was dating me. It was one of my meaner moments and I’m almost positive that his mother still thinks he is attracted to men. (Not that there’s a thing wrong with being gay. He was from a Republican family and it was quite the hot button issue).

Breaking up a relationship is never an easy thing for either party. It’s not supposed to be. Saying goodbye to a promised piece of ass is something that is hard for anyone to deal with. Sometimes, rules make things easier for people to go about their daily lives. Unfortunately breakups are rarely easy, and aren’t particularly enjoyable for either party involved.

The big problem with rules is that they are made to be broken. There really should be a protocol that people follow when ending a relationship in order to make things easier for everyone involved. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t want this process to be a little less painful. Unless you happen to be my boyfriend. In which case all bets are off, and you can kiss that sweet little DVD collection you left in my apartment goodbye, after I tell your gay roommate that I think you have a little “thing” for him.

So, I've been doing some soul searching the past day or so, and I decided it was time to revamp and older post of mine and give it new life.

A few years ago, I did a post that is now featured on intelligenthumor.com titled "Defining the douchebag".

It was great and relevent, when I was in college.

However, I am no longer in college, I am now an adult in the corporate world.
Which is full to the brim with all sorts of douchebags.

So I bring you, Defining The Douchebag: The Corporate World Edition.

There are so many categories of the douchebags you will run into in the corporate setting that I definately don't have time to define them all for you here. So this will most likely be a first of a few installments.

If this offends you, it's probably because I'm describing you and exactly why your coworkers hate you.

1. This Isnt College Anymore? This specific douchebag drives me fucking crazy. They have a tendency to stumble into work every day in wrinkled, dirty clothes, reeking like rum and pot. That's fine, I've committed that particular sin more times than I'd care to admit. But the major difference here, is while I'm still too drunk to function I sit quietly at my desk. You choose to talk, often times loudly, to very important people. These people don't give a flying shit that you did body shots off a strippers tits. No matter how cool your boss is, there's a time and place for that shit. Also on that note, check your hormones at the door. Theres nothing creepier than hearing you discuss the hot chicks you're trying to get with, the amount of vicodin you took with your stash of Coors Light, or whatever other stupid thing you did. This is not a fraternity house, we will not give you a special shirt for this anymore.

2. How the hell did you get hired? This person is usually very very nice. And very fucking dumb. How they've managed to retain employment through this point in their life is baffling to everyone they associate with. These people are most likely kept on staff due to their ability to keep everyone else busy with important questions, such as "How the HELL did you graduate college?", and "Has it ever occured to you that Darwin was wrong?".

3. The pretentious moron. Every office has one of these. They are easy to spot by the way they wander aimlessly with a sense of self importance that rivals that of the CEO. They have their nose in everyone elses buissness, simply because they have no idea what the hell they are doing. This is the person who will ask you the same question. Over. And Over. And Over again. And then they will ask someone else. They will argue trivial points with you, simply because they can. They have time to do this because they have no idea what the hell they are doing otherwise.

4. The snitch. There's always one. The corporate world is more cutthroat than most professional sports. This is the person who will download porn with you on your work computer, and then turn you into HR. The easiest way to identify them is to wander into their cubicle someday. They will close out the window they were working in. Why? Because they were sending someone an email. About you.

5. The Life Isnt Fair Kid. This kid was a load better off swallowed. They tend to be young. Very young. They argue company policy like it's their job, simply because it's "not fair". Fuck the dress code! Why should I have to tuck my shirt in? Fuck the dress code! That's unfair! Why did I lose this account? Because I didn't sell it? So what? That's not fair! The best part about these guys is when they start realizing that they might actually have to do things such as work. They will constantly whine that it's so much easier for other employees. Management obviously favors them. It has nothing to do with the fact that they've worked here for 5 years. Nope. The world is conspiring against them. For some serious office fun, do what you can to make this person's life harder. Tell them that you saw the account first, even if you haven't.

More later. I'm off to pretend to work.