Crazy Angry.

And boyohboyohboyoh, was there a shit-tonne of that stuff flying around here last night.
Some people, gauh!!!
And when you live with them, it only gets worse.
Buuuuuut.... 45 days.
I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

You know what, fuck face, you fucking deserve to know what people think of you.
So take it. Take it in the ass, where you deserve it.

I hate you. Die in a fire. Die alone - sad, pathetic and alone.

Oh, and we finished alright. On your bed. That you slept in last night. All up in my sex juice.

A brain for my roommate

Or at least a fucking off switch. This guy is an IDIOT. Why does he keep talking?
He's one of the those assholes who can't be wrong, and ALWAYS has an opinion.
He BEGS for argument. I want to stick my foot in his fucking mouth.

Thirty more fucking days of this asshole and his asshole face, with his asshole voice, and asshole opinions. He's going to die alone. He's 24 fucking years old going on 45, and fancies himself this wealthy bachelor type. He's neither. He wastes his money on credit, and often buys $500 worth of Cuban cigars from Switzerland. He's arrogant and self-serving, and if he's not stretching the truth to have a reason to complain, he's outright lying.

But to his friends (read: Not Me.), he's this great, giving philanthropist. He can't buy groceries, take out the trash, do the dishes, or contribute to this household in any meaningful way, and yet he can PAY the PHONE BILL of some stupid fucking slut with whom he works. He's always broke, but always has money. He had these delusions of being some panty-creaming Lethario, yet we - the people who LIVE with him - have never seen proof of this.

I can't wait to not live with him anymore in hopes that our friendship can be salvaged.

Whew... sorry, I needed that.

Thanks.

Food Addiction.

You know you're a food addict when:

The thought of a chocolate cupcake from the break room make you positively salivate.

Or does that just make me a chocoholic?

Better than an alcoholic I suppose.

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhggggggggggggggggggerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

Real names, real people, real places.

So, it's hard work keeping up with nicknames. I have a lot of people in my life, and even more about whom I talk.

And this nickname crap is getting old.

So, without further ado...

Names and Faces!

Charlie Browne = David, my fiance'. (I know, I know, how the EFF did THAT happen? I don't really know either.)


Hannigan = My mom. Her name is Susan, but I've called her Hannigan or Moooooommmaaaaaa for years.

Grasshopper = Thomas, my big little brother. He's six feet tall. I've called him Grasshopper since he was in jr. high. Still do.

This is the two of them after Grasshopper graduated.
I'll let you guess who's who


This is Jessica. She's the batshit insane one. I never really have reason to talk about her.



Pooh = Becca, my youngest sister. She's the hot one.
Except right here. Here, she's the hungover, partied-out one.



Bonus = Beau-ness, my baby brother extraordinaire.
He's kind of a nut. He's also eleven...I think.




Last but not least, this is Dad. He's name is Ray. He's technically my stepfather, but he's so good at it, so I claim him as the real thing. The other guy in the picture is Gary, our neighbor, and of course, Becca, working on her tan. She does that at random intervals.




And, that's it for now.

The weekend of Fail.

Well, not my fail, per se, but poor dear David caught it from ALL sides.

the Highlights:

Friday (The day of our arrival): His family puts down their fourteen-year-old dog, Pepper.

Saturday: Well, not much really. Historic Vicksburg, MS. Sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.

Sunday: He mouths off about he grandfather the penny pincher (there's a reason this man is loaded, honey), so his mom, who, poor thing, is absolutely miserable in Mississippi (wouldn't you be?) rips him a new one for being an ungrateful little shit. Later that night, on a deserted country road in Deep South Louisiana, we blow a tire. And it takes forty-five minutes to change it.

Wow. Happy frickin' Fourth of July.

Almost getting caught.

IT was up for 24 hours before he asked about my blog.
Hmmmm, while he says he didn't read it, I think he might have. I don't know if I care or not yet.

If you really wanna read it, because obviously it's not up anymore, just e-mail me.

If, of course, you're not a figment of my imagination.