Saturday, December 26, 2009
I’m 23 years old. I’m unemployed. I moved back in with my parents over a year ago and the prospect of me moving back out is a dim glimmer on the horizon of my rent-free life. I live at home with my disabled mother, idiotic and often ill-tempered step-father, and a fickle beast of a cat.
I am going to school for something I only have a vague interest in so that I can graduate in two years and start making decent money right off the bat… I honestly have very little interest in giving pregnant women ultrasounds, especially when many of them are done internally and resemble acts of lesbian love.
I am not skinny. Given today’s standards, I am what you would call “average”. Were I to grow another six inches, I would be what you would refer to as “built”, but as it stands now (at 5’2)… I have a big ass. I had a big ass when I was skinny, and I will have a big ass when I’m skinny again. My teeth are not perfect. I have two slightly crooked teeth on the bottom and two teeth on the top that like to try to partially hide behind their neighbors… I generally don’t smile with teeth, but I’m learning to accept this flaw for what it is since dentists don’t usually accept sexual favors for payment.
I used to drink quite a bit and had a decently high tolerance for alcohol but ever since I have moved back to North Carolina, I don’t drink nearly as often and I’m afraid that when in the mood for drunken silliness, I become inebriated quickly.
I use big words sometimes, if you can’t understand what I’m saying, it’s probably best that you not send me an e-mail full of misspellings, incorrect verb tenses, sound alike word mistakes, grammar errors, or in “gangsta” speak. Swole is not a word. My spell check and grasp of the English language tell me so.
Sarcasm is second nature to me, maybe even first nature, I don’t really know since I’ve been using it for so long. I will make fun of you, to your face, and not feel the least bit guilty about it. I will also horse laugh and most likely snort when and if you fall down or injure yourself in some other way. I’ll be okay with it if you laugh at me when I fall down… there is entirely too much gravity these days and accidents happen.
My friends can be assholes. My friends don’t even like each other and may not even like you. I’m a bit of a commodity and when they want to see me, they want to see me and get pissy when silly things like homework get in the way. A lot of people also think that I’m probably a lesbian because I haven’t dated since I’ve been back in town. This is Union County after all and there isn’t a wide variety of people who I consider “dating material”, or in other words “not fucking stupid”. I cuss like a sailor (which I almost was, but that’s a story for another day).
If you do not understand sarcasm, if you have no wit or sense of humor, if I can’t con you into watching what I want on TV and if you don’t like The Boondock Saints, please do not bother wasting my time.
As it stands, I bring very little to the table at this point. I will not buy you nice things, I will go dutch but I expect you to pick up a bar/meal tab once or twice, you know… just to make this as much like prostitution as dating can be. I am more than likely not going to have sex with you anytime soon unless you really know what you’re doing and can get me past the point of “Whatever, I’m just going to lay here until it’s over”… Good luck with that.
I am no beauty queen although if I make an effort, I can pull off cute, even pretty at times. I am rockin’ the beer gut. I never had this problem before I discovered the many joys of alcohol, but alas, it is here and I like to play with it sometimes and I’ve been pretty lazy lately, so it’s probably going to be keeping me company for awhile yet.
So, if you’re interested in a witty, sarcastic, physically flawed, unemployed, poor girl that owes the IRS money, a girl who lives at home with her mom (that conveniently sleeps in the next room), and owns a cat, feel free to e-mail me with a picture and an honest description of yourself and what you’re into. If you drive a 1982 hatchback Honda, play video games for more than 2 hours a day (every day) or are into RPGs, don’t even bother. And please, do NOT send me a picture of your dick, or someone else’s dick that just happens to me more photogenic, or visible. That’s not the prettiest sight in the world, or Play Girl would have fared better.
Monday, October 26, 2009
What the FUCK is that NOISE?!?
Oh wait, that’s right. That’s just my BIOLOGICAL CLOCK TICKING! (Side note: why does no one ever say its tocking?)
But seriously. How can this be happening? I’m only TWENTY THREE!!!!
There are a multitude of reasons why this shouldn’t be happening to me right now. I’m not even going to try to list them all at this point except the most obvious, which is… I’m poor. No, seriously. I really am. I’m still like a small child… that smokes, drinks, and cusses like a sailor, but the point is… As mature as I am, I am still WAY too immature to procreate right now. I can’t even afford myself the majority of the time, so what the hell would I do with an extra human lying around?
Unlike me, the baby could not subsist on cigarettes, Coke, and Velveeta shells and cheese for long periods of time.
They need new clothes every five and half minutes because they either A.) Soil themselves in some fashion or B.) Have grown a foot since you (tried) to lay them down for a nap.
So, the question begs to be asked again, WHY ME?!? Why NOW?!?
What has caused my traitorous ovaries to send forth these messages to the rest of my body that say “Gear up, cause oh boy! Next time a penis comes anywhere NEAR the gate we’re going to turn into sperm magnets! We’re just going to suck those little fishies right up through the filter!”? Or, “Oh, that’s cute. A condom. Really? Do you think we haven’t figured this one out yet? How do you think your friends got here?”
All I know is that for the vast majority of my month (or two if they’re feeling particularly mean “Just doing the practice runs for the real thing! Don’t mind us! We’ll release our eggy hostage right after you’ve cried and peed on that stick for the fourth time!”) I am completely fine. I don’t even CARE about sex, men, battery-operated boyfriends, or double clicking my mouse, but then… out of nowhere… comes this feeling.You know… THAT feeling. The same feeling you get when you walk into Abercrombie & Fitch and smell the Fierce cologne they’ve napalmed the store with and have to physically restrain yourself from humping the mannequins. Oh yes, THAT feeling! Twenty-eight odd days of freedom and then perhaps you bump into something with your pelvis, or maybe sit down weird, feel the bass from the car next to you, or I don’t know, SNEEZE, and the next thing you know you’ve gotta have it and you’ve gotta have it RIGHT NOW!
Everything starts to look good. Ex-boyfriends have gotten hotter, next door neighbors are causing palpitations, and my, doesn’t that bar stool look inviting? It is all you can do to keep those hormones at bay with your ovaries screaming “TAKE ME! TAKE ME NOW!” at every fertile male that passes. And you know what? It’s all a trick.
Your ovaries are revving up the engine in hopes that some stray, decent looking Y chromosome will come near them, just begging you to please have sex and do it now, don’t you think you would feel better? Because they know… they know that that stupid little egg is all nestled up on its love seat, primping itself in the mirror and putting on its best lingerie in the hopes of attracting one (or God forbid, MORE) little sailors to its den of iniquity so it can have its way with it and then… “Oh, look what we made you! A BABY!”
And that’s just when they’re not causing me to double over in pain and scream.
That is their punishment for me. As if getting me so worked up I catch myself walking with my legs jammed shut just for the friction isn’t bad enough, they decided to launch a bloody (no pun intended) freaking JIHAD on my ass for not procreating.
They usually call a truce when I poke at them with my index finger through my stomach, bend over and scream “If you two don’t knock it off I’m going to SELL YOUR EGGS!” at them though. They’ll retreat, re-group, and launch a sneak attack when I’m not paying attention.
I’ve had this curse of womanhood for thirteen years. That’s right I was ten years old when this bitch showed up on my doorstep (or more accurately, my white shorts during Social Studies in the 5th grade). For the majority of that time, they’ve been doing THAT to me. They’re evidently getting really pissed off at me for not listening, because NOW… they’re launching psychological warfare.
I keep dreaming I’m pregnant. If that wasn’t bad enough, the last time I had this dream it came complete with an ultrasound with a due date and name on it. The due date minus the date of the dream was the perfect incubation time for a nice little human baby. My ovaries are better at math than I am. The only place they messed up? I will not be naming any baby of mine “Joseph”. No offense to the Josephs, but it isn’t happening.
Can anyone help me? And I don’t mean by knocking me up. I just want these evil bitches to shut up and leave me alone until I’m ready for them.
I'm tired of melting inside every time I see a baby or getting so bored I look up baby names which makes me want to have one even MORE! Baby clothes, cribs, bibs, costumes, and the biggest one of all? Little tiny baby shoes. They get me. Every. Single. Time. Without fail.
I need help.... Please? I can't afford them, they're pretty expensive from what I've seen when I tried to price them on Ebay. I want to, at some point in the next 18 years and 9 months, move back out of my parents house.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Now, don’t get me wrong, I had many fun and memorable moments at the place I used to work; a place which may or may not sell various tractor components as well as a wide array of interesting things for those who partake in the rural lifestyle.
Just today, I threw a book at an elderly gentleman as he was exiting the store, which had closed an hour before due to it being New Year’s Eve. I would not have thrown my delightful non-fiction comedy at this man if he hadn’t moved with the mental speed of a stoned turtle. The doors were closed… and turned off… but not locked.
Ok, question time here folks, if you walk up to a retail store and the AUTOMATIC doors don’t open, what would you do?
I, personally, would walk away, but does anyone here do that? NO! They pull the doors open and walk in.
“Sir!”, “We’re closed!” I say.
Elderly gentleman followed by wife proceeds into the checkout area.
Wife, “Oh, you’re closed?” No shit Sherlock!
“Yes ma’am, we’re closed, we closed at four today.”
They walk out leaving the doors wide open; I throw my book.
Of all the times for old people ears to work, he hears it and comes back to close the doors which I have sprinted to and locked. At a death defying speed I might add. I smoke, and just walking fast enough to keep my feet from shuffling is an aerobic exercise, so running is pretty much out of the question except it dire situations.
But sadly, these were some of my brighter customers.
It’s disconcerting to know that my living space is co-habited by people whose gene pools are so shallow I could stand on a Popsicle stick and keep my toes dry. These next few examples are things that happened on pretty much a daily basis.
We didn’t have to wear uniforms at work; we wore what we wished plus a super cool red vest! It had my name on it. It had the company’s name on it… and their logo. And it was BRIGHT RED, which just happened to be the company color.
I’m meandering around the store, trying to look busy, picking stuff up and putting it in a different wrong spot when this man approaches me. Now, I’m not getting a “Hi, my name is __________ and I’m a Fuck Tard!” vibe off of him, he seems pretty average, but woo boy. He’s special.
“Hey, do you work here?” says the special man.
I bite my lip, look down at my vest for a minute and put on my most pensive expression
I pull out the vest so all the names and logos are clear, turn my attention back to Special Ed and say “No… I just like the vest”. And with that I turn and walk away from the man I’m sure was created from one of the sperm with no tail.
Then there are the people who had the disadvantage of not being able to see my spiffy red vest. They would call and ask questions. One of my favorites was:
“You’re right next to that Chinese restaurant, right?”
“Yeah, you mean the No. 1 Buffet?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it. What’s the number?”
Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD!
Umm… 411? I’m not information. If I had that kind of power I wouldn’t have been working there.
Sometimes they would ask for other businesses, usually our competitors, and God forbid we not have what they were looking for or they might just say in their best bitchy voice “Well (Insert dramatic sigh) I guess we’ll just have to go to Lowe’s to get that”. Right, and I care why?
Back to the phone thing though.
Here at (Insert name of farm equipment store) we had to answer the phone like the six dollar an hour professionals that we were. It went a little something like this… Hit it! Sorry.
“Thank you for calling __________, this is Heather, what are you looking for today?”
One, it sounds rude, so I would add all of the southern charm I had to it and turn it into a Paula Deen like greeting of “Whatcha lookin’ for tuhday?” Nice, huh?
Two, its inviting a proposition of some sort. The most common answer I got was “Aha, you”. Weyull, fiddle dee dee mister, watch as I swoon right into the bed of your pickup truck. Or we have my personal favorite, which I reported to my boss, who didn’t care, “Hot, steamy sex in the shower”. Ok, it was my best friend, but still.
Ok, so this would happen, at least once an hour, every day.
“Thank you for calling ______; this is Heather, whatcha lookin’ for tuhday?”
“Umm… is this ‘name of the store where I worked’?”
“Nope, it’s Pizza Hut.”
You were definitely a two headed sperm.
Tune back in later for the stunning conclusion!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
There are ways that I've been fallin'
There are times that I've been so weak
There are moments, I hear redemption call them
But I'm too far down to speak
So come sweet fire of mercy, cover up my skin
Warm me like the sun, won't you let me in
To come, come undone
To come, come undone
There are scars that I've been hiding
There are ghosts that I do not name
There are closets i do not care to open
But they open all the same
So come sweet fire of mercy, cover up my skin
Warm me like the sun, won't you let me in
To come, come undone
To come, come undone
I have these lines on my hands; tons and tons of little lines all over my palms. I like to think that they’re “experience”. Sometimes, like today, I think they’re cracks. You can’t see them unless I show them to you; unless you’re looking for them. You can’t see them if you don’t get close enough. But they’re there.
I have all of these scars on my arms. Only one or two that were put there intentionally. They were put there by animals, mostly. The things I loved unconditionally that hurt me; left their mark on me. A few came from things I was careless with.
I was thinking about these things because I was staring at my hands today, wondering what they were capable of. What could these two hands do? They’ve made art, they’ve made music, they’ve made love, and they’ve caused pain… but could they really hurt something? Could they take a life? Could they destroy a life? Could they be used to cause irrevocable damage to a person or their mind?
I’m not sure.
I am sure that I have wanted them to. If I allow myself to get too caught up in the injustice of… things… I would still want them to.
I am talking about the robbery. The day that four strangers destroyed what was left of my innocence. They destroyed my peace of mind, my sense of power, and I will admit… a part of my sanity.
That’s the hard part to admit, the fact that sometimes, I feel like I’m going crazy.
These four people who have to pay so very little and this one victim that has to pay so much.
The whole experience is still just too… huge… to put into words right now. There are still parts that I can’t even remember. I know what happened, I’ve seen the video, but I can’t seem to make myself remember. Only the fear, that utter, absolute feeling of terror and helplessness. That I can remember. That I still feel. I feel it right now.
I am helpless against this… disorder, for lack of a better word. I can’t fight it because I don’t understand it. My heart is racing, the adrenaline is surging, and I feel myself bracing for an attack, even though I know it isn’t coming.
Some people believe that I am doing this to myself. I should just get over it and move on. I am STRONGER than I think I am. Just get the hell over it Heather.
THEY didn’t take anything from YOU. You could move on if you wanted to. You didn’t HAVE to quit your job. You could still be there if you WANTED to. THEY didn’t do this to you.
You know what?
Please go fuck yourselves.
You have no fucking idea what this is like. I can’t trust anyone around me. I can’t have my back to a door, a window, a hallway. I am so fucking ANGRY and scared all the time that it’s a thousand fucking wonders that I can even go anywhere.
It was hard at first, it still is. I’ve made strides towards recovery. I have fucking TRIED to get over this.
Do you think I want to feel this way?
The best part?
They got probation.
That’s the punishment for trying to kill someone. That is the punishment for destroying my life. For taking my sense of power, the little bit of confidence I had in myself.
You say that by doing this and feeling this way I’m letting them win?
So be it. I won by living. I won by not breaking down, by not giving in, by making sure they were caught. They won by taking the most important parts of myself away from me.
Unless you have been there, unless you have had that moment of perfect clarity that what you did and how you reacted in the next second would be the difference between life and death, known that this person, for whatever reason has decided that your life is worth less than money in a register and will kill you if you don’t act and act fast, you will never understand this, never.
You can try to, you may even grasp some of it, but you won’t come close to this… this. I have lived through every natural disaster except a tsunami. I have almost been killed in several almost car accidents. None of that compares to this. Violence is so different from an accident. It’s purposeful, it’s malicious, and it is horrible.
How can someone fight so hard to live and then lose the will to? If it was so important to me to fight to live, why aren’t I doing that? Why aren’t I living instead of just… maintaining… just surviving? There is a difference.
I hate feeling weak. The doctors, counselors and people in group therapy have told me that it is not weak to feel this way, but it feels weak. I don’t feel that I have a right to this. I mean, hey… I wasn’t raped, they didn’t hold a gun to my head, they didn’t shoot me or stab me… but what they did was enough. It was and still continues to be traumatic. I can’t explain to you now about the actual robbery, how that was. I’ve told some people about it. I’ve told them the basics of it. This is what happened; this is how it went down… the end. But I haven’t gone into it.
But to compound on all of that, I now have to live with the fact that this person will be walking free. I don’t doubt that he will screw up and activate his sentence, but I don’t know that I can wait for that.
I am OUTRAGED by this, that my life means so little to the judge; that this boy with this record, LONG
record, of criminal behavior gets to lead his life as normal while I can’t. This useless waste of flesh is being given the opportunity to do this to someone else. When a 17 year old has a record like that, it’s not very likely that he’s going to be rehabilitated by drug tests, fines, and random searches.
While you’re searching his house, can you try to find my peace of mind? My sense of security and well being? My fucking ability to not be paranoid every second of the fucking day that I’m not in my room? Can you do that for me?
What about the other victims of violence? Where is the fucking justice in this “justice system”? Justice is only blind to the victims. We have no rights.
I am helpless, once again, to do anything about this. This smear on the face of the earth is not worth all of this, and yet I can’t seem to stop it.
What to do? What to do? They don’t make pills for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. According to other robbery victims, it NEVER goes away. It gets better, but it will always stay with you. It will always be there casting shadows over everything.
Derrick Bennett, 22, please fuck up again and go to prison.
James Fitzgerald Massey, I don’t give a fuck how old you are, I hope they send you away for a long time for this and your other robbery with a deadly weapon.
Mario Sinta Burch, creepy looking motherfucker, just drop your soap in the shower.
And lastly, Jose Luis Martinez, 17, well, we’ll just see about you, won’t we?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
I think that me and good ‘ole Howard could become fast friends. I think I might already be half in love with him, and half out as well, let’s see which side gains over time, shall we?
I had contemplated not posting this at all, as I have a team of vicious midgets, other wise known as my bestests, who may very well launch a search party and maim or possibly kill poor Howard. But as I said, I kind of love him right now. You can make up your own minds about Mr. Heretic though.
Here’s your 15 of fame my love, enjoy it.
And oh yes… spell check. It is your best friend.
Oh what a joy your cynical take on life appears.
I (you?) was hilarious … well soughtr (sort) of. Male readers (the straight ones) might be more attracted to read your blog if they were not frightened by your current appearance in the AC-T looking like a cover shot for a GLADD parade. Please remove the heavy swathing that covers your head and nose, remove those gawd awful jeans (lose a few pounds around the derriere) and your legs would look great in hot-pants honey … yes they’re back in fashion, Paris Milan London New York (Is this the name of a celebrity's child? Commas honey…can’t have too many commas) & Asheville
Drop that bull dyke stance and show your audience the feminine side of your persona.
See underneath the mummyfied (I not a Y) wrapping there stands a spunky lookin’ hunk-ess, who commands attention. (Check the before and after head shots of Elizabeth Withey of the Alberta Journal blogs) Perceptions are everything. Go see Jeff Green and tell him it has been suggested new pix of you will increase circulation and reckon he’ll agree.
C’mon woman you’ve got nothing too (One O at a time please) lose … go see JG today. Loves ya … even more so in hot pants and bust enhancing top (yes we know it’s a family nespaper (I hate W too, but it’s needed here) doesn’t mean you can’t look sexy fronting your own blog does it?)
Howard the Heretic
As you can see Howard my love, I have taken the liberty of high lighting aforementioned spelling issues. You see… it is a huge pet peeve of mine; ask my brother-in-law, he now uses spell check before commenting my “sort of hilarious” blogs. I will agree… things have gone down hill a bit, but I have a feeling I’m in an upswing now darlin’.
First things first… I love Heather Heartless. That is so going in the book, you coined, but I can copyright. It sounds like a semi-evil advice columnist, or a great pen name.
Sort of hilarious… no such animal.
GLADD…. Hmm… I love Scandals as much as the next girl, but poster child for the clientele… I’m thinking not. Looks can be deceiving, although I do agree that the jeans are a bit wretched. Underneath the surface of this picture, lies a somewhat of a girly girl. I don’t let her out very often. I just don’t see the point. And it’s cold. There is nothing that will put me off of gettin’ glammed up like some cold weather. It’s just not worth it.
My derriere… I got a big booty, and I know it. It’s a genetic thing. Up until now, it’s received no complaints, nor has it received any requests to don hot-pants. In my experience, I have learned that the majority like a big bootied girl or Beyonce wouldn’t be so popular. Sure the girl’s beautiful, but look at that thang! At least it’s not of J-Lo in Selena proportions.
Surely you’re not advocating anorexia… I’m 5’2, the Ethiopian look just wouldn’t go well on me unless I grew at least 8 more inches.
I am entirely too pasty to be wearing hot-pants, I’m very sorry to inform you of that.
The boss is watching me like a hawk at this moment, so I’ll wrap it up with this.
Given your comments on my sense of fashion, and the fact that you have the audacity to comment on my big booty, I will have to say that unless you’re just a fashion ho, I don’t understand the obsession with me wearing more revealing clothing, because I’m sure that it wouldn’t be piquing your interest, now would it?
I’ll see you somewhere over the rainbow Howard my love.
Yes… I am an evil little girl, but I’ll see what I can do about trying to take a better picture, with better clothes, and I will not be discussing my cleavage with JG, that’s just not somewhere I want to be going.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Dictionary.com defines that as “A state of paralyzing dismay”.
So, I will today write about things that consternate me, perhaps even discombobulate me as well.
First things first, it being Super Bowl time, I’ve been paying careful attention to all commercials.
I know that this joke is an old one, but I still feel it’s a problem that needs to be addressed.
The tampons of old would apparently enable you to ride horses, participate in complicated water sports, and various other activities.
But today’s tampons are super cool.
With these I could be the next Mary Lou Retton. Or Mia Hamm. Maybe even Anna Kournikova.
All because I use the new Sport Tampon.
Who would have thought that what amounts to a cotton ball on a string could bring you such joy?
And has anyone noticed that they all end with an X? Kotex… Playtex…Tampax? (With the exception of O.B. because frankly, that’s not really a tampon… it’s an ear plug). Is there some special ingredient or formula they use so that they all have to end with an x?
Yes… I really just blogged about tampons and there’s nothing you can do about it.
P.S. Real men buy tampons.
Carolina vs. Duke… and yes, I put Carolina first.
These are the worst people you will ever meet. Carolina fans will not, under any circumstances, pull for Duke, no matter who they’re playing against.
They will throw the best parties when they’ve won, and hardly ever start riots.
Duke fans… are evil.
Sure, maybe I wore my UNC basketball shirt to work on purpose to annoy someone, but does that really call for you grabbing my head, throwing me down and giving me a noogie? NO!
You are a grown man! I am a 20 year old girl! AND! You almost made my nose ring fall out.
Say something negative, even in jest, about Duke, or someone being a Duke fan and they will want to kill you. That is not an over statement. They will glare at you constantly every time you’re around them. They clench their fists and have to almost be physically restrained to keep from smashing your head into the first handy surface.
And they’re the ones who riot. UNC… so much better… who has a higher ranking? Who between the two of them won the championship last? Uh huh… that’s what I thought. Back off you sore losers.
And what’s really funny about that rant is… I hardly ever watch college basketball unless it’s down to the Final Four and even then it’s iffy.
You are not special.
I hate “height discrimination”.
People are always making fun of me because I’m short, but you know what Mr. Average height?
You are average, and frankly, that’s all you will ever be is just average.
I’m feeling a little mean this morning, can you tell?
I’m not short. I’m just unusually not tall.
And tall people? You hit your head more.
Great thing about being short is we don’t have to duck as much. We are also nimble and quick, like monkeys, due to our years of experience having the climb any available thing just to be able to reach the meat drawer in the refrigerator.
You think it might be funny to hold things that we want over our heads so they’re out of reach? While you’re distracted with your infantile games we’ve probably tied your shoe laces together, or are quite possibly getting ready to launch a violent attack against your shins.
Be prepared. We are the short. The vicious. The proud.
Yes I am.
But maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only one who has made this mistake.
You see… I more or less work a third shift job. I get up around 2:30 am and head on out delivering papers, working the production plant, clearing drops, running shortages, all manner of things really. So I usually go to bed pretty early.
I fell asleep around 3pm yesterday, book in hand, Napoleon Dynamite on the tube. I did not mean to do this. I meant to force myself to stay awake until at least 6 before dropping off.
Well, now that we mention the hour of six, it brings us to the stupid part of my story.
When I woke up it was SIX O’CLOCK! I had to be at work at 4:30!!! I started freaking out, I was still wearing the clothes from the day before so I just rolled out of bed, put my shoes on and ran out of the apartment. Get outside and into the car and I start to think to myself… “You know… there are an awful lot of people out here this early in the morning…”
And then it hit me… but not before I called dispatch in my whirlwind of confusion and apologized for being so late.
Do you know what this great epiphany was?
It was 6 pm.
I wasn’t late… it wasn’t even bed time yet. So I went to the store, bought some caffeine and called and left another message for dispatch saying to just disregard that message… a trampoline had fallen on my head when I was younger, and I blamed that for everything.
Has this happened to anyone else?
Or is it just that I’m really dumb?
Moving on. I will call this portion: Things that I THINK I see at 4 am.
I’ve realized over the last few months that my already fertile imagination hits its peak in the wee hours of the morning. If I could remember what it was like to actually sleep through those hours as most people do, I would probably realize that I have the strangest dreams at that time. But alas…I haven’t a clue as to what it feels like to wake up to the morning sun. You should be grateful that you have this gift… day walker.
Harmless inanimate objects become blood sucking, weapon wielding fiends in the early hours.
Things I think I see at 4 am.
· A bicycle rider, which upon closer inspection turned out to be a trash can with a reflective strip hanging out of the lid.
·Deranged people standing on the side of back country drive ways waiting to kill me are actually just rather large semi-deceased bushes.
· The serial killer that was walking down Fairview Rd this morning wearing that creepy all white porcelain facemask? A rather tiny Asian lady with a scarf over her nose.
· Scarecrows that leer at me evilly… actually really evil looking scarecrows…and don’t even try to tell me they're not of the devil.
Things I have actually seen at 4 am.
1. Halloween… evil little kid staring at me from a second story bedroom window. Sort of like Carol Anne from The Poltergeist. What small child is up at 4 am staring through windows?!? With a RED GLOWING NIGHT LIGHT! “Theeeeeeeeey’re heeeeeeeeeere!”
2. Bear poop… doesn’t sound like much, but when there is a trash can that said bear has overturned in the road, and you have to get out to move it… it’s not cool. So I just ran the trash can over and went on with my business.
3. Strange man sitting on the side of a back country driveway in a lawn chair with a mask. It was actually a dummy… but do you really want to pull your car up to a man like that when your windows down? I think not.
I’m starting to think I’m schizophrenic. Because I refuse to believe that I am actually just that stupid.
And to the people who own Cujo on route 306… I’m sorry I screamed and woke you up this morning.
And to the lady who was stupid enough to manage to flip her car numerous times this morning through a customer’s front yard… as much as I enjoyed the show… I had a job to do… and you messed that up.
I'm going to rant about something!
Never before seen in this blog... Heather will rant.
Ok... I thought I would have this whole anonymous blogger thing going on. My secret identity has been revealed. Now I might have to actually show my face on here... and, I'm just not sure that the world could handle this.
Not that the face itself is overly horrible... the pictures of said face are.
I just do NOT get that! I could look like Miss Freakin' Universe before... and as soon as that shutter snaps... I'm the bag lady on the corner, only homelier.
Come on Parking Meter Reader Bill... That's right, I KNOW YOUR NAME!
Seriously...If I didn't have the quarter to put in the machine, what makes you think I'll have the... I think its now $70 to pay the tickets?
They should leave little letters that say "I'm sorry that you are so poor you can't afford to put a quarter in the meter, here's a blank check, take whatever you need from the city... we don't need it".
Hmm? How 'bout that?
YOU CAN'T DRIVE!
Seriously. You can't. But I try not to pigeonhole every one of you, which is approximately 95% of Asheville.
Living in Union County, I always thought it was South Carolina drivers... they are bad. Who need's Driver's Ed when you can walk away with your license at 15 without a single test?
But now, my hatred and road rage have been steered a little farther south.
You have mastered the brake check. I thought I was good with that, but woo boy, you are clearly licensed professionals. I could be my 2 seconds away, but you still feel the need to assure me that in case of emergency, your brakes will function properly. While you and your brake pedal are keeping the beat to "Hot for Teacher" I am trying to figure out if it’s physically
possible to punch you through a moving car.
Murderous rage... you don't mess around with a crazy person. I even come equipped with what
I call my Vincent D'Onofrio face for such occasions... you know… in Full Metal Jacket, he's sitting on the toilet and kind of staring up out of lowered eyes? It’s just creepy.
*Stands beside car... points at it* "This is my weapon... there are many like it, but this one is mine"
One more thing. The letter "i".
When speaking, it is possible to strain the letter/word "i"... but when typing it when used as in "I went" or "I don't like you" there is absolutely NO WAY to put emphasis on that... it is already all in caps! I could italicize it, but why on God's green earth would I want to go through the trouble of doing that?!?
Sorry, there were just things that had to be said. I'm going to go back out to my car, get my parking ticket off the windshield and prepare for battle against the rampant raging Floridians.
Pray for me.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
I’ve mentioned my sister.
And I’ve mentioned her penchant for shrieking, I mean laughing.
Now she’s taken it to an all new level.
I am not easily embarrassed, but I almost crawled under a table today. It was just that bad. I slobbered, I spit out spaghetti. It was horrible. *sniffs* I don’t like to talk about it. But I will. For you I will. *gets song stuck in head*
Ok, there is a background story, which I will share with you now, it doesn’t play a huge part in this drama, but it does play an important one.
A year or so ago, my sister and I trekked off to Baltimore for our cousin’s wedding. Her broke foot and all… and my, oh my Celia… I think I just found something else to blog about. Pay back. This time…. It’s for real.
Back to the point.
We had just returned to her apartment after this fun filled trip to find her friend had cooked food. It was cold. But oh well. After dragging up our sixty two bags of Tasty Cakes and Utz potato chips, we settled in to eat our meal. Friend and her guy were on the couch, about to bear witness to this. There was teasing back and forth, and out of nowhere, Celia decides to “act”, oh I am so sure, that she was going to catapult a piece of broccoli *covered in dressing I might add* in my general direction with her fork. Well, this shrapoccoli managed to “accidentally” fly off of her cannon-fork and land smack dab between my eyes. Where it stuck, and then slid down my face leaving a slimy trail of ranch in its wake. I was not amused. My sister burst into her famed fit of laughter, I swear… for at least ten minutes. By that time, I had started to belly laugh too. There’s ranch and broccoli particles on my face, tears streaking down my cheeks, and friend and company are just sitting there staring at us, completely un-amused as Celia tries to explain what had just happened. Fast forward a few hours later, Celia is in the bed, which she is sharing with friend, with company on the floor, so I could have the couch to myself and, in the middle of sleeping, bolts upright and almost SCREAMS the word broccoli, and busts out laughing again.
So we’re in the middle of this extremely quiet restaurant when something reminds us of “The Broccoli Incident” so she’s already in a delicate mental state over that. I’m twirling my spaghetti onto my fork, when I hear a noise… two noises actually, in rapid succession….My God… that man back there really just farted. Loud. Twice. And didn’t even flinch! I knew I had to be careful and not look, or laugh, so Celia wouldn’t either. I tried so hard to let it go. Just let him keep on thinking no one noticed. It was not to be. One look at my astonished face and watching me drop my fork onto my plate, and it was all over. She’s sitting there positively shrieking with laughter…. I’m trying to shush her, I had to give up, I was trying too hard not to laugh myself, so my heads down on the table, and I think my face is about to explode from the pressure, and I’m trying to hide this from everyone. I couldn’t. It was bad. This restaurant is tiny. Romantic almost, meant for whispers and quiet murmurs… and she’s belly laughing, beating her fists onto the table, SNORTING, and I was trying my best to figure out how to make it stop. But it wouldn’t. She almost spit her tea all over me. I did choke on my food, but managed to catch the drool and most of the food with my hand. I was so embarrassed, but I knew crawling under the table would have only made things worse. The only thing that saved me from dying on the spot was the fact the most of the people in the restaurant work with us… and they know.
So… if you ever spot us in a restaurant, please refrain from relieving yourself in any matter in public. I do not want a repeat of this. And people close enough to have heard the body function will know it was you because of us. No one is safe. Run now.
A Disclaimer from Random:
Smoking is bad... don't do it. This blog in no way condones the use of tobacco products.
Ok, now that we've got that out of the way.
Smoking.... smoking is great.
I love it.
A cigarette is the perfect mate.
They don't talk to you, which in most cases, means no arguing with your cigarettes.
They hardly ever make you mad.
It's the best way to follow up a meal, because hey... you don't get calories from smoking, but you would from that piece of pie.
They're also widely known as a good follow up to... ah hmm... some extra curricular activities.
They are my saving grace.
Without my Marlboro Lights in a box, I would forever be lost... or imprisoned. They are such great tools for anger management.
I will now tell you a story. Because I never do that.
It all began many moons ago, when a young child watched her parents smoke their lives away. The child did not like this. The child protested and learned about the dangers, and preached to no avail. They would not listen.
Ok, I'm tired of that way of story telling, I'm switching to first person.
I was the most anti-smoking person on the planet for years. But at the same time, I read a lot. I stumbled across some mysteries and what not, and always, in the ones set in the 50's... the detective guy was just SOO cool, ya know? Him in his fedora with a crumpled up pack of lucky strikes in his shirt pocket, cigarette hanging from his lips, that cocky devil may care look on his face... I mean he was COOL. And I wanted to be one. So yeah... To this day I have not found a pack of lucky strikes, but I'm sure once I get serious with the book writing, they will become essential tools. I MUST have the crumpled up pack of Lucky Strikes *preferably with a filter please* laying on my desk, and the glass of whiskey. The alter-ego that is my writer is very Hemingway, minus the shotgun, no thank you.
Ok, back to the point. That's what semi-started my love affair with cigarettes.
And yet I still preached to my Mom and step-dad, and my Dad when I was around him *don't get that "Aw, poor kid" thing going on, many moons ago, bothers me not.* my mom still smokes. My Dad quit when he had some form of intestinal surgery *THIS is the legacy they leave for me... years of intestinal discomfort lie ahead* My step-dad smoked while having a heart attack... he started after his transplant.... THESE are my role models!
Ok, so I'm 15 years old, my two best friends smoke, so I will sometimes take a drag... and that's it, no inhaling for me thank you very much... I didn't know how. They have since passed, God bless them, and I started hanging out with Leslie... we are mutual bad influences upon one another. She smoked... I smoked... we all smoked. BUT! I never really smoked until Step dad had his heart attack. I have a theory, and I really can blame it solely on my parents. I have had a constant stream of nicotine since the womb! They smoked indoors, outdoors, every where. But once SD had the 'tack... no more smoke for Heather. Very stressful times, no more nicotine... and voila! I started smoking. I had been JONESIN' for it man. Like Ray Charles and the shakes... almost that bad. My source was cut off; I had to replace it, right? Except for the first month or two... I didn't exactly inhale it... It was more... swallowing... So every time I would eat my smoke, I would burp up smoke... which, provides many moments of entertainment... but tastes horrible. Bleh. I finally learned, and oh what a proud day that was.
I have been hooked ever since.
I typed in a search... kind of on accident, I was looking up a book called "Why Girls Are Weird" Fantabulous book... especially the part about the Fetish Barbies... moving on... and what popped up was "Why quit smoking?" Which I thought would provide at least ONE funny thing. Well... they were funny to me at least.
"My 27 year battle with nicotine addiction..." Oh... my ...God... please. It's not like its crack, come on. You BATTLE cancer, disease, crack/heroine/meth addictions, alcoholism... but nicotine? Please. It is NOT hard to quit. I've done it several times.
I will however tell you of the "real" dangers of smoking. The things no one else tells you. I know there is cancer, various forms of it, and it's sad. But... now people know, and they continue to smoke, and I tell ya... when I have to have some vital part cut out, or have chemo... or am dying because of my choice to smoke... I'm not going to sue... no one FORCED me to do it.... I'll sue my parents....
1. "The smoke gets in your EYESSSS!!!" It burns! It burns so bad!! There is nothing quite like the feeling of being stabbed in the eye with smoke. Especially while driving. Makes it fun for everyone around you too.
2. The "cherry": Better known as the lit end of a cigarette. The cherry is not permanently attached, and will fall off with the least provocation. Such as... slamming on the brakes, having to concentrate on the road, sneezing, and otherwise having the cigarette positioned over a more sensitive area of your body. It has caused many people to wreck, because... hey look it’s on the window sill... please don't fall in my lap... please don't AAAAAH IT'S IN MY LAP!! Slapping of crotch area begins, steering wheels are turned loose... chaos ensues.
Which brings me to:
3. Dropping the WHOLE cigarette in your lap. Sitting still or driving... doesn't matter. Same crotch slapping... but now... you use your legs to raise you up off of the seat to keep from burning your butt... you either hit the gas really, really hard... or the brake... either way it sucks... and you're now driving down the road with your butt way up in the air... you could be steering with your crotch if you were so inclined... smacking your seat and waving your hand underneath your hind parts... which I assume is quite amusing to others. But... you're never sure if the cherry is extinguished so... instead of pulling over... you continue to drive however far you have to in the same upraised butt position for fear of settling your poor unsuspecting tender rear in the fire.
4. Alcohol and cigarettes.... are great together... for a bit. When inebriation starts to settle in over you... hide the cigs. One minute... you're sitting on the floor giggling madly, smoking your cigarette... next thing you know... you're trying to pull the cigarette from between your smiling lips, your fingers go... but the dip stick doesn't... you however do not notice this, until you think "hey my fingers kind of hurt... oh wait, that’s just the cigarette searing the flesh off of them!" so you throw it down... onto the carpet... to inspect your now third degree burned fingers... until you realize you've set the carpet on fire... so you smack that out... pick the cigarette back up, finish smoking it, then go do first aid.
5. Sometimes the lingering cigarette works in a different way. Oh... the cigarette goes… but it has firmly attached itself to your more tender than your butt, lips... So when you give a quick tug out... half of your lips go with it. Oh my jeez that hurts like a mofo.
I'm sure there are more, and feel free to submit your horror stories to me as well. I'm always in need of a laugh at someone else's expense.
But...the joys of smoking are abundant, and obviously outweigh the cons.
1. Anger management/stress relief.
Ok... I know that when I get mad... my first urge is to strangle... but apparently that’s a felony in this state... so I smoke. And make the world a safer place. I want to scream... I smoke... I cry... I smoke. It’s my safety blanket..... And hey... want to set something on fire? The cigarette isn't going to mind, I promise... It is what it lives for.
2. Gives you something to do with your hands.
I swear to God that’s the main reason I smoke. I don't know what I would do with out a cigarette in my hand while I'm driving. Probably much less constructive hand gestures that will eventually end up with me being shot, but that's just me. And... you just have to fiddle with something. I'm more addicted to that than the rest.
3. Ice breaker. Everyone asks for a cigarette... or you can ask anyone for a cigarette....
4. I really don't have anything else. I don't find the habit particularly sexy, but if done right, it can be classy. Like Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" *love love love that movie*
5. You could use one of those nifty cigarette holder thingies like she does... its just... elegant.
6. Night clubs = free cigarettes *thanks Camel* = coupons, money clips, matches, cigarette cases... etc.
7. You have something in common with me!
So, this concludes my 3 year long blog.
4/16/09 Update: My Mother has since quit smoking and is sadly on oxygen full time for who knows how long. She's only 47. Did I quit smoking? Nope. I figure I’ve got 25 years before I catch up to her, if not… I’ll get my own Truth commercial.
Ok.... so... We've all heard of brotherly love. It’s a strong thing.
But I'm here to tell you about a little thing called Sisterly Love.
It's a completely different animal folks.
It all started out in... 1985. My sister found out she would be having a little person to play with, and this made her happy.
The "thing", which is me, was born in 1986... and it all went down hill...
She stopped liking me when she found out that they weren't just gonna leave me sitting in a corner somewhere, and that I had to have attention too. Not cool to her.
So what does she do? She tries to throw me away. Uh huh... that’s right... tries to throw little infant me away while no one's looking. But I guess she felt bad, and I was saved from the trash can. And then the unthinkable happened...
She tried to hold me one day, without permission or supervision and got busted... They took her Punky Brewster away. That did it. We were enemies from then on.
As I grew up, I guess the instinct for survival kicked in, and I became a very devious toddler. Seemingly innocent and cute things were actually just meanness...
Long car rides back from Baltimore... "Oh look... Heather figured out how to get out of her car seat..." Poor Celia's in the back of the station wagon lying down, her stomach hurts her... so what do I do? I decide she looks like a great trampoline/treadmill. The fun begins. .
I hated Desitin in the diaper days, absolutely loathed it. I don't know why, but I did... so every time Mama *I know that's not the correct spelling, but hey... my blog... so yeah...* wasn't looking, I'd grab it and hide it. And Celia would watch. Waiting for her moment. There would be the need for a new diaper... Desitin is nowhere to be found.... until Celia walks in the room holding it. She did it just to torture me.
Payback was coming.
When I was around two, Celia got strep throat and was laid out sick on the couch one day, well... I wanted to play. She was being mean and not cooperating... I had to fix this problem. I went and hunted up one of the bottles of Desitin, and now remember... in the 80's that had that nice metal strip at the end of it, with the edges poking out. I walked up to her and smacked her across the face with it, right across the eye. Scratched her good I did. But apparently, Mom's don't like you doing that kind of thing, and I got yelled at. Well, while she's over there soothing whiney butt, I go to the stove and get my favoritist thing in the whole wide world, except for my Care Bear pillow... this is my drum, my hat, my buddy, the best toy ever... the big heavy metal sauce pan... I sit on the floor and play with it for a little while, annoying Celia but otherwise escaping my mother's attention... I wait for my moment... and when it comes... I run across to the couch and *BAM* right on the back of the head. I would say that was one of my better moments.
Celia's 6.5 years older than me. She had the size thing going for her, and I had the devious mind. So when she couldn't trick me... what did she do? Threw me down, stuck my chest cavity between her legs and squeezed as hard as she could until I couldn't even scream for help anymore, let alone breathe. She found this funny. I had to share a bed with her when I visited... so what did she do? Pinched me with her toes! I can't do that... so I don't think it's a fair weapon. It's some genetic abnormality in her and my mom, I'm normal so I can't do it. It’s ok... I would usually hold my own in the fist fights though... I don't hold my punches, and to be the whole 3 feet I was until I graduated high school, I was strong.
So now that you have a glimpse into my traumatic childhood growing up with Sissy Dearest, I'll bring you into the present.
It is a family trait to laugh at people when they get hurt, I can't help it. You fall down the stairs, and nothing is broken... I will laugh for ten minutes, right in your face. I think it is the funniest thing in the world when people get hurt. I'm sick, can't help it.
My sister has my nephew, or as our Dad calls him, "The Boy Child". Well Dad had TBC for the weekend, and I had to head down that way to pick up something anyways, so Celia says "Why don't you just pick up TBC for me, so I don't have to waste the gas to drive down the mountain?" Ok... get there, eat dinner, pick up TBC, we are on our way, he passes out after maybe half a mile of driving, which is good for me. I call my sister to say I'm on my way... but she doesn't answer the phone... I call when I get to Black Mt. Left a message, left three messages on three different phones... I'll be there in 15 minutes, if you don't call me, I'm going home. No call. No one's home! This was about 6:30... my bed time these days, so I take the sleeping TBC to my apartment, which is currently roommate-less, thank God for her, Its been pouring down rain, I hydroplaned all the way up the mountain, I can't relax my fingers off the wheel, because I'm terrified of driving in that weather with TBC in the car. I have to carry this 40lb child up three flights of stairs in the pouring rain! He wakes up, he's cranky, he's yelling, my sister still hasn't shown up. When she finally does, I go out to the car to get his stuff; we load him and everything up.... I lean through the open window to kiss TBC goodbye.... and...
The next thing I know... I can't breathe, my neck hurts incredibly bad, and my trachea is, I'm sure at the moment, crushed.
My sister ROLLED MY HEAD UP IN THE WINDOW!!!!!!!
I'm sure you find this funny... but I however did not. Here I am with my throat being squeezed shut by the window, my arms are hanging through it, flailing about wildly trying to free my head, and all I can think is... I'm going to die... I'm going to die.... and then I'm free. I have to turn around and gasp for breath and lean against my car, facing away from my would be executor, because if I look at her, I'll kill her. And what is she doing? Standing in the middle of the parking lot, screaming with laughter. Jumping up and down, gasping, snorting, SCREAMING and in between peals asking "are you ok? Are you ok? I didn't mean to *insert laughter* I didn't mean… I didn't mean... HAHAHAH... to do that"
So, this is what sisterly love is, when there's an age gap, and sometimes I'm thankful for it, because we don't fight over clothes or men folk or makeup or anything. I couldn't take much else. I mean jeeze... I do this huge favor for her and what does she do?
She tries to decapitate me.... Well that’s fine... let them have cake.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
It all started yesterday... Someone called the radio station and said something about Bilbo Baggins... it went over my head. They played like 5 seconds of this song, and I was thinking.... oook lay off the J.R.R Tolkien folks. I probably spelled his name wrong, and that's ok by me. I do not like the fellow, even though he's long gone. I will explain.
When I was a senior in high school, I had this teacher. Mrs.... ummm.... crap. . I can't remember her name, which is sad, because, aside from this one thing, I loved her. I'll remember in a minute.
She was OBSESSED with Lord of the Rings. I never really had an interest in hobbits, hairy feet just don't turn me on, sorry. She had read all of the books, even that one that starts with an S... I can't think of it, but it sounds similar to Silly Moron, so that’s what it will be for now. She read the essays, had all the movies.... She even came to school dressed like the characters!
Mrs. GRAHAM! There we go... she won't mind me using her name. I'll tell her... and if in a few days you notice her name is gone, I was obviously wrong.
So... I think our big thing in the 12th grade was mythology and English literature. So we had the whole 1984 thing going on with 2+2=5 and all that, and Beowulf. And then Lord of the Rings. We had to rent the movies, and write several page essays on them, we had to read the books, and discuss them in depth. We had to act them out!
I did not want to waste my $5.95 plus tax on that silly book. I could have put gas in the 'Scort, or illegally purchased cigarettes, I could have eaten the good chicken in the cafeteria that day! No wait... I would have said "my lunch money's in the car... can I go get it?", and came back twenty minutes later with Wendy's.
I finally had enough of it, slammed the book down and said "Mrs. Graham.... I swear to God, that if I have to hear one more thing about this book, I'm going to slit my damned wrist with the pages" *slides book across wrist rapidly*
That is how much I don't like the Lord of the Rings. For Christmas one year, I asked my sister to buy me Bored of the Rings. Its great, you should read it.
So I'm listening to The Rise Guys again this morning, and they did the replay, and now I understand.
Sometime in the 60's... must have been the drugs... Leonard Nimoy, of Dr. Spock fame, decided.... "I think I'll sing a song about LoTR"
And this is where we get "The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins".
It was hilarious. I laughed for 30 minutes over this song. I couldnt' get enough of it. The DJ, Nine... could not stand it, it infuriated him, which made it that much better, because every 15 seconds or so, just randomly *how I like it*, out of nowhere... the guy would start playing the song. It was the best thing since sliced bread man.
Until I realized that every time I opened my mouth to sing something, what I heard coming out of my mouth was..
"Its Bilbo *bilbo* Bilbo Baggins, he's only 3 ft tall, its Bilbo *bilbo* Bilbo Baggins, the bravest hobbit of them all"
Feel free to check it out for yourself.
This man recorded, I don't know, six albums. HE CAN'T SING! Which is a form of entertainment in itself but, geez man, come on. It’s... horrible.
I found a page with information on his various albums, the author of the page says this:
"Not satisfied with his musical disembowling of the most popular sci-fi series of all time, Mr. Nimoy turned his substantial talents towards the works of an elderly British fantasy literature writer.
In the course of the 2 minutes 18 seconds of horror that follow, not only is the plot of the entire novel given away but Nimoy knowingly lets the listener in on what Bilbo is really smoking in his pipe down in that wacky hobbit-hole. There is also a bassoon solo.
It would take Jimmy Page and Robert Plant years of hard work to come up with worse Tolkien inspired drivel.
Recently unearthed is the long-hidden music video to go along with the song. I don't think Bilbo was the only one puffin' on his pipe."
I tend to agree with this.
And apparently, they been passin' da crack pipe around the Enterprise.... Scotty didn't need a teleporter to beam them up, they were already high enough.
William Shatner, or as I prefer to call him, Denny Crane, he sings too... and those priceline commercials are nothing.
He did "Rocketman".
It makes William Hung sound like Pavoratti.
"I think... its going to be... a long...long... time... til... touchdown... brings me...round... again...to find."
It’s like him doing it on Star Trek.... its both horrifying and entertaining at once.
But like before, I think it’s something you need to hear/see for yourselves.
I have an almost irrepressible urge to do that twist like dance, you know the one... you have your arms bent at the elbow pointed out, wrists limp, and you twist your body so that your arms flail about and your hands just kind of wiggle at the ends? Ask me sometime, and I'll show you.
Ooh... I do have that video camera.
This...is why I think Leonard Nimoy should be shot.