Thursday, September 29, 2011

I Can't Feel My Face

I now present to you my trip to the dentist, as told through a series of text messages and Facebook statuses.




Me: Fuuuuuuck. They’re running behind. No fix for me today. Yay. Why can’t they just handle this in one fell swoop? I hate sitting in this place with these people. 10:59am. (I was in the dental office at the Health Department… because I’m poor and they charge less.)



Me: I’m starting to feel poorer, pregnant, and less smart…. I’m a terrible person. 11:08am.



Me: These kids across from me are borderline creepy… and I think the woman with them is slow. Most of these kids are just emitting some kind of annoying pheromone. There should be an adults only day. 11:13am.



Me: This one kid seriously looks like an old man. I’d take a picture if I could. 11:15am.



Quasi-Mexican: Gross. I take it you’re off today? 11:17am.



Me: Yes. What a way to spend it. I think one of these crotchlings has shit… Something smells… My ovary just shriveled up and died. 11:18am



Me: Nope. Pretty sure it’s the mother that smells that way. 11:25am.



Quasi-Mexican: That’s just nasty. 11:36am.



Me: In all fairness, the bathroom smells like that, but it did get stronger as they passed by. I feel like I should brush my teeth like 5 more times. 11:38am.



Me: Come shoot me? 12:08pm.



Me: $183 later, my tooth is filled, my eye is numb, and I have a severely weakened tooth that is mostly made of filling. That is why it broke. Yay. 1:05pm





Heather Ray: I feel a giant blog full of hating coming on. If you can not control your crotchlings, I will punt them across the room. Being at the dentist is horrible enough without having to deal with your walking welfare checks. 2 Hours Ago.




I almost grabbed a little boy. I almost said, “Do you know what happens to little boys that don’t listen at the dentist? No? They take you to the back, strap you down, and rip your teeth out one by one while you scream.”



But what came out of my mouth was: “They’ll take you to the back, strap you down, and bring out ten little girls to kiss you all over your face.”



My self-control is phenomenal. And I probably need asshole lessons. I also kept myself from smacking a woman across the face while screaming “HEY! FAT ASS! It’s your own Goddamned fault you got knocked up! Stop telling your kid that he’s the reason your life sucks!”



Fucking. Cunt. That kid, the one who looked like Benjamin Button, asked to go home with me. I almost took him and his Depends with me.


I had to wait in that room for over an hour with those people and their shitty kids. And then the dentist, thankfully, decided to go ahead with the fillings. She also managed to stab her needle right into my nerve. Again.

I can’t feel my fucking eye, y’all.


I feel like my face looks like that mythic, noble man-beast from Beauty and the Beast, the soap opera… with Linda Hamilton. I’ve got your fucking woman, Outlander.




Now I just need her to mush my lips over my cigarette and possibly tell me when my drink is at my mouth.





Monday, September 19, 2011

Lazy Bitch

I’m lazy, okay?

This whole “getting famous” thing is taking a lot fucking longer than I had initially anticipated. I’ve dreamed of fame and fortune since that long ago day when I picked up my first guitar with the plastic strings, popped the collar of my red jacket, and began to strum and swivel my hips while watching myself in the mirror.


I was five.


Okay, I have to admit that that wasn’t my initial dream.  I gave up on being a fireman after a bad pull from a wishbone and I set my sights on marrying Elvis.


Then I found out he died before I was born.


And THEN I decided that I’d just BE Elvis. I feel like this is pretty fertile grounds for some kind of analysis about stalkers and psychosis and maybe people that wear other people’s skin.

Five minutes ago I had absolutely no intention of writing any of that.

The point, somewhere, is that I know that I need to be irritating the shit out of you with new blog posts, perhaps even two a days until I whip my slack ass into shape, but you know what? I’m tired. I’ve been sad. I’ve been really fucking angry.

Angry, you say? We LOVE it when you’re angry!


This is bad angry, y’all. Like, people would probably burn my house down and tell all of my secrets on the internet bad. Like, someone is going to cry and I’m probably going to relish in their tears, but that’s wrong so I won’t bad.

I’m completely cool with loner moping. I prefer loner moping to public moping and we all prefer it to blog posts about smacking your own self in the face with impotent rage moping.

(Don’t hit yourself in the face.)


(Aim for the side of the head.)



So, there’s that…


I just want to be fucking famous already. And rich. That would be good. I like that part.


But, I’m lazy and I’m tired and I’m angry and I don’t want to bring that shit to the table. I want to bring my fucking A game, y’all. I want to make you cry tears of snorty joy. I want to ruin your makeup, make you spit out your drinks, and choke on your food… but in a non-life threatening kind of way because if you’re dead you can’t read this shit anymore.


Setting all of those feelings and shit aside, I just want to say that I’m sorry for being a slack ass and for breaking the ‘cardinal rule’ of blogging by pointing out the obvious… that I haven’t posted in awhile.

That and I have news. This site, OLAP as I’ve started calling it because Oh, Look, A Paddle Boat is too long to write all of the time, is getting a face lift soon. The days of having to squint to read bright text on a dark background will be gone. It may also involve Kevin Bacon in some capacity.


We’ll also be launching a NEW blog. I can’t even keep this one updated and I’m making another one. I’m funny. This one will be a lot more interactive and reader based than the one you're currently viewing. (Although I am open to suggestions on blog topics. Too afraid to rant the fuck out of someone? Shit, I’ll do it for you. Because I like to give back.)


Heather Heartless deserves her time to shine so I’m giving it to her. In order to get this bitch up and running, I’m going to need you to send me questions.


Heatherheartless@live.com    ... bitches.

They can be serious, stupid, random, or whatever. I might even answer a homework question or two if it comes to it. Just bear in mind that I’m probably going to be a complete bitch about answering it, in a sarcastic but loving kind of way, that is. Just be advised that until I get it going, you’ll have to e-mail me your questions. If you wish to remain anonymous, please say that somewhere in your e-mail. If the question is serious enough or if I feel that it would be terrible to publicly answer it in a drunken bitch fashion, I can answer it privately in a “I’m just here because I care” kind of way.


Sarcasm and the internet don’t often mix well, except when you’re expecting it, so if you send me something like “My grandma just died of leprosy and was then devoured by a colony of rabid badgers…” and you’re being completely fucking serious, you might want to mention that somewhere because, otherwise, I’m probably going to offend you. And your grandma. And that colony of rabid badgers who now have to deal with leprosy.

No one can win here.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

And Then I Threw Up

Okay, I have to get this out of the way before I can move on to the hilariously violent rage that I keep bottled inside of me at all times.


You guys are the most amazing fucking people I have ever had to pleasure of communicating with. Seriously. Never forget it and if anyone tells you that you aren’t, I’ll come bite their ankles off… right after I stab them in the face with a pen. It’s more fun when they run first. All of the comments have done what months of therapy and bottling could not. I feel … light… again. I feel free. I feel pretty and witty and fun. And there the moment goes.


A Brief Lesson on Grammar and Common Fucking Courtesy. Asshole.



“I stay down in Pageland.”


“Yeah, that’s where we stay.”


“Where do you stay?”


Completely ignoring the fact that ‘stay’ means that you, well, fucking STAY somewhere, as in, you don’t ever fucking leave it or it’s only for short periods of time, I’m going to point out how stupid you sound.


You stay in a mother fucking hotel.


You stay THE NIGHT at someone’s house.

You stay at the bar until it closes.

You don’t fucking stay at your place of residence. You Goddamned live there.

I stay in a state of constant rage. That’s where I stay.


No, you can not axe me. It would probably hurt and I’m going to be pretty angry about it. You can axe me a question only if I can rotary tool you the answer. This conversation is going to take awhile. I don’t care who you are, what you do, your level of success or education, or about any or all of your accomplishments in life. If you ask if you can axe me a question, I’m going to lose respect for you.


How in the Goddamn fuck do you shit on a wall?

Seriously.


Someone came out of the WOMEN’S bathroom at work today and told me that someone needed to have their ass beat. She then proceeded to tell me that someone had taken their own shit and smeared it all over the stall.


I’m assuming it was their own shit because while it’s difficult to wrap my mind around why anyone would smear their own shit on the walls of a public restroom stall, I can’t even begin to imagine why you would use someone else’s.


I had to go in the back and tell someone about it. This lead to a ten minute discussion on how it was carried out.

Did they wear gloves?


Did they at least pick it up with toilet paper?


Why would you touch shit?


Did they scoop it out of the bowl or did they just shit right into their hand?

Was it some kind of fecal Tourette’s? Like they just had a tic where they flung their poo like a monkey?


I had been cleaning the absorption pads on our printers, so my hands were covered in ink and I needed to wash them. I go into the bathroom and sick curiosity gets the better of me. Slowly I creep towards the stalls, checking them one by one, and then the smell hits me. The smell of rancid shit makes me gag like a cheap whore, y’all.


I get to the stall in question and poke my head around the corner. This is where I see the most God awful thing I have ever seen in my life and this includes going to change my nephew’s diaper and screaming, in a public restroom, “It’s in your hair! How the fuck does it get in your HAIR? OH MY GOD IT’S IN YOUR SHOES TOO!”


There is no shit smeared on the walls as I was told.


I swear to God someone snuck an elephant into the bathroom when I wasn’t looking because it is just not possible for a human to do that. There is not enough pressure in the bowels and there is not enough shit in the body to accomplish that kind of coverage.

This is the only explanation that I have for this:



Holy Christ balls on Jesus toast.


It was all over the back of the toilet seat. You know what? I’ve seen it happen before… but not like this. It was ALL over the back of it. It covered the rest of the porcelain and the thing sticking up in the back for automatic flushing. It was on the floor.


It was four feet up on the side and back walls of the stall and it went all the way down.

There was none in the bowl. None at all.


How in the holy fuck does this even happen?


No one could survive it.



No one.



They had to have died shortly after. I’m watching the news now to see if anyone’s found a shitless body in the woods.


Side note:  My dad actually has Tourette's, so it'd be cool if we kept the jokes to a minimum.  Or I'll stab you.  In my mind.  Because I have no idea where you people live.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Now For an Unfunny Change of Pace

I’m coming out.

That deafening roar you just heard was 95% of everyone I’ve ever known shouting “I KNEW it!”

Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not coming out of THAT closet. My sexual preferences lie where they always have, mostly in myself.


I’m coming out of what might be a scarier closet. There are certainly more skeletons in this one. It’s a door that everyone wishes would stay firmly shut, but I’m going to open it, again.

I want to stand up today and introduce myself to you. I want you to meet the real Heather Heartless. Not just the bitchy angry one, not just the one that makes you laugh, but the one I keep hidden away.

My name is Heather and I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder… among other things.

On March 14, 2009, I looked out the window of the gas station where I was working and saw two men approaching on foot from the road. My very first thought, honest to God, is “They’re going to rob me.”


And they did.


Violently.


No one asked for money. No one said “This is a stickup!” No one gave me a fucking clue as to what was about to happen.

This is the first time outside of therapy, the cops, and my mother that I have ever shared the details of that day.


Two men came in and bought $20.00 worth of gas for their green SUV. They went outside to pump their gas. Two other men (the men that came from the country on foot) entered the store and went around the back aisles, browsing. I rang up a regular customer and had to fight the urge to ask him to stay with me for just a few more moments. I rang up an elderly woman that ate her dinner in our café every Sunday with her sisters.


I stared at the panic button.


The two guys that bought gas came back in. I asked one why the paint on the hood of his vehicle looked different in one spot. I said it must be the rain. They bought a soda, a twenty ounce bottle of off brand fruit punch, and a Slim Jim. Two years later and I can still remember what they bought.


The other two had made their way around to the aisle leading up to the register, looking at our drink selection.

The one I was ringing up, his name was James, asked me if I was from the area. I said “Unfortunately.”


“Why ‘unfortunately’?”


I opened the drawer to make change. He looks down the aisle and nods, a fact I didn’t remember until I was in bed that night trying to forget.


“Well, I lived in St. Louis for a --------“


That’s when it happened.


For a minute I thought that the guy rounding the counter was going to hug me. I have no idea why that even popped into my head. I was going to tell him that he had to stay on the other side of the counter and I would get whatever blunt wrap he wanted. It just seemed to happen so slowly. He was coming towards me with his arm raised and I remember turning my head to smile quizzically, and then I remember fighting.

His arm wrapped around my neck, his hand on my head, and he was pulling me backwards. I looked up to see the other two watching and then running out of the store, pausing at the door to look again.


Parts of this had to be filled in by watching surveillance videos and trying to figure out where the weird bruises came from. I couldn’t remember what happened, not all of it anyway.





As he pulled me back, I grabbed on to the open drawer of the register to hold myself up. The video shows that I lost my footing and while I was being dragged, I pulled the register off the counter and made a grab to catch it. Again, I don’t know why. The register drawer slammed into my knee and closed before crashing to the floor. The other man ran to it.


My attacker was still jerking me backwards by my neck and all I could think was “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” I felt the hand on my head start to push as the arm holding my neck pulled. He was trying to twist my head. He was trying to break my neck. I twisted with him as he jerked my head so that I could have at least a fighting chance. I have no idea what instinct made me do that, but it probably saved my life.


When he saw that murdering someone wasn’t as easy as it looked on TV, he began to choke me. I clawed and clawed at his arm sobbing, “DON’T! DON’T! NO! PLEASE DON’T!”


He just increased the pressure and screamed “GO TO SLEEP! GO TO SLEEP!”

The video shows me flailing my arms wildly as he continued to jerk my body side to side, his arm around my neck, that hand still on my head. The other man was pulling wires out of the register after he realized he couldn’t open it.

Pleading for my life had no effect on this person. I began to fight harder, growing more and more dizzy from my air passage being restricted. I started beating at his arms yelling “FUCK YOU! LET ME THE FUCK GO! FUCKING LET ME GO! I won’t look if you let me go. I swear to God I won’t look at your face if you just leave. JUST FUCKING LEAVE!”


He stopped fighting for a second and then threw me to the ground and ran.


I managed to get up after a few seconds of stumbling and punched the panic button I had wanted to push earlier. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911 as I ran out of the store to chase them.

They were running across a field with the entire register in their hands.


This was 4:15 in the afternoon and there were people in the parking lot.

They never noticed that anything had happened.


They wouldn’t have noticed if they had succeeded in killing me.


I looked at these people and screamed “They just fucking robbed me! Go after them!”


The two that bought the Slim Jim and fruit punch, the cowards that had deserted me, were standing there staring at me. They and the couple that had been pumping gas got into their vehicles and drove off to find the two robbers who were walking down a country road with the register. Several cars passed by and no one even stopped to ask why this was going on.


After having the 911 dispatcher LAUGH at me and having to call the store owner to apologize for being robbed (the mind works in weird ways), the customers returned but all four of them were in one vehicle. Apparently my robbers carjacked the two that had run. I felt terrible that I had begged them to give chase and I hugged one of them and apologized.


Twenty minutes later, a single police officer finally showed up to let me know that they had caught them a few miles up the road. He took down my name and address in front of the two that had been carjacked.


The boss’ daughter showed up to check on me, comfort me, and give me a ride to the police station to file a report. I was put in a room with the two from the store along with their girlfriends. I apologized again and told James that he could hit me for getting his car stolen, if he wanted. I also told him that I would kill those mother fuckers if I ever had the chance. Around that time a cop walks in and says “THAT’S her?! Ma’am, come with us, we didn’t know it was you that had been robbed.”

I gave my statement to a detective that I later overheard saying “We could get them for ‘this, this, and this’, but let’s not make it anymore trouble than it has to be.”


This is where I found out that all four of them had been in on it together.


James and Derrick, the two from the green SUV had dropped off Jose and Mario down the road and were probably going to pick them up after it was over. They did this so they wouldn’t be connected to the crime. James asked me questions to distract me and then nodded his head at the other two to let them know the register was open, except I fucked that up when I dragged it with me and it closed.


They were never carjacked and were never charged with filing a false police report. James had been charged with robbery with a deadly weapon and was currently awaiting trial.


The cops then sent me out into the lobby where I was cornered by the family of the boy that had tried to kill me. They wanted to know who I was, where it happened, what happened, what was going on with their baby. When I told them I didn’t think it was a good idea for me to be talking to them, they became rude and offensive. I had to ask the receptionist to take me into the back to get away from them.

Jose, the boy who robbed me, was 17 at the time and was given 100 days in juvenile detention and three years of probation, minus time served… for strong arm robbery and assault by strangulation, both of which are felonies. They never charged him with attempted murder because they couldn’t prove intent.


Mario, the stealer of the register, had seven felonies under his belt before this happened, including possession of weapons of mass destruction. He served less than a year in prison after a plea deal and was released on the one year anniversary of the robbery.


James, of the many robberies, had his sentence lessened in order to get him to plead out on his other robbery charge. Two years of probation for him.


Derrick, who was pretty much just there for the hell of it, was sentenced to two or three years probation also. I’ve not found any other criminal activity on his record… yet.


I was never contacted by the victim’s advocate. I had to call them repeatedly just to be sent a pamphlet informing me of my “rights”.


I was never given my right to testify.

I was never given my right to be told of their sentencing until five months later when I called them again.

I was never given my right to speak to the sentencing judge before he sentenced them.

I was never given my right to compensation because losing your job doesn’t count towards lost wages. Also because I didn’t have any medical bills because I couldn’t afford to go to anything but free counseling after I lost my job.


I wasn’t fired, guys. I quit. I had to.


I went back the next morning and worked in the café as a waitress because I couldn’t afford to lose the hours and I had to prove to myself that I could be there. All day long no one talked of anything but the robbery and pointed and stared at me as I walked by. The boss’ daughter finally had to tell the customers to stop asking me about it because it was killing me. The gas station was down for three days because we had to wait on a new register to be installed and get the gas company to reinstall all of our software after fixing our pumps. When you rip the cords out of a register, it fucks EVERYTHING up.


I worked at that store for nine days straight after the robbery, and then I just couldn’t anymore. I jumped every time someone came in. Every time a young black man entered the store, I froze. Every time I saw someone in a hoodie, I shrunk into myself.


I called the cops almost every day for one reason or another. I was too scared to stay there anymore. I rarely go into that place at all, even two years later. I hate it in there.


My boss was kind enough to tell the unemployment office that she had laid me off so I could draw unemployment. I did that for the better part of two years because I couldn’t face the possibility of that happening again.


Running a register is a part of my job now and I still get nervous when the drawer is open.


The very worst part of all of it is that most people believed that I was doing all of that to myself. I was making it up, dwelling on it, making it worse for myself. I couldn’t talk about it and when I started to, their eyes would glaze over. Someone actually tried to dump their problems on me five days later and when I said “I was just robbed, I don’t think this situation compares. It’s not that serious”, he said “That was like a week ago, get over it.”

Someone tried to MURDER me five days ago. No, I don’t think I’ll be fucking getting over it.


People don’t think it was that serious. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but I kind of wish that they knew exactly what it felt like to know that you’re about to die. To know what it feels like to have some stranger try to murder you for a couple hundred dollars. To know that there is nothing you can do to stop it. To know how it feels when everyone tells you that it’s no big deal, they didn’t do anything to you; suck it up, move on, just fucking get over it. To know that they don’t give one single fucking damn about you at all.


It’s better now, but it’s not gone. It probably will never be completely gone. There are things I can’t do, places I can’t go, and people that give me flashbacks that paralyze me with fear. It’s not really any fun and if I could quit being this way, I would.


I will never again know what it’s like to not constantly be afraid of everything.


There, that damned closet had too much shit in it. It needed cleaning.

To everyone that is uncomfortable after reading this, good luck with putting it all back in again. I’m sorry that you can’t deal with my feelings and shit, but whatever. I guarantee it makes me a lot more uncomfortable than it does you.

I’m sorry that you only like me when I’m funny. I’m sorry to all of my Facebook friends that it’s awkward when I express any emotion that isn’t hilariously violent rage.


I’m sorry that you’re such little people.


That being said, I'm extremely thankful to the community that I've been brought into by blogging, reading blogs, and tweeting.  You guys are seriously amazing with the unflagging support you give to me and to each other.

I want to thank all of you for being just as fucked up as I am and even funnier about it.

I also want to give an epic thank you to Noa Gavin for letting me know that I will always have support when I decide to share my load and to Elizabeth Kennett who let me know that funny or not, you'll love me anyways.  You guys gave me the balls to do this.  Now I just hope I can honor The League and not take it down tomorrow.

And of course the biggest thanks goes to my mama, because she's my mama and she's awesome.

I did manage to get some jokes out of the situation though.  I mean, who else would be in the middle of trying not to be dead and thinking "You're doing it wrong...."?

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Tasteless Merchandise to Fuel My Pillow Addiction

Do you want to know what I was doing while I wasn't blogging?

I was creating a Zazzle store called Mo Waffles.

Jenny Lawson is to blame for this.

Why is it named Mo Waffles?  I have no fucking idea.  Just like I have no idea why I created anything that I did or why Zazzle lures you in with promises of setting your own royalty rate when if you set it to 80% your t-shirts are priced to sell at $53.74.

This is a small sampling of the tasteless products I have to offer.




The front says "J/K", you know, for potential un-rapist boyfriends.




And because the movie Teeth freaked me out...


Vagina Ventata shirt
Vagina Ventata by MoWaffles
Become a clothing affiliate at zazzle.com


Please don't hate me...


... and go buy things.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

I Broke My Brain

The last few weeks of my life have been terrible and confusing and I had to take time off from blogging to have a small nervous breakdown.

I also think that I broke my funny.

Seriously.

I hold my own well in conversation, but Jesus the shit splattered off the fan too fast for me to keep up with it. This is why I still think that I need a stenographer, you know, for those special moments. And because I’m too lazy to write any or all of it down before I forget it.

For your sake, I will be breaking the chain of events down into small portions to make it easier to digest.

Why I Tried to Make Auto Zone Employees Cry

Holy fuck balls, y’all. Is there some kind of competency test they give their applicants and only the people who fail get to work there?

The condenser fan motor on my car went out. This is the fan that cools the compressor so that you can have cold air coming out instead of blowing your shit up. I went to various used parts stores and junkyards trying to find one, but theirs were either gone or not working. Insert a lot of driving around in an un-air conditioned vehicle.

I finally order the $82 fan assembly from Auto Zone. Easier to install, but I didn’t need all of the other crap with it.

“It will be in by noon tomorrow.”

“That’s great. I’ll pick it up after work.”

I call at noon. The part isn’t in.

I call at two, still not there.

I call at four and again at six and the fucking part is still not there. This is where I demand to know why.

“It’s not ALL Fed-Ex’s fault. The manufacturer wasn’t shipping Friday because of the holiday.”

“Well fuck, that sucks, dude.”

“We’re sorry. It should be in Wednesday.”

Wednesday? WEDNESDAY?!? That’s four more days of living without conditioned air. It needs conditioning!

Monday was the Fourth of July so I had to wait until Tuesday to begin my reign of terror on the manufacturer. I was not going to stop until someone cried, I didn’t much care who as long as it wasn’t me.

I call Dorman Auto and ask them if they were open on Friday. They were. Then I ask them why they weren’t shipping if they were open.

“Ma’am, we were shipping. As long as we received your order by 4:30pm EST, it would have arrived on Saturday.”

I ordered it at 1:20pm EST.

“So, why wasn’t it shipped? I guess I need to call Auto Zone and kick someone’s ass there.”

“I guess so.”

I call Auto Zone back.

“Dorman said they were open and shipping until almost 5:00pm on Friday, so why isn’t my part here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, CHARVIS, when did you send them the order?”

“It was supposed to go out immediately.”

“Okay then. I’ll call them back and see when they received it.”

They couldn’t tell me without a PO number and the one on my receipt didn’t match anything in their files. I was told to get Auto Zone’s PO number and then call back to find out.

“Auto Zone, this is Charvis, how can I help you?”

“CHARVIS, this is condenser fan assembly here. I need your PO number.”

“Well, let me see if the part is here.”

“I didn’t ask for that, I just want your PO number,”

“Our manager says that Fed-Ex didn’t run on Saturday because of the holiday.”
“That’s funny, CHARVIS. He told me that Fed-Ex was delivering twice that day.”

“Well, they didn’t.

“CHARVIS, how exactly does Fed-Ex deliver two separate times when they’re not running?”

“That’s just what the manager told me, so they didn’t. We found your part.”

“You… Excuse me? You found my part? The part that wasn’t delivered on Saturday?”

“Yeah, it was under the wrong name.”

“CHARVIS, my receipt has the name under which it was ordered. You might want to call that person and tell them that you’re about to give their part away.”

“Well, it’s yours.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Being in the middle of a bitch fit of epic proportions, I call Fed-Ex.

“Were you guys running on Saturday?”

“Yes, we sure were. We don’t run on Sundays and holidays, but we were open on Saturday.”

“Good to know. Did you deliver to this address?”

“We’re just the retail location, so we don’t have that info. I can give you the main office number, but they might not be able to tell you.”

I called. They did. They delivered two packages to that address on that day. Two packages on a day when they weren’t operating. That’s dedication, y’all.

I’m pissed. I am pissed the fuck off. You had my part the whole fucking time and now you’re lying to me to cover your ass. Also, CHARVIS is the dumbest fucking name I’ve ever heard. It matched the person it belonged to.

I roll up in Auto Zone spitting fire, but calmly. You can’t alert your prey that you’re about to destroy it. The first person I see is CHARVIS who sees something in my eyes that frightens him. He goes to get my part and I stare him down. When he brings it back to ring it out, I demand to speak to the manager and he starts to stutter.

When manager Bill comes over, so does his handy assistant Kyle, the one that ordered that part.
“Why did this come in under a different name?”

Kyle: “Yeah, haha, I kind of messed up on that order.”

Do you see me smiling? Do you? I’m about ready to rip your fucking balls off and cram them down your throat. This isn’t a happy amusing time for me, dick wad.

I pull the manager aside and then point out every single lie he and his employees had told me over the last few days.

“Fed-Ex didn’t deliver here on Saturday.”

“Well, then I guess their records are wrong because they have it down that they delivered two separate packages here. Now, I’m not saying you’re lying, Bill, but…”

“No, no, their records are probably right. I didn’t see Fed-Ex that day.”

Mother fucker, who runs this store? For all you know the “guys in the back” could be dealing un-cut Colombian coke back there.

“Now, Bill, this wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I don’t have a dick, would it?”

“What? NO! No, I mean half of our employees are women!”

“I’ve never seen them…”

“Uh… uh…”

I did not get the refund I had set my heart on because I couldn’t stand dealing with this jackass while his nervous employees stared at us with scared looks on their faces.

I take my part and start to walk out of the store only to be stopped by Bill.

“Are you sure that you need that part?”

“What. Did. You. Just. Say?”

“Are you sure that that’s the right part? I mean, I’d check the relays and wiring and freon before I ordered that.”

Are you fucking kidding me? You assure me that you’re not treating me like an idiot because of my tits and then you have the fucking nerve to imply that I don’t know what’s wrong with my own car?

“Seriously? I checked all of that shit before I ordered the $82 part filled with parts I didn’t actually need and that you had the whole time. I hope you never procreate.”

The part was installed and worked beautifully. However, the air is still blowing out at just slightly cooler than the surface of the sun, but only when the car is in motion.

Then the transmission went out. No, let me clarify, the one part of the transmission that wasn’t under warranty went out and the dealership was literally the only place that could fix it because my car is a giant piece of shit and I would make mad, passionate love to the first person that set it the fuck on fire.

Deep breath.

Let it out.

Nervous breakdown is officially over.

I know I promised to deliver in small, easily digestible pieces, but once I get started… People needed to know about CHARVIS. I even say his name in all caps when speaking of him.

I usually call people Skippy or Sparky when I’m irritated with them and asserting my dominance, but I think that they’ll forevermore be known as CHARVIS.*

Tune in next time for: And That’s When He Told Me He Sold Crack…

*You’ll also be able to tell that you’re irritating the fuck out of me if I keep using your name repeatedly while addressing you.

Also, if you’re name is CHARVIS, I apologize… but seriously, you’re name isn’t great.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Eat Pray Love Makes Me Want to Kill Myself

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New director's cut of Eat Pray Love
comes with a complementary
noose.



I’m a little late in coming to the review game on this one, but I couldn’t hold it inside any longer.

I’ve never hidden my feelings towards to movie “Eat Pray Love”. I’ve also never truly expressed my feelings about it in such a public arena… until last night, when my rage was renewed.


The following took place on Facebook.

HCW: I never get tired of watching Eat Pray Love. :)

Heather Ray: Really? That movie made me hate Julia Roberts... and I kind of wanted to kill myself five minutes into it. I seriously would have cheered if she'd been hit by a bus at the end.

HCW: Hahaha I thought it was a very calming movie..like a "im feeling depressed so I'm gonna watch eat pray love and eat an entire carton of ice cream" movie.


Heather Ray: I can’t stand her character. Somewhere towards the end of Eat and the middle of Pray, I warmed up to her a bit, as in I didn’t want to stab her in the face quite as much as I did before, but as soon as Javier Bardem came into it, I was really hoping she’d die painfully. It was the worst two hours of my life but I kept watching it thinking that it couldn’t possibly get any worse, but it did. Julia Roberts has been ruined for me forever now. I don’t even know if I can watch My Best Friend’s Wedding without thinking YOU TOTALLY DESERVE TO BE HEARTBROKEN, HAG!


HTC: Bahahahaha.

Somewhere in the middle of that I decided to Google “Eat Pray Love makes me want to kill myself” and it lead me to one of the best reviews of that piece of contrived bullshit I’ve ever read. First off, anything called Jump Up My Ass, Lady is a winner in my book. Secondly, it’s exactly how I feel about it, but with less expletives and violence.  Thirdly, I should have known that this movie was going to be a God damned nightmare when it couldn't even be bothered with basic punctuation.

I would seriously rather systematically gnaw all of the flesh from my body than have to watch this again. I felt dead inside when it was over. I wanted to sue Red Box for that $1.08 back. I wanted to sue Julia Roberts for killing every one of my dreams. Within five minutes of the movie, I hated the lead character. I had been prepared to like her since her name was Elizabeth Gilbert which reminded me of Melissa Gilbert which reminds me of Little House on the Prairie. Surely if my Kevin Bacon Brain Syndrome connected her to that cherished childhood television show, she had to be something special.


She wasn’t.


As I told HTC, I did at some point start to warm up to her a bit, but I was still holding the razor blade over my veins. I was totally going up the road with that shit too. There would be no crossing the street for attention here. I meant business.

I'm actively trying to keep any traumatic memories from that movie from popping into my head.  I spent the last 140 minutes of the movie like this...

Praying to God that it would end quickly.


I wanted badly for my mother to hold me and tell me it was going to be alright, but she was doing the same thing.  It was like watching a fucking train wreck, y'all.  I could not look away.  I don't even think I got up to pee.  The urge to take it out of the DVD player and burn it was overwhelming, but I had to keep watching it because there was no way in hell that the entire movie could be that horrible.  Something had to give and it had to get better.  It couldn't be any worse than the beginning.

I was wrong.  So, so totally wrong.

It did get worse.  I was actively rooting for her to get some kind of disfiguring, bank account draining, incurable disease with a 0% chance of survival.  Ebola would have been nice.  Where was a carrier monkey when you needed one?

I wanted to stab myself in the fucking eyeball with a pair of scissors.

I wanted to jump into Flatliners, hand Keifer Sutherland a copy of the movie and beg him not to bring her back.  Just let her go, man, and save us all the trouble.  And also that even in 1990, they all looked too old to convincingly pull off medical students, especially Oliver Platt, who still looks exactly the same.



All of her dreams have been crushed.
But most of all, I wanted to go back in time and apologize to this little girl for growing up to be an idiot and also for ruining her life with that movie. 

I've honestly spent a more pleasurable two hours throwing up violently from drinking a half gallon of vodka after selling my plasma.  It made me yearn for the time when that thing on my ovary went all 'splodey and I wanted to die or possibly for all of the times my dad recounted his sexual exploits to me.

In summation, if I ever have the displeasure of meeting this self-indulgent, egomaniacal, bitch pigeon of a twat waffle, I'm probably going to kick her in the vagina.

P.S. Bitch Pigeon = Someone that comes out of nowhere and shits all over your life, metaphorically.

P.P.S. Blog - Eat Pray Love - Julia Roberts - Flatliners - Kevin Bacon.  BAM!





Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Dolls Creep Me the Fuck Out, Y'all



Yes, I'm still on the kick about inanimate objects that scare me shitless.  When I finished the original post, I realized that I had made a huge mistake.  I left out the one that scared me the most.

Dolls. 

Mostly of the porcelain variety.

You have to understand a few things about me.  I don't scare easily.  I'm the chick everyone wants to take to a haunted attraction or horror movie because I laugh my way through them... and also because I can point out exactly where, when, and what is going to pop out at you.  The success rate is roughly 95%.  Paranormal Activity 2 fucked up my perfect record.  Only because I thought it was safe to look directly at the screen when it was day time to them and because those cabinets were really fucking loud when they opened.

I was that weird kid that was reading 800 page Stephen King novels in elementary school.  I watched Pet Semetary and IT when I was a toddler and never had an issue, which is saying a lot when you have this staring back at you.

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This is totally a guy in real life.



And also because the really cute dead kid ate Herman Munster.

When we factor in that by the time I was six I had been exposed to more gore and violent death than most adults, it's surprising that I never had nightmares about any of it. 

Until this came along.




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I will fuck your shit up, yo.


I had nightmares for a week after watching Child's Play.  I have absolutely no idea why.  When it came down to a choice between a child molester that fed off of fear and killed you in your dreams, a mentally challenged, overgrown kid that drowned and now seeks revenge, a clown that would eat you, and a doll that you could just give away or burn, I don't see why the doll won.  I slept with my parents for a month after watching this thinking that they'd pose more of a challenge to a two foot chunk of plastic, or, at the very least, serve as a tasty distraction while I ran away.

They were a little wary of letting me watch horror movies after that, but I finally convinced them that I could handle it and I did.  Week after week I would select the most horrifying movies I could find at our local video store and I was fine with it, but I drew the line at that cymbal crashing monkey murderer movie because it just seemed like too plausible a story line to me.  That could totally happen to someone, I'd seen Puppet Master.

Having regained my confidence in the "Shit That Will Kill You" area, I decided to test the doll waters once again.  But this time I was prepared, I was going with the B-rated movie.  How bad could it be?  As it turns out, pretty damned bad.  I've carried this constant fear of being murdered by dolls for going on twenty years now.  I can watch Chucky today and laugh, but I won't even touch the case of this movie for fear of angering it.  I present to you now, Dolly Dearest.



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You're probably thinking, "Is this bitch serious?  THAT has given you nightmares for twenty years?"

That's just because you haven't seen her hulk out yet.




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You won't like her when she's angry... or possessed
by evil Mayan gods.  Whichever.


I can't even LOOK at a doll without thinking it has ulterior motives.  My worst fear (behind spider spitting fire tornadoes) is that I'll walk into a room of porcelain dolls and that one will turn its head and wink at me. 

I now present to you "Creepy Ass Dolls on Parade".



Bitch, I will hunt you down and eat you.

It has baby teeth.  And a sly look on its face.  Nothing good can come from this.



Homeless doesn't mean harmless.

Again with the baby teeth.  This one's hungry, psychotic, and evidently homeless. She also has poor oral hygiene. So, like a Komodo dragon, even if she doesn't succeed in devouring you whole, the infection from the bite will kill you. Lose/lose.




I'm dead inside.


This one seems harmless enough, but take a closer look.  It's the dead eyes.  They're always a give away.






I honestly just don't have any words for this one other than WHY DOES THIS EXIST?

You might find my fear of inanimate objects silly, but it's not.

Dolls are only inanimate when you're looking at them.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Sometimes I Don't Like Learning

This is probably going to become a regular thing on here because I inevitably learn things that I never wanted to know on a weekly basis.  I'm not talking about finding out that your parents are still having wild sexual gymnastics parties involving swings and your childhood bed, but random facts that I pick up here and there, like how there's pig skin in gummi bears.  Although now that I've put the image of your parents having athletic sex in your head, what I'm learning you today is probably a lot less horrifying.

I'm a HUGE fan of learning things.  I like to be smarter than everyone else and whip out my scholastic prowess at random to impress the masses.  I also love to read and I do it quite frequently.  I even read shampoo bottles when I'm in the bathroom when I can't quite bear to gaze upon fine Swedish home furnishings one mo' again.

However, in my educational and literary journeys, I often come across things that appear interesting, so I research them.  This is usually a mistake.  While doing a project on Sex in the Civil War, I decided to Google syphillis.  Google Image is not your friend.  I honestly had no idea that it so closely resembled leprosy of the penis... or that it would cause said appendage to fall off with little to no provocation.  I do now. 

Yesterday I cleaned out the front passenger seat/floorboard of my car to allow access for at least one passenger in a five passenger vehicle and I found the book I had been meaning to read for the last two months.

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One doesn't typically associate Nora Roberts with horrifying images, but one would be wrong.  She's my guilty pleasure that I generally try to keep people from knowing that I read.  Sometimes a bitch just needs a happy ending, okay?  She's also an excellent writer.  I suggest you give her a try if you haven't already.  Even if romance isn't your thing, the story lines in her hardcover novels are intriguing and well written.  She also paints a very vivid picture.

Somewhere in the second half of the book, she has her two main characters and sprained ankle guy running from a "fire devil".  This is not to be confused with an actual demon from hell, but it's close enough.

I says to myself, "Now what in the world is a fire devil?  I must look this up."  No, no you shouldn't.


THAT is a fire devil.  It's a tornado made of fucking fire, y'all.  They can grow up to a mile high and have wind speeds of 160mph.  And uproot 50 foot trees.  On fire.  They spawn out of forest fires because apparently fires create their own weather systems.

Mother Nature has effectively merged my two greatest fears.  If this shit starts shooting out spiders, I'll die.  I'll just go right ahead and die and get it over with.


Yippee kay-yay, Mother Fucker.


To quote Hyperbole and A Half, they're "little pieces of death wrapped up in scary" and I'm not fucking with them.

There are just some things I'm better off not knowing about and this is one of them.  Sometimes I don't like learning.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Three Inanimate Objects That Scare the Living Hell Out of Me

I have a lot of fears that other people don't.  I'll blame most of them on Stephen King.  Trust me when I say that this is just the short list of weird and probably unfounded phobias.

Take storm drains for instance.  What is there to fear about a seemingly innocuous hole in the ground?  I'll tell you.

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You'll just be sailing your awesome paper boat down the flood water when this fucker pops up.


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"Hiya, Georgie.  Aren't ya gonna say "Hello"?


Just count that boat as a loss, man, 'cause he's going to eat you.


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I told you.  "It" didn't make me fear clowns, but it did make me afraid of storm drains because that's where they live.

Banana Boats

Again, seemingly innocuous, but they aren't.  I will NEVER ride one of these.  Ever.  I like watercraft, but I hate banana boats.  You'll just be riding along on your yellow phallus, not a care in the world....




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Hey, we're just chillin'.

You're just chillin', having a good time, looking at the camera and the next thing you know...



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Dammit, Bruce!  Not again!

Something is going to fucking eat you.


Closed Shower Curtains

You THINK you see where this one is going, but trust me, you don't.

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My opaqueness gives you a false sense of security.



You have to pee and you walk in to find a closed shower curtain.  What's behind that shower curtain, you might ask.  Mildew?  Rust?  Hardwater buildup?  Awkward feminine hygiene products?  Nope.  This is.



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I believe in miracles.  Where ya from?  You sexy thang.


Trust me, you never trust hot naked chicks that show up in your bathtub out of nowhere.



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Why?  Because they're going to fucking eat you.

I'm starting to see a trend here.  All of my weird phobias involve something eating me.  I should probably talk to my shrink about that one.

Things That Irritate the Shit Out of Me

The title doesn’t really leave much room for a preamble, so let’s get this party started.



Rachael Ray.


She makes me ashamed of my last name.
                                                       
People who talk like Rachael Ray. I will break that fucking bottle of yummo delish EVOO all over your head, asshole. The point of an acronym in to make a short word out of a series of longer words, not to spell out the acronym. Eeevooo. Say it with me. We don’t call it N-A-S-A or S-C-U-B-A, do we?


Microsoft Word Spell Check. Only one of those sentences up there is a fragment. Also, I’m sorry that you recognize Ebonics as our official language and not English, but you’re not correct.



The fact that I can’t eat generic “fudge pops” without getting a ring of chocolate all the way around my mouth, which is exactly what I’m doing right now while trying to type this with one hand.


The fact that I type faster with my left hand than my right.


The fact that fudge pops look like shit on a stick and still manage to be appetizing.

Having to wipe chocolate ice cream from right beneath my left eye. Seriously, that’s nowhere near my mouth, how did it get there?


Having to wipe pancake batter from between my toes when I make breakfast. Again, I’m not understanding this.


People that have graduated high school and/or college and still don’t have a grasp on the English language.

People that spell ‘you’ as ‘yhu’.


People that abbreviate words when talking and/or typing. Delish, deets, preesh, presh, and vacay, or for the extremely lazy, vaca. What the fuck is a vacka? Did you feel so heartsick over the loss of being able to writ3 lyk3 dis dat yhu had 2 mak3 up n3w w3rdz?


People who think they’re rappers and are also too lazy to spell out their words. It took me a solid five minutes of saying “toma” out loud before I figured out that you were trying to say ‘tomorrow’. Also, it doesn’t have an ‘a’ in it. Neither does ‘definitely’. I defiantly spell my words correctly.

Yankees who think we’re stupid because we use language in a different way. I’m fixin’ to make me a mater sammich and you can go over yonder to hell if you don’t like it. “Yonder ain’t in no fucking dictionary.” Yes, it is, and way to throw out a double negative in the middle of harping on our dialect. Don’t like it? Go the fuck home. We don’t like your kind around these here parts anyway.


Chiggers.


I will crawl into your skin and eat your ass
from the inside out, bitches.
                                                         
People who aren’t funny or talented but become famous anyway.

Bad grammar.


Misspellings.

Double negatives.


People that ineffectually try to make me feel bad about myself so that they can feel better about their own shitty lives.

Broken records.

My Hanson and Lion King CDs not working.


Having to pee.


Having to hold gas because I’m so fucking polite.


People farting in front of me.

Birds.


Ugly people with bad attitudes. God couldn’t have been so cruel as to make you ugly AND not give you a personality.


People that get mad at me because I don’t speak their language. Lo siento.


Guys who grow vaginas because their girlfriends put their balls in a box with her earrings.


Having to shave any part of my body.


Aaaand… I’m going to stop because just about everything annoys the shit out of me.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Because I'm so Badass and Efficient

I like awards.  I like the getting of them and I like the having of them.  I've never won a trophy in my life, but I'm sorely tempted to have one made for myself because I can.  That won't be happening anytime soon because I'm poor and have better things to do, like stealing awards I was never given from websites that offer them freely.  I honestly feel as though I deserve each and every one of the awards TheBloggess posted on her blog today.  Every.  One.  We'll start with inefficient efficiency.


I work in a photolab at my friendly neighborhood "store-mart" and I do the frowning intently at the computer screen thing to make myself appear busy when in reality, I'm really just looking for naked pictures at best and old men in speedos at worst and being pissed off that the raunchiest thing in our system is someone eating a penis cake with asymmetrical balls.  As long as I have the editing box up, I can totally say I'm just enhancing someone's shitty candids from their wedding because Joe Bob's got his hand down his pants and can't you please dear God just blend that into something else, maybe a fern or a nice potted plant.



Fuckin' a right, doggy.  I gladly accept this award because every time I see one of you do this, I want to punch you in the face so hard that you die.  Actually, I try to reserve that anger for your/you're and there/they're/their.  Which leads us to...



It's a daily battle, but I feel that I have the urges to kill mostly under control... usually.  I wouldn't feel this way if it wasn't for the fact that I'm the...




Seriously, they really are.  I know that your native language and the ability to make change correctly takes you to the breaking point on a daily basis, but honestly, if Darwin was right, these wouldn't be issues for you anymore.  Why?  Because you would have been killed in a terrible and completely avoidable accident involving an angry llama or perhaps a sleeping bear.


Just because Jonathan Taylor Thomas was able to lure a horde of angry bears back to sleep by singing softly and farting doesn't mean that you can too.  While we're on the topic of natural selection failing and supreme stupidity...



I don't care if you're 18 months old or not, it is no excuse for falling down a Goddamned well and becoming famous off of it.  Baby Jessica is the same age as I am and so far, I've avoid falling into gaping holes in the ground and I'm still not on the news for being smart enough to avoid this.  I'm smart enough to realize that it's probably not a good idea to keep walking where there isn't any fucking ground left and I'm not a household name... yet.

I totally deserved these awards.

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