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.

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