The Randomist

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 ...

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...

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 hot...

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 ...

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. Goof-Off can't fix this mistake by MoWaffles View other Tasteless T-Shirts The front says "J/K", you know, for potential un-rapist boyfriends. Dear Rapist by MoWaffles See other Random T-Shirts And because the movie Teeth freaked me out... Vagina Ventata by MoWaffles Become a clothing affiliate at zazzle.com Please don't hate me... ... and go buy things.

It is universally recognized that most places on this big green ball have four seasons. Winter – It’s cold. Spring – Shit grows. Summer – Shark Week. Fall – Shit dies. That being said, I would like to point out that the state of North Carolina actually has five seasons each year. Some of these seasons overlap for maximum discomfort and they’re known to us by slightly different names than the aforementioned. Season 1: Buy Milk and Bread Seriously, winters are coming , you better be prepared. If there is even a slight chance that a single snow flake could fall from the heavens, the grocery stores are going to be packed and then emptied of everything but candy wrappers and sadness. It is a state law that mandates that when there is a winter weather advisory, you must go buy all the milk and all the bread in all the lands. You could perish in the temperate winters of the South. We’ve seen Alive ; we know how this story ends. We’re prepared to eat our neighbors if we h...

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, ...