I'll take whore over boring anyday.
February 2011
January 2011
Passionfruit guava shampoo is the only thing I'll use on my pubes.
I like to impart a tropical flair to my package.
"I don't deserve $12 million," says Big League pitcher. →
nbcwashington.com
Shortly afterward, his agent suffered a major heart attack and was pronounced dead in his limo.
I think it's cute how telemarketers and bill collectors think I'll answer my phone.
In the telemarketing and bill collecting world it’s still 1995.
Aww, I’ll think, then hit IGNORE.
Um, you know how you’re not supposed to talk to strangers? Yeah, that’s how phones work in 2011.
FYI.
I don't beg to differ. I just differ.
Deal with it.
People who sell used cars have megalomania.
This is cracking me the fuck up.
I’m looking for a new (used) car. I don’t buy new cars. Never have, never will. I won’t buy anything that loses value the minute I purchase it and also puts me into immediate debt. Car payment? No thanks.
So I’ve always bought used cars and usually managed to sniff out a deal. Right now, I’m looking in the classifieds and having a really good laugh.
A 14-year old Honda with almost 300,000 miles on it and you want $2700 firm? Oooh, sign me up! I’m dumb as a post!
Common people conducting business can be pretty hilarious in general. One time I was looking for an apartment and was talking to this guy on the phone. He told me the rent and I told him flatly, “No, thanks. That’s overpriced.”
The guy gets all defensive, almost angry. Starts yipping about a “seller’s market” and how it’s “pretty standard.”
It was like he was trying to convince himself. Haha.
I found a bigger place for less rent. Where’s his market now?
Fuck a damn emergency room bill!
OVER $1500 FOR FOUR HOURS IN AN EMERGENCY ROOM WHERE I GOT NO ANSWERS, NO MEDICINE, NO SERIOUS TREATMENT. NOTHING.
I will call their bitch asses tomorrow and let them know I am a broke ass 21 year old with no health insurance and I will not pay them one single mothafuckin assfuckin dime. Not even a penny.Piss on it.
\m/
“Sex is a very narrow avenue. You only have so many holes and parts and eventually you run out of things to do.”
—Doug Stanhope
I fucking love mornings like this.
Where you got enough sleep and your kitty stayed by your side the whole night so the monsters couldn’t get you and you wake up feeling good and rested and jump in the shower and get all clean and shiny and brush your teeth and it’s sunny out and you don’t really have anything to do today.
My god.
Anonymous knows my weakness for fishnets. Holy fucking shit.
Things I wonder: Is this her? Is this Anonymous? That ass could make money. Perhaps it’s just a picture GIVEN to me. One who possesses an ass like that will learn, either the hard way or the easy way, that the said ass is sacred. She will either be exploited or make ASSloads of money because of it. Having an ass like that is both a curse and a blessing, depending on how she takes it, depending on what she can do with it, depending on if she can free herself of the men in her life.
Such an ass is a ticket to freedom. Will she cash it in or will she wonder what her boyfriend thinks?
Dudes.
I was kidding. I’m not going “on tour” haha. I don’t even know how one goes about going “on tour”. In my mind, you need a bus. All’s I got is a Toyota.
But I am going to keep going to these readings—for as long as my liver holds out anyway.
So I got up in front of an audience and read some of my writing.*
Quite the experience.
I wasn’t very nervous, being half drunk, but I’m full of shit. I was pretty nervous.
It went well. Everyone before me read poetry, some of it insanely bad, all of it pretty serious. I read two selections from my book, plus another piece. I read comedic stuff because I thought it would go over well on such a solemn crowd. I was right. Actually, I wasn’t sure it would go over well or not. I figured it would surpise them (comedy works best by surprise) or it would fall flat on it’s face.
Thankfully, it caught them off guard. They tittered, became a bit awkward, then started laughing. I read High Carb Diet, which you can read here if you want, A Different Cal Thomas, and a newer story I have three titles for, none of which I’m going to use.
Then I climbed down off of the stage a hero, went to my hotel room, and trashed it like a rock star.
Just kidding. I climbed down off of the stage and sat nervously in a corner. People came up to me and I sold three books. I probably could have sold more but I only had three. Exchanged contact info with a bunch of people.
So, yeah. I’m a fucking performer now. I’ll be going out on tour this summer. There will be t-shirts.
On a related note, a signed copy of my book is still available until 6 pm Mountain Time if you’re an Ebayer.
*Still a bit nauseous from the stench of coffee and patchouli.
