Diseases Abound

This post involves stomach issues so, ya know. deal or don’t read.

I don’t know what the deal is. If it’s super bugs, stress, the fucking apocalypse, but I’ve been sick for what feels like a month straight.

Check that.

It has been a month straight. I got a “flu like virus” the week before classes started and its February now so, yay me with my general sense of time’s passage.

Flu like virus

strep

sinus infection

Fine! Fucking bring it on! But this stomach shit? OMG. For someone who survived most of my teenage years with IBS, this month in particular has been the most humiliating of the stomach wars in my entire fucking lifetime. Try getting spontaneously sick leaving a client’s home and being trapped in the building’s basement bathroom for half a fucking hour. Oh look. Now I’m late for my next shift.

Making yourself leave just as you think you might be ok  only to have to stop at every fucking exit along the highway to jack the, usually single, bathroom of the nearest gas station for unreasonable amounts of time until, inevitably, someone knocks and you have to move. Yep. Super not going to make it to my next shift.

Stopping when you can’t find an exit in time and just hoping you miss your own car. Hm, not totally sure I’m going to make it home.

Getting caught by a train and having to stalk a BK’s parking lot so you don’t get violently ill in front of a two mile long stretch of irritated travelers.  MOTHERFUCKING SHIT FUCK ALL I WANT TO DO IS VOMIT IN THE SANCTITY OF MY OWN HOME.

And that was the first go around. Then there was the second. And then there’s today, in which I got violently ill in the middle of a fucking creative writing workshop. Desks all in a lovely circle so everyone could see, full well, the color drain from my face, as it dawns on me that I am so going to heave.

Try to go back to class afterwards. Make it five minutes. Have to ask a total stranger to please hand in my paper due to my stomach’s inability to not upchuck. Literally run to the bathroom. Become painfully aware of the annoying jingling sound your boot zippers make.

Get asked three times if you’re pregnant.

Obviously I’ve pissed off the stomach gods. What was it? My brazen attempts to attend and graduate college? The bagel I had this morning? Green tea? FUCKING TELL ME SO I CAN TOP VOMITING!!!

Oh yeah. I have to work after this until 8pm.

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What Fuckery Is This?

I have never done a product review on this blog. There are many reasons for this; everyone does it so why should I, I buy cheap shit and expect cheap shit to behave as such, and I inherently believe all product descriptions and advertisements to be at best vaguely outlandish exaggerations of what you can actually expect and believe anyone who disagrees with me is painfully naive.

But this… This bastard of a product….

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This glorious looking nail polish would be Revlon’s Moon Candy.
And i want you to know something, Revlon. For many weeks I have strolled by these tubes of gleeful sparkles and resisted the temptation to buy it, on account of it retailing anywhere from $7-$10, depending on how hard your store is ass-ravaging you with a spiky strap on.

But today I gave in. Today, the five year old princess who lives inside all of us girls, despite our repeated attempts to drown her in fruity alcohol, won out. Today, I purchased my own hunk of glittering joy.

Except, no.

First off, what the fuck Revlon? You may not be the world’s bitchingest name brand, but I’ve always believed you to be a respectable maker of makeup. I have purchased many a product from you, and while your lipsticks don’t actually last 24 hours, as your glossy print claims, I have always relied on it not to flake off my face at the first sign of a breeze. But this shit?

There is one thing a nail polish should not be, Revlon.

One thing.

A nail polish should not be clumpy.
And you, Revlon, have unleashed all sorts of fuckery upon us with this product. This fucking product, which I can only describe as having the same consistency as luke warm hot-glue.

In some ways, your naming of this product is apt, in that my nails now sport the same amount and variation of craters as the glowing orb upon which I curse this glittering goop.

Now, dear Revlon, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. I do not rage upon innocent companies for the smallest error. I am a fair person, so though I noticed this goopy affect, and the fact that the sparkles covered my nails sparsely and utterly pathetically, I gave it another go.

Hey, maybe I just wasn’t applying it with enough patience. Maybe with a steady hand, I could indeed apply a Moon Candy French Manicure.

At this attempt I say, fuck you Revlon.

Fuck. You.
Hard.

See, after two applications of, what I shall now refer to as my withering dreams, not only does it still look like a two year old smeared their Elmer’s glue upon my fingertips, but my bottle is half fucking empty.

Half empty.

And I’m being generous.
And what is truly sad, Revlon, is that you didn’t fail so horribly while reaching to achieve a never before seen affect.

No.

Nail polish with motherfucking glitter in it has existed my entire life. In fact, smooth motherfucking glitter polish has existed my entire life, and you can buy it for about three bucks from other brands. Cheap brands. The kind whose lipsticks flake off in a limp breeze.

You failed at achieving the same level of product quality that every other brand has achieved with little to no effort, and then you sold it for twice the price.

You’re a cunt canoe, Revlon. You’re full of lies.

And I just want you to know that I know that.

Poof

Proofing: defined as when a friend suddenly disappears off the face of the planet. This can be an extreme case, where all traces of your previous friendship have been erased, or a mild case of them just totally ignoring your existence.

I find the milder case to be the most confusing. I mean, if someone’s entire existence disappears, then some effort has been put in. This involves defriending you on Facebook, or removing their Facebook entirely, so that no traces can be found. Untagging photos that would have connected the two, blocking off the phone numbers….

Obviously there’s only so many answers here. If someone has gone to that length to poof, it’s one of two things.

1) you seriously fucked up and are too stupid to realize. In this case, they aren’t poofing, but more cleansing your stank off their lives.

2) they’re spies.

But the mild version? Suddenly they won’t respond to calls or texts, yet you’re still friends on Facebook. No angry rants have been initiated. No demands for apologies….
This kind of poof is usually preceded by what was, in all accounts, a pretty decent night.
Perhaps a party, where everyone left laughing and smiling. Or multiple parties.

To the mild poof I say, what in the fuck is the deal here?

I’m a decent person. I fuck up from time to time, but generally I am aware I’ve fucked up. To this poofing I say, what did I do?

Seriously.

In all honesty.

What and why? Previously we partied. Played video games. Previously we were fine and friendly and all that shit.

And now you’re poofing.

To you, you poofer, I say you are odd. I say you confuse me and I give up. I say, maybe you have split personalities and only one of them knows we are friends, so gimme a call when the other is in command.

Whatever and all that.

How many of you have been poofed on?

Warning: Cat Butt Contained Within

My cat has no sense of personal boundaries.
This is my view of Yoda 90% of the time…

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The other 10%…

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Suddenly Paranoid

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This is how I wear my scarf. I find it to be the most effective way to keep my neck all fuzzy and warm. Today, on the way down in the elevator I suddenly think about how, if they wanted to, a crazy person could grab either end and effectively choke me to death.

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Hence forth they shall be known as Crazypants and Bootylicious

So drama exists, just in case any of you forgot, and she (because this is a stereotype that I believe to be based in a bit of reality) is a crazy motherfucker that will stalk your ass like she’s got a GPS chip implanted in your left butt cheek. There’s no escaping.

I found this out two days ago.

As I was sitting at my desk, still at work and in a shockingly upbeat mood, I get this in my text box (Sort of. I’m going to paraphrase because in reality this person’s spelling/grammar are very difficult to understand in written form)

“Back up and leave me alone. Stop your immature bullshit lying.”

There were more cuss words and it was followed with about two hours of harassing texts. Now, I honestly thought at first that this person had sent a message to the wrong person.

See, I haven’t seen or spoken to this person, who I’m now dubbing crazypants, in about three weeks. Last I saw her was at a small party at my house. Everything seemed fine. Last I texted her was over some drama, which has now grown disproportionately to it’s level of importance.

Basically she hates this chick I introduced her friend to, and they’re dating now. (For the purposes of this story we shall call crazypant’s friend “Her friend” and we shall call MY friend Bootylicious) I asked her to “please try to lay off Bootylicious lol” and continued to explain that she wants to be friends, seeing as she’s dating someone who is connected with her.

There was no fight. No nothing. No cuss words were said, no back and forth, really.

Then weeks later…

I am so angry about this I can barely speak without taking on that vaguely “I am a demon who comes to consume your happiness” tone of voice. Accusations were thrown, I’m not exactly sure what they were because she never said what I was actually lying about. I’m not sure how I’ve done some of the things she claims because I simply don’t talk to her boyfriend, and haven’t really spoken to the couple involved. Also she never really mentioned how I did all these things, just that it’s apparently all my fault.

I’m just so done with people right now. I’ve known this person my entire life. Seriously, there’s pics of us when I’m like 6 going Trick or Treating together. I’d show you, but that would defeat the whole purpose of changing her name. We’ve never had a fallout that involved any sort of back stabbing. Occasionally through the years we lost touch here and there, to reconnect when it was more convenient for both of us. For awhile there she lived an hour away, which is only a big deal when gas is 3-4 dollars, which it always is.

Fact is I’ve never given her a reason to think I’d try to sabotage her, but here we are after three weeks of no communication and BOOM.

The only reason I asked her to back off Bootylicious is because, lately, this crazypants person has gotten into the habit of saying some pretty nasty things to people for no apparent reason. Things like

“Your ass is nasty. You need to go to the gym.”

or

“You’re boring”

Sometimes she’s more inventive, but the point is that these are not “Joke” insults. They’re just insults.

Out of the blue and to someone who has never done a single thing to her. She said that “nasty ass” one to Bootylicious (because she is bootylicious, but it’s not nasty).

I can speculate as to why she has this vitriol against her. I know she’s lying about why, because she tried to convince Bootylicious that I may or may not have told crazypants that Bootylicious was a “whore”.

First off, even if I think so lowly of someone that I would seriously comment on their promiscuity, that’s what I’d say. They are promiscuous. I’ve probly dropped the joking “Hoe” before, but whore?

I never say whore.

See, I have this thing with that word where I fucking hate it. Somehow in grade school people decided it was fun to call me a whore, or a hooker, and stuff poorly drawn stick figures doing sex acts into my locker. Usually it was of two chicks because I was also apparently a lesbian, and this was when we were all young enough that two chicks making out was still icky instead of “hawt”.

Please forgive me for typing “hawt” and forcing it upon your unsuspecting eyeballs…

twice…

If someone called me “whore,” even jokingly, I used to get very upset. I don’t do that as much now because I realize people are joking. Camo Pants says it a lot, and I know he means nothing by it, but for me to use it against someone would make me highly uncomfortable.

Second off, well…I didn’t call her a whore. So while I’m the bad guy in this made-up drama, she is the one trying to sabotage my friendships.

As angry as I am about all of this I’m also just a little broken hearted. It’s true that crazypants’s (crazypants’, crazypantii…) behavour has been basically appalling lately, but I swear maybe two years ago crazypants would not have been an appropriate nickname. Well…it’s probably still not appropriate per say but it is applicable at this point in time and it’s my blog so nyah!

It’s depressing that the insanely hyper, but overall nice girl, I used to basically think of as family has become the kind of person to lash out and attack people around her just because she can.

And I guess that’s why I’m having trouble letting go of it. I’ve known her forever so I know she’s capable of being a nice person. It’s not like she was born spitting hate at people. And I’ve been defending her for about a year to other friends of mine whom she’s insulted or annoyed.

I guess I just felt like maybe she was doing it because she didn’t know them and was on edge or uncomfortable. But I don’t think that’s it now. It’s almost like she thinks it’s cool to say these things. Like it somehow makes her a braver person, but in reality she’s just being hurtful.

I’m pretty sure it isn’t fixable. Not after the things she sent. And I know she isn’t going to sit down and reflect any time soon. Not only that, but I left a very serious and rage-faced voicemail after the last text she sent because man did it just hit all the wrong buttons, and I hadn’t been replying for nearly an hour so it was becoming obvious she wasn’t going to let it go.

I didn’t threaten her or cuss her out. But to be honest, I was in the middle of a store and everyone was looking at me with bug-eyes despite me intentionally not raising my voice or cussing, so I’m pretty sure my tone sounded “I shall consume your joy” regardless of the actual words I used.

Anyways. One friendship lost, after nearly 20 years, over nothing. Over imaginary drama that I wasn’t even aware of because I’ve been damn busy remodeling my house and making Thanksgiving food.

Which reminds me…

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This is my NEW door…to the alternate reality beneath my house.

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This is my OLD door, which got kicked in.

 

Also I’m sure you can see where it went from moldy pea soup color to happy color.

Here’s to small victories, and imaginary dimensions beneath houses only accessible by hallway floor doors.

I am a walker. I come to eat your baby’s birthday cake. Gir, Argh.

So, this is probably going to be a short post, unless I get ranty, which very well might happen.

See, I have this awesome friend, who has this awesomely cute baby.

And this awesomely cute baby’s birthday party is this Sunday, to which I am going.

Yeah….so….her baby daddy (a term I use because they aren’t together and saying “the father of her child whom she is no longer with” is a mouthful, so please don’t take offense) is prejudiced against red heads.

I don’t know if any of you have noticed but uh….

Yeah, I’m a red head. Or “ginger” as he puts it. Now, this alone had my brain boggled. Fucking boggled. I rarely say Shenanigans because it’s not really my word, but I mean…

Shenanigans dude. Fucking shenanigans.

And it gets better. He tells my friend that no gingers are allowed at the baby’s birthday party. That apparently the baby hates gingers too, and if any come they will have to wait in the car.

Now, my friend isn’t taking that shit obviously, so since I sat there playing with her totally happy baby, she took a pic and sent it to him.

To which he replies that I…

look like…

a walker.

Now, anyone in their normal mind is probably thinking “Walking Dead” zombie reference right now, but no. No, that’s not what he was saying. I mean, I did just have the world’s worst migraine for half the day, so if he had implied I looked mostly dead I would’ve been inclined to agree.

No.

Apparently, in his world, a walker is someone who has light enough red hair that they don’t look like a “real red head”.

So…I guess it’s like a racially mixed person “passing,” but far weirder because just huh?

Also…my mom?

Notice  a family resemblance? It’s real motherfucker.

So yes.  Just needed to express my confusion and level of mind bogglement. From your friendly Walker Blogger. Have a lovely night.

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