Drunk posts I shouldn’t post

A well-needed laugh

Warning: Not for use by those that: 1) Don’t like the F word 2) Those offended by super-mild sexual content or anything that might imply, or make you think of sex 3) Those that don’t like Nine Inch Nails 4) Are offended by hands and 4.5) Those that couldn’t handle a sweaty, young William Shatner


And for the record? I hate everything.
Okay, pardon that dramatic, not true statement. I love this amazing wine I picked up at Frys that I’m currently killing off by myself (yes, I’m that awesome).
Oh, and steak. I love cow meat.
I love my baby girls.
I love my cat, Megatron, AKA, furry cuddle-slut.
I love my snake.
I love my friends.
I love running. I love weigh lifting.
I love babies.
I love roses. I love the image of love in my head (hence why I’m becoming okay with being single and emotionally detached, as to not soil it).
I love sex.
I love hiking.
I love people that don’t suck.
I love dark chocolate.
I love music. I love peace and quiet.

Everything else can pretty much eat a horses dick. With ketchup.



What can’t you throw away?

I can’t seem to throw away this notion that there is inherent good in others, despite how they act and how far they will go to make you believe that they are something that they aren’t.

I can’t seem to throw away the things and people that no longer serve any purpose in my life except to keep me exactly where I am.

I can’t seem to throw away my hope that we, as a species, are evolved, despite being animals with shoes.

I can’t seem to throw away the image burned in my mind of what constitutes a beautiful relationship, despite the outside sources (and my own logic) that contradict such a glorious sight.

I can’t seem to throw away the voice mail on my phone that I listen to from time to time, even though the light in the voice is gone.

I’m just full of garbage.

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I’m really happy I found my snake

I can’t find my mail key.
It grew little legs and walked away.
Things keep getting lost and sometimes found and rearranged and broken and firewalled and disabled all by themselves lately. I am blaming gnomes that are so invisible, even I can’t see them.

My snake got herself lose in my apartment. She MUST be stronger than I gave her credit for. Or maybe the gnomes wanted to play with her. Little fuckers. I later found her curled up in a pair of my pants. Poor little thing was cold. She also must have been hungry, because she went down my shirt and bit my boob when I put her around my neck to warm her up. Funny, I don’t think my boobs smell like small dead rodents, but what do I know.

Being a typical human sucked into social networking, I informed everyone on my facebook of the snake incident. I was later messaged by a non-reptile friendly family member asking me how I could possible love and care about a cold, slithery, “slimy” creature that won’t love me like a dog or a cat. I replied that it must have something to do with my tendency to develop attachments to cold, emotionless creatures that are indifferent to my presence.  She LOLed. I threw up.

And it was, like, OMG.

Our clinic was doctor-less for almost three hours today because he “forgot” he had to work. I was frowned at by a lot of people because of this.  I have a lot of neat conversations with people when they are frowning at me. It used to bother me, but now I really don’t give a shit, and give a robotic response to their apparent unhappiness. I’ve noticed that this non-reaction sometimes makes people frown harder.

It just dawned on me that I have failed as a girl scout mom. I’m going to bed.

Here’s my theme song.

I need a different latitude.

Ex-lax for your soul?

I am eating cold meat sauce I made last night and drinking an obnoxious glass of wine.

I am also, without a doubt, having a “moment”.

It’s been long over due. I am learning that its bad to hold in feelings and pretend to either a) be happy when you’re not b) act indifferent when you’re not, and c) act like a cold, stone statue, when you most certainly are not.

I don’t know why I do this; as a uterus owner,  it should come naturally for me to be in touch with my emotions and sensitivities and be expressive about them. But I’m not. I almost think I’d be more comfortable ripping ass in front of a hot date than talk about my feeling with someone I know and am comfortable with.

So, I’ll blog it out. Or, at least attempt to. The more I try to get it out, the more constipated my brain becomes. It is, literally, like my mental processes produce nothing but static when confronted with the harsh reality of “how I feel about things and such”.

I can easily say I’m beyond tired. That’s a given. I can easily say that I’m nervous. That’s expected. I can easily say I’m lost. That’s cliche.  But I can’t seem to really reach down and do what I need to do, which is yank out my fucking guts and smear them all over this screen and relieve the pressure on my insides.
Hey, that’s disturbing!

It’ll come out eventually;  it has to whether I want it to or not. I just hope I don’t blow a load in someone’s eye.