Archive | Uncategorized

I just want to clarify something in the below post. When I say my fingertips are like baby asses, I mean the unchafed butts of babies, not young donkeys, although if they were like baby donkeys, that would be so cute!

Also, is The Hills Lauren Conrad on drugs? This is the second season where, when she makes flirty eyes at some guy, I want to throw a shoe at the television and then take a shower. If I were the guy on the receiving end of that uncomfortable unblinking stare plus shoulder shrug plus strange palsy/shimmy, I would make my way to the exit, and yet they don’t. Maybe the camera adds ten… times the embarrassment by proxy?

And finally, I figured out the way to enjoy the low-sodium miso soup mix from a few blog posts ago: Eat it plain, resulting in a very salty, powdery 25 calorie snack. Like a soy sauce flavored pixie stick with crunchy crap in it.

I played guitar three weeks ago, which was surprisingly painful, though fun, since the calluses that I once had were long gone and instead my fingers were like ten little baby asses, and my wrist like some kind of weak little unborn bird—like the consistency of the beak of an unhatched chicken—anyway, have I made you barf yet? I can keep going.

So what’s weird is that my fingertips are just now—three weeks later–starting to peel, which is phase one of the calluses. Well actually, it’s phase two. Phase one is pain. It’s like I applied Rogaine to my fingertips, which I didn’t, and the tissue is sloughing slowly.

If anyone would like a piece of fingertip skin, please write an essay detailing why and put it in a bottle and throw it in the ocean. I’m curious to see whether that form of communication works.

His name is Charles Chips. http://www.bissell.com/redirect.asp?page_id=47167&Pet=787

Blogfans, because I got called out for it today, I just wanted to take this special moment to tell you, my special and extremely attractive readers, that when I post stories I wrote a long time ago it isn’t because I’m lazy and sitting there thinking “I don’t have anything to post, I know! I’ll post something old!”

It’s that I’ve been going back and reading stuff I wrote from the OC Weekly because, if you must know, I’m trying to see if there’s a book in that old stuff, and anyway, unless you happened to be reading the OC Weekly 8 or 9 years ago, I assume this is new to you, and if you are a fan of mine which you so certainly should be if you’re still reading this piffle, then I assume you would want to read the stuff that I personally think is probably better than a lot of what followed, or if not better than at least on par with. I mean, when you love someone, as you do me (right? RIGHT?!?!?!?!?!) then you love everything about them unconditionally. The way I burp in my sleep, the way I’m covered with pustules, the way I use my uterus as a weapon (I throw it at people) and my penchant for posting old stories. These things make me human. Hence, when I serve up a story from 9 years ago you should just be happy that I have a tenuous grasp on math because it’s occurring to me that I really mean 8 years ago. What? I don’t know. I don’t really sleep-burp. I do like Facts of Life though.

Do I make you laugh? Is this funny to you? Do you find me humorous or perhaps humourous, if you’re ‘across the pond’? Because I assure you that is not my intention. I’m trying to communicate my deep psychic wounds, people. I am serious as a heart attack. Okay, maybe not that serious, but certainly on the level of acid reflux, which many people mistake for a heart attack. It’s tough to tell the difference, you know. So what I’m saying is that I’m serious as GERD, which is no laughing matter, so if you find yourself laughing at my blog it’s probably because you have no empathy and you yourself have never experienced the kind of heartburn you get after a night of drinking 151 and hanging out with cheap whores and smoking cigars and wearing clown suits. No, I have never done such things and I thank you to keep your assumptions to yourself. When you make an assumption you make an ass out of you and mption.

Anyway, I guess I just wanted to set the record straight. The echoes of jackhammers are still in my head. The faint insanity-producing drone. Oh: here’s a list! A list of things I’m not in!

Things I’m not currently “in”:

quicksand
a quagmire
“style,” more or less
a good mood
a pickle
a tar pit
a sports arena
the desert
a good place vis a vis myself and the universe
a time machine
a phase of my life where I care to eat Borscht
an airplane
the running to become America’s Next Top Model
“the money”
“the pink”
“the red”
my blue period

Me again, still at the gym for some reason. Apparently I’ve traveled about eight miles without moving which seems really odd to me. Maybe the gym is longer than I realize? Anyone know how much eight miles is?

Good thing I brought so many things to pass the time! In addition to my blackberry I also have my iPod, two magazines and a book. It’s not dissimilar to the amount of stuff I used to bring for the car ride to disneyland when I was a kid. The ride was about thirty five minutes but I brought enough for fifteen times that. Anyone know what fifteen times thirty five is? I’m going to see if I can figure it out in my head bc that’s the kind of stuff I do at the gym. Okay. Here goes.

525?

I have to say that I kind of feel like an asshole when I have my blackberry in one hand and I pick up my ipod in the other. But at least I’m not doing other obnoxious gym things like grunting. You won’t hear me grunt and if it means that I have to reduce my workout to a mere stretch routine and I don’t even break a sweat and basically people are like who is that girl with blinders on the bike who’s just sitting there emailing and repeatedly looking at a map, confused, so be it.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

So I’m at the gym, blog posting, which is how I pass the monotony of improving my already amazingly fit and taut physique. You could not only bounce a quarter off these abs, but also a dollar bill. Try it, I dare you. In fact sometimes I find enoungh money for a sandwich trapped in my midsection, that’s how scary fit I am. I should add that gutfeld told me a couple weeks ago that he thinks emailing at the gym (cardioemailing) sounds dangerous but see that’s the diff between him and me. I’m a thrill seeker. My internal barometer is set on Extreme and In Your Face – I’m like a corn nut really, or mountain dew – and so I’m just a slave to my need for risk taking, whereas gutfeld is content just doing what ‘the man’ tells him. It’s sad really.

Another diff is that I sau ‘diff’ and I bet he doesn’t. No time for polysyllables when you’re busy living life to the fullest. The seat of my pants? Totally flying by it. First class ticket on tushy air. Heiney air? That actually sounds much worse than I mean it but there’s no going back now. If I go back I could miss something. That’s why I wear these blinders like you’d see on a clydesdale in central park. To keep me focused on the future. And to correct my lazy eyes. It’s a long story but if you’re trying to speak to me you’re going to need to get right in front of me while I’m hanggliding or jumping from a plane as I do, bc otherwise you’re just so much peripheral chatter.

So I’m on the stationary bike and I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been pedaling for like half an hour and I’m still at the gym. I doublechecked and the brakes aren’t on, so I don’t know what to make of it except maybe I’m going so fast it’s altering my perception? Like maybe I’m moving at the speed of light? I did it once a long time ago (in the eighteen hundredf but that’s a ftory for another day).

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

It needed salt.

I’m not saying this in a pithy way, though I’m quite certain I can’t help but be pithy—it’s a curse!—but I mean it genuinely. The soup is not a symbol. It’s actual soup. And the salt is not a metaphor. It’s actual salt. Or lack of.

Also, man did I have a day. I had a 4/5’s kind of day which is where 4/5’s of the conversations you have are good and 1/5 make you want to shove a pencil in your eye. But I mean 1/5 of each conversation. Not 1/5 of the people I talked to. Except now that I think about it, I had some perfectly fine conversations. But a couple doozies. I could tell you, but I think these people read my blog. So in that case, yes, I’m talking about you. Unless I’m not.

I’m probably not. God, what the hell am I saying?

I don’t know but I’d rather be looking at puggles.

talking about how I look like crap when I travel. Now I know what you’re thinking: “You? Looking like crap? Impossible! You are a vision in sweatpants and fleece!”

Really, public, you are too kind. What have I done to deserve you? I haven’t even told you about the Bike Incident In Fourth Grade yet. Nor about how ducklings smell. (They have a certain musky duckling odor which is a blend of the food you feed them and their tiny duckling poohs. If ever you had pet ducks, it’s a heady fragrance. I kind of miss it.)

Oh, did I not tell you? The bottom dropped out of the nostalgia problem last night—I awoke from a dream about a high school boyfriend—and now apparently I’m trapped in nostalgia free fall and so memories from all parts of my life are kicking themselves up, be they when I peed all over my bike on the way home, accidentally and inexplicably in fourth grade, or when I had pet ducks even earlier than that.

And if you happen to be someone who is reading my blog for the first time, welcome! It isn’t all bike urine and duckling crap all the time, but it isn’t not that, either.