Do Your Abilities Meet My Needs?

Damn, Lenin’stache.

You might be so full of Bolshevik that it’s oozing out your ears, but I don’t care. You are one foxy commie pinko bastard.

Did you know that red is my favourite colour?

I would Frida your Trotsky any day.

Lesson Not Learned, Still Owing

I am fully exhausted.

Mentally, emotionally, physically exhausted.

Squeezed through a wringer, dragged across town square, drawn and quartered.

Chastised, assaulted, belittled by the masses. Likely, some of the very same people who read last week of my oh so talented hands and the fabulous frocks they created.

Fucking people.

A despicable human trait, where we so enjoy creating these pristine pedestals upon which to perch, and point our accusatory finger at those we deem inferior.

I worked so hard this weekend.

Guts spilled, no glory, tiny amount of lucre with which to feather my nest.

O Humans

You are the speck of dirt in my oyster.

Irritating, to say the least.

And if I don’t make a pearl, it is only due to my unskilled meat, and nothing more.

Last night, all I wanted was to be held tightly.

Tonight, after a second day of torture, all I want is an unconscious night without dreams of blame addled twits.

Tomorrow, maybe I’ll want a pap smear and a tetanus shot. Hopefully, because that’s what I’m getting.

Epilogue

Yesterday, when I told a co-worker that it was my birthday, he responded with “Aw, you’re going to get smashed! There’s going to be videos on youtube of your night tonight!”

I figured that would be a good thing, it would help me remember my night.

Luckily, I behaved myself amazingly well, considering how drunk I was.

Really, I know what I’m capable of when I’m in my cups. I have, in the past, ended friendships, fucked in public, puked in taxis, gotten friends into fistfights with strangers, saved lives, pissed in my garbage can, smoked pot with homeless people, messed around with chicks, messed around with married men, and insulted innocent bystanders, to name a few things.

And that was just what I can remember from last week.

So, putting last night into perspective, I was almost an angel.

Almost.

I did forget my new drinking mantra, “Don’t hit on the bartender”, but I also came up with an even better mantra for next time, “Don’t hit on the bartender and his foxy friend and offer them a hit from my flask, even if they are off duty and off property”. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but whatever, poetry is for suckers.

I got some nice presents.

I got a little man-toy-voodoo thingy, which I’m planning on unleashing on my various crushes.

So take heed, Dear Various Crushes, if your penis starts a-twitching, and you can’t stop thinking about me, you should probably just surrender before it gets messy. Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.

And if you aren’t a member of the Various Crush Club, but your penis is still a-twitching and you think about me too much, you probably have syphilis. Gross.

If Not Pent Up, Might Not Blow

So yeah, tomorrow is my birthday.

And for the past four years or so, I’ve suffered some sort of mental breakdown as a result.

Crying, panic attacks, irrational fears over my teeth falling out, it’s never a pretty sight. Last year was the worst. Heading into a new decade with a compound hangover, and some horribly unforgettable behaviour on my part, I was not terribly pleased with my birthday extravaganza.

One year, I had a huge bawling fit over having to waitress the day after I saw my grandparents. Mind you, I really love my grandparents, who I rarely get to see, and really hated the customers at the Groundhog Pub, so I feel I had good reason to be on an emotional roller coaster at the time.

When I was in grade one, birthdays would be celebrated by the entire class standing around the birthday boy/girl, and singing them a Bonne Fete (French Immersion). I think there was also some sort of cake eating involved, and maybe some festive hats, too. I was totally looking forward to this special treatment for my own birthday, so you can imagine my disappointment when my stupid teacher forgot my birthday.

And when I told my mom about it, and she called my teacher to ask WTF, the teacher told her that we did celebrate my birthday, and I must have just forgotten.

What a freaky bitch.

Anyway, tomorrow, I’m planning on working during the day and getting drunk with a few select friends in the evening. If drunkenly hitting on the foxy bartender is the worst thing I do, and I hope I don’t even do that, I’ll count myself blessed.

Wish me luck!

My 31st Birthday is on Wednesday

This week is starting off disgustingly.

The skin on my left hand is flaked and peeling.

My hair is graying and unwashed.

My complexion is sallow and unhealthy.

I am aging at an alarming rate.

I spent the entire day eating and then fretted over the possible weight gain and the chances that no man would ever want me; which I know isn’t true, there’s always some desperate chub-rubber kicking around, and it’s not like I was getting any more action weighing five pounds less. Nevertheless, I’m going back on that soup diet to drop what I picked up along the way.

Now last week, that one was way more interesting.

I drank so much, and so frequently, that I stopped getting hangovers by Friday. I felt both better and worse about this. Better because I wasn’t hungover, and worse because my entire state of normalcy had lowered itself a couple of notches into a new realm. From general comfort to slight crapitude.

And knowing that my body could so easily adapt to this onslaught of toxins did nothing to improve my perspective. I just figured I had found a new nook or cranny to grow a tumour.

Oh, and I lost my voice over the weekend. I sound stupid.

So I did nothing productive today. I went to Value Village and stocked up on all the garbage books I had been craving when I didn’t have the time to waste on frivolities. Archies, Baby Sitter’s Club, Sweet Valley High and the ever enthralling V.C. Andrews.

I have spent the entire day in greasy pulp heaven.

Tomorrow, I’ll get back to work and pull a commercial Spring/Summer line out of my ass.

Tonight I’ll dine on cigarettes and the traumatic adolescence of Catherine Dollanganger. I was never that horny when I was sixteen, I can’t even imagine where she’ll be at thirty. Oh wait, I already know where she’ll be: living in sin with her brother after having fucked her step father, her guardian and her hetero ballet dancing husband who kills himself after breaking his back in a drunk driving accident.

Fucking love V.C. Andrews.

Telemarketers, Revisited

My phone just rang, which is annoying enough at any time of day. The ring is loud and abrasive and usually startles the hell out of anyone within hearing range, hearing range being the entire GTA.

When I answered with a “Hello?”, an electronic voice told me that this was not the appropriate response.

Fine.

Next time I’ll take the more traditional approach and answer my phone with a hearty “Fuck off!”

Brother, I Wanna Thank Your Mother for a Butt Like That

Guess how many times I listened to this song today?

I think it was six. I wasn’t counting.

Anyway, I really like Salt n Pepa. I find them refreshing. They are a perfect complement to my New World MANifesto.

Bowzer Sucks

Know what I really miss?

Super Nintendo.

I had one a few years ago, which was wicked, but then it busted. Understandably, it was about 15 years old, ancient for the world of technology.

What I wouldn’t do for some Super Mario Land/World/World3, or even Mariokart.

My roommate and ex boyfriend and I would take turns playing against each other in Mariokart. I would be Yoshi, Roommate would be Mushroom, and Ex would be Luigi. Or was it Mario?

As far as abilities went, Roommate and I were on par with each other, and Ex was way better. He was three years younger than I, two younger than Roommate, and therefore, spent more of his childhood playing Super Nintendo, thus giving him the mad skills to beat our asses on a regular basis.

Ex was both a sore winner and loser, so on the odd occasion that he lost, we totally had to rub it in.

We invented our own slang for the games.

When you bang into a wall and can’t turn around, it’s called “clamming”.

And when you have a hard time gaining momentum after you clam, and are lurching forward at an awkward pace, it’s called “clam chugder”.

We had a special curse, which was “Doom of Death”. As in “Get ready, Motherfucker, it’s the Lightning Round and you’re gonna get the Doom of Death.” But we never used that particular sentence. Just speaking the phrase “Doom of Death” was threat enough.

Those were the only terms we invented.

Art Makes a Great Wingman

Countdown:

In another 36 hours, I may never have to make another crinoline again.

If there’s one thing I learned from this whole experience, it’s that I hate making crinoline, and that I spent way too much money on a clothing line that will never bring me any financial return.

It’s not a commercial line, it’s just art. And really, where’s art gotten me in the past?

Nude, lewd and screwed, among other things.

I guess that’s pretty good. It’s gotten me more fun than grocery shopping, at any rate.

And now that this sewing debacle is over, I can once again indulge in the finer aspects of life.

Yep, nude, lewd and screwed. That’s where I’m heading. Again.