Posts Tagged ‘argh’

Gross Story You’ll Wish You Hadn’t Read

Wednesday, August 21st, 2013

You remember the movie “Something About Mary”?

Allegedly, I’m Mary.

One of my male friends – the one who made the original comparison and also gave me the nickname “Magical Ass.” You Know Who You Are. And thanks for nothing. And sorry, Dad. – looooooooooves to say “there’s something about Vanessa!” in an all-too-chirpy and enthusiastic tone. He’s also mentioned that he “didn’t want to be in a relationship for about a decade… until I met you” and no, we are not in a relationship or romantically involved but yes, I guess he speaks from “something about Vanessa” experience.

I heart you, You Know Who You Are.

So anywho, this is not about me and my superpower of making people crush out.

This is more in line with “things I tell people who are crushing out to help them get a grip.”

Like how I have three cases of sardines on Amazon subscription order and regularly eat them for breakfast right out of the can.

And not the good ones I love because I’m cheap and a broke ass writer (thanks for the beer. AHEM. Not talking to you, Dad. You’re the tops. But the rest of you? You Know Who You Are.), but I deal because I’m a tough cookie and stoic in the face of mediocrity like that.

And how I think daily showers are overrated.

And that I don’t remember the last time I cleaned said shower.

And how two years in Hawaii has hardened me to the degree that I will KILL A COCKROACH WITH MY BARE HANDS.

Don’t even dare me. Don’t even look at me sideways. It’s gonna happen before your eyes can go all askance, let alone before the words are out of your mouth.

I ‘m a straight ninja roach killer.

And that’s disgusting.

What about how I’ve been known to pull entire, still-in-their-wrapper (bastard!) sticks of butter out of my dog’s throat (he morphs into a boa constrictor when he knows you’re coming for something he just stole)…and put it back in the fridge… and use it.

What?

Like you wouldn’t.

Anywho, this tale will join the list of “Please stopping thinking you want to marry me. I’m seriously insane.” tall tales.

So the other night I ran my dishwasher and something I apparently didn’t properly pre-wash (have the dog lick shiny clean first) backed up in the whosit whatsit and the net result was that one side of my sink was filled with this dark gray (seriously. Bordering on black. It was wild. The Ganges wishes it could get its hands on the contents of my sink.) water.

I ran the garbage disposal and no love, so I did what any rational woman living alone and with no handyman skills whatsoever would do… and ignored it for three days.

Maybe four.

And then it started to smell weird and I accidentally dropped a spoon in it which caused the fetid liquid to splash onto my Batman shirt in a most uncool and rancid manner, and I realized it was time I Google the problem.

Lo and behold, it turns out a plunger will fix this mess.

But I am a rational woman living alone and with no handyman skills whatsoever and who only takes petite, polite, smell-free dumps, so what would I need a plunger for?

Then I briefly thought about borrowing one from a local establishment (I know. Right? WTF is wrong with me?) but it turns out the two places I looked don’t have plungers for the borrowing – which I now thank my lucky stars for. What was I going to do? Tuck a poop-stained plunger in my shirt? And then repeat that when I returned it??? – so I ended up buying one at Wal-Mart last night.

Turns out a plunger only costs five dollah.

Even on Maui.

Land of the jacked up prices.

Well, probably where you are it costs a buck fiffy, but still.

Cheap plunger in hand I came home, ordered the pets to stand back, and proceeded to splash this vile, dry heave-inducing liquid all over the place (and the dog LICKED IT OFF THE COUNTERS AND CUPBOARDS. No lie.) and on my person, but I was like a dog with a cupboard covered in hideous, monstrous, toxic water with that situation and eventually I triumphed.

My sink now runs free as nature intended.

And, no, you do not want to marry me.

Or live with me.

Or smell the laundry currently in my hamper.

Or maybe even come over for dinner, because it’s very likely that whatever I cook you spent some time inside my dog’s non-discriminating and quite possibly disease-ridden mouth first.

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

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It’s always something

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011

Is it not enough that I destroy iPhones?

Here I am using a flip phone for the last twelve days – texting like it’s 1999, unable to take photographs let alone look up meaningless information on Wikipedia – while I wait for my iPhone 4S to arrive. Nevermind this is the fourth iPhone I’ll have had in a month (or whenever it gets here), as all of its predecessors have died a bizarre and inexplicable death. If iPhones were people, there’d be a a carful of homicide detectives parked outside my house right now.

Nonetheless, as it stands, my only crime is killing expensive electronics…and losing them. Now I can’t find my iPod. I can’t understand how this has happened, actually. I had it this morning. I remember the last thing I read on it. Normally, I would have left it in that room, and I would have sworn I did just that, but…no iPod???

So here’s my earliest memories: I woke up. I read some stuff on the iPod. I went and walked the dog (the beast was ruined by city living: he insists upon at least two walks a day), had my landlord help me close up the Jeep (and we did a half-assed job, but good enough for now), came inside and…????

It’s freaking gone.

GONE!!!

No comprendo.

It was my last link to the modern world, although a physically slender one for sure. I can’t even tell you how much time I’ve wasted looking for it – and the insane places I’ve looked: in the freezer, in the silverware drawer, behind the toilet, under the mattress, in the trash, behind my ear, on the head of pin… ARGH!!!!

Whatever.

I accept this.

We’re playing hide and seek.

Suddenly.  Unexpectedly. Rudely. And without notice or any sense of the rules.

And I’m losing.

But that’s okay. It is what it is, and will work out as it must.

 

In other news, it’s a damn shame my Himalayan salt lamp isn’t a Virgin Mary statue: it’s been weeping it up for days now. If only it looked a little bit more like Jesus instead of Mount Rainier, and I could have a genuine Catholic miracle on my hands…or at least something to pray to for the safe and expeditious return of my iPod.

Oh hell, who am I kidding? I’ll probably just go ahead and pray to the salt lamp for safe measure. You never know. Hopefully the fairies hear my lament and bring the it back…

(((please.)))

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Just another small-scale nervous breakdown

Sunday, June 27th, 2010

I’m taking a break from finalizing my agent list – about twenty individuals and from what I can gather, the best of the best that are willing to look at new authors – and freaking the fuck out.

I am.

I’m so emotional I’m almost in tears.

Is it me or does this guy look a little bit like James Woods?

I think it’s in part that I want this so badly – it’s soooo important to me – that it’s overwhelming.

Actually, to be completely honest, the overwhelming part is fear and self-doubt of the generic “Am I good enough? Am I as good as these other people they represent?” variety.

Objectively, I think my story is amazing and I think it is well-executed…but the evil little voice likes to undermine with whispers and concerns of the million-dollar freak out question: “is the writing good enough?”

I suppose this is the crisis point for all of us at some point, be it personally, professionally, romantically, spiritually, or you name it. We all eventually run into a wall where we doubt our worth, and yet the polar opposite (an all-encompassing sense of entitlement) is even more unfathomable (not to mention distasteful).

I have to imagine even people who ‘make it’ or ‘have it all’ or just get damned lucky are plagued with the flip side of this equation: “Why me? What makes me worthy? Do I deserve this?” Isn’t that the whole nature of survivor’s guilt? Being plunged ad hoc into existential crisis and attempting to rationalize or understand why you lived and others died (and a subsequent self-imposed pressure to justify or substantiate your continued existence)?

As if life were rational…

(At the same time, did I survive something and forget about it, because I kind of feel like I’m suffering from a mean case of survivor’s guilt?)

Oh, to be a dog, where the philosophical self-loathing of worth, value, merit, and entitlement are non-existent.

My dog assumes you are as happy to see him as he is you and acts accordingly. And other times he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the person baby-talking or trying to engage him, and charges off toward the next smelly spot on the path without so much as an upward glance; it’s all zen to him. He isn’t the least bit concerned about how that might look or be perceived. (Unlike his apologetic owner who finds herself making half-assed explanations about his single-mindedness or interest in peeing on everything in a six-mile radius or otherwise feeling the need to explain why a dog has just done whatever he has incomprehensibly done.)

And the cat? The cat would laugh in your face if you asked him to justify his sense of self-entitlement. He exists. He purrs. He is beautiful. Isn’t that enough?

So that’s it.

And I feel a little better having talked about it.

I will return to completing the list and the letter will be tweaked and polished and sweated over and cried on and torn to pieces and carefully taped back together and hopefully arrive in some simplistic, beautiful, compelling state that I’m okay with enough to send out tomorrow as planned.

And we’ll go from there.

Marching ever forward and ignoring the little voices that undermine and hesitate, because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!

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