Monday Bear

So I just realized that I could never have a pager. You know why? Because I never call people back. If you’ve ever called me, I’ve probably not called you back. Don’t take it personally; I just tend not to call people back, just like some people tend to bite their nails or poop themselves. It’s just a bad habit.

My mom used to have a beeper when she was a social worker. I was seven. I thought that was just too cool, so I saved up my money and got a plastic beeper filled with bubblegum. (more…)

So one of my friends, who just happened to be a lady of colour, told me why alot of black girls don’t like me. It’s because black guys like me. Black guys like me because:

a.) I have red hair, and
b.) I’m shaped like a skinny black girl.

She says they don’t like me because we’re stealing their men and whatnot. That’s kind of a gay reason not to like someone, but I suppose it’s kind of like how it kind of bothers me when Matt says things about other girls, unless the other girl is my friend.

Kind of.

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So I understand that most people don’t really like pooping at work. On the contrary, when I had a job, I loved pooping at work, because, seriously, where else can you get paid to poop?

But I think it helped that -I- was the one who bought the TP most of the time, and I never bought that John Wayne toilet paper that’s rough, tough, and won’t take shit from anyone.

I forgot to write a few weeks ago when I got a postcard from my SOA (or should I say, SOB) from CUSTOMS/ Freshman Orientation. In wretched handwriting and red marker ink, it reads:

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So I was just down to my skivvies, shimmying my way to cardio health, when my mom’s friend comes in. Just as I was beginning to really enjoy my new Cardio Fitness Bellydancing DVD, I’m interrupted by an unwelcome guest. And what does she say? “Put some clothes on, girl!” Right. I’ll put some clothes on if you wash the dishes. Then she has the huevos to make fun of my choice of fitness. Hey, fatso, at least I exercise. Competitive hotdog eating doesn’t count as a sport, by the way.

So if any of you haven’t realized, when I disappear for a week at a time, I’m usually with Matt. It’s that damn love and cuddling and sex and blackhead- picking that keeps me away from my blogging. And I thank all of you who sents me birfday wishes/ presents. I’ll get back to you soon. ish. And you’ll all be bloglisted. Soon. Not tonight. But soon. (more…)

So I’m babysitting right now. Four of them. My usual three, plus a 5 year old smartass. I finally got them to lie down. I put on Harry Potter and put two of them in time out. It’s been a really rough day for all of us, obviously.

I hate it when people say “needless to say”. If it’s needless to say, then why say it?
People always said “needless to say” in those Most Embarrassing Moments things in Seventeen Magazine. Remember?

I also hate it when people say “I could care less.” It really should be “I couldn’t care less.” Because if you could care less, then you actually do care a little bit.

Really, I just wish that people would think about what their expressions mean before speaking them. (more…)

So I promise, with you all as my witnesses, that no matter how fat I get, I will always wear pants that are my size, even if I have to wear a size 48. And that’s big. I will never, ever, ever have muffin top. I swear to you.

Now, you don’t have to be fat to have muffin top. I’ve seen plenty of girls smaller than me with it. You just have to wear pants that actually fit you. I know it sucks to have to walk out of a store carrying the biggest size avaliable, but hear you me, you’re carrying those pants in a bag. Nobody else at the mall knows what size you wear except you and the checkout chick.

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So if you haven’t heard, one of the most horrible things of all horrible things has happened in the past month. We heard forecasts of this event months ago, but we loyal fans have ignored these warnings and stayed positive, as we usually do. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking about Weezer.

And don’t worry, people, the mood of this blog will be less forlorn in a few paragraphs. (more…)

So I’m nekkid in someone else’s house at the moment.� Matt’s house.� Well, Matt’s mom’s house.� It would be different if it were just Matt’s house, but no, I’m naked in the home of his mom, his stepdad, Colleen, and him.
Well, I’m actually wearing underpants, because I was looking at this website about this nudist colony that I was thinking about visiting, and I was reading the rules, and one said that towels had to be used at all times when sitting.

How embarrassing.

I think at certain times, we should ignore the fact that we leak fluids.� At certain times, we should ignore the fact that we have genitalia.� But most of the time, we should embrace our genitalia.� Not nessecarily by showing it to strangers on the street, talking to our grandparents about it, or, say, piercing it, but just being comfortable with the fact that girls have jineys and boys have peni.

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So is there or is there not such thing as creepy hot(t)? There’s creepy, there’s hot(t), and according to Liz, there is, indeed, such thing as creepy hot(t).

Here are some examples of creepy:

• They guy at the park with the long hair combover who mumbles “compliments” to you.
• Those 50 year old guys at metal shows.
• Blind dates with a lazy eye.
• Clowns.
• Not showering ever.
• Boys doing exceptionally nice things for you.

Here are some examples of hot(t):

• Kissing all rawr.
• Cool shoes.
• Matthew.
• Good sex.
• Nice fancy dates.
• Boys doing exceptionally nice things for you.

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So we know I don’t ever like to bitch, but I have a serious problem with girls who work at Sonic.  (No offense, Holly or Matt’s cute friend Naomi.)  They are conniving, tricky bitches.  Let me explain.  This has all happened to us at at least one point in our lives:

You and a friend order some drinks and onion rings on a sweltering summer afternoon.  A girl in khaki shorts and a dumb visor carrying a tray walk close to you, but no luck.
Another one.  You examine the contents of the tray:  2 drinks and a box in a bag.  She walks past you.
Another one:  2 drinks and a box in a bag.  She walks toward your car.  She then looks at the receipt only to realize that she was walking the wrong way.
Another one: 2 drinks and a box in a bag.  You look at her and her tray with wild fried onion- craving eyes.  She looks back at you.  Your eyes meet.  It’s like you’re spiritually making love to this angel in the ponytail who is bringing you your nourishment.  Instant chemistry.  She keeps walking and gives your order to the middle aged guy in the red Camaro.
What a bitch.  She knew what she was doing the whole time.  She just wanted to toy with you.
Another one:  1 really big ass drink and 3 boxes in 3 bags.  She comes to your car.  It’s the wrong order, but you don’t fucking care.  You’ll never talk to another teenage girl wearing roller skates as long as you live. (more…)