Monday Bear

So of course Steve Irwin died.  Whoda thunk.  The guy who plays with dangerous animals was killed by a dangerous aminal.

That was going to be funny.  I made a note to blog that right when it happened, but that was last weekend, and it’s now Thursday night.  You will be pleased to know that Mattchew is giving me his old computer soon.  That means more blogtime.  That’s good news for the few people who didn’t join Holly’s Monday Bear Protesters group on Facebook.  Sonsabitches.
Things I like about school: (more…)

So I realize it’s been a while, but damn you, I’m a college woman now, and I’ve got shit to dos.

See, you can tell I’m in college, because I used “damn” and “shit” in the same sentence.� And I just fucking did it again.

Oops, I did it again.

So of course, I’m sure you’re all dying to know how my pooping schedule is since I’ve moved to a dorm.� Welp, as opposed to the usual 3 a day, I’m down to two.� That has something to do with: (more…)

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 have no views so far today. I hate you assholes.

And just to clear a few things up: The last blog, the Matt cheating on me with Holly one, it was fake. Matt thought it would be funny to see who would try to “move in.” Not in a crazy possessive boyfriend way, but more like a “hahaha, she’s mine you cant have her” kind of way.

Here are some bad/ unfortunate things that happened: (more…)

So do I really look like a rabid bunny when I laugh?

So. Bunnies are cute. and fluffy. much like myself. and those Matt dogs.

I would like to thank Melanie Holis for making me not look like Cinderella Barbie. For dress rehearsal, my skirt was some kind of purpley blue lame’ irridescent BULLSHIT. I looked like a 4 year old playing dress up. I’m serious, I had Barbie clothes made out of that same material. But Melanie so graciously stayed up into the wee hours of the morning and made me a whole new costume. Ah, Melanie. (more…)

So why does the Prince (Erick) want Cinderella (Liz) and not the Stepsister (Michele)?

“Because she gives a good blog.”
- Michele
“She doesn’t have a gag reflex.”
- Erik

You know what’s really embarrassing? When you get hurt, and you want to whine, but everybody’s laughing. So you have to laugh, too. “Oh yeah, my eye’s bleeding! That’s funny! Ha! Yeah… yeah, I’m okay! Psht… just a little sharkbite. That never hurt anybody.”
What’s almost as bad is when you get hurt and everyone freaks out and stops what they’re doing. I like attention. I love attention. Everyone knows that. Just not that kind of attention. That happened to Zephyr, aka Joustin’ Jessica this weekend. She had a lovely time and got to pet a big lizard. A skank. I mean a skink.

I’d love to have some cookies right now, but gosh, I have a limited amount of time to blog. I don’t want to cheat you guys out of any good bloggin’, but I have to be finished by nine. Then mum wants to use the computer.
Ugh, I love cookies more than you guys. And by that, I mean I love cookies more than you guys love cookies. And also I love cookies more than I love you.

“Blog me, baby.”
- Matthew.

So Michael’s prom was last night. I had more fun than I anticipated. I mean before and after. The actual prom sucked, of course, but I had a GAY and merry time.
I felt kind of bad for leaving rehearsal at 1:15, but I guess in comparison, I did pretty well. The -only- reason I left that early was because Michael scheduled our photos for 3:30, and I had to take a shower and had no idea how I was going to wear muh hair. But some girls were leaving at 10 and 11 to get ready, and I’m sure their pictures were later than ours. Seriously, how long does it take to put a dress on and slap on some lipstick?

But I digress…

Our Glorified MegaVan was filled with fags and hags. And most of the fags and hags were wearing black and/ or red. We didn’t plan it. Isn’t that somethin’?
We ate at Olive Garden in Paducah. Olive Garden in Paducah is a family restaurant. I’m going to open a lonely people restaurant. No kids. No friends. Only old people and middle- aged men fresh out of divorces. There will only be tables that seat one person and one person only. If someone tries to sit two to a table, I’ll throw them out and say, “What the hell do you think this is, a family restaurant? Get the F out!” I have to use curse words. That’s the rules on a lonely people restaurant.

Oh yeah, you also can’t masturbate in Olive Garden. Not even under the table. But I can. And Sarah. Not Sarah Mahan. Married people don’t do that. They just coach each other in pooping. This is New Sarah. Or Sara. I just assumed it was Sarah. Let’s call her Sara to avoid confusion until further notice.

What kind of an idiot looks at soap? When I buy soap, I keep my eyes closed. “Irish Spring! yes!” It’s like Xmas, except without Jesus.
Caress. Dial. Lever 2000. Dove. Soft Soap. Zest.

Equate, for us poor folk.

We now have brand name peanut butter. All because of Matthew. Peter Pan. And you know what?

IT SUCKS.

Michael is a motorboatin’ son of a bitch.
“Hey Liz… I’m gay, too…”
- Tony

Just for clarification, that time that he told me he’s never seen boobies, he was joking. I was for sure he was serious. He’s a good actor. Or LIAR.

I’m so VAIN. VAIN VAIN VAIN. Vanity. Vanity is bullshit. So is variety.

Liz: Because variety is the fucking spice of life.
Sara: Bullshit.
Liz and Sara: Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

Variety is bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. Variety? Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. BFF. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.
That’s every rap song.

Oh yeah, speaking of, I was introduced to new music last night. I had heard -of- the Laughy Taffy song. But I had never actually heard it. I finally did. Finally, after Tony made it happen. And you know what? It’s dirty.
My very favourite one was this one:

Bootehbootehbootehbooteh rockin’ everywhere. Bootehbootehbootehbooteh rockin’ everywhere. Bootehbootehbootehbooteh rockin’ everywhere. Rockin’ everywhere. Rockin’ everywhere.

That song means alot to me. I want it played at my funeral. My funeral party with a DJ and Cheetos. We’ve already blogged about this. I’m just reminding you.

Girl, I wanna get all up in yo’ crevices.

Afterward, we went to Huddle House where they have Icelandic Fish Sammidges, and *cough* Two Fisted Sandwiches. You have to use… both fists…

I’m just gonna walk away from that one.

Jared came by. I miss him. He’s been going through alot of. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. lately, and he says my blogs have helped him. Man, I really must give a good blog.

But I really am proud of you, Jared. My little Avant Garde cat.

Something that bothers me: Stoner Mike across the street and down two houses has said several things about me. Has he ever said anything to me? Ever? No. He even came to CATS. (A stoner came to CATS. How appropriate.)
So back to Promage. That’s like Fromage, except with a P.
Afterward, Sara and I went streaking in the Teenage Rebellion area. I just gave it that name a few hours ago. I call it the teenage rebellion area, because that’s where both tagging and streaking have occurred for me. Maybe if I ever decide to do drugs, I’ll do it there. As long as I’m still a teenager.
It’s that area between the railroad track and Cafe’ on Main… you know, the cornerish of Main St. and First St.
But now I can’t streak there anymore, because it’s on myspace. Next time, there will be a stalker/ rapist/ killer waiting for me, and I’ll get to be on the news like all those other girls.

Then I went home.

Today I had rehearsal, and I got a great moneyshot of both Michele and Delinda. I was very highly pleased with Michele’s musicality. You’re just like a real ballerina. Except better. You have multiple legwarmer.s.

Then I went to Bobbie’s. It used to be Billie, Bobbie, and Jamie’s way back in the day. Jamie was my hero when I was a young Liz. You know how every little girl has her teenage girl who she looks up to and wanted to be just like. Jamie was mine. She had big boobs and let me wear her makeup. Oh, and she was a cheerleader.
But we went over there, because Jamie is in from Cali. We caught up on alot of stuff, and funtimes were had. Lisa, the cat with no tail, is still kickin’. She’s almost as old as I am. And that’s old.

The other day, my brother Erick was over here and he was looking at my pictures on my dresser. He picked up my prom group picture from last year, the one with just girls in it, and he said, “Man, look at all those boobies.”
Ha.

Bootehbootehbootehbooteh rockin’ everywhere.

It’s 9:15 now, but mum hasn’t come in here to make me stop muh bloggin’.

Dammit, Linda.

So I was thinking: Short names are good when it comes to spelling and casual conversation, but long names are better for meaningful or formal conversation because they’re prettier. That’s why it’s good to have a “Duel Name,” as I just started calling it, just now when I typed that, such as Elizabeth, Matthew, Daniel, Ezekiel, Rebekah, Michael, or Richard. But especially Richard.

So in conclusion, I’m three inches smaller than I was this time last year, according to Sacchi. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s Sacchi.

Remember that episode of Rocko’s Modern Life that was an environmental musical? That was a goodun. One of my favourite episodes. I loved that show. It was really really dirty, but we didn’t realize it.

Some people’s blogs got too whiney. I stopped reading them about 2 months ago, but I just unsubscribed yesterday.
p0wn’d, myspace style.

“Puh- owned… or however you say it!”

Remember the episode when he got fired and he was looking for a new job? He got one as a plumber’s assistant, and he just stood behind the plumber, and every time the plumber’s pants would fall down, he would say, “Hey, can you get that? Thanks alot. Hey, can you get that? Thanks alot. Hey, can you get that? Thanks alot.” Then he was a tattoo artist, and this elephant dude wanted a tattoo of a can of baked beans that says “Gloria” tattooed on his uvula. Then he was a phone sex operator, but Mrs. Bighead called in.
Rocko: Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby.
Mrs. Bighead: Rocko?!
Rocko: Mrs. Bighead?!
And they both hung up.
That would be my luck. My brother or somebody would call. I wouldn’t tell him I was his sister, I’d just hang up and lose my job or something.

So we decided that anal sex makes one a better dancer. It only makes sense. Just think about it. So how great of a dancer would I be if I could fit my pointe shoes up there, eh? Hey! I could use the ribbons to pull them out like a tampon.

Okay, that was gross. I took that one a half- step too far.

Matt’s mom bought us some dishes. Pretty blue ones. So we can have a BLUE PLATE SPECIAL -if- you know what I mean. *wink wink, nudge nudge*

Sometimes puns are even funnier when the punner doesn’t know what she’s talking about. See above.

Remember the episode where they were in the future, and Philbert’s great great grandson turtle guy was like, “hey, why do we have these things on our shoulders?” and Philbert said, “BECAUSE IT’S THE FUTURE!!!!”

Ha! I love that show!

So one more thing about poopin’. I meant to put this in my OG (that means original. I didn’t learn that from my brother, I learned it from tony.) poopin’ blog, but I forgot. Sarah’s husband Nathan coaches her when she’s pooping. He stands outside the door and says, “Relax, baby! Don’t force it!” I think that’s sweet. Most people think it’s gross, but I think it’s cute.
She still won’t let him in there when she’s pooping. He really wants to be in there, though.
When they first got married, she was pooping, and he came in there and sat on her lap and started telling her about his day. She said, “Nathan, I can’t use the bathroom when you’re in here.” He didn’t understand this and replied, “But honey, you don’t stink to me.”
His logic here is that since they are in love, they should be comfortable enough to poop in front of each other. I agree.
I could poop in front of Matt.
And I’m sure he could poop in front of me, no problem.
I think that should be a test that people have to pass before they get married. If they can’t poop, they can’t get married.
End o’ Discussion.

Remember that one episode when Philbert was writing this science fiction book, and Heffeir and Rocko thought he was an alien, because he used mustard at the Chokey Chicken (another innuendo) for deoderant? My friends and I used to give each other the Quarnasian High Five of Death. “Earthlings never pass up a high five.” “Nice melons, high five?”
That’s correct, most earthlings will never pass up a high five. But it seems that every time I innitate a high five, it goes unnoticed by the high fivee. Then I sit there like a retard with my hand up in the air. Then everyone -but- the high fivee looks at me with pity/ retardedness. Ugh. This doesn’t happen to -anyone- else. I’m so alone. Nobody understands me.

I had a turtle named Philbert. I boiled him on accident. They guy at the pet store told me that he gets cold sometimes, so when he’s not moving, I was supposed to put him in is bowl in a bathtub full of warm water. Welp, he wasn’t moving one day, so I tried it. That didn’t work, so I took him out of the bowl and turned the hot water all the way up. He sunk to the bottom. I picked him up, and he was totally flaccid. Just hanging out of his shell. I was hysterical. And 9.
My other turtle ran away while I was at church camp. So mom says.

So, Lia wants me to share the secret that I shared with her. Here goes: I can masturbate wihout using my hands. I’m talking no outside aide. No magic bullet, no interpanties vibrator of any type. I taught Lia how. I think she’s mastered (hahah) it, but I haven’t done any official followups. I won’t teach you all how to, because many of you aren’t just quite… at that level yet.
So that means:
- While driving.
- During class (especially Math class, Jamie. You are officially grossed out.)
- In the movie theatre (if only PeeWee Herman knew my trick)
- On the airplane. (Does that make me a member of the Mile High Club?)
- Hanging out with my friends.
- Taking walks around my neighborhood.
But usually the first two.

But on a less dirty note, I patched things up with that twelve year old woman with whom I live. I’m NOT happy with our compromise, but she sent Rob up here. Rob loves me as one of his own, and he’s a very smart man. It seems as if the only way of saving my relationship with my mother is if to make a compromise. Ugh. But I really just like having things my way. I typed us out a contract:
Shacking Up Agreement

Liz T

then we both signed it.

So you know, we’re doing Cinderella the ballet. (NOT FUCKING DISNEY.) Welp, Gay Erik is my dance partner. Saturday, the choreographer’s eight year old daughter Lucy was at rehearsal with us. You know how when you’re eight years old, you want to do everything that teenage girls do? Well you know how teenage girls on TV all keep diaries? Welp, Lucy does, and she draws pictures and writes everything in it. She drew a picture of me in my rags and in my Act II “tutu”. “That’s how skinny you are.” “You’re really pretty.” Little girls always love a cinderella. Anywho, Amy and Brenda told me they they were reading her diary, and the passage that they read was as follows:

Liz and Erik are dance partners. I don’t like it. They won’t stop flirting. I think they are in love.

*snort* Isn’t that cute? She doesn’t know I’m a lesbian.

That was a joke.

But her diary really did say that.

So I never really appreciated Jonathan Swift until I read A Modest Proposal. Christenings… hehe.
Sometimes I wish I had patience so I could be an English Professor. But all I have is -patients- so I have to be a doctor! Ha!
But seriously, though. I don’t like stupid people. I hate lazy people. I will tell them this, making them cry. I don’t want to do that. I just want to scrutinize their grammar.

So yesterday in math class, Mr. West said, “erected.” Of course, I thought this was hilarious, especially because of all that I think about in that class. In my silent laughter, I looked around, thinking that I would see at least 5 other people at least smiling. Everyone was paying attention to the skinny man in the front of the room, so I kept the childish hilarity to myself. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I mouthed “erected” to Kristen. It was too late. If anyone had even caught the fact that he said “erected”, they had already forgotten. Kristen chuckled at my silliness and mouthed “what?” Then, going balls to the walls, I said, “Imagine him in a vampire costume,” thinking of Tharon. She immediately burst into laughter. When he pointed at things on the board, I imagined him taking his cape with him in his hand, fangs, red bowtie, and all, and I lost it. I was about [this] close to pissing myself.
At least I didn’t piss on a cute boys shoulders on the beach.
If you didn’t get that, fuck you for not reading my earlier blogs.

So I heard that A Perfect Circle is ending. Thank God. The only song I liked was The Nurse Who Loved Me, and that wasn’t even -their- song. It was a cover. Assholes.

So in conclusion, I’m hot, cute, and have nice teeth. Apparently. And I’m of the Frosted Strawberrry variety.

So Michele told me at ballet, “Liz, the pooping blogs have to stop.” Since I am her favourite blogger, I regret to inform all of you that I can’t poop anymore. Welp, at least, I can’t poop and blog-tell you. But I can call you while I’m pooping and tell you about it. If you like. Or anytime you think I might be pooping (which is often, as you all know), you can call me, and I’ll give you explicit details. But anywho, no more Poop Blogs. Sorry, folks.

Blame Michele.

While I’m at it:
“I’m a real ballerina now. I even have legwarmers.”
- Michele.

She’s just too cute. And she has the -best- hair.

I guess since I can’t talk about pooping, I’ll talk about masturbating.

Just kidding.

HA! Check out what just happened when I was typing pooping. My mom is filling out this thing for Freshman Orientation (now she decides to be involved, but that’s a different story), and as most of you know, I’m majouring in Premed/ Chemistry.

Mom: What’s your majour?
Liz: Pooping. (I mean’t to say premed)
Mom: There’s not a code for that. Stop blogging about poop. It’s not ladylike.

So I don’t really want to go to prom. I know I’ll have fun with Micheal, we always do, but it’s just that prom… is so… highschool? I’m -so- above that : ) Because, psht. I have an ipod. I’m a hep college kid now…

No, I know we’ll have fun. Even if I wouldn’t, I’d still have to go. I already made that -prom-ise. Get it, -prom- ise? Crazy old homo : )

“Prom is so gay”
“Oh my gosh, mine really is going to be!”
hehe, I’m so full of wit.

“Most Wittiest”

MY MOM IS GOING CRAZY!

At church, Sunday, they announced my graduation shindig, and my mom burst into tears. Just like the thirteen year old girl she is, she made everything all dramatic and ran to the bathroom. I followed her, grabbed her, and said, “What is your malfunciton?!?!” She sobbed, “I don’t want you to graduate!”
TOO FUCKING BAD.

It’s 5:55, make a wish.

I’m PMSing and she’s on the rag. EVERYTHING SHE DOES IS GETTING ON MY NERVES. When I’m “hormonal,” I don’t get angry or bitchy, I just get annoyed way too easily. It doesn’t help that my mom is a teenage girl. Just to be fair, it also doesn’t help that I -have- to be right all the time.
She just told me that I was living with my dad this summer, because if I insist on living with Matt, she won’t have any part in it.
However
She’s always saying things like, “What would I do without you?” or “I don’t know what I’m going to do when you leave.”
So why the hell would she be kicking me out? She didn’t think I would agree to it. Now she’s upset.
When people tell me to do something, and I don’t have a problem with it, I do it.
I’m not saying I’m moving in with my dad, because once I start packing, she’ll more than likely beg me to stay. If she doesn’t, fine.

And I don’t like her stupid boyfriend.

So I’ll stop blogging about how much I hate my parents. I’m not forteen. Nor am I that one girl.

I could use a good list right about now:

Things I can’t wear and why:

1. Things with cinched waists, because they make my midsection appear larger
2. Ankle strap shoes, because they make my legs stubbier.
3. Horizontal stripes, because I’m just too fucking fat.
4. Capri pants, because for some reason, short people aren’t supposed to wear them.
5. Chokers, because they make my neck look shorter.
6. Flippy haircuts, because they make my face look wider.
7. White, because it clashes with my skintone.
8. Black because it makes me look pastey.
9. Long skirts, because they make my legs look shorter.
10. Black or Blue eyeliner, because I’m a “warmtone”.
11. Tight shirts, because I have “masculine abs”.
12. Crew necks, because it shortens my torso.

If you’ll notice, I wear almost all of those things.

At least I don’t wear crocs.

Erick, Cederic, and Jamie came over last night. There was a pregnant chick on my bed and a black man on my computer. That was a crazy night.
I did my Physics homework.

Those fuzzy bunny ears are really cute : )

Matthew: but i love you and your dancin ass

I really should be dancing right now with Erik. I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to. Maybe if I walk out the door kicking and screaming, it will make me feel better. That’s what I used to do on days that I didn’t want to go to work.

“I DONWANNA GO TO WORK!”

And you know what? It made me feel better.

I think we should all be children sometimes. When the time is appropriate. We should be children when we’re being too grown up. We shouldn’t be children when we reflect on our parent mistakes and want to run away from them. Whoops.

So in conclusion, I need to go buy a crimping iron. With all that money that I have. Mine broke. I could just do like I did in the 4th grade and braid all my hair the night before. Nah, that won’t work. The kids at school called me Tina Turner. I wish I had her legs.

So this just has to be said: My nipples feel really weird. Well, not weird, it’s just weird that they feel this way. It feels like someone has been biting them. And well, I haven’t, I haven’t seen Matt in a week, and to my knowlege, there have been no foreign mouths upon my bosom. Isn’t that crazy?

So Erik and I danced and danced and danced Tuesday, and despite pulled groins and confusion, funtimes were had.
“I can’t wait to read the blog about this”
- Erik G
I stated in my last blog that we’re wearing blue, as opposed to white, because we’re fat. We decided we aren’t fat. We’re just modern dancers.

NO ONE will think that’s funny. Except us.

But Erik, let me tell you… I had the time of my life, and I owe it all to you.
My 126 lbs made him pull his groin, but it was worth it, because he got a facefull of boobies. MAMA.

Remember when I bitched out Brad Weatherbee in my car for ages because he said something about black people? Check out what happened today in English:
“Liz, because of you, I love black people now. I even delivered pizza to a black dude.”
- Brad

I died when he told me that.

But I got better.

“She turned me into a newt!”
“A newt?”
“Well… it got better…”

hahah.

So this blog is really unorganized. You know one of Liz’s favourite ways to organize? That’s right, kids, it’s time to make a list.

Clothing items Liz hates and why:

1. Crocs. They have stupid holes in them. They are the dumbest shoes I’ve ever seen. They’re plastic. There’s no way I would ever wear them, not even with my scrubs.
2. Gauchos. Those pants that look like skirts, you know. They wore those in the SEVENTIES. My old lady friend Mrs. Weldon has been wearing gauchos since I was 3. She’s in her eighties.
3. Wallabees. They’re just ugly and overpriced.
4. Ponchos. Another 1970’s comeback. They aren’t flattering you, ladies. They’re just making you look fat and frumpie. And kind of like Cheech.
5. Birkenstocks. Once more, they’re ugly and overpriced. And they fucking look like potatoes. Who wants potato feet? I sure don’t.
6. Sorority shirts. You don’t need eighty of them. Maybe one. But we can tell that you’re in a sorority because of your highlights and pink flipflops.
7. Etnies and Vans with laces. Do you really need shoes that fluffy?

I think that’s it.
Zephyr said I have the best Homsar voice. Well, I do. But nobody wants to hear homsar. Everybody wants to hear Dot. Dot, I can do.
Zephyr has the best King of Town voice. And the best Marzipan voice, but that comes naturally.
“Liz, my water just broke! Toohoohoo!”

She doesn’t have her pictures tagged on facebook. I’d like for her to tag them before I tag my picture of her, because I’m sure she doesn’t want the Suckling Cow Face picture to be the only one up of her. I have really really grood pictures of her, just not that many that are digitalized.

Hottiefasche. That’s me. Davo, do the voice. The voice makes me so happy. Did I mention that last time I talked to Davo on the phone, I was pooping? I’m still a hottieface when I poop. Everybody poops. I think people should talk about pooping more often. Then they’ll be less embarrassed by it. Everyone poops. I poop, Matt poops, my mum poops, you poop, Dave Grohl poops, Ghandi poops, the Dhali Llama poops, even Jesus pooped back in the day. Dad poops, Erick poops, Zephyr poops, Steve poops, Mark Adam VanZant poops, Fr. Joe poops, Rivers Cuomo poops, Bill Gates poops. Everybody fucking poops. Even I poop.
MY NAME IS LIZ AND I POOP.
“But I poop from there!”
That’s right, folks, even Liz, hottieface extrordinaire, poop. I’ll give you a moment to collect yourselves.

I think Holly should know that even though I’m a bitch when we’re doing a physics lab, I’ll always love her. I’m just a nerd, and I get really serious about school.

I fucking hate physics labs. I know I take my grades to seriously, but I just don’t want a bad grade because the rest of my group won’t take theirs seriously enough. Even though I take control sometimes, I don’t expect to do all the work, and I don’t want to either. I really do trust my lab group, except for John Sawyer. I don’t trust him. He makes me want to pee on a turtle.

I don’t trust him because when we were in kindergarden, he was my “boyfriend” (along with Max Hornov) and we were playing in the gym one day because it was raining outside. It was a Thursday, and I was wearing my green stirrup leggings and saddle shoes. I was crawling on the floor, and John came up behind me and pulled my pants down to my knees. This was especially embarrassing, because I was wearing Tuesday’s underwear. It was hard for me to pick out which Days of the Week underwear I was going to wear on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because they both start with a T, and it’s hard for a 5 year old to differentiate between the two. But I walked to Ms. Kim with my pants around my ankles (for proof), crying. He got in trouble.

Then two years later, I got a mullet and was ugly.

I was looking at Matt’s childhood pictures with his mom, and he had a mullet for the longest time. And buck teeth.

So I listened to Jack Johnson on my way to school, and I want to make Banana Pancakes now. I have to learn how to make real pancakes first.

I can make real pancakes. Real BURNT ones! HAHA.

But I listened to Nasum on my way back to school.
I’m so effed up.

So it’s 6:47, and I’m already in my jammies. That wouldn’t be so bad if a.) I had to got to bed/ wake up early for school tomorrow, and b.) I hadn’t been wearing them since 3:00.

At least I don’t wear them to school. I do wear my scrubs to school sometimes, because I intern right after school. That would be like me wearing my tights and leotard to school. Oh well. Scrubs are just glorified pajamas.

I just get sloppier and sloppier. I haven’t worn makeup in a week. I did wear high heels today. And a skirt. And tights. Striped ones. But nonetheless, I don’t fix my hair, I don’t wear makeup… When I was in the eighth grade, nobody saw me without makeup… ever. But now, it’s like magic when I wear makeup. I just don’t really understand why someone would want to wear it eeeevery day. I know, it makes one look better, but psht. Who cares.
But like I said, at least I don’t wear pajamas to school. Some fat girls do that. It grosses me out. Maybe I’ll wear pajamas to school next year. Maybe I’ll go to school naked next year. If Matthew would let me.
That damn luuuv, always crampin’ my style.

I haven’t watched The Golden Girls in 4- evar. (You like that, 4- evar?)

I don’t really go out. My mom called me lame today. That should tell me something. But she’s glad I don’t go out.

“I don’t have to worry about drugs. I just have to worry about sex and rock ‘n’ roll.”
- Mom

If you’re given 2 angles and a side, what’s the first thing you should do?
Rub ‘em together!
I could have sworn I heard that in Calculus today. I really should start listening in there.

But that’s now going to be my default answer. “Rub ‘em together!”

So I made a really funny pun today in Math, and Prof. West even thought it was funny!
You know how you do triangles, AAS, ASA, SSA (or ASS, as I write it, *giggle*), SAS, SSS, and the like? Welp, I wrote down ASS, and he put an asterick by his SSA.
Mr. West: Why do I have an asterick by SSA?
Liz: Ha! Get it? ASSerick? Get it?!
Mr. West: How appropriate.

I didn’t know Mr. West knew the word “ass.”

My books are warm and toasty. They were in my car.

Matthew: whats the easiest way to break up the statistics into a more space and bandwidth friendly way
Liz: rub ‘em together!
Matthew: sponge bad square idea

So in conclusion, Damn you Lindsay for stealing my fucking blog format. Or should I say, “blogmat”. Yeah. Damn you, Lindsay, for stealing my fucking blogmat.

So let me begin with a 13 year old wannabe slut.� That was me.� I thought it was cool to be slutty, because the slutty eighth graders made fun of me in PE class because I wore “granny panties,” because I didn’t know much about sex, because I thought oral sex was icky, and because I thought sex was bad.� So I was transformed in the summer between 7th and 8th grades.� I turned out to be an anorexic pseudoslut.� I never told people that I had sex, but I always implied it… like someone would have actually wanted to have sex with me.� I’m sure it annoyed the hell out of Dustin, the oldaboy who I thought was my future husband, because it really annoys me.� I’m so glad that none of my little ballerinas think it’s cool to be slutty.� Becuase it’s not.� It’s slutty to be slutty.� DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT BE A SLUT.� I say this because there is a certain girl who was in CATS who was 13 or 14 and a wannabe slut.� She had a pretty face, and she had quite a bod for an 8th grader, but holy hell.� She had a boyfriend, and she made out, and maybe even *gasp* had sex with a 17 year old.� She always did these stretches in front of him… and they weren’t even stretches that stretch… they were stretches the scream, “I can do this with my bod.� Check it out.”� And it wasn’t even impressive stuff.� And she talks funny.� Here are some things she said:
“Don’t you hate it when 2 boys are fighting over you?”
“I want some pink and black fuzzy handcuffs to hang on my bedpost” (Handcuffs:� a classic for eighth grade ohmahgahkinky sex.)
(After being instructed to crawl out into the audience and sit on someone’s lap) :�”Ooh!� If my ex boyfriend comes on the same night that my boyfriend does, I’m gonna get in my boyfriend’s lap and… mmm.”
1.� What are the odds that her exboyfriend comes to the show?
2.� If he was to come, what are the odds that he would come on the
same night as her boyfriend?
3.� Are lapdances really catlike?
4.� Are you really going to look -that- sexy with cat makeup and a wig
on?
5.� Wh…*shakes head*…

She does a fucking booty dance and body roll, hands on the knees and everything.� She gets into sexual positions.� She wears a pushup bra underneath her unitard.� IT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A FUCKING CAT.� IT LOOKS LIKE A LITTLE GIRL TRYING TO BE A SLUT.

I don’t think it’s fair that I had to smush my boobies down, and other people wore pushup bras under their unitards.� I understand the whole smushing the boobs down thing.� Cat’s don’t have boobs.� NO CAT HAS BOOBS.� IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE A FUCKING CAT, SMUSH YOUR TITS DOWN.� CATS AREN’T VOLUPTUOUS.

This People We Don’t Like section (sexion) of the blog was dedicated to Emily.

So speaking of 7th grade PE class, they also used to make fun of me for looking at myself in the mirror when I was just wearing my underwear.� They told everyone I was a lesbian because I did this.� Hrm.� All those halfnaked girls and I choose my anorexic body to look at.� Very lesbonic.� When someone disgustedly looks at her body in the mirror constantly, that usually means she is overly critical of herself.� Not a lesbian.

I still look at myself the mirror when I’m nakie.� Not because I’m a lesbian.� Not because I’m an ana.� Only because I’m freaking hot.

And come to think of it, Emily H., the main PE slut, is actually a really cool person now.� And if I’m not mistaken, she isn’t a slut anymore.

“Liz, you’re looking very ugly today.”� They were so mean.� I should have kicked their asses.

Enough wallowing in past self- pity.

I got the period.
I’m on the rag.
I’m menstruating.
I fell off the roof.
It’s “that time of the month”.
Aunt Flo is visiting.

If you can think of any more euphamisms for being on one’s menstrual period, please share.

See, Emily, I told you I didn’t have a baby growing in there.

I decided I want one.� Not now, but eventually.

So apparently I am the only 17 year old girl who keeps up with her cycle.� Everyone with a uterus should keep up with her cycle, especially the ones who are sexually active.� All of you should know when you’re ovulating.� That’s when you’re fertile.� Don’t do it when you’re ovulating.� If you do, USE A CONDOM.� Geez.� Some girls are stupid.

Matt:� You can catch your age up with mine, just kill me 2 1/2 years before you die.
Liz:� That doesn’t make any sense.� How am I supposed to know when I die?
Matt:� Well, you know when you’re ovulating, I figured you might you know when you’ll die.

I don’t die every 28 days.� And we don’t have sex every night at 11:05.

Sarah Mahan is also on her pyramid.� She gets really horny when she’s on the rag.� She was explaining this to her husband, the sheltered farm boy who said, “This is how horses do it,” on their wedding night.� He said, “Well, that’s just because you’re in heat.”� I thought that was kind of cute.

I’m in heat.

So I have a game for you all:

Be that some boob, or be that some ass?� Whose is it?

Here’s a hint:� It sure as hell doesn’t belong to me.

And I expect you assholes to play this time.

Ask me what people in Union City do on Sunday nights.� Not the Baptists.� They go to church.

Oh yeah.� So I like to brag about how my boyfriend is cooler than everyone else’s.� Especially yours.� What’s the big deal.� I’m like a soccer mom.� Soccer girlfriend.� Anywho, I can’t help it that my boyfriend is
A.� An extremely talented artist
B.� Highly intelligent
C.� Hip
D.� A snazzier dresser than I’ll ever be
E.� Skinny
F.� Very good with computers
G.� Close to his family
H.� Superb in the sack
I.��� Chill
J.�� Really really good-looking.

Oh, yeah, and he’s a fucking pilot!� Beat that!

That’s alot better than your lazyass, co-op- working- at, camoflague- wearing, sexually over- zealous, GED- having, psycho- ass, tobacco- chewing, weak- chinned excuse for a baby daddy.

PS:� (Matt isn’t really a pilot.� He got a job at the airport, though.� A good one.)
PPS:� And he can still wear aviators and a bomber jacket to work and pretend.
PPPS:� He got them at one of those vintage stores at which all the hip indie kids shop.
PPPPS:� None of this was meant to sound intimidating at all.� I’m just that fucking cute.

Oh, and we love each other.� That’s more than you can say.

OH, SNAP!

So vindictive.� Such a girl.� Give me some fucking chocolate.

Seriously though.� I don’t really hate being seventeen, but geez, I get so tired of hearing, “You’re only seventeen, seventeen, SEVENTEEN, SEVENFUCKINGTEEN” all the time.

That’s really angsty.� Livejournal.� I would have erased that if this piece of cotton on a string in my jiney didn’t give me an excuse to be angsty.

That’s vagnasty.� VAG!

They only like you when you’re seventeen.� That was dedicated to Zephyr and Lia.

I’m doing laundry tonight.� Towels and jeans.� And I’m handwashing my dainties.� In Woolite.

Brad has a sparkley cock.� That’s one of the Liz’s Blogs OneLiners that deserves explaining.� Brad Thomson played Rum Tum Tugger, the macho sexy badass cat who all the lady kittens want to bang.� After the tapdance, Brad comes out, and backstage Rachel says, “Oh my gosh… Did you see Brad’s penis?”� I thought she was talking about the size.� Because a unitard doesn’t hide anything.� His package is freaking massive.� Scary massive.� Fucking HUGE.� Anywho, I’m like, “Yeah, what’s the big deal?” (get it, big?)� She says, “It has glitter all over it!”

Backstage, Jared was being a fairy and putting glitter on everyone.� Then everyone’s tails.� Then Mrs. Sacchi’s hair.� That was funny.� I didn’t let him glitter me, because I fucking hate glitter.� I’ll get to that later.� But apparently while I was onstage, he glittered Brad’s crotch.� Not just some sparkleys.� It looked like one of Britney Spears’s bras.� It looked like a hooker’s eyelids.� It looked like a big fucking sparkling penis.� We were laughing so hard that we could hardly sing.� (Penis, hard).� (Oh, oh cock.� Oh singing cock.� Sing sing.)

“That’s what mama paid to see.”

I can’t believe he did that.

He is -so- my hero.

Did anyone else get a little sad when we were singing that last CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?� I did.� Then and when Miz Rita was singing Memory.� Yes, I know, I hate Memory, it’s cliche’ and I’m choking on all my contradictions, but holy gah, you should hear that woman sing it.

“Somebody, please touch her already.”

“Samuel, remember that time you got in trouble with Brad and he made you sit by the bathroom?”
- Michele

That made my day, Michele.� You know exactly how to embarrass a little boy.

I decided that Dave Chappelle isn’t funny, because in his shows between skits, he explains exactly why each part is funny.

The only funny thing he ever said was, “I’m a speed fucker.”

This was me after our last performance:

Oh yeah, so after looking at my calendar today, I realize that Saturday was Three Chord Vaughn’s birthday.� The thought of him nauseates me.

Gosh, I love This song. Go ahead.� Make fun of me.� Go’n ‘head, girl, Go’n ‘head, get down.� Too many apostrophes.

So in conclusion, the cock is my rock.