Tag Archives: whore

Already today

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I ate a mildly fermented orange. Will this kill me?

I directed a whore who is new in town to a place to get her acrylic nails repaired.

I stocked up on a whole ton of birth control for the day it is declared illegal.

The cat punctured my exercise ball. I shouldn’t have thrown her anywhere near it. Now I realize all the howling was just to warn me not to eat the deadly orange. Sorry, Cat Lassie. Nothing a little duct tape won’t fix.

I had my hair cut by the Sally Hershberger of Lowell. Next week she is going to bring out my inner bottle blonde. No wonder that whore sought me out. While I was in the salon, a man came in and assumed the asian stylist did massages. What an assumption! I know she really runs a counterfeit Harry Potter ring out of the back of the place.

Zellweger forgot to add fabric softener.

Some Argentines without means do it

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Hi Internet, hi. It’s May. Just saying. Still singing loudly around the house and considering the purchase of a double-tall Airbus. You?

My horoscope says “You must make your own luck today by careful consideration of the alternatives.” Hmm. Such as: the alternative to making money is being poor, so I will do all my work. The alternative to starving to death is eating, so I will have some orange juice even though I don’t feel like it. Eating: Love it when other people make the food for me. Otherwise: 2 lazy 2 live!!!! If the alternative to not going to the bathroom weren’t exploding, I would never get up. OK, I force myself to trot around outside in a stupid outfit, but that doesn’t mean i enjoy it. That’s only prompted by vanity.

I nearly got pitched out of a child’s dance recital. She was on near the end, I was nursing a slight hangover and pill withdrawal brain shocks, and the kids were all tappa-tappa-tappa, twinkle twinkle. The theme was “Hollywood,” and each number was from a song associated with a movie. The emcee described “Pretty Woman” as a film about “opposites attracting.” I thought it was about whores! Then seven-year-olds in red lipstick came out to shake it.

A class of large teenage girls in voluminous tutus came out, and Mr. H had to restrain me as I jabbed him in the ribs. Turned out they all had Down Syndrome. My far vision has deteriorated to the point that all I saw was clumsy non-rhythmic lurching. I felt bad for snickering, but only a little. It was still a trial. Then the teachers all performed to “Batdance,” and there was no stopping me. It must be quite the burden to be a bringer of culture to Chelmsford, Massachusetts. Mr. H made me go wait in the hall before I started laughing too hysterically, bribing me with the promise of a Frosty. I never got that, come to think of it. He wouldn’t tell me about the rest of the show, only that it’s good that I left when I did. Hulk can’t help self.

damndamndamnhellhell.com

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Internet, give me hugz. I just dropped sashimi in my shoe. Why was I having sashimi for breakfast? Why the hell not. This eating thing is nothing but trouble, might as well make it interesting. I am never going to become obese at this rate.

My doctor gave me a lecture on high cholesterol, and he said that I am not allowed to eat bacon, sausage, duck, goose, shellfish, baloney, hot dogs, or olive loaf. I was not aware that olive loaf was a diet staple for anyone. We learn something every day, I suppose. I don’t eat any of those other things either, except a nice duck breast in a wine reduction maybe once a year, so who the hell knows. He got this faraway look in his eyes and mumbled about how he missed roasting an entire duck on his BBQ spit. Project much, tubby?

Maybe it’s possible that apathy turns into cholesterol. I should have asked, but I was too busy yawning. Then I told him my theory on how problems are for losers, and clearly I have no problems. I said “Do you see these? These are visible hip bones! These are abs! You must have someone else’s results.” Then he showed me my actual numbers, and apparently that damn whore will do anything to charge my insurance for an office visit. Whore! Damn hell. Hell.

Smashy Go Lucky

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I am fond of pointing out the beauties that I encounter in my daily bicycle ride to work. Birds nesting on tree-lined Comm. Ave., pretty girls in summery skirts, a tiny man pouring a bucket of greasy entrails into a gutter in chinatown, with a brown handrolled cigarette dangling wetly from his lips. It’s poetry! Today because of the warmth, all kinds of people are out and about town! i saw a prostitute staggering down the street wearing only a denim jacket and a large pair of underpants. She was lurching sideways, leaning heavily on some bloke, waving a smoke and grinning blearily as if life could furnish nothing greater.

It can’t!

Then I get to work and I am treated to overheard principals of office chippie dating. Hey fellas, if you are single, here is what women apparently want:

“…a man who can take me to a Mozart concert and still shake his butt around at 50 cent.”

There you have it!

PS I will be in the STUDIO tonight. Hurrah!

-xo

Bullseye

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Sadly, going to Target is not as high-spirited and monochromatic an experience as the TV ads would have one believe. There are no rockettes or dancing christmas trees, and Mark Mothersbaugh is not hovering up in the front office personally DJing over the PA system. I did not see Isaac Mizrahi either. I believe he is in his lair in Trenton, busy laughing, absolutely splitting a side over all the girls who are hoping “you can have high fashion at Target, really.” You can’t. Please do not embarass either one of us further by pretending it’s true. What are you, a communist? I love a bargain as much as the next gal, but crap is crap. It’s Mom Jeans.

But we still managed to make impulse purchases. How do they do it? I came for packing tape and cat litter, I departed with a fleece throw. I didn’t need a giant Toblerone bar, yet I left with one anyway.

It’s just as well, because I ate a few segments of that for dinner: a new level in culinary incompetence even for us. I thought butter noodles a few weeks ago was the absolute nadir, but I was wrong. We’re moving one week from today, and we’ve gone from eating off paper plates to just not bothering with actual food. Well, we did have some apple pie. That’s half a Cider Jack and half a Harpoon Winter Warmer. Spicy. The traces of apple in the cider will prevent scurvy.

Then I capped off the weekend by working on a particularly wretched DHTML-laden freelance project. It seemed like a great idea back in September, but of course the other parties involved assed around until November, and then the client demanded it be live on the 26th. Because the day before Thanksgiving is such a crucial time for web browsing. Why am I not better at saying no? Oh, right, I’m a whore.

-xxoo