No Really – It\’s Just My Face

Universal Truth #22

Some days it seems just a helluva easier to quit than to return the next day to work.

I have totally run out of steam. I cannot do it anymore. You know how people say, “I’d rather shovel shit than work here?” WELL. I have HAD a job shovelling shit. Literally. And honestly? It was better than office work.

If I have to fix a photocopier one more time, or listen to people bitch about me taking away the styrofoam cups, I am going to drop kick them. NO, I will NOT refund your courier charges on your invoice because you winked at me. No, I do NOT know why your computer isn’t working. Yes, you WILL be charged late fees if you pay late. I know, crazy. And if I have to take your dirty dishes out of the sink one more time to put them in the dishwasher two feet away, I will wait quietly for you to return and throw the fucking mug at your head.  

Maybe I’ll go back to shovelling shit. It wasn’t that bad. You just had to keep your mouth closed was all. Plus, I got to wear coveralls. Coveralls! Dude!

I’m in love with a woman.

And she doesn’t even know I exist. Probably because she doesn’t actually exist. Her name is Bridget Jones. And I have loved her madly since 2001. That is six years of unrequited love folks.

I love this movie. No, no….I HEART this movie. And I heart very few things as I’m sure you’ve all noticed.

I’m not sure why I even bother watching the movie anymore. I can recite the entire thing on my own. I’ve tried converting others to Bridget followers. It hasn’t been much of a success. Awesome Friend refuses to watch it. The boyfriend hates it. I got my grandma to watch it, but after I realized how often it references sex, cumming, lesbianism and uses the word fuck every thirteen seconds, etc, etc, I feigned extreme exhaustion in a totally transparent attempt to get her to turn off the movie so I could escape to my room in her house and hide my head in shame, wondering what the fuck I was thinking. I’m sure my grandma thinks me quite a tramp now. Whatever. She still likes me.

It is from Bridget that I have gotten such incredible phrases like, “How interesting. What  gripping life you do lead,” and “Shut up please, I’m very busy and important.” That is a seriously valuable part of my vocabulary.

And it has Hugh Grant in it! Come on! We all love Hugh Grant. He’s bumblingly charming in a way only British men can be. It has blue soup, scary granny stomach-holding-in panties, dysfunctional familieis, friends who totally don’t care about her, a fight scene where a guy breaks through a window of a Greek restaurant,  costume parties gone wrong, Home shopping TV affairs, and countless moments of embarassments that make my stupidities look utterly brilliant. How can one not relate??

Plus, have we SEEN that opening scene? I love it! Where she sits in her apartment singing along to Celine Dion with a glass of wine and a newspaper? In fact, just today (I’m watching it as I type this) while I watched that, I was mimicking it in a completely ‘dance like no one’s watching’ fashion and I cracked my neck. It was LOUD. But shit did it ever feel good!! I’ve honestly been trying to crack it for months. And what did it really need? A dose of my girl Bridget. Of course!

Plus, she’s a bit chubby. Which is cool. Cuz really, I’m over the supermodel thin look. I was really into it during my 13 years of ballet (hello anorexia!) but now I love me my Second Cup white mocha’s and hazelnut lattes with disgusting amounts of cinnamon and my wine. She gets this. She loves wine too. Even thought I’m sure she drinks some nasty British shit wine. I dont know, does Britian even make wine? Their beer is shit. Their cooking is shit. Damn, how did they rule the world at one point? They got everything wrong and they drive on the left! Crazy Brits.

Okay kids. If you haven’t seen this movie, you must at least give it a try. Promise me. If you have, then obviously you love it, so go ahead and tell me why.

The sequel? SUCKED ASS. Don’t even get me started. Ugh. For now, I’ll stick with the original. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to get to the scene where Bridget walks in on Hugh Grant cheating on her with an ‘American stick insect’. This requires my full attention, so I can be offended properly for my girl. I bid you adieu.

That’s right, I’m anti-shower.

Showering.

I fucking hate it.

I can’t stand it. It is seriously a huge issue every day when it comes time to shower. I dread it. It ruins my day, just like gym class used to in school. I think about it all day, then I groan and complain and cry when it actually has to happen.

I cannot stand having wet hair. Unfortunately this is rather unavoidable when one showers. And my hair stays wet forEVER, cuz it’s so damned long. And I refuse to blow-dry it, cuz another thing I hate is the feeling of wet hair. Yech.

I hate getting into the shower. You are cold and being pelted with water. Boy, what fun. I hate getting suds in my eyes. I hate shaving my legs. I hate when you turn the shower off and open the curtain and are hit with a huge wall of freezing cold air. I hate the feeling of the shower curtain. I hate how sticky and heavy the air gets and I can’t breathe in it. I hate the slippery shower floor.

I hate towelling off, cuz then towel lint gets everywhere and you have to clean the bathroom. I hate standing on a bath mat, it gets so gross. I hate NOT standing on the bathmat, cuz then I feel like I’m going to slip and die.

I hate putting pyjamas on after I shower. Cuz no matter what, you can never get completely dry, so they stick to you. I hate that. I hate the sound of the bathroom fan, but you have to leave it on after you shower, or else you’ll get mold and that’s just not right.

Whenever I have to shower, I feel like this:

It’s tough being a shower hater. It’s stressful. All I can hope for is that one day they actually invent that shower/dryer thing from the opening scene in the Jetsons. Then I’ll be one happy girl. Until then, maybe I’ll just shave my head.

Halloween? Not so much.

So Halloween’s around the corner yet again. And in fine Talea tradition, I’m not doing anything for it. I mean sure, I’ll take the free candy sitting on reception desks worldwide and I’ll fondle a few pumpkins for good measure, but other than seeing a scary movie tonight (Saw IV…..SO excited, I know the director, yo, that makes me way cooler than you) that’s about the extent of it.

I stopped dressing up after Grade 8. It just wasn’t worth it, plus, nobody likes those pimply teenagers that come banging on the door like smart asses at 10 at night. So I closed up shop and that’s been that. No costumes, no nothing. Personally, if I want to dress like a slutty whore, I’m not going to be doing it on Oct 31. That’s way too cold. I’m going to be slutty in the summer. I’m smart like that.

But back in the day when I did partake in this totally useless tradition, there was no slutty dressing. Oh no. See, I grew up in Saskatchewan. Also known as, the coldest fucking place on earth. Seriously. I have no memory of a single Halloween where there wasn’t already snow and ice and snowbanks built up by the time it came to pound the pavement. Every costume I had had to be homemade, so that my industrial level snowsuit, toque and mittens on strings could fit comfortably underneath. Our faces weren’t painted with fake blood and stuff, cuz they were covered completely by scarves.

We’d bundle up and waddle on down the street. Some years it was so cold that you wouldn’t really see other kids out. They were pansies and too scared of frostbite. Suckers. This just meant that we got tons of candy, cuz people were trying to get rid of it.

One year I was a giant yellow crayon. It was sweet. Another, I was a giant purple unicorn, also sweet. For two years in a row, I was Pippi Longstocking. With long, straight hair this was a genius idea. My mom disassembled a coat hanger, mashed it into the shape of my head and then braided my hair around it. Let me tell you how fun it is to have metal on your head at -20. However, my freezing skull was rewarded by the boatloads of candy I was given those nights. I was dragged into peoples houses, made to pose for pictures, phones were handed to me to verify that I did indeed have braids sticking out of my head, and then I was rewarded heartily for my efforts. It was pretty sweet.

In cold, cold Saskatchewan, we always had to plan our routes so that every 20-30 minutes we could hit the home base to thaw out and have a cup of hot chocolate. It was tricky, but we managed, since we knew death by hypothermia was our only other option.

Then came the dreaded candy search. Where you had to dump your goods on the floor, careful not to let any mix with your brothers, cuz then he might steal a sucker or something and you’d have to beat him and consequently get yourself grounded, so that the parents could inspect your treasures. By parents, I mean my  mom. My dad was long gone by that point, huddled in front of the warm glow of the TV and it’s sporty offerings. And my mom would ALWAYS steal chocolate from us. I hated it so much. She claimed that she was ‘owed’ it or something for ‘making our costumes’ and ‘giving us life’. Pfffft. Chocolate crazed bitch, I say. Everyone knows the chocolate bars are the whole reason you go out all bundled up and brave the elements, stare down the fat kid going up the same driveway as you and sing stupid fucking songs so that people will give you candy. You put up with all those horrid ‘Rocket’ candies and those nasty hard-as-rock dark brown toffee things in those orange and black wrappers JUST to get the CHOCOLATE. And then she took it.

Maybe that’s why I don’t really see the fun in Halloween. Cuz it wasn’t fun. It just wasn’t. It was cold and uncomfortable and angering and full of bad candies. And my mom. Damn, no wonder eh?

The one thing I do love love love about Halloween is the carved pumpkins. I love them. I loved carving them, I loved scooping out the muck, I loved lighting the candle, I loved the smell. I love it.

I didn’t love the stupid kids who inevitably led to my pumpkin’s violent death on the street in the middle of the night, but hey, quick and painless versus rotting in a compost? I’ll go for quick and painless, methinks.

Yes, I’m aware this post sucked. You have no idea how exhausted I am this week. It’s stupid. My brain lacks all organizational abilities right now, but I felt I had to post something or I’d fall out of the nice little blog circle I’ve managed to worm my way into. Please leave the criticisms and personal attacks to a minimum in the comments section. Thank you.

All I need is a venture capitalist….

I make first impressions rather quickly and rather harshly. You sort of get one shot with me, unless I’m in a terrible mood, and then I’m likely to give you another chance since I know my hatred probably isn’t very well-justified.

The thing is, I’ve learned that most people are stupid. They are stupid and annoying and simply not worth my time at all. They ask dumb questions, they state stupid observations, they tell me about their lame ass days and interrupt me from whatever I’m doing. You get one shot. If you come off as stupid once, that’s it. You will forever be treated like a four year old who needs strings on their mittens and a helmet on icy days. A lot of the people I work with get this treatment. They don’t like it. But it’s best for everyone involved.

You see, if I wasn’t just outright condescending to them, I’d be prone to becoming violent, I do believe. I just don’t have the patience for them. In a city like Toronto, I use up all my patience on transit, sharing the sidewalks with tourists, being in line EVERYwhere, never breathing clean air, constantly having to strain to understand ‘new Canadians’ and their lovely accents, waiting on hold with shit music, dealing with aggressive panhandlers, and being witness to a number of things you can’t imagine ever happening on a daily basis. By the time it comes to dealing with idiots, I’m out. I’m done. I just want to resort to bitch slapping them. But I can’t, so I just put them down in subtle and witty ways.

BUT. What if I COULD resort to violence?? Stay with me here….

Think back to my post about me starting a new job/business. I’ve finally come up with it. I don’t have the name yet, and I probably shouldn’t be sharing it with all of you idea sucking bastards, but I’m taking a shot here.

I want to open an Anger Release Shop.

People can come to my place and just let it go. They can yell. They can punch. They can throw. They can hit. They can stomp, shoot, smack and impale. All in a safe, encouraging environment.

I will have state of the art colour printers so that people can come in, give me any sort of digital medium possessing a picture of their rage cause, and I can print it out for them all pretty and glossy like. Maybe I’ll have photoshop and they can add devil horns or stink lines or something.

They can then take those pictures and tack them up on dartboards, archery targets and those silhouette things that you shoot at in shooting ranges. Shoot your boss in the face! Shove a dart through that bitchy receptionists eye! Knock down that fucker that stunk to high hell on the subway! Stick it to the man!!

I’ll have an area where people can smash bowls, plates, cups, glasses, vases, anything! Of course, they’ll have to wear safety goggles and long-sleeved shirts, so they don’t get cut up! I’d have punching bags everywhere. If you knock one hard enough, it’ll be like a pinata, shit’ll fall out in congratulations for you being in touch with your emotions like that.

I’ll have a padded little arena spot where people can voluntarily beat the shit out of each other with plastic or foam bats. Obviously the appropriate safety equipment would be donned by each participant.

There could be a room filled with beds and kleenex boxes………wait…..I should re-word that. I meant that it could be a crying room. Once you release your rage and the tears come forth, you can cozy up on a bed with some pillows and cry your eyes out. Loud-nose blowing would be A-OK at my Rage Rodeo. Let it out folks, let it out.

I’d have boxing gloves, mouthguards, helmets, steel toed boots all for sale at the front. And on the other end, I’d have a calming down area. Some tea, some candles, some Yanni-esque (haha) music to just let you chill out to before I send you back out onto the mean streets.

Really imagine it. You’ve had a day from hell. You would SO be willing to go somewhere and pay money to physically hash it out with some other poor schmuck or to take it out on inanimate objects. Maybe I’d even have fake stuffed dogs. People seem to be into dog kicking nowadays. It’d be a good place to just go apeshit.

Obviously, this idea is FUCKING GENIUS. You so cannot argue with me. I’m shocked it doesn’t exist yet. I could have a chain. I could call it Rage Release. ‘Hey Joe, wanna go for a beer after work?’  ‘No way Carl, you fucking piss me off, you ignorant cocksucker. I’m going to Rage Release! Now smile for the camera, asshole!’

Ahhhh, I love it. I’d sure as hell pay for it.

So…..who wants to help me start it up? Hence the title, any venture capitalists out there? I’ll give you free passes.

Adventures of Nature Talea

So the boyfriend and I and Zoey (le chien) went out of town today to a lovely park an hour and a half out of the city.

It was really nice. I’m a big sucker for trees, probably cuz I grew up in the prairies where they were far and few between, and this place was a full fledged forest. Complete with steep cliffs/hills that the boyfriend and the dog decided we should climb down. Ugh. I didn’t have much choice but to follow them, so I began my downhill trek. I slid, I slipped, I swore. Then I had a brilliant idea. I grabbed a nearby stick to put my weight on as I tried to prevent my premature death. It was working marvellously, allowing me to tread with slightly more confidence.

Zoey came bounding up the hill, tongue a-flapping to help me out, as any good dog will do for their beloved owner. She zoomed up towards me (damn her four legs and low centre of gravity) and I had visions of her helping me out, a la Lassie or…..some other helpful dog friend.

However, this is how the scene ACTUALLY played out. She ran around under my feet, prompting me to scream bodily harm at her, and then the bitch BIT MY STICK IN HALF!!! I was trying to balance myself from her attack to the back of knees, while she takes my support out from me. She bit the damn thing in half and ran down the hill with it in her mouth, where the boyfriend was dying of laughter. Oh. Yeah. Hilarrrrrrrrious.

I picked up another stick and no word of a lie, before I could even put it down onto the ground, she was right there, jumped and took it out of my hand. It was like in The Simpsons, when Homer is sitting on the couch and all the puppies keep jumping from random impossible angles and grabbing the pork rinds out of his hand before he can eat his precious, precious fried ‘pork’.

I gave up. I slid and stumbled my way down. We continued on our merry way and eventually came across a really beautiful stream,  complete with real live waterfall. I was walking from rock to rock so the boyfriend could take a dazzling ‘location’ pic of me, when stupid dogface Zoey decided to come splashing up to me. She jumped onto me, muddying up my shirt, pants and fleece, and causing me to loose my footing and fall into the pond. FUCKING DOG!!

The best part is that the boyfriend caught this event on camera, in a series of photos. First photo, me walking happily along rocks. Second photo, me walking obliviously among rocks above stream, with dog walking up behind me. Third photo, me turning around all ‘pose-ready’  with dog coming toward me. Fourth photo, dog in full jump mode, me with terrified look on my face. Fifth photo, dog running away from scene of crime, me falling into water with mud all over me.

I always seem to wind up covered in mud during these expeditions. A few years ago, I did a lovely slide and crash on a muddy slope in Algonquin Park. Boyfriend and I found this so hilarious that we used our last picture on the camera (before digital camera days) to take a shot of my muddy ass. Immediately after using up the last shot, we rounded the corner to find the fucking END OF THE RAINBOW!!! Honestly, we walked right to it. Could we take a pic? Have proof that there was no pot of gold? No! We couldn’t! Because I thought my muddy ass was funny. I still have the pic. My ass looks good. It’s before the Second Cup starting making me fat.

I have no good way to end this post. I just thought I’d share it with you. My clothes now stink like wet dog and mud and I’m seriously unimpressed since I’d rather cut off my foot than do laundry. And if that dog thinks I’m helping her get her toy out from under the couch any time soon, she’s got another thing coming! I’m just going to laugh and point. Stupid dog.

Does this make me a cheapass? Or a caffeine slut?

I picked up the mail today, as I do every day. But today there was a little thing from Second Cup.

I heart Second Cup. But it makes me fat, so I’m only allowed to go on Saturdays and buy myself a delicious, delicious white mocha, or a hazelnut latte sprinkled liberally with cinnamon. Hold on, give me a moment…….okay, I’m back.

I did a little happy dance and opened it up. To my pure and uninhibited joy there was a Second Cup Cafe Card. This card has promised to have at least $2 on it, and could possibly have $30 on it! Good toward any gluttonous purchase I choose to make!

Omigod, omigod, omigod!!

I danced my way to the elevator, and on my way up to my apartment, I had a BRILLIANT idea. I went back down to the mail area. There’s a huge container there where people throw away unwanted flyers and junk mail. This evening, I referred to this bin as the happiest place on earth.

I dove in. I frantically tossed aside Dominion grocery flyers and stupid Canadian Tire ads. I rifled and dug and excavated SIX other cards! Yes! So I now have $12 guaranteed off at Second Cup. Be still, my beating heart. Soon, you shall beat quicker with the aid of espresso shots.

It was pretty sad I think, looking back. I was all dressed ‘executive/corporate style’ complete with heels and sassy bag, and I was rooting through a bin, frantically trying to find 2 free dollars for coffee. Thank god nobody saw me.

Honestly? I might go back later tonight, after everyones had a chance to pick up their mail after work. Does that make me a cheapass? Or a caffeine slut? I’m not sure.

My life……she’s a sad one.

You know you’re Canadian when….

So I’m a Canuck. Most days I’m proud of that. As a Canadian, I am stereotyped as living in an igloo, owning several huskies, saying ‘oot and aboot’ and being very apologetic. I do none of these things. Except last night. It was the oddest thing……..and it was also one of the stupidest things I’ve ever said.

I was walking through the back alley near my house. Now, this is a particularly unpleasant alley. It backs onto a strip of restaurants. These restaurants have big garbage bins out back. Many of these restaurants have an ‘Asian’ theme. This means lots of fish, seafood and other rumored animals that I won’t get into (meow). Ahem. It stinks back there. And there’s always garbage juice running all over the place. On the other side, there’s this little ‘parkette’.

In this parkette, we have a large cast of characters. On any given day, you may find hippies with dreadlocks, kids with guitars, bums, hobos, vagrants, drunks, crackheads, misguided prostitutes, street kids, street dogs, tourists who are seriously lost, and out of work midgets. Well, okay, I’ve never seen a midget there, but I can totally see them fitting in. Anyhow. I was cutting through there to get to my gym, cuz I hate walking that block of Queen Street since it is full of people who don’t seem to understand how to walk on a sidewalk and move out of my way.

I was pleasantly dodging puddles of leachate (fancy term for garbage juice), when I heard, “Hey, do you have some weed we can buy?”

Now, keep in mind, this is Canada. We’re very liberal with stuff like that. In fact, I’m the only person I know who doesn’t smoke weed on a fairly regular basis. So I wasn’t at all surprised to be asked this. I get asked every so often, but my response was perhaps the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever said.

Fat hairy street kid: “Hey, do you have some weed we can buy?”
Me: “No. Sorry, I don’t.” Then I gave him a ‘sorry that your puppy died, little boy’ kind of sad smile.

No, SORRY I DON’T?!?! Who the fuck SAYS that? My apologies for not being able to supply you, a leach on the social network whom my taxes support in the form of welfare, an illegal substance in a back alley reeking of death and seafood. Please accept my humble apology, for you will have to continue on your search to get yourself baked. Here, let me buy you a cookie.

Sometimes I’m a fucking retard.

Hire me, I’ll be your bitch.

I haven’t written much lately, cuz I’ve been all stressed out and totally consumed by my work. Lately my boss my work has been just asking for it taking a lot of my time in the form of murder and wearing me out mentally with a rusty implement leaving little room for blogging thoughts.

So while I was at the gym tonight (ugh, ugh, ugh) I was thinking of ways to remedy this problem. And clearly my only answer is to start up my own business. Now, I’m not all business savvy, but I am passionate about several things and pretty good at a couple other things. No, this post isn’t going in that direction. So in my style, I’m now going to make a list of potential businesses/job descriptions that I can start up for myself. Feel free to contact me if you’re interested in employing my quality services for any of the things you’re about to see.

1) Family Estrangement Counsellor – Need to break up with your family? It’s awkward, I know. So often you get sucked in, by grandma’s cookies or mom’s threats about your stake in the will, by the universal guilt trip or by that whole ‘honour thy parents’ garbage. You mean well, but you can’t stay away. It’s like that ex that you know you should stay away from, but somehow you always end up naked, sweaty and slightly disgusted by yourself. But folks, I have successfully broken up with my family. Sure we were on again off again for a while, but we’re totally over now. I’ll write them nasty notes, make threatening phone calls and generally stand up to bat for you. I can channel some of my ‘horrible childhood’ rage into the job, making it a genuine and clean break up. Rates vary, depending on size of family and level of complication.

2) Mattress Tester Outer – I am a gal dedicated to a good sleep. As such, I know the importance of comfort. I will personally go to a mattress store in my jammies and become a thorn in the salespeoples side by trying out each one for a minimum of thirty minutes. It’s tiring buying mattresses. I get this. I’ll create a specialized scale of important factors for you and try them out. For example, if you’re a sleep drooler like me, it’s important that the moisture isn’t going to break down the mattress fibres and void the warranty. I’ll find out for you, by drooling on it while I sleep and by asking. I have no shame.

I’ll also do this for couches (which are the nap domain), however the rate will be slightly higher since some couches totally suck and generally couch showroom areas are busier and I’m likelier to be hauled out by security.

3) Educator of all things prairie – I’m a prairie girl. And DAMNED proud of it. For those who would like to learn about prairie culture, I’m willing to teach it! Your curriculum would probably include an in-depth analysis of the sport of curling and it’s very intense strategies (I fucking love curling……seriously), you’d learn the proper construction of perogies and cabbage rolls, learn how to deal with over zealous Ukranian people, be well versed in completely random bar facts about Saskatchewan, learning about why Alberta is no longer a prairie province and why Manitoba only wishes they were, why you should never eat prairie oyster and what the hell a bunnyhug is. The rate for this? Extremely low. I’ll do it for my own lame satisfaction.

 4) Wine Taster – I’ll get drunk for you. Red, white, rose, blah blah blah. Dry, crisp, oaky, yadda yadda. I’ll make notes and everything. But let’s be clear…..you’re buying. But it’ll be worth it when your friends compliment you on matching your wines so well at your next yuppie dinner party.

 5) Brutally Honest Friend – We all need a brutally honest friend. They’re hard to come by though, since everyone’s been brainwashed by Oprah and political correctness so that they feel they have to always say that you’re pretty and special. Let’s be honest. Some days, you’re not so pretty. And wouldn’t you rather have one person tell you that discreetly than to leave the house and have the whole world laugh and point and throw rotten eggs at you? I thought so. I will be that person. I will tell you when your ass looks fat, when you have VPL, when you are sporting some serious cottage cheese thighs and when your breath is enough to make peoples eyes water. You need to know these things and I am just mean enough to tell you about them. Cost: $45 per hurtful insight. Knowing you aren’t about to make an ass of yourself in public: Priceless.

6) Eyebrow Approver and/or Fixer – I have a thing for eyebrows. Not like, a fetish thing, but a thing where it’s one of the first things I notice about people. I often describe people by eyebrow features. There are too many people in the world sporting horrid eyebrows and not enough people working to stop this epidemic. Come see me. I will consult with you to determine if you are ugly or not and I will then proceed to mercilessly pluck, tweeze and wax you into a dazzling eyebrow beauty. This is a niche that needs to be filled. Hairy people are gross. They need to get it taken care of. I naturally have horrible eyebrows, but they have not looked horrible since 1996 when I realized, ‘oh my fuck I have awful eyebrows (or in my case, eyebrow, no ‘s’)’. It’s an 11 year success story people. You can’t argue with that.

Priced by time needed to fix eyebrows. I will charge $10 for every time you cry like a baby or say, ‘oooowwwwww!’.

7) Virtual Non-Physical Punching Bag – To steal the line from the street kid on Queen Street near my place, I will take verbal abuse for money. If you have some yelling you need to do, do it to me. Rates will vary, and if you make me cry, there’s a 20% premium. But I have a pretty thick skin. Mostly because I don’t care about you or what you have to say. It’s part of my charm.

8) Spreadsheet maker/Typer: I’m a total loser and I love spreadsheets. I also love typing. I’ll do them. You can sit back and drink beer.

9) Haircut Victim Model: I have long, straight hair. I’ll let you take a whack at it if you’ll pay me. Seriously, it’s like a blank fucking canvas. Do what you want, it’s just hair and that’s why God invented wigs.

10) Anything that doesn’t involve my incompetent boob of a boss and/or being an ad hoc photocopy machine technician – Seriously. That is all.

 Looking back, I’ve made myself look rather unemployable. That’s okay. I’ll always take pity money too. Thank you.

I gotta be honest….

It unnerves me quite a bit sometimes when I read the terms people use to get to my blog.

The most disturbing as of yet, and it happens quite recently (I’m scared to say how much exactly) is when people find me through searching: shitting on my face and/or shitting on her face.

Um, when the HELL did I talk about that? And what the hell are people doing googling that stuff?

Yeesh.

Hey! Face Shitters! Yeah! There’s nothing here for you! Move along, get off my page.

Fucking freaks……

Disclaimer: If you or anyone you know is into that, I’m not judging you. I just don’t want to know you is all.

And yes, I’m aware that by mentioning this, it’s only going to increase ‘their’ presence by increasing hits. But I’m a blog stat whore. Sue me. But seriously, that’s just nasty. They need counselling.

😐