your house is a midget hot dog

Oh for fucksake and jeezusHchrist, I already know I'm a total bearded dickface so save it. Things are confusing and messy and cloudy and shit but that doesn't mean I can't take a little vacation down to good ol' Los Angeles for a day or six and do all things touristy, right? By touristy I mean sitting in the front row at Leno and being handed a chance to look at a pregnant actress panties during the entire taping of the show. First I have to admit that I was totally high the whole time and second I am disappointed that I didn't get a chance to meet Fatso, my hero. Everyone's all OMG HOW DID YOU GET THIS HOOKUP and I'm like yeah I know peeps who know I like to see pregnant actress panties oh and tight ass country singer jeans including man-toe. I also ate Roscoes and Pinks and Pinkberry and you'd think that Roscoes still held my heart but after a meal of pastrami ON TOP OF MY HOT DOG then following that orgasm up with weird plain frozen yogurt holy crap, it's reason enough to move down to LA I swear. I might be banned for a while though because I told off quite a few people including the boyband reject KJ at some supposed karaoke hotspot and some prick homo at some prick Chinese restaurant. Yes, I drank a lot more than is acceptable-thank god for that Gran Burrito place in the ghetto because those mexicans saved my ass, even if they do poison white people with 'hamburgers'. Who orders a hamburger in a place like that anyway? Crackers do, that's who. I'm only half cracker so I'm not talking about myself here. I also spent a fair amount of time at the beach because it was hotter than crazy, starting fires and shit. I saw this one chic power walking along the sand like a mofo, her iPod on blast, and I thought OMG IS THAT XTX BECAUSE I WILL TACKLE HER FINE ASS RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW but I didn't want to take the chance being I was still drunk from the night before and not being able to get up from my blanket etc. Drinking is getting as old as I am and just when I think I'm over it I accidentally get shitfaced as soon as I got back from my vacation and had to call in sick. I swear it was an accident too. Well ok maybe not because I was drinking with Irish maniacs but they weren't my planned company for the night so see? Accidental-like most anal. Oh that reminds me, I bought a hella cute jacket that the hot wife on Curb Yer Enth wore on the show at some freaky thriftish store and that was mostly for Dan. It was either that or a can of Spam costume and I know some of you are kind of mad at the decision I made, but dude that can was thirty bucks-fuck that!

I think I'm convenient and that's annoying.

we need to talk about the ipod...tenderoni

So's that RoHobo wants me to talk about my beard, hu? You fucking skank I swear to god when you come out I will leave you for dead in the streets of the Castro. SO WHAT if I have to wax my beard man, not everybody has perfectly smooth porcelain chink (no offense-me) skin like you do, Canadaface, so why don't you suck it? You know I love you more than hot corn so calm down. The story in question here is short, but about the time I went to get my shit waxed and when the little love-you-long-time lady was done she goes "ok honey, now you don't look like husband anymore!' Fuck that and I have a pretty good idea of how sexy you think I am right now. I swear this little blog circle could take our little carnie show on the road though, you aren't perfect. Speaking of hot tits, I'll be down in SoCal this weekend for one more short run and a lot of being totally hammered. You ever ask someone if they want to do something with you when you don't really want them to do it but you're 99% sure they'll say no and then the mutherfucker up and pulls a yes out of their ass? That's me. This weekend. Fuck. And it all relates to my little dramatical crisis but all you can do is be a crybaby and hate 17 year old girls.

I'm the hottest I've been in a while. Trust me.

ran like I stole something...

2:15:53 was fifty three seconds over my goal and that means I kicked so much ass.

and I'm totally walking like I got beat down for stealing something.

j/k, I didn’t cry. I flashed him.

I'm turning in work that will be submitted for some statewide student competition and the shit makes my pits sweat and not in that hot Juliette Lewis on stage in spandex kind of way. In my very high and inflated opinion of myself, there is only one other person in my class that is up on me with his design skillz but thats ok, we're not competing against each other or at least I don't think we are. I'd peel that guy's shallots. He's legit. (Not code for anything)

Anyway, I was leaving the mall the other day and it seemed like this chic was following me to my car because she was kinda next to me since the shoe store I stalked. Weird that she walked to the car right next to mine and when we got to our cars, she was driving one just like the first car I ever purchased with my own money given to me by my grampa. So I'm like 'Hey, I used to have a car just like that! Crazies!' and she goes "Weird, yeah I've had it since 1998" and I'm all "Dude, I traded mine in that SAME year" and she's like "NO WAY" and yep, you guessed it, same fucking car. So then I'm all "Dude, is it cursed for you because that bitch was cursed for me" and you could tell by her eyebrow movement that she was not amused. I'm like "Yeah, one time, at this very mall, someone keyed
HERPES HAVING BITCH
across the entire passenger side of that mofo!" Then I laughed and shook my head and in my mind went back to the day I rolled up to some dude at a light and he's motioning to me with his hand in a circular direction like roll down your window and I'm thinking dude, you mean "..." and I made the little finger pushing a switch down motion because duh, power windows. He's goes "Did you know it says
HERPES HAVING BITCH
across the side of your car?" and I'm thinking NO WHAT THE SHIT!??!! and jumped out of my car post haste and sure enough that's what it said, it said
HERPES HAVING BITCH
and that shit was keyed from tire to tire. I'm sure I've told this story before and I'm sorry if you've heard it but it's weird that this chic was parked right next to me, no? So the light turned green and the guy goes "Hey good luck with the herpes!" and drove off while I stood there in shock, everyone behind me honking like impatient assholes with no concern for the bitch with herpes*. That's when I knew it was gonna be a good day.

*I don't have herpes.

awesome boned blouse holey moley

Ok so wtf is up with my sister finding gray hairs in my head while we're trying to drive to the flea market? Is that even appropriate? I know a lot of people get weirdy about their age but I'm not usually one of them until my hair starts shitting gray. I also look kind of young, so I've been lied to, but I can't deny that I kind of got all crybaby about it. Does hair turn gray or grow in gray? I wonder. I also oftentimes I wonder if the laptop he gave me records keystrokes. Certain keyword searches I do in certain sites would make him really fucking uncomfortable, and to be honest sometimes even make me a little uncomfortable so I hope you're prepared for those fucked up results you're gonna get, dude. I'm not sure why, but I'm kind of reminded of the time we were at the drive through at In&Out and some crazed hobo kept walking into the passenger side door of the car, screaming that we were blocking the crosswalk. Think zombies with less urgency about killing but the same amount of dirty face.

I'm 30 if you round down.

with pork music and tamborines

You know you have an addiction to karaoke when you beg your sister to bring her home karaoke system up from LA and when she does you end up passed out in your chair with the mic between your tits because you refuse to stop even at 3am. This is, of course, after having awesome battles such as The Battle of the Faggy Boy Band Jams or The Battle of the Jams You Wish You Could Sing Well or The Battle of the Songs You're Embarrassed You Know the Words To (Straight Up-Paula Abdul-clearly I won this one). So what if you're a couple of bottles of red deep and higher than Fatso's blood pressure, hu? Who fucking cares at that point because I'm not stopping and I'm certainly not about to let you win with a fucking Dido song. I think the ultimate winner of all time will be decided when we battle it out next weekend over Live Karaoke in front of people other than someone who gets his cigs swiped off his porch by a hobo going through obvious nicotine withdrawals.

I am running another marathon this weekend and let me tell you I am the dumbest mutherfucker out there. You'd think I learned from the last experience that I am not built for this bullshit but no, I apparently have something to prove. So today I ran with the running club of my place of employment (don't even get me started on how nerd herd this is, I'm already aware and I take shit for my membership daily so don't you even fucking start too) and I'm running hard and my iPod is not being so dickly for once and I'm like fuck yeah who's hardcore? I'M hardcore bitch! when my panties start wrangling in places that might not be appropriate in times of intense nerd competition. You guessed it, totally got me hot. So I was both confused and pissed off and trying to beat out someone wearing a belt with a waterbottle attached to it and shaking my head when I start thinking about my new scenario. Sonofabitch. I cannot find out that I have another issue because I'm serious when I say I'm full-no more. I know, this doesn't make sense to me either. I mean, who admits that shit?


THIS IS A DUET BITCH!

memories of a dirty whore

He asked like he deserves an explanation, like he ever had the balls to tell me wtf, like he never pulled the same bullshit on me three times in three years. Or was it four? I lost count and got very numb somewhere around three. Its hard to explain simple things to a crazy person. I think it's safe to define someone as crazy when you don't talk for 5 months and they're still calling you 'girlfriend'. Weird. So now he has finally caught up to me and he's all excited and full of hope and hella winded because he's been running his fucking ass off to get to here. Hey guess what-it's too late but welcome to the story of my life. It would be easier to stand there assured and face the other way if I didn't know that one thing I know that I wish I didn't know. Now because of that thing I know I'm looking back but trying not to look like I'm looking back, kinda sideways and out of the corner of my eye. I'm having a hard time believing there's sincerity in anything I hear. It's easier not to listen or pretend not to listen or listen and be all fucked up because those are just words and anybody can speak for fucksake, I mean we taught the dog to speak in less than a minute. It's pretty much works the same in the way in that if you say what they want to hear then you get a treat and if you don't say anything at all you just get el ojo until you do. I give a killer blow job. Speaking of dirty whores, I have this new thing/situation/scenario I think of when jilling and it's awesome and it gets me there in seconds but now I come across certain people during the course of my days and I find that I have a hard time looking them in the eye. Whoops! Who am I kidding, I don't even care. I have a feeling that maybe there is such a thing as karma and now I'm getting mine but in this pansy-pussyface way which is more annoying than getting it dickslapped across your face because at least that way you know you deserved it.

My mind is a David Carson creation.

steroids made your big toe live in a separate county from the rest

I'll say this one more time because I'm still baffled by it....Yesterday in Yoga, on two separate occasions, someone was hella tooting, hella loud. I couldn't even believe that shit man. I was looking around for the piece of shit culprit but nobody had any kind of guilty look on their face which blew my mind even more than actual toots. Then again, maybe it was queefing and who knows better than anyone that you just can't control that kind of air? Me mutherfucker but still. Also, I think it's pretty easy to control a queef in Warrior I so yeah it was toots and what's worse is I'm 12 and toots still make me laugh so was laughing the kind of laugh where you try to hold it in but it comes out through your nose accompanied by snot. I know you're confused by my usage of the word 'toot' instead of 'fart' up there but today that f word is causing upset stomach and I can't even believe I just used it right there. Sick. The substitute yoga teacher also called the Happy Baby pose - the "Welcome Home, Honey!" pose and I seriously lost my shit on that one. Homegirl is like 60 and still presenting her flower like it bloomed just yesterday. That is so gross. It's true that I often think about sex via yoga poses like which I'll try next or which would maximize balls-in-my-face time. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who does this either but when I do it in class I find myself getting a little more worked up than is conducive to my workout. I don't have enough sex. Another fucked up thing about yesterday was when a good friend reminded me about the time my vibrator was stolen. No, I do not think it's sailing the pacific or hot air ballooning above Scotland. I'm pretty sure it's been up inside some meth-head whore since I don't believe yacht sailors or hot air ballooners steal vibrators. Then again, there is such a thing as Tommy Lee so yeah.

Naming your IM screenname a bible verse won't make me look it up so quit being so douchey. I'm not interested in what you're selling.


I only play piano when I'm sad.

Oyster perpetual is a concept

I think it's interesting and annoying that the fortune inside the cookie I had for breakfast said PEOPLE WHO EXPECT NOTHING WILL NEVER BE DISAPPOINTED. Yes, in all caps, screaming at me while I face the corner of the room and kick at the walls and stands with fists. Fuck you Panda Express. There was a time where I was backed into a situation then stuck there for a long time and had no choice but to accept things as they were because selfish was not an option. Growing some girlballs and making the decision to unstick took many years of thunderstorms inside my head so when the proverbial clouds cleared, well they cleared and I'm sure you get that I unstuck myself. Now don't get your BVD's all bunched in your crack, I wasn't taking a beat down Charlie Brown. My life wasn't all Amy Spears or Brittney Winehouse. I think that zits on your neck is so fucking weird. What I'm trying to say is one day you realize that you're winding your stupid head back around another possible maybe'ish situation and there is no reason for it because it's early and a youngling-not even a Padawan so really, why don't you use your brain this time and maybe check out all the little signs and clues pointing to the neon green EXIT sigh? Or sign. I don't like to use the backspace key because I have this freakish ergokeyboard thing and backspace is 3 miles way from my little pinky.

Story time. August last year, I went out with my two favorite lesbians. We got drunk at a tiki bar and it was there that we ran into the hot guy who fixes the copy machines at work. The lesbians decided we should leave before I got into some major copy guy trouble because drunk then and to this day I would fuck that copy guy until there is nothing left of our private parts. Besides, we weren't out trying to find me a man...we were out to celebrate freedom and justice! We were supposed to drink disgusting dirties (NICE ALLIT.!) at some fag bar when we were kind of pulled by some strange force into the bar right in front of us because we were already drunk and lazy, I guess. For some reason, whenever we go to this bar the punk rock kids love us and end up getting us tequila shot drunk and that night was pretty much typical. What wasn't typical was the hearsay that I tried to pick up on some white and nerdy while playing a game of drunk pool. He bought me a bar rose from the bar-rose-in-a-bucket lady. We stole him at the end of the night and took him with us to a taqueria where he shared his cheese enchiladas (that were so gross) with me. We drove him home but not before we threatened to chop him up and keep him in a suitcase the lesbians had in their back seat. We like that joke and use it often and maybe one day you'll be lucky in that very same way. We made out in the back seat next to that suitcase where I'm sure he kept one eye open because how fucking insane right? Then I walked him to his door because I'm a gentleman that way and then we kissed this fantastic hair-pulling, lip biting, heavy breathed kiss and I was like it is FUCKING ON, NERD! But I didn't come inside when he asked me to-totally fucking wanted to because you know how I feel about my hair and having it ripped out of my head. There were many reasons why I did not come in, reasons perhaps like a) the lesbians were waiting in the car-watching us hot-kiss on the porch, b) I was trying this crazy new "not a whore" thing, and c) I was on the rag. d-All of the above-but mostly the 'not a whore' reason. I mean, I've been with guys who don't mind a little blood fucking but testing that on the night you meet isn't always how I roll. That's more of a 3rd date activity. I'm sure you're smart enough to know that this paragraph has a direct tie to the one above it. I almost told the story about when I went to the Yuba River this summer and at one point when I was TOTALLY sober, I went over a waterfall and not one goddamn person tried to save me, but I went with this one instead. Don't hate me.

Text size seems to be an issue for me.

he's inscrutable, like the chinese

Someone named Mark Sakamoto keeps calling me at work and I have no idea who this Mark person is or why he never leaves a stupid voicemail. So maybe you've been wondering where I've been or what I've been up to since the other whorepages died out. Maybe you don't even give a pony shit and I'm pretty sure that's the case.

Before I get into that, there is a huge gourde in the break room just waiting for someone to take it home. Random. It's big and bumpy and phallic and I can't lie and say I didn't think of how it might feel rubbing against the inside of my armpit. I'll never do it though, because I'm not really into armpit fucking with food but I have thought about it and don't lie and say you haven't. Why don't you tell me about it, liar? Share your story, you're safe here and I'm very interested. I'm also not really talking about armpits so don't tell that story.

So back to a less disgusting me. Well, that's probably not gonna be true. Ok, you know what, it really hasn't been that interesting. I'd put it in bullet formation but I can't bare to see how lame I've been in bullet points. If something comes up, I'll tell you the story. Hey, that reminds me of this past July when I was running the SF marathon and puked at mile 10. San Francisco has some crazy hills and once you run up hill #17 or something without music because your iPod was a dick I think it's actually forgiven if you yak, even though you trained for months before the race. No, it doesn't matter that you weren't able to take your fundamental pre-race shit. Puke your guts out lover, all over the dirty port-a-potty, until your eyes bulge and your teeth rot and your breath smells like you let old men shit down your throat for cash.

My goal is to get back there in the top echelon of your favorites again. I will not do this with themes but mostly by being an enormous emo douchebag. That's not even cool. I don't want to be cool. I don't want back in the circle.

I overuse commas.

fat brown sumbitch in a tshirt

A lot of people call it curiosity but I can't really get with that. I think nosy is a better description. I wonder if I could handle being one of those ignorant dummy's walking around all day without that ugly wrinkle/crease in the space between their eyebrows. It's all smooth and perfect because they're happy and they're happy because they don't know. They'll step out their front door without that shitty feeling in their stomach and they'll drive to work and only minimally road rage. I don't even know what that means. There was a time when I didn't know and I wasn't bothered by what I know. There was a day when I was normal and clueless and those were the days that I loved differently. I'll tell you what, that's a better way to love. Now there is reserve and how the shiz can you even call that love? I'm reserved. Gay. It's like being in a straight jacket in the way that you want to punch faces but you're being forced to hug a person you can't even stand which is yourself. I love when shit doesn't even make sense to me. Anyway, it mostly reminds me of the October picture on my calender which is some crazy Italian mosaic of a man and woman hugging and the woman's back is to us and her clothes are hanging low so her ass is showing. But the man, he's looking past the woman-over her shoulder, while she has her arm around the back of his head. It's endearing. But, he's looking past her, not at her. Not in her eyes. Not at her probably bare muffin. He's looking past her and you can see it in his eyes that he's somewhere else-with someone else, probably wondering if he'll ever make it to Mexico, since Mexico is so far away from Italy. But that's the draw, really, because the furthest he can get from this moment would set his comfort level back in the normal range. Weird that I can see all that in a picture of a mosaic. I might need to cover the picture with a page I ripped out of an old Stuff magazine . It's Brooke Burke nudely laying by the pool, pretending to read a magazine with fantastic hair. No wrinkle/crease on that bitch because she has many pages to go through in her magazine and she's back in a time before she added silent e's to her name. She's back in a time before she knew.

This was not meant to be so cry baby.