Oh, I Forgot to Tell You All How Awesome I Am

August has been a very activity filled month. I published my first book, got put on final, super double secret probation at work (they really mean it this time), got into my freelancing groove, started my sequel to my novel, marketed myself like the dirty, dirty marketing whore I am  and finally…won two delightful awards for my fantastical blogging.

Yes indeed, my lyrical prose do bring all the boys to the yard.

The first was presented to me by a crazy girl, living in a small studio, doing lots of things. Many of those things make me laugh my ass off. Head on over there and check Malinka out. http://malinkasstudio.wordpress.com/

The next was presented to me by Ms. Rachel Greene at http://mytiarascrooked.com/2012/08/13/blogger-awards/. She gave me the beautiful blogger award. At first, I assumed that she was talking about my tits, then I realized she’s never seen them so she must be talking about my writing!

Now, it is up to me to grace the next few fantastical bloggers with my own awards. My only problem is, most of my awesome blogger friends are awesome enough to have already received said awards. So I said fuck the numbers and awarded as I saw fit.

My Versatile Blogger Nominees in order of whom I predict to die first

http://chiefwritingwolf.com/ – He got a joke about milk and a Katrina rememberance post on the same page. If that’s not versatile, I don’t know what is.

http://millenniumconjectures.com/ – Pipes and sailing. He is the old spice man.

My Beautiful Blogger nominees, in no order at all because I have ADD

Beth and Beyond http://thequirkycreative.wordpress.com/. She’s finding herself, same as me, and I don’t know whats more beautiful than that.

Fortyteen Candles at http://fortyteencandles.com/awards/. I can’t wait until I’m fortyteen. She makes it look awesome.

I know I’m probably supposed to share something personal about myself, but I feel like you guys know so much about me already. You know that I’m really bad at my job, that I’m a borderline alcoholic pot smoker whose dog watches her pee, that I’m, not in a relationship because all the aforementioned pot smoking has killed my sex drive. I’m really out of interesting facts.

Oh, wait, in grade school, I met the retarded kid from “Life Goes On”. To date, he’s been my only celebrity interaction, besides a very brief, very drunken intro to Snooki when she was partying in FL.

So there you have it. If I’ve nominated you, collect your award and name your own nominees. The ball is in your court now.

Also, if you really want to win, head over to my “Strangely Sober” page. I’m currently hosting a giveaway contest on Goodreads where I will be giving away 5 paperback copies of my book at the end of September.

Dear Spammers, Let Me Help You Out

Today, I finally cleaned out my junk comments from various scam artists trying to spam my beautifully written blogs with offers for Viagra, sex bots, money making pyramid schemes and acai berries.

Akismet rocks. Not only did it catch all the spammers, it also kept out a few comments from my more grammatically challenged friends. I’m not a stickler for grammar rules or anything, but if four of the words in your seven word sentence are spelled wrong, I really don’t want anyone know I associate with you.

Anyway, while I was deleting all these comments, I came up with a new idea for a business venture. A new facet to my freelancing business. If you pay me enough, I will get people to read your spam messages and click on your links. How? Simple. I know how to market to idiots.

See, here’s where you guys are going wrong. Most of you give the same generic, obvious spam message.

Dear Webmaster, I very much enjoyed your opinion of above subject. It was very informative to my opinion and I will return often for much well written information. Please check out my pages so you may make more hits and money for your blog about information.

You know how I know that’s bullshit? I’ve never given valuable information in my life. The only things I give on this site are angry rants based on statistics that I made up in my head because they sounded right. If you ever walk away from my site feeling informed, please contact me immediately so I can delete any information that I’m providing that may be remotely accurate.

You spammers need my help. Your target marketing is all wrong. You’re just spamming everyone when you should be focusing on idiots. The best way to focus on idiots? Chain mail.

Its all right spammers; I got your back. Below, please find a sample of some of my work.












Let me explain where I went right on this one spammers.

–          Stupid people love caps lock. It makes everything look important.

–          To gain credibility, I told people NOT to read it at the beginning. That made them WANT to read it.

–          I didn’t waste time with spelling.

–          I got your victims to spin around and stare into a light bulb, which disoriented them enough to go to your website and blinded them enough to not be able to read the fine print on your “free trial offers”.

–          I created a sense of urgency and mentioned vampires.


If you are interested in my services, please click on this link to get some natural male enhancement products. Don’t worry. They’re free…for the first 15 minutes.


The Good Old Days Weren’t Always That Good

The other night my friend, Sassy Filipina*, went on a date with a man she met on Plenty of Fish.

That was probably her first mistake.

Anywho, halfway through her romantic evening at Red Lobster, the internet dude she met online started going off on women’s lib. He tossed out that old divorce statistic that magazines regularly drop in order to scare chicks into getting married.

According to him, 80% of all marriages end in divorce…and that’s all the fault of the women’s lib movement.

God I wish I had been there to punch him in the face. Twice. Then once in the throat for good luck.

His main point of contention? Women don’t allow men to be men anymore. These words were spewed from a Navy reservist who probably clears 22k a year. Just to be clear, Navy reservist, you can’t afford a woman. The best you can afford is a 3rd world country girl with bad teeth who doesn’t know any better.

Back in the day that this asshole so fondly remembered, women didn’t have the option of working outside the home. They stayed home, raised children, cooked meals and polished their floors with highly flammable paste wax while inhaling the asbestos from the walls their husbands bought for them at a discount. Then came WW2.

Men went off to fight while women took over the jobs that the men had previously held. We learned a little something called independence. We learned what it was like to make our own money, how to do things better. And we liked it.

We made our own money so we got to make our own decisions.

But the men continued on acting as though nothing had changed. They worked all day at the office, then went home pissed off because their slippers were missing and the dishes weren’t done. Their wives weren’t home to take care of them, because they were at the office making money. Trying to earn enough to buy a house that wasn’t made of paper. But they were still expected to treat their husbands like giant, boring children.

Suddenly the ladies of this world became responsible for taking on both the housework, and the work-work. That ain’t cool. So we went ahead and invented community property too.

Hello divorce.

So yeah, a bunch of pampered men lost out. They wanted their wives paychecks, but they still wanted the same fucking maid service they got from buying a wife.

Fast forward to Sassy Philippine’s date. Here’s the thing Navy boy, I’m super cool with letting you make every life decision for me…as long as your supporting my ass while your doing it. The second a check with my name on it gets deposited into our joint checking account, expect a little feedback on your management style.

Judging from the fact that you’re yearly paycheck is 1/3 of my yearly salary, I’m already assuming we’re going to have some problems.

I feel bad for married women. Why? Because most of the ones I know are miserable. They work a regular job, same as their husbands, but when they come home, instead of a whiskey and a pair of slippers, they get a pile of laundry, a bunch of needy kids and a sink full of dishes. Men still seem to think that the fact that they work 8 hours a day negates them from all household responsibilities, while the women get another 8 hours of work.

I’m calling bullshit.

Make a decision men. Either you get a little housemaid to cater to your every demand, or you get a little help in paying the bills. In case you’re wondering, we keep the extra sponges under the sink.

The Mrs. after my name is not enough of a status symbol to keep me satisfied working 40 hours a week at work, and another 40 hours a week at home. If people want to call me a dried up old spinster because of that, that’s totally cool. I think deep down we all know that really means that I’m not a fucking idiot.

Magazines and movies try to trick us. Get married otherwise it proves that nobody wants you. You’re ugly. You’re boring. You’re too old to be single. Find your soul mate so you can wash his socks. Stop being single and have babies.

Fuck you. I’ll be single as long as I damn well please. Most likely forever, because I don’t make dinner. I eat ramen noodles in my underwear while I’m standing over my sink. It’s pretty fucking awesome. And I’m still cool, so eat me.

Unless men have stopped doing that too?

So yeah, Navy boy, we’re not stopping you from being men. You all stopped that a long time ago. Either start paying all the bills by yourself or show a little appreciation.

Until that time, my ovaries are closed until further notice.


*yeah, I’m back to racial stereotypes

A Solution for the Undecided Voter

So I recently did an article for Yahoo! News, and I must say that it was the finest thing ever written. My article was in the political arena. Despite the fact that the election is 3 months away, I still manage to be undecided about who I’m voting for. I am suffering from the standard libertarian dilemma. The republican candidate is far too socially conservative while the democratic candidate is far too fiscally liberal. Here’s the thing. I want a candidate that is going to allow me to live my life and I don’t want them sending a bunch of IOU’s to China in the process. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is.

I’m for gay marriage. I’m pro-choice. I’m for the legalization of marijuana, as well as a whole host of other drugs. Included in those drugs is birth control. Not only do I think that all forms of birth control should be available at large, I also believe that the government should drive down the street in high tech vans quipped with blow dart guns. Every time they see a welfare mom with 6 kids trailing behind her, no job prospects in site, I think they should nail her in the neck with a hefty dose of Depo-Provera.

Seriously, those people don’t need to be breeding.

As far as I’m concerned, anything you choose to do to your body is no problem whatsoever until it starts to impinge on my personal liberty. The second I have to pay for your drug rehab, your fourth kid, your PTSD and any other bullshit your trying to claim having to keep from going to work, I get annoyed. I am the political equivalent of ‘don’t poke the bear.’ Sleepy and happy when left on my own, to do my own thing without government interference.

Then these fuckers went and poked me. Growl.

Get out of my life government. I don’t need you. Oh, wait, you’re offering me insurance now? Great, let’s do the math.

Last year, I went to the doctor 1 time. Total cost? = $239.75

Instead of just paying out of pocket, I paid my employer 137.52 per month for insurance coverage. Total yearly cost? = $1650.24

Awesome government, I just paid $1600 for a doctor’s visit. Thanks for your fucking help. In the future, can you just stay the hell out of it? Apparently, whenever you get involved in my life, simple things start costing me 1600% more. Thank you democratic party. No wonder everybody thinks your retarded.

Then the conservatives step in. No gay marriage. Why? Well, because the church, that they are supposed to keep separated from your state, tells them it’s wrong. Well conservative, if you’re so afraid that getting gay married is going to send you to hell, I would strongly suggest not marrying a member of your same gender. Leave everyone else alone. Love is a personal choice, not a political platform.

Oh, and Chic-a-Filet, the only opinion I care about from you is the one that involves the appropriate way to fry a chicken. As for moral opinions, I’ll stick to my own moral compass and I’ll thank you to stick to preparing shitty fast food. Seriously, nobody cares what you think.

The way I see it, both parties have it wrong. I’ve gone through their websites. I’ve read their views on everything and it all pulls together like one of those sailboat pictures that you can’t see until you step a few feet away from it and have a shot of tequila.

We have no choice. We must elect them both.

They don’t just cross party lines…they obliterate them.

I know you all think I’m crazy, but I think I have a great point. Everytime Obama tries to pull out his American Express to cover some kind of scientific study on the effectiveness of dill pickles on depression, Romney will be there to say ‘oh, hell no.”

Every time Romney gets ready to send his SWAT team of Mormons into to some unsuspecting gay couples bedroom, Obama will be there to say “not cool man, not cool.”

I think we need to force them to work together, much like some kick ass buddy cop team that needs to work together to get things done in the end. Sure, Obama’s an idealist, given to seeing the best in people. But then his pessimistic partner Romney is there to reel him back in and force him to see reality. Then, when Romney is trying to blow his brains out “Lethal Weapon” style, Obama is there to tell him things get better and he’s really going to wind up marrying  smoking hot Rene Russo.

Ugh, I’m getting to old for this shit.

But whatever, I’m still pretty convinced that my vote wont matter much. In the end, it will get buried under a bunch of votes from people who voted based on the commercials they see or the internet chain-mail they received. Yet another American president will be elected based on who’s tallest and I don’t know why I give a shit anymore.

Fuck this. I’m moving to Canada.

My Dog Is Giving Me a Bladder Infection

Oh God, the SEO hits I’m going to get from that title alone…

Before all your minds wander to the filthiest place possible, let me explain. See, I am what I like to call ‘bathroom phobic’. It has nothing to do with the germs. I’m cool with germs. I can handle those. It has a lot more to do with what happens when someone walks in while I’m using the bathroom.

Everything stops.

This might seems a little strange, because I can write an entire blog about it and have no problem at all. In fact, I regularly admit things far more private. However, there is just something so off-putting about someone hearing me go to the bathroom or even worse, seeing me do it.

I blame it on a very traumatic experience in the military when the restroom I walked into had no walls. It was just a bunch of holes on a bench, all grouped together. Seriously, I’m not making this up. Just one giant room with a bunch of holes to pee in…and girls were actually squatting over them. I felt like I had walked into a very organized zoo.

I guess we can see why I didn’t reenlist.

Anyway, for years, I’ve been working with it. I wait until the stalls at work are completely deserted before I go to the bathroom. I have my own bathroom at home. I hold it when I’m in public unless the bathroom is one single stall. For the most part, it was working quite nicely.

Then I got a dog.

The view from my toilet

Ever since I got Sophia, the same scene has played out every time I get up to use the restroom.

Me: Well, while this commercial break is coming on I guess I’ll just…

Sophia: (Ears perking up) Where you going? Can I come? I’m just gonna follow you anyway. Maybe sit on the rug you keep in front of the bathtub and stare you dead in the eye the whole time your in there. Hey, why are you closing the door?

Me: Sophia, I don’t need your help. Just go play with your fucking stuffed squirrel or something.

Sophia (scratching at the door): What are you doing in there? Can I help? (scratch, scratch, scratch)  Oh my god, you’ve left forever! I have no sense of time and whenever you leave the room, I’m certain your never coming back.  Maybe if I sniff at the door while I scratch it.

Me: I can’t go with you listening!! Go away!!

Sophia: I can hear you, but I can’t see you (scratch, scratch, scratch). Oh god, I’m going to starve to death. I was always afraid this would happen. I knew you were the flaky type when you got me at the shelter. I just always assumed that you’d go before me and I could live by eating your corpse while I waited for the medical examiner to haul you away. (scratch, scratch, scratch) Can you hear me in there? I’m freaking out!

Me: Aw, fuck it. (flush)

So yeah, its been a difficult year. At the same time, I love my dog, even if she is a pee watching pervert, so getting rid of her is not an option. I guess I’m going to have to live with it.

Does anyone know a doctor who would install a catheter on a voluntary basis?

It’s Like People Are Trying to Piss Me Off

Well, the Wellbutrin wore off, thank god, and I’m back to being the same old cynical bitch you all know and love. And because I am such a cynical bitch, its time for me to address another problem directly related to America’s stupidity.

The chain posting.

I was on a Facebook page related to breast cancer awareness. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a joiner or a charitable type. I was mainly trying to figure out what “Breast Cancer Awareness” really means. I mean, I’m aware of a lot of things. I’m aware of the fact that I have a large amount of upper arm hair for a woman. I’m aware of the fact that black licorice serves no useful purpose. Being aware of something doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything about it. Which led me to the question. If this page is just for awareness of breast cancer, does that mean the hoster just wants people to know it exists? Are people for some reason unsure whether they are for or against breast cancer?

Of course, per usual, I am less than 100 words in and completely off topic. Back to my point. I saw that idiotic little gem plastered on the page not once, not twice, but by four different women. And I was horrified. Seriously, I can’t believe there are four women, over the age of 12, on this planet, that somehow think that spamming someone else’s page with an idiotic, error ridden chain email is going to result in them meeting the love of their life.

Hey, ladies? Wanna know why you haven’t met the love of your life yet? Because you spend all your free time passing chain letters on to equally idiotic women instead of slapping on some makeup, leaving the house and actually meeting the love of your life.

Also, if you’re spending all your time in the Breast Cancer Awareness chat room, you’re unlikely to meet any dudes. Unless they’re pervy types who are offering free breast exams in the back of their windowless vans.

Can anyone reasonably believe that saying the name of their ‘crush’ three times in a row will somehow result in them getting married and having a million idiotic little babies together? You know when I say the name of my crush three times in a row? During the orgasm I’m having when I’m fucking him.

Because I don’t waste my time sending chain emails. Instead, I get shit done.

The person who created this stupid little email clearly has no mystical power. They don’t even have the power to press the spell check option or reach their pinky slightly to the left to turn their friggin caps lock off. Maybe you shouldn’t be taking advice from them.

I also love the way the author threw in the whole mystical clincher too. “Press the F6 button and your crushes name will appear”. Neat. Apparently, I’m in love with my mother. On most computers, the F6 presets to the “back” button on your browser. This will result in you returning to the page you were previously on. In this case, the author of this dumb little email assumes (probably accurately) that you are totally cyber stalking some poor innocent dude and his page was the last page you were on.  I have to give them props on that clever twist.  

Of course, now I’m going to have horribly bad luck. Why, a man in New Mexico failed to pass that email on and he got cancer two days later. A woman in South Dakota ignored it and her pet weasel exploded. An insanely hot writer in OrlandoFlorida spent twenty minutes making fun of it on her blog and …anything bad that happens to her afterwards will be completely fucking coincidental.

I believe in the power of energy. I believe that there are forces at work in the universe that operate in ways we don’t understand. I even believe in the power of positive thinking. What I don’t believe are emails written by some idiot with far too much time on their hands who are, at best, fucking with people, and at worst, trying to insert a tracking cookie into your computer.

In the computer world, they’re called “crackers”. They’re not intelligent and are not able to write sophisticated enough code to actually ‘hack’ anything, and thereby have not earned the title of ‘hacker’. Instead, crackers rely on the innate stupidity of far too many people to get you to open an attachment, or a virus encoded email, and forward it to all of your friends. That was the original goal of chain email.

It’s not to find you the love of your life. It’s not to help you reunite with your ex-boyfriend. It’s to gain control of your computer and ghost from your IP address so they can send fake check to more idiotic Americans. They do it in chain email format because only idiots pass them along.

So no, the chain email isn’t going to work. You’re not going to meet the love of your life by saying someone’s name a bunch of times or pressing F6 on the computer. You’re going to meet the love of your life by leaving the fucking house and meeting people. So stop with the plastering of chain emails on other peoples pages. It’s annoying.

I can also personally guarantee you that if you forward one to me, you’re getting a Trojan Horse in return…and I know you’re just dumb enough to open it.

My Day As An Optimist


***Side Effects may include excessive optimism, conservatism, reverse touretts and the sudden, inexplicable ability to speak Hindi***

Today started out normally enough. I rolled out of bed after hitting the snooze alarm 40 times and stumbled to the bathroom in a moderate, midweek hangover stupor. Like I do every morning, I cracked open the medicine cabinet and yanked out the two prescriptions I have that keep me from vomiting blood. I quickly fed my ulcer, Steven*, his two prescription strength Prilosec and a Sucrulfate for good measure. Then, remembering I had a mediation this morning, I took another Prilosec, just in case.

It wasn’t until I was brushing my teeth that I realized the Prilosec I thought I was taking was actually a leftover prescription for Wellbutrin that I got during a misguided attempt to quit smoking. So, on a triple dose of anti-depressants, I began my first ever day as an optimist.

I headed off to the gas station I go to every morning, because when you’ve accidently overdosed on prescription meds, the best thing to do is drink as much cheap gas station coffee as possible. For once, I actually understood the guy behind the register.

Amazingly, not only will Wellbutrin help with your manic depression, it also teaches you how to speak Hindi!

After giving the very surprised gas station guy a hug good-bye and issuing a demand that he “have a wonderful day!!!” I literally skipped off to work.

I arrived at my office building and spent about twenty minutes in the parking lot admiring how the sun glinted off the windows. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I hopped into the elevator and joyfully pressed the button for the sixth floor, seeming to have forgotten that I work in insurance claims. I talked about the weather with strangers. I asked people about their children.

I hate the weather and I hate other people’s children.

Amazingly, I made it though an entire day at work without saying the words “I hate this job so much.” Well, not really. But at least when I said them, I was smiling. It was a little creepy though. Think Jack Nicholson at the end of ‘The Shining’ as he’s chasing down his family with an ax.

Then, I got home, made dinner and headed to my computer for an evening of both work and entertainment writing. First, I wrote an article for Yahoo! News. I said positive things about Mitt Romney. I even went to his website and joined his mailing list.

Not only will Wellbutrin teach you Hindi, it will also turn you into a Republican.

After I finished my article, my computer burst into flames. At first I thought I was hallucinating. Then, I realized I wasn’t and that my computer was actually on fire. I immediately jumped into action, putting out the flames the way they taught me in safety class. By dumping a beer on it.

Not once, during any of this did I utter even one curse word. On any other day, I would have unleashed a flood of swears that would have made my computer cry. After all, I am fluent in 5 different profanities’…and also Hindi.

I rolled on. Yanked my moms 1997 thirty-seven pound computer tower out of the closet, hooked everything up and got right back to work. It still has a floppy disc drive for god’s sake. I tried to put my flash drive in it and it was like ‘what the hell is this’.

Right now, I’m watching ‘Glee’. I even caught myself singing along. God, I hope this shit wears off soon. If it doesn’t, I’m sure I can use the emails I get from Mitt Romney’s mailing list to induce vomiting.