Let's Talk About Sex

Just kidding. Sex is gross.

Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about successful people. The truth about them is, none of them are any better at anything than anyone else. Take me, for example. I'm a genius at everything, and I'm not even famous.

Now, you might try to say it's because I'm lazy, and the successful people work hard to get where they are.

But that's because you're a dumb bitch so shut the fuck up!

There is only one reason some people are successful and some people are not. Let's start by spelling out the word success. I just did, but here it is again. S-U-C-C-E-S-S.

There are some words you can make out of that word.

SUE
SUES
USE
USES
CUE
CUES
CUSS

And if there are more, then guess what, no there aren't because I know everything.

But you know which words are absolutely NOT in there?

BODY. ODOR.

That's right bitches! The one thing keeping you from becoming successful is that stank ass stank that follows you around and hides in your armpits, underboobs, fupas, neckflaps, back rolls, knee dimples-

Holy shit. Some people are disgusting.

Anyway, the moral of this Shakespearean tragedy is that some of us are born with the most unfortunate of misfortunes. We just fucking smell bad.

AND SO:

To all you other talented smelly freaks out there, just stop trying. No one is going to fucking hire you for anything you want to do. So put on your Sunday best and go sit in the bathtub with a meatball sub and keep telling yourself how great you are, because no one else is ever going to, you smelly douchebag!

This might be my last post for a while...

...because it's going to take a long fucking time for me to stop laughing at this.

NYC's Exclusive Nightlife!!!!

Is FUCKING OFFENSIVE. I'm sorry. I'm a cute ass bitch. The bitches I chill with are cute ass bitches. Isn't the point of having an exclusive night club that you only have to let in cute ass bitches? Apparently not!

Okay, I'll admit to the fact that the places we tried to get into last night were very exclusive, and we def didn't have tickets or connections or the tainted reputations of Mischa Barton's gonorrheafied cellulite, but we are HOT! And, if nothing else:

Last night, I was working a fucking FIERCE side-boob.

I know you see and hear about examples of side-boob and you're like, yeah, whatever. But let me tell you, my side-boob was fucking IN YOUR FACE. You could see EVERYTHING! The line where the boob ends and the rib cage begins, the faint blue veins that means you're gonna be a great mom (trust me, that's what that means) basically everything but the nips. And I might have brought those out too, had I been let into the goddamn Boom Boom Room!

But fuck the Standard. No one wants to be in there anyway. The real party was in the cab on my way home. It was a pretty exclusive party. The only people invited were me, the cab driver and my giant falafel-stuffed pita pocket.

I believe that the word 'falafel' was invented because the first person who ever ate it had his mouth full and was trying to warn his friends by saying, "My farts smell awful!" But with his mouth full, he could only say, "Fart awful!" which sounded like, "FALAFEL!!!!!!!!!" His friends said, "OH, falafel?? That's what it's called!" And in that instant, they became heroes and invented a word for the drunk world's most popular food!

Unfortunately, those heroes died almost instantly, because falafel farts are literally toxic. So for the sake of humanity, please eat falafel alone!

I'm Bored

I'm going to talk about some things that I love so much why don't I marry it.

I love cheese and broccoli. I usually eat them together, but I could deal with them separate. But let me ask you this: could the black guy from 'The Thing' be any more black?

I love how in horror movies, some terrifying fucking ghost will suddenly appear in front of a person and the person totally freaks out, but then the ghost disappears and the person is like, "Whew, must have been my imagination! I'm just gonna keep walking through this fucking abandoned hospital!" whereas any of us normal people would be shitting our pants in the loony bin for the rest of our lives.

I love being better at things than other people, but pretending like I don't notice.

I love Sigourney Weaver.

I fucking love farting, and if you don't, you're lying.

I love being drunk enough at a party to sit down with some bitch you hate and talk about all your feelings and come to the conclusion that you two should have been best friends a long time ago. Then wake up the next morning and go, "HAHA what a fucking bitch!"

I love how when you get to college, you realize that teachers actually don't know what the fuck they're talking about, and everything they teach you comes from some book that would take you 10 minutes to read.

I love how some people think 'Donnie Darko' actually has a point.

I love guys with big noses. The bigger your nose, the more fucked up shit you can do to me and I still won't be mad.

I know I love the 'Harry Potter' books, but I don't remember jack-shit about them.

I love how crash dieting totally works, and the awesome attention you get when you do it.

I love how most naturally gorgeous dudes look fucking hideous with facial hair, but they refuse to shave it because they think it makes them look manly, and I guess that means they'd rather be a fucking hideous man than a gorgeous dude. No, wait...I fucking hate that.

I love how every time rich people do something, it's not cool anymore.

I love how any documentary is considered amazing, even if it doesn't make any fucking sense, as long as it scares the shit out of people.

I love fugly guys with Jewfros.

I always, always will.

And on that note, I'm pretty much out of things I love. Goodnight!

Why Moving Is Stressful

Moving is stressful for a lot of reasons. My main reason being that EVERYTHING stresses me out. However, the move I have in front of me is SERIOUSLY stressing me out due to one main factor which I have never dealt with before.

Cat. Travel.

You know when you get on an airplane and the lady with the screaming baby sits down right behind you? I'M GOING TO BE THAT BABY LADY. Except my furry cat friend could yowl the dirty diapers off any bald baby friend. She yowls at me if she doesn't have enough food. She yowls if she doesn't have enough water. She yowls if I take too long to pee. She yowls if I miss a spot with my Swiffer Wet Jet. She yowls if I USE my Swiffer Wet Jet!

BITCH. YOWLS.

I can't even imagine how she's going to be on an airplane. And I know I'm going to be sitting next to the morbidly obesist, grouchiest, cat allergiest, serial killiest, child pornographist dude on the entire plane! He'll punch out the window and shove me and my cat through it! We'll have to hang out on the wing with that freak from the Twilight Zone. And I bet he's allergic to cats too!

Pros about travelling with my cat?

She's not Mel Gibson.

That's pretty much all I got. But at this point, I figure it can go two ways. Either we'll make it work, or, as Gordon Ramsay says, "YOU FUCKING DONKEY!" which doesn't describe how cat traveling will go, but that's what the giant serial killing child pornographer will be yelling right before I have a tea party with the airplane wing yeti.

Cats, man.

Things I Have Done And Wonder If Anyone Else Has Done

I was sitting here pondering some things I have done in the past. Like, as a young child. I don't think they're that weird, but whatever. Check out this list and decide if you're a fucking weirdo too!

Some Things I Have Done:

- farted while looking at my butt in the mirror, to find out if you can see farts

- got a really bad cut, and then smeared the blood all over my face and took pictures of myself

- decided that since peeling dry Elmer's glue off my hand is so much fun, I should cover my whole arm in superglue because that would be SUPER fun

- played rape with Barbies

- played rape with Beanie Babies

- played rape with miscellaneous stuffed animals/figurines/dolls

- was read "The Little Match Girl" by my kindergarten teacher and decided I wanted to be just like her, so waited til my parents went to bed and put on a really thin nightgown and spent the night on the sidewalk with a box of matches pretending to be dead

- played rape with The Sims

- told kids on the playground that if they didn't do what I said, monsters would eat their families (it always worked!)

- ate chocolate chip waffles with whipped cream every morning for breakfast and never got fat

- locked this kid in a closet and left for like, 20 minutes, then came back and let him out and told him I saved his life

- knocked this kid out with a shovel and cut off his eyelids (haha! not really)

I can't think of anything else right now. I'm sure there are other things. I was the coolest kid!

The Magic of NYC!

Can only be enjoyed if you're rich. Luckily, if you are confused or unsure about whether or not you are rich, I have created a test for you to take! Just answer 'yes' or 'no' to the following questions and by the end you will know if you are rich or not (by NYC standards).

NYC RICH TEST:

1. Do you have a dishwasher?

2. Do you have a toaster oven?

3. Do you have more than one bathroom?

4. Do you take cabs?

5. Do you eat regularly?

6. Can you name "The Four B's" and, if so, do you ever go to any?

7. Do you get your makeup done at the mall and then actually buy some of it?

8. Do you wear things like belts and hats when it isn't necessary?

9. Do you have more than one pair of sunglasses?

10. Do you go to shows?

11. Do you go to the movies?

12. If you do something with someone, do you ever offer to pay?

13. Do you have a dog?

14. Do all of your dishes match?

15. Do you have art on the walls?

16. Do you have a TV?

17. Does it have cable?

18. When it rains, does it get on you?

19. Do you recycle?

20. Do you get haircuts?

21. Are you taking this test and thinking, "I'm so glad I'm not poor"?

Now that you have answered yes or no to the questions, here's how you can determine whether or not you are rich (by NYC standards):




If you answered 'YES' to any of the above questions, congratulations. You're rich! Go buy something.

However, if you only answered 'YES' to 18, then you're poor. Watch out for that rain.

Deep Things

I'm feeling very full of thoughts right now. Like, how come no matter how long I wait, I always burn my tongue on hot drinks?

How come when I eat Mexican food with other people, I'm always the only one that ends up farting?

And, probably most importantly, why do all actors and actresses right now look exactly the same?

All the men look like fancy ladyboys, and the girls all look like Barbies. Not because they're particularly pretty, but because they have those plastic, dead-behind-the-eyes look. Like the Kardashians and...coma people.

I'm just sad, I suppose. I miss the times when only really beautiful people could become famous. If you can be born looking like Miley Cyrus and still succeed in the entertainment on no talent, then...why even try?

Why even try?

JK

I'm not fucking busy at all, but I just told this bitch how much cheese I ate and she was all, "WHAT??"

A Great Way to Start the Day!

Today I woke up feeling fat. So for breakfast, I ate one of those ass cheek size balls of mozzarella cheese. That was at like...9am (Eastern Time, or as I like to call it Theseventhlayerofhell Time, because it's so fucking hot over here on the east side that I'm worried everyone's going to start getting yeast infections [I'm kidding! I only get yeast infections from antibiotics unprotected sex{what?}]).

Math problems aside, I ate the cheese and now my day is looking pretty bleak. I can't really move because of said cheese, and the farting is making me really undesirable company for anyone (not true, my cat loves it). I think the only thing I can do is sit here by the fan and watch Hell's Kitchen. I love that show because it's the only show I've ever found on TV where every single assdouche actually gets their dick handed to them! There is none of that "getting away with shit" like they do on ANTM or Project Runway. I can't stand it when fuckheads get away with their fuckheadery!

Anyway, I'm pretty busy now, so I have to go.

You Know...

I like Nancy Grace. I mean, bitch is crazy. That's a given. But there's something glorious about her voice. It reminds me of the whale noise audio I use to get to sleep. Ha, yeah right. The ocean scares the shit out of me. If I listened to fucking whales before I went to sleep, I'd have nightmares that would be scarier than if this bitch was your prom date.

No, but her voice actually does remind me of things that make me happy. For instance, my own voice! She speaks like I did when I was in kindergarten and I wanted to make the annoying kids cry. To be honest, I don't remember any of the shit I used to say to make the kids cry. But they do!

One bitch claims that I told her Frankenstein lived in the sandbox. First of all, who the fuck would be scared by that? Frankenstein isn't scary. He doesn't do anything. All he wants is to be loved. Second of all, the sandbox is fucking boring. Only assholes play in sandboxes. If I really did this, I would have said something way cooler. Like, Ed Gein lives in the sandbox and he's going to skin you alive and wear you like a pair of overalls! (It was the 90's)

Another bitch says that I tied her to a chair and told her that I killed her parents. First of all:

That's fucked up.

I'm a crazy bitch, but I'm not a serial killer. Unless you're a fucking centipede. FUCK CENTIPEDES.

But no. I mean, I probably did tie her to a chair, but it was probably to keep her from acting a damn fool! I had no tolerance for foolery when I was a child, and I usually tried to prevent other children from fooling. Tying them to chairs, locking them in closets, etc. Hey, if it keeps one less fool in my life, I'm happy!

I guess the point of this post is that I was the coolest kid ever.

Fun Times

I had the best fucking time tonight. I went to my all time favorite bar, with all my best friends. And there was a big surprise! There was live music and dancing!!

Excitement! So everyone was having an absolute mind-fuck of a good time and screaming and yelling and fuckingoodtimesman!

Except for the fact that almost everything I just said is a morbidly obese LIE.

First of all, this bar is not my favorite bar. I actually regard it about the same as I would regard a dingleberry hanging off the butthole of a vulture that was eating my family. The anorexic manatees that end up going there are the Kings and Queens of the Kingdom of Fixedgearbikefuckeryland. They all have the silveriest of spoons hanging out of their mouths. The spoons were shoved into those mouths by the Angel Gabriel himself upon popping out of their divorce-rich moms, most likely in a holistic water birth in the middle of their sun-drenched Hamptons "sitting rooms" (whatever the fuck those are), while the midwife crooned excerpts from 'The Adventures of Tom Saywer' and 'A Clockwork Orange' (because those moms wanted their kids to be ready for whatever washed-up trend that might pop up in the future).

I forget what I was talking about. I don't know if any of that made sense.

Anyway, this stupid bar is behind my apartment and I can always hear the intelligent conversations wafting through the air.

"Hey, man. 'The Life Aquatic'."

"Seriously, dude."

"Hey guys, but also 'Fight Club' AND the soles of my shoes are made of wood."

"Whoooaaaaa, man. You went there."

"Fuckin' rebel, dude."

"Yo, doggs, is that a chick or a little boy?"

"Either way, let's all take turns fucking it."

But LUCKILY, on the other side of my apartment is the always faithful gas station. If I didn't have the heavenly gas fumes pirouetting into my nose, I might never get to sleep.

Key Foods

I love Key Foods. They have the best shit at the lowest prices. Fuck it. I buy all my shit there. But let me tell you something about the bitches that work there. THE BITCHES.

I swear on my life. There is no way to get out of that god forsaken place in less time than it takes to get a Vinnie's watermelon into Snooki's kooka. AKA FIVE HUNDRED YEARS (or longer).

Bitches take my shit, scan it, and then proceed to fuck it up somehow. They ALWAYS fuck that shit up. How fucking hard is it to scan a fucking box of pasta? Then they proceed to get SOOO confused. These bitches act like they never even graduated the womb. They're holding a single nectarine and they accidentally give me the price for fifty nectarines. They obviously need an override.

"Override."

No one responds.

"Override."

"Override."

"Override."

BITCH. Shut the fuck up! Fucking let me do it! No one can hear you! If you need a fucking override, you need to fucking yell it!!!! THIS IS A LARGE PLACE.

Every time I get up to the stupid check-out lane, those bitches seem to get in a fight with their boyfriends via text message and immediately leave the store. NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! I need this nectarine and you are going to sell it to me! Every time I get up to the front of the line to get my shit sold to me, they lose their shit. I swear to God. Every single one of them is like Brittany Murphy in 8 Mile. But less cool!

Bode-FUCK

I fucking hate bodegas. I always walk into them because all I need is toilet paper (I'm lactose intolerant) or a goddamn lollipop so I can look slutty but of COOUUURRSSSSSSEEE there is a $15 minimum for cards. NO, Mohammed and/or Guillermo, I do not want to spend fifteen dollars in your shitty bodega. By the way, your cat is walking around pooping on all the ramen packets.

Say you're going on a hot date with some sexual babe named Seth Moneybagsgoldsilverbergstein (note: Seth M. will pop up a lot and you should get to know him now because he is my dream Jew husband. He is an astronaut-zoo-keeper-massage-therapist who dabbles in attorneying and brain surgery) and you get your period. You need a tampon! Or a pad...if you were homeschooled and your name is Beth or something.

You go into a bodega walking like you shit your pants because you shoved some receipt you found in your purse into the pathway of your vagina's demon waterfall. Time is running out! All you want is a little pack of tampons (or pads, Beth). Five dollars! You put them on the counter and hand Rogelio your debit card.

FUCK NO!

Punjab is so not having it. He throws your debit card into your bloated period face and yells.

FIFTEEN DOLLA MINIMUM!

FINE, Eduardo, I'll also buy this fucking Dora the Explorer lunch box and this six pack of beer (because assdouche bodegas never have hard alcohol). Then Sancho gives you some douchey smile and runs your card, and it only takes him about five million years to print the receipt.

FINALLY, Ernesto gives you your shit and you prance your ass off to the fancy restaurant that Seth is def paying for. On the way, you do that classy ass thing where you make sure no ones looking and give yourself a tampon injection while trying to make it look like you're just itching your asshole.

So basically, I blame bodegas for forcing me to itch my asshole in public. But at least the hobos get off on it. They deserve something, I guess.

Basketball Whores

I just started watching 'Basketball Wives'.

So. Adorable.

Old whores throwing drinks at each other and saying, "OMG", like, all the time. They all look like they went shopping at Forever 21's ghetto cousin, 4Eva Past Mah Prime.

The only thing I don't understand about the show is that none of these bitches seem to be married. Or, they are married, but they're half way through a hilarious divorce because their men cheated on them with Hispanic Athlete Groupies. The HAGs are all Miami cholas who say things like, "Don'teh chrow dat darty leathah bag a'me!!!!"

I love it. Dirty leather bags throwing dirty leather bags at each other.

Mother Nature Is Punishing Us

Well, I finally met a bitch that's crazier than me. Her name is Mother Nature and her stage is summertime in New York. There are many reasons why this bitch could be punishing us. We allow slutty moms to murder their kids. We allow people to look like this. We allowed "Pretty Wild" to air on television (I think it's that last one).

Personally, I don't really mind flash lightning attacks or the air boiling like the depths of hell on a Monday (it's always Monday in hell), but this schizophrenic weather demon is really freaking out my cat. She's not the juiciest guido on the shore (failed attempt at thinking of something better than "sharpest tool in the shed") but I love her and it's not her fault that her brain is the size of a walnut.

Now she's prancing around my apartment yowling like Macaulay Culkin in "Party Monster", and ruining all my furniture...like Macaulay Culkin in "Party Monster". I'm about ready to Google "how to make chloroform"...

NO! I'd never.

It's Fuckin' Hot

It's 80 degrees right now and it's only 9 am.

BITCH PLEASE.

If the beach wasn't an evil subway trek away, I would go. But I can't! I'm a princess. Princesses should never have to ride the subway. A princess like me should get picked up in a limo made of roses and angel tears. Waiting for me inside the limo would be my friend Prentice (who is a sexy black stallion but he's gay, but in this fantasy he is NOT gay and he wants my vag [and Prentice, if you ever read this just pretend you didn't]) Justin Bieber (don't worry about it) and Tim Lincecum.

So I'm a healthy girl. I want a gay guy, an underage baby and a pitcher that's missing a front tooth.

After the limo picks me up, we go to Coney Island and have some sex, and then all three of them present me with engagement rings. How can I choose???

Spoiler alert: I don't choose and I marry all of them.

I Love Cosmetology

I got my hair cut today. High Horse Salon is amaaaazing. I got my hair bleached, as well as a fabulous lesbian haircut. I got it done by Eric. He's quiet and sweet. He LOOKS like a hipster, but he doesn't ACT like a hipster, which I like. He taught me that the word "cosmetology" means doin' hair! I thought it was the study of comets and moons and whatnot. But anyway, he hooked me up with some hair.

Today was lovely. But I did have one bad run-in. This hispanic kid was sitting on his stoop as I was walking home from High Horse and as I walked by he said, "Miss, are you a virgin?" Awesome. I looked at him and said, "Absolutely, but not as badly as you." He didn't like that answer very much but what could I do? I'm a bleach blonde lesbian and I don't take shit from anyone. FTW!!!!!

An Abusive Relationship

New York City is a gender-confused mess full of hipsters and losers that have absolutely no idea what they believe in or who the shit they even are. Occasionally you'll find some winners, but they always live in a random hellhole off some sketchy train line that you never want to visit. NYC is kind of a bastard, but it's hard not to love it. We break up CONSTANTLY, but we're both so into the drama that we always get back together.

The other day, NYC punched me in the face. I was so shocked I didn't know what to do. I just laughed and walked away. My face still hurts, but I do have a black eye, which looks pretty awesome.

NYC is a shapeshifting demon and I never know what it's going to look like. On the day that it punched me in the face, it came at me in the shape of a cracky black lady outside Key Foods. She was wailing on about crack and how evil child services took her kids away even though she was OBVIOUSLY capable of taking care of them herself (I bet). She was cracking around right in front of the exit and I couldn't get out.

I wasn't having it.

I very kindly asked her to vacate ma space.

Bitch wasn't having it.

At this point, no one was having it, so with the strength of a lion and the swiftness of a cracked out eagle, she swung her crack-hungry fist right into the side of my face. Crack! (I had to)

I was pissed, but I don't know. Something about this place just makes my heart tap dance. I can't help it!