August 7, 2008

i've got this one covered.

well, well, well. i'm sure many of you suckers were lamenting the fact that you'd never hear from me again. boy, were you wrong. after a few minor snags, we've got this shit up and running again (who says that?), mainly as a result of the nagging of a one AD and a few others. you're welcome. we'll be back posting in no time, for sure the FTJ hasn't gotten more demanding. ahhh, mid-20's entry-level work. only in america.

oh, SNAP. re-post.

on the real y'all. i can understand everyone loving angie with her small arms and over-sized lips. but once you add her united nations clan, in addition to the same four pieces of clothing she rotates weekly . . . i just don't think one of you can really prove to me she's worth your obsession, point blank. enough. i never want to hear of an angelina jolie girl crush every again. until she cures aids, or the common cold or wins a people's choice award. at this point, i'll accept anything.

you know, picking a girl crush isn't easy. trust me. i've seen countless 'tween movies and logged even more hours between the pages of seventeen, cosmo and vf in this quest. being the witty broad that i am, you can't pick just anyone. its always good if they are hot in the moment right now. of course. natalie portman? too smart. ashlee simpson? the 'makeover' did her in (in addition: her boyfriend and his guyliner would win my vote in a contest any day).. so you really aren't left with a big selection. paris hilton is played out. nicole ritchie had a kid with a member of 'good charlotte' who sang that song--oh, yeah THAT'S RIGHT, i have no fucking idea. the only choice of the bad girl variety is of course lohan. i figured i'd give her an audition, loosely speaking. i'd see how like me she was and then judge. you really can't just dive into something like this. crushes, for me, are a lifelong commitment.

from there, i knew i couldn't just pick one and that be it. but where to go from there? i racked my brain. day and night. night and day. i went to the next obvious source: the disney channel.

what a wealth of budding 'tween stars! i had never been so enthralled. and now, thinking about it, where did lohan get her start? disney. walt certainly knew what he was doing. what a visionary! by this point, hillduf had a shitty perfume and a lame older has-been sister latching on to her every move. miley cyrus hadn't been forced into fame by her illiterate father at the time in question.

then, i saw her beautiful locks and rocking threads. now, before i start to sound too much like ellen degeneres (who i do adore, btw) i'll reveal. i know you're on the edge of your seat . . .

raven symone.

watching that vixen on her AWARD WINNING (yes? no? can we confirm?) SHOW "THAT'S SO RAVEN," i just fell in love. every time i heard 'oh snap!' i became more and more smitten. obvi, you can see i had a huge problem to deal with! lohan or rave (my nickname for her, of course) . . . ?

on one hand, i had linds. i painted my nails white then black, dubbed them "lohands" and briefly picked up cocaine (ok, kidding! i don't condone drug use unless i've got a pacifier and a glow stick) . . . and on the other, i began learning to dance, while being clumsy and adorable at the same time, a la raven. and then, they were published. the vanity fair undressed lohan pics.

jesus christ. its not that i "don't care for" all redheads, just . . . okay, no, i fucking hate redheads and the unfortunate hand of fate they have been dealt. really, the problem is the spotted body. who does that? leopards . . . ? what was jesus thinking? i would pull an oedipus if i had to look at continuous pale skin and freckles. and by zeus' mighty bolt of lightning, lohan's got 'em. no wonder she was in rehab for all of 2007. i would even argue that it wasn't her abusive jersey-trash dad or his gold chain(s) fueling her insanity but that pale body she faced every morning in the mirror. if you can afford millions of dwi charges you can afford to 1. get yourself some sense and immediately after 2. get yourself a motherfucking mystic tan. those pictures really ruined lohan for me. needless to say, that was a hard day.

so raven won. i wish i could force her to look into the future and see us playing M.A.S.H. and sharing a root beer float.

(and if you don't know what i'm talking about with the visions, check yourself before you wreck yourself. educate yourself and go watch some 'that's so raven'.. for real.)

dumpster motivation, re-post

wow. first blog entry. if you'd have told me back in '02 that i would one day be using my "leisure time" to write about... well,... myself-- i'd have spit on you in disgust. but sadly, times have changed. you're probably asking yourself, "why is homegirl blogging anyway?" to be frank, it all started with trash. now, honestly, i am someone that genuinely hates the earth. while i do love al gore with his square features and masculine jaw; i'll be long gone before the glaciers melt and the world lights afire. that being said, keeping in the general theme of my life, i do like trash. not literal trash, but, your general, everyday, man garbage. this is certainly not to say that i devalue myself or look for love in all the wrong places, but we've all been in need of a 'southern comfort' tattoo and a bottle of jack daniels swaggering to us in the club wearing male jean shorts (or, for those of you 'in the know'--jort.) right? yes. you're right, i'm right.

with that delightful preface, i will continue on to my first post's motivation and/or introductory story.

let's go back long ago (last weekend). naturally, i'm out; laughing, romping, having a fab time, naturally. we make the rounds: blue martini, the bassment (don't get me started) and atc. seeing as how we just are meeting, i don't know (and bluntly, give a fuck) how much you hate atc or how lame it is or how only barely legal boys go there. bfd. i love it, with a secret passion. i hate pool, i hate the nasty couches i've made out on, and the wire chairs that always are uneasy. there's just something about that place that brings out the best (by which i mean absolute worst) in me.

atc and i have a mutual agreement, i'll spend my nights taking its miller lights and shots of jager by the handful, and it takes my dignity. simple enough. it's not the first place that i've left a little more tainted and a little less innocent and until i get knocked up or married and it certainly won't be the last. at least i know myself, totally a key to self-realization and true happiness, trust.

anyway. walking out of said bar, some douche bags taller than me sauntered over. despite i saw no potential in either man (? and potential is subjective, of course) i continued the convo and informed each that it was, in fact, my birthday. yes! you're right, my birthday isn't for another 3 months, but if i can sucker some dumbass into buying me a shot of soco and lime, so be it.

rather than offer a shot, he offers a picture. that's fine. i'm attractive, i love taking pics! game on. instead of my usual "classic-amazing-coy-i-look-so-good" head tilt i perfected in my six years of college he grabs my face and goes for the makeout. yikes! mother of sweet heavens! this drunken encounter was similar to my first kiss (fucking boone's farm) and i revel in it. i thrive in situations like this . . . no introductions necessary (because we all know they certainly aren't desired). hellz yes i will post this shit. you're welcome you five-head, trucker-hat wearing, delightful homeboy. we parted ways, (or did we?) and i was confident knowing i had abso made his entire week . . . that was that.

see, i guess that's the thing about me. once you get a little taste (not literally, please, i'm a lady) you can't let go for the next ___ (fill in with the number of hours until closing time on any weekend night) hours. i'm used to it. been there. done that. we follow each other to the next bar. i creepily keep tabs, while attempting to give a faker to some door guy while i run into high school friends screaming my name. by the by i notice my new friday-night-boyfriend talking to a friend's new boo. "aha! mutual friends!" i think to myself, "i'll be able to keep tabs on him forever!"

this is getting more tedious than i thought, and by 'tedious' i clearly mean more amazing than i ever could have imagined (blogging, that is, not the boy).

so, the night continues, and while i don't remember much, i do recall that i had an outstanding time. ergo, homeboy wants to dish out the digits. big mistake. when i am this drunk (or when i am sober, or buzzed or anything in between), do not give me your motherfucking number, e-mail address or request me on facebook/myspace/whatever. in doing so, one might as well also hand me a few carats from tiffany's because we are going to be getting real close, real quick, real NON-STOP. by this point in my life, i know to give fair warning before i enter those 10 numbers into my phone. kind of like an oral contract, if you will, and i always do. you know, the quick rundown--"i will be inappropriately texting you for the next week to three years." and you know what? they always go for it. suckas.

obvi, a night of inapp texting ensues. i don't remember much/anything. as per usual, i delete my outbox upon waking up.. or coming to.. whichever. anyway. the night ends without much (more) ridic-ness. little did i know the magnificent impression i made upon this young fellow.

let's fast forward to ladies night the following wednesday. i'm having a jour-daye and i get asked the question (which surprisingly i had NOT heard before..) --"say girl, what were you doing outside the dumpster on friday?" after a double take, i assume i was caught (mission accomplished) in a random makeout sesh. alas . . . you know what happens when you assume.

my homegirl continues on to inform us all how trucker-hat homeboy detailed that MORE had actually happened. eek! seeing as how you and i barely know each other, i'll withhold details, but please keep in mind, i am first and foremost a lady. i was barely able to see straight i was so angered! that this man (name still unknown) had taken my reputation into his own hands . . . and not even literally!

i had to retaliate in some way; but how? i didn't know where he lived and was without any of his possessions. the obvious answer came to me in two words, two syllables. drunk. text.

the week goes on uneventfully, and i, being the girl i am, get tanked every night. goodness! day. night. whatev. and i fucking texted. did i mean them? nah. were my fingers numb from obnoxiously transcribing my feelings continuously? absolutely. was it worth it? you fucking bet.

payback's a bitch, and as he found out (and will continue to find out) so am i.