Chronicles of Madness

(Because Grace told me to)

Dare me to drive?

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I've decided to start secretly meeting bloggers. I say secretly because if you hide out in their bushes and they never know you're there, well? Then it's a secret right?

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While walking downtown I noticed this stupid sign, it said 'Be downtown, Be different'. Which struck me as funny because loosely translated it simply means, 'why don't you go be yourself somewhere else.' Heh.

Be downtown, be different = Fuck off.

I have this annoying habit of watching movies without thinking. I guess it sort of goes like this: Gratuitous nudity (nice), senseless violence (cool), ooooh!! Pretty colors!

Yay! Terra like pretty colors!

But occasionally my brain wakes up like a lazy Mexican taking a five day siesta and thinks, What the fuck was that shit?!

I think these two movies are the ones that spontaneously kicked in my delayed reaction so badly that I actually NOTICED it, and now I have to do a review. Because I'm pissy, and when I'm pissy I need to vent or cut something.

FearDotCom



How I came to see this movie is quite a twisted tale. Twisted because my friend that KNOWS I hate scary movies, hate hate hate them, made me watch this. Scary movies creep me the fuck out. So one morning while laying on his couch Albie snuck out of his room and said, "Are you awake?" Of course I'm awake, that's why my eyes are open moron. The rest of the house was still sleeping, we were both still slightly drunk, so when Albie ran back to his room screaming, "YAY! Terra's awake!" I should've known something was up.

Rule number one with drinking buddies, never let them know what you're afraid of. They will always fuck with you later.

Albie came back with this movie in his hands and popped it into the dvd player while chanting, "OHMYGODYOUAREGOINGTOBESOSCARED!!"

Nice. I stared at the screen blankly for a long time thinking, do not show your fear, do not show your fear, if Albie smells blood he will go for the jugular.

So here's the basis for the movie (think The Ring), lots of people dead, detective sent to investigate, obligatory woman assigned to help him to add in to the sexual element. They discover that all of the people dying viewed a web site, fear dot com, three days before they died and then their computer melted everywhere. What's fear dot com? An underground web site that broadcasts the murders of young women. So now they have to find the man killing the girls, save the latest girl, and escape the ghost of the girl now determined to kill them for viewing the website. Nicely typical but scary none the less.

Now my brain doesn't like to be scared, so slowly it started to wake up which is when it screamed, OH MY GOD THIS MOVIE HAS MORE PLOT HOLES THAN A BLIND MAN'S WHORE!

(does that expletive even work? oh well, you get my point)

Here's the part where it started to all unravel for me. To figure out where the girls are they decided to track down where the sexy ghost girl died. To do this they find her mother and travel to her house for a bit of an interview. At the house we see pictures of ghost girl as a little girl (maybe 6 or 7):



Now let's get this straight, her mother is completely normal looking and acting in every way. The house is in a lower income blue collar neighborhood, and yet somehow I'm to believe that she was running around looking like an albino and her mother let her dress in all white and play all day long with a big white ball? If that was my kid I'd grab her by her long ass hair and beat the shit out of her for being so scary looking.

FUH-REAK!

Then, at the end of the interview the mother let's it slip that as a little girl her daughter LOVED playing in the nearby abandoned power plant.

Um. Yeah. Because if I had a little girl I'd let her play in abandoned powered plants ALL THE TIME.

So they take off to the power plant which is supposedly just down the street. Why does this strike me as odd? Because when they leave the mother's house it appears to be late afternoon. By the time they arrive at the power plant it's pitch black.

Pitch black? I mean, the fucking place was five minutes away and now they need flashlights? And the homeless people around the power plant (who I'm sure the mother would've vouched for as excellent childhood friends) even have bon fires going to warm them and give them light. Boy those homeless sure work fast when it comes time for darkness!

Except... wait. They only have three days before they're dead right? Okay, if this was me I would be FLIPPING THE FUCK OUT that it's night already! I mean HOLY FUCKING JESUS WE ONLY HAVE THREE DAYS TO LIVE!!!

So I made Albert rewind the film, just so I could count the exact amount of times it went from light to dark after they began the three day count down to death doom and destruction. I don't remember the exact amount of days that I came up with now but the end story is that they should have DIED WAY BEFORE I WAS FORCED TO CONTINUE WATCHING THIS DRIVEL!!!

Speaking of which, remember that blue collar neighborhood where everyone was about American as apple pie? Yeah, can someone please explain to me how that little girl grew up to have a European accent?

Look, I know, accents are fucking sexier... or something. But for Christs fucking sake, at least make the bitch a foreign exchange student then, ANY FUCKING THING TO MAKE SURE THAT THIS MOVIE DOESN'T PROVE WHAT A CRAP WRITER YOU ARE.

Sidewalks of New York

Ed Burns is so fucking hot. He wrote, starred in, and directed this. He's, um, hot. Anyway, after watching this I went and read some reviews that stated this was very "Woody Allen".

I don't know what that means because I try not to expose myself to art that sucks. If I had an ice pick and twenty minutes with everyone looking the other way while I killed whichever celebrities I wished, Woody Allen would definitely be on that list.

So would Paris Hilton... I think you know why.

(Oh let me writhe on a soapy car while I pretend to actually eat food... but really I'm going to put a chemical peel on my face and hands for touching this... gross... meat thing. )

Anyway, back to Sidewalks of New York. I'd heard of this, and I'd seen Ed Burns, so I put it on my netflix cue. Now initially after viewing this I thought, 'Eh. Not half bad'.

But something kept gnawing at me... like a rat or pubic lice. It was a bad dirty feeling that would just not go away. So then I sat there and pondered. Now I rarely ponder so you can imagine how vexed I was.

Then it hit me. This movie SUCKED!

It was the most badly cast, misdirected piece of shit I've ever seen!

Okay, let me tell you the premise of the movie: Following a large cast of supposedly random New Yorkers this movie is supposed to run as a documentary on love in the city. All of the characters are randomly interviewed and then we follow them in their daily romantic lives.

Here's where it all falls apart, none of these fucking couples look good together. They are so badly matched that it's beyond laughable. Take for instance Heather Graham and Dennis What-the-fuck-do-I-care:




Yeah. They're supposed to be married. Okay, maybe I can buy this, except not once does Heather ever say, I married him for the money. That, possibly believable, but just plain old, 'oh we're married'? Yeah, I'm NOT buying it. No way, no how, not even if you threw in a free lube job.

Then there's Rosario Dawson. I do have to say that this is the hottest I have ever seen her look. I just kept staring thinking, ohmygodshe'shot. HOT! And then it dawned on me, she totally looks like a Hispanic Angelina Jolie in this movie.


But even though she is one of the better actors in this movie, she's still terribly miscast. TERRIBLY. Plus, they made her ex-husband a short Jewish kid. What the fuck ever. They look awful together.

Now let's go to the part where I say it's badly directed. Here's the thing, during all of the fight scenes with her husband, Heather Graham is SMILING AND AT ONE POINT ALMOST LAUGHS!

(Mental note: When you get married make sure it's with someone you don't give a shit about so you can laugh while you discuss divorce)

Rosario doesn't do that badly in her fight scenes with the husband, except, well, it's just not believable. There they are in the flashback scenes of their marriage, they're yelling, slamming doors, but... their hearts aren't breaking. They're just going through the motions, and it shows.

It also shows what a HORRIBLE FUCKING DIRECTOR THEY HAD! How in the fuck did these become the final cuts?

After looking the movie up online I discovered that it was shot in 17 days. Well, it shows.

This blog is purely for hatred. Got that?! No stories about pansy ass roses that make me puke. If I liked roses so much I wouldn't run them over with my car for fun.

And I do.

All the fucking time.

Anyway, today I hate my dog. He's a traitor. Last Friday I had to drop him off at my mom's house, I was being all stupid and girly too.

'Oh I'm going to miss my stupid dog so much!'

Really someone should have slapped me right in my overly emotional face. But no one did, because everyone is way too g-rated for me.

So on Sunday I picked him up and guess what? He wasn't particularly happy to see me.

APPARENTLY he fuckin LOVES my parents!

Loves loves loves them. PUKE! He's all, 'OOOH, let me go play in their backyard with their stupid drooly yellow dog!'

And then he lays by my dad's feet, chases my mom around until she feeds him something, and the WHOLE time their big stupid dog is drooling on him.

It makes me sick.

I'm going to cut off his paw and see if they still like him when he's a cripple.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?!

god damn you margaret mitchell, god damn you straight to fucking hell.

The worst part? I've never read a book this long that actually was able to maintain being interesting. I. Can't. Put. It. Down.

Sending funny emails back and forth to your mom makes you a dork.

Also,

stop joking about alcohol so much, people are starting to clue in to the fact that you have problems.

I miss parking lot dates spiced up with the occasional beef jerky stick and forty.

Long live the tramp.

Right now I'm doing two stupid things. Two very stupid things. First stupid thing, I'm reading Gone With The Wind.

Because it's an American fucking Classic. So, of course I have to read it. I think. Anyway, it's a great fucking book. Awesome. And how thankful am I that I aced American History? I really did love all of the Civil War subjects, so luckily I actually know what Margaret Mitchell is talking about. The even better part? I LOVE how she writes about Scarlett, here is a protaganist that the author obviously thinks vain and insipid. Really, it's quite a joy to read. So why do I feel as if this is one of the stupidest things I have ever set out to do?

BECAUSE: This is the longest LONGEST book I have EVER READ! And when the slaves are speaking she has written it so verbatim in their slang that I get a headache trying to figure out what the fuck they're saying. Also, do you remember when books were written really densely with small typeface in small paperbacks?

Okay, I remember this, and I also remember the slow conversion to larger type face in larger more hardback style books. At first I thought, what is this? Expensive books for the stupid? Because really, it did make you feel stupid. All of the stupid books were always printed in such a manner, but somehow with time I've become accustomed to it and now all books are printed in this manner.

Not this one. No way in fucking hell. So I'm on page four hundred, but in a modern book I would really be on about page six hundred, and the point is IT'S EIGHT HUNDRED FUCKING PAGES LONG.

I feel like I'm four hours into a twenty hour plane trip. I can't go back, I can't suddenly quit, I'm sure I'll love the destination but boy does my ass hurt. Fuck, I knew I was lazy, but I had no idea the extent I could take it to.

Second stupid thing I'm doing.

Okay, so a couple of posts ago I finally fessed up to the fact that I used to be fat. Although I never admitted to it back then, I was in total fat girl denial. Anyway, for the last two weeks I've been trying to get past a plateau. Officially I have lost, um, do I really want to admit this? ahem, cough, forty six pounds.

YIKES.

What a large number.

Good news? I'm two pounds below my plateau!!! YAY! The plateau I hit TWO FUCKING YEARS AGO.

Okay, so I haven't been hard core dieting for two years. I mean, I was pretty psyched at the weight I had lost and so I felt the need to go out drinking and celebrate... for two years. Heh. Give me a break, there's a lot of alcohol out there! At any rate, in order to get past this plateau I haven't been drinking, and I'm not supposed to drink tonight. But I'm going to. And you want to know why? Because a bunch of bitches went on the same diet as I did, cheated ALL THE FUCKING TIME, drank MARGARITAS, ate Mexican food, and still lost more weight than I did.

fuckers. I hate them. I hope they get gangrene and die.

Look, I KNOW I can't eat like others, I know that my metabolism's a little wacky, it's nothing new, I've always been like this. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to run other people over with my car.

So I'm going drinking. Even though I just got below my plateau. But look Weight Gods, all I've had to eat today is salad and water, I promise promise promise tomorrow will be more of the same. Please won't you let me not gain one hundred pounds? If you make it so I promise not to kill anyone for a whole mo... week.

I've decided that from now on everyone is only allowed to speak to me through email. After many conversations where people go on and on and on (while fully clothed) and all I can hear is a weird buzzing sound I've realized, I've really got to come up with a better way to pretend to be listening.

Am I the only one this happens to? People will be talking and suddenly I'm thinking about something funny one of my friends said, how much my new shoes hurt or where I would like to go drinking next. Then suddenly I tune back in to find myself nodding my head agreeably, saying yes at the right moment, but really I have no fucking idea what we are talking about. So I think, "Concentrate on the words Terra... CONCENTRATE!" except that while I've been telling myself to pay attention they've said more words that I didn't quite catch.

I cannot believe the INANE fucking things I've agreed to because someone couldn't bother being entertaining enough for me to actually pay attention to the words coming out of their mouth.

So from now on, fuck you people, you can speak to me through email.

Except, there's another problem. Most people are just as boring if not more in their emails. Their emails go something like this, Dear Terra, I was sitting here at my desk thinking about blah blah blah for three more long dense paragraphs that bore the living fucking shit out of me.

If we have learned anything from the fast food culture that we all live in it should be this, everyone has the attention span of a gnat. Including me. I want smoke and lights and if not well then, I don't even know why you're bothering to talk at me. I mean, isn't the drool some kind of clue?

Anyway, so the thing with email is that I won't bother reading that either, and then there will always be the stupid mandatory follow up call/email, referring to something that I never read.

Still, I think I'm going ahead with that option. It requires less effort on my part.

Let's talk about you and me

So this morning I was reading Maxim over breakfast. Yes I eat breakfast while reading a man's magazine, what's wrong with that?

Also, I had a very compelling reason. There were three articles I wanted to check out, one on drift racing, one on the new X-Men movie, and the last being one on interviews with men who had dated nymphos.

Nymphos? Really?

I thought that this would be an interesting read, and then I started reading it. So here's my question, what do you define as a nympho? Really I'm very curious because one man stated that he often had sex three to four times in a session every other day with his girlfriend. That didn't seem excessive to me. Okay, I know three to four times every other day might be a bit high, but I would just label it as healthy. I mean, it's not every day!

Also, when I think of nymphos I think of CRAZY sex! I mean, they have to have it, every friggin day, and if they don't get out they go and tag team strangers. I'm thinking 6-7 times a day. Anyway, that's my definition.

Then one guy said that he often has sex with his wife about eight times a week but (because they have an open mairrage) he's sure that she has it about twelve times a week. Twelve? That's the best a NYMPHO could come up with?

So then I started to get worried, am I a nympho?

I don't think this is possible. There's no way in hell, right? I mean, I'm not particularly freaky in bed, sure I masturbate but not daily, and okay, I have more than a passing interest in porn flicks. But it has to be a GOOD porn flick, no HIV looking slutty bitches with acne on their butts. Heh. TMI? Yeah, sorry. But really, that shit is gross. Why in the fuck are these girls in videos instead of whoring themselves out on the street corner where they belong.

Wait. Off topic.

Back to the nympho question, so you're probably wondering why I would even question this. Well, I was with my first boyfriend for three years, when I say that we had sex one time a week over that entire time I am LYING. Once it was only two times in one month.

OH MY FUCKING GOD I THOUGHT I WOULD DIE.

He would be changing and I would just stare at him thinking, maybe he'll accidentally get naked and need to take a nap. In fact, I vividly remember watching him in his long legged hanes (those are so fucking sexy on lean men with powerful thighs) sitting on the edge of the bed and just HOPING.

H
O
P
I
N
G (sigh)

Then there was the next boyfriend that spoiled me ROTTEN. Three times a day during the week and 7-10 times daily on the weekends. Well, that was towards the end of the relationship, in the beginning the numbers were much higher.

But I loved it!

Especially sex in the middle of the night and then in the morning. It's so lazy and groggy and soft. Morning sex is comfortable the way your favorite sweatshirt is so nice and fuzzy on the inside. Not the best new flashy thing on the block but you'd kill to keep it.

Later BF#2 said that he was often that way with sex in the beginning, but it tended to drift down to normal numbers as time wore on, however it never did seem to work out quite that way with us. Even when we were fighting our the sex remained good.

Then there was BF#3, now I tentatively brought up my libido with him. Frankly I was freaked out that he would drop me down to once a week. That I was sure would cause me to kill babies and drown kittens. He told me he averaged about 2-3 times a week.

OH MY FUCKING GOD NO.

But then he didn't. We generally had sex 4-5 times a week and so it worked out. I mean, I could've done with a higher number, but 4-5 times is okay. I mean, it's almost daily, and some nights I would really just like to go to sleep, or watch a movie. Okay. 4-5 times. I can deal! Sorta.

Towards the end he revealed that he had never had sex that frequently with a girlfriend before. Apparently when I had the 'libido' discussion with him he freaked the fuck out. "OH NO!!!" But then he discovered that he WANTED to have sex with me, so it was no biggie. I guess that's a compliment right? I'll have to admit, sex with BF#2 wasn't so bad. He was the first one that I didn't have to train, he came pre-programmed. The bad thing about BF#2? He came pre-programmed. Really, I enjoy a tailor fit, and breaking men. Drat, someone beat me to it.

BF#4 said that we were going to have to get into some pain if sex was going to be any fun.

What?

FUCK NO!

Bitch that HURT! Asshole. He wanted to spank me, and not the fun kind of spank, I'm talking the kind of spank where it left a bruise.

Look, I'm not into that shit. Why don't you pull my hair and talk to me all dirty instead? Huh? Why don't we try turning me ON? That might be a GOOD thing, a way to help me O. Fucker.

Fine then, you have a pain fantasy, then let's talk about my fantasies. Boy he did NOT like the one involving a prostitute. How uptight is that? I thought it was kind of kinky sexy, in a "well we'll probably never do it..." way. I wasn't dragging him to Reno or anything, sheesh. Still, he got awfully quiet after the Fantasy/Libido discussion.

And you know, I tried, I really did, I said he could still spank me, just not so hard. In either case I later found out he was taking Viagra just to keep up with my supposed demands. We were having sex about ten times a week, but, yeah, I REALLY could have done with less. It's not like we were on the same page or anything. And besides that, I'm a hard O, and I'll be the first one to admit that. It takes a big bag of fucking tricks to get into bed with me, but mostly what it takes is patience. Beyond all that though the one thing I ALWAYS hear from my sex partners is that they have never been with someone who so obviously enjoys sex.

I love sex, bad sex, fast sex, expiremental (ha that was fun, let's work out the kinks though) sex. I mean, unless it's REALLY kinky, I'm pretty much on board.

I wasn't really into it with him though. He was unfuckingtrainable. I mean, HELLO!!! This might have worked with other girls but it's obviously not working with me, could we possibly try something else? Oh, no? Okay, why don't I just count the ceiling tiles instead and pretend to like this. I should have won an oscar for that one.

And DON'T believe what the movies say, most men are into pretty straight forward sex. They don't talk dirty, they don't pull your hair and call you a whore (although that might be nice), and although they're into public sex they're not really keen on OUTRAGEOUS public sex. Which neither am I, thank god.

So here's the thing, I would never in a million years classify myself as a nympho. I've gone nine months several times between sessions, I don't own any porn flicks and I don't (often) sleep with strange men. I'm always a bit on gaurd in the beginning of a relationship so sex is never really very good for me unless I care for the person.

Also, when I've been in relationships where our libidoes were badly matched I never once thought about going outside of the relationship.

Really, after reading this article I thought the guys were just a bunch of bragging wimps.

'Oh my girl likes it more than once every other day, NYMPHO!'

Puh-lease. What the fuck ever. It's a penis, why in the fuck COULDN'T you have sex with it every day? Huh? Give me one good reason.

Well, I guess the viagra guy could give me a couple reasons, but besides those.

It's Tuesday morning. Nine am. Fuck nine am. Fuck work. But hey, I need a paycheck right?

I'm sorting mail when one of the blonde social workers passes by. Her name is Marilyn, or maybe it's Katy. I don't know. All the blonde ones look alike.

Ok... Ok. Maybe ALL of the social workers look the same to me. I don't happen to be particularly fond of their "I'm better than you" attitudes.

"Hey, I see you have a spider bite there."

"What?" I look up from my computer screen to see Marilyn/Katy staring at me from over her coffee cup. Irritation passes over her face and she could still be either Marilyn or Katy. They're both bitchy.

"Spider. Bite." She gestures at my hand.

"Oh Yeah" I run my hand over my bumpy arm. "I'm covered in them. Fucking spiders are trying to kill me."

"What?" Carefully I go over the previous sentence in my head.

"Oh spiders. You know. They're trying to kill me." Fuck. I said fuck.

Slowly a crowd of fellow employees gather round me, all drinking coffee, all pissing me off with their apparent lack of work. Assholes get here after me, leave before me AND sit around chatting all fucking day.

"Explain this"

Ok. So here goes. Six pm I arrive home from work, go upstairs, change. In the bathroom I spy a black hairy ugly fucking spider. I hate spiders. I can't even kill them I'm so afraid of them. Warily eyeing the spider I change quickly and exit the bathroom.

Downstairs I fix dinner and settle in on the couch. Suddenly I spy the spider slipping stealthily down the wall near the stair case. What the fuck? Fuck it. I'm done with dinner anyway. Putting space between the spider and I, I move to the dining room to play on the computer for a bit. Glancing towards the living room I spy the spider... now above the couch. I was just sitting there! Asshole spider. I grab Tommy my fearless feline and launch him at the wall. He could care less. Fucking worthless hairball that he is. Whatever. Time for a shower anyway. Up the stairs I head.

Thirty minutes later I exit the shower to see... the SAME FUCKING SPIDER ON MY BATHROOM WALL!

Now... I'll admit. I jumped... and maybe, just maybe, screamed. At any rate, I quickly exit the bathroom, shut the door and head off to bed. Ha, I think smugly, stupid spidey is trapped now isn't he? But of course, the very next morning I wake covered in bites.

Sadistic bastard.

"Wait" interrupts one of the stupid social workers that I barely manage to tolerate, "how does that prove that the spider was trying to kill you?"

God these people are stupid.

"It tracked me, just like predators track it's prey. In fact, if you don't kill a spider, which I never can do considering my unnatural fear, they will always track you. Blood thirsty monsters that they are, they enjoy the hunt."

Brunette Social Worker shakes her head. "Terra. You are so silly. It's just a bite."

"Oh really BSW? Well then, tell me how Spiders get their food? Huh? I'll tell you how they get their food. They track them, bight them, then stun them with their poison until the prey is paralyzed, and then they wrap them up in their web and eat them. That's how. So what do you think a spider is doing when it bites your ass several times? It's trying to EAT YOU!"

I swear to god, it's like they never saw the discovery channel or used common sense once in their fucking lives.

(Ironic isn't it?)

Dear Terra,

It's not that we hate you, it's that we love you so fucking much. And you know how that old saying goes? You hurt the ones you love the most. Well boy do we love you! That's why we've been giving you PMS two weeks EARLY for three months now!

And then of course we've been just two days late every month as well, not late enough for you to stab us with a coat hanger, but late enough for you to contemplate having a nervous break down. Oh sweet Terra, see how much we care?

Then, today we thought, 'hrm. She's not freaking out that she's late, she has become INURED to our evil ways!' So we had to come up with a plan to bring you back to the fold. Now that our plan is unfolding and you are miserable we are oh so happy once again.

Glad to see that you are enjoying the stiff neck, headache, nausea, leg cramps and cold spells.

For the next two days we look forward to ruining your most precious clothing and making you retain all of the water in sight.

Until next month,

Fuck you too!

Sincerely, your ovaries.

PS
If you actually start taking those birth control pills to put us in line let it be known that you will balloon up immediately. Cue evil laughter.

Yankee Bob tagged me (for his link look to the right, I'm too lazy to link. Fuck you). He did 12 things even though you're only supposed to do 10, what an overachiever! heh, but NOT ME.

Instructions:
Tag 4 people. List a few Weird Facts about yourself...The weirder the better....LOL.
Leave the links to the blogs of the people you tagged so they can be easily found.

1. I once told a friend to put a muzzle on his bitch while referring to his girlfriend. Oh yeah, she liked me.

2. I once turned to my cousin and said about his soon-to-be wife, "She no longer amuses me. You can put her away now." His fiance just laughed and I said, "I'm serious."

3. I was actually fired once upon a time. Which I NEVER fess up to. It was so fucking embarressing. But honestly, it wasn't working out. The guy was a sexist pig bastard and I offered to write his resignation letter for him so that he didn't have to bother using the spell check button.

4. I once got an ex back two years after he dumped me, made him fall in love with me, propose, and then I dumped him. Payback's a total bitch.

5. One of my legs is slightly shorter than the other. It makes me stand crooked and that pisses me off.

6. My nose is slightly crooked too, just like my sisters, and my other sister has one leg shorter too. This makes me suspect that we were all crack babies.

7. Three years ago I lost a little over forty pounds and except for minor fluctuations I have kept it off ever since. Yay for me.

8. I would like to lose another fifteen. But I say thirty instead, hoping that if I overachieve I might actually reach my goal. It'll probably never happen though. AHH SELF DEFEATING PROPHECY.

9. If you were ever to meet me I am positive that you would be surprised by how nice I actually am.

10. And the biggest shocker about me? Are you ready for it? Can you handle it? Okay, drumroll please....


....

I subscribe to Martha Stewart.

PS

I'm not tagging anyone because, again, I'm too lazy to link. I know you think that this is utter bullshit but I've actually had this done for a while and have just never bothered to find the addresses to the people I'd like to tag. So finally today I told myself, look you lazy fuck, just hit post. And here it is, TA DA!

The Irishman is dead. Sadly he fell off a cliff and died upon impact. Everything was done to save him but unfortunately assholes are often hard to resuscitate. This is a medical fact. Look it up.

Anyway, at first I was sad. Not only because he was dead but because we were supposed to go to Boston next month and the tickets were in his name. I almost asked his mom for them anyway but she was crying and blabbering on about the death of her son. Boy, some people can be really goddamned selfish!

Fuckers.

So I left. Funerals are for losers anyway. Plus I have this rule against purposely seeking out and dating the Irish... since I was at an Irish funeral, well you do the math. Not only did I have to be all elbows in order to get to the cooler full of beer there weren't even any prospects in site. What a waste.

If I were an Evil TV Producer I would put stupid crap on like, “So You Think You Can Dance” and “What’s Up My Bum” and call it TV.

I would run around town wearing a beret screaming, “Where’s my Evian?! I need my Evian,” which would be code for “Bring me my vodka you bitch.” Everyone would look the other way because I’m a TV Producer and they would be afraid that the next thing up their bum would be my foot.

Also, since marriage is already such a sham, I would add to the hilarity by employing fake ministers and then catching up with the couples years later saying, “Surprise! You were never married!” Drama would ensue. Some couples would be happy, “Ha, I never loved you you cheating fat asshole!” Some couples would be devastated, not because their children were illegitimate bastards, but because for years they’ve been filing as married and I have now seriously fucked them over with the IRS. Some people would try to punch the host, so I would hire Fred Durst as the host. Who doesn’t want to punch that guy?

Halfway through the season I would have an episode called, “you are a fucking idiot” where I would inform the viewers that they are fucking idiots and that my shows have stolen at least 30 IQ points, 15 of which were needed to change the station.

Today nothing's going right.

Today I wore these shoes.


And these pair of underwear.

The shoes are fucking killing me and the underwear crawl up my crotch. See, nothing is going right. Why in the fuck did I pick out these clothes this morning? Why did I forget the rule comfort before beauty? I'm hobbling like a cripple and if you think pulling underwear out of your butt isn't pretty try pulling it out of elsewhere.

PS

Go download Everything is Alright by Motion City Soundtrack

Oh please tell me that it's alright,
Everything is alright.

Give me a reason
to end this discussion,
To break with tradition,
Fall and divide.

Cause I hate the ocean, theme parks and airplanes, talking to strangers, waiting in lines.
I'm sick of these pills that make me sit still
Are you feeling fine?
Yes I feel just fine!

Tell me that it's alright,
Oh everything is alright.

pssst: I'm about to ruin the ending to almost ALL of these movies, so if you haven't watched them and intend to at some point, then you should just stop reading now.

In order to do this movie review I have to admit something I'd rather not. Okay, I sort of like those romantic comedies. In fact I have a favorite... or two. One of my favorite movies is Forces of Nature with (cough) Sandra Bullock and Ben Affleck.

What? Fuck you. Look, I know it's a stupid girlie movie, but it's also great. Here's the premise of the movie:

Ben (whose character ironically is named Ben as well, stooo-pid) is engaged to a lovely modern girl raised in the south played by Maura Tierney (that pretty girl who was on News Radio and is now on ER). Why she doesn't have even a trace of an accent (while the rest of her family does) we'll never know. There's a very short but sweet intro in the beginning where you get to see them to talking about their impending nuptials and what it will be like to be married. Directly after this scene Maura heads down to her family's plantation while Ben, finishing up business, follows closely behind.

On the way anything and everything that can possibly go wrong does. Planes crash, cars break down, he meets the crazy but lovable while being sexy Sandra B., falls half in love with her, meets numerous divorced/cheating couples, and stands on top of a train screaming and beating his chest.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that along the way everything under heaven tries to prevent him from making it to his wedding on time, and in the middle of it all he learns to loosen up. He also starts to think, maybe he doesn't want to get married after all.

Sandra B. has her own problems. The reasons she provides for needing to get cross country are constantly changing and all of her stories are contradictory. What you finally learn is that as a young teenager she made many mistakes that she is only now beginning to understand and trying to repair.

Meanwhile Maura is being seduced by her old high school/college sweetheart (who also has a southern accent), she's learned her parent's are divorcing, and she's beginning to question the wedding as well.

So why do I love this movie? Okay, here is where I spill the ending, because Ben DOES make it to the wedding. And when he does, in the middle of a hurricane with leaves and wedding decorations spinning everywhere, the moment that he sees Maura in her wedding dress everything goes silent. The wind keeps going, people keep running in the background, their hair is blowing around, but you can see that the only two people that exist in that moment is Maura and Ben.

You see, that is love. Understanding that other things get in the way but nothing changes your feelings for one another. It's easy to get distracted by shiny objects, but it's not necessarily better. And Sandra? Sandra needed to find herself, that's where she belonged, not with Ben. And the movie stayed true to that. Which is why I love it and have for years.

So why do I bring all of this up? Because last night I watched this:

The Family Stone



First off, Claire Danes.

Remember when Claire Danes was the 'it' girl? Now we have Scarlett Johanssen and Katie Holmes. I'm sorry, I'm not impressed AT ALL with Scarlett's acting, and Katie Holmes? Not only does she look mousy she obviously has no fucking backbone. The comments her ex, Chris Klein, has made to the press are so fucking chauvinistic and repugnant I'm surprised no women's movement organization has put a hit out on him yet and Tom Cruise is just.

Just.

Fuck. I don't even need to say it.

But Claire Danes? She was angst, awkwardness, teenage acne and pretty in a gawky sort of way that made so many young women connect with her. Sure our hormones were raging, sure looking back she was a bit whiny and bitchy, but we were teenagers. I watched My So Called Life and I saw myself and every single one of my friends and Clare Danes, she was just awesomeness epitomized onscreen.

Second, Sarah Jessica Parker? Okay, who else is sick of her old haggard face paired with her, "Oh I'm just a little girl" voice and supposed to be coy tilt head down and eyes peek up look? God. I just want to fucking puke. She needs to get over herself.

Also, news flash Sarah, you're OLD. Geez.

Anyway, so Dermot Mulroney is dating New York Sarah and decides to take her home to his quirky uptight New England family, who think that they are so down to earth (although take a fucking look at their house. Down to earth my ass) and original that they almost automatically view themselves as too good for her.

What?

I'm sorry, I totally expected this to be the typical uptight NY'er thinks she's too good for the burbs scenario. But no, the opposite, this family is (although very close knit and nice in their own way) a complete bunch of stuck up assholes.

So of course Sarah goes all looney and brings her sister (Claire Danes) up for support while Dermot's whole family tries to talk him out of proposing. I'm sorry, but it's none of their fucking business to tell him who he can and cannot marry. Fuckers. Especially when although she might not fit in she obviously has good intentions.

Don't read the rest of this if you don't want to know the ending of the movie.

Okay, here's the part that completely pissed me the fuck off.

Luke Wilson (who is so hot that I would probably cheat on ANYONE with him, in a second, with no second thoughts or regrets) is Dermot's brother and he keeps hitting on Sara.

Dermot starts hitting on Claire almost as soon as she gets to town. By the way, the whole fucking family loves her.

Oh and what happens? You guessed it. Within 24 hours Sara gets with Luke and Dermot proposes to Claire.

What kind of fucked up family is this? Where in the fuck would this fly? AND I'M SORRY YOU DON'T FUCKING PROPOSE IN 24 HOURS.

This movie was such fucking bullshit that I almost snapped the rented DVD in half.

Which brings me to the last movie review which has to be brought up for similar bouts of stupidity.

The Wedding Date



Dude, Dermot, you were hot in My Best Friends Wedding, but the older and older you get the more and more I realize you have Avalanche Face.

Please go away and take your sliding face with you.

Also, Debra Messing, you need a tan. Or a bag to put over your face. You were never very pretty to begin with, and although I am glad that someone loves you in real life I believe that fate to be inevitable whereas whether or not I should have to view you in the media should be seen as something avoidable.

Your press shots? Lovely. It's called touch up and great lighting. Please, never ever do another movie where it is quite evident that whether a man has avalanche face or not he could quite obviously do better than you.

Ahem.

That said, the premise of this movie is so fucking stupid that I had to kill the friend that forced me to accompany her to see it. It was drivel, it was the shit of drivel. It was stupid and lame and repulsive and ON TOP OF IT, I had to see Debra Messing in a SKIRT (GAH WHITE SOFT LEGS) and endure closeups of Dermots face (please let me keep the dream of when he used to be hot).

Somebody should pay for my suffering.

So Debra's got to go to some stupid wedding and so she hires stupid Dermot who is the hottest paid whore in NYC to accompany her. But NOT, ahem, for sex. Merely for a date. I mean, c'mon people, would she really stoop that low?

So OF COURSE they have sex, and of course they fall in love, cue the completely predictable jokes and ending.

Here's my question, so now you're in love, with a hooker. And extremely well paid wealthy hooker. Who has made his living for over a decade as A HOOKER.

What do you tell your folks?

And what do you do when he runs out of money and can't get a new job because HE'S A HOOKER?!

Dumb fucking bitch.

Some of you are probably wondering why I didn't put in the warning that I was going to give away the end of this movie, and you know why I didn't? Because unless you are some stupid pink wearing chihuahua carrying MORON, you have no business watching this movie. Unless of course you've got your mouth around the barrel of a gun and are just looking for one more reason to end it all.

This is how my head works, every time I hear the word 'normal' I have a flashback to an acappella group play presented at my school when I was in the third grade. These acappella freaks gave us the dire warning that by the time we were grown music as we new it would be dead.

DEAD.

Long live the acappella, down with all the instruments, blah blah blah. There was a loud gasp and all of my fellow students stared at each other incredulously. If I knew then what I know now, I would have walked right up to one of those assholes and socked them in the mouth. Guess what acappella dork? It's twenty years later and we're STILL making fun of you.

Before they tried to shatter all of our dreams and hopes of New Kids on the Block still rocking it hard (or whatever) they sang a song called, "Am I Normal". It was basically about puberty, and now when I hear anyone going on an "oh woe is me" rant I tend to burst out in song. Of course they never know what the hell I'm talking about (seeing as how we were apparently the only school tortured with this crap. Yay for being high risk low income!), and I'm pretty much viewed as insane.

Which is okay. It makes me laugh and that's what counts.

But this week normal Terra has left the building. Yes, I am no longer the ray of sunshine you have come to know and love. You see, for the last three months I have been suffering from PMS HELL.

I NEVER GET FUCKING STUPID KICK IN THE FACE PMS. NEVER!!!

Gah. It makes me sooo pissy. Now I KNOW when I'm about to start. Why? Because I suddenly and inexplicably hate everyone more than normal. The wind rubbing across my skin pisses me off. And if you take offense to it? Well then. I'm A MONSTER! EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO SHOOT MYSELF.

I'm so fucking dramatic I want to take a shovel to my own face.

On Saturday the Irishman and I woke up late. We were busy planning a beautiful easy relaxing day in San Francisco. He took off for breakfast, the dog and I puttered around the house while I turned on the shower. Which is when I got 'the call'.

I had apparently marked off a consultation appointment with a client for the WRONG FUCKING SATURDAY! Shit. I had two hours to make it there. And that wasn't a problem, except the Irishman got pissy and when I got back five hours later he decided to punish me by running errands, denying me the walk I had been pining for all day, and then we ended up late and unable to go to the comedy show we had tickets for.

I was so mad I decided to blame being late on myself. This is what you do when you know you're so pissy that you're going to go to prison for life if you lash out the way you really want to.

But what did the Irishman do? He just LET ME blame myself! WTF?!

So then I wanted to cry.

Then I decided it was all his fucking fault.

And then I went for a walk and when he followed me I blamed the whole thing on him.

He was like, "Wait. How in the fuck did this become my fault?"

And here's the thing, right now, even though I know that it was an accumulation of things that ended up with nothing going right, I am still completely irrationally pissed off about the whole fucking thing.

And I've been trying to drop it. For three days now. And actually, I might have been able to,except:

on Sunday while he went to work and I got ready to leave I cleaned up the house as a surprise. I made the bed, cleaned up the kitchen, straightened the living room, and the ASSHOLE HAS NEVER EVEN ACKNOWLEDGED IT OR SAID THANK YOU! Is that too much to fucking ask for? A simple thank you Terra, you are way to good for me and I don't fucking deserve you. Oh, and by the way, that argument on Saturday? Completely my fault. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking.

THEN (and only then) I could be magnanimous and say, Oh Irishman, don't worry. It was no one's fault really.

It's like he never even got the fucking manual.

Look immigrants, when you are gone I don't stand around thinking, "Boy I miss those stupid immigrants that I have taken for granted millions of years."

No.

Instead I think, "Why the fuck can't I get anything to eat in this hellhole? Guess what fucking immigrants? Don't let the door hit you where the good lord split you!"

Fuck you.

I am hungry. HUNGRY. I think that all those places that closed down today should hire high school dropouts to replace your ingrateful asses. Guess what? Not only will those dropouts work for minimum wage, they will also work for drugs.

HA!