Chronicles of Madness

Your pets are not! I repeat, NOT, family members.

They are your hostages.

If you didn't feed them they would attack and kill you.

It's called nature... look it up.

*I don't know why but my toe nails are so dry they always crack and break off at the very first chance they get. It's like I'm too tall for the nutrients to get all the way down there, and frankly it really ticks me off.

I want pretty feet TOO!

I hate my stupid feet and stupid toe nails and think them to be quite ugly, of course I judge them against my girl friends (and everyone knows I am only friends w/the pretty girls) and feet models. But every time I see a philipino or hawaiian girls' feet I shudder. Then contemplate being violently ill. What is up with the long scraggly unpainted toe nails, dry cracked feet and NO NAIL POLISH in open toed shoes?

I don't want to get all racist here and shit, but I work in a predominantly asian industry, and after a few years you start to notice a few things. Like the fact that fish microwaved does not smell good, and they're feet are NASTY. Ugg. Anyway, my toe nail cracked on the side directly above my cuticle this time. It doesn't hurt, thank god, but if it falls off do you know how long it's going to take to cover up my skin?

AND IT'S SUMMER.

Great, now I feel like kicking something 'til all my toe nails fall off.

* So I bought a new nail kit (to help take care of the cracked nail), and inside was this plastic cuticle pusher (I hate those stupid dowel sticks) that had a cuticle trimmer attached.

I've never seen this before, so of course I had to buy it.

And then as soon as I got home I started pushing and trimming all of my cuticles. ALL OF THEM.

Even on my feet, where little to no cuticle skin exists.

After a few moments of staring in wonder at my freshly trimmed cuticles and looking for any stray skin that could be massacred I realized my OCD was kicking in. Overtime. The need to cut my cuticles for the next eight hours was overwhelming, overpowering, I was WISHING for my cuticles to grow back merely so I cut them again. So carefully and with much restraint, I put the new nail kit away.

Really, I can't be trusted.

*The Irishman lives so far away (a three hour round trip) that our weeks often become strained. We tend to bicker over stupid things due to lack of sleep or him being a petulant child that wants me to drive up even though I have to be at work earlier than he does in addition to having multiple needy whiny animals at home. Basically, it's all his fault.

=D

So recently we got a book on how to deal w/long distance relationships, and it's actually pretty cool. We've started a phone movie night, so last night we called each other up, chatted for a bit, then hung up to watch Roman Holiday, and then talked again after the movie.

First off, Audrey Hepburn is beyond pretty. She really really is. And I LOVE her eyebrows! Second, now I have to watch The Silent Man, or the quiet man or some other bullshit w/John Wayne that he swears is not a western, but I don't like John Wayne! I NEVER EVER HAVE!

And he's already seen the movie, I hadn't seen Roman Holiday, so in some ass backwards way I feel as if he's punishing me.

I guess I should just shut up and be thankful that he didn't pick out a Ronald Reagan movie. Le sigh.

* We're supposed to go to Boston next week, and I'm trying to figure out what to pack. Trying to plan what to pack it occurred to me that first I should figure out what the weather is, so I looked it up. Which reminds me, who in the fuck invented humidity? Telling me it's 78 degrees with 91 percent humidity doesn't really tell me shit. I'M FROM CALIFORNIA.

Stupid fucking weather people.

From now on I would like the weather to be described in the following format.

Osama Bin Laden, butt sweat hot
Convertible weather for your bald Ex weather
Casual shorts comfy weather
Better bring pants and a sweater weather
Don't forget your umbrella and forget your hair looking nice
If we didn't have GPS and cell phones you might have to call yourself Donner and eat your friends winter


The fucking end.

Lot's of people say they hate people, but I actually do.

I really really fucking hate them. I would say that at least 80 percent of the population bugs the shit out of me and if I took the time out of my day to pay attention to their senseless blatherings I would wish instantaneous death upon them all.

I'm not kidding.

You know that person in your group of friends that you all make fun of when they're not around, but secretly deep down you know you keep them around because you actually like them?

Well I don't.

I could give a shit if they died tomorrow.

The only reason I don't mouth off and tell them how we make fun of them behind their back is because I'm sure all the other people who proclaim mass hatred as well would suddenly turn fucking PC and be like, "Oh GOD! Terra's just JOKING!!! Aren't you Terra?!"

I speak with some self confidence because this has actually happened to me... more than once.

And the worst part is, I'm only forced to be a somewhat decent person because society demands it. Which is so fucking stupid it's beyond belief. Look, I'll help you pick up the pen you dropped, yell at the burglar trying to rob you, but don't, do not, I repeat myself, DO NOT SUBJECT ME TO YOUR WEIRD FUCKING QUIRKS, because news flash, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT.

Case in point, O comes into town from Ohio. At first I thought this was a flight from Egypt type scenario, but no she declares it 'a visit'.

As in she's going back to Ohio.

Willingly.

Hrm.

So the morning she's to fly out we walk to a local bakery. We grab some coffee, banana bread, etc., sit and talk about boring girly stuff. Then I get up to find a napkin, out of the corner of my eye I see a man (who turns out to be a girl thanks to San Francisco's dressing attire) get up, walk over to the seat next to mine, and straighten the chair.

Okay, I'm a little bit bugged.

What?! Is my fucking presence so bothersome to you that you feel the need to straighten the chair next to mine as if I'm some clumsy rude patron?

Then I sighed. Counted to ten. I didn't want my horrible temper to ruin such a nice morning.

I sat back down, careful not to disturb the chair the she-male had so obnoxiously righted. After we finished O got up to return our utensils while I straightened our chairs (take that BITCH). My chair slid easily in but O's did not. Hrm.

Well, never mind, I turned, caught up with O and walked out of the store. But 'curiosity killed the ol' cat'-me had to look back, and that's when I saw She-male pick up O's chair and return it to the other side of the table, where apparently it had always belonged.

Okay, how in the fuck were we supposed to know that?! We didn't move the fucking chair, she's not the fucking owner, operator, or even barely paid cashier, and why, if she's so fucking OCD, couldn't she at least have some kind of fucking congnizance to the fact that she's FUCKING INSANE, instead of walking around acting like her upper lip smells like shit?!

Oh my god I was so fucking pissed that if I had been alone I would've walked back in and rearranged all the fucking chairs just to watch that bitch piss herself.

Fine. Breathe.

Second scenario?

On my break Tonie calls me and I'm chatting about my nightmare on IT street

"I had to go through a million subdirectories and at the end he informs me that I have to train everyone else. LOL, couldn't he have told me that in the beginning?" (Yes, I'm making fun of myself)

You get it, completely mundane shit. I'm on my break, I'm getting a soda, I'm literally in the fucking elevator for two flights and when the door opens the bitch in the elevator turns to me and says, "thanks for the phone booth."

Just as I was stepping out I narrowed my eyes, paused with one foot still inside and turned to look at her.

It's one of those split seconds when you're completely weighing your options, to kill or not to kill.

Just for the record, I have chewed out complete strangers in the elevator. At work. And I don't give a shit.

Anyway, at the last moment I decided to let it slide. Mostly because I had Tonie on the phone and I didn't feel like having a witness that I actually know view my flash temper.

Except that after I got off of the elevator I just got madder and madder. To the point where if it had been a different situation I would have backtracked and asked miss manners where in the fuck she gets off?

I wasn't talking about anything innappropriate, nor was I at a movie theater, diner, or museum. It's a FUCKING ELEVATOR AND I WASN'T TALKING ABOUT MY CLIT RING.

I've been in the work elevator where a co-worker was making out with her boyfriend, now that I'm sure crosses some kind of line, but I didn't say, 'thanks for the porn show' when my floor came up.

Basically, I hate people who sit around all fucking judgy.

Ooh look at me, I'm so perfect and my shit doesn't stink therefore I must go out of my way and point out how others are such worthless pieces of shit.

(wait... sudden moment where the pot realizes that it might be black as well)

Sorry, had a dangerously close moral moment, but I've shooken it off now. Woo! Close call!

So last night the Irishman and I are playing a game called, 'Let's freak the shit out of each other' where we plan our wedding.

We have three options, one, run the fuck away and no one comes.

We both like this one, but I want the big party and pretty dress. I'm pretty sure this means I have to invite hordes of people I despise so I'm sort of on the fence.

Two, small wedding at a privately owned estate of one of my relatives. Now I get the pretty dress, big party AND I get to offend all the people I don't invite. DOUBLE SCORE! The Irishman shoots this one down, apparently he has something against insulting his relatives.

Third, big stupid wedding with lots of big stupid people and we get to take out a second mortgage on our souls to pay for the whole shebang. There's one catch, I don't have a soul.

At any rate, while compiling the list he turns to me and asks, "What about this person?"

"No, I hate them."

"Okay, what about them?"

"I hate them too."

"But they're your cousins."

"So? Fuck 'em. Accident of birth."

So I don't really log into myspace but once a week, look, I don't need a web page to tell me how cool and popular I am okay?

I have enough restraining orders to prove the point.

But I do check my email, and of course I'm ALWAYS getting those emails, 'XYZ wants to be your friend'.

Of course they do! Who the fuck doesn't?

But I don't always know who XYZ is. See, I have to check into myspace to see their profile, and like I said, I only do that occasionally.

Anyway, here's my fucking point, Today Ang calls me and says, so XYZ added me, boy I was surprised to see that!

Which triggers some small reaction in my brain.

XYZ? Ugly fugly retarded XYZ? FUCK THAT SHIT!

Heh, yeah, I was surprised to hear from him too.

I'm not adding him, I didn't like him in school and I don't fucking like him now.

Well too bad! I added him and I'm going to make sure he asks you to add him too!

No. In fact I'm going to write him a letter back right now.

Dear XYZ,

I know in the past we knew each other... perhaps you even thought of us as friends. But really, you need to learn how to let go of the past. I can't be your enabler.

Glad you're not dead and all that shit,

T

I don't know why, but when I met Grace and Mel for the first time (fellow bloggers), we started re-enacting scenes from Team America.

Heh. Now I remember why, we were drunk.

And while sitting in the back of the taxi imitating the bad guys accent we came up with the term, "resbians". Which we decided to have tattooed across our asses.

Because, we're resbians. Tongue wrestling resbians.

Ever since High School I've made the lesbian jokes. I used to go around the locker room in my underwear screaming/singing:

I KISSED A GIRL AND IT WAS SWEET, IT WAS JUST LIKE KISSING ME, OH OH OH, I KISSED A GIRL

So color me completely un-fucking-surprised when I've gotten the occasional male question, "so, um, are you into girls or what?"

Yeah baby yeah.

Until today, when I got asked that question by a couple, asking me if I was into 'group' activities. Oh, the Irishman was invited along, and in case he wasn't interested I was informed that of course I'd have to get his blessing.

I would've laughed if I wasn't in such complete shock.

When I told the Irishman he just started laughing... and couldn't stop. After a while he quieted down and said, "Seriously though. I'm from San Francisco. I'm not into that kinky shit."

So, you got a new puppy? You’re probably excited. You’re probably overjoyed. You’ve probably already dragged him down to the local pet store so you could, supposedly, buy him his treats, bedding, leash and all that other crap you’re gonna need.

Don’t worry, we’re cool. We both know you dragged him down there so everyone could see what a cute puppy he was, and tell you, and pet him, and go on and on about their own stupid dog so you could tell stupid puppy stories right back.

Face it. You got a puppy because you’re a lonely pathetic loser.

But all that, way too honest observational info aside, now that you have this puppy, what are you going to do? You’ve probably bought him a little clicker, some bitter apple spray, invested in a “Puppies for Dummies” book, and now think that he is going to enter and conquer any and all agility contests.

That’s your puppy. He’s smart. He’s a frisbee genius in the making.

God. You are so fucking retarded. Your dog is NONE of these things. He is an eating, pooping, chewing machine, hell bent on making your life a disaster because he thinks, no, is POSITIVE, that when you leave the house in the morning you spend all day PLAYING with other dogs.

By the time you get home, he is crazy with the need for revenge, maniacally obsessed with chewing up your shoes and shitting on your carpet.

He hates your guts. If you didn’t feed him he would rip your face off.

So how do you train this evil spawn of satan?

Oh, the books will tell you, “puppies learn through love and never through fear. If your puppy shits on your brand new leather jacket, it’s not because he’s an asshole, it’s because YOU’RE the asshole that didn’t let him out in time.”

If he’s barking the so-called experts advise, “Remove the objects that the dog barks at.” Yeah. Sure. Okay, I’m sure you’ll get right on that. Let me know when you’ve effectively blocked the mailman, your neighbors, and any passing strangers from walking within a two mile radius of your home.

So I’m here to give you the real advice. The advice that actually works. The rules, instructions, and mandates that you should always live by but never admit to.

When your dog shits on the carpet, make him eat it. Tie a big old apron on him and say, “Dinner’s served you ungrateful waste of good fucking money!” This is a really long sentence, and I appreciate the fact that many of you feel that dear old Fido might not understand so many long, complicated words strung together. However, for the most part, people completely underestimate the intelligence of their dogs. For all of you that feel you cannot punish your dog for shitting on the carpet because he doesn’t remember the incident, and therefore doesn’t understand the reason behind the punishment? Respectfully, * cough *, bullshit, * cough *.

That dog remembers where he left his toys, he knows the last place he saw his treats, he knows when you grab the leash he’s going for a walk and in the mornings you leave everyday to go play with other dogs. He is not some teenage high school dropout smoking pot all day. He does have a memory. If you say these words while kicking him, he will remember.

Stupid, fucking, pansy, kiss ass, PC bullshit, people. Stop buying into the whole, let’s all hold hands and pray for peace, propaganda! It’s stupid, and you’re stupid, for not growing a brain and harvesting an original opinion of your very own.

So, in summary, when your dog pees on the carpet, kick him.

When your dog jumps up on strangers, kick him.

If your dog keeps barking and kicking doesn’t work (which it won’t, I should know,) buy him one of those shocking collars. Serves him right.

When your dog starts humping you, kick him twice.

Unless you’re into it, in which case, don’t send me any email asking for advice or ‘sharing.’ I have enough problems, thank you very much.

I get a call from the Irishman, which is weird because isn’t he dead, and he’s asking me to go to Florida. He says something about how he needs a date for this wedding, I’d be doing him a favor, all expenses paid, blah blah blah. He also throws in some stuff about loving me even though I am the meanest girl he’s ever dated and he’s come to the conclusion that it’s quite possible I am completely evil.

The last sentence does not endear me to him, in fact, it makes me specify that there will be TWO beds in that room.

After I say yes I sit down and think about what a huge fucking mistake this is. Then I also add up how much I will be costing him, I call him back and get a new expensive free dress thrown into the deal.

With shoes.

How dare he call me fucking evil?

After he buys the dress I shake my head and make him return it. Exhibit A: hoop. Exhibit B: Fire.

We go to St. Augustine Florida, which is near Georgia, the oldest city something blah blah blah (insert boring history shit), but more importantly it is a short ride from the beach. We have the hugest bathroom known to man and for some god-forsaken reason I fall in absolute love with the toilet.

That’s right, I said the toilet.

It was the best fucking toilet ever, wide, comfy, I sat on it extra minutes without a magazine just to savor the experience. I am NOT evil, but toilets like that? The devil incarnate. I wrote down the brand on a scrap of paper and shoved it in my purse, this is how much I loved the toilet.

For four days we hang out with his friends, we go to rehearsal dinners, pick up tuxes, attend bbq’s, and we eat at the Waffle House.

I have no idea who invented the waffle house or why it has such an insane following. Men fall to the ground at the name of the waffle house, their eyes glaze over with joy, their arteries harden at the memory of oil saturated potatoes covered with processed American cheese, me? Me, I want to vomit.

The Irishman popped my Waffle House cherry. And while I have to say, it wasn’t bad, I also have to point out, I’ve had better.

Now, before I decided to go to Florida I called up my mother. Basically to ask, am I being a whore? Here’s a guy that I’ve said I’m completely through with, yet at the mention of an all expense paid trip I’m like, OKAY!

Cue retard music.

Which is when I realized, I’m genetically engineered to be a whore. My mother’s response, ‘hey, if he wants to pay and you have your own bed, than that’s his own fault. I say GO!’ Although, she did make me return the dress. We both knew it was too expensive but I was the only one tempted to keep it. I almost pointed out the fact that whores aren’t supposed to have morals when I remembered that my mother adheres to the, ‘Children are never too old for a good slap’ rule.

I’ve never been to Florida, I’ve never been to the east coast. I am born and raised in California, the farthest east I’ve ever been is Carson City, the farthest north Oregon. We had a layover in Texas and the way I could tell the Native Texans was by the size of their hair. Okay, so that’s common knowledge, what I didn’t know was the bigger the hair the BIGGER the ring!

I’m talking fucking HUGE! Now, I never notice jewelry, so for me to actually notice it? Well, it was fucking gaudy. One girl with a particularly large ring had a huge wig on. Is that what happens in Texas if your hair isn’t big enough? Dear god I wanted to explore that town. I stared outside the airport window looking for mullets and steers but apparently they hang out on ranches, or in trailer parks or something.

Northern Florida looks like something out of a movie set in the south. Yes, I know, this just showed how completely unworldly I am, but I don’t care. There were shanties and, um, I don’t know. Houses that are from the south? Yeah, those were there. And some marshes too. That was cool.

But mostly what surprised me were the people. Everyone remembered my name. It was really quite disconcerting, I was like, HOW IN THE FUCK DO THEY DO THAT?!

I don’t know some of my best friend’s names.

Around the second day I started to notice that all of these nice young pretty couples, were married! Not only were they married, they had children. Little itsy bitsy babies that they carried pictures of around in their wallets.

I stared and stared at them trying to find out what it was about them that set off every weird alarm in my book. Then it hit me. They weren’t miserable, they weren’t offering excuses for why they had married so young, they weren’t saying, this is our baby, oh it’s hard and we should have waited but I can’t imagine life without him/her.

There were no excuses and no air of misery surrounding them.

They were happy! HAPPY! And everyone seemed not surprised by this fact. In California this rarely happens. Oh I’m sure it does, somewhere, and I’m sure that some of these people are actually sober, occasionally, but I’ve never met them.

On one of the last days I sent the Irishman off to play golf with his college buddies, he protested saying that being separated from my beauty for so long would surely kill him, but then I mentioned that constant contact might be deadly as well. That seemed to trigger some sort of survival instinct and before I knew it he was out getting sunburned and driving golf carts recklessly.
I went to the beach with all the wives.

I’d like to say that I hated them, that these were not the type of people that I would like to associate with, but then they started drinking bourbon on the rocks and I realized OH MY FUCKING GOD I LOVE THEM!

As soon as the guys left they started telling war stories, called the men a bunch of space cadets, and proceeded to have a, “who has the most retarded story” contest. We all won on many different levels. It’s the first time I’ve ever liked ANY of the girls in the ‘wives club’. The fact that I liked all of them is fucking amazing.

I blame this on their east coast rearing.

Sensing some sort of victory he talked the wives into a group vacation where we’d rent a house and all stay. The entire conversation he held my arm in a casual relaxed way, as if I weren’t in a hostage scenario. Then before I could get him away for a quiet “BUT WE’RE NOT TOGETHER!!” yell fest, he made plans for us to visit another couple in New York.

We’d drive up to Canada. We’d get a suite looking out on Niagra Falls.

And Fancy was my name.

Sorry for the obscure country song reference. To all of those that got it, true huh?

So while I was sitting at the table, sipping on wine (fuck I can’t keep up with bourbon people!), watching the Irishman get spanked by his dance partner in front of her husband and pondering the situation, I decided not to ponder anymore. Let’s face it, thinking is NOT my strong suit.

I can’t even figure out why rigamortis hasn’t set in.

Did you ever have a friend that makes you want to crawl through the phone, choke the shit out of them, knock them to the ground, kick them in the head, kick out their teeth, jump up and down on their body like a trampoline, kick them in the ribs, drag them around the house by the hair until they're bloody, drag them the fuck OUTSIDE, slam their gums into the curb, kick the back of their head in to make sure they can REALLY taste curb, and then, after they are this big gooey mess, this bloody stupid mess you think that your next best option would be to just sit down and cry?

Really really cry.

Yesterday I was congratulating myself.

I was all, OOOH, look how great I am?! See, I started my period and NO PMS, no bloating, no cramps, NOTHING. Zip zero nada. I am super woman! Able to overcome hormones in a single bound!

Then last night the mood swings began. Not that I took terrific notice of them, as far as I was concerned they were normal. In fact, they were more than normal, they were justified.

Then today during my normal afternoon walk I bought a lemon square. Okay, slightly counterproductive, but when was the last time I had a lemon square?! Geez, let up on yourself old girl! So I did.

Then I had some well placed rage on a few key individuals. So long overdue that really I gave it hardly a thought.

Yes, yes, burn in Hell why don't you? Well it's about time someone told you to put a bag over your fugly face!

In my own mind I was saving mankind.

I think it's the bag of cookies that tipped me off to the traitorous hormones surging through my body.

While contemplating the reasons for Bob Newhart and Tony Danza always using their real names (are they just that stupid?), and munching on cookies (man was Tony hot on Who's the Boss? or what?) I realized something. Something important and significant.

PMS sucks.

I just sent Grace an email at 11:43

"So what's the word on the street?"

"That you're a whore."

"That's yesterday's news. You've gotta learn to leggo of the past. Let it go man, just let it go."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"So did Jay have his baby yet?"

"Little Bo Ty? No."

"Wha...?!"

"Bo Ty."

"You did not just say what I think you said."

"Yes. Yes I did. Bo Ty, just like Chevy's bow tie."

"This is the worst story ever."

Things I did today:

Went to work

Ate some cookies

Talked to my mommy

Got invited to a lunch date by one cute boy

Got sent flowers by a different cute boy

Walked to lunch where I got two cat calls and three guys checking me out

Ate a sandwich

Walked back to work where two more guys checked me out

Remembered that I am hot, even when I eat those cookies that I shouldn't and only wear mascara and lipstick, telling the eyeshadow, foundation and liner to kiss my ass.

Now if only those two boys didn't live in the same fucking zip code my ass would feel a lot safer.

Is that I go crazy with the camera phone.

Dude, I'm like, all pretty and stuff.

For those that can't be bothered to remember what I looked like in the first place, you can surf on over to my myspace page. Stalk me, add me, worship me. Whatever.

You know you want to.

I will have my own personal assistant. And I will name her whatever I wish. Since my power will be supreme I will name her Miss Spankybottom. Of course I will force all of my associates to refer to her as such. At all times. Or they can get the fuck out of my office. I will say in a low sinister voice, "Be downtown, be different."

And they will blanche in fear. Then I will kick them in the ass and they will fall headfirst into the door. Of course I will make them pay for whatever damage occurs because of their big fat heads. My doors will be nice... they will stay that way.

I will send Miss Spankybottom on all my important errands that I don't have time for. Like revenge. There are a lot of revenge plans that I don't have time to execute. Once I am big and important this list will get even longer and more people will need to feel the full power of my wrath. I imagine my day will go something like this:

"Miss Spankybottom! Did you go fuck Mr. Henderson's wife for me?"

"Yes Ma'am. I most surely did."

"Good, and did you take pictures and mail them to his work?"

"Actually I streamlined it to web and sent everyone the video."

"Sweet! You're the best!" (at this point I will pat her ass affectionately)

"Good, and that asshole that said he would call and never did?"

"I peed on the dead flowers we sent right before I killed his cat and stuck it under his front tire in the driveway."

Also, I will probably have her walk my dog, stuff like that.