Talk Too Much, Write Too Little
So I'm making up for it, or just using it as an excuse to start rambling.
Thing One: My neck is out. Mainly because I live in a semi-affluent neighborhood and the other night a bunch of teenagers drove by me yelling and hanging out the windows, speeding and smoking cigarettes in a brand new land rover or discovery or some other fucking vehicle that costs twenty times the value of my own car (not kidding, KBB prices my car 1000-2000), and so I then began prancing around, flinging my head from side to side, saying in a posh voice how I couldn't possible go to chem class today, I must, ABSOLUTELY MUST, go get my hair highlighted and then run over to abrocombe.
I may or may not have begun singing, "I'm a model, you know what I mean". And anyway, now my neck is out.
Thing Two: The Irishman has informed me that if Hell exists I am definitely going there. Which I find especially harsh since all I did was vocalize my wish for my grandmother and Shirley Temple to die.
Soon.
Thing Three: Fuck you holidays. Fuck you scale. Fuck you hormones. Fuck you stomach and fuck you genetics.
I rarely, if ever, gain weight during the holidays. Instead I tend to pack on the pounds in the summertime. I know. It defies logic. So for you to understand this rant you'll have to know that piece of info, in addition to the fact that my father's side of the families stomachs are all fucked up. We can't eat certain foods, and we tend to retain food as well. Meaning, if we eat heavy food, it stays with us. For fucking ever. So this holiday, thanks to my hormones, I eat one meal a day and am stuffed for the rest of it.
IT FUCKING SUCKS!!
And you know what else sucks? I ate half of what my family ate and gained four pounds Christmas weekend. My mother was all, NO WAY TERRA, YOU ATE WAY LESS THAN US! And I did. And I was pissed. So the week after I said FUCK NOT EATING, and I ate more. Because that's, you know, a good normal reaction.
End of story, I'm up ten pounds, in two weeks. It's so fucking awesome I'm going to go hang myself.
Thing Four: This new job actually requires me to work. Expect less posts and acts of prostitution. I got out my calculator last night and realized that I bring home (bring home) 1,034 more a month here. That's right. ONE THOUSAND THIRTY FOUR more a month. AND, I get an annual bonus. After I figured this out I crawled into bed with the Irishman to inform him, I used to be poor. I mean, poor. Poor, buy myself a two thousand dollar car and thank Jesus I don't have to ride the bus with the smelly old man who may or may not have pooped his pants, poor. And then we laughed because I am STILL poor. All that extra money has gone straight to my educational loans and credit card debt. I'd like to say that my credit cards were used irresponsibly, that I bought high fashion and appletinis or some crap with them, but mostly I just bought groceries. And gas.
So that sucks.
Thing Five: With all that extra money I'm going to go visit Grace! YAY! Grace is so slutty. I miss her. And her big boobs. But mostly her boobs. I have pictures, but it's just not the same.
You wish you could visit her boobs too. But you can't They're mine bitches. I just let her husband touch them. It's really nice and Christian of me.
Thing Six: I'm trying to work the word bitches into my vocabulary more often and phase out fuck. Partly because the Irishman doesn't seem to like being called a bitch and partly because fuck has become my trademark. Time to shake it up bitches.
