Monthly Archives: October 2011
On the way home from picking up my Rockstar’s Daughter, she informed me that she saw three Mercury Cougars like mine while at recess today. She even saw one “with a dent just like mine. It was red too.” I said, “I guess the red ones are the ones that get the dents.” Her response? “No, I think it’s just the ones that are owned by people who dye their hair every month like you.” It totally makes sense…. in my crazy world.
I would like to take a moment and thank those individuals who have been so generous to leave me shitty tips.
I do not know how to express my gratitude at the effort you have made to dig into the recesses of your purses to come up with the 43 cents you left me, and that was kind of you to leave me the piece of gum that was smushed to one of the pennies, as well. I realize how fortunate I am that I will now enjoy endless hours of minty chewing, accompanied by a teeth filing from the gravel that was so thoughtfully ground into my gum while it was hitching a ride in your handbag for the last 6 months. A trip to the dentist is no longer necessary. Thank you.
I would like to express my appreciation to that man who took the time to dive into the deep abyss of his pocket, and while scratching his testes at the same time, managed to procure for me a crumpled dollar bill that he received when he got change from his lap dance at Sugar Daddies; I am pretty sure that brown smear on George Washington’s face is a skid mark from when Bunny slid her tips out from under the G-string that was flossing her ass crack. The lint from the bottom of your pocket was quite courteous of you to leave on the table with my tip, too.
Thanks must be paid to the elderly, as well. Your complete obliviousness when it comes to tipping makes me glad that some people still believe in fairy tales. Your friendly “Keep the two-pence, kid” is the highlight of my day. I will now be able to afford exactly one french fry.
Let me not forget those patrons who make no effort whatsoever to honor me with a tip. I am so delighted that I was allowed the opportunity to serve you miserable fuckers. It is my greatest aspiration to bring you everything you need (before you ask for it), and to be rewarded with nothing other than your smile. While you are at it, would you be so kind as to accompany me when I go to pay my rent this month? That million-dollar smile may just be able to get me a few months free room and board. Since you seem to think that I am here as your personal slave, I feel it is your responsiblility to assure that my shelter is in order.
To those cocksuckers who order $70 worth of food, let your children run around like loonys, and leave a horrific mess and no tip, I have only one thing to say: You had better run if you see me in a dark alley, because I will shove my 6-inch heel up your ass so far, they will hear your screams of agony on Mars. Thank you, and have a good night.
In celebration of my favorite holiday, I shall tell you a story that is quite frightening in a non-traditionally scary way, and is the reason the ghosts of Halloween past will always haunt me.
In the city where I live, it is tradition to hit all the bars on the Saturday on or before Halloween. Since it is a college town, the multitude of ingenious costumes one may witness is quite entertaining indeed. (Though going downtown can be quite detrimental to my pocketbook- the reason being that I tend to accrue many friends when I’m drunk, to which I offer free drinks to.)
A few years ago, I decided to dress as Jessica Rabbit for Halloween, which in retrospect, contributed to the outcome of my story. Anyhoo, after a few hours of bar-hopping, we settled on one bar and I bounded to the counter in my red sequined dress with the intent of procuring yet another round of drinks for me and my hubby. (at the time) While I was waiting for the gay barkeep to notice my voluptuous assets (in my drunken state, I did not realize he was gay, though his Village People costume should have given me a clue) the man beside me struck up a conversation. He offered to buy my drinks, to which I replied, “Of course you may buy my husband’s and my drinks if you wish” which did not deter him from his objective. Apparently the man had a Jessica Rabbit fantasy. We shall name him Mr. Moneybags, since he whipped out a business card (while telling me he ran Chanhassen) and the let me know that any call (or more) would be welcome. La dee da. At that point, I had gone 8 months without sex, since my hubby found me repulsive (or something) so I tucked the card into my cleavage (just in case).
After a few weeks of texting back and forth with Moneybags, I found out he was a sexual freak who was up for ANYTHING. He informed me that he had, in the past, frequented swinger parties and other such goings-on, which due to my sexaully- deviant nature, I found intriguing. I went to his house intent on ending my dry spell (pun intended) and with the intention of fulfilling some of his fantasies.
When I arrived, I realized that my beer goggles I was wearing the night I met him must have had a very strong prescription. While not completely unfortunate-looking, he ceased put a tingle in my drawers. Being the Coitus Warrior that I am, I toiled on, proceeding to receive the pounding of my life, while NOT acheiving orgasm.
(Sidenote: Mr. Moneybags informed me that he previously had lost copious amounts of weight, which unfortunately caused his stretched-out skin to resemble Jello while he was doing the deed. I believe this contributed slightly to my dissatifaction.)
Anyhoo, after leaving, I vowed never again to put myself in a naked situation with Mr. Moneybags. During the following year, I was bombarded with texts and drunken phone calls from Moneybags, asking for another round of my “expertise”, all of which I refused. The most vivid memory I have of these dark days was a voicemail left on my phone at 3 AM. It went as follows:
“Sparkle! Me and my friends are out drinking, and there are 3 horny guys with huge cocks who are willing to be at your service if you come out with us. And me.”
Now, I admit, I am probably fucked up enough in the head that I would find 3 or 4 guys at a time amusing, in the least. But considering that Moneybags would be included in said amusement, I decided to abstain. After not returning his calls and texts, Moneybags gave up on me. Or so I thought.
This past Saturday, while I was working as a Pizza Slut, I received a text from Moneybags after many moons. I realized it was the anniversary of our first meeting, the Saturday before Halloween. His text was a request to meet for drinks (and more) at the downtown bars of our past encounter. I let him know that I was at work, and that my Rockstar would be expecting me home afterward. He then told me I should tell Rockstar I was out with the girls. Now, I wouldn’t have done it anyway, but as I have noted in recent posts, I have no “girls” to pretend I’m going out with. Anyhoo, I told Moneybags I prolly wouldn’t be coming out. After receiving a few more texts including “PLEEEEEEASE” and “It will be fun”, I sent him the following: “I gotta tell ya, Dude. The sex was less than impressive.” After that I received no more annoying texts.
On my way to church yesterday, I got a response from my last text. Simply, “Agreed”. Oh, no. He did NOT just say that sex with me was un-impressive! I realize that he was probably just trying to save face in the light of my recent slam, but a plethora of texts and phone calls from him prove that I DID amaze and astound. There are so many things that I could have texted back, but I decided to be civil, so I only sent back, “It’s OK. Keep flashing your business card around, Dude. You’ll find somebody eventually. But you may have to pay them.”
I learned my lesson. Though I did not go home with him the night I met him, I DID pick him up in a bar. It is inconceivable to me that people do this more than once. Once was definitely MORE than enough for me. And I shall be haunted by the memory of the incident for every Halloween to come.
P.S. The best thing about our naked encounter was the toy he bought for me.
P.P.S. Thank you, all you Lovelys who viewed my page yesterday, even though I wrote nothing. I luvs you all! XOXO
Ever since I heard Jamie Lee Curtis utter these words in My Girl, I have been a believer.
While I was growing up, I wasn’t allowed to even THINK about makeup- my parents believing it would turn me into a tart or a wanton woman. In 4th grade, my friend was allowed to wear foundation because her skin resembled a 3D topographic map. There was an incident when we snuck into the bathroom at school and proceeded to smear said foundation onto our faces, which looked as though I was attempting to dress in black face, since her skin was so much darker than mine. We were rudely interrupted by my incredibly strict teacher, who looked down disapprovingly and said, “Sparkle, would your parents be happy with you at this moment?” The threat of my teacher informing my parents of my transgression kept me from playing with my friend’s makeup of then on.
When I was 15, excessive begging finally led to my parents allowing me 2 beauty basics: blush and mascara. I somehow managed to procure a tube of “Terra Cotta” lipstick as well. If you don’t know, Terra Cotta is a fancy word for dark orange. When I wore my lipstick to school, the boy I had a crush on stated, “You still have a pretty face, even though you have ten pounds of makeup on.” I was slightly confused, since my friend wore, foundation, powder, eyeshadow, AND lipstick, yet wearing a bright (albeit awful) color of lipstick seemed to make me anathema.
One of the ways in which I have been fortunate is that I never suffered from acne, so I’ve never had to cover anything up on my face. Sadly, I believe I’ve inherited the bags that are under my dad’s eyes; when I am 50, I’ll probably look like I’m ready to go on a $10,000 shopping spree. With my face.
Being a person who is easily distracted by sparkles and bright colors, a trip to ULTA puts me in a state of euphoria. Just seeing the aisles of glittery eyeliner, rows of lipstick, and rainbows of eyeshadow is enough to bring me to orgasm. If you find a girl lying in the middle of ULTA with handfuls of makeup screaming, “OOH! YES! YES! YES!” , you will know you have found me.
My pale vampiric complexion makes it possible for me to wear bright bright pink lipstick and get away with it, and fun purpley eyeshadow brings out the lovely poop color of my eyes. Perhaps when I am old, I will be the ridiculous old woman who wears too much makeup, but it will make me smile every day.
I climbed the only tree I could see.
When my hands wrapped around it’s ridged branches
it enclosed it’s shelter close around me.
How could I feel
anything other than safe
when the breath fo God, His Love,
surrounds me in this Given Place?
The Hounds of Hell are yet
snapping at my heels;
but holy Love, and Peace, and Laughter
extinguish any horror that I feel.
What Joy I feel! What Euphoria and Bliss!
The wooden limbs part,
as Sun bestow’s Heaven’s kiss.
I am not feeling especially inspired this day for some reason so I have decided to share with you the drunken ramblings of my Rockstar. For starters, I must tell you that in our entire relationship, the man has never once told me he loves me, or even that he likes me just a little bit…in those words, at least. This, at times, has been quite irksome to me, seeing as how I am all about the Love and telling people how you feel and blablabla. After broaching this subject with him, my Rockstar simply said, “I don’t think you have to say it. A person should be able to tell how you feel by the way you act.” True, I suppose, but irritating. Anyhoo, I have gotten over the fact that he refuses to profess his undying love for me, partially due to the semi-sweet and sometimes silly things he tells me when he’s drunk. Here we go:
“I want you to only cling to me”- the text he sent me before I was his “official” girlfriend, he felt it necessary to claim me because his ex-co-worker was hanging around trying to boink me. He may not have been drunk for this one, but then again, I had left my husband only a week before… what sober person wants to deal with that?
“I think we should make you a model”– said after a discussion about his ex-wife (who is a model resembling a tranny), apparently whiskey gives a person beer goggles and I am exceptionally attractive and worth $10,000 a minute (to a drunk person)
“You have a rock-and-roll booty” – the only compliment I’ve received from him in regards to my physique. Funny, my mom called it a bubble-butt, and she made it sound like a bad thing.
“She’s not as cute as you”– a blatant lie which was a response to me praising Carrie Underwood’s beauty.
“I think you are needy and unstable, 2 things I really don’t like about you”- OK, this was NOT a sweet nothing, and he wasn’t drunk either, but this was during the Summer of Hell after I had left my husband and was going through some shit. It’s been the only harsh thing he’s ever said to me. And I could have told him that I am BOTH needy and unstable if he had asked.
“I think we make a good pair”- the closest thing he’s ever said that sounds like he doesn’t want me going anywhere.
“Vince likes models. If you had been in the front row, Nikki would have taken you home”- a statement made after my Rockstar read Nikki Sixx’s Heroin Diaries. He was discussing the fact that Nikki always fucked girls that were “different”, and Vince Neil went only for the model types. Not warranted information, but I suppose it’s good to know I’d never have a chance with Vince. This was accompanied by a “You’re kind of odd looking”- which he claims was meant in a good way…
“I think you can control me very well”- a sex observation (you didn’t think I was going to leave those out, did you? 😉 ) A comment admiring my… authoritative abilities in the sack.
“I haven’t kicked you out yet”- a statement issued after I asked how our relationship compares to his past relationships. To which I replied, “Why would anyone kick me out?” His response? “Yeah, I’m pretty lucky.” It’s good he realizes it!
“He’s been all over the world, and he’s never found someone like you”- a comment made after a discussion about Shaun Morgan from the band Seether, after I said he looked sad in his music videos.
Maybe it’s not poetry, but his way with words impresses me, at least a litle bit. XOXO
Happy 6 AM, Lovelys! I’m surprisingly awake for having drunk (drank) a third of a bottle of vodka last night. However, I AM contemplating crawling back into bed after completing this post. Today I will address the fact that I essentially have no friends, the reasons I believe this to be true, and the why this doesn’t really bother me. (although I feel like it SHOULD bother me.)
I suppose I cannot say I have NO friends- there are certainly a few people I could call up that would probably “hang” with me if I asked them to- and my friend Carebear is the person I consider to be my only friend, even though I haven’t seen her in over a year. (She did call when she found out I was fired) I am well aware that where any lack of friends is concerned, I myself am solely to blame. I will tell you why:
I don’t answer my phone.
Perhaps it is the fact that I was not allowed to answer the phone at home while I was growing up, or the fact that a remarkable amount of my phone calls are bill collectors, but I have obtained a slight malevolence toward my cellular device. It matters not that I have changed the ringtone to the opening music of Law and Order SVU; when my phone rings, I feel no desire whatsoever to push the little green button and lift the phone to my ear. I have a secret foreboding if I speak into a phone, my voice will somehow resemble that of the demon-possesed Emily Rose on the other end. And as most normal people prefer NOT to have entire conversations in text, I have forfeited friends simply by not answering their calls. No matter that I will text them endlessly if they wish to chat.
Girls don’t generally like me.
I don’t necessarily know this fact to be true, but it certainly seems that when I try to be friendly to aquaintances (check out Party or Bust) I am avoided like a leper, or in the least, my approach is received with trepidation. That is not to say that I’ve not made friends with co-workers at my various places of business, however, those girls all seem to have their own lives, with no time for a Sparkle. And as my Rockstar would not appreciate the many guys who would like to be my “friend”, (or as he puts it, “You know they just want to fuck you, right?”) I am resolved to settling for my Rockstar as my source of merrymaking. (Which I’m completely content with)
Groups of people are scary. (More than 2 is a group)
My one friend Carebear is the complete opposite of me in this sense. She thrives on getting all her friends together in one place, such as having a girls night, or getting together for drinks with her coupled friends. For me, I would much rather be thrown into a vat of boiling hot dog poo. I find it difficult to have a meaningful conversation with one person when another person who is not me insists on chiming in at various intervals. Perhaps it is because I like to maintain eye-contact with the person I’m speaking to, and when there is more than one, I get dizzy. When I am one-on-one with a person, I can converse infinitely on any variety of subject with that person, but as soon as another person is added to the conversation, my vocal chords immediately shut down and I become a mute. It matters not if I know both people. Yes, I realize there may be underlying issues here.
People are assholes.
My making this statement should clear up any remaining queries you all may have as to why I have no friends. But allow me to annotate: I generally attempt to be kind and sparkley to any person I come in contact with- however, if judgement is cast upon me in any fashion, I immediately shut down said sparkle and cease to be interested in further aquaintance with the judger. This may be a kind of judgement in it’s own way, but friends are supposed to love you for who you are, not for who they want you to be. And since sex and boobs and saying what you think can be offensive to those with more delicate sensibilities, I tend to procure much more judgements than I do friends.
Now I will tell you why I am not bothered by my lack of chums: I would prefer to read a book than talk about the latest hot guy at work; I like to spend time with my Beloveds, and don’t want to feel that I’m neglecting them by going out with friends when I could be home with them, and any girls my age usually have their own children and most seem to have forgotten that they were a person BEFORE they were a mother, and I do not find constant chatter of animal crackers amusing.
Yes, there are occassions when I believe it would be lovely to have a group of gals you could always count on like in Sex and the City, but I suppose until I can find some girls who don’t want to talk on the phone, who will love me even though my boobs are bigger, who don’t want to have a girl’s night, and who will let me eat all the french fries without thinking, “She’s going to get fat”, I will have to amuse myself with my 13 other personalities. And when my Rockstar dies, I shall be one of those incredibly talented hermit-types.
P.S. I Do consider all my bloggy people to be my friends, though you would probably all hate me in real life. XOXO