My Brain on Any Given Day

I may have mentioned once or twice that I seem to suffer from ADD. (Although I still think this disease is a hoax designed to keep children from eating sugar and to pump them full of prescription drugs) Anyhoo, if you ever wondered what goes through the mind of this ingenious crazypants, here’s a peek…

“I wonder  what  people see in my blog? It’s just me babbling on about silly nothingness. 1,3,5,7,9. I really want to give a blowjob right now… I should stop and get a caramel roll tonight from Mom’s Cinnamon Buns. I wonder if she put butter on her buns before she cinnamoned them? I bet Dad probably liked that. It made it much slippery-er, I bet. Hee Hee!!  Ooh! Michael Jackson’s playing! The way you maka me fe-eel! It really turns me o-on. Ya knock me offa my fe-eet. Hee hoo! I wonder if Michael was circumcised. Now I am sad, because he’s dead. Sad Day. Oh, Jesus. Here comes a Fromalian who won’t doesn’t speak English. I’ma just gonna go in the back here and let Frenchie take their order….Hmmm. I think that when I get home tonight, I will have to slip into bed naked and just kinda stick my hand down my Rockstar’s boxers and see what’s happenin’. I shall rub my boobies against him and suck his face off because he really is the bestest kisser! Yay, me! 3,6,9,12. I should really finish my short story that Gillian Colbert requested of me. Escpecially since I said I’d have it done last Sunday. Oops! Oh! But I forgot I started writing a new book! It’s all written in my head, I don’t know why I just don’t sit down and write it. Ugh, but I cannot think of a good female  name for the main character. What’s a good name that doesn’t sound like it’s from a book…Jenny. No. I hate that name. How ’bout Kelly? No, ‘cuz Rockstar said that’s a bitch name. Of course he would say that since that’s his ex-wife’s name. I still can’t believe she is a kinda model. He was married to a kinda model, and now he’s stuck with me. I wonder if he depressed about that. She was all tall and shit. But he said she had no ass. I gots an ass. I gots a rock-n-roll booty, he says. I think that he was drunk when he said that. I should NOT buy any shoes this week, but oh! I think that I cannot resist! But I MUST resist ‘cuz I gots to save money so we can buy a house and have a purpley bedroom. 2, 4,6,8,10. Curmudgeon. Why did I think of that word? Curmudgeon. what a very fun word, I say! Curmudgeon. I think that I do not know what that means, but I must look it up on the Wikipedia! Wikipedia is so very informative. I learned all about Dimebag Darryl on there. And then that sad song Zakk Wylde wrote for him after that guy shot him in the brains. I think that Zakk Wylde is not as creepy as he wishes people to think he is. He’s really very fun, and hot in a grungy un-showered sort of way. I’d do him, if he was layin’ there naked. Hmm, let’s see if anyone wants to talk to me today. Ooh! Delightful sent me a text! She is so lovely, and I’m so glad that I met her! We shall be great friends. And her boyfriend is so very lucky. She is lucky too, because he is very cute. La la la! I am feeling very musical today! Oh, yuck! Customers. That’s that one lady. She is such a crotch. Haha! Awesome is so funny when she calls people crotches! Squish! I CAN squish my boobies through these carts to get what I need. They are very adaptable.”

Yeah. I know. Not the highly intelligent thoughts you were expecting. I can’t be having thoughts on how to create world peace ALL the time, you know…

Because Tomorrow Is Another Day…

Oops, I mean today is another day. If you want to be technical and all.

My day yesterday didn’t really start out so great.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I lost my pants.

No, I did NOT have my Rockstar around to rip them off of me, if that’s what you thought I meant.

I meant that I couldn’t find my extra pair of work pants, and my main pair was dirty. I didn’t have enough time in the morning to throw a load of laundry in before work, so as I stood there pants-less, I washed the dirty pair by hand that I dug out of the mountain of dirty clothes that has accumulated (because I’m working 11 hour days now)  and proceeded to  dry them with the hair dryer. (Very classy) Then off to work I went.

I am quite certain that my foul mood throughout the day was at least partially due to the fact that my Rockstar has been in South Dakota since Friday. I miss him, and I am becoming increasingly horny at every moment. So when I  was working as a Pizza Slut today, and it was very busy, and the cook we had is evolving from a turtle (I’m quite certain of this) and I found out I got to close with Little Miss Attitude tonight, it is quite understandable that I (to put it mildly) was ready to strap a bomb to my chest and blow the Hut to smithereens.

The very special highlight of my day was when Delightfulness came in to do her orientation, and I got to give her a hug. (Two, in fact.) Her smiling face and fierce glam-rock outfit made me happy. And then she went away. And the day returned to Hell.

Oops, Frenchy forgot to schedule another server. More money for me- or so we thought. We proceeded to (in Awesome’s words) receive the ass-pounding of our lives, complete with short-staffedness. This in itself would not have been such a disaster, (since I don’t mind a nice ass pounding every now and then) but the fact that Little Miss Attitude was “managing” meant that I got to spend the night doing everybody else’s jobs.

(Little Miss Attitude is 18, and attempting to procure her place as a shift-manager. The only reason she is still semi-managing is because I haven’t had time to do all my training yet. She spends her shifts eating Cinnamints, standing around, babbling about God-knows-what to anyone who will listen, and generally bossing people around while maintaining her laziness. When she becomes angry, or upset, her language shifts to Ebonics, and no one can understand her.)

After the harshest part of the ass-pounding, I tried my damndest to get my shit done and get the hell out of there. Sadly, people kept streaming in at various intervals; the dishes were so piled up in back I could not add one more plate to them; and the phone kept ringing.

While I was cleaning the John(s), a couple came in and stood there for several minutes. Little Miss did not acknowledge them in any way, nor did she find it necessary to come and tell me there were customers to wait on. When I came out of the loo, I apologized profusely to said customers and gave them extra superb service. Then I went in back to throw about a billion dishes in the dishawasher.

When this couple came up to pay, the two other people working did not feel like getting the register, and so yelled for me. (Because apparently I’m the only one who can help customers) The couple asked where the manager was, and commented on the fact that I seemed to be the only one actually doing work. (I’m glad someone noticed.) The woman informed me that she would be making a call to Frenchie in the tomorrow to inform him of his misfit employees. Then back to the dishes I went.

I paused for less than thirty seconds at one point, only to have Little Miss berate me and tell me to get going on my shit. Yes. I blew half a gasket. I informed her that I was working my ass off and she told me to quit my attitude. (Insert expletive here)

After I had most of my duties accomplished, Little Miss informed me (for the third time) that many boxes needed to be folded before I departed. I did quite a few, and then thought “You know what? I have to be back here in less than 11 hours. I shall do more boxes in the morning.” Little Miss went on to say that 100 more boxes needed to be folded, and I informed her of my plan to do them in the morning. She said, “I don’t care what you’re going to do in the morning; they need to be done tonight. If you don’t do them, I’m gonna write you up.” Fuckin’ write me up.

In general, I believe that when a manager tells you to do something, you should do it. In fact, I think that you should go above and beyond what is requested of you. That may be the reason I washed 200 dishes when that was not my job to do, and did my best to leave the store as clean as I would leave my house, despite having worked a 13 hour day with no break, (or meal). But I’m sorry. If I say that I will do whatever it is that is requested, (even if I plan on doing it the next day) and I get told I’m going to be written up- FUCK THAT SHIT. I left.

Tomorrow (or today) will be better. Because it couldn’t possibly be any fucking worse.

P.S. I cannot be completely disappointed in the day. I DID make $107 in tips.

P.P.S. I would like to state that this post is not a complaint. It is stating  fact. I appreciate having a job when so many others don’t.

Sparklebump’s ABC’s

A is for Attitude, some say I have it;

To them I shall say, “Suck my armpit.”

B is for Books, full of beautiful stories,

and also for Boners, I always want more-ies.

C is for Chris- hot Chris Meloni;

DDD is the size of my magnificent boobies.

E is for Eric, also known as Rockstar,

I likes him  best when his Boner is hard.

F is for Fuck, the most versatile word,

as in dumb Fuck- a noun; Fuck me- a verb.

G is for Grumpy, that’s me in the morning,

H is for Heels, and also for Horny.

I is intelligent, (in other words: me)

J is for substantial and sparkly Jew-el-r-y.

K is for Kisses, the French kind are best,

L is for Love, what men feel for my chest.

M is a Mustang, I’ll have one someday,

and also for Music my Rockstar will play.

N is for Nothing- there’s Nothing for N,

but O has got Orgasm; Orgasm’s my friend.

P is for…. Pizza Slut, which is a job that I do;

(You were thinking Penis and Pussy, but I sure fooled you!)

Q is for Quirky, I’ve been told I am such;

R is my Rockstar whom I love so much!

S is for Sparkles, and Shoes, and also for Sex,

my three favorite things all begin with an S.

T is Thesaurus, my favorite book,

if you want to be smarter, you should come take a look.

U is for Undies, I wear some of the time,

but I like life best with a naked behind.

V is for Vittles, I DO so love to eat;

French Fries, and candy, but please, Sir, no meat.

I like to drink too; so…. let me just see,

W…W…W…. I’ve got it! Whiskey!!!!

X is a toughy; nothing starts with X!

except X-rated movies that have lotsa sex.

Y is for Yes- what you always should say,

because I hate to hear No; I want things MY way.

That leaves us with Z, the very last one.

A trip to Zimbabwe! Now wouldn’t THAT be fun?

You

Because I miss my Rockstar…

You

A Life Not Lived

So you probably all know by now that I was married once upon a time a couple years ago. Throughout the duration of my marriage, I devised a plan of what I would do if I was not married. (that may give you a clue as to how unhappy I was). Anyhoo, my plan actually became known as my Divorce Plan. (in the off chance that I was to get divorced.) Little did I know a guy known as Rockstar was going to come along and derail my little plan. Here is the extent of the life I would have perhaps had if my Divorce Plan had been executed as expected:

As soon as my divorce papers were final, I planned on selling every item I owned (I hadn’t decided about the books yet) taking the money I accrued and making my way to Las Vegas. I thought, “Hey. I’ve been a waitress before. I bet tips would be great in Vegas.” I planned on getting a job as a cocktail waitress at the Venetian, because they had the most fabulous uniforms. (Poofy skirts and heels) If I was unlucky enough to not land a job at this grand hotel/casino, the Flamingo was my backup. (Because it’s pink.)

In my mind, I always prepare for the worst. And so, I had resigned myself to working at the Bunny Ranch as a hooker (I KNOW I would make good money there…) when I couldn’t land a job at the casinos of my choice. After making millions, (or at least hundreds of thousands) off of my stellar pussy techniques, I was going to move to New York and become a writer, making even more money off of my memoir entitled simply Whore. It would then have been turned into a movie or a mini-series (Showtime, not HBO) in which I would have played myself, (because no one could play me as good as I) and I would have won an Emmy, or an Oscar for my performance. (Because my lifetime of pathological lying has made my acting quite superb)

I would then land a recurring role on Law and Order SVU as Stabler’s new partner.(because Mariska decided to have another baby and stay home) My character would be able to banter wittily with Richard Belzar’s Munch character, and her utter little-girl-lost personality would compel Stabler to divorce his wife and marry my character because of his macho I-must-save-you personality.

After filming SVU every day, I would give Chris Meloni a booby squish goodbye, and then go sit by the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park. I would watch all the interesting people walking by, and make up stories about them in my head, until one day a very handsome man, (or a very beautiful woman) came and sat next to me, and asked what I was doing.

We would immediately feel a spark, and never leave each other’s side. The royalties from my books and acting career would be enough that I would then buy a castle in Ireland, (complete with a library and one of those rolly-ladder thingys on which I would swing about and burst into song) where my beloved (him or her) and I would live happily ever after, procreating (or adopting) 5 boys,  and accruing 3 mastiffs and a Ford Mustang. And a goat.

(Chris Meloni would be devestated when I quit the show.)

I guess all that seems a little bit too dramatic. I guess I’ll stay here and have sex with my Rockstar…

 

Watch Me

Watch me create drama in the wee hours of the morning online that has exploded into delicious craziness this day. (Oops.)

Watch me drip water all over the floor at work, and have the other OCD server grow increasingly bitter.

Watch me zoom zoom zoom around for 9 hours at work without having anything to eat.

Watch me make $70 in tips in less than 4 hours. (Thank you completely flaming gay man for that last $5)

Watch me manage the people working tonight in the midst of chaos, because the almost-manager is ready to shit her pants because it’s so busy.

Watch me NOT wait on one table tonight, even though I was SUPPOSED to be serving, because I am busy managing.

Watch me do dishes, and cook, and cut pizzas, and answer phones, because we are short-handed.

Watch me squeal in delight when I am reminded that the Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale starts tomorrow, and I actually have dollars to spend.

Watch me load the trunk of my car up with books to sell tomorrow. (I think that I shall not be able to lift them out.)

Watch me make a deliciously large Cheesy-bites pizza with garlic sauce and extra cheese to take home.

Watch me eat said large pizza all by myself. (Uh oh. I couldn’t eat it all. That’s highly unusual.)

Watch me be sad and lonely because my Rockstar is in South Dakota ALL week.

Watch me NOT have the Sex, because my Rockstar left me. (BOO HOO.)

Watch me wonder where to put all my shoes  because the closet is full now.

I think that I shall have to buy a new pair of shoes tomorrow.

 

 

Dumbass

After opening my bass amp from my Rockstar a day early, I was distraught to find that despite the fact that he left a chord out for me, there was no sound coming from it. After plugging in various cords and whatnot; watching numerous videos on youtube on how to set up your amp, and flipping the on/off switch repeatedly, I found this little thing called a Volume Knob on my bass.

It helps if you turn it up.

What Thou Hath Received

Here are just a few things I got for Christmas:

A gift of money from a member of the congregation at the church where I play piano, accompanied with a note that said, “Merry Christmas, Sparkle. Please do not spend this on shoes.”

An ornament from a member of the congregation where I play piano. The ornament was a tiny replica of the shoes I wore today to church. (I sense a theme here)

Another gift of money from an anonymous member of the church where I play piano, NOT accompanied by a note with restrictions.

A shocked and disturbed look from my Auntie when I plowed into the Christmas cookie plate.

An offer from my shocked Auntie, “You can take a doggy bag home with you”, when I attacked said cookie plate.

Hugs. Lots of hugs.

The satifaction of finding that I lost 3 pounds today, despite having eaten 500 cookies.

An admonition from Gramma telling me not to post rantisms about my father on Facebook. (I have no idea what she’s talking about.)

A shake of my mother’s head when Gramma admonished me, and a reassurance that Gramma doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

An almost-dance with Grampa when he stood up to hug me and we both tripped.

Scratches on the back of my thighs from the tulle on my Christmas skirt.

Approval from the two beagles at my Auntie’s house when I sprayed my new banana-coconut body spray from Gramma.

Sparkly (picked out just for me) picture ornaments in which I may place pictures of my beloveds.

A bass amp that I still haven’t figured out how to plug in properly. (Some rockstar I will make.)

The reassurance that I “have flair”, given because of my lovely outfit.

Heartburn from the plethora of cookies I partook of.

Goodnight and Merry Christmas. XOXO

 

Fucked Up

It has come to my attention that a certain reader believes me to be a man. (Despite the fact that I posted a picture of myself) Because the male species is considerably inferior to the female (Sorry, boys. It’s not your fault. We don’t have penises to distract us) this information is quite disturbing to me. I realize the content of my blog is NOT what you would find daily on another woman’s blog, however, that is the thrill, is it not?

In all honesty, I believe there are many women out there who think the same way I do, they are just afraid to say whatever is on their mind, for various reasons. I consider myself to be the one to speak for odd and fucked up women everywhere. “Well-behaved women rarely make history”, or so I’ve heard, so if indeed I am to be mentioned in the textbooks of the future, it seems I must continue to misbehave and speak my mind.

It was brought to my attention the fool-hardiness of posting a picture of myself and mentioning where I work. These days, there are many creepies and stalker-type people about. Having already encountered said creepies BEFORE ever having a blog, I must state that no creepies can disturb me as much as those I’ve already met. And so, if posting a picture of myself causes the Brotherhood of Creepies to stir, I say, “Come and get me, Creepies! But beware. My 5″ heels are deadly when worn on my powerfully-muscled legs!” At least I will have something to write about in my blog if they come.

I have been told that the woman who would write the shit I write is seriously fucked up; and that the person who writes this blog is not that woman. It seems you each will have to get out your Fucked Up Meter and measure the extent of my fucked-up-edness, or, if you wish me to save you a few minutes, you can just believe me when I say, “I am abso-fucking-lutely without a doubt completely and utterly fucked up.” There’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so I guess I’ll just go with the flow…

He Sees You When You’re Peeking…

Aright, so I am one of those people who should just be a cat, because I swear to God my curiousity is going to kill me one of these days. That and I hate surprises. Do you get where I’m going with this yet?

YES! OK? I PEEKED IN  THE GIANT SHINY BAG THAT WAS MARKED WITH MY NAME ON IT.

I can explain.

So on Wednesday

No. I must go further back.

When I was 6 or 7, (I’m sorry, I don’t remember the exact year because it was long long ago) I remember that at Christmas time, McDonald’s was selling stuffed Muppet Babies. I begged and begged my mom to buy me a Kermie, because he was just so cute and he handled Miss Piggy’s advances so well. So a few weeks before Christmas, I sequestered myself in my parent’s bedroom and dug through the closet, checking to see if a stuffed Kermit just for me resided therein. I found him and was completely thrilled beyond belief. Sadly, he ended up being a Christmas present for my cousin, and I have been jaded ever since. I suppose that should have been a lesson to me NOT to go poking around for presents.

Now we may come back to the future.

On Wednesday, when I arrived home from work in the wee hour of morning, I was pleasantly surprised to see a ginormous shiny gift bag sitting in front of our completely natural fiber-optic tree. I snuck over in the dark and was surprised to find that said bag was addressed to me. I say surprised, because my Rockstar has never found it necessary to buy me a gift for any reason since we have been… entangled.

Anyhoo, I tried to forget about it. I went to bed and didn’t dream of giant shiny gift bags, but in the morning, after my Rockstar went to work, the magical gift bag was calling out to me, whispering, “Sparklebumps, just one little peek! You know you want to…. It won’t hurt anything to look. Openmeopenmeopenme!”

I said to that bag, “NO! You cannot compel me!”

Just kidding.

I said to myself, “Self, I shall ONLY peek into the top of the bag.” My self didn’t listen.

But in my defense, the tape was not sticking on the wrapping paper.

So as I peered into the depths of the giant bag, I saw nothing.

Except a shiny-ly wrapped present that was coming unwrapped.

Let me ask you something.

Would YOU be able to resist?

Yeah. Exactly.

And so I said to myself, “Self, we will just stick our finger under the flap of paper that didn’t stick and see what we can see.”

My self really doesn’t listen to me very well.

We saw nothing, my self and I. Except a brown box that had little black writing on it.

Of course I had to see what the writing said. And so I just said, “Fuck it.” and opened the bag up wide and took the present out.

The man who has never bought me a gift spent $500+ on a bass guitar amp head so that I may plug in my beauteous purpley bass and rock out.

I don’t know what to say.

Except that the frickin’ tape didn’t hold very well when I put it back in the bag.

He knew I peeked.

Oops.

But he must really love me.