Monthly Archives: February 2012

A Spammish Response


I have a confession.

I read my spam comments.

No, I do not click on them, but I read them nonetheless.

And since the Spam Ejaculators insist on sending me such a disturbing comment as the following, it is only fair that I share it with my Lovelys.

Here it is:

When replying to this ad, include your full stats, age 35 45ish , weight, height, any kinks you might be into and preferred role e. I’m a 37yr old married expert cocksucker I’m 6’1″ 275 clean ,d d free, and very discreet. Not looking for one time encounter. I can’t stress enough that it is important to me that you be near ish my age, and both 100 into doing this. I’m 6’2″, 195lbs, 8″ thick cut cock, love to please and am DD free. by Matthew Panning, who was bragging about how he had Be sure to stop by and visit and pick up their latest cd The Gospel Side of Daily Reymundo Anguiano Harris County, Georgia. I get so horny just thinking about sucking a nice hard cock. Looking for some love maybe more i wnna have sum fun i wish someone would hit me up tonite im bored so ladies n milfs hit me up asap 18 n up ladies n milfs pic for picemail me 0r text  I am new to the area and I am searching for a woman that is into the same type of relationship I am seeking. I you want my picYou have to send yours. Just an average nympho looking for someone as into sex as i am. Pic required, I can either sneak ya in my room or suck ya off in the car. 31, five eleven, 184lbs, masc horny guy, all top. Chinese milfs. White male here looking for a woman that likes her feet pampered and massaged. HI there bi and gay male oral enthusiasts I am just one horny but nice bi guy wanting a suck buddy Once is fine weekly even better . I am not looking to meet or have sex, just chat and email. I am looking for an adventurous lady who would find it exciting to be photographed in the nude or in lingerie.

I feel compeled to respond.

Dear Spam Ejaculator-

I feel the need to inform you that I am unable to reply to your ad with my full stats because they do NOT, in fact, meet the criteria of 35-45ish. I am greatly disturbed that you have visited my blog and deemed me worthy of your middle-age seeking intents. As far as any kinks I am into, I will gladly share.

I, on occassion, like to be covered in whip cream, caramel, or other assorted sugary flavorings and licked clean. While fat-inducing dessert flavorings enhance the experience, I am happy to report that no additional sweets are necessary in the licking of me, as my own flavoring is quite tasty.

As far as any other kinks, if you are a man willing to bend over and allow me to do you in the butt with my strap-on, then perhaps you are the one for me- as I have been unable to thusfar find a willing candidate for said assplay.

Kudos to your expert cocksucking skills. I am happy to report that we have that in common. However, since you are married, it makes me wonder how it was that you came to excel at sucking cocks…

You sound quite beefy at 275 and 6’1. I would like to point out that you are, to be honest, NOT as discreet as you think you are, since your spam ended up plastered on the internet. As I do not know what dd free means, I cannot commend or berate you for that.

Once again, I am not near-ish your age, so I cannot be 100 into doing anything with you. I am greatly appalled that you think I AM nearish your age, since I was actually quite pleased with the photo I posted of myself, and saw no hint of crows feet or grey hairs.

I am confused, because you now say that you are 6’2 and 195 lbs., and that you sport an 8″ thickcut cock. You seem more my type with these stats, until I get to the point in your ad where you state that you get horny just thinking about sucking a nice hard cock. We also have this in common, but I regret to inform you that I maintain no hard cock, or in fact, ANY cock within my skivvies.

I like to see that you are looking for love- after all, isn’t that what we are all looking for? But you will find no love from me since you insist on spelling sum and wanna like that. Only smart people are allowed into my holes.

I get bored sometimes too, but I am not a milf, so in the future keep that in mind so I do not continuously get spam emails that I must then respond to in my blog. I have much better things to write about, but I cannot resist.

I am willing to send you pics, and want none in return, because unexpected boner pics give me the willies. (Ha, that was a good pun) I do not find it alluring when you offer to suck me off in tha car, so we will have to forego that. (Especially since I lack the equipment required for a good sucking off)

Now you are 5’11 and 184 lbs. Do you suffer from multiple personality disorder? It’s quite acceptable if you do, but since you are “all top” as you put it, I will have to go with one of the other personalities, since I do my best work when I’M on top. Sorry.

I would like to point out once again that I am NOT a milf, OR Chinese, and that I cannot stand to have my feet touched and pampered. I am very ticklish and cannot stop giggling once someone tickles me. The giggling would get in the way of any cocksucking you would be expecting.

HI there, nice bi guy personality, I feel the need to tell you that I am not the suck buddy for you- I prefer daily and not just weekly. I guess I just have a higher sex drive than you.

I would find it very exciting to be photographed in the nude or lingerie; however, after many nudey poses taken by myself, I have come to realize that I am the only one able to depict the fat on my body in a tasteful and sensual way, and so, I shall have to pass on the offer.

Forever Not Yours,

Sparklebumps

 

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A Belated Valentine To Angelina


My Most Beautiful Angelina,

I realize this Valentine letter comes a day late. Forgive me. Let that in no way be a reflection of my deep and amourous feelings for you.

I am supposing that you are quite busy with your brood of multi-colored children at this point, as well as a less-than-tidily groomed Brad Pitt. I hear also that you have had adventures of directing as of late- I am sorry to say that I was unwilling to drive 100 miles to the nearest theatre that was exclusively showing  the fruits of your directorial debut. That too mustn’t be a reflection of the affection I harbor in my heart for you.

I was just wondering, if you could find the time in your busy amazing life, if you would consider being my Valentine? I would find it most exciting to sit next to you on my couch and perhaps hold your veiny man-like hand, even for a moment. If you prefer, I would be willing to cook you some Kraft macaroni-n-cheese while wearing heels and an apron. (Although that seems to have the opposite effect that I intend, so maybe we will forego that)

I have long found you breathtakingly beautiful. I would like to point out that I adored you long before the rest of the world- before the multiple marriages to the revolting Billy Bob and before the make-out incident with you brother made people believe you were nuts, (I believe you were just suffering from temporary insanity; either that or you acquired some REALLY GOOD drugs) I was there. I spent hours watching your movies Hackers and Playing By Heart, though I must admit that I couldn’t make it the entire length of your clearly mis-chosen Cyborg 2. Also, your portrayal of Gia was heartbreaking and stellar- despite the fact that I was slightly disturbed that they had such an unattractive blonde playing your girlfriend.

I admire you greatly for all the work you do in countries that you are not from. Also, what a great influence you have been on Brad. (Regardless of the influence you’ve been on his looks.) I have no doubt that if he was still with Jennifer, they would be floating around Hollywood in their own self-absorbed bubble. Instead, you have gotten Brad to think of someone other than his formerly-beautiful self. For that, you deserve a kiss. I would be more than willing to administer said kiss, if you are unable to find a more worthy Kiss Donor.

Despite the fact that in recent years you have become increasingly gaunt, I still find you attractive. For some reason, the men in Minnesota seem to find you scary and unalluring- which I find strange considering the fact that men in Hollywood OBVIOUSLY find you as appealing as I do. The fact that you portrayed my favorite gaming heroine Lara Croft may have a little something to do with my fixation for you.

I well understand your need for  numerous children, as I have had the same need for many years. Sadly, I have not yet reached Sexual Icon Status as you have, so I lack the funds to provide the proper number of nannies required for such a family. Perhaps you could just share yours? I don’t see why another mom for your children wouldn’t be an idea you would relish. The more the merrier, right?

It is my greatest wish, (aside from giving Chris Meloni a booby squish and maybe more) to have you as my Valentine this year.  If you would be willing to let go of Brad for the day, (or forever) I would gladly take his place. (And look better doing it)

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

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A Valentine’s Day Beheading


For those of you that may not know, Valentine’s Day was started to honor several Christian men named Valentinus who were martyred. That somehow magically turned into a day where people are supposed to lavish cards, flowers, jewelry, and other completely unrelated shit on people they love. Instead of feeling bad about a guy who lost his head (unwillingly) in the 15th century, we now are convinced we should feel bad when our boyfriends’ overlook gifting us with chocolates, and we feel even worse when we don’t even have boyfriends to give us chocolates on February 14th in the first place.

I myself become a little perturbed each year when the red and green M&M’s of Christmas are replaced with the red and white ones of Valentine’s Day. (I realize my annoyance may partially have to do with the fact that in my adult life, I’ve only received a Valentine from my mother… but still.) The over-the-topness of candy hearts and X’s and O’s get to me because- Why the fuck do we need one day of the year specifically set aside to prove our love for someone?

I don’t know about you, but when I love someone, they know it. I don’t have to cut them out a paper heart or give them a rose for them to know they are the apple of my eye. (Or the cause of the shivers in my drawers) I realize many men (and women) are not comfortable expressing their Love Feelings like I am, and so Valentine’s Day is a perfect oppurtunity to do so. But personally, I would much rather have a big hug and a kiss on any other given day of the year than a dozen red roses (which I hate, because I like daisies, dammit) on Valentine’s Day.

Honestly, wouldn’t the world be a better place if we all put less effort into loving our Beloveds on Valentine’s and tried harder to love them EVERY other day? If they are having a bad day and bitching at you, wouldn’t it be nice to have a little bit of Love saved up in your back pocket to fling at them, instead of bitching back? If flowers are absolutely necessary, wouldn’t it be nice to be original and send them to your Gal on a day when she and everyone at her work are NOT expecting it, for example, D-Day?

To those of you who read my blog, whether it’s repeat offenders or the individual who read it once and was greatly appalled- I hope you have a loverly Valentine’s Day with as much love as you get the whole rest of the year. And just know that I love you all and I’ll be your backup Valentine if you need me to be.

That being said, I  must admit that the sparkliness of the Valentine’s aisle at Walgreen always draws me in. But if anyone feels the necessity of bestowing gifts on me this day, a bag of French fries from McDonald’s would truly prove your love for me. XOXO

P.S. This rant in no way swayed me in writing a Valentine’s greeting to a crush of my choice, which I shall post shortly.

 

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A Stealthy and Cowardly Assault


So I am pissed right off.

I have every right to be.

I will explain.

One of the joys of becoming an amazingly gifted Manager of Pizza Sluts is taking a required class that is an hour and a half drive away that takes up your entire weekend. My lack of blog postage in the last few days may prove that this was, in fact, that weekend for me.

While I was not exactly thrilled to go hang out and perform team building rituals with strangers, (such as manager-employee role-playing and LEGO building)  I was somewhat happy to be going to stay with my brother after the class on Saturday night. (Even though Frenchie text me and begged for me to return home because apparently my restaurant cannot live without me). As my brother’s home was considerably closer to the training class I had to return to on Sunday, I decided to go with my original plan to visit him after my class finished up on Saturday night.

My brother and I hung out and talked of various mutual interests such as music and movies until we settled in for the night to watch DVDs of The Big C (an excellent show based in Minneapolis if you’ve never heard of it). I zonked out around 3 AM and was not fully awake when I prepared myself for another fun-filled day of managerial training on Sunday morning.

I hugged my brother goodbye and sauntered out to my chilled car in my fuschia heels, (I needed to wear SOMETHING to brighten my classmates’ day) and was immediately perturbed to find not one, but TWO tickets annoyingly decorating my windshield. A parking violation and an expired registration ticket.

About the expired registration- Yes, I realize that one is my fault, as my tabs expired in November. However, my shoe addiction has rendered me penniless as of late, so lack of tab fundage has occurred. I made sure not to mention the reasoning for my lack of dollars to the semi-hot cop who pulled me over on Friday night to point out my expired tabs….I believe he found me irresistable in my filthy Pizza Slut uniform- or perhaps D’Odour d’Pizza that wafted from me temporarily washed his brain- but anyhoo, I talked myself out of a tabs ticket on Friday night, only to receive one on Saturday night because I was not actually present in my car when the ticket was written. Piss me off.

The parking ticket? NO FUCKING WAY. Here is the thing. My brother lives in a row of apartement buildings that comes complete with a parking lot. However, this past summer the apartment manager made a rule that no cars not belonging to residents of the buildings may park their cars in said parking lot. While I am willing to break such silly rules, I am NOT willing to go down to the Car Pound to retrieve my car when the asshole living in one of the buildings who has nothing better to do calls the tow truck. So I parked on the street, where there were no parking restrictions, behind another car.

Where the fuck else was I supposed to park?! Since I am no longer allowed to park in the parking lot, or apparently on the street, and the aliens in my head are not willing to beam my car up until any certain time, I really wanna know.

Not only was I irate at receiving a completely un-earned parking ticket, but I looked at both tickets and discovered that IT WASN’T EVEN THE SAME FUCKING COP WHO WROTE THEM BOTH.

This is where I get truly wrathful.

My brother lives in North St. Paul. While not comparably crime-filled as say, Detroit, North St. Paul is without a doubt AT LEAST #3 in the most ghetto-like, illegal-activities area of Minnesota. bUT NO. INSTEAD OF ARRESTING UNDER-AGED DEVIANTS OR CHASING DOWN SHOP-LIFTERS AT THE LOCAL WALMART, THESE FUCKING LAZY PIGS HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAT WRITE ME NOT ONE, BUT TWO FUCKING TICKETS WHILE I AM INNOCENTLY VISITING MY BROTHER. INSTEAD OF TRYING TO MAKE THE LOCAL CRIMES SECTION IN THE PIONEER PRESS LESS THAN 3 PAGES LONG, THESE POPO FUCKERS, (NOT ONE, BUT TWO) ASSAULT ME WITH THEIR WEAPONS OF CHOICE (TICKET BOOKS) WHILE I AM HANGING WITH THE SANDMAN. FUCK THAT SHIT.

My racism for Minnesota Fuzz has in the past been reserved for State Patrol. (That’s a story for another time) No longer. Now, when I see ANY police-issued vehicle cross my vision, I will be throwing up my middle finger and secretly wishing I had a grenade, or a 357 Magnum I could point in their direction and say, “Are ya feelin’ lucky today, punk? Well, are ya?”

P.S. And the next time I get pulled over for expired tabs, I’m going to say, “It’s your fucking fault, you dipshit. If you wouldn’t hand out tickets left and right because you’re too lazy to do something useful, I could have bought 100 tabs. But I have to pay my fucking tickets, so fuck off.”

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A Random Mid-Night Thought I Had


Last night, while I was asleep, my hand (which was apparently only MOSTLY asleep) found it’s way into my Rockstar’s drawers and Naked Fun Time unintentionally ensued. Afterward, I had a thought:

Sleep is best after nookie, because then I can drape my excessively muscled leg over my Rockstar’s body and wrap my arm snugly around his midriff without being accused of hogging the bed.

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Purgatory’s Not So Bad When People You Like Are There


The Purgatory I speak of is Work.

While I no longer relish going to work every day as I did when I worked at my bookstore (a lack of thousands of books will do that), I can now say I only dread the days when Little Miss Attitude is at work.

I arrived at work last night not extremely thrilled to provide my managerial skills. (This being because the caveman-aged computer screens at work seem to go out every time I manage) Luckily, my day was brightened when Frenchie informed me of a pleasant email I received from his boss stating my superior handling of said computer situations. Also, I am happy to report that the new server that has been hired seems to like me, and vice versa, though I haven’t a French accent to properly pronounce her South American name.

A little while after clocking in, one of my drivers informed me that our self-proclaimed douche/asshole delivery driver was on the phone for me. Douchey (we shall call him) just called to inform me that instead of being 6 minutes late as he usually is, he was going to be 10. While unneccessary for him to do so, Douchey made said call because he has decided I am likable and actually can perform my job to his standards. I told him, “It’s quite alright that you’ll be late. I’ll just write you up when you get here.” (A little joke we have amongst ourselves to make jabs at Little Miss Attitude.)

After the night started to get underway, I was cutting and boxing our lovely pizza creations, while bossing my boss Frenchie around. He needed said bossing simply because my boobage presence makes him distracted and out of sorts. He thanked me for my direction, stating that a pair of Dominatrix heels would go well with my no-nonsensical attitude. I agreed; however, said heels are not company-appropriated non-slip.

Things went well with no screen blackouts or disastrous mishaps, and after the rush, Douchey, the Narcoleptic waitress, and I began conversing on serious matters such as Apron Incidents and pink dicks. (The pink dick conversation was started by Little Miss several weeks back when she informed all present that she didn’t like them.) Narcolep let me know (after discussions of non-sex happening during the Apron Incident) that I am, in fact, every NORMAL man’s fantasy (what with the nakedness and horniness and all), while Douchey proclaimed that he couldn’t get past the idea of me in an apron sans clothes. (Or in his words, “I didn’t really need to picture that”) What hilarious and non-work-appropriate conversation ensued I will spare the details of, but suffice to say that it was great to actually be at work with people who don’t tell me I’m fat. (Douchey I’m quite certain would be honest if I asked him, because he’s honest like that, so I have no intention of asking.)

At precisely 11 PM (closing time), while Douchey was out on a delivery, I received a phone call asking for a pizza to be delivered. I regrettedly (haha) informed the man that we were closed; then he asked, “Isn’t it 10:59?” I fibbed and said, “I’m sorry, no. It is, in fact, 11:02.” Then the man said, “It’s not nice to lie, Twinkie!” The caller was Douchey coming back from his delivery, just fucking with me. (He for some unknown reason has nicknamed me Twinkie, which is better than his first choice of Cheeseburger. We decided he subconciously picked Twinkie because everyone likes Twinkies… There was some talk of cream-filled in there too, but nevermind about that) All together, the night was not half bad.

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Sparklebutt


Woo! I finally got an award I’m completely thrilled about writing about! H.E. has bestowed upon me the Glitter E. Yaynus Award! ‘Cause my ass fuckin’ glitters, or some awesome shit like that.

I have heard this award is bestowed upon people who write about themselves entirely too much. I admit that I am one of those people, because, honestly- what better thing is there to write about? You know you agree.

So. Here are the rules about this incredible butt award:

Tell people at least five things you do that would make them want to kill you, or at the very least, make them hate you for the rest of their lives.

Honestly, I didn’t really think there was any reason for people to want to kill me, but the more I thought of it, the more reason I came up with…

1. I don’t gossip (much), which pisses the People Who Gossip Off. When individuals come to me and start gossiping about a certain person they can’t stand, intent on listening to me agree with them, I just listen and then shrug. I then receive a glare from the narrowed eyes of the Gossip Person.

2. (I hate me for this one) If I have a cold, or am crying and snotting everywhere, instead of using a tissue like a normal person would, I use the end of my sleeve. Which is why I try desperately to mostly wear short sleeves- then I am forced to go get a damn Kleenex already.

3. I tweeze those little obnoxious hairs that sprout occassionally on my chin when I’m driving. (Yes, I am amazingly beautiful and all that, but you know, everyone has SOME ugly thing about them.) I maintain that I am an excellent driver that never swerves because she is executing grooming habits while driving.

4. I talk about myself alot. I’m not really sure why this would piss people off, because after all, it IS all about me, but there are always a few haters…

5. It’s all about me. The only people who want to kill me because of this are the people who want it to be all about THEM.

The next thing you have to do according to the rules is this: Blindfold yourself and walk out into traffic on the freeway.

I think one of those people who want it to be all about THEM made this rule, so I have no intention of giving them the satisfaction of getting myself smushed by a trucker named Bucky.

The third thing I am supposed to do is pick out five things that I would stick up my ass if I was forced to.

There are just so many things to choose from; how can I just pick five?!

1. Cocaine or other assorted drugs: No, I do not do narcotics, however, I hear your ass is the place you should stick ’em if you are ever travelling to a foreign country, or want  an addict digging around in your butt.

2. Anal beads: Because, you know, that’s where they’re supposed to go.

3. Beer: Because it would be funny to offer to a thirsty man a beverage that has come from my ass. (Would a man ever turn down free beer, I wonder?)

4. Candy: Because I need to maintain my sugar levels. I was going to say French Fries here, but I don’t know exactly how that would work, and the more I tried to figure it out, the more I thought, “That’s just gross.”

5. Chris Meloni’s Boner: In all honesty, no one would FORCE me to do this. I believe I AND he would find great pleasure in having this occur. My ass is ready at any time to have Chris’s Man Part shoved up it. Chris? Are you paying attention?

I am also supposed to pick 5 bloggers who I think would also like to shove things up their ass and blog about it.

This award has been handed out to many of the individuals I thought of first, so I will try to go with the ones that haven’t received it yet.

Delightfulness: I wouldn’t be a true friend if I didn’t share an ass award with you, now would I?

Brainrants: I know you secretly want to talk about shoving things up your ass. Here’s your chance. You’re welcome.

John: Because I think that you would find this award amusing.

Kana: You’re an awesome lady, Lady. Happy assing! XOXO

Breezy K: From what I’ve experienced, Canadians like to shove things up their ass. Is it because you’re kinda French up there?

 

 

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Fat Ass


So I was going about my business last night at work trying to get my shit done and get the hell outta there, when Little Miss Attitude (the 18 year old manager who sucks ass that I fully intend on taking all managerial hours from) started a conversation with me.

Sidenote: Little Miss will talk to ANYONE, even me who is almost completely unresponsive to her voice, simply because I do not wish to have my ears assaulted by imbecility. She also lacks the knowledge of a 4th grader, believing Asia is a country- but we will not get started on that.

Little Miss: So I burned 356 calories before work, plus I did a bunch of crunches, and I might work out when I get home.

(For your informations, she also ate 4 meals during her 7 hours shift)

Me: *refusing to state what I just did above*

Little Miss: Do you work out?

Me: Nope. I hate excercise and there are many other things I’d rather waste my time doing.

Little Miss: Wait. Do you like your body?!

(This question was asked in such a way that there is no doubt in my mind that she was implying that I shouldn’t like my body.)

Me: It has it’s good days and bad days, but my clothes still fit and I still have people begging to touch my body.

Little Miss: Well, clothes will always fit. It just depends how big you want your clothes to be.

(Apparently my size is completely offensive to this little bitch, and she is not going to desist in commenting so.)

For some more of your informations, this chic comes to work in a size 7 pants, when she should actually be wearing a size 11. (Which is what I wear) This is a constant source of conversation amongst the employees when she isn’t around, because the squeezing of her fat into too-small of pants makes her look as though she is a balloon on the verge of popping. I, on the other hand, wear the size of pants that actaully FIT me, and do not look like my body is made of plastic-encased pudding.

As I no longer deemed Little Miss’s comments worthy of response, I went about my business once more, but I continued to ponder what she said. This is my un-edited rethought response to her question- “Do you like your body?”  :

My upper arms may look better in a shirt with cap sleeves than sleeveless, but they are able to carry my 85 lb. almost-stepdaughter into bed when she falls asleep in my lap. They are also able to carry 100+ boxes of books up a flight of stairs without any help. They are also capable of giving amazing hugs.

My ass may not fit perfectly in a pair of low-rise jeans, and it may not look like a Victoria’s Secret model’s in a pair of lacy thongs, but it’s just the right size for my Rockstar to have something to grab onto when he’s feeling frisky, and just looking at it drives my boss insane with desire.

My thighs may be the size of Arnold Schwarzzenegger’s torso, but I can proudly take any buff dude to the gym and kick his ass on the squat-thrust machine. They also have faded stretch marks from when I was a chubby kid, but that just reminds me that I’m not as awful looking as I used to be.

My boobies may not be as perky as Pamela Anderson’s implanted ones, but they are still more than a handful for any guy, and I don’t need a Wonderbra to make cleavage because I have more than enough naturally.

My twat (I love that word!) may be “fat” and too completely capable of getting camel-toe, but the surprised response of “You’re so tight!” seems like the one a girl would want to hear.

My calves may look like they belong to an Olympic weight-lifter, but they look great in heels and a skirt, and these legs of mine can walk me to California, or Antarctica,  if a Zombie Apocalypse ensues and we run out of gas.

My lips may not be Angelina-esque, but they are just the right size to keep bullshit and idiocy from falling out of my mouth.

My hands may be calloused, and I will never be able to be a hand model, but they prove that I can work hard and I don’t expect someone else to take care of me (although that would be very nice). The fingers on my hands are surprisingly short and child-like, but I bet your fingers cannot bring people to tears by playing Beethoven’s Grande Sonata.

My shoulders may look like a line-backer’s. but they are just the right size for an 85 lb. 9 year old to sit on.

My neck may not be long and slender, but it’s strong enough to hold up my skull, which encases the most important part of me- my genius brain. This brain is capable of great imaginings, and is full of trivial facts- one of which is that Asia is, in fact, NOT a country.

Yes, I like my body. So there.

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To Make A Meat Pie


If you are new to my blog, you may wish to go HERE before you read any further.

After the whole Apron Incident  of last week, my Rockstar decided to pull his head out of his ass and act like he wants to spend time with me. I am not yet certain if he DOES, in fact, want to spend time with me, but he has done well at satisfying my need for attention in the last week, so we shall not analyze it.

The day after I drunkenly shoved him out of bed and cried, “Love me, dammit!”, my Rockstar decided to come home on his lunch break. Though things were a bit awkward at first, a little naked dance took care of any uncomfortableness that remained. I’m not saying that solved everything, but my Rockstar speaks Sex alot better than he speaks Love.

He DID make the effort to take the long journey with me to church on Sunday, and seemed as relieved as I to drop his drama-inducing daughter off at her mom’s house before we went home to observe the Superbowl half-time show. (It seems that the “weenie” Eli Manning is enough to sway his interest away from a football game). While we have not talked of “The Apron Incident”, it is safe to say that things, while perhaps not exactly solved, are back to normal.

Except for Mondays, which still remain our Drunken Nights, we now work completely opposite hours. This alone is potentially semi-detrimental to our relationship. I know well the results of never seeing the individual you’re in a relationship with. Luckily, my Rockstar has realized that I still wish to interact with him the remaining 6 days of the week, so he agreed to come home for lunch this day.

I may have mentioned in the past the fact that I detest cooking. However, I love a challenge (after I’ve had coffee) so I took stock of the contents of the refridgerator, intent on making a gloriously edible lunch for my beloved. My eyes fell on a package of ground pork, and I thought, “Hmmm, I should use that up. What could I make?”

After perusing the web for recipe ideas, I decided to cook a meat pie. (How incredibly medieval of me) I had no vegetables to include in my meaty creation,  but I did find some leftover Potatoes O’Brien in the freezer that I believed would fill in my pie crust quite nicely. While I am not an expert cook, I pride myself at being able to make superb pie crust with just the right amount of flakiness. (Thanks to my amazing Auntie and her willingness to coach me on making quiche) My Rockstar, unfailing stoic when providing compliments, has actually commented on my pie crusting expertise in the past.

When he got home, my meat pie was not yet out of the oven, and he asked if I would allow him to quit his job because of the imbecility that goes on there. He was obviously in a depressed mood, so I let him stew while giving him a hug to let him know things will be alright. When my meaty goodness came out of the oven, he ate it quietly, but without turning up his nose in disgust. He even told me it was, “pretty good”, before returning to his Work Hell. (High praise coming from him)

I now realize his reaction to the Apron Incident last week was due to the suckiness of his job, and perhaps I over-reacted. (I’ve never done THAT before) I also know that I was put on this earth to make people happy, (even though I like to say it’s all about me) and so it is my hope that a hug and a meat pie brightened his day, even just a little.

P.S. I would have included a blow job in the happiness-making process, but he seemed to not be in the mood.

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Filed under Food, Humor, Life, Love, Uncategorized, Work

Things I Can Imagine About Myself If I Don’t Look In A Mirror


I have a problem with mirrors. As in, I look great if I don’t look into one. My self -confidence is at such a level that I can sashay around feeling glamorous and stunning; until I look in the mirror ;then  my stunningness melts into a puddle around my 5″ heels. So I’ve decided, instead of telling you what I know about myself, to quote Anne of Green Gables- “If you let me tell you what I imagine about myself  you’d find it a lot more interesting. “

1. It’s easy to imagine I have the 42″ in-seam of Stacey Keibler, until I look in a mirror and realize my Short Length jeans are dragging on the ground.

2. I like to imagine I have the pale alabaster skin of Nicole Kidman, or Queen Elizabeth, until I look in the mirror and see that my pale skin is blotchy and uneven.

3. As I cannot look into my own eyes, it is easy to imagine the color of my eyes is cerulean blue (that was always my favorite color crayon), that is, until I look in a mirror and see that my eyes are, in fact, just a poopy brown color.

4. It’s nice to imagine that my Sweater Meat actually looks good under a sweater, until I look into a mirror and realize that I just look fat in sweaters.

5. To the touch, my thighs and ass compare to steel; that in no way helps me when I attempt to fit them into a pair of stylish low-rise jeans. (I come out looking like I have two asses)

6. I like to pretend that I have the curly flowing locks of a Bavarian princess (I don’t actually know if Bavaria has princesses, but it sounded good) until I look in the mirror and remember I need 4 different kinds of hair product to make the frizz on my head acceptable for public display.

7. It’s easy to imagine that I have a full desirable face and figure (like Scarlett Johanssen), until I look in a mirror and see that those little statues of Buddha and I have disturbingly similiar features.

8. I imagine my neck is one to be spoken of reverently in poetry, perhaps being decribes as long and slender, and then I look in the mirror and realize I should change my name to Sparklebumps NoNeck.

9. My boss Frenchie once described me as “having an hourglass figure”. I was excited until I looked in the mirror and realized he must have been looking THROUGH an hourglass  when he described my figure. (Because honestly, there is only a two inch difference between my waist and hips)

10. I like to imagine I have an attractive beauty mark that girls will one day imitate with piercings, like Cindy Crawford or Marilyn, but then I look in the mirror and see I display a multitude of “beauty marks” that will in no way be duplicated appealingly.

11. It’s easy to imagine I have a Dolly Parton rack, until I remember I don’t have as much money as she does to maintain it.

Oh well, at least my feet look cute in shoes…

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Filed under Beauty, Fashion, Humor, Life, Uncategorized