Overheard

I was going to write this post a few days ago, but then Drunk Monday happened.

I live in an apartment building. I live in an apartment building with very thin walls. This results in my ear being up against the wall quite frequently trying to hear what the neighbors are fighting about, because I’m a nosy little bitch.

That is, until the other day, when I began to wonder what our life sounds like to those people on the other side of the wall.

Do they roll their eyes and laugh when they hear my Rockstar’s Daughter saying, “I’m the queen, and you have to do what I say.”

Do they wiggle their hips when they repeatedly hear the musical non-talents of Motley Crue, which my Rockstar insists on listening to?

Do they wonder at the silence that permeates throughout our apartment when I’m here by myself? And then are they relieved or disgusted when they hear the opening “Da dum dumdumdumdum DUM” of Law and Order SVU and realize that I am, in fact,  not dead and am masturbating to Chris Meloni’s lovely face?

This led me to wonder…

Can they hear when my Rockstar and I are engaging in Naked Fun Time? Do they wish they could listen more often or are they thinking in their mind, “Fuckin’ A, give it a rest already.”

Do they ever wonder (as I do) why farting makes the Daughter break out in peels of uncontrollable laughter?

Do they ever wonder if my Rockstar is ever going to actually admit that he loves me, or is he going to continue to stoically remain silent when I tell him,  “Love me, dammit!”

Now about Drunk Monday.

I wonder if the neighbors were as surprised as I was when Evan Williams made my Rockstar completely paranoid and had him calling me a “lying cheating cunt”?

Did they cheer when they heard his face make contact with the stove fan he was standing in front of when I smashed my hand into the back of his head when he called me a cunt?

Could they hear my intake of breath when I wondered if I had damaged his perfect nose afterward?

Did they consider calling the popo and reporting a domestic disturbance when he yelled, “Bring it on, Bitch!”

Did the neighbors want to come give her a hug when they heard Sparklebumps sobbing while insisting she wasn’t cheating?

Did they hear how a drunk Sparklebumps got on her own side of the bed after falling asleep on the opposite side? (Because I certainly don’t know how that happened.)

Could they hear the gears in my head working all day yesterday wondering why the hell my Rockstar thought I was cheating on him, and what I could do to prove otherwise?

Did they hear the text message tones of two sober people trying to figure out their future last night?

Were they as relieved as I to hear the bed creak when Rockstar sat down to hold me this morning before he went to work?

( I think I’ll skip the Evan Williams the next time I visit the liquor store.)

P.S. No Sparklebumps was harmed in the making of this post. She has proven to her Rockstar that he was being a drunken dumbshit. His sore face is proof of the corporal punishment he has justly received for calling his girlfriend the “C” word.

Suffering From Temporary Stupidity

Pay attention, People, because this may be the only time I will publicly admit that I MAY have fucked up. I MAY have done something unsavory. In the words of Inigo Montoya- “Let me sum up.”

You all may have heard of a little movie that came out this weekend entitle  The Hunger Games. I was ecstatic about this fact, because I have read all the books and found them to be quite amazing. So when I found out that the movie version was coming out at the end of March, I told my Rockstar that I was going to see it.

I would like to point out here that when I told him this, I implied that he should go with me.

Anyhoo, as I was driving to church yesterday, the sudden urge came over me that I simply MUST go see The Hunger Games this week. Since I actually have multiple nights home with my Rockstar this week, I text him to make sure that he was still unwilling to expose himself to this young adult epic. I let him know that if he refused to go with me, I was planning on going after church, to the theatre of my past, where it was less likely that I was to be trampled by insane teens. He told me to go alone.

Here is the Thing. I do not mind going to movies alone. In some ways, I prefer it. I can sit where I want, I can eat as much candy as I want without sharing, and I can switch spots when the other movie goers are obnoxiously chomping their popcorns too loudly near me. However, if I am offering to pay, and I am in a relationship, and he has nothing better to do than sit in a dark theatre with me- he better fucking go.

I would also like to point out that this was one of the same flaws my ex husband had. I went to ALL the midnight showings of the Harry Potter films BY MYSELF, and numerous other movies ALONE because my ex “wasn’t interested” in them.

I’m sorry, maybe it is my histrionic personality  clouding my judgement, but I translate that as “I do not want to spend time with you bad enough to go sit through a movie I don’t want to see just to be with you.”

This is the part where I MAY have fucked up.

I sent him a text stating that my ex used to make me go to movies alone, and that I thought I had upgraded from him.

I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day. In fact, when I got home, I didn’t hear from him either. But honestly, I had nothing to say to him at that point.

The plan for this morning was that I was to take my Rockstar’s Daughter to school. I woke up intending to do just that, and found that my Rockstar was NOT at work. I asked what he was doing home and he said he was going to take his daughter to school because he couldn’t just sit at work and wonder if I had woken up to do so.

I have never EVER not woken up on the morning I am to take her to school. And I have never EVER gotten her there late.

I have consulted with unnamed sources, and it seems the reference to my ex in comparison with my Rockstar MAY have caused a riff.

When this was pointed out to me, my honest thoughts were, “Oh jesus fuck. Is he really going to be a fucking crotch dog over that shit? Maybe he should have just gone to the fucking movie with me then. I’m not apologizing.”

And so now I have to sit here for the next ten hours wondering if my night is going to be shit because of my stupid big mouth. Fuck.

 

Shameful

I should be ashamed. I should. But I simply am not. This is where my sociopathic traits come in.

The stalkee has become the stalker.

No, I haven’t sauntered up to any unsuspecting women and commented on the nicety of their skin (as has happened to me here). Neither have I found myself outside an ex’s friend house proclaiming everlasting love and devotion as has happened here.

I will tell you a little story of how this all began.

Once upon a time, Sparklebumps got divorced. It was an amiable seperation, marked intermittantly with phone calls filled with tears and texts of “I miss you todays” coming from both parties. However, Sparkle knew it would be death to return to the life of her past, and so she resisted any urges of the sort.

Shortly after the divorce was final, she conversed with her ex and learned that he was dating again, and had chosen one specific Nurse-type woman as a potential mate. While Sparkle had no right to be jealous or feel bunchy (I’m sorry, that is the word that came to mind) she did, and stated that if an actual proposal was issued to this Nursey Woman, that she didn’t want to hear about it. (This was mainly due to the fact that Sparkle’s ex had never officially proposed, and despite the fact that she said she didn’t care, she did. At least a little)

The Ex said not to worry, as things were so completely different than his and Sparkle’s relationship had been, and the Nursey Woman wasn’t quite as fun, but much more bossy than Sparkle had been. He did say, however, that this Nurse would not allow a living-together situation until a big ol’ ring was in place on her hand.

Being the overly curious person that she was, Sparkle wanted desperately to catch a glimpse of this “bossy” woman who had all her shit together and was the complete opposite of her. Going off of the woman’s first name only, Sparkle devoted a ridiculous amount of time searching for nurses in the area with the same first name on facebook and MySpace, only to find… absoutely nothing.

A few weeks ago, she received a text from the Ex stating that he was moving in with his Nurse. Sparkle congratulated him on his engagement, which he for some reason denied had happened. She really is happy for him, if he really is truly happy. (and not alone.)

Then, last week, the Ex texted her again, asking if Sparkle wanted a box of old music books and other assorted paraphenalia she had left behind. (She is still wondering what he did with her patent leather prairie-style heels, as they were not in said box) He also mentioned he had joined Facebook again. (He had deleted his Facebook account when the leaving of Sparklebumps took place, as it was a tool that partially contributed to the leaving.) Sparkle thought not again of this point until she was bored today.

Sparkle logged in to Facebook and looked up her Ex, wondering if he had any pictures posted of the mysterious bossy nurse. To her amazement, she found that he did indeed. She also found that though they have only been together for a 6th of the time that Sparkle and he were, they have found time to travel all the way to New York, which is something that he blatantly refused to do with Sparkle. This would have made Sparkle feel that jealous bunchy feeling again, except for the fact that as she scrolled through the numerous pictures, she couldn’t help but think, “Na-na-na-na-boo-boo. I’m DAMN cuter than she is!”

All I got to say is- beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and trust me, she don’t be holdin’ no beauty.

Discussing Manhood

After I was checking and deleting my 300+ emails today, (I’ve been remiss in my duties) I decided to check out the spam on my email in hopes that my long lost great aunt had died and her wishes that I inherit her castle had been placed in my junk folder. Sadly, no such email existed. However this one caught my eye, mainly because it was in all capital letters.

ADD THREE INCHES TO YOUR MANHOOD NOW!!!!!!!!!

The excessive use of exclamation point may also have inspired me to write this post.

Firstly, I would like to ONCE AGAIN point out that I am having no manhood in my drawers which needs to have three inches added to it. In fact, I have no manhood to which I could add ANY inches to. Instead, I have a perfectly lovely womanhood (is that a word?) that is capable of getting most any “manhood” it wants. This got me thinking, though.

What would I do if I DID have a manhood?

I think it would be safe to say that if I had a manhood, I would play with it all the time. After all, what fun to have a body part that grows upon contact! I would fondle it lovingly just to watch it get hard, and then take my hand away just to watch it go limp. Of course, there would be times when I DIDN’T take my hand away, but instead stroke it at various speeds until it spurted like a volcano. You guys are so lucky to have such a wondrous contraption connected to your groin!

I would also like to try peeing while standing up, because when I do that, the pee just runs down my leg.

Of course, there would be some shameful things that I would do if I had my very own manhood- mainly sticking it into things just to see what it felt like. I’ve heard that vacuum hoses are fun, but slightly dangerous, and that women’s mouths also feel nice. However, I would surely be slapped with multiple law suits if I just went around sticking my manhood in women’s faces, and so, it is probably a good thing that I haven’t one.

Secondly, this is my own personal opinion, but I bet if you start going around asking other women they would agree. Unless your manhood is disturbingly pitiful, like two inches, three inches added to it may just be too much. Yes, yes, there are those women who love a HUGE cock, but I assure you that most of those type of women have hoo-has that are stretched beyond all recognition. Also, I can say from experience that the men with the big manhoods don’t know what to do with them- they insist on shoving them in your cooch repeatedly in an ungentle manner, thinking that it feels good. To those men I would like to say something. Do you KNOW what our cooches would say if they could talk while you were doing that?! “UGH! You stupid fucker! Slow down! It’s good I don’t have anything breakable in here, because you are like a bull in a china shop!”

Also, men, I must tell you a little secret. Some happy fingers is really all you need.

The problem is, I think, that the men who would consider clicking on this “3 inches” email are probably obsessed with size, so there is a good chance that the men who already own mammoth cocks would buy this product. To that I say- If I saw a ten or twelve inch dick pointing in my direction, I would run to the hills. Cue the Iron Maiden music.

Anal Glands, Shrimp Scampi, and Gene Simmons

That post title oughta get some weird search terms.

Anyhoo, here I am, wide awake (mostly) and sober after another Drunken Monday. After I had imbibed at least 4 peachy-flavored rum drinks yesterday, my Rockstar finally got home. Normally, I would have jumped up in a drunken excitement and given him a giant booby squish in greeting, but I was busy shooting zombies. Sadly, I have discovered Resident Evil 5 is much too hard, even when it’s set on easy, as I couldn’t even make it past the first zombie annihalation mission. (To be clear, my Rockstar couldn’t either, so it wasn’t all me.)

I mixed him a lovely drink and we proceeded to kill zombies for a bit longer, until my Rockstar remembered he had posted pictures on Facebook of his dirt-bike riding experience the other day. We noticed his nephew had a video of his lovely customized Mustang, and we were both distracted by a pair of legs that were sitting in the background. Apparently my Rockstar was buzzed already, because he allowed my drunken self to post a comment stating that the next time a video is posted, it should focus more on the legs and less on the car. THAT got a few comments, let me tell you.

We then paged through Facebook, observing the many unflattering pictures people post of themselves and others. He informed me that if ever I post such hideous pictures of him, I will surely be murdered in my sleep. I agreed that that would be a justified response.

We then realized it was time to make shrimp scampi. He agreed to monitor my cooking, as half of the bottle of rum was gone at that point. This resulted in me dumping a bunch of butter, garlic, and lemon juice unmeasured into a pan with shrimp and letting him stir it occassionally. Having never had srimp scampi before, he assumed it came in an alfredo-like sauce, which made me giggle. So we decided to make Stove Top stuffing and an entire loaf of garlic bread. All the while, we were discussing the losses of our virginities- I had many questions after finding out he went flaccid the first time. Too, he was interested to hear of my reaction when I was denied the first time I tried to have sex. I feel that we have grown closer by sharing these stories.

Somehow, the conversation turned to the surprising fact that despite his being an Ass Man, he continuously ends up with women sporting large breasteses. He has realized that he must change his ways and become instead a Boob Man.

In the evening hours when I am at work, he has been entertaining himself by watching Gene Simmon’s Family Jewels on Netflix. Apparently he has been reaping wisdom from Gene, because when I pointed out the fact that we don’t do It as frequently as I would like, he said, “I’ll try to say it how Gene said it, because it was a nice way to put it- I’m not looking for anything else, and I don’t need anything more than you, but it’s alot easier to have sex with different women every single night than it is to have sex with the SAME woman every single night.” The point being, he wants no one else, but sex with me every single night would get old. (He has stated that 2 or 3 times a week is sufficient. Blah) Since he tried to sugar-coat it, I am not offended. However, I will ask you men- is Gene right?

We then gathered our dinners together on plates and sat down to watch my new favorite show, Two Broke Girls. Considering that my Rockstar is, at times, not a conversationalist, I was surprised when the mention of doggy anal glands on the show sparked an entire rant from him on the subject. After his 10 minute word rampage, he asked, “What do you think?” Honestly, I was floored that he had that much to say about anal glands in the first place, so I was rendered speechless. I simply shrugged and went back to eating my delicious shrimp scampi.

In my drunken state, I also managed to eat the ENTIRE loaf of garlic bread and still be hungry. I commented on the superior flavoring of the shrimp scampi, and my Rockstar agreed, but stated it was best if he oversees my cooking. I agreed.

It was a lovely Drunken Monday, though a few of our conversational subjects are not ones I care to revisit- mainly, anal glands.

 

Drinking With Zombies

I began my morning a little flustered, as I was scheduled to take a Minnesota Food Safety Test, and I couldn’t decide whether a satin mid-thigh skirt was appropriate for the occassion or not. I settled instead on a ruffled lacy skirt and my new ruffly boots. (Yes, I realize that my outfit has naught to do with the results of my test, but it’s always beneficial to feel good about your clothing choices.) I chose rightly, since when I arrived at my destination, the test administer lady commented on my “adorable” outfit. The day is also beautifully springy, so it has only made the hours even more enjoyable.

After aceing my test (it is hoped), I ventured to the mall intent on spending my hard earned moneys, (even though I seem to remember posting something about NOT doing that exact thing last week). Instead of buying beautiful purply shoes to replace my well-worn ones, I purchased a bag of shrimp to make shrimp scampi for my Beloved tonight (because the fried shrimp he made last night was NOT tastefully delicious) and then I strode into Game Stop, thinking that my day would be complete if I learned from The Michael Jackson Experience the correct way to properly grab my crotch and thrust my hips. Instead, my eyes rested upon Resident Evil 5, and since Resident Evil is my all time favorite video game for any gaming console, I instantly bought it.

No longer intent on spending money, as I had a new distraction to waste my time on, I left the mall after walking by my former bookstore and snarling through the window at my former manager. Conveniently placed across the street is a giant liquor warehouse. “What a grand idea, ” I thought. And so I marched on over in my ruffled boots, only to be surprised at the multitude of old ladies crowded around the wine booth for the epic wine sale that was going on.

I rolled my eyes while thinking, “Wine is for pussies,” and proceeded to the whiskey aisle. There, I found myself among my boys- Jim, Jack, and Evan Williams. Evan decided to come home with me, as did Captain Morgan and his peachy Parrot. And no liquor store visit would be complete without purchasing a lighter with a gorgeous picture of Marylin Monroe. (No, I do not smoke, but I DO like to play with fire on occassion.)

So, I am fully armed for Drunk Monday. As I do not work at all, now seems an appropriate time to start drinking. I have informed my Rockstar that by the time he gets home from work, the rum will be drank and the zombies annihalated. XOXO

 

I Am Not A Duck

One of the habits that I’ve noticed I have is to get into intimate sexual conversations with people. Not the kind that sound like, “Stick it here,” and “How big is it?” More along the lines of “You were how old when you lost your virginity?” and “So, does you wife/ girlfriend enjoy administering blow jobs?”

I believe this stems from the fact that when I was growing up, sex was a taboo subject that was not to be discussed, unless it was whispered about behind hands after the Baptists of my church had lost another virgin to the throes of exstasy. I have since unintentionally made it my business to get people’s opinions on the subject.

While I am in no way embarrassed by my choices in conversation, I have never really considered how those choices have swayed people’s opinions of me. That is, not until the other night after the Anal Conversation I had with Buddha.

I refer to my coworker as Buddha simply because his shapely figure resembles that of the religious guru every time I look at him. Buddha is happily (he says) married, and loves his wife immensely, has a preference for large women with big jugs, and is intuitive enough to notice by my change in demeanor when I’m on the rag.

Buddha refers to himself as Asshole and Douche, however, unless he is in a pissy mood, I find working with his completely delightful. He knows   how    to  do his job, he will bs with me, and he has deemed me worthy of a nickname- Twinkie. While our topics of conversation have ranged from Magic the Gathering (this is where he makes his real money) to gossip about work, he has finally found the topic of sex to be as interesting as I find it. (Ok, that’s a stretch)

The other night, Buddha was going about his work and  grabbed the breadstick sauce while  stating, “I’m going to stick this in the back.” Being the easily-amused person that I am, I giggle and said, “Buddha, I’ve already done that. You are going to have to find some other girl’s ass to deflower.” (This is a typical sexually-explicit statement from me.)

Buddha rolled his eyes and said, “Ya know, Twinkie, I think you’re a duck.”

Of all the harsh and bitter terms I’ve been called in my life, a “duck” isn’t one of them. I asked him to explain.

“If it walks like a duck,” he said, “and it talks like a duck, then it must be a duck. You talk like a hoe, and from what you tell me, you act like a hoe, so you must be one.”

Coming from Buddha, this was not a surprising statement, and so I could not take umbridge at his observation. Instead, I laughed and tried to set the record straight.

“So, Buddha. You think because I talk about sex and have experienced many different things in the bedroom, that I am a hoe? To be clear, my ex-husband was the first man I had sex with, and I was with him for twelve years. It was not until the last year of my marriage that I experienced a cock other than his, which I suppose to some people makes me sound like I AM a hoe, since I was still married. There have been a few, but the only person I would have a problem telling exactly how many to would be my parents, since according to them, I should have been a virgin until I died.”

Buddha simply shrugged and said, “Ok, you’re not a duck. But you act like one.”

Perhaps. I thought about it and considered the collective army of creepies that have tried to pursue me and realized that there must be SOME reason they all thought they had a chance to get in my pants. (Ha. That rhymed.) Too, the fact that I type openly about sex on my blog may give some people, (or the entire world) the wrong idea. So be it. All I have to say is- it makes for good reading, doesn’t it?

As for the experience I have, I will be the first to admit that there are many MANY things I haven’t tried. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t if I had the chance. Maybe that’s what makes me a duck…

Click Next To Continue…

Why did I agree to take a 7-10 hour online course for a job that I no longer want to do? I’ll tell you why. Because I suffered a small bout of temporary insanity. When my boss Frenchie asked, “Sparklebumps, you want to take this course and this test, right? It will look very good on your resume.” I should have said, “I will not bow to your trickery, no. And I am not doltish enough to agree to waste 7 hours of my precious time that could be spent reading to listen to an automated voice drone on about the threat of Hepatitis A in the foody workplace.” Instead, I just smiled like an idiot and said, “Ok.”

Luckily, I can access the course from my own personal computer, and can watch all the fucktarded videos at my own pace, so as to have the ability to stop and rant on my blog about my utter foolishness. So here you go…

The beginning of the course started by informing me that food-bourne illnesses can be caused if my employees speak a different language and have different cultural habits than I. I believe they just gave me permission to only hire English-speaking people who read alot and eat French fries. I will use this video in court if ever I am accused of not practicing equal-oppurtunity employment.

After this, the increasingly-obnoxious automated voice told me to click next to continue.

They also informed me that employees with different levels of education may have a tough time following simple hand-washing rules and such. Here I would like to point out that I have at least 2 years less formal education than any of my co-workers, yet I am surprisingly much more intelligent than most of them. (I realize the fact that I’m wasting my time working as a Pizza Slut may not seem all that intelligent, but nevermind about that.) And I believe that anyone not able to follow the hand-washing video properly is instantly disqualified as a repeat employee.

There’s that “Click next to continue” again.

I must mention here the stellar Brawny man animation they have going on throughout this video. I didn’t realize the Brawny guy had other gigs. Hoorah.

The next portion of videos mentioned the problems involved when an employee comes to work sick, sneezing, vomiting, etc. In their words, I shouldn’t go to work if any of the above mentioned are happening. I KNEW there was a way I could get a day off…As I have just gotten done sneezing a moment ago, I am apparently disqualified from work tonight.

It was also mentioned that feces on hands causes viruses that can be spread. I don’t know about you, but my translation of this is- don’t poop on your hands. Or if you feel the absolute need to, follow the proper hand-washing procedures afterward. Singing “Happy Birthday” twice to ensure proper hand-washing time doesn’t seem all that politically-correct. What if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness?

Click next to continue.

Moving on to biological hazards.

Apparently mold is unacceptable in a restaurant environment. This seems odd to me since there are many gourmet cheeses that actually COME with mold attatched. They mentioned that mold will not necessarily cause sickness, and so I must ask- what’s a little mold?

Click next to continue.

They decided next to teach us about a bunch of diseases with unpronouncable Latin names. The problem is, if I wanted to be a doctor, I would have gone to school to be one. There was one that was mentioned that sounded expecially deadly, however. Hemmorrodhia colitis. When I first heard this term, I imagined myself as a superhero threatening my nemesis with hemmorrodhia colitis. I suppose if I would have been paying attention more closely, I would have learned what this actually was, and how to prevent getting it. However, I was busily anticipating that phrase I have grown so fond of hearing.

“Click next to continue.”

I feel by the time I finally wallow through the rest of these videos, I will be greatly relieved when the speaking stops and I actually don’t hear that automated bitch’s voice saying, “Click next to continue.”

 

A Shopper’s Lament

Oh, dearest Victoria’s Secret, Half-Priced Books, and other assorted emporiums,

How I long to place myself amidst your aisles of merchandisive splendor. I desire to slip my size 9 foot into the newest pair of shiny blue stillettos that grace your windows and to feel the thrill that no matter how many McDonald’s french fries I eat, shoes will always fit. I crave the euphoria that comes with realizing that Revlon has just launched an entire new line of beauteous long-lasting eyeshadows perfect for the greasy workings of a Pizza Slut, and the excitement when I see that they are buy one, get one free.

It matters not that I own roughly 4,000 books that I haven’t read, no, no. I will always feel the urge to buy more. I blame it on the scene in Beauty and the Beast when the Beast gives Belle access to his entire castle library. The point is, buying books is the equivilant of receiving an orgasm given by a long-time lover who knows exactly what makes your toes curl. It is a high that takes you at least a half hour and a nap to come down from. Alas, I can no longer use the reasoning, “A Chuck Palahniuk book. I must buy this, as I have eyes that can read.”

My anguish is cause by the fact that I have just finished figuring out exactly how many dollars I owe because of unnecessary purchases at your establishments. $13, 642 doesn’t seem like alot until you say it out loud. In my defense, at least $2,000 of that is actually moneys my ex-husband owed in my name, but I don’t want to talk about that. Also, I suppose I should have paid the Cooking Club of America when they were sending me recipes and an apron with my name embroidered on it. (Although, I am not completely satisfied with the performance of that apron, as it had not the desired response from my Rockstar when I wore it sans clothes.) Too, I owe the St. Cloud Times $25 because I signed up to receive the Sunday paper solely to do the crossword puzzles, therefore enhancing my already superior intelligence. The rest, sadly is a result of my own shopping transgressions- not recent ones, mind you, unless you consider the fact that I’ve been spending the moneys I should have been paying bills with on books. And shoes. And guitars. Oh my.

I have come to the conclusion that if I can resist the temptation of JCPenney’s new Friday and Wednesday sales, and if I take the long way around the mall to get to Target, therefore bypassing any devilish shoe stores, it will only take me ten months to pay off everything I owe to the point that I will be debt free and able to purchase my dream car, a 2012 Boss Mustang. While a completely awesome car may not compare to a closet full of shoes, it may last a bit longer than my lavender and gold Hale Bob wedges that I noticed are getting quite worn out. And it would be quite pleasant to no longer have satanic debt collectors calling me at all hours of the morning and night, posing as that mysterious Unknown person that I don’t know.

And so, my beloved shops, until January of next year, I shall feel your absence like a shotgun wound to the boob every time I get paid. But fear not; when we are again reunited, it will be sweeter than ever, as I will be debt free and armed with a plethora of re-uasable shopping bags.

Forever yours,

Sparklebumps

Random Thoughts on Celebrities

Do you think Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman actually ever did It? After all, she is a foot taller than him…is it even possible?

Disney makes child actors grow into booby/panty- flashing adults. Britney, Lindsey, and Anne Hathaway are just a few examples.

Am I the only one who thinks Demi Moore looked better with a shaved head?

I totally understand why Uma Thurman divorced Ethan Hawke. He seems like a complete pussy, even when he’s playing a bad ass.

Audrey Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart should have made a movie together.

Do you think Angelina ever looks at Brad and thinks, “Gee, he’s just not as hot as Billy Bob.” ?

I believe Charlize Theron would still be stunning if she were completely bald.

Pierce Brosnan is not as pretty as he thinks he is.

I don’t care if every man ever thinks she’s hot- Megan Fox has fucked-up thumbs.

Would American Pie still have been a hit if they has used a meatloaf instead?

Ryan Phillipe fucked up.

Do actors ever get turned on when they are filming sex scenes?

What happened to Harrison Ford?

I would love to hang out with Quentin Tarantino. He is delightfully disturbed.

It’s fun to say Keanu Reeve’s first name three times fast.

I would like to wash my skivvies on Ryan Reynolds abs.

I wonder if Al Pacino suffer from Short Man Syndrome?

I think Taylor Swift is actually a Russian Spy intent on taking the world over.

I wonder if Chris Meloni would be flattered or terrified if he knew about me…