Monthly Archives: May 2014

A Girl Without a Rocker


I may have mentioned that my Rockstar is from South Dakota, land of…… flatness? I’m not really sure exactly what South Dakota is known for, other than that ridiculous wolf movie starring the equally ridiculous Kevin Costner. (To be clear, the movie was only high in it’s ridiculousness factor because of that silly Kevin person.)

Anyhoo, it has been some fifteen-odd years since my Rockstar decided to uproot himself from the land of buffalo and HyVees and move on over a state to the slightly-less-boring Minnesota. According to him, my great state has only gone downhill since then, though he can hardly argue his reasoning why.

‘Tis true our urban road systems are a bit tricky, what with all the one way streets in downtown Minneapolis and all, but who can argue with a Minnesotan, who possesses that certain “Minnesota nice” quality? To be fair, I think there are quite a lot of dumbshits that live here, but as I have not lived anywhere else, I cannot comment on the asshat ratios between here and there.

My Rockstar and I were watching The Big C last night, which is set in Minnesota. (though for some silly reason is filmed in Connecticut). He commented again on the supposed silliness of Minnesotans, and how the show was correctly written, since (according to him) all of us are off our rockers.

At first, I was intending on taking offense, but upon further reflection, decided I was not one to argue against him, as I myself will admit that I am not completely of the sane nature. I did, however, question him to see if he was including me in his statement.

“Do  you think I am off my rocker?” I asked coquettishly, batting my eyelashes.

Since we were lying in bed in the dark, my lashes were of little concern to him. There was a manly Rockstar giggle before he responded.

“I don’t think you ever found your rocker.”

The man has never spoken truer words.

 

 

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Almost 20 Questions


liebster-awardIt is lovely to be loved. This time, I am appreciated by one JoJo Knows Everything,  who has nominated me for the Liebster Award. As a receiver of several such awards, I have adopted the tradition of not following all of the rules of such awards, but of course answering the questions asked of me, as well as sharing the requested number of facts about moi, because, really, who doesn’t want to know more about me?

The Facts:

(Here I will admit that I am running out of facts about me, because, despite what my histrionic personality will tell you, I really am not all that interesting.)

1. I wear contacts.

When I was younger, I wore glasses, but begged for contacts incessantly, because my blue-plastic-framed spectacles refused to stay put on my nose, and so my ten year old self walked around with glasses on the end of my button nose like an 80-year-old-granny.

2. I have all my wisdom teeth.

Because I am very wise. And have a big mouth.

3. I bite my nails.

A habit I have never been able to break since childhood. I believe one of my life goals at the age of eleven was to have long nails.

4. I fart.

But if you ask me, I will deny, deny, deny.

5. I think about food every second of every day.

Which is why a goodly amount of time and money are spent in a McDonald’s drive thru.

6. I refuse to live in a beige house.

People who live in beige houses are boring and perfect. While I possess a set of nearly-perfect breasts, I cannot boast that the rest of my body and mind is of such  caliber. And so I must live in a rainbow house.

7. I wish to have a “Grandma Garden”.

That is, a garden perfectly groomed like one planted by a person who is retired with very little else to do. Sadly, I am much too lazy, and have things to do.

8. My Rockstar has a perfect man ass.

I realize this fact is not exactly about me, but here you go- I spend an exorbitant amount of time thinking about sinking my teeth into his perfect man ass.

9. I cannot help but stare at the eyebrows of people who have filled them in with eyebrow pencil.

I just can’t help it.

10. I’m having hip problems at 32.

Probably due to the extensive high-heel collection I have, and the sometimes excessive on-top sex I have with my Rockstar.

11. My dog farts.

And if you asked her, if she hadn’t a long tongue, she would probably admit it.

Now on to the questions asked of me!

  1. Why do you write?

I write to keep from crying. And I write because I cannot teach. And I write because I’m supposedly good at it.

       2.   Pick one thing, event, or person that has made you a writer.

Earnest Hemingway. Not really, because I haven’t actually read any of his books, but if you can go through life in an alcohol-induced haze and still be recognized for your writing so many years later, that’s something.

       3.   How many people do you know named Josh?

One, two… nope. Just one.

      4.   Who is your writing inspiration?

My blog readers. Because without them, I would just be a diarist.

      5.   How many days a week/month do you work on your blog?

Not as often as I used to, but probably more than I should.

      6.    Where do you feel most at home?

In bed, lying on my back, with my Rockstar’s arm flung over my belly and my legs flung over his.

      7.    If you could have a magical power what would it be?

Being awesome. Apparently, I was born magical.

      8.   The one place you have to see before you die.

Oz.

      9.  How do you feel about Highlander?

I’ve never seen it, but I feel it must be amazing.

     10.  Worst flavor?

Anything on Cornuts.

     11. You’re in a cave. To your left is a mammoth grizzly bear with its arms wrapped around the thing you love most in the world. Armed only with your wits and a small bread pudding, what do you do?

Charge the bear while screaming “aiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiiaiaiai!” and bop it in the head with the bread pudding. Duh.

The rest of the rules I shall toss to the wind, but take the time to explore my comments, and you will surely find some smart blogs to read. XOXO

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You Men Just Really Have No Idea


Otherwise entitled- Fuck Ya’ll, You Lucky Sons of Bitches.

Yeah, that’s right. you’re all sons of bitches, because your mothers at some point bled like bitches in heat if only for the reason of giving you fortunate assholes life.

I bet you males never even think twice about what we women have to go through every month, (or every other month, in some cases.)

Not only do women have to sit down to pee, (a fact that still vexes me to no end), but while you guys are just standing up shaking your dicks in front of urinals and nonchalantly going about your cramp-free business, women everywhere are suffering because God decided to get us back for one stupid cunt not listening to him eons ago.

Sure, God got credited with a miracle when He turned the Nile into a river of blood, but a woman produced a river of blood from her own body every month, all she gets is dudes bitching about her being on the rag. What the hell?!

I once had a heartless asshat of a coworker who once stated, “What’s the big deal? Girls have periods from the time they’re teenagers. They should just be able to suck it up and deal with it by the time their in their twenties.” I am certain the homicidal look in my eye after he made said statement was enough to scare him straight. But to be sure, next time one of you fuckers eats 20 lbs. of hot wings and downs a case of beer, I’ll be there when your gut is being wretched and your head is pounding and you have fire shooting out of your ass, lovingly smashing your skull in with a baseball bat yelling, “Come on! What’s the big deal?! You’ve been doing this since college! You should be able to handle it!”

Did you ever think for one bloody second, (pun intended) Men, that when an entire aisle of Walmart is dedicated to a woman’s moon flow, that maybe it’s not such a minor thing? Midol, tampons, maxi pads, hot water bottles, chocolate; the only things dedicated to you guys are hemmorhoid cream and little blue pills, neither of which are even in the same goddamn aisle.

When a girl has to curl up into a ball after taking three Midol and a 5th of brandy, and her insides still feel like someone’s practicing their Boyscout’s knots; when her tits ache for weeks before hand; when she gets sooooo pissed off at you because you’re being a stupid idiot, and she tells you so, just be glad she isn’t stomping on your dick with her stilettos, or her motorcycle boots, or what have you, because I guarantee you there isn’t a one of us who hasn’t wanted to do just that when we’re having our periods.

Have a little compassion for your fellow women.

 

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Being A Book Person


There are so many words to describe us: bookworm, scholar, intellectual, and my favorite, bibliophile. (I promise it is not my favorite because it so closely resembles the word “pedophile”.)

It is a person who finds warmth and solidarity between the covers of a book; someone who writes, on paper, or in their mind, or on a blog for the whole world to see. Someone who, after a harsh and annoying day at work just dreams of coming home, sitting down, and losing himself or herself for just a few moments in a world where they don’t have to buy a plane ticket to experience a vacation from their everyday life.

What does it mean, to be one of these “Book People”?

It means going into a library, and wandering the aisles of every section, noticing titles that you hope to read eventually, and realizing that there isn’t enough time in twelve lifetimes to read all the books you want.

It means entering a bookstore, and touching every book you’ve read, whispering the title to yourself as if saying a prayer, and generally looking like a schizophrenic lunatic.

It means running up town to buy a dish sponge, and then deciding to check out the newly-opened antique store, and, when the owner begins asking how your day goes, and how you like your antiques, you somehow get on the subject of books, and how just the smell of them amazes you, and before long you understand you’re talking to another Book Person, not a stranger at all. Three hours later, you realize the dishes have been sitting at home in no-longer hot dish water, and that the sponge you went up to town to get has brought two Book People together.

Non-Book People just don’t get it.

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9 Things All Kids Should Be Taught


Perhaps this is pompous of me, writing such a list when I clearly do not own any children. But after having waited on a plethora of teens in the last few weeks at  my job, I feel it necessary to produce a guide for parents, because they are evidently clueless. Why 9, you ask? Well, I was going to do ten, but we all know how I feel about even numbers.

1. Leave a fucking tip.

Yes, I am aware that teens have real lives that are crammed with tests and hormones and peer pressures,  and so cannot be bothered with minute details such as tipping their server, or hell, even acknowledging them. But you fucking know what, you self-absorbed little assholes?! That person who listened to you closely enough to get your order right, and brought it out to you, and refilled your drinks, and cleared your shitty messy dishes away has a life too, and is NOT your mother, and so isn’t expected to wait on you hand and foot for free just because you haven’t had the decency to learn respect, and haven’t yet reached the age of twenty.

To the parents of such asshats- shame on you, and you should be caned daily until you feel remorse for not having taught your kids basic decency.

2. Chew with your goddamn mouth closed.

You are not a dog, so you do not have molars that, when in use, prohibit you from shutting your fucking mouth while you eat. So parents, teach your kids not to sound like canines when they eat, unless you want me to treat them as such.

3. Pick up your clothes, you ungrateful cretins.

If your mother, (or father) has the decency to buy you bodily protection from the elements, and to wash them, the least you could do is put them in the fucking laundry basket. And hang up your towel.

4. “Please” is not really optional.

Why the fuck would anyone do a damn thing for you if you can’t even be bothered to include this simple word before or after your request? Do it your damn self.

5.”Thank you” is not really optional either.

Yes, I bought you beer even though your are underage just so you could get up the courage to try and get that skinny blonde bitch to take your virginity. The least you could do is thank me.

6. Save your money.

If you spend all of your hard-earned McDonald’s check buying booze and paying for fake I.D.s, you’re going to have to ask your parents for money. Parents, you don’t really want that, now do you? And for the record, spending $58 on yoga pants from Victoria’s Secret is not wise. Your ass looks just as good in the $11 ones from Target

7. Stop interrupting.

If the adults in your life are having a conversation that doesn’t include you, it’s because they are talking about something of which you have no idea about. So just shut the fuck up until they’re done. There are plenty of times when they WILL want to talk to you, and instead of being a little shithead and saying, “Mom, I gotta go,” remember there was a time when you actually wanted your parents to talk to you.

8. You don’t know everything.

Yes, I’m well aware that teenagers are superior when it comes to wisdom, until they turn about 28. Just remember that all those things you’re going through, or will go through, or are just finding out about, are all things that someone older than you already experienced. So instead of poo-pooing their advice, listen just a little bit, even if you have to pretend you’re uninterested.

9. No one owes you anything.

So quit acting like they do.

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Nice To (Kind of) Meet You, Mr. Deniro


Dear Robert Deniro,

I will begin this letter by saying I adore you as the lightning pirate who wears corsets and can-can scarves in the movie Stardust. Though you have made a career out starring as tough mob bosses and mentally unfit taxi drivers, I must admit that I did not truly appreciate your talent until I saw you parading around with a heart-shaped mole in this film. You may star in my future films as a sexually-confused air-pirate anytime.

That being said, I would like to point out that while you were equally as brilliant in your role as Jack Byrnes in Meet the Parents  and it’s sequals, I was so disgusted with that Ben guy that I couldn’t fully enjoy your performance. He seems to end up in a lot of movies I immensely enjoy, causing me great distress.

I’ve just gotten finished watching Everybody’s Fine on Netflix, and I without a doubt think that you should have received an Oscar for your performance as a lonely widower on the edge of death. While I watched, I thought to myself that I would surely not mind being your daughter, because you did love your children so. I am glad that you did not die at the end.

Thanks to Netflix, I was also able to watch The Big Wedding, where you played a horny old man with an ex wife and a girlfriend. Might I just say here- yay for you! If you can so easily play a randy seasoned patriarch, perhaps you are not acting at all, hmm?

Side note: While my previous letters to greatly-matured actors such a Anthony Hopkins have hinted at my possible lust for them, I must admit that I bear no such funny feelings in my pants for you, dear Robert. That is not to say I do not find you to be quite smashing in other categories. So sorry.

After having adored you so in the last few films of yours I’ve watched, I have made a point to put all of your movies that were available on my Netflix list. Sadly, Cape Fear and The Deer Hunter were not among these. So if you happen to read this letter, and find it even mildly amusing, would you be so kind to send me signed copies? If not, I guess that’s ok. It was only a suggestion.

I would like to congratulate you on the fact that you haven’t aged a day in the last 20 years. You don’t look a day over…. 65. Well, there has to be a few grand actors in Hollywood who aren’t just there for their looks, right?

If at any time you wish to produce a movie that requires that I play your daughter, or hired hooker, feel free to give me a call. It would be a great honor to work with you. I would even include a booby squishin’ hug upon our initial meeting, but don’t get any ideas. I’m saving myself for Chris Meloni.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

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