Category Archives: Food

She’s Alive!!!!!


Today is a day to celebrate. I urge you all to stop what you’re doing and dance a jig, or clap yo’ hands, because today is Delightfulness‘ birthday! Ok, I can see where you mayn’t be as thrilled as me, but she is my special friend that I know personally, and I can assure you any dancing or clapping that is done for her is well deserved. If you have never paid a visit to her blog, you MUST! She is simply too funny and sweet for words, and she writes amazing poetry. Lucky for me, she lives nearby, so I get the honor of her presence on occassion.

Today, Delightful, I will gift you with everything you ever needed, and deserve.

A muzzle: To place on the faces of the adorable children you deal with every day that seem to think you are but something to eat. That’ll show them the next time they try to bite you. Simply place this muzzle on the next child that bites you  and scream, “NO BITING, DEVIL CHILD!” Yeah, I know. It’s prolly a good thing I haven’t children.

A Box of Kleenex: For the next time you walk in to your apartment and find your beloved watching Alien VS. Predator. Heeheehee!!!!!!

A Gluten-free cupcake: Technically, that would be me, since you call me Cupcake, and I contain no allergens for you, but this one was prettier, although I don’t know if there is a difference in the way a gluten-free cupcake looks compared to a regular deadly one. You’ll have to tell me about that.

Michael Gray-Gubler: Because you love him and he is almost as pretty as Chris Meloni. Sadly, I was only able to find a picture of him- it seems he and Chris also have that in common.

A beautiful pair of shoes: because every birthday girl needs a new pair of shoes!

A poem: I bet you didn’t even know you knew Maya Angelou, did you? Well, she knows you, because she wrote an entire poem that describes you perfectly. I have included it just here.

Have a lovely birthday, my friend! I loves you to pieces and I’m so glad you put up with me. XOXOXO

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19,107


I checked my site stats today and noticed that my blog has been viewed precisely 19,107 times. The more I thought about this, the more it floored me. It almost seems as though people like reading about my histrionic thoughts and the reactions people have from them. While there are many bloggers that have far exceeded the 19,107 mark, I must admit that this number far exceeded any expectations I may have had concerning the reading of my writings.  Since 19,107 is a perfectly beautiful un-even number, ( if you recall, I detest even numbers) I have decided to compose today’s post in honor of my growing popularity. Since you all clearly don’t know every intimate detail of me, it is time to feed your curiosity, and talk about my favorite subject- ME!!!!

When I was young, I became bored quite easily, which resulted in my favorite saying being, “I’m huuuungrrrrrryyyyy!” Instead of redirecting my focus on something productive, my parents fed me to shut me up, therefore contributing to the fact that I can now eat more than the inhabitants of a third-world country in one sitting. Before my stomach was sufficiently stretched out to do such, I would eat continuously until it all came back up. The most vivid memory of this happening is the time we went camping when I was 9, and I ate 3 hotdogs and an entire bag of marshmallows that had been sizzled to perfection over the campfire. After laying myself to rest for the night in my camper bed that was above my parents, I proceeded to regurgitate my healthful dinner over the side of my mattress, therefore creating a lovely splatter pattern of upchucked hotdogs and marshmallows in the tiny camper.  The resulting odor was wretched enough that thereafter I refused to sleep in said camper.

I was not always so fashionably inclined. In fact, when I was 15, I had two friends who were sisters who were quite vocal about my choices in granny shoes. This was around 1997, when chunky Spice Girl heels were in style. My two concerned friends brought me to the mall intent in ridding me of my antiquated loafers. They inticed me with a pair of black Mary-Janish chunky heels embroidered with flowers. (It was the flowers that caught my eye- I hated the chunkiness) After forcing my feet into the offending shoes, a sort-of spell came over me, and my feet have never been perfectly happy ever since unless they’ve been sporting a lovely pair of heels.  Sadly, my first pair of heels lasted less than a year because I wore them incessantly.

I may have mentioned in the past that I grew up going to a Baptist school and church. This resulted in every church service, chapel, basketball tournament, and music competition ending with a message imploring the unsaved to step forward and receive Jesus Christ. While I clearly recall my acceptance of God at a very young age, the constant mentioning of going to hell and having doubts about your salvation did, in fact, create doubts in my mind. Therefore, I am proud to annouce that I have accepted and re-accepted Jesus as my Saviour exactly 7 times. Yay me. He’ll probably send me straight to Hell anyway. Or at least give me a stern talking to before I enter the Pearly Gates.

There have been only two occassions when a stranger has bought me a drink. The first, I was at a hole-in-the-wall bar with my ex-husband (my boyfriend at the time) and his friend. Suddenly, a beautifully free drink was placed in front of me, compliments of the creepy dude who was ogling my cleavage at the end of the bar. What possessed him to buy me a drink when I obviously had my boyfriend in tow is beyond me, but I must say that you have to admire his balls. (Not literally)

The second time I was gifted with alcohol was at another hole-in-the-wall bar I used to frequent with my friend for karaoke night. It happened to be fishing opener weekend, and we were the only two gals in the joint. I went up to procure us libations, only to end up commenting on a rather plastered individual’s t-shirt. The tipsy man introduced himself as Ebner (which I exclaimed was an excellent name) and proceeded to buy me and my friend a drink. While Ebner was a surprisingly nice sir, the conversation was short-lived, since he was drunk and we wanted to sing. I will always be grateful that a man named Ebner saved me $3.50.

I suppose at some point you will be expecting a sex story. I would be expecting a sex story from me too. I shall try not to disappoint.

Hmmm, I’m thinking.

OK, I got it.

The first attempt I made at having the sex was on a 100 degree night when I didn’t have air-conditioning. While my partner was 7 years older than I, he had no more experience than I did. While no actual sex took place, a near-fisting did occur. That’s all I have to say about that.

Thank you for making my blog 19,107 views popular. I loves you all and hope you don’t get sick of me anytime soon. XOXO

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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.

 

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Rules For Loving Me


 

Since I am the Queen of my World, it would make sense for there to be rules for my Lovely subjects to follow in regards to loving me. More specifically, there should be rules for that special person who just happens to be my significant other. I would post these on the fridge if I actually thought they’d get followed…

#1. My Beloved is required to eat french fries of his own making with me at least once a week. (My Rockstar is actually pretty good about this one. Mainly because he is too lazy to cook something other than fried food most of the time.)

#2. My Beloved is required to wash ALL dishes that find themselves dirtied in the sink. In exchange, he shall be rewarded with a complete body rub with my extremely soft hands that are unsullied from numerous dish washings.

#3. My Beloved is required to engage in sexually explicit acts quad-weekly or more with the Queen. In exchange, he shall be rewarded with earth-shattering orgasms.

#4. While the Queen is not against doing her own laundry, it would be much preferred if her Beloved put away his own skivvies and other assorted bodily coverings.

#5. Hand holding, ass groping, booby squeezing, and other assorted acts of physical affection are required to keep one’s place as the Queen’s Beloved.

#6. It is not necessary to accompany the Queen every Sunday to her piano playing gig at church. However, an occasional appearance is required in order to keep the old peoples from feeling pity for the Queen continuously having to sit alone.

#7. The Queen likes to stay home alot. Yet the Queen’s Beloved is required to understand that a date or outing is necessary on occasion in order to satisfy the Queen’s boredom.

#8. The Queen, like any other royal personage, suffers from histrionic personality disorder. Therefore, her Beloved must realize her need for attention is highly magnified, and must act accordingly.

#9. A Royal Spanking must be administered to the Queen now and then to make sure her masochistic urges are satisfied. This may also be accompanied by a Bite to the Ass, or Forced Deep-Throating. For this she thanks you.

#10. The Queen must be allowed to choose Travelling Music when riding along on car trips. No groaning or negative commenting on her choice of music or questionable singing skills is allowed.

#11. You bought another pair of shoes?” is a comment that is punishable by beheading, or some other equally disgusting punishment, such as No Sex.

#12. Chocolate Caramel Coffee Creamer must be supplied to the Queen daily. If it is used up, her Beloved is required to buy more.

#13. The Queen is required to drive a fuschia-colored Boss Mustang. If she cannot afford one, one must be provided for her.

#14. The Queen’s Library will forever be added to. Sufficient bookshelf space must be accomadated.

#15. When the Queen decides to cook dinner for her Beloved,  the eating of said dinner must be accompanied by ,”MMM, this is good”s, and/or “may I have some more?”s. Also, if she is wearing nothing but and apron and heels, this must be acknowledged.

These seem to be relatively reasonable rules, I say. Who wouldn’t want to be my loyal subject, I ask you? 😉

 

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Adventures In MOA


Hello, My Lovelys! Let  me re-introduce myself. I am Sparklebumps, and I work as a Pizza Whore, which makes me unable to post daily on my blog like I’d like. Instead, you have to wait 4 days in between amazingly entertaining posts. So sorry about that. I missed you.

Today I get to to tell you of my adventures in MOA. For those of you not from Minnesota, (I believe that’s all of you besides Delightful) MOA is what we Minnesotans call…dum dum dum…. THE MALL OF AMERICA. The greatest mall in the ENTIRE world. The convergance of everything retail. (And some things not, like Hooters) A place filled with sparkly and over-priced items….

I must admit, each time I go to MOA, I am slightly more disappointed than the time I went before. I am still not entirely sure why, but I think it may have something to do with the fact that I end up walking by the same stores 6 times and don’t buy a thing. In the 15+ years since MOA has been there, I can honestly say that I’ve only bought something there twice. (Unless you count the purchases in the multiple candy stores.)

Anyhoo, yesterday was the first day of spring break for my Rockstar’s Daughter, and he had taken the day off, so we decided to venture the 70 miles to entertain ourselves at MOA. Despite having bought new 5″ heels that I haven’t had the oppurtunity to wear yet, I wisely refrained, and instead donned my sequined ballet flats.

The intent was to entertain the Daughter for the day in the Nickalodean-themed amusement park that sits smack dab in the center of the mall. Since I am not the child I once was, I can no longer spend a day taking multiple rides on the Spongebob roller-coaster without feeling like I will hurl my lunch all over the children standing innocently around. So I stuck my Rockstar with the job of chaperoning his Daughter on the many vomit-inducing rides and ventured out into the rest of the Mall.

Having been absent from the MOA for nearly two years, I was delighted to find a few newly added stores. Imagine my excitement when I passed and then did a retake of the Betty Page Store. WHAT?! An entire store dedicated to the fashions of the greatest burlesque dancer of all time?! Not only was this wondrous store full of polka-dotted textiles and sailor-inspired dresses- it had T.V.’s actually playing Betty Page videos! I felt a little awkward when the sales girl startled me out of my strip-tease watching trance…

Also, I was exstatic to find that my beloved Betsey Johnson has decided to grace Minnesota with one of her stores. The most awesome of shoe and clothing designers has made it possible to NOT have to fly to Vegas to purchase her wares. Sadly, her adorable bubble dresses do not come in sizes sufficient enough to cover my excessive boobage, so I was forced to only try on her equally-adorable shoes.

In my voyage through the Mall, I also realized where it is that I belong.

From four stores away, the glitter of Swarovski called to me, and I was immediately drawn to their display windows. I stood slack-jawed as I walked into the store and found myself surrounded by everything crystalled and sparkling. How unendingly happy I would be if I was to work in such a place every day. I am quite certain my almost-O face assured the manager that I was unfit for employment, however.

It seems that creepys exist away from my town of residence as well. I was minding my own business, ogling yet another shoe store as I walked by it, when I realized a not-unattractive man was following me. I continued on my way, quickening my pace, intent on losing him. Sadly, my short little leggys were lacking the extra 5″ of stilletto necessary to outrun a persuer, so he easily matched my pace. I stopped, and cringed, waitng for the expected assault. It came.

“Hey, I’m Ray.” Ray’s eyes did a once-over of my body, which always immediately makes me hunch into myself.

“Hi, Ray.”

“I was, uh, just wondering if, you know, maybe, uh, I could get your phone number and get to know you.”

Narrowing my eyes, I straightened myself out and hit him with my best defense.

“I have Man Parts. You can have my phone number if you still want it.”

I, in fact, have no Man Parts, but apparently Ray didn’t want to get to know that.

Also, as I was waiting to meet up with my Rockstar and the Daughter on the third floor by Steve Madden, a boy resembling Justin Beiber kinda sauntered over in my direction, stood several minutes ogling my boobage, and then decided he was too much of a pussy to engage me in conversation. That was a little weird.

Strange, too, was the instant I came around a corner and had a man nearly collide with me, only to have him say, “Whoa! I saw your shirt and had to look twice!” (For your info, there was no cleavage showing yesterday.)

When I met up for a snack with my Rockstar and his Daughter, I was thrilled that after a decade of aching to check out Hooters, my wish was finally to be granted. We entered Hooters and I realized I did not hear the choir of angels I expected as I stepped through the door. Instead, the musical notes in my head fell flat, as my boner would have if I had one in my pants. Let me tell you something. When the Hooters menu states that you will be “served by a beautiful Hooters girl”, what they mean is “you will be served by a girl who is a size 00 wearing a push-up bra who has no ass to fill out her delightfully-orange shorts.” Because every waitress there had a waist smaller than my right thigh. Is this a sick game? Is Hooters just a cover for pedophiles? Because all those girls had bodies of 12 year olds. By the way, Hooters wings are NOT that great, so when your boyfriend tell you that’s why he goes there, don’t believe him. At least I got a thrill when my Rockstar bought me a Hooters T-shirt. Which I fill out quite nicely WITHOUT a push-up bra, I might add.

My Rockstar and his Daughter returned to the rides after the Hooters debacle, and I was hustled by the Israeli woman at the Natural Healing kioske when she found out my hands resemble a farmer’s. After she insisted I rub my hands with her miracle salts, she continuously lowered her price on her products, thinking I would break and buy. I stayed strong, and did NOT spend $59, or $49, or $29 for one jar of salt. I must say, my hands are incredibly soft. So soft, in fact, that my Rockstar insisted on actually holding my hand at various intervals throughout the day. That woman’s salts were indeed miraculous. After many hours of ogling shoes and other shiny things,  I ended up at Barnes and Noble. Of ALL the stores in ALL the Mall, I ended up spending 3 hours in a bookstore. Imagine that.

P.S. The only other store I spent a decent amount of time in was the Disney store, only to be sorely disappointed that they had no Little Mermaid merchandise.

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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

If I Had A Million Dollars


For some reason, the fabulous Barenaked Ladies song of this title popped into my head this morning. Since I fully intend to earn a million dollars someday, (whether it be by my writing, my sexual prowess, or by my general awesomeness) I have given great thought to the question- “What would you do if you had a million dollars.” Let me just tell you what I’d do…

First of all, to keep from looking like a completely selfish bitch, I would buy my Rockstar the Gibson gold top guitar he’s always wanted. (The $5000 one, NOT the cheap version) Sadly, I think this guitar is wretchedly ugly, but it’s what he wants. (Silly man)

Since I would be at Guitar Center anyway, I would then buy my brother the most sparkly set of drum I could find, so he could get ready to join our band Carousel. They really should be purple, since that’s his favorite color, but my bass is purple, so that just would be too much purpleyness.

On the way back from Guitar Center, I’d have to make a stop at the Yamaha piano dealer and buy an Elton John limited edition Red Piano, because I need one.

I would be very hungry from making my musical purchases, so I would have to stop and get some French Fries from McDonald’s.

I would then stop by the house I always dreamed of having while I was growing up in my home town and offer them much dollars to sell it to me.  It is a pea-green version of the house in Anne of Green Gables and though it is not a castle, it would do quite nicely.

Since I would have a house, I would then go to the Humane Society and seek out the biggest cutest mutt puppy (anything mixed with a great dane or a St Bernard)  I could find. If there was more than one, I would probably buy them both; also maybe a kitty or two.

Let us not forget the Ford dealer! I refuse to go to the dealership in St Cloud, (because the salesmen  are fucktards and easily get distracted by my boobies.) So anyhoo, I would order my specially-designed fuschia 2012 Boss Mustang, and since I would be rich, I’d have to buy a beautifully-giant shiny candy-apple red F-350, with NOT tan seats. (Sorry, Rockstar. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to ride in it.)

I suppose I should do something useful with my dollars, so I would buy a little shop somewhere and open a used bookstore where I could wear what I want (heels and fun skirts) and display what I want (all my bloggy friends’ published books) and do what I want. (flirt with customers and read and write my books). It shall be a raging success.

In order to properly attire myself for business, I would have to go on a new wardrobe shopping spree. Just because I’m a millionaire doesn’t mean I would be rid of my thrifty ways, so I would still only buy things on clearance (with the exception of shoes) and I would use re-usable bags to carry my purchases out to my new Mustang.

After shoe shopping, I’m assuming there wouldn’t be much moneys left. So then I would go home.

 

 

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A Sparklebumps Grocery List


If I was living alone and did not have to responsibly buy groceries to feed my Beloveds, this is what my grocery list would look like:

Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch (I prefer original, but it cuts the roof of your mouth)

Cinnamon Toast Crunch (This is a staple on my Responsible Adult Grocery List anyway, because I was never allowed to have it when I was young.)

1% Milk (only purchased to enhance said cereal, because as a child I was forced to drink a glass of milk at every meal, and I hate it now. Unless it has ice in it.)

Oreos- single-stuffed (Double stuffed are totally gross)

A six-pack of gum in assorted minty flavors (Because I look so much cuter with somethin’ in my mouth)

7 Jack’s Supreme frozen pizzas (I like the vegetables, but I pick the sausage off)

Individually packages Chicken Kievs (Because butter-doused poultry is indeed healthy)

Blazin’ Buffalo Doritos, (and other assorted flavors)

Ruffles potato chips

Top the Tator sour with chives (for the Ruffles)

A bag of bite-size Butterfingers (to eat while watching Chris Meloni movies)

A case of Caffeine-free Diet Coke (I am not worried about caffeine keeping me up all night. I believe that due to my extensive diet of heart-attack inducing foods, sugar and caffeine no longer have an effect on me. I just like the taste better.)

Soy sauce

Chow mein noodles (soy sauce and chow mein noodles are my go to food when I am too lazy to cook, which is, like, always)

Cheese (because no grocery list is complete without cheese)

Corn dogs (best if fried, but if I lived alone, I would never own a fryer)

Peaches (See? I like healthy things)

broccoli, cauliflower, and baby carrots

Dill-flavored veggie dip (Because veggies are gross without it.)

Coffee- flavored ice cream (I don’t drink coffee for breakfast, I eat ice-cream instead.)

 

OK, so I think that’s about it. If I lived alone, I would surely suffer from a heart attack or diabetes by the time I was 40.

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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.

 

 

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Filed under Books, Fashion, Food, Humor, Life, Money, Uncategorized, Work

Fast Food Order


This is what I should ACTUALLY be saying when I order my Big Mac Meal with a side of Chicken Nuggets…

Hi, I would like to order the grime that is stuck to the bottom of the meat grinder which mostly consists of cow eyeballs and bull testes. Can I get that on a stale sesame seed bun with lettuce shreds and “secret” sauce that is probably a mixture of chunky spum and boogers from that guy over there with the unwashed hands. That special sauce tastes delicious.

I’d like to get the biggest side order of fries you have with that; since they are specially designed to keep  fresh for months, if I don’t immediately get ass piss after eating, the french fries I will have eaten will remain freshly preserved in my  gut for an indeterminate amount of time.

Also, I would like a large citrusy drink that in no way resembles fruit juice. It will contain enough sugar to waylay any diabetic seizure I may have.

Could I get a 4 piece side of cancerous chicken flesh that has been mushed together and breaded, please? No I do not require barbecue sauce.

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