Tag Archives: Shoes

10 Reason You Want to Quit Your Job and Become a Stripper


1. You don’t have to wear clothes to work. In fact, you are tipped to take them off.

2. You don’t have to get up early in the morning.

3. You have people telling you all day every day how sexy and/or gorgeous you are.

4. You can buy many many many items off of the dollar menu at McDonald’s.

5. You get to wear awesome shoes. And glitter.

6. Strippers almost always smell amazing, and have very soft skin. (I know this because girls are allowed to touch.)

7. If you don’t like a customer, you can tell security that he’s a creeper, and they’ll kick him out. (I wish I had security like that at my work.)

8. You can afford to buy lots of candy. And a Ford Mustang.

9. You get to shove your boobies in people’s faces daily. (You may not understand the thrill, but having them serve a purpose other than getting in the way would be lovely.)

10. You get to call yourself whatever you want. (Princess Mystique has a nice ring to it. Who else is named after royalty AND an X-Man?)

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One in 300


… And then I found myself completely out of my element, surrounded by actual singers, as in- voice teachers, theatre majors, baritones, and a microbiologist.

Welcome to my Les Miserables audition.

I believe this was the utterance of my thoughts to myself:

“Fuck. what was I thinking?! I’m scared to sing in front of my Rockstar unless I’ve the help of my good friend Jack Daniels. “They’re all gonna laugh at you!” What was that line from anyway? Whatever. What’s the worse that could happen?”

You could become the inspiration for one of those horrendous audition montages you always see in movies. You know- the ones where the terrible singers all make fools of themselves, and then one amazing singer shows up and automatically blows everybody away.”

“But why couldn’t I be the one who blows everybody away?” I wondered  sadly to myself.

Because this isn’t a fucking boob competition, dumbass.” Myself is sometimes painfully honest to…myself.

Well, at least this girl next to me has purple feet.”

Yeah, that’s exactly what the casting directors are going to be looking at. Her feet. PShhh. You’re pathetic.”

I p’shawed myself. “Well, they’re gonna look at MINE! ‘Cause I gots beautiful red heels on.” I mentally stuck my tongue out at myself.

Ooh! The piano is free! We should go play it, and leave a talented impression, ‘cuz you know your singing isn’t gonna impress no one.” Myself speaks in Southern uneducated black woman bad English sometimes.

Fine.” I go to the piano because I know she’s right.

Of course it would happen that the first audition I ever go to draws a crowd of hopefuls numbering 300. After sitting in a hallway for 5 hours with singers warming up and “lalala”-ing, I wasn’t a bit nervous. I just knew there was no way in hell I was getting a part, even if there were 301 parts to cast. But dammit, I fuckin’ stayed anyway, and I DID what I said I was going to- luckily the directors had the decency to compliment me on my choice of song-Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’, even if I DID choke and make up a few words. No surprise when I didn’t get a call back today. The only consolation I have is that the people who can actually sing were just a wee bit disappointed when I had to cease my stellar piano playing to go make a fool of myself. That, and the fact that in all 300 people, I was one of the cutest, (the other being an amazing male singer  with a nicely-shaped disturbingly shiny shaved head) and was the only one stupid enough to wear 6 inch heels. The Miserable indeed.

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Santa On Break


The following is an unpaid rant featuring a pissed off Sparkles.

I bet you all you parents out there with small children get a little bit excited when it comes time to take your little munchkins to your local mall for a photo op with Santa. What a heart-warming sight it is to see that fabled over-stuffed individual with the fruit of your loins perched on his lap blabbering on about the Furby or copy of Halo 4 they want for Christmas. I’m here today to tell you not to get your panties in a bunch and rush off to the mall nearest you. You wanna know why? Because you may just travel over the river and through the woods and haul your kiddos in there boots and hats and mittens through the crowded mall hallway to find a little sign informing you: Santa’s on break. Come back in fifteen minutes.

How do I know that something like this is possible, you may ask? Because it happened to me. I made the far journey across a crowded parking lot after ordering truck at my work with the thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d get a chance to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him face to face exactly what I wanted for Christmas. (Since my letters to him seem to get lost in the mail.) I donned my most festive sparkly tights and my non-slip treaded 6 inch heels so as not to fall and bust my ass in the newly fallen wintry snow, only to arrive at Santa’s giant purpley throned area (which makes me question his sexuality just a little bit) and find a sign informing me that Santa was on break. I looked around furiously to see that big red-velvet-adorned ass and a black elf escaping around the corner by Coldwater Creek. I bowed my head to hide the tears threatening to pour down my cheeks and contemplated running after the big lug, but then was momentarily distracted by the glittery display in the Victoria’s Secret window. After sniffing the various new perfumey scents they offer (which includes one specifically designed for me, aptly named “Sparkle”) I exited the store to find Santa was STILL on break. It was then my rational thinking got the better of me.

I have decided that Santa is very like a wealthy plantation owner before the Civil War. He owns vast acreage (the North Pole) and has many slaves. (Elves) He sits on his butt all year long smoking his expensive tobacco in his pipe and getting laid a lot, (Why else would he be so jolly?)  while his elven slaves work day and night to produce a product that he will then benefit from. (Perhaps not in a monetary way, but cookies are better than money anyway). Like any successfully-run slave driven plantation, there are a few times when it is necessary for the owner to actually put effort in. For Santa, this is the month of December, when he must travel to various malls and radio stations and appease the childish masses by letting them sit on his lap and remind him what they asked for.

Let me ask you this- for a man who sits on his ass all year long and has mythically-produced slaves, is it really necessary that he take a fifteen minute break during the one month he actually has to work? I think NOT! Is not sitting on your butt talking to kids already more of a break than any self-respecting working individual gets? And yet we continue to leave cookies and milk out for the man every single year, and give him a near-Godlike status. (“You better be good, Santa’s watching”)

I have decided we must take Christmas back from this wealthy slave-driving barbarian. No more can we respect his memory by placing his likeness in our homes at Christmas time. I propose that in his place, we replace him with someone just as jolly, but slightly less round. (At least in some areas.) I nominate the one, the only- myself. I pledge to gladly accept the whisperings of your children in my ears and all of their lovely letters too, while wearing a festive fur-lined garment perfectly tailored to all my curves. In appreciation of your electing me as your new Santa-like personality, I promise never EVER to go on break during the month of December, as long as I am supplied with my own army of Oompa Loompas with which to ready myself for the Holidays. In lieu of cookies, please set out one pair of stylishly-designed shoes in size 9, to ensure proper and timely present delivery.

P.S. I’m quite certain that Santa will regret not giving me a chance to sit on his lap….

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Opinion


I was having an perfectly acceptable conversation with my Rockstar the other night while sucking down Cherry Rum and V-8 Splash, when it suddenly became quite objectionable. We were discussing one of my Rockstar’s coworkers, and his utter weenie-age, when the subject was replaced with said Weenie’s wife. I have only encountered the Weenie’s wife on two occassions, both company Christmas parties I’ve attended where it seems I am just too much for my Rockstar’s coworkers. (But nevermind about that.)

I began pointing out that on these two occassions, the Weenie’s wife was less than friendly, but that she had been wearing fun knee-high boots when first I met her. My Rockstar seems to remember these boots with surprising clarity, and had this opinion about them-

“Yeah, you can tell she has a bit of a wild side because she was wearin’ those boots.”

Let me translate for you, because this is actually what he meant-

“Yeah, she was wearin’ those boots because she was hoping they’d help her get laid.”

I may seem incorrect in my translation, but trust me. I know my Rockstar better than you.

Anyhoo, at first I was unsure of how to respond. After all, as I am quite certain the Weenie’s wife was wearing her ONLY pair of sexy boots, I have numerous pairs of sexy boots, stillettos, wedges, etc. that I do not wear with the intention of trying to get laid. After a moment, I decided to ask my Rockstar his opinion on THOSE-

“Geez, if that’s what you thought of her boots, what must you think of me when I wear all my shoes?”

Translation- “So do you think I look slutty in my fun shoes too?”

He has learned to not be crass in his speech to me, however, he hasn’t lost the crass attitude. His answer?

“I think you know exactly what you look like when you wear your shoes.”

One more translation- “Yeah, you look like a horny skank when you wear your shoes, too.”

I was somewhat disturbed to find that my Rockstar is not as thrilled with my shoes as I am. However, skankage is NOT the reason I wear them. And so we are going to play a little game, where I will show you a picture, and I will tell you the first word that comes to mind, then you get to tell me the first word that comes to YOUR mind.  Here we go:

1. I would look like a Rockstar in these!

2. Ooh! Pink! And sparkly!

3. Feathers!

4. I love bows…

5. They’re so ruffly and bright!

6. Very debonair.

7. It would be like a garden on my feet!

 

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3 Questions


I was disappointed to find today that on my new email account, the Spam is not so blatantly advertised. In fact, I had to go searching for it. Searching for spam, you say? What a strange and demented habit, you say? (I must point out here that many things I do are strange and demented. That’s what makes me me.) When finally I found the hidden spam, I was delighted to see that the contents therein were enough to supply me with ideas for blog posts for weeks to come. One of the first was an advertisement that looked something like this:

Ask these three questions and women will love you forever!

Since it was spam, I could in no way justify clicking on these curiosity-inflicting words; however, this got me to wondering what mysterious three questions men could ask that would make women fall madly in love with them. These are just a few that I came up with:

Will you marry me?

It seems this is a question most normal women long to hear. I have no doubt this could be one of the three, though if someone were to ask me this exact question at this moment, my response would be, “Shut the fuck up. What is wrong with you?”

Do you want to see my twelve-inch dick?

This also seems a likely choice for one of the three mysterious questions. While I do not understand the allure of such a thing as a ruler-length schlong, I know that there are many women who would love a man forever simply because he possesses one.

Would you like to live in my castle?

I would have to say, “Hell, yeah!” to this one. It is probably pertinant for any man with a castle to follow-up this question with an explaination of what capacity he would wish you to live there. You never know, he may have a full S&M dungeon that you mightn’t be able to handle.

Do you want to meet Chris Meloni?

Again, this question may be especially tailored just for me. It is unlikely that most women would be impressed with the chance to meet Elliot Stabler…

Can I turn you into a vampire?

This would be the best way to ensure that a women would, in fact, love you FOREVER. What with the Twilight craze and everything, I have no doubt that there are masses of women willing to evolve to soul-less undead creatures.

Will you be my first?

This one is a bit tricky, simply because if you are to take a man’s virginity, you must plan on the probability that he won’t be the best. However, if he happens to be beautiful and innocent, I can see where this question could hook a few women.

Can I buy you an endless supply of shoes? Or Books?

One or the other would get women. I know it.

Can I love you forever?

Depending on if he’s an annoying butt-sucker or not, a woman might go for this. I would call bullshit.

Please let me know if there are any questions you know of that I haven’t thought of? I’m deeply curious to figure out what the “three” are.

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Ballad to My Low-Quality Payless Workshoes


Oh my unattractive non-slip faux-leather work footwear,

I am sorely perturbed at your repulsive appearance. I cannot completely blame you, as you were designed for comfort, and not for looks. Oh that you were as comfortable as your ugliness deems you should be! Alas, it seems that the $24 I paid for thee was an utter waste of cash. Now, I am forced to vest my feet in your disgustingly smelly depths every time I venture to work. My peers say it shall be my 6″ alligator heels that are the death of my feet, but nay! I am convinced it shall be ye.

The grippers on the bottom of you not only keep me from slipping and hitting my skullage on the pizza oven at work- they are extremely adept at picking up an stray pepperoni, cheese, and other perishable pizza toppings that have made their way onto the floor. The treads of you are so full of mashed pork and beef toppings that just the thought of it makes my stomach churn. Woe is me, but there is no way to unsully the soles of my work shoes!

Sadly, you were not there to appropriately support my perfectly-arched feet yesterday when I needed you most. Nine hours I was scheduled; while my feet screamed at me for mercy from your death hold after only five hours, I further tortured them by having to stay at work for another seven hours after I was scheduled.  In return, my feet have decided to retaliate by refusing to fit into my gorgeous satin leopard-print booties. No amount of soakng or rubbing will deter them from dispersing their retribution.

I’ve considered replacing you, my Payless shoes, with a higher end brand of work boot, such as Doc Martens. Unfortuneately, I cannot justify spending $100 on a pair of shoes that will, in less than a month, reek of pizza grease and tomato sauce. And so, my homely companions, I pray that you will be kind to my feet just long enough for me to become insanely famous and rich from my blog.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

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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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