Insecure

I have realized why I haven’t finished writing a complete novel yet.

Because I suck balls.

Not in the good, tea-bagging kind of way, either. In the Taylor Swift, untalented, Twilight-esque kind of way.

OK, maybe not quite that badly. I’m pretty sure I could never write something as terrible as Twilight even if I tried. But I’m also pretty sure there’s some people out there who might think so.

I’ve been told by a few people that I possess a talent for writing, and if my blog is any indication, the fact that I have almost as many followers as I do posts seems like a good omen. However, I’ve just been working on chapter four, and every time I type something and then read it, I want to smash my computer screen and abolish any evidence that I would imagine such drivel.

Is this a writer’s dilemma? Do all writer’s sit in front of their work and berate themselves for writing swill? If so, did Stephanie Meyer type up her “masterpiece” and refrain from ever reading it afterwords? It would certainly seem so. ‘Tis true I would probably benefit from a few classes that teach a person how to focus and write and rewrite, but who has money for that kind of thing? I’ve always written by emulating other authors whose books I’ve read. Is that considered plagiarism? I wouldn’t think so, since I’m not actually stealing their ideas. As much as I adore a great many writers with many writing styles, I don’t really want a reader to finish my book and think to himself, “Well, so-and-so writes exactly like that.”

I’ve discovered as I write that the details, which are so extremely important, are the very things that keep me from getting my stories out of my head. I adore Thomas Hardy’s attention to detail, and his 14- page devotion to describing what an English moor looks like, but how did he do that while still keeping the reader interested at the story at hand? And unless you’re writing in first person narrative, how do you stick the “she said” s and “he replied”s in without sounding too cheesy?

I know I can write well, it’s just getting it out that’s the hard part. And as you all probably already know, the only thing I like hard is my Rockstar’s dick.

Thank you for listening to my rant. The end.

Considering Taylor Swift’s Legs (and Other Repugnant Subjects)

I was going to make last night Date Night for my Rockstar and I, after my friend Delightful was unable to hang. I dolled myself up after work so R would have something to show off on his arm, but when he arrived home, instead of OKing the movie I’d suggested we go see, he reminded me that the CMA Country Music Festival was being shown on TV last night. Our night out was immediately changed to a night in, and he made a beer run to ensure that our evening did not lack liquid refreshments.

I was thrilled to see that Little Big Town was hosting the show, mainly because Kimberly Schlapmann’s curly blonde afro is an inspiration for my own wooly coiffure. (And because my Rockstar stated that he would like to see both girls of the band bent over and cleaning the floor- he’s so classy, ain’t he?)

Before each commercial break, they listed every singer that was to perform in the next segment, and I began to wonder why it was that I was so thrilled to be watching the show in the first place. ‘Tis true that I find Carrie Underwood to be quite easy on the eyes, but I am so disgusted with her talent for picking un-appealing songs to record, and even more repulsed that she still claims to be “country”, when she decides to dress up like Pocahontas’ bastard child and sing Guns N Roses’ “Paradise City”, that I barely had time to notice her lovely behind. My Rockstar agreed wholeheartedly with me on the monstrosity of her performance.

The night continued with unmemorable performances by the unmemorable dudes of today’s country music, and then there was Taylor.

By now, you shall all have probably discovered my distaste for one, Taylor Swift. I had thought my loathing of her could not possibly get any worse, but I was ready to upchuck my Peach Schnapps as I watched her trying to be sexy in her new uniform of hotsy-totsy shorts. I say trying, because no, there was nothing sexy about it. It was very like the scene in True Lies, you know the one, where Jamie Lee Curtis is dancing mostly naked for Arnold- hilarious and painful, yes, but not sexy in the least. Taylor’s air-humping was only intensified when the object of her wet dreams, Tim McGraw, arrived on stage to sing with Taylor, while not-so-furtively checking her out out of the corner of his eye. You could almost SEE the thought bubble above his head: “HEY! A younger, hotter blonde than my wife! I hope Faith isn’t watching me openly commit statutory rape on Taylor with my eyeballs!” (Yes, of course I was watching his crotch closely to see if any hint of Tiny Tim was happening.)

After the nauseating performance, my Rockstar admitted that he’d “do Taylor, just for the challenge, and to brag about it”, even though she “has a weird body and would be better off showing off her legs in something that is not tight shorts”. I admonished him that if he DID do Taylor, I doubt there would be much of a challenge involved and that there wouldn’t, in fact, be much to brag about in the least. After all, there are many tall, long-legged blondes that can’t sing in the world, and plenty that are hotter.

I was, however, greatly relieved to find that the women of country music today are not afraid to pack on a few pounds, and to stuff that shit into sausage casing so it doesn’t stick out. I believe that Kelly Clarkson should go back to pop music, because she hasn’t done anything of note in Nashville, other than eat, apparently, and Miranda Lambert wants everyone to know that she is NOT expecting- she just got fat.

Don’t get me wrong, I love these girls for the stands they’ve taken, but someone needs to shoot their stylists. I myself am not of a desirable weight, so to speak, but I realize that wearing leather leggings that are two sizes too small is NOT going to flaunt what I’ve got in a good way. As Hillary from Lady Antebellum sang about her man “Not taking her downtown anymore”, my Rockstar and I rudely remarked that it was probably because she couldn’t fit through the door- in her defense, she’s having a baby any day, but I’m convinced it’s two or three.

All in all, it made for a night of insults and opinions from my Rockstar and I, as we sat and made fun of people who are much more successful and rich than we. I’m certain karma is gonna come and kick my ass at some point.

The Amazing Concept of Musical Urination

I was wasting time and money the other day by deciding I needed to buy more books, so I took a trip to Goodwill. As soon as I passed through the doors, I aimed myself at their newly-remodeled bathrooms because I had to pee like a racehorse. (Don’t worry, this is more about my thoughts, and less about my bodily function, I promise.)

After ensuring that the dear Goodwill employees were keeping this bathroom “clean for my convenience”, I dropped traugh (didn’t spell that right) and waited for the inevitable to happen. I was just noticing the lack of soothing elevator music that sometimes invades one’s ears at such establishments, when  as soon as I started peeing, said music began to play. I nearly fell off my comfortable ass-shaped seat in surprise. I couldn’t help but wonder if at last I had discovered it, the holy grail of superpowers, the epitome of human supremacy!!!- musical urination.

Yes, I realize the more correct assumption would be that one song on Goodwill’s shitty Muzak account had ended and another began, but let me dream, dammit.

What’s so great about pee that sings, you ask? Why would I be excited that the discharging of my bodily wastes might invoke melodious tunes? Just think about it!

You could just be going along in your hum-drum day at work, “la dee da”, and decide to venture off to the bathroom just to waste a couple minutes of your minimum-wage paid time. Perhaps you are tired of listening to Taylor Swift durdling on about being 22, or wishing Rihanna would just go away as she asks you to Stay. But just conceptualize for a moment if, as you sat down (or conveniently stood, men) and you began to do your business, if maybe Rihanna and the blonde twit were drown out by say, Semi-Precious Weapons shouting “Can’t pay my rent, but I’m fucking gorgeous!” or perhaps John Mayer talking about “waiting for the world to change”. (Forgive me, I haven’t quite got a handle on exactly how changing the station on your musical pee works-  I figure it has something to do with your mood- like Mood Pee). Wouldn’t your day be just a little bit better after a musical trip to the john?

Too, no longer would “breaking the seal” during a drinking binge be considered a bad thing. If you didn’t like the music being played at the party, why not go pee? You have to go anyway. Maybe it could be a great new party game! “Name That Potty Tune” or something. The question is, would the song begin where it left off, or would a new one just begin?

It could even be considered a crime-fighting act. Stop that man that’s robbing that old woman’s purse by shouting, “Stop or I’ll pee!” It is assured he would not consider this a threat, but don’t you think he’d stop if you just dropped your pants right there and the tunes started? At least long enough for you to throw a rock at his head and knock the motherfucker out.

Anyhoo, I think I’ve explained sufficiently the great power that would come along with musical urination. Unfortunately, after I left Goodwill in a rush to see if my new superpower would work at Kohl’s, I was greatly disappointed to see it had been short-lived. Perchance it only works when you REALLY have to go.

A Light for the Stupid People

So I was feeling very un-inspired this morning, and so I text my Rockstar nd asked him what I should write about today. He replied with “Stupid People”, I think mainly because he is at work at the moment and is surrounded by them. I thought and thought of how to write about Stupid People in a helpful and entertaining way, and then it became glaringly clear to me- I would write a guide for them pointing out the everyday obvious things Stupid People sometimes just don’t seem to understand. The more I thought of it, the more I realized that Stupid People really just seem to lack a Common Sense gene.

TO THE MUSICALLY ILLITERATE:

1. Kesha is NOT a musician.

Despite the fact that she “Brushes her teeth with a bottle of Jack” as a Rockstar might, Kesha in no way is musically talented. She does not play an instrment, and her tablature of sings is comparable to the noise one might here if invited to an orgy. Ugly and disgusting sounds.

2. Taylor Swift is, in fact a musician, though not an astonishing singer.

As much as I detest her, I cannot deny the fact that the girl CAN play guiter. Now whether it is well or not? That is a question for my Rockstar. However, the fact that she as a vocal range of less than ten notes will not put her in a category with the likes of Martina Mcbride or Mariah Carey.

As there are many different kinds of Stupid People, I must be moving on to a different category.

TO THE WOMEN WHO USE SEX:

1. While it is quite possible to keep a man’s interest for an undetermined amount of time by sleeping with him, he will most likely NOT be falling in love with you, unless you have a Magical Twat.

In the past, my mind has been boggled by these women who don’t understand, “Why hasn’t he said he loves me? Why aren’t we married?” (I realize I have said these very things, but for quite a different reason.) If a woman “dates” someone, (in the instances I’m referring to, the woman did nothing but go fuck the man several nights a week) yet never gets out of bed with him, how is that man supposed to see how wonderful and amazing (or not) of a woman you are?As much as I adore the Sex, I must point out that True Love does not begin with a boner.

2. If a woman is in a relationship with a man, yet realizes that it is doomed, it is not beneficial to either party to “accidentally” on purpose become pregnant.

My Rockstar has experience with this. He will agree with me.

TO THOSE ATTEMPTING TO MAKE THEIR WAY UP THE JOB FOODCHAIN:

1. Consistantly having your cell phone glued to your ear on phone calls with your girlfriend when you are supposed to be managing a shift is not the way to maintain you already tentatively-scheduled management hours.

2. Sitting down and/or standing outside while your overlord manager is present instead of ensuring your business is running smoothly and doing all to ensure it WILL run smoothly is not a way to impress the bosses.

TO THE VEHICULARILY DENSE:

1. Owning a Camaro does not automatically make you “cool”.

Owning a Mustang does not automatically make you “cool” either, but it gives you a much better chance.

2. Most major highways are constructed with two lanes- a slow lane and a fast lane.

The outside lane is made for the slow polk. This is to ensure that a shoulder is present for any overly-cautious drivers who need to check for tire poundage or are being pulled over by State Troopers for going under the posted speed limit. If a Polk is found in the non-designated slow lane, it’s more than possible he will be honked at profusely and flipped the bird by a red-head in yellow truck.

I guess that’s all I have for now, but feel free to offer up suggestions of other types of Stupids for me to guide.

Musical Distraction

So HR Nightmare gave me a blog post idea because he didn’t think I’d be able to do anything with it. The idea was to write about music in relation to moods and the way it changes a person’s moods. This may veer a little off course, but here you go.

I love music. I could spend all day singing along to songs I know, and trying to emulate the people that sing them. I attempt with all that is in me to hit the perfect pitch of squealing when singing “Hee-Hoo!” like Michael Jackson. Celtic Woman is a bit harder, but I straighten my back and stick out my boobies to maintain perfect singing posture when belting out, She Moved Through the Fair. I grow increasingly irritated when, after repeated attempts, I fail to reach the notes sung by Martina Mcbride in A Broken Wing.

The reaction my father has to music that cannot be played in churches is quite humorous and ridiculous. I seem to recall at my wedding to my ex, the strains of Alan Jackson’s “It Must Be” love filtered out of the DJ’s speakers and into my father’s ears. His reaction was to cover his ears and shake uncontrollably as though the devil had possessed him. Incidentally, I used to have the same reaction when I was younger and forced to listen to the shrieking operatic voices of church ladies who THOUGHT they could sing.

80’s Heavy Metal seems to get the biggest reaction out of my Rockstar. Play a little Black-N-Blue or Ratt, and he immediately starts banging out a drum rythym on whatever hard surface  is available. (Please note: He has had no formal drum training) We like to crank the tunes when downing brandy and playing darts, (which I usually win) and it seems that this causes a general horniness to come over us, as we have on various occassions bumped uglies to the musical interluding of Lita Ford and Motley Crue. Good times.

At work, I have found that my co-workers’ tastes are very ecclectic.

My fellow co-manager, while choosing tiresome elevator music for our customers, can, during closing hours, be heard emitting an other-worldly growl while listening to death metal on his Ipod. Luckily, this music gets his butt moving, so we don’t have to be at work til 2 AM.

One of my drivers, despite being 38 and 320 lbs, twitters prettily to the young people music of the day. He is especially loud when it comes to any Adele song, or that song with the girl who squeaks her voice in the very beginning of the song. It matters not that the radio we have at work is old and static-y- he continues to crank it loudly enough that a messy, staic-y sound reached my poor ears. This makes me quite perturbed.

There are too, those songs that bring tears to my eyes. Most of them have to do with my ex-husband, such as Tesla’s We’re No Good Together. Still others make me cry simply because of their lack of musical inclination. Case in point, any Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus song. Miley Cyrus, to you I have one thing to say- “sometimes you gotta climb that mountain”, just so I can push you off that cliff.

Advice From My Inner Goddess

I gotta love her, because she’s where my confidence comes from, but hell, you’d be a little nuts too if you had to listen to this all day long…

Sparkle, you can write better erotica, or anything else for that matter, than anyone out there. So get off your ass and start writing already! You’re never going to get your castle if you just sit in your apartment eating french fries all day!

Yes, you can absolutely get away with wearing a short skirt even though you weigh 170 lbs, because your legs are perfectly toned from wearing your supply of shoes for hours upon hours.

You can absolutely cook anything you want to try cooking and it will turn out! (What she means is it will turn out EVENTUALLY. After I’ve tried and failed at least three times.)

Girrrrrl, you look fine in your slightly inappropriate church clothes, ’cause you got boobs! You got ’em, so flaunt ’em, baby!

Everyone loves you because you’re completely amazing and wonderful and there’s nobody else like you. Why the heck WOULDN’T everybody love you?! (I would like to point out that there’s nobody else like anybody else, so that does not exactly make me special.)

We must have been a hooker in a past life, because we are awesome in bed! You’re even good at the stuff you’ve never tried before!

Yes, all those people that you think are staring at you when you walk through the mall are, in fact, staring at you. Must I point out once again that you have boobs? Of course the’re gonna stare, quit being a weenie and suck it up.

How many times do I have to tell you- act like you look like Angelina or Salma Hayak and nobody will know what a self-conscious little ninny you are!

Even though he hasn’t mentioned marriage in ages, your Rockstar truly does want to marry you. You just have to convince him he does with your stellar blowjob abilities.

You can absolutely sing better than Taylor Swift! You just have too much other stuff on your plate, so you don’t have the time to steal all her awards out from under her.

French fries and coffee contribute perfectly to the maintainance of your sexy physique; sit-ups and excercise haven’t gotten you to where you are today. You should know this, bitch.

You have almost no friends because you are a mysterious enigma; it has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t ever call your friends.

Everyone finds you incredibly sexy, even that John guy in New Jersey. You have to realize not everyone is going to come right out and say it. (Sorry, John, she’s completely obnoxious and uncontrollable, isn’t she?)

Chris Meloni doesn’t know what he’s missing!

Things That Make Me Angry

It makes me angry when people are out for a Sunday drive on Tuesday. I got fuckin’ places to be and I don’t be having the time to be poking along at 35 mph.

It makes me angry when stores that shall not be named here (except for that their names rhyme will Narget and Walfart) have 47 lanes to cash people out at, yet they only have 2 open.

It makes me angry when my stretchy jeans that hug my ass in just the right way also hug my front butt enough to give me camel toe.

It makes me angry when people in places of higher power than I insist on “coaching” me, even though they are only at my place of employ one day a week.

It makes me REALLY angry when I am horny and my Rockstar insists on going to bed without assisting me in the making of me being not horny.

It makes me angry when Minnesota Revenue continues to steal moneys out of my checking account at various intervals without asking. As if my $82.73 is going to heal the national debt.

It makes me angry when my Rockstar’s Daughter insists on saying, ” Our house is OUR house, not yours.” Even though she’s been repestedly told to desist.

It makes me angry when the disastrous mess of curly pubic hair that resides on my head refuses to listen to my Big Sexy Hairspray.

It makes me angry when I have to go to work when I’m in the middle of deciding whether Fifty Shades of Grey is worth reading.

It makes me angry when I answer the phone at work to take a delivery and when asked what their address is, the person on the line says- “Ummm, well I don’t know the EXACT address.”

It makes me angry when I try on shirts that are SUPPOSED to be my size, and then must call for a dressing room attendant to come and assist in the removal of said shirts when they get stuck going over my excessive boobage.

It makes me angry when no matter how often I clean the kitchen floor, there is always crud lurking.

It makes me angry that Carrie Underwood is considered a country music star.

It makes me REALLY angry that Taylor Swift is considered ANY kind of music star.

Most of all, it makes me angry that despite my numerous attempts to contact him, Chris Meloni still hasn’t shown up to receive his booby squish.

 

I Am A Green-Eyed Monster

So you all know that I’m a happy girl who loves everybody and is extremely self-confident, right? Boy, have I fooled the shit outta you.

I embody the first two qualities perfectly, yes. However, I will tell you something now that you might not know yet- I go through life with a Jealousy Monkey fucking me in the ass every single moment. That being said, it may come as no surprise when I tell you that the constant butt-drilling I get leads to Jealousy becoming my dominant personality trait.

One of the things that makes my jealousy acceptable is the fact that I do not begrudge people for whatever happiness they receive from whatever it is that makes me jealous of them. I am jealous of those in perfect relationships, but I would never wish them to NOT have a perfect relationship just because I don’t. They say Misery loves company; the truth is- I prefer solitude.

I will give you just a few examples of the things that I am jealous of:

I am jealous of Carrie Underwood and her perfect face and her perfect voice, and the fact that she gets endless commercial deals despite the fact that she has the inability to choose good songs to sing with her perfect voice.

I am jealous of my friend Delightful, and the fact that she possesses one of those tiny bodies that make you want to stick her in your back pocket. She also has amazing sparkly eyes that are not poop colored, like mine are.

I am jealous of the people that own Mustangs, because I haven’t one; and I am jealous of the fact that these people have the dollars to afford the Mustangs in the first place.

I am jealous that deceased celebrities such as Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston are talked about more than I am. Why can they not have the decency to share the fame they no longer need?

I am jealous of all the excessively talented pianists on Youtube who can play Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu, because no matter how much I try to practice it, my timing is off and my fingers do not carry enough dexterity and speed to play it properly.

I am jealous of Nicole Kidman and her porcelain white skin, because though I possess the exact paleness she does, I just look pasty and all my veins show.

I am jealous that  untalented writers such as Stephanie Meyer have become household names because they had the gall to write about such ridiculous things as sparkly vampires and werewolves falling in love with infants.

I am jealous of the fact that my Rockstar’s Daughter received cuddling so much more easily from my Rockstar than I ever will.

I am jealous of Taylor Swift and the fact that her unimaginitive choices of subject matter for her songs has made her rich enough to buy a castle if she so chooses.

I am jealous of the fact that my douchebag of a former boss gets to continue working in MY bookstore, despite the fact that he hates books, and hates customers, and ogles young women, and sexually harrasses his underlings, while I slave away as a Pizza Slut.

I get jealous of people flirting with other people when I am readily available to be flirted with. This one is a bit confusing, because yes, I get jealous of the girls who are getting flirted with by men I don’t even find attractive. It IS all about me, you know.

I am jealous of those people that go around being happy all the goddamn time. I try that and find it utterly exhausting.

I am jealous of people that live in all the places that aren’t here. Sadly, if I were to move to any of those places, I would probably be jealous of the people that remained here.

I am jealous of those women (and men) who have perfect straight hair that can just wake up, run a brush through their hair, and go about their day. The fact that they can run a brush through their hair without creating an afro irks me most of all.

I am jealous of the fact that no matter how good of a writer I become, I will never be able to write lyrics as excellently as the band Black Stone Cherry.

I am jealous of Chris Meloni’s wife, and the fact that she gets to booby squish him whenever she wants.

I am jealous of women with babies, and pregnant women, and babies, and little children that are still adorable and not evil spawn from Hell.

One of the things that you all can be jealous of, though, is the fact that I have awesome readers who actually want to read this shit. 😉 XOXO

 

 

 

 

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…

 

It’s Best To Be Prepared: A Friday the 13th Special

Happy Friday the 13th, my Lovelys! I hope that you make it through the day without breaking any mirrors or having black cats cross your path. Being an individual who is always properly prepared for the unexpected (OK, that’s not exactly true, but I go with the flow quite well) I decided to compose a list of bad luck things that could possibly go wrong on this Friday the 13th. (Just so I’m not surprised in any way):

1.The wives and girlfriends of my former lovers could find out  about their significant others’ indiscrections and band together to come and Get me. (A gang of Scorned Women could be utterly terrifying.)

2. A zombie apocalypse could occur before I have had the chance to properly administer a boob-squish to Chris Meloni. (That would be bad luck for us both, I think.)

3. Darth Vadar could show up, saying, “Sparklebumps… I am your father.” Therefore confirming my suspicions of bastardization.

4. The IRS could find out about my newly opened checking account and make off with my $2.31.

5. Megan Fox and/or Salma Hayek could show up at my door with the intent of robbing me of my Rockstar. (He assures me if this was to happen, he wouldn’t go along with them, because they’re not real. I don’t believe him for a second.)

6. My boss Frenchie could fire me because he has decided my bossing him around is getting old. (Or that looking at my ass is getting old.)

7. I could go to jail for trying to bribe an officer with cleavage if I happen to get pulled over  for speeding while driving to work.

8. My new friend Delightfulness could find out that I am, in fact, a psychopath, and withdraw her friendship.

9. My blog followers could finally realize that I truly have no writing talent, and desist reading; therefore making my site stats drop dramatically (which they seem to be doing anyway) and bringing me to the realization that I shall have to abandon dreams of a writing career and settle for Pizza Sluttism for good.

10. I could get home tonight and NOT have mind-blowing sex with my Rockstar. (Highly likely since I work until after he goes to bed.)

11. The Skin Man, or other assorted creepers, could find out where I work now and begin stalking me again.

12. I could somehow bang my head and end up in a coma, where I would be unable to leave my hospital bed when I could hear my friends and family that have gathered around me crunching annoyingly on snack foods, awaiting my awakening.

13. My books could catch on fire from an electrical spark coming from the cord of my vibrator while it’s charging.

14. My Rockstar’s almost-model ex-wife could hunt him down and want him back, and he could realize he is still desperately in love with her and she is not, in fact, a “stupid cunt.” (His words.)

15. I could once again, find a puddle of piss in front of the urinal at work tonight when I’m cleaning. (Highly likely, since no one admitted to being the guilty party after yesterday’s rant.)

16. I could come home to find my Rockstar wearing nothing but my undies and a pair of my sparkly heels. (When I think about it, this might not be such a bad thing…)

17. Alien life-forms could suck me up in their beam and administer an anal probe. (I might be ok with this if they look like the aliens from Signs; but if they look like the aliens from Independence Day, I shall surely die of fright. *shudder*)

18. Jon Bon Jovi could come out with another album. (We’ve already had Van Halen come out with a new single this week. That’s bad luck enough.)

19. I could hear a Taylor Swift song on the radio. Or see her on a magazine.

20. McDonald’s could decide to change their French fries.

21. I could choke on Man Juice and perish after giving my Rockstar a blow job. (Highly unlikely, but possible, I suppose.)

Good Luck to you all. XOXO