Yell At Me Like You Mean It

I love being yelled at.
No, really, I mean it.

Nothing beats the sound of a good old-fashioned, "bull horn screaming at" that reminds me of being right back at home.

Agghhh...

I know, for me, I always feel like an odd man out, you know..never really fitting quite in during public meetings or neighbor sightings or just plain old conversation. I hate people smiling at me or making me welcomed in their homes...it puts me on edge and makes me wonder what in the hell they expect in return for sharing their bread and shining my shoes.

I walk around, maybe 99% of the time feeling in a haze..wondering why I don't fit in...

and then, it happens, that god-send 1% of the time when someone just rip-roaring rages at me an I can finally exhale and feel I'm right back where I belong...

When I hear that piercing scream coming in my direction, It is almost as if the hairs on my spine rest, even the hairs on my mole fall from attention for a moment, and I just want to put on my bedroom slippers and light a cigarette.

Now, that is all fine and good; I mean, I will take a phone screaming at or a road rage yell any old day, but there is NOTHING..and I do mean NOTHING like someone getting all up in my face and tell me in a roaring yell how pissed they are at something I may or may not have done....
That kind of comfort makes me want to roll out my cot, make my pau d'arco allergy tea and start reading my Twighlight books.

Right at home.

I just can't help it. I love a plain-old yelling at, especially when it lists my faults in alphabetical order in a way that leaves me not even able to hear myself think...Maybe it's unfair that I have such a gift or have been given such insight into the true road to happiness; or maybe my momma just spoiled me. Who really knows about such good fortunes?

All I know is, if you want to be my friend, then yell at me like my momma would.

UMMMMM...

Why is everything funnier with puppets?

Discuss.

When I Turn 153...

I wanna look as good as Joan Rivers.

Why Does Everyone Want to Make Roseanne Look Mean?

Roseanne Bar is NOT mean. I'll say it again. Roseanne Bar is NOT a big, fat mean, haggardly woman who says crazy things and then regrets them. Okay, well maybe the last part(s) is/are true, but the first part is a skinny little bitch of a lie...

She is back in the news again about saying something insensitive, however; doesn't anyone realize that people that don't look like Greta Garbo on a sun-kissed, pouty-lipped, good hair day get to be a bitch every now and again? Especially when they/she doesn't even look as good as what was probably Greta Garbo's dungeoned, and much uglier sister...

It just isn't fair to pick on someone who was made famous for having a nasaly voice, being in-and-out of psyche wards and had to endure years of fat-on-fat sweat-sex with Tom Arnold.

Come on people. Isn't knowing she nestled her nose in Arnold's salty, pubic-like armpit hair enough repentance for any wrong-doing she may ever commit for the rest of her life?

Robbery vs. armpit hair? Armpit hair. Lying vs. armpit hair? Armpit hair. Telling your boss you are sick when you are watching the re-release of "White Knights" and wearing your tap shoes? Armpit.

See? Nothing compares.

No amount of "Our Father's" or having to endure pergatory for all of eternity could POSSIBLY be as bad as Tom, I mean, that....

Why can't the media pick on someone there own size?

Someone like Rosie O'Donnel, for instance....

Not only is Rose O'Donnel MUCH uglier,and MUCH more controversial than Roseanne; but she was getting sex from a very cute, tight-assed blonde for the last decade.

Sex with a hot chick alone cancels out the Greta Garbo protection factor for the ugliness rule and means that she has NO RIGHT to put her two cents in every time Tom, Dick, Harry or well, um Jane takes their panties off...

And, besides, like Chrissy said, her ass is hairier than a Wooly Mamoth's in December.

So, please, pick on Rosie, but not Roseanne anymore.

And if you don't ease up on Roseanne, be careful what you ask for. God may just punish you with some gnarly, dandruff-filled armpit hair to suck on for all of eternity.

Breaking News Out Of Hollywood:

This Just In:

Breaking news out of Hollywood today, where sources confirmed that Tom Cruise is, undeniably, a woman.

Rumors began circulating last year when Tom was spotted alone at Dr. Gloria Bender's office, a well-known gynecologist to the stars. Followed then by a sighting of Cruise alone again in aisle seven of Whole Foods, opening packages of maxi pads. Cruise was escorted out of the store after he reportedly put a few of the sanitary napkins in his coat pocket.

The rumors were confirmed this morning as Cruise was sitting poolside at the Hotel Bel-Air, a favorite to the star. Cruise, reading the morning paper took notice of a crowd of fans gazing his way as he sipped his beverage. As one got up and headed in his direction, Cruise seeming uncomfortable, stood up quickly in an attempt to walk away. As he did so his towel shifted, revealing his vagina.

Said eyewitness, Timothy Peterson 18, a visiting Quaker from Toledo, Ohio, "I wasn't sure what I was looking at at first. Could have been Suri's toy monkey, or a well-shaved dust mop. Not sure why either would have been hiding there though. But then it hit me, and I knew I'd seen one of those before. Last year when my Aunt Edna slipped on ice while getting the morning paper."

Said another witness, "It was frightening. And, it was shiny. Sort of. It all happened so fast. We just stood there pointing and staring while Tom fumbled around before finally running into the back entrance of the hotel."


Cruise has been reported saying, "This is preposterous. It's simply just, well, just preposterous." He then spelled p.r.e.p.o.s.t.e.r.o.u.s. Then he gave that big fucking cheesy grin as a teared rolled from her eyes.


Katie Holmes has not yet returned any inquiries. And reps and sources close to the star refused to comment. We did, however, get a statement from ex-wife Nicole Kidman, who went, "Ewww!", when we questioned her knowledge of this recent discovery.

New information continues to unfold in this story. And as "preposterous" as this all seems, it explains the bizarre affinity between Tom and long-time admirer, Rosie O'Donnell, who was overheard saying, enthusiastically, "Reeeaally??", when the news broke. And Rosie O'Donnell, as no surpise to anyone, has a big hairy ass...

Why Do I...

Why is it I INSIST on watching shit that makes me sick to my stomach?
..like this show, "I Shouldn't Be Alive," for instance, where men are "SAVAGELY" malled by wild animals (as if being just plain malled by a wild animal isn't bad enough) and young couples are lost in deserts only to find that a man had died in that same spot on the exact date one year prior..or how about the the weird and ugly show where the hyena gives birth through the same hole that you and me go pee pee out of and sometimes dies during birth; or like, and THIS ONE IS REALLY REALLY SICK, watching people like Tiger Woods, John Edwards and another one of those gay conservatives make an apology for living a double life while I could be watching quality programming like "All My Children," local television commericals, or "Celebrity Fit Club," you know, the real top notch television out there.

But no, I waste it watching junk. Junk that makes me nauseated and sad and terrified that my partner or, perhaps, even one of my beloved neighbors may come and murder me in the middle of the night (48 Hour Mysteries)...

I mean, all of these things make me sick when I watch them; like say, nauseated or short of breath or downright paranoid, depending on which one you are talking about, and I CAN'T STOP WATCHING THEM..

In fact, I plan my week around these things, as though it were my job or something.

I love it. I dream about it (when I am not dreaming about missing persons or animals missing limbs or people lost in the wilderness and finding ways to live while doing sit-ups throughout the night in the middle of a canyon with a broken pelvic bone while suffering from hypothermia) and when I am not sleeping my heart beats faster the closer the show is on my tagged film list throughout the night.

I just can't figure it out.

It is love and hate.

Lust and disgust.

Push me pull/me.

See how close I can get you so I can vomit all over your face kind of alluring, you know?

I don't know..Maybe I never will.
But I can guarantee you that if I get lost in the wilderness in arctic temperatures without food, water, or friend in site...I WILL not only know how to survive, but will be able to do so with a keen sense of what a stalker or an attempted murderer would look like, how to avoid killer bees and venomous snakes, knowledge of how to skin a rat, and awareness of the most direct way to get out of a waterfall ....and I'll be able to do it all with the latest American Idol winner's song in my heart...

Why Can't People Leave Me Alone at the Dog Park?

Dear __________________:
When I go to the dog park a few blocks from my house, ___________, I don't want to be bothered, okay; at least not by people anyway.
I mean, don't you know that it is a DOG park and not a people making friends park or a sell me your latest product park or a blow my alcohol-infested breathe at 2PM on you park? Really.
I mean, I am not against friendliness and stuff, _______________, but why is it that you don't realize that before I go to the dog park, I don't wash my face, brush my teeth or even put on underwear? I actually look my worst so that I DON'T have to hang with you and hear your deepest secrets while my dog is taking a piss on your shoe.

Don't get me wrong, ______________________, I love it when you waive at me from across the park or allow my 12lb dog to share a ball with your 198 lb dog, because you know she will never catch it anyway; yeah, real friendly, ________________. But I DON'T, and I really meant this; want to be part of the afternoon "click" at the park that talks about their dogs as though in refinement school (I mean, I KNOW my dog is a person, I don't need to groom her because she is gonna be ghetto anyway) or about their latest agility feats. My dog is ghetto, and I don't need to hear it.

Don't you know, ____________, that parents of sub-standard children don't want to hear about your retriever going to Harvard or your Pit Bull being chosen for one of those prison rehabilitation programs. Really, we don't. That just makes us hate you. And besides, this kind of parent talk and forced friendliness and need to rub shoulders with the other parents is the reason I don't have children...

Well, at least one of the reasons.

Jesus loves you, but I will call 911 on your crazy ass...

I've met some of the craziest people parading in the name of Jesus.

I can say that free of guilt because it's my blog and nobody's reading it anyway. Plus I don't care, so there's that.

My first encounter with a Geezus demon was at bible camp circa 1992.

"Why the f*ck were you at bible camp, Costa?" you may wanna be asking.
Well, they had the best coffee in all of Western PA. Or, I was trying to get close to something. And I did. His name was Bob and he was possessed. With what, I'm not sure, but he was creepy. And like many creepy people he had a big ass crush on me.

His eyes glowed an eerie red and his teeth were like candy corn. He took to me instantly. He walked right up to me and held my tiny hand. His was sweaty and evil. I was paralyzed with fear. He said angry things and scared a lot of us. I just wanted to run back to my cabin and have a beer with my younger sister. That's why SHE was attending bible camp. She was passed out though because it doesn't take much beer to knock a child out. And when you're at bible camp you tend to drink faster in fear of being caught. So I was stuck alone with him by the campfire until my friend found me. When she did I told her we need to get him to a camp counselor and have him exterminated. I wasn't privy to the christian vocabulary. I was merely a child from the 'hood, a mistruster from way back, trying to find some truth.

As he stood there speaking in tongues, rambling some crazy sh*t, eyes getting glassy and all, I did the only thing I could think of. I took off running as fast as I could, and despite what my soccer coach said I could run pretty fast. I hid for the next two days. Mostly in the shower area. I had my sister and friend bring me meals. When it was time to depart from camp I jumped on the bus and never looked back. I don't have a clue as to what ever happened to Bob.

Another Geezus creep came shortly after my departure from Bob. This little disciple attended the church that sent me to bible camp. Like Bob, he fell for me, fast and hard. And unfortunately HE knew where I lived. He'd show up on weekends and stand in front of our house with his arms held high, praying, I suppose. He thought if he prayed hard enough I'd come out and marry him, or date him, or hold his hand. I stood from the door and yelled, "FREAK!". Persistent, as most of that faith are, he insisted on ignoring my pleas for him to leave and kept his arms held to the sky, begging Jesus to bring me out.

Finally, after feeling sequestered in our home for most of March, my Mom had enough and took a broom and a pot outside and told him to get the hell away from the house. He never returned.

As for me, I stopped attending church. I traded in my bible for a pack of Newport 100's and, kids, the rest is history...

Bug Eyes

Things that look cute on my dog...see above demonstration, just DON'T look cute on people. Why is that? Or, more importantly, why is it that people don't realize that?

I mean, my dog can look like her eyes are about to pop out of her head and stare at me dead on-unwaivering, and it doesn't, say, creep me out, but, in fact, just makes me love her more.

So what if I am a lipstick lesbian, why does that give the man on the el who probably hasn't showered in like 6.2 days, the license to gawk at me the entire ride..or like the person at this meeting I went to last night who bugged out the eyes at me while I was actually listening to him speak..but he bugged those buggers out so intensely that I couldnt' even look him in the eye to his look in my eye.

See those things don't make me LOVE those people more like they do when my dog does them, as, I never even liked either of them in the first place and had to count to 10 over and over in my mind not to go crazy on them in public. So, of course, it doesn't make me LOVE THEM. It t'aint cute on humans and that is that.

Dogs are cute. People, in general, aren't. Not when they do weird things, especially.
You know, like when they roll around on the ground or roll over and ask you to rub their beer bellies. Dogs bellies? cute. Big man hairy bellies? Um, nay.

What about pooping? My dog poops and it is like a baby tu tu, you know. Like when she poops and I have been worried all day she wouldn't but does, and I sing a song and make her feel like a "good girl" for poopety poop.

See? The person I work with in the other department who uses the public facility? Yeah, not so cute when they smell everything up and I have to hold my pee all day.

Whew, good thing I have my puppy to look forward to when I go home tonight and not some big bulgy eyes looking at me saying, "Where is my steak, biatch?"

I often nod my head and agree...

...but that doesn't mean i'm listening.

And it doesn't mean i know what you're talking about...


Just this morning an entire conversation was had with someone else and apparently myself. I'm not sure how long the conversation was, and cannot recall what i said. I do remember thinking, "that's a big banana", but i vaguely remember putting it in my purse. I don't even like purses anymore, but i guess they're necessary, especially if you're going to be carrying around big bananas.

She kept rambling on about something, fire extinguisher, i don't know. My breasts were extra full today and i was in admiration.

Then she said, "Okay, i'm leaving, did you get that all?"

And I said, "Yah, don't rush, it's foggy outside." Irony? Coincidence?

Why People Need a Second Dog

So, let me clarify.
If I could have a subtitle to my title for today's post, it would say: Why People Need a Second Dog: I Mean, if They Don't Have Kids.

You See, I treat my dog, Sammy, like a baby. Yvonne and I wrap her in swaddling blankets (like christmas, get it?) and talk about buying her a baby bjorn (spelling?) and getting her a pet highchair so she feels like part of the family when we are eating. We talk about things like her feelings, her likes, her best friends and their parents, her favorite meals and, of course, where she would like us to send her to college if she weren't already going to be offered a full scholarship.

Oh, and, of course, we have one of those touchy, feely, "family beds."

The dog has no boundaries, but, damn, is she cute.

That being said, it appears that Yvonne and I have both forgotten that she is actually a dog, and, well, not a daughter, aged-3, raring to go to her first year of kindergarten in 2012.

And why do we realize this?

Well, first off, Costa made some comment on my facebook about me not knowing that real babies don't wear leashes..which, somehow insinuates that "Sam" is not my REAL baby. Um, the nerve of someone saying this to a childless, 35-year-old lesbian who gets some glimmer of self-esteem that she has a child when all 364 of her other facebook friends (other than Costa, who is also in her thirties, childless and a lesbian) have 2.5 kids and have been married to the same person for 8.7 years?

Secondly, we also know this because Yvonne, in chatting the other day, made the comment, "Man, I really need a dog..."

"Um, I said...what is 'this,' a half-dog?"

"Baby is not a dog, Blythe...well, she is a baby baby."

My my my.

But it is true, Sam is not a "dog," she is a mini-me, the child I have never wanted, but love anyway because, well, she is mine.

And, I guess, that is why, well, one day, when there is something like a yard or a temperature above, say, ten degrees, perhaps there will be a Fido added to the mix.

For now, one baby is enough.

Dear Christopher Guest,

Just in case you're reading my blogs I wanna say that although (or all though, depends on who's keeping score) you don't know me, I really like you. You make me laugh. Okay, with that being said I want to get to the reason I'm writing. While at the gym today I came up with the next mockumentary you should write. I could help you. I have experience. In 1996 I wrote G.I. Joan. It was about a chick in the military who had to fight her way through the system before she could prove herself in war. I didn't finish the script because I must have gotten distracted somewhere along the way. Could have been a cupcake, but whatever. So a year goes by and in 1997 the movie G.I. Jane was released. You may remember this one. Demi Moore plays a Navy Seal, fighting Master Chief and all the other men ("Suck my dick!", remember that line? funny.) to prove herself. Sound familiar? That's what I thought. I wrote that shit. I'm not accusing the writers of anything, for I was living in Lawrenceville (Pittsburgh) at the time and there's no way they were reading my notebooks. Speaking of, Danielle Alexandra hasn't done much since writing that script, whereas David Twohy has kept himself a little more busy. Me, on the other hand, I'm still waiting for my break.

Okay, another example of my experience... In 1986, at the age of 10, I wrote, in the back of my mind, the 4th Halloween. You'll love this for obvious reasons. So I thought Michael Myers should have a niece or nephew with whom he connects with but kinda wants to kill. Two years later, in 1988 Halloween 4 was released and guess what the plot was. Michael Myers returns to Haddonfield to kill his niece, but kinda feels a connection to her. Holy shite. So I know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, back to the script you should write. Another mockumentary, this time focusing on personal trainers and their clients, and their lives inside the gym. I think it should focus more on the clients though, and their foolish banter.
I hear a lot of conversations between the trainers and their clients, and mostly it makes we want to put a dumbbell up my ass. Today I caught part of a conversation, and the trainer was like, "Wait, did you say geranium? Oh, I thought it was a tulip?" I also overheard a client say, "My husband's brother's son can't eat cheese anymore either. I don't know what's going on in this world". And, "I've worked really hard to get that car and I don't want to park it next to those other cars."

I can't help but to think that the trainers also want to stick barbells and such up their own asses. We, I said we... You could focus on the competitiveness of the trainers to get clients and the clients' self-absorbed lives. With, of course, the occasional client, such as myself, that comes in solo to work out, looking, feeling and possibly smelling like a sweatsock.

These are just some ideas. Feel free to write me back anytime and we can get this thing rolling.

Thanks for your time.

Love Always,

Chrissy Costa


p.s. - your wife's commercials make me wanna eat yogurt again...

What?

Okay, I am reasonably tall-I mean, average at least..let's say like 5'6" .5, if that makes any sense to the non-seamstresses out there.
So, why is it that I simply cannot find a pair of pants that don't get scuffed in the snow?
I mean, really?
For example, I have fairly long legs, so my friend tried to buy me a pair of "tall" pants for my birthday this year. I tried them on and looked like Chrissy Costa trying to wear pants for anything taller than a gnome.
They were really long, that is.
So, I, of course, had to bring them back.
Next, I went and got "regular" length pants, and was really excited to wear them today.
Of course, last night it snowed and, um, even though I have little wedgie shoes on my cuffs are still soaked in snow salt..
um, how is that possible?
Am I already shrinking at 35?
Well, thath brings me to another issue...
Shrinking.
Why is it that we are born shorter than our parents and, in many cases, stay there, but by the time they are in their 70's or such, they are like down to our kneecaps.
Aww..?
My mom is like the cutest, but she is starting to resemble Lilly Tomlin in my favorite movie of the 80's The Incredible Shrinking Woman-
Speaking of, I always wanted to be Lilly Tomlin, but that only came true in the gay way.
At least, I think that is the case--I mean, if I keep buying shorter pants and they keep dragging on the ground, then, um, perhaps the next step is me shrinking so much that I end up falling down the drain of a sink too.

Assault By Masturbation...

When I attempt to initiate a conversation with somebody and they're not really interested, I tend to notice the signs. The "uh-huhs", the lowering of the head, the stomping off the bus (and I don't even ride on busses, but i guess i can blabber). So I quickly shut my pie hole and pretend to read a book or something. In fact, I've always said I don't go to parties i'm not invited to. Figuratively and literally, I mean it. Unfortunately so many do not follow suit.

Why is it that people, acquaintances and strangers alike, feel the need to talk to me when I'm clearly paying no attention? For as long as I can remember people have come up to me and told me bizarre things I would be better off to have never known. I love the elderly and I'm always open to hearing their stories. Over and over and over again. I don't mind. But I also attract looney-bags. They wanna marry me. And hobos always tell me the dirty things they wanna do to me. (Am I supposed to do the dirty things in a cart?) Like I'm gonna take them back to MY place, yah. I can ignore these "interactions". Most of the time. But everyday people I'm in contact with talk way too much about things I mostly never care to know. People give way too much information to a girl who asks a lot of questions...when she's interested.

It's quite selfish, actually. Here's an example...It's a true story.
I'm sitting alone ( i won't say where) at a table, eating lunch, texting and writing a blog (clearly busy) when in comes some perky woman that I barely know, fresh and ready to assault me with her mouth. Not in the good way either. She's rambling on about her plans for vacation and I'm getting indigestion from shoveling food into my mouth so I can get the F out of there. Twenty minutes later she's still talking, barely catching her breath. I'm the only other person in the room so I assume this info is meant for me. I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes and went like, "Psshhhh", but she didn't notice "the signs". She didn't even make eye contact with me. If she could hear the soliloquy in my head she would have stopped talking. But she kept talking and I was there, not participating. And she didn't stop. It was a crime! Maybe not like a 911-worthy crime, but at least a 311 type of crime. I was verbally masturbated on. And she didn't even ask my name. Or if I've ever been to the Bahamas. I don't even think I was supposed to be part of her conversation. But I was forced to hear it. I feel cheap and used and dirty. She didn't just verbally masturbate in front of me, she did it all over me. Without my approval or a safe word. Only after all this took place, later in the day, I realized I should have taken steps to prevent this. Steps like, pretending I couldn't hear her, talking in Spanish, shatting on myself. I bet if i would have shat in my seat she would have left. I should have thrown my shoe, caused a distraction so she'd be forced to look at me, the person she was "talking to". Maybe the guy who threw his shoes at George W. just couldn't take hearing him anymore. I could have tipped the vending machine over. Set a fire. Pulled my pants down. Why do I always come up with a solution when it's too late?

Take heed and learn from my pain. I have, and now I'm armed with mental dental dam and ready for the next assault by a verbal masturbator.

Positive Self Talk

When does positive self-talk become a form of isolation?

For instance, Chrissy and I are supporting each other on this blog, but where is everyone else?

Those resentments aside, I mean, really. What is the point of giving positive messeages to oneself day after day after day if it is going to make you ostracized from, say, your entire social group.

I'll give you an example..I have a friend..let's call her "Lynn." She started to do all kinds of positive self-talk stuff, like posting notes to her mirror, going to therapy 18 times a week, and making sure to tell herself she loves herself and that she is beautiful at least three times per day..working out, attending church, the whole deal. You know, Stuart Smally kind of stuff.

Well, after trying that for a while, she really did totally change..
I mean not only did she start to act more mature (and, if I do say so myself, sexy), she also started to make more money, go on fancy trips and be the life of the party..

well, that is , she would be the life of the party if anyone had still invited her to their homes..

You see, that age old adage, "misery loves company," simply is true..it is true it is true it is oh so true..

So what do you think has happend to accomplished, self-loving, abundant living Lynn? Well, none of her friends want anything else to do with that poor lass anymore..why? because she is in too damn good of a mood all the time..

Nobody Needs Their Pills On The Holidays...

Save your Paxil pill, your Zoloft, your Lexapro today. It's the holiday. A day of joy. Just ask my neighbor. Yesterday he despised me. Tomorrow he'll hate me more. But today... today he loves me. And he didn't need his pill to show it.



Actually, most people are overly polite on a holiday. Ever notice?



A woman who normally hates my dog saw me walking her today and smiled. It was a smile filled with hope and joy that you only see 3-4 times a year on a major American/"Christian" holiday. Forgive me for being cynical, but I know that b*tch is gonna give me and my dog a dirty look tomorrow, after she's digested her turkey. Save your pill for tomorrow, sweet b*tch.



Unlike most people I tend to cry on holidays. I'm not totally sure why. Sometimes I think of the elderly, the homeless, pets with missing limbs. I don't know why. Maybe I'm emotional. I have some emotions.

I guess what I'm saying is since you're off your pills for a day, can you send one my way?

Kiss Me, I'm Not Irish

I am sitting here thinking about what it would be like to be Irish around March.
Man, it just isn't fair that even though my parents grew up in the Irish Channel of New Orleans I am half Cajun French, a quarter Sicilian and a quarter Italian (scary combo, I know).
I mean, why don't I get to have a million beautiful women kiss me in March, just because I am not, say Irish?
Do you have any answers for this?
I am thinking of contacting the ACLU for discrimination against Cajun French, Sicilian/Italian people not getting to make out on the streets during a parade.
I mean, I could start a movement called, "Cuddle me, I'm Cajun, " or one called "Sit down and pay attention to me today, I'm Sicilian," which, while it might be a way to turn lemons into lemonade, would still just be the equivalent of "life on the D list" or dating the man you are in love with's fourth and partly mentally ill cousin.
It just doesn't work.
Come to think of it, it really isn't fair that I am not Irish all year round. For instance, I am an alcoholic, right? (true story). And even though I no longer drink, it would really be nice (and more fair) to be able to explain my drinking away with my Irish genes, or, say, my Uncle Bud bringing it into the family gene pool. But, noooo. Rather, I am forced to take full responsibility for my past drunken streaking episodes and for waking up in bed with a sorority pledge of whom I didn't know the name. Ireland's fault? No Way. Just plain mine.
Well, I guess the upside of all this is I get to take responsibility for myself and I get to keep my girlfriend because I am not making out with women on the streets come March.
Bah Humbug.

Why is it always a power struggle to change lanes while driving?

Are you the douchebag (not in an anti-feminist use of the word: it's a stupid name for a stupid product. probably concocted by a stupid man.) who won't let me over even though I've been using my turn signal and staring at you for the last 7 minutes?

You're so cool.


Not.


Why is it seen as a form of weakness to use your turn signal? I used to ponder this. Then I realized that in order to switch lanes (at least in Pittsburgh, PA) you have to forego the turn signal, step on the accelerator and force your way in front of the passive-aggressive driver who
can't seem to differentiate between common courtesy, the rules of the road, and being taken advantage of.


I'm not the only one who experiences this, am I? It's ridiculous and it happens almost every single day. What's the big deal? Why can't you just let me in? ...

We're traveling north. You're in the right lane and I'm in the left. I'm approaching my exit in about half a mile or so. I need to get to the right. I put my right turn signal on. You speed up just enough to not only keep me from passing you, but to keep me from getting in at all. Why you gotta be like that? Fine, you "win" jackass, I'm not getting ahead of you. But who do you think you are keeping me from going right at all? I drive a 4-cylinder vehicle so I didn't think I could pass you anyway. But I'm still way more cool than you. I just wanna get off. (That's what she said) Get off right, at my exit, that is. You f*cking greedy little punk. And you're almost always a dude. Ughhh. I bet you're short. You probably have a small package too. Is that why you're so angry? It is, isn't it? Well that's your problem and you should see someone about that. You make driving less enjoyable. You suck. Get over yourself.

I guess I just have to choose my battles. I.e., equal rights, animal rights, camel-toe symptoms, outreach, and prevention...

What is it with Skinny Days?

I have a love/hate relationship with skinny days.

I mean, after all, who doesn't want to feel skinnier than usual when they wake up the morning after eating a 15 course meal?

After all, it is nice to be rewarded for bad behavior.

However, it kind of sucks too, because then it makes you think that you can always have a 15 course meal and be skinny.

But, then, you try it and you start having uncomfortable, bloated days instead of skinny days, so you start eating rigidly healthy again.

But when you eat rigidly healthy, you have fat days, thus, causing you to contemplate what the hell you are doing wrong by eating healthy that is making you feel fatter than average...

Is it the over-intake of fiber and not drinking enough water to digest it?

Is it that you are being punished for your long run of 15 course meals and God is teaching you a lesson?

Or, is it simply, that there is really no rhyme or reason to the whole body thing at all?

That your body is really in control of you and that you don't have any bloody say so at all what it does on any given day.

Skinny days, like one night stands, are fun while they last, but then leave you empty and alone when your body (meaningless life) goes back to normal.

Sort of like a teaser for what you could get if you were say, the offspring Heidi Klum and Seal, or if you had 8 personal trainers and chefs calling you a fat ass day in and day out, but that doesn't "apply" to the real world.

That's it. Skinny days just aren't fair. Because even though you like them on the "day of," you always wake up the next day with a hangover from hell.