Bricks, loads, and dumps

Turkey Composite

When the stress rises beyond the shrug off or the close your eyes until it goes away phase, I like to indulge in doing as little as possible. Somewhere deep in the cracked corners of my personality, I feel that by not interacting with the world, it can't possibly explode in my face. For instance, a bad day may decide to top itself when I come home to make dinner by ensuring that I char whatever meal I decide to prepare. Or perhaps it manifests its last stab of the day in a hilarious visual to accompany the song "Fire, Water, Burn". Either way, I decide that when these days come around and do what they do (no kiss) that I do as little as possible as not to aggravate whatever force is in charge of things like turning my car into a magnet for paint or making sure that I put a pair of pants on with underwear still stored in the leg. Inevitably, I discover it and yank it out in front of my entire staff after feeling that something was off and perhaps I had gained weight in my back knee area. So, tonight, after a day I shall never relate, I decided that I needed to stay away from the stove and get some drive thru dinner.

Feeling like a greasy and gluttonous manatee, I chose something with a comfort food feel. Yes, turkey and mashed potatoes. Sure, it's only like 6 or 7 bucks, but really - we are paying for convenience here.

I come home with my little baggie containing a cafeteria style divided plate and plastic covering and dig in. Potatoes, perfect for something that comes in flake form before you water to it. Veggies, not bad. Turkey. Is this turkey? It tastes, and sort of looks like, a wet washcloth. This isn't turkey! This is some kind of composite of gamey poultry and parts of other animals that were rejected from the hot dog factories.

I am a purist in a lot of senses. I like to have furniture made of wood, not pressed wood or composites of wood or cardboard with flecks of oak in it. I expect this kind of blended materials from, perhaps, construction paper- not from turkey.

Below the pie chart will demonstrate the complete oneness of the "bird" or "animals" I just consumed.

Who thought that when you blended all those ingredients together you'd get something that tasted like a down comforter after you put it through the washer?

It just goes to show; on bad days, just stay in bed and don't move.

Worst.Cookie.Ever. (H)

Below is a scanned fortune I got after opening my fortune cookie. This is real, folks.


I wish this wasn't actually my life...

i is for idiot

Why is my favorite MP3 skipping? I thought we created MP3s to end the mind splattering effects of skipping. Records skipped and scratched and made all sorts of womb-like noises when they warped. Tapes slowed down your favorite beat and garbled lyrics. When CDs skipped, it sounded like an epilepsy fit. When iTunes skips, it sounds like you've been duped. Duped into Dling and getting yourself into a net where Apple controls whose computer what files are played on, which tunes you are willing to fork cash over to get, and how to read your most intimate collection of life soundtracks. Seriously, the way it does all those creepy things subversively when you first get it can be frightening. It labels all your songs, does all this research without you knowing, bringing back full album artwork and categorizing your files. While it goes behind your back and arranges all of your personals to fit the patterns of their master music filing system, you are left with grandfather speeds of processing, leaving the skipping song to grind on your nerves.

Who trusts something this invading? I mean, now somewhere - there is an imprint of your account. For some reason, the identification of my bank card is less personal and offensive than the identification linked to my personal music.

Yea, I have heard the arguments: iTunes is awesome. iTunes syncs with your ipod (which I DO NOT own). iTunes labels everything and makes it easy for you to pay legally for your music. iTunes only updates all your crap once and that is it. iTunes forces you to start a sentence with a lowercase letter.

I personally don't think a matter of filing that a half dyslexic secretary could organize is any trade off for the privacy and right to keep your crap as messy and random as it once was on Windows Media Player.

EYEtunes is more like it.

Yea, I'm a hater.

The Highway Communion

I don't know about the rest of the nation, but living in So. Florida has afforded a subversive culture centered around the highway. The situation is unique to Florida's design. South Florida was built on the beach, as close to the sand as possible, and over time cities have expanded more and more to the west. This continued until they hit upon the everglades and were forced to stop. Aside from the ever pungent smell of the man-made lakes, the half sinking developments on the brink of the marsh, and the spotting of rare birds on the highway, the impact on nature was barely measured...I mean immeasurable. Because of the urban sprawl, massive highways were constructed so that middle class inhabitants could bypass all of the overpriced and upper class developments to go see their other middle class friends on the other side of the county. There is no one here who doesn't have to take at least a 20 minute drive to visit their good friend. It's become so bad that even if you live down the street from a friend, you are forced through five lane roads with a light every three cars.

As a result, you live in your car, which is actually a good thing considering how the stark heat is hot enough to make your hair start to smolder once you are exposed to the bare sun. Most of the time people mistake this time in the car for alone time. I say that people should roll down their windows and share the experience with the other 200 people on the road with them. We already sort of communicate with them. A passing glance, a nonchalant flip of the bird, or even a polite yet firm honk of the horn are everyday ways to get to those around you. Below you will find list of activities that will break the ice with other drivers who share in the same misery and drained bank accounts that come with commuting.

The things we have done in the car:

* Make signs. Perhaps you want to brighten someone's day with a, "Hey, you're hot. What's your #?", or a "Take your hand off your boyfriend's cock and drive!".

* Projectiles are often an important way to hail someone's attention. Some people use pennies, we prefer something tastier and with staining abilities: melted M & Ms.

* I, personally, don't take my pants down while driving, but I have been mooned several times on the highway; a delightful way to introduce yourself. Nothing says, "Hey, ho. I want attention" than naked ass cheeks pressed against tinted windows.

* "Honk if you're....." stickers usually work. Insert whatever word you want: poor, hungry, horny, getting fired for lewd conduct, etc.

* Learn sign language. I-95 during most times of the day is nothing more than a farm for exhaust. I say have a chat with the car next to you with your hands. You can also just carry around a pad and pen and pass notes.

Whatever you choose to do to connect to your fellow commuter, for the love of God, keep the music to yourself. There is nothing more obnoxious, and by default, nothing that defeats the purpose more than trying to share your love of dirty gangster rap by ruining your expensive sound system in an attempt to spread what you, no doubt, find to be deep and prophetic musical stylings that can barely be heard over the the chatter and rattle of the exterior of your less than prestigious car.

Do I really need to tell you why this is here?

Truth Serum

In the world that inhabits our senses today, we seem to run into many things that are against our sensibilities, so we slowly adapt to the disappointment. We accept situations that may not fit our desires as long as we can contort them in our psyche. When our fantastical walls crumble, we are left with the truth; that terrible situation that was just so obvious to everyone else around us.

The BIG things we lie to ourselves about:

*Love - Everything that is included in this deluded fairy tale we continually tell ourselves is attainable. It's like a religion we've subscribed to that promises to provide us with everlasting happiness. It even advertises that it can erase your sins if you continue to stay loyal. When we think divine intervention itself has somehow aligned us with our "soulmate", we give into it blindly thinking we don't have to suffer to make things run smoothly. Survival and social breath was once tied to this entire concept, much like being a good Christian was in medieval times. Now that being single isn't a crime or a sign of deviance, we as people don't settle anymore for someone who will either cook or provide for us. We want happy times all the time. Because we have this power now and we've entitled ourselves to break hearts in the name of our selfish whims, the entire foundation of romantic love has disintegrated. Why do we keep buying into an institution of survival when we are not in a crisis situation? It becomes a vestigial burden and a continual disappointment. We've all seen Sex and the City. The show is literally a visual of millions of single women sitting there scratching their heads over this evolutionary phenomenon. That's not to say that people don't need people, but our notions of what is supposed to happen are continually knocked on their asses and then we sit here and write blogs about the anachronism known as romantic love. If you want to know the truth, I am sure romantic love was dreamed up by the church in order to convince the masses that a higher power was involved in their crummy existences and that all they toiled about with was not without merit. It's like a 12 step program for the chronically afraid.




*Intelligence - Oh, do we lie the most to ourselves here. We make up tools continually to measure our smarts, but we've just proven our own stupidity in the mere action of entertaining the thought that we are allowed to systemize a field which we barely comprehend. We use our self proclaimed smarts to dominate others and climb to the top of the pyramid because ignorance and fear are closely tied. We are afraid of what we don't know, so if we know the most - we are the least afraid. At least that's what we tell ourselves, but we all know that the more you know, the scarier everything is. Ignorance is bliss. Flowers for Algernon, anyone?



*Immunity - Along with our tendency for giving ourselves more credit than we deserve, we somehow also believe that we are special. I guess it's natures way of making us give a shit, but seriously - a person not deluding themselves constantly knows perfectly well that bad luck happens all the time and it doesn't discriminate. There is some kind of weird bubble around most people who think that everything will always be alright. Their souls are shaken to the core when something does happen. Recovery then is almost impossible. We will one day see war in our backyards, and by that I mean people bleeding, buildings burning, etc. No, I am not a revolutionary or whatever name you call the people who push for change via violence (almost all groups desperate enough to make an impact), I am just saying no matter where you stand on this sphere, you will see it one day. You are not immune.

So, I guess in the end my advice is to live alone, stop thinking, and be afraid.

Hmm..not at all what I had in mind.


Oh well.

We Just Throw Parties

I call up my best friend, the Human Google, today and inquired as to what he's got planned for his Saturday night on this blessed of all weekends, The Labor Day extension. In the past, I'd be calling him up while I white knuckle it on some distant highway, driving my precious automobile to the most feared of all locations; a club made out of some old warehouse in the middle of the ghetto. I am usually still telling him about how my nerves have successfully made my entire digestive tract into a slip and slide as I swerve between pee soaked homeless men in order to park my car in a location that won't make it easy for them to use it as a lavatory. After this, I nervously walk up to the place, hoping that I've got my dress and make up correct to fit in at whatever hellhole I have somehow sacrificed my dignity to attend. Once inside, I am still nervous because not only am I an amazon, but I am also alone and can't tell if I will actually recognize my friends in the dark. Forget about hearing anything and forget about feeling the cell phone vibrate. The music is too damned loud and at this point, I think I may have a concussion from the bass.

After I get to the bar and am ignored by the female bar tender, I get my usual: vodka tonic. I do this for a few reasons; vodka tonics are strong, they won't make me bloat, the tonic eases my now vat of acid acting as a stomach, and they don't taste like a hypoglycemic nightmare. I drink and awkwardly stare in the dark at people that I am not sure are my friends. When I do see them, I remember that I don't know them all that well. Any friends that I am close with have learned that these kinds of situations suck. So, I dance a bit to the music that is too loud to be enjoyed. I look around and wonder if any of these people are dying of thirst like I am. I wonder if the man now grinding himself into me realizes that he is at level with my knee, and as much as my knees need lovin too, it's quite uncomfortable. Of course when I lose balance from this dance of midget on stork, he thinks I am being affectionate.

It's not a rare occurrence for me to be at these places on an all girl night. When us girls want to "stand in a circle around our purses and shoes"*, I am frequently the last to get hit on and therefor the "cockblocking bitch". I don't mean to be and, hell, who wants to admit they never get hit on? It isn't because I am super ugly or fat or anything. It's usually because I live in a place where short girls with tiny everythings are coveted by short men with tiny other things. It's just how this town is. I'll just say it: I'm white. That's not to say I can't dance or don't have assets. I am just not the type that would ever cook dinner in my stilettos after arranging my Precious Moments figurines when I come home from church with our twelve children, all named after my husband, who is the picture of machismo. Tall, white girls don't usually do it for these folks. So, I am left. If I do get approached, it is by the most intoxicated or the most creepy person in the bar.

My best friend, Human Google, often shakes his head in amazement when I tell him what I did the night before. He is eager to remind me that real people don't do things like that exclusively. Sure, once in a while it's fun to say you lost twenty percent of your hearing in an effort to get close to people, but for the most part people of quality know better; they usually throw parties.
So, for tonight, a Saturday night, I am sitting home writing long winded blogs and he is out at Vagina Slims, feeling uncomfortable while he drinks his screwdriver and girls with low self esteem dance on bars in glorified underwear. I know he is looking around right now realizing he's actually surrounded by horny frat guys, who frankly scare him and make him ashamed of his gender. Who knows, maybe he'll even try and rub himself on a random girl because that's what he is continually told is fun.

Nah, he's just standing there awkwardly screaming in order to have some sort of conversation with the guys he went there with. They will all come home without numbers or names, just as I have and wonder how the hell people find this sort of thing entertaining.




*Dane Cook reference

Yes, I am a dork

Slop + Mess +Art =

**Insert excuses for lack of blogging action here.**

They may include, but are not limited to, alien abductions, the removal of a Siamese twin, doing jail time for attempts on the president's life, and falling in love.

Decleaning Your House

If you are anything like myself, (a human being with no flaws at all, a fantastic physique, a face a model would kill for, and more money than you can count, but enough brains to invest it and do my own taxes), then you probably loathe the idea of cleaning, yet you desire the sanitation and relaxation that comes with a clutter free lifestyle.

Here is my revolt. Here is your guide to loving the character-rich apartment that a mess makes.

Rules

1. Refrigerators need to be turned off or thrown away:

   Refrigerators are cold, meaning they can hold food for a long time before it decays. This is

   both good and bad. You want your house to have its own fragrance so that people can return and feel nostalgic for the old times. The fridge stink can aid this, but it does take longer than – say, putting your leftovers on the windowsill or in the dryer. Also, an efficient fridge will take away from the colorful forms of life that you have brought into the universe. You are creating life from fuel. If that's not the greatest thing ever, I don't know what is. You are the god of your fungal colony. The fridge just delays your universe.
   

2. Drawers are stupid:
   
   Doing laundry is a necessary evil. It should be completely abolished, but lo and behold “society” doesn't approve of your own personal scent and it doesn't treat people kindly when it realizes the tie dye effect on your shirt is actually just a pattern created by rings of your own sweat. So, you're stuck cleaning your clothing. It's necessary to get rid of your drawers and scatter your clean clothes about the room creating colorful rugs and patterned piles of art. These piles of wearable art are also a wonderful alternative to furniture. They can be arranged to mimic beds, sofas, tables, and even litter boxes.
   
   

3. Dvds and Cds are excellent building blocks:
   
   I have walked into many houses adorned with shelves packed with DVDs and CDs. These fixtures are trite and uninteresting. I suggest, after sprawling your DVDs on the floor, building towers, houses, and even a domino-like trail of pillars. Now, your precious treasures have doubled their entertainment value.
   

4. Shower texture:

   Why is getting clean always a messy process? A bathtub full of products to rid your body of dirt do nothing but leave their films and shaving scum all over the place. Why even deal with this if your next shower just adds to the collection? You, fine homewowner, need to understand the value of saving. If you are patient, you will be able to reap the rewards of a uniquely textured bathtub. No more slipping on the smooth surface, and no more of that harsh white porcelain blinding you. Shower cake also holds heat, so you will remain in hot water longer than with a regular tub.

5. Vacuums suck:
   
   Carpet is coming back, people! Now, you are pressured into carpeting your wonderful tile or hardwood floor. That could cost a fortune! Fear not, a simple toss of your Hoover can actually create that soft, warm, shag carpet feel. Carpet build up will even be expedited if you own animals. Now you can stop cleaning up the shedding of your favorite pet. Throw that damned vacuum away and grow your own carpet with dust bunnies and dirt trailings.
   
   

So stop wasting your life getting rid of the inevitable. Embrace it and become one with the mess. You'll see that you have more time and energy and perhaps, if you are lucky, discover a new strain of bacteria.

Living on the Landfill

Let's go visit Genna. Drive two miles down the road to wait in the mile long line to get into her spectacular “gated” community. Waterfalls roar on either side of the guard house. The rush mutes out your inner screaming as you wait three hours to finally get inside of this cookie cutter labyrinth. Yes, it looks like a vision of conformity that only Disney's Celebration could truly emulate. The winding road leads you to a street where you slowly drive past each house, slightly pausing to see if you have counted exactly 12 houses in to find your best friend. Even the numbers on these cloned domains don't help. Is she 121145 or 124511? A car would be a helpful cue, but who doesn't own a Honda these days? A black Honda, or maybe it was silver. Fuck. Well, you pull into the driveway of a house that you “feel right” about and you knock on the door hoping you have either found your best friend or at least someone who resembles your friend. Genna opens the door. Jackpot. The houses get bigger, the rooms get smaller and you bunch into her broom closet of a room where you can't close the door because the foot of her bed is in the way. Silly girl, did you think you could have your room and sleep in it too? You sit on something that you may suspect is the vacuum cleaner or perhaps it is a sleeping dog. She goes on and on about her life in a matchbox home and you can't help but think of rotting diapers. Why is this image looming overhead? Because that is the image looming in the air. Yes, the breeze has decided to blow in a westardly direction and the visible green gas has now managed to cloud every part of the development, from the waterfalls to the man made lake in the backyard with the banks that seem to be melting into the hole that was dug to raise prices on the cardboard cottages. Genna's clothes, hair and cat now emit a trace remnant of these fumes. I have often looked at her pets, especially the dog-sized goldfish, that she has managed to keep alive and thought that their accelerated growth rate was due to Genna's excellent fish nutrition regime. I was wrong. It's obvious that whatever corrosive chemical they are using on that landfill has not only helped the gulls circling over it become as massive as eagles, but it has seeped into the water supply and the air supply enlarging everything within a three mile radius. Her cat is merely a stomach with legs and her eight year old niece is an amazon. The effects of the gas from the mountain of decay have also become psychological. Genna is now on an never ending hunt for a perfume that will block out the reality of her living situation. At night she gets up and takes showers to rid herself of the smell, something like burning eggs and moldy towels, but the water just ingrains the funk into her skin. Once in a while I question her family's decision to buy property on a hazardous waste site and then I think of my apartment, only two miles up the road and remember why I tolerate the location; it's the only place I could afford that wasn't an efficiency. I did trade a kitchen, a full bathroom, and a bedroom for some altered genes and cancer, but wouldn't you?