The Randomist

50 More Shades of Why Do I Keep Doing This to Myself

2017-11-06T15:20:00.000-05:00

Obviously I hate myself. I keep doing this. I keep watching this shit. Why? And you’re going to want to watch this movie as you’re reading this or else it’s not going to make a ton of sense. But borrow someone else’s copy so you don’t spend money on this because they deserve none of your dollars.

If I’m being perfectly honest it’s probably just for attention. I don’t go in for selfies so I just push my wits on people like a shameless humor hussy. A humsy? No. That sounds like a blow job being given by someone that seems wholesome and wears sweater sets and is really only doing this so her husband would agree to the family portrait with the CockaPoos where everyone is wearing the same sweater and she wanted him to look less like he was going to become a statistic on murder suicides and more like he doesn’t hate his entire existence.

Jesus fuck nuts. Welcome to my 14^th Annual Nervous Breakdown. I’m blaming Dakota Fanning. She isn’t even in this shit. It’s Dakota Johnson. But my mind immediately moves to tiny Dakota Fanning as Brittney Murphy’s co-star in Uptown Girls and God Damnit I have that song by what the fuck is his name stuck in my head. Why can I only think of Elton John and Bruce Springsteen when he is neither of those people? WHO THE FUCK IS THE PIANO MAN?

Billy Joel.

His name is Billy Joel.

There’s been a lot of stress in my life lately and it’s evidently just choosing to pour out of me right now as I break myself in by watching some terrible Bonus Feature called Darker Reunion and I AM ALREADY ANNOYED BY DAKOTA FANJOHNSON.

The director looks like every single divorced middle aged man that I’ve encountered at a party that was held in or around a garage or some other large pre-fab building. He would be the one wiggling his hips to “Boogie Woogie Choo-Choo Train” and trying to grope your mom.

But I could listen to Jamie Dornan’s real accent all day. The director talked a lot about making you more of a physical threat? MORE OF A PHYSICAL THREAT? I am so perplexed by that statement that I just held down the shift key for that whole sentence fragment instead of hitting Caps Lock. You beat the shit out of her with a fucking belt at the end of the last movie. Like, literally whipped her like Jesus in The Passion of the Christ except she didn’t get nailed at the end and you need to be more physically threatening? Were your pants no longer hanging in just “that way” and you needed to hit the gym to bulk up with a hockey booty? THESE WORDS DO NOT COMPUTE. ER. OR. ER. OR.

Okay. I will eventually move on to watching this movie and not what is evidently a fucking gag reel.

Deep breath in…… and let it out.

I have made margaritas of untold strength with tequila that I bought for no other reason than it had sugar skulls on the front and people are celebrating Dio de los Muertos this weekend and I really, really want some of the 300 tamales my co-worker was making to take to her church tomorrow. Fun fact: She now calls me Pepino. It means cucumber. How did this come about? My random ass fucking brain just thought the other day at 7:00am “I wonder how they say cucumber in Spanish. I bet it’s weird because cucumber is a weird word. My dad called them cue-cussins as a child because he has evidently always been special needs because that isn’t even remotely close. I think I’ll ask someone.” And now I’m a Spanish Cucumber. The word is fun, but less fun than I anticipated. I need those tamales. And more tequila.

I’m always torn as to whether I should watch the theatrical version or the unrated version because the theatrical version of The Exorcist was a fucking shit show of audience reactions and apparently that’s not the unrated version that was released a bunch of years later and I need to know what’s better or worse because I don’t want to have to repeat this performance again just to catalog the differences.

Also, do the words in this post count as today’s word count for NaNoWriMo? Asking for a friend. It’s me. I’m the friend. But for serial. Does it?

And awaaaaaay we go!

· The first words of the movie are “You silly fucking twit” and I’m like, I know, right? But he wasn’t talking about Anastasia and I feel like they could have called her a cunt instead of a twit and a bitch, at least a twat. Something. Damn. Earn this rating, guys. Work harder.
· Also, I grew up with yelling and name calling and shit being thrown and I don’t have nightmares about it or wake up in a cold sweat. Everyone say hi to my therapist! She’s playing along at home.
· Oh, now I feel like a dick. He’s burning the baby with cigarettes. Jay. Kay. I’d probably have nightmares about that shit too. I mean, I’ve been burned with cigarettes, but it was a legitimate accident. And I’m still afraid of being burned so, yeah. Totally understandable. Moving on.
· Could y’all not take some more stem off of those roses? They’re tall as fuck.
· The music is on point again. The people that score these films are still geniuses.
· Ooh, hey blonde illegitimate and evil brother of Christian Grey. Hey, girl, heeey. Spoiler alert? My bad?
· “Coffee. Weak and black?” LIKE MY SOUL? HEEEY-OOO.
· Mr. Hyde? Fucking seriously?
· Oh. Danny Elfmann. Musical genius.
· Ugh, it’s the laters baby guy. I will punch E.L. James in the lady business for that.
· Obvious foreshadowing is obvious. Looking at you similar looking brunette with mental instability.
· Token person of color. Oh, two of them. Both assistants or servants in some capacity. Tequila got me woke AF right now.
· WHAT THE FUCK, JOSE? THIS IS CREEPY, JOSE.
· “There’s just so much of my face in here.” – Me looking at my cheeks in every picture.
· “If I’d asked you like a decent and normal person you wouldn’t have consented, so I had to force it upon you like I did that awkward ass kiss when you were drunk outside of a bar. Because I’m a piece of shit.” – Jose
· Ah, fuck. I’m identifying with Ana again. Damn it.
· Whyyy would you put portraits of your friend up for sale without their consent? This seems super illegal. And this is coming from someone who was all up in Federal Copyright Law for a few years.
· Her awkwardness is so relatable and I feel so dirty because I would be all cringey in anything remotely resembling this situation too.
· Every time someone in these movies says “Hold on” I just know they’re going to say ‘Spider Monkey’ afterwards. I’m torn between relief and disappointment that they haven’t yet.
· Jose sort of looks like, “Shit. Now I’ll NEVER get to rape her. GAAAAH!”
· You keep saying talk but you also keep trying to mount her.
· Maybe it’s because I’m poor, but I have never understood why people basically drink wine in shots. Imma need you to fill that whole glass up, Clarence. Mama’s getting white girl wasted.
I have the subtitles on and it just said (Moans) and I was like… do deaf people moan during sex? How do they know? How do they know if the other person does? I need to feel someone’s chest while they moan. I mean, if you’re free and all Instagram Guy. That sounded dirtier than I meant it. You could totally just be eating really awesome cheesecake like you’re a Golden Girl while I molest your pectoral area. I have tequila. This is for science, man.
· “This is all spiky.” *Giggles like small child after their father rubs beard stubble on cheeks and neck for tickles. So, yeah. That’s super fucking creepy and sort of pedophiley even though you’re both adults. Have I ever been this innocent? She’s still oddly repressed for someone that’s been bound, gagged, and whipped with a riding crop.
· What is this dude’s obsession with Apple products? WHY ARE WE STILL USING LATERS BABY.
· I need another margarita. I already have heartburn. It is 9:30 at night and I’ve been up since 4:15 this morning and I have heartburn already and this is going to be unpleasant but I need to kill the pain holy shit what just thumped in the basement.
· HR Lady: I’m just here to encourage… while staring at you like I’m about to rip your baby from your uterus and eat it in front of you. Resting baby cannibal face isn’t a thing. You’re just psychotic… looking.
· “Calm isn’t really my forte.” Says the man that has no emotional reaction or facial expression to anything ever. If you were any calmer you’d be dead, my guy. Just piss on her in front of the boss and be done with it.
· Her kinky jokes are tamer than any innocent thing I’ve ever said in my life.
· *Is deliberately provocative* *Tries to make him make a sexy move* “You only have to ask.” “I think we should take it slow.” You might want to stop molesting him then. I feel like that’s a sexist thing I just said. Has the patriarchy won here? Or is it just human decency to not rub yourself on a person like a cat in heat and then be like J/K?
· *Throws vagina at him. But slowly.*
· I really like her apartment. I sincerely doubt she makes enough money to afford it, but reality isn’t welcome here.
· I get that they have their naughtiest of bits covered while they appear to be naked, but how awkward is it to have a married man that you have not and will not ever sleep with and who doesn’t seem to like you very much as a human pull your underwear off while making direct eye contact with your lady business? What does that part of the script even say “Sensually shakes head with face buried in crotch”?
· “Kiss me.” *Stands.* *Pushes back down* Oooh. I feel so awkward right now. It’s like the books all over again where she can’t call anything what it really is. Her vagina is ‘down there’ and now this is just ‘kiss me’. Just say what it is. I would have paid good money for an outtake where she says “EAT IT LIKE IT’S GROCERIES, BITCH!”
· The place I paused the movie to type this makes me super thankful that my blinds are down and that I don’t have any close neighbors.
· I’m not feeling the music here. I feel like it’s what 17 year-olds listen to while dry humping because they’ll be in love forever.
· HOLY BACK MUSCLES, BATMAN.
· “Why do you think you waited? For sex.” It was crucial to the plot that I remain unsullied, silly. Duh. But I’ll throw out some classic literature and fictional men that no one could measure up to (despite the majority of them being RAGING BAGS OF DICKS) as reasons because 2015-2017 is so similar to the Victorian ages where women were super repressed (If only there wasn’t some seriousness to that statement) that I thought I should behave the same way and wait for some guy to do some really creepy, rapey shit and also beat me before I’d put out.
· I’m so tired of looking at her boobs. Is she excited? Is it cold? Is there a person on set whose entire function is fluffing her nipples?
· “Kinky fuckery.” Hard pass. I feel like James read ‘Fool’ by Christopher Moore and stumbled across the phrase “Heinous fuckery most foul” and then ruined it for her own devices.
· Was any of that last bit necessary? A slide and a moan and then right into Terror Town with the crazy ex-girlfriend? This movie is actually LESS awkward than the Netflix show of that name.
· I was almost distracted enough by his ass to miss the 70’s porn bush on the other side, but alas, it’s there and I can’t unsee it. But his stalkery shit never gets any less weird.
· “No more lies.” “Okay.” Lies about all the things.
· Kim Bassinger looks like Murphy Brown. And made of plastic. It is NOT fantastic.
· I always get dossiers on all the guys I want to bang. Totally normal.
· White dudes always thinking they own women and shit. FUCK THE PATRIARCHY, ANA. No, not literally. Fuck. Shit, no. DON’T FUCK.
· You can touch me with lipstick, but no hands. “Then I’m all yours. Except, you know, my entire torso.”
· There are zero things about that get-up that look comfortable, so have some benwa balls.
· Odd thought, he’d look really hot with suspenders added to his pre-jacket outfit.
· Ugh, of course he put his balls in her mouth. Couldn’t just put them in his own mouth, could he? No.
“Now bend over.” “YOU’RE NOT PUTTING THOSE IN MY BUTT.” – Every woman ever. Also, I can’t stop laughing now.
· It’s time to break the seal. Mostly because I need another margarita. The dogs are asleep and are going to be mightily pissed at me once the blender starts and now that I thought about peeing I suddenly have to go so bad I’m going to have to turbo waddle to the bathroom.
· Score one for the home team. There was enough left in the blender for another glass full. But oh dear God the heartburn. I’ll just be over here eating Alka Seltzer fruit chews, downing Nexium, and binge eating dark chocolate covered peanuts. Obviously I’m no longer on my diet. I needed the carbs. I’ll back off of them again when I’m out of alcohol.
· Okay, I have a dumb but serious question. What is the point of masquerade balls? Those people still look exactly like those people except with shit around their eyes. It’s like the Clark Kent/Superman dumbassery and blindness. Is it because their noses are sort of covered too? If you know what a human being looks like because you’ve looked at their naked face on a few occasions I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you would probably recognize them with a partial mask on. Could be wrong. I work makeup to my Grandma’s funeral services/viewing/family dinner last week and my own relatives had to double take me. My eyelashes are naturally fabulous. I don’t know where the confusion came from.
· Rich people are extra as fuck. Wouldn’t it be smarter to take all of the money you spent on the ball and your gowns and tuxedos and limos and shit and just give that to the charity along with everyone else’s donations?
· Whoa. I was NOT expecting that voice coming out of that guy. He’s like a freshly shorn Side Show Bob. I feel real uncomfortable right now. I spoke too soon about the score of this film. The first song was great. I’m going to download that shit tomorrow. Every other song since has been displeasing to my ear holes. I am being aurally assaulted. Feel free to make your own sex joke because of phonetics.
· I am never charmed by anyone singing off-key. Even children. I will punt you.
· Marcia Gay Harden. Christian’s Mother: SVU.
· I think it’s the singer’s mouth. It’s too large.
· This bitch. I don’t want any kink. Please tie my hands and spank me. You need a keeper and possibly a helmet. Definitely a chastity belt.
· Dakota Johnson’s parents must be so proud.
· I really wish all a dude had to do was say “Come for me.” Life would be so much better for all of us. So much better. Has this woman never read anything about female orgasms and how our bodies are basically designed to work against us because our sex partners are selfish and lazy and it wasn’t until recently that anyone even understood anything deeper (haha) than the bare biological functions of the vagina? And that’s stretching things. Pun intended. The vast majority of adult human beings don’t even understand hymens or how they work. And there goes a tangent. I NEED MORE TEQUILA AND LESS FRUSTRATION WITH SOCIETY.
· “I know I sexually assaulted a minor child, but I did it to SAVE HIM.” Simmer down Michaela Jackson.
· Oh, Kim Bassinger’s face is so hard to look at. She needs Demi Moore’s plastic surgeon because hers done fucked up. I like her head scarf though.
· I made a typo up there and my very slightly inebriated ass tried to touch the word to fix it. I don’t have a touch screen lap top. I’ve had a smart phone for too long. I’m ruined.
· Why are they pronouncing Leila like Lela? Is it now Princess Leah? This isn’t how words work. Lei is always LAY.
· How fucking long is that lipstick going to last on his chest? Did he not shower after they had sex and before they went to the party? Musty ass mother fucker.
· She’s really bad at being emotional. Like, so bad. He’s not great at the acting either.
· Does he just fully stock everything he owns with clothes for Ana that perfectly fit every occasion?
· I can’t hear that Taylor Swift/Zayn song without hitting a really terrible falsetto. It makes me happy.
· Jack is a dick. But I already knew that.
· Finally, a successful and powerful black business woman on screen.
· She has really bad chicken legs. They’re like sticks. I think my arms are bigger than her thighs. *looks into arm toning exercises*
· The rooms in his apartment are the size of my entire house.
· “Does she… dust… in here?” Awkward Ana is the best Ana.
· Jesus. Last time we did this exact thing in the same way was totally different.
· The score has improved again. It will never live up to the sheer artistic genius and timing of Beyonce’s cover of her own song “Crazy in Love”. That was a piece of cinematic mastery.
· I get cramps in my piriformis muscle and that spreader bar looks like it would cause me to go into a full blown debilitating ass cramp. Holy shit. I spelled debilitating right the first time without looking at the keys.
· Okay. That flipping her around by the bar shit was pretty hot.
· Why do these people think I can read these tiny text messages at an angle? I need you to put them ALL up on the screen so my old ass eyes can see them.
· Jack is now a bigger dick than he was. He’s not obviously rapey like Christian from the first movie, but somehow worse because there’s not even the remote possibility that any of her wants him. I kind of feel like his entire character evolved out of a need to make someone look worse than Christian since Jose didn’t have enough substance to exist as barely more than a second thought. It’s really like she had to make every other man besides Christian and those in his orbit horrible so he’d look good in comparison. Why is this movie bringing out so much literary and social commentary? I’m just glaring at my glass full of margarita. Tequila has turned its back on me. Stop making me philosophical like pot. Except I think I’m actually making sense to OTHER people that aren’t also super high this time. My tolerance for this White Devil is apparently much higher than I anticipated and I’m sad about it. Not sad enough to take straight shots, yet, but still. This isn’t fun for me anymore. Now we have rape and danger and sobriety and I’m sad.
· Man, can I get a hot rich boyfriend that can throw his weight and money around to fix all of my problems?
· He’s being awkward and it’s cute and fuck this shit. No. Do not do this to me. I don’t want to like any part of him that’s not his body, specifically his ass.
· Apparently it was just Dick Bag Jack that made the HR lady look like she eats freshly snatched unborn babies.
· His office is really nice though. I’d live in that place.
· Thank you for putting the texts on the screen and not the phone. My old ass eyes appreciate you.
· Panties is such a weird word when a man tries to say it sexily. It makes it sound like they have the days of the week on them.
· Do not finger bang her in an elevator to Van Morrison. Don’t do that to him. Don’t sail her off into the mystic or dance her into the moonlight. BAD TOUCH. BAD MOTHER FUCKING TOUCH.
· She got one ball in on the break. That’s not super impressive. Running the table is. Good save. Obvious ploy, but still.
· He does not have a sexy grin. It’s mostly just awkward.
· “I’m going to be rough with you.” Proceeds to have run of the mill sex while bent over a pool table. It seriously doesn’t even look like he’s any good in bed either. There’s no style or finesse or technique. Very unimaginative.
· Melodramatic sad walk in overcast weather. Put a hood on to look extra broody.
· I feel like he would be a better actor in his own accent. It’s like he’s concentrating more on sounding American than he is his performance.
· Ooh, he let her touch them titties. It must be love.
· I don’t even remember what it was like to be in my early twenties when my boobs still had high hopes and aspirations and didn’t just look down all the time. Fuck you, 30’s.
· For some reason watching a guy do hand balancing in yoga is way hotter than any other exercise they could ever do.
· His back deserves an Oscar.
· Rita Ora went from being Catherine Zeta Jones in Chicago to trying to be Beyonce. She looks like she should be named Taylor.
· Obvious foreshadowing is still obvious. Someone’s gaze is upon them. The windows they pass say “Jack’s”. Wonder who it could be…?
· Of course Kate is all tan and glowy. She just won that surfing competition in Blue Crush.
· A good step towards equality would be as much male nudity as female. They’re super proud of their junk, so why won’t the show it?
· I KNOW this is a movie and actors fake shit all the time, but was his wife actually cool with him biting someone else’s nipples? I’d have at least a little problem with my husband sucking someone else’s nipples at work. Maybe he had a stunt double?
· It’s like watching a robot have sex.
· Of course your mother is happy for you. You just snatched a rich ass husband.
· I don’t find asking the father or father figure for a woman’s hand in marriage to be chivalrous. We’re not property. It’s not like asking to borrow a lawn mower. It’s a human being. Ask the woman if she wants to marry you not if you can have her.
· It just gets harder and harder to look at Kim Bassinger’s face. Holy shit. Sue your plastic surgeon. They’re terrible at it.
· I also kind of hate the announcements where the person says “I asked them to marry me. And they said yes!” Why the fuck would you make an announcement about it if they said no?
· Kim Bassinger sort of looks like Chelsea Handler in 20 years after constant drinking and cocaine use. But worse.
· Why does his crackhead birth mother look like Rory Gilmore? Is this a flash forward from the Netflix special where it ends with her saying she’s pregnant? It was the one night stand with the guy in the wookie suit, wasn’t it?

· Who’s going to clean up the damn mess in the pool house?
· Told you it was Jack.

This took a surprisingly serious turn to be a drunken review. I never became inebriated and the acting never became any less painful. I don’t have a catchy tagline to end this one with. I just wrote four thousand words about this shit and not a damn one on anything else. I will say that, like the books, this one is an improvement over the last. Now it’s just a run of the mill movie that got cranked out to make bank off of bored or lonely women’s fantasies around Valentine’s Day.

Just remember kids, if you want to try out the lifestyle that the author got so fantastically and dangerously wrong, you have to research, research, research and remember above all else that everything you do HAS to be safe, sane, and consensual. I’m not even about that life and I know that. Sex toy related injuries skyrocketed in correlation to the release of these books and I do believe that in this very specific instance that correlation is indeed causation. Don’t end up in the ER because you were ignorant and tried something you didn’t know how to do. And as a parting gift, I’ll offer you this helpful tip from the friend I’ve had the longest that makes a living selling rubber and battery operated penises to people… don’t stick anything up your butt that doesn’t have a handle. If you think you’re too embarrassed to buy a butt plug, just imagine how much worse it will be (and expensive) when you have to go to the ER to have a regular sex toy or ordinary household item (or food, you nasty ass, literally) removed from your anus because you don’t have a cervix in there to stop shit from entering Deep Space Nine. Also, the batteries on some of those vibrators last a long fucking time and you’re going to be real uncomfortable after a couple hours of that all up in your business.

Also, don’t ever use a food based product in or on or around any orifices that aren’t your mouth. That bacteria is going to cause in infection.

Keto AF or That Time I Went on a Sadness Diet

2017-08-28T16:13:00.000-04:00

I never realized how much I loved potatoes until I made a decision to just not eat carbs until I depressed myself into being thin. That's what Keto is about, right? You know what's super fun about this diet? Everyone is all YAAAASSSS, GIRL! ALMOOOONDS!!! And I'm just over here trying not to die because I'm allergic to almonds. And I love them. They just don't love me back. Kind of like that one guy. Dick bag. Still, giving up potatoes and toast is more painful than trying to overcome an unrequited love. I feel like there's a Taylor Swift song in here somewhere. Bitches can't even effectively eat their feelings now because all of my feelings live in carbohydrates.

I slowly eased myself off of those happy little endorphin producing shits and now I'm eating somewhere between 15-30 grams a day and I'm fucking over it. I almost had a nervous breakdown in a dollar store the other day reading the nutritional values on candy bars. Someone sneezed and I yelled "BLEEEESSS YOOOOUUU!"

I received no answer because people are rude and didn't understand how stabby I was feeling over the lack of chocolate in my life. So being the petty ass that I am I then yell "THANK ME AND YOU ARE NOT WELCOME!" Did I mention that I was actually in the middle of checking out while this occurred?

Fuck shit all of my paragraphs start with 'I'. This seems egotistical even for a blog that's about only me. Whatever.

An elliptical has also been involved and I am no more enamored of that piece of shit than I am eating Sadness Burgers with no bun. I've dropped some pounds though, so there's that. The night that I was the heaviest I've ever been was at a Cards game at Busch Stadium and there are pictures. Except in these pictures I don't look like I weigh what I weighed. I even sent the pictures to a friend and made her guess. She was 25 pounds short and now I'm upset, for the ONLY time in my life, that I didn't look fat enough in pictures. These Before/After shots are not going to be remotely dramatic. Like, what the shit, Body? Not only was I drunk off of multiple over-priced margaritas and looking goofy as shit, I was having an okay body day. What. The. Shit.

Look. Look at this shit. Guess my weight. GUESS IT! You won't hurt my feelings. That bitch ass scale did that the next day. I'll reveal the answer later.

I've set goals for myself with this whole weight loss journey. Obviously the big goal is to get down to my "fighting"/"one of the best bodies my whore of an ex had ever seen" weight, but I made mini goals along the way and I'm working on a reward system. Today I was basically like "Five more pounds and we can face rape a sheet cake" because I got very sexually frustrated about birthday cakes earlier and I'm not proud of how desperate I was for it.

I think once I hit 25 down (I'm waffling around 20 now) I'll go get my horrible tramp stamp covered because I'll be more comfortable lifting my shirt for a stranger while sober. (Judging you, Early 20's Miss Drunken Nipple Piercing WITH PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE BECAUSE YOU WERE A DUMB SHIT. Won't let your friends take pictures of your face to have memories of your fun times for forever, nooooo, but you'll sure as shit let some visiting piercer from Florida take a picture of your tits for posterity.)

I want to reach 30/35 down by my friend's wedding in October because she's always disgustingly fit and I'd like to dress like a white girl in knee boots and a cute dress. Maybe one of those romper dress things. But October + mountains = possibly frozen. Not a cute look. Guess I'll have to throw in an infinity scarf and pick some fucking apples while I'm at it.

As I head towards 40 I want to dress impeccably, like a woman in her 30's probably should be able to because she doesn't actually wear Batman pajama pants to work on a regular basis (they're comfortable as shit, y'all), have this face beat (makeup artist, not Ike and Tina), have my hair done and attend an honest to God ballet, orchestral performance (I feel like I got classier just saying orchestral), and an opera. And look like someone who has her shit straight.

If and when I manage to drop the 60ish pounds I want I'll honestly probably strip down naked and run through a densely populated area. Because dat ass.

Pssst. 185 pounds. 60 of it in my fucking cheeks.

My Drunk Review of... Fifty Shades of Why Do I Keep Doing This to Myself

2015-06-06T13:13:00.000-04:00

I’ve decided to get drunk and watch Fifty Shades of I Obviously Fucking Hate Myself. Being drunk is necessary for this because I don’t think I could handle it sober. I’ve assembled a Sexually Frustrated Spinster Kit that includes: Cheap Booze (Bud Light Mixx Tail Hurricane and homemade wine slushies), frozen Boston Market Dinner, and doughnuts so I can eat my feelings later. All I’m missing is several cats, but I’m sure in this instance we can just substitute with a large and neurotic dog. Ina Garten assures me that if I can’t go milk the tears of angels themselves, store bought will do.

I present to you now…

All the thoughts in my head while becoming increasingly inebriated while watching Fifty Shades of Grey.

I’ve cracked open a Mixx Tail and I don’t know why, but I’m disappointed that it’s so so much worse than I anticipated. I feel like I probably should have just bought some Southern Comfort and made them myself. But I felt that good booze would have been wasted on this. That’s why The Captain is sitting this one out. He too faaancy. You already know.
The good news is… compared to the Mixx Tail, this frozen dinner is delicious.
It’s been so long since I’ve had any alcohol that I’m already starting a buzz by the end of my Mixx Tail. I’m just going to watch Frozen until I’m finished eating. A pre-palate cleanser. Since I’m about to ruin my entire life by watching this bullshit.
Fuck you, Hans. You piece of shit.
Alcohol is really not helping me quit smoking. I kind of have no shits to give. I had to give them up for this.
No, neurotic dog. Staring at me from the other side of the chair doesn’t increase your chances of eating my dinner instead of yours.
Damn it. It’s 2:30 in the morning. It would be rude to run the blender. I guess I’ll just pour my white grape juice and Sangria concoction in a cup and drink it without slush. Which takes away about 25% of my enjoyment.
Don’t break the seal yet. Don’t break the seal yet.
The seal has been broken.
Okay. I’ve wasted an hour. I have to do this. I’m sorry Playstation. Just close your eyes and think back to all of the documentaries and TED Talks we’ve watched along the way. The things that make us look smart and cultured. Not this. Never this.
I can never skip through the previews. How many fucking movies is Julianne Moore IN this year?
The music is the only redeeming factor in this movie. Actually, this movie has tainted quality music. Damn it, Annie Lennox. You’re better than this.
Oh, all of his fucking clothes are grey. It’s some of that “symbology”.
Oh, you dress like someone’s grandmother to show just how different you are? Are you unique? Are you a special snowflake Ana?
Why is Iggy Azalea leading the clone army?
Could we not find another way to tie everything together besides his last name?
Do NOT identify with how fucking awkward she is. DO NOT.
Shit. I identified.
I’m going to offer you a job based on how badly you failed at this interview. I’ve been an awkward fucking mess in interviews and not one person has offered me a job or to sexually assault me because of it.
But holy shit, Jamie Dornan.
Who talks like this? Why are you taking her sandwich? Why are you letting her take your sandwich?
Jose just called you his heart and opened the door for you. How do you not know he wants to bang you?
Do Ana and Bella have the same mother? Who the fuck has a flip phone? Outside of Bigfoot shows anyway.
What a pleasant surprise I found you at your place of employment that I knew about because I’m stalking you.
You’re impressed by her ability to pull rope off of a spool?
Why does everyone want to bang her?
If you exercise control in all things, why are you letting someone drive your car?
Oh, his Irish is coming out. You can steer clear of me as long as you keep talking with your accent. And not turn rapey like your character.
Why is your hair always so bad? Do you even own a brush?
I’m really enjoying drunk Ana. Could we just keep her drunk for the rest of the movie? Because that would be so much better. “I will launder this item.” *snorts*
It’s not fainting when you’re drunk, it’s passing out.
As much as you chew your lips and as much as you allegedly threw up, how is your lipstick still perfect?
Okay, I’ve laughed a lot more than I thought I would.
“Laters, baby” is so much more annoying out loud than in print.
Is Kate actually Kate Bosworth? Is she going to teach Ana how to surf? Again, much better movie this way.
Fucking Ellie Goulding.
Dakota Johnson has her mother’s mouth. And little else.
(Operatic music playing) I watched a symphony perform with an opera singer the other day and it had subtitles. Opera sounds ridiculous and not at all well written when translated into English. A lot like this book.
Aaaand… I have to pee again.
The subtitles say “Exhales” and I feel like this sums up the movie pretty well. Makes me think of when my dog flops down and dramatically sighs like he is just so done with everything.
“Are you going to make love with me now?” The awkward hurts.
Hey! He said come and she didn’t!
This room looks like the set of a bad porn.
I can’t say I wouldn’t react the same way as Anastasia to this… stuff. Mostly out of curiosity and not interest. Because while he’s hot, he ain’t that hot. And I’ll pretty much try really hard to beat the shit out of anyone that comes at me with weaponry while I’m naked. Or fully clothed. I feel like this is how a lot of gun violence starts in domestic disputes. I’d shoot a bitch.
Why do people find finishing a bottle of wine in one fell swoop to be a challenge? I feel that this over half a bottle (plus the Mixx Tail) has not been enough for this. I’m still standing and seeing straight. I can still type almost perfectly without looking at the keys or screen. I’m about three bottles shy of where I need to be for this. Because I think after this point it’s going to be really hard for me to not start screaming obscenities at either or both of them.
“Men must have thrown themselves at you.” I’m sorry. What? Have you even met this hot mess? She’s basically like a more socially awkward version of me and I’m pretty fucking socially awkward. But at that point in my life I knew what naked dudes looked and felt like. And the only flip phone I had was a Motorola Razor. Holy shit, I’m old. Men have NEVER thrown themselves at me. Except Xbox Predator Ed and Bald Guy from the Casino that said he had something to tell me and the next thing I know, he’s licking my teeth.
“Rectifying the situation.” I’m sorry, but where was the asking? I’ll give it to the movie makers, this is a lot less rapey than the book. Because regardless of how well he’s primed the pump, forceful and rapid thrusting during the loss of virginity is almost guaranteed to never be pleasant for the recipient. At all.
Okay, the people that scored this film are geniuses. Except for their lack of judgment concerning Ellie Goulding.
He has a very nice man ass.
The set dressers get mad props too. Ha. Get it? Props. Yay alcohol!
I’m not buying Marcia Gay Harden as his mother.
Oh, walking through the Washington forests? Are you going to make her say what you are? Are you going to call her spider monkey?
How can you make a pop culture reference when you have no knowledge of anything remotely modern?
Why is only the back of your collar popped?
Fuck. He said that dumb shit again.
I really wish they had Chuck from the Nerd Herd setting up her computer.
Bitch, I’m half lit. How do you expect me to listen to him read this bullshit while simultaneously reading these bullshit e-mails? And I have to pee again. Fucking. A.
Did he just spit wine into her mouth? What the fuck, yo?
How safe is it to keep biting open your condoms?
Can we please read these emails aloud? Even with my glasses this is becoming difficult to keep up with.
She’s wearing a Burberry coat? What?
Why is there no lighting in his board room? Who the fuck has backlighting and no interior lights in a professional setting? Seriously? How can they even read these papers?
I think butt plug is pretty self-explanatory.
“You want to leave?”“Yes”
“But your body tells me something different.”
Look, R. Kelly. Her mind may be telling you no, and her body, her body, is telling you ye-eh-es. But there IS something wrong with a little bump and grind when her mouth parts are telling you no. Fucker.
I thought the Step-dad was supposed to be very taciturn? He’s pretty upbeat for a cylon.
I might let a dude smack my ass a few times in exchange for an Audi. I’m not even ashamed of that.
This feels a lot like a father disciplining a wayward child… but dirty…
Dude… if the person you’re seeing is causing you to burst into tears out of confusion and pain, you should probably not be seeing them anymore. We’ve all dated that one asshole that did that. The vast majority of us got over that and moved on to someone better.
Aaaaand she’s back for more and worse. Awesome. You dumb shit.
Are these the famous pants that hang just so off of the hips? Because they’re pretty much normal pants on normal hips. It would have been better to leave them unbuttoned though.
Oh shit, Beyonce. It’s about to go down.
The Dirty Dancing armpit graze? Cool it there, Patrick Swayze.
Did he just do the bend and snap?
That vee though…
Seriously, the person that scored this film needs a Goddamned award for this shit.
I have a funny feeling in my pants…. And it’s because I just knocked my fucking drink over in my lap. Jesus Christ.
I’m not terribly well versed in BDSM, but where is the aftercare here? You don’t just dump your submissive off and leave them alone in a room.
Is his sister Catherine Zeta Jones from Chicago?
It’s still pretty amusing to me that his mother worked with the SVU. It’s pretty fitting.
Fuck, I have to pee again.
WHY IS THERE NO CORKSCREW IN THIS HOUSE?!?
Are you serious with this fucking flip phone thing?
Mother fucker, if I fly across the country to get away from you for a few days and you FOLLOW me… we’re going to have a problem.
Even if you take me up in a glider. And it’s awesome. I’m still going to be mightily pissed.
Why does she giggle like a small child?
Why does this glider look like sperm?
Aaaand he told her to hold on tight. I braced for the spider monkey. Thankfully it never came.
Oh, okay. You’re pissed off and want her to go into the room with the hitty shit. Negative.
If someone asks you to remember the safe words, some shit is going down. You might need to run.
That was pretty anticlimactic actually.
WHY ARE YOU ASKING FOR THIS?
It’s like Liar, Liar when he says “Hit me again, Ike. And this time put some stank on it!”
I kind of wish they had made it as graphic as it was in the book.
Why did you stay in his house?
I get that you needed to make a point with this, but seriously? You could have safe worded out. He could have fucking noticed your misery and stopped. THIS IS NOT HOW DOMINANT/SUBMISSIVE RELATIONSHIPS WORK! This is not safe, sane, nor consensual.
At least he is capable of understanding the word no.
That’s the end? Seriously?
No, I do NOT want to buy the Blu-Ray so I can enjoy the Unrated Version with Alternate Ending or anything else. I’m not upset about missing out on the 70’s porn bush I’ve heard about and if I have to look at or listen to E.L. James pontificate on anything, breathe, or even exist in the same world that I do, I might just kill myself. Like she should have done to this book.

Overall impressions: Less rapey than anticipated. It was funny in parts that I’m not sure were meant to be funny. It’s basically like a B version of New Girl. If Jessica Day was open to being sexually assaulted.

Two wine bottles for this one. Because you need to drink the other three just to get through this.

Brittany Maynard

2014-11-02T23:19:00.001-05:00

For the past month or so I've become slightly more optimistic and religious than usual. What spurred this on? The announcement that 29 year-old Brittany Maynard had made the decision to end her life with dignity rather than giving in to the unforgiving decline that accompanies the terminal diagnosis of a Glioblastoma. I applauded her bravery in making this decision. Not just because it was so final, but because of the extreme opposition she was met with from strangers.

The last article that was published in People announced that she wasn't firm in this decision. If November 1 came and she was healthy and feeling fine, perhaps she'd reschedule it and look at her options then. If November 1 brought with it pain and suffering and seizures, well, she had her answer. A man with the same diagnosis came forward with an open letter to Brittany about how he'd turned his back on preferred treatment methods and had incorporated a more holistic approach. He had outlived his prognosis and was improving a little every day. This was really the only argument to her decision that I found acceptable. He wasn't condemning her decision or telling her she was wrong or immoral, but he was shedding light on a corner of possibility that may have gone otherwise unnoticed on her journey. He never tried to persuade her, only to educate her.

I'm not a religious person. I have my beliefs and I will pray when the mood strikes, but I've never been the kind of person that put too much stock in the power of prayer. Sure, I'd seen it work a time or two, but I'm more about action and less about hope. She had hope but was taking action just in case. I also have a slight belief in miracles. I believe that they've happened, but I never thought I could bring one about or directly witness one. But in these last few weeks I've been consumed with the hope that if a miracle was going to happen, that it would happen to Brittany Maynard. I prayed for that miracle more than I've prayed for anything else in my life. Maybe she'd have one last MRI that showed that it was shrinking. Maybe it would be gone. Maybe there would be a breakthrough in treatment that would buy her enough time for another miracle and another shot at the life she'd planned and would never have. Maybe her mother wouldn't be left childless and her husband wouldn't be left a widower. Maybe their dreams would have another chance.

I never once used this hope as an excuse to demean her decision, but God I prayed that it wouldn't be necessary. Brittany Maynard became this huge presence in my life for some reason. I've never met her and I had never heard of her until this came out, but I felt oddly connected to her and invested in the outcome of her life. With each article released, my heart would break a little more. I'd see the pictures of her fulfilling her final wishes and her smile was absolutely stunning. I'd met someone like this before. My cousin Sarah that passed away at the age of 20 from cancer. She talked about her future until the day she was gone. She had that same mile wide smile on her face until she could no longer summon the energy for it, and yet she held on. And that was okay. She held on for as long as she possibly could because that's what she wanted. Had Sarah said that she was ready to go before her body was ravaged with cancer to the point where it couldn't even contain a single sip of water, we would have fully supported her. Just because Sarah stayed doesn't mean Brittany had to. They had a similar outlook on life. They accepted their fate but kept the constant hope that maybe God would notice a mistake in the paperwork before it was filed. Seeing these pictures gave me just a little more hope for that miracle, because how could God take something that shined that brightly?

And then the article with her Grand Canyon pictures was released and that mega watt smile was still in place but was in glaring juxtaposition with the words "final" and "last item on bucket list" and that hope started to crack a little, but the ferocity with which it continued to bloom was a little shocking. The emotional investment I had in the outcome of the life of a stranger was staggering. My heart was breaking for her, but so filled with that hope. I could not for the life of me figure out why this was happening. It had been less than a year since someone from my graduating class, a girl that I had befriended in middle school but lost touch with afterwards, had died from skin cancer. I was deeply saddened by her passing, but that has not come close to the level of emotion I've felt during this.

And then it hit me. It wasn't just that she was basically my age, her 29 to my 28. It wasn't just because the idea of a life not lived is one of my greatest fears, or even that the enormity of her dreams could not compete with the comparatively small mass growing in her brain. That those dreams would die with her and how much watching it happened hurt. It was because I saw myself in her on a level few people comprehend.

I recently found out that I have an incurable brain disease. It is in no way even comparable to a Glioblastoma. It will almost assuredly never become fatal, let alone prematurely take my life. It can be progressive, and it has been, more so than I'm entirely comfortable with, but this will never be a terminal diagnosis. The description is "a serious neurological disorder", but no one that knows I have it really thinks of it as anything more than a nuisance. It's not the comparison between the two that bothers me, because except in very severe cases, there is no comparison. It's like comparing a freckle to stage four basal cell carcinoma. The location is the same, but very little else is.

What bothers me is that something has gone irrevocably wrong inside of my head and that scares the shit out of me. One day she's fine, the next she's dying. One day I think I'm having a really unfortunate set of headaches, the next something is wrong with my brain. Neither of these things can be fixed. Both of these are inside of our most cherished organs. Both things come with varying levels of existential crisis.

I'm scared. And I'm invested in Brittany Maynard's life because even after everything that's happened to me, there was still a very small part that believed I was still invincible. And I'm not. Will I ever have to come close to the agony of her decision? The chances are slim to none. But that something went wrong inside of my brain, the one thing I like about myself above all else, my one true strength in life, makes me worried that something else could go wrong. I didn't even notice it for over twenty years. What will it take for me to notice something worse?

So, here we have a heart full of hope, prayers on top of prayers for a miracle for Brittany, for just one last chance at the life she wanted, an oddly intense emotional attachment to a stranger, and a small connection to her. God, I wished so hard that she would wake up on November 1 and have the best day she's ever had in her entire life. That there would be no aches, pains, swelling from steroids, no threat of seizures or strokes, and nothing but miles of blue sky and happiness at her front door. I don't know that I've wished for anything harder. My mind had corralled the two of us together without my noticing it and I think that fueled the fervor. A miracle for Brittany meant that I would be fine. That this was the worst it would ever get and that we would have long, healthy, normal, fulfilling lives. And that Brittany would have become an advocate for those that never had an advocate before. That her showing of strength and pride and dignity would become a beacon of light in a sea of suffering. And that she would be around to see it and to keep it shining.

And then November 1 came and went without a word. No news is good news, right? And then about an hour ago I saw the article that told the world that Brittany Maynard's life had ended and by the end of it, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn't even get the words out to tell my mother, who assures me that my extreme emotional reaction to the passing of a stranger just means that I'm a good person and not actually crazy. I've calmed down a bit since, but every time the article appears on my news feed, I cry again. I may still actually be crazy, but I think I wanted her to live maybe more than she did. She had resigned herself to this in a way that I hadn't. Not that she lost hope, but she had to have accepted this long before her decision was made public.

All of my emotions aside, I want to say again that I applaud her decision to pass with peace and dignity and grace and that she could spare herself and her family the agony of watching her light be snuffed out before her body followed. That because of this decision her light shines even brighter and touches more people than it would have in her needless suffering. She's become a beacon to those that couldn't or wouldn't stand for themselves and those that never knew they had the choice to do so. We have yet to see or understand the impact she has had or will have on palliative care, pain management and probably even the race to find long lasting treatments and cures for things we thought were incurable. And the fact that she could stand with all of that dignity and grace in the face of such vehement hate and protest against a completely personal decision makes her shine brighter and in turn shines back on the ugliness that people have perpetuated in these last few weeks. She could have buckled under the pressure of "But you don't LOOK sick" or "This is for money and attention" or "This is an abomination, a sin, God doesn't condone suicide" and even the mind boggling "You're only hurting your family by not letting them live through your unimaginable suffering the way I am for my children". No, madam, your children will be permanently scarred by having to watch their mother wither away into a ball of misery before gasping for her dying breath. Brittany was far braver in her choice to not suffer and to go on her terms.

This decision is the most personal decision anyone could ever make. What's right for you isn't what's right for someone else and your personal preferences should have absolutely no bearing on someone else's decisions. I discussed something similar with my family years ago and Brittany's passing has only cemented my decision and made me more vehement that my family carry out my wishes. My greatest fear is being severely burned. My entire family knows that should this come into being that I absolutely, 100% do not want to live through it. I want to die. It would be worse than the tortures of hell to force me to live through the agonizing recovery and disfigured existence of this against my will and beyond cruel to allow it to happen. They all know and they all agree that if an when, they may wake me up long enough to say goodbye and then they'll send me flying. And they're all okay with it. Even those that believe that suicide is one of the highest of sins agree that that would be the best possible outcome for me.

Not to argue semantics, religion, or over philosophize the situation, but is it really suicide when death is/was imminent? If a perfectly healthy individual that could likely live another 60 years decides that life just ain't worth living and ceases to continue living it, that seems wrong. But if a young or old person that knows that A.) They would be dead already were it not for medical intervention and that they will have no quality of life and unimaginable suffering for what's left of it, or B.) Someone knows that in a very short period of time they're going to die and that it's going to be slow and agonizing and their mind will go before their body, is it really suicide or is it just altering the time frame? Is it REALLY against God's wishes? If that's your opinion, you're basically asserting that God WANTS these people to suffer needlessly. What if altering the time frame was God's plan all along? What if them taking control of their destiny was the entire point and they were meant to die on that day and time and not shortly down the road? Are we now speaking for God?

If you can stand before me and say that if I threw you into a burning building with a loaded weapon that you would still choose to burn to death or if I threw you in there with your small child and a loaded weapon that you'd watch THEM burn to death, then I'll give you the argument. Or, if you can stand before me and say with 100% certainty that YOU are the voice of God and can attest to God's every thought, whim, and plan and then prove it to me, I'll go your way. Until either of these occur, respect Brittany Maynard's decision to alter the timing and save herself. Respect her family's privacy and their grief and the fact that it was probably lessened by the preparation and peacefulness surrounding it. And respect Brittany's memory. Let them be in peace and know that it all happened for a reason, even if it was so devastatingly disappointing.

In Which I Unofficially Run for a Seat in the North Carolina Senate. Seriously.

2014-09-03T21:50:00.002-04:00

I’ve been giving this issue a lot of thought, about five minutes worth (I think fast), and I’ve decided to unofficially run for Senate. You see, the two options looming before us are both terrible. They can’t even debate each other with any skill or credibility. There were no empty political promises or in-depth discussions of the issues our state is facing. It was pointing fingers and deflecting blame.

“She said she’d do X but then did Y.”

“I’d like to speak on that. HE said he’d vote on Y but didn’t.”

This entire thing is a farcical exercise in futility. There will be no winner here if either of them wins and they have no competition. They treat everything important and financially vital to this state as a joke. So, I’ve decided to give them a joke.

I, Heather Ray, am unofficially declaring my bid for office.

That’s right, y’all.

I know next to nothing about the internal workings of government. I try to ignore politics as much as possible. I have no shits to give about unpopular opinions.

So, I’m basically perfect for office. Ignorance is key here, right?

The chances of me winning are laughable, but with your support, we could gather enough votes for them to notice. We can garner enough attention and competition to let them know that the people are sick and damned tired of these money grubbing politicians serving nothing but their own personal interests.

Can you imagine the fear this would strike into their cold and empty little hearts? That an unknown, unqualified, unemployed woman from a town with two stoplights can get enough votes to remain competitive?

What would this say to them?

It would say that we’ve had enough. It would say that one false step and they’re done. It would say that we’re finished taking it sitting down and we’ve decided to do something about it.

It will also bring a great deal of media attention to our fight. There are thousands of us in the film industry alone that are trying to vote these people out of office. Some of the offices have no competition and therefore no viable second option. WE have to be the option. WE have to be the change.

And if something went horrifically wrong (or right) and I won, can you imagine the hell that could be raised? We would have a voice. I have no “special interests” other than sleep. And no one can really bribe me with that. I have no shits to give about the game, glad handing, or backdoor deals. I just want to fuck some shit up.

I am unemployed. I work/worked in the film industry. I have been a victim of violence and then the state for their ineffective advocacy programs. I have a dog that injures himself without trying and a cat with AIDS. I am impoverished and have no health insurance and no way to pay for health care, especially not dentistry.

What does this say about me?

I stand for the common man. I stand for those that can’t stand for themselves. I fully support film incentives and the thousands of jobs and millions of dollars it brings to our lovely state. I am an advocate for animals. I understand the need for a change in healthcare policy. And I’ve got nothing but time on my hands right now.

Would it not be absolutely hilarious to watch the utter confusion on the faces of broadcasters and politicians alike when they start to tally votes and Heather Ray just keeps popping up? Would it not be even sweeter to watch that confusion turn to fear when the votes reach a number high enough to become competitive? I don’t really have an interest in winning, but I have an interest in fucking with people.

And fuck with them this would.

Let’s band together for this campaign. I’m talking print ads, social media attacks, and Youtube campaign videos that are hilariously sarcastic, yet poignant.

Let’s take the “campaign” viral and show them what the film industry is capable of achieving. That we can take them down with laughter and Facebook likes.

That we are so much better at this game than they are.

That we are Marshall! Wait, no. That’s not right. But it’s a good inspiration.

Let’s show them that we can take them out of office with ease, if not with dignity.

This November, let’s fuck shit up.

Write in your vote for Heather Ray.

Write in your vote for hilarity.

Let's start #OPHeatherRay

Ray, Heather N. vs. Wal-Mart, Inc. Part Four

2013-11-30T16:43:00.000-05:00

These e-mail exchanges take place between August and October. A few days ago I get another email. This time from her paralegal. This woman is extremely polite and well written. She’s my dream, y’all. Or was.

Good Morning Heather, I hope you are doing well today.

We received the attached Mediator Order from the North Carolina Industrial Commission.

Once a Form 33 is filed, the parties must participate in a mediation conference. If the case does not settle at the mediation, then it will be placed on the hearing docket to be heard before a Deputy Commissioner.

We can hold the mediation conference in our office (we are located in the Rich As Fuck area of Charlotte, NC). Please let me know if you will consent to this, and I will get started setting this up.

Thank you!

Paralegal

I can work with this. I can really work with this. Except for the home field advantage.

Is there another place that would work for you? My work schedule and location doesn't leave a lot of room.

Hi Heather,

Where are you located? We may be able to find a location in the middle.

Have a great Friday and I look forward to hearing back from you.

Thank you!

See? This is how it should have been from the start. She’s willing and eager to work WITH me.

I live on the east end of My County and work in That City. It generally takes an hour to make it to Your County because of the traffic. Somewhere around This Place or That Place would be preferable if possible. How soon can this be scheduled after a location is agreed upon? Fridays are better when they're over. Enjoy your weekend.

Hi Heather,

Would you be agreeable to come to our office for the mediation during "off peak" hours to cut down on the traffic. Say around 10:00AM or 2:00PM. I do not know of a location in This Place or That Place unfortunately. We are about 30 minutes from Your County. We will be mediating with Mrs. SAME LAST NAME AS THE FOUNDING PARTNER OF THE FIRM. Please let me know if you consent to this, and I will work on getting dates.

Thank you!

And there it goes. What part of this is inconvenient are you not understanding? I’m fully aware of how long it takes me to get to where you are from where I live and it’s more than 30 minutes. It’s over an hour away. And are you fucking serious with your mediator? She has the same last name as what’s on your letterhead. That sounds like it’s fair. Why don’t we just get my mom to mediate? She’ll be super objective.

It took two hours to talk myself out of sending this as a response.

I'm still tempted.

But I refrained and sent this incredulous sounding (or at least I thought it was) email.

Last Name as in Last Name, This Guy, That Guy, and The Other One?

And then I get this.

Hi Heather -

Yes - our office (Last Name, This Guy, That Guy, and The Other One) at this address.

Please let me know when you can.

Thank you!

I KNOW THAT THAT IS YOUR OFFICE! I am not nearly as stupid as you think I am. I know that that's where you goddamned work you fucking moron. It's only on every fucking piece of correspondence I've ever received from you people.

I was actually referring to the mediator's name being the same... I need to check on a few things as that location, as I said, is inconvenient for me.

It saddens me that I had to point that out.

Hi Heather,

Yes, the Mediator’s last name is “Last Name” and she does not work with our firm. There is no affiliation; she just happens to have the same last name.

Thank you!

Forgive me for not believing you. I'm not a big believer in coincidence when it comes to people who lie for a living. Her last name is "Last Name", so that's not REALLY her last name? Is she living under an assumed identity? Is that why you put her name in quotations?

Would you be willing to hold the mediation at the My County Public Library in This Town? They have meeting rooms available for depositions and mediations.

Hi Heather, 

I will check with the Mediator to see if she will be willing to travel to the Your County Public Library in This Town, NC. We will need (2) private rooms at the library. Are you aware of a cost to hold the conference rooms? I doubt our Client will be willing to pay a "room fee" given that we can hold the mediation in our office for free. I will let you know if the Mediator will consent to driving out there and if you could let me know about a fee that would be great.

Thank you!

I'm starting to get really confused by your use of quotation marks around things that don't need them. Are you trying to talk to me in code? Pass me secret messages? I'm to meet with "last name" at this place as long as there aren't any "room fees"? Like, I'm actually going to be meeting your fixer and I should bring money or supply drugs or make sandwiches? I have no idea what's going on here.

I just keep seeing this:

I have no idea what people mean when they do this.

There is no fee.

For fuck's sake, it's a public library. They don't generate a ton of profit. I doubt they're going to charge you money to sit in a public space for an hour or two and argue. Quietly.

OK- let me check w/the Mediator to see if she will be willing to travel there w/out a fee.

Thank you!

So now we can't even be bothered to spell out complex words like 'with'? PROPER MOTHER FUCKING USE OF THAT FORM OF PUNCTUATION, BITCHES! Is that professional? AAAAAND.... And I never agreed to your mediator. That's really going to fuck up your day when I point that one out, isn't it? My only goal in this is to cause you as much trouble as I possibly can because the longer this gets dragged out the worse it's going to look on the Little Attorney Who Stopped Talking To Me.

I seriously see this entire mediation process playing out like the first part of Wedding Crashers. I will, at some point, yell "DON'T LOOK AT ME IN THAT TONE OF VOICE!" "YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU'RE TALKING TO ME!"

Pray for me, y'all. Because this shit is far from over.

Ray, Heather N. vs. Wal-Mart, Inc. Part Three

2013-11-30T15:59:00.000-05:00

Picking up where we left off. I shot out another email to the lawyer.

I'm assuming by 'settlement agreement' that you are referring to the 'clincher'? If so, or if the settlement reads anything like the 'clincher' did, I am not at all interested in signing it. I will be blunt with you, one of my major concerns during this ordeal, that has lead to me not signing anything, is the carelessness with which documents and correspondence have been drafted. Other than a strain on my time, the idea of a full evidentiary hearing doesn't bother me. It won't have any kind of negative impact on my end of things. However, the errors in grammar and spelling have worried me a great deal. I will not sign any legal document that has errors. Even after I corrected the repeated misspelling of Dr. I’m Tired of This Shit's name, you continued to misspell it. I can only make assumptions as to why. I have to leave for work now, but I will try to respond to any further messages if I get the chance.

Finally. I finally got that out. It was the extremely censored version, but still. Notice that I say that I am on my way to work and will respond when I get the chance. Note that shit. Note it hard.

Heather,

That’s fine if you do not want to agree to a clincher. The only error in the clincher was the spelling of Dr. THANK GOD SHE FINALLY SPELLED IT RIGHT’S name. I told you I would be more than happy to correct that. The clincher was not drafted carelessly. Are you interested in accepting the rating with a Form 26A?

Yes, it was drafted carelessly and no, that was not the only mistake. Not even close. I received this email as I was turning out of my driveway. I obviously couldn’t respond to it. I obviously couldn’t respond to it while I was working either. They don’t pay me to answer personal e-mails. They pay me to work. I usually pop outside for a smoke around 5. A mere three hours after this was sent. At 4:30 I receive an email from her legal assistant.

Good afternoon Ms. Docket Director:

Please see attached correspondence from attorney Dip Shit, and Defendants’ Form 33, Request that Claim be Assigned for Hearing.

Thank you,

Legal Assistant

That bitch went ahead and filed the mother fucking request for a hearing. What part of “I’ll respond when I can” did you not understand? You probably saw that I had read your email and took that to mean that I was ignoring it. I wasn’t. But let’s just skip merrily down “that road”.

I then received mail from the Industrial Commission saying that they had received the request and approved it. And then I got a letter saying that we had to attend a mandatory mediation before the hearing could be scheduled. At first everyone told me that I could not attend mediation without representation. Then they told me that I seriously needed an attorney present because it’s Walmart and also a “very powerful” law firm. And then they said “We won’t represent you this late in the game.” What the actual fuck? So, I guess having a lawyer would be awesome but no one wants to help because it’s for chump change. And also, I’d have to pay them a large chunk of my tiny settlement. I understand how the law works when calculating the settlement, but I heartily disagree with it. I do manual labor. I NEED my arm. I need the shit out of my arm. If it doesn’t function properly, I can’t work. If I can’t work, I can’t pay bills or feed myself. Or my dog. THINK OF THE DOG! Now, being that I do manual labor, I don’t make a ton of money. The lawyer does though. Comparatively speaking. If she was in the same situation she would be getting ten times the amount of money that I am. Why? Because her salary is ten times higher than mine, but her physical workload is probably 10% of mine. She, theoretically, doesn’t need her arm as much as I need mine. She also has a bigger financial cushion to fall back on should she become incapacitated in some way. I SHOULD get more money than she does. But that’s not how it works.

Are you or someone you know a lawyer? Specifically a lawyer licensed to practice in North Carolina? Do you know any lawyers that fit that bill that also happen to hate the absolute shit out of Walmart and dickish defense attorneys? Lawyers that maybe like overly sarcastic short women and their blogs that go largely ignored for long spans of time? If so, email me. Seriously. If you've got some time on your hands and you'd like to offer me some really stellar legal advice, or better yet, free representation that comes with a glowing review on this very blog, hit me up. Bitches needs help.

I have more to share with you. Just wait.

Ray, Heather N. vs. Wal-Mart, Inc. Part Two

2013-11-18T04:34:00.000-05:00

I wrote and deleted so many messages to the Little Attorney That Could (suck it). As you see in the handwritten notes on the “clincher” settlement agreement, I had a lot of thoughts to share and I typed them all up so that I could mail them back to her with the unsigned agreement. That never happened. My sister works in the orthopedic industry and fielded several of my questions. She passed some of them along to her friend who happens to work in claims management himself. He thought that their proposal for $400 to close out the claim was completely ridiculous and said that I should counter with an ungodly high amount and then request a form 18M which once signed by my doctor and approved by the Industrial Commission would basically grant me the right to seek treatment related to the injury for the rest of my life. I ended up sending the LATC this:

First Name Only,

At ten months post-op, I am still experiencing some level of pain on an almost daily basis. This ranges from a nagging ache when there’s a change in barometric pressure to a sharp pain and inability to utilize the arm after maintaining certain positions while sleeping. A few weeks ago the joint started catching and popping as it did before surgery. This concerns me. While I have been fully released by the doctor, my activities and actions are still limited because of this pain and fear of further injury. I have had to put my life and plans on hold for over a year and I’m not entirely sure when or if I’ll be able to complete these plans in the future.

The hospital sent me statements from my surgery and I am all too aware of just how expensive surgery and the resulting medical bills from the treating physician and physical therapist can be. Taking all of this into consideration, I am, at this time, declining the “clincher” agreement offer of $3,110.80 that will permanently bar me from having any future related medical bills covered under this claim. I would, however, be amenable to signing a ‘clincher’ agreement for the sum of $50,000.00 to ensure that should I ever require surgical intervention again (there is a considerable risk associated with this type of injury and surgery) I would be able to seek proper medical treatment without facing the fear of financial crisis.

I have requested a form 18M from the Industrial Commission should we not be able to come to an agreement concerning the “clincher”. With the amount of issues I continue to have I do not feel comfortable signing anything that would preclude me from receiving further medical care as needed.

Bam, bitches! I used big words and everything. I knew there was no way in hell they would ever go for that but I was hoping that it might open the door to negotiations. Nope.

Heather,

We reject your offer to settle for $50,000. Dr. Misspelled Last Name has given you a full duty release and has not recommended any additional medical treatment. We are not interested in settling your claim for any additional money.

With that being said, we will authorize a follow up appointment with Dr. Misspelled Last Name. Troll will authorize the appointment with Dr. Misspelled Last Name’s office. Since you are working, please call his office to schedule your appointment at your convenience.

We still owe you the 6% rating to your arm ($2,703.60). I have attached a Form 26A that allows us to pay you that rating once approved by the Industrial Commission. Your medical claim will remain open until the time period lapses pursuant to the law. Please let me know if you have any questions. Although, please note I only represent Wal-Mart and Claims Company and cannot offer you any legal advice.

Again with the name! Christ on a mother fucking crutch.

First Name,

That was more of my “line in the sand” than an offer, but I thank you for taking it into consideration as such. I will schedule the follow-up appointment with Dr. LAST NAME SPELLED CORRECTLY AND IN ALL CAPS AND ALSO BOLDED AND UNDERLINED IN CASE YOU MIGHT MISS IT at my earliest convenience. We will move forward from there.

I’m aware of who you represent. I would find it odd to be having this discussion with you if you didn’t represent Wal-Mart.

Bam again. I will be a shit right back at you. I will be a shit back at you so hard that you probably fumed about this for the rest of the day and told all of your co-workers about it. And in the middle of your fuming you will send an e-mail to the Deputy Docket Coordinator or whatever for the Industrial Commission that you CCed me on via snail mail. And you’ll fuck that up too.

See? Advising also advising. Good job, Skippy.

Heather,

Will you be accepting the rating? Or will you decide after seeing Dr. Misspelled Last Name Again Two God Damned Minutes After I Corrected It For You, You Fucking Brain Damaged Sea Cow?

Little Attorney That Obviously Cannot

Jesus Herbert Christ. Really? No. No, I am not going to accept the rating until I see Doctor You’re Just Fucking with Me Now, Right? This was childish. This was highly unprofessional. You KNOW she did that shit on purpose. *Stomps feet on ground while throwing tantrum*

I told her I’d decide after my appointment with Doctor Whose Name I Spelled Correctly. Again. But less shouty.

Heather,

Troll went ahead and scheduled an appointment with

Dr. I Done Fucked This Shit Up Again Because I Hate You on October 1st at 11:00 AM. Thanks.

Little Attorney Who Has Lost Her Goddamned Mind

(I didn’t even bother to address her by name)

Please consult with me before scheduling appointments on my behalf. That time and date will not work for me. Something came up over the weekend that took precedence over scheduling a follow-up visit. I'm going to call and cancel that appointment and let them know that I will reschedule when this situation allows me.

My dog was hit by a car. He had horrible road rash from his toes to his upper thighs. All on the inside. I cried. It cost me a lot of money because he managed to do this after my vet had closed for the weekend and Banfield is ridiculous. I ended up treating and bandaging the wounds myself and taking him to the vet on Monday where I paid LESS for him to be sedated, cleaned, and bandaged than I had for the other place to see him and give him a shot. I had no time to be worrying about simple bitch and her shit. Mick is totally fine now, by the way.

Heather,

We are just trying to get you the medical treatment you requested. We saw that you are no longer working for Wal-Mart, so we went ahead and scheduled the appointment. It is our right to direct medical treatment. If you have gotten another job and have a certain schedule, we can work around that. We can only wait so long before we will file our Request for Hearing in order to pay out the rating.

Look, ho. You can direct whatever the fuck you want to. Traffic, air traffic, the NASA launch program, or a broadway musical for all the shits I give. You do not and cannot direct my time or my life. I said I would take care of it at my earliest convenience. There was nothing convenient about my dog being hit by a car.

Oh, I quit my job at Walmart! Fucking shit hole. Worst years of my life. I have been SO much happier since I left. I honestly believe that every problem I had was caused by that place. But I guess she thought that I was now an unemployed Just a Person who also happens to be stupid and desperate for cash. Hooker, please. I quit because I found a job making twice as much money. And it’s not in retail or customer service. And there you go again with “that road”. Isn’t bullying and threatening, however subtle, unethical? I will file the request myself if it gets you off my nuts. I sent a reply but my email app decided not to send it.

Heather,

I have attached Dr. I Spell It Like This To Ruin Your Day’s medical report. Do you want to proceed with settlement or accept the rating?

Little Attorney That Should Just Give Up

No. No. NONONONONONONONOOOOOOOO. No.

I tried to email you after the appointment and it was returned to me. I need a few bits of information from you so that I can send in the form 18M.

IC File #

Emp Code #

Carrier Code #

Employer FEIN

Insurance Carrier name, address, phone and fax numbers.

Because fuck you. That’s why.

She told me to check the attached form. Hint hint. It was missing information but I don’t give a shit. And I still haven’t sent that form in because I’m stupid.

Heather,

Just a heads up, I will be filing a request for hearing this afternoon in order to ask the Commission to allow us to pay you the rating. This will take us to a full evidentiary hearing. Also, if you have filed a Form 18M please note you must send me a copy. We have the right to object and file a response.

Thank you.

Little Attorney Who Just Went There

Oh, no! She’s going down “that road”! Also, she fully intends to shut down that form as soon as she sees it. Way to be subtle. And also, jump up my ass lady.

Are you not getting my emails? I get an automated response saying they are being delayed, but nothing that says they are undeliverable. Mail me the form and I'll return it with a copy of the 18M. Do I also need to send a copy to Troll? If you refuse the form, I can then file my own request, correct?

(She’s now not addressing me at all)

I have not received any emails from you. What form are you referring to? The 26A or the settlement agreement?

Little Attorney That Has No Reading Comprehension Skills

Seriously. I refused, repeatedly, to sign the settlement agreement. Why do you think I suddenly had a change of heart? Because you’re touched in the head? That’s really the only reason I can come up with. Of course I meant the 26A. Good job not answering my questions. I guess they were just rhetorical.

Ray, Heather N. vs. Wal-Mart, Inc. Part One

2013-11-18T03:51:00.000-05:00

So, now you know where I was working...

Remember when I was telling you about how I had gotten hurt at work and filed for Workers' Compensation and how everything went to shit after that? Yeah. Apparently when you ask the claims management lady, who I will only refer to as Troll, to send you the "clincher" agreement for your perusal and then you don't send it back in a timely fashion and then you just kind of dodge all of her phone calls, she gets a little angry.

See, when I was fully released back to work with a disability rating, the company owed me a settlement payment. Troll laid out my two options. I could accept the straight rating for something like $2,700 (which is a ridiculous amount of money for all of the shit I've been dealing with for going on two years because of this) or I could accept the "clincher" agreement for an additional 15% ($400). What is a clincher? It means that you basically sign away any right you'll ever have to seeking more compensation in the form of money or medical treatment. Forever. A regular settlement covers you for two years and leaves open the possibility of you reopening the claim at a later date should the injury lead to major problems later. They wanted me to sign away my rights to needed medical care for 400 fucking dollars. I told her to send me the paperwork and that I would look over it. She ended the conversation with "Okay, we'll just send this to our defense attorney and forward it on to you."

Defense attorney? What? When did this happen? What the fuck is this shit? That was my first clue that I should probably worry about this agreement.

About two weeks later I get a giant packet in the mail from a law firm.

The Coke bottle is there as a size reference.

It weighed a good three pounds. It contained the agreement and all of my medical records. It was ridiculous. I set the medical stuff aside and started reading the settlement agreement. Or trying to. Now, legalese is confusing with it's weird ass phrasing and whereas' and heretofore's, but what tripped me up was the bad grammar and the constant misspelling of my doctor's name. You see that stack of paperwork? It was on 75% of the pages. Seriously. Look at this shit.

Each of the thirteen times she used the doctor's name, she misspelled it. This isn't counting the emails I'm going to share with you. You'll see various handwritten notes asking her to refer to attached notes. Those were never sent. Some things I didn't actually say, some were outright fabrications, the others were taken completely out of context and used in a way that was intended to make it appear that I was to blame for any lingering symptoms I had. Like quoting me when I said my dog jumped off of a swing and caused me to jerk my arm while also pointing out that I told the PA that I had stopped wearing the immobilization sling prematurely. I was wearing the sling when it happened. What it doesn't share is that my arms flew up on their own in an instinctual move to prevent my sudden downward motion. Or that I was sleeping around two hours out of every twenty four because the sling was causing me way more pain than I had without it. And that the DOCTOR told me two days later that that was okay. What she did there. I saw it.

Lawyers are supposed to be master rhetoricians but this one failed. I don't think she had any reading comprehension skills to speak of either. Just zoom right in and read over that shit. Look at the corrections I had to make. Would YOU sign that shit? I didn't think so. I guess she just assumed that since I worked at Walmart I was stupid.

Well, I didn't sign it. Obviously. The lawyer called and was super nice and said she would fix the mistakes. That I should just mark them out and initial them and SIGN IT ANYWAY. Negative, Ghost Rider. Not going to happen. Then I just kind of stopped answering the phone when they called. Then I got a shitty voicemail from the Troll. The rest of this story is best told with emails.

Ms. Lawyer,

I apologize if I have inconvenienced your firm in some way by not sending in the agreement in a more timely fashion. Life has a problem of getting in the way of paperwork. There are a few things in the agreement that I felt needed amending and I am in the process of making annotations right now. We had previously discussed my concern over the inclusion of payment to counsel that I never retained and the primary physician’s name being misspelled throughout. I will have the unsigned document in the mail to you no later than Tuesday. Once it has been redrafted to reflect these (and other) changes, I will revisit the issue.

I left a voice message for Troll at Claims Company explaining this issue after she left one for me to say that if I didn’t have this resolved within the week, she would be filing a motion with the North Carolina Industrial Commission to pay out the rate and not the settlement. I, too, spoke with a representative from the Industrial Commission and she explained that there is no time limit for me to sign this type of agreement and that if such a motion were filed, I could appeal it.

Sincerely,

Heather Ray

I thought that this was an appropriate enough message. It hit just the right note between bitchy and I’m Not a Fucking Moron. It showed that even though I worked for Walmart, I could still keep from getting walked all over by a lawyer. A brand spanking new lawyer. A brand spanking new lawyer riding a power trip with her Napolean Complex. Turns out bitches thinks she has something to prove.

Her response.

Heather,

Thank you for getting back to us. I am more than willing to make changes to the agreement. Would you have time on Monday to discuss the changes? I can make them while you are on the phone and send you a new version right away. This would save some time.

It is true that there is no time limit to sign the Agreement. However, we do owe you the rating and have been trying to contact you for quite awhile now. That’s what Troll was talking about, filing a Request for a Hearing to get the IC to order you to accept the rating. I hope we don’t have to go down that road. It would not be a motion and it would require a full evidentiary hearing.

The Little Attorney That Could

She just immediately disposes of any formality. I’m not Miss Ray anymore. I am Heather. I can only assume that this was done as a power play to show that she somehow has more authority and control over this situation than I do. I have now been downgraded to Just a Person.

As you saw in the photos of the settlement agreement, there were far too many issues to be sorted out over the phone. It would have taken much longer to address them that way and it would have led to much arguing. This is the start of the subtle threats. “I hope we don’t have to go down that road.” DUN DUN DUUUUNNNN!!! Not THAT road! Oh noes! You mean the road where you waste more of your time and Walmart’s money by calling in witnesses to repeat everything contained in the medical paperwork and where the judge rules and then later sends me a check for the exact same amount you legally have to pay me anyway? The road which has no negative impact on me whatsoever? Because that’s a terrible threat. I mean, at least throw in some taunting that my mother was a hamster and my father smelled of elderberries. Fart in my general direction once or twice. Toss a cow over the parapet. Tell me you’re going to viciously point your finger at me from across the room. All of that is way more frightening than “That Road”.

Lady, I squeezed money out of a tight fisted and almost legally retarded Indian woman over a wage dispute. That took longer than this and resulted in way less money. Not that you’re giving me that much to begin with.

I then get another email. This time it’s from Troll at the Claims company.

Heather –

We had made several attempts to contact you and had not heard back. I as an adjuster have procedures I must follow on my end to meet certain expectations in the claims that I handle. In a situation such as this, where granted there is no time frame for an associate to sign an agreement, I unfortunately have to do things on my side to try to move a file towards resolution. When I did not hear back from you I decided to take the claim a different direction towards resolution.

I hope things are well with you as I know life can get in the way of things like paperwork. I didn’t mean to come across the way I feel I did in reading your email.

Thank you for getting back to us so promptly with an update on the papers.

Troll

“We had made.” We. HAD. Made. Where are your commas? I KNOW that I harp on bad grammar constantly and that I am guilty of abusing it myself, but I’m not a professional sending out business emails. I am Just a Person. Way to quote my own words back to me, Troll. Your attempt at snark is duly noted and dismissed. You’re not very good at it. I had a boss tell me once that I was allowed to call someone stupid as long as they didn’t realize I was calling them stupid. I’m way better at this and I’m not really at risk of being fired, so I’ll concede two points to you because your hands are tied. “I didn’t mean to come across the way I feel I did in reading your email.” Oh, you mean as a total cunt? Because you totally nailed that one. And yes, you did mean to do that. I had actually left her a very droll and monotone voicemail about my chat with the Industrial Commission before I emailed the lawyer. I explained that I had no intentions of signing a legal “instrument” that contained so many errors. SO MANY! And then I ended with “If you have any questions you know how to reach me. Thaaank yeeeeeew!”

This shit really only goes downhill from here, guys. But I’m going to share it all with you. Because I love you and because I know that you’ll find something I missed and join me in my Not Just a Person, But Also a Giant Asshole Club. Comment. Comment loudly and proudly and share this with the world. I'm going to need some help with this.

Other People's Bill Collectors

2013-07-29T19:06:00.000-04:00

Someone, who shall remain nameless, has used my name and number as a reference on things in the past. When you're a reference and said person changes addresses and phone numbers, you get called. A lot. So you tell these collectors of bills that you are NOT that person, do not SPEAK to that person, and sometimes that you don't even know who they are. Please remove my information and let's not speak of this again. Please and thank you.

And then you tell them that repeatedly over the course of a few years. And then you report one or two of them to the Federal Trade Commission for harassment or for phishing or scamming or because their voice sounds stupid.

And then you get fed up.

Like, righteously and mightily pissed and well beyond fed up because JESUSCHRISTIDON'TOWEYOUMONEYWILLYOUPLEASESTOP!

And then the yelling happens.

Today I awoke from a nap because my mother was currently screaming at her oxygen provider because they wanted to re-bill her for something that was refunded to her because it should never have been taken out of her account to begin with and I know your name isn't George Washington Carver. You're in India. Your overly patriotic fake name doesn't make me identify with you and I can't understand a fucking word coming out of your mouth. Elocution classes are a worthwhile expense, offshore call center people.

I also had a world class fucking headache because I'm all "I NEED GLASSES SO I WON'T DIE WHEN I READ THINGS" and then I'm just "I CAN SEE THIS SHIT PERFECTLY FINE SO I FORGET I HAVE GLASSES TO STOP THE HEADACHES" so then I get a horrible headache and have to wear the glasses after I eat a lot of pain relievers. Even when I don't read things or need to navigate around large, easily noticeable objects because I tend to plow into them with a lot of force because I think they're over there when they're really like two inches away from me.

None of this matters or probably makes any sense,

Woke up. Screaming. Headache. There we go. I had a voicemail on my cellular telephone device that never has enough signal to be useful where I live, so I call it from the house phone and instantly become irate because these bill collectors have called again. I filed bankruptcy to stop these calls and now I get them for people who are not me. Righteous. Anger.

I write down the number and call them back.

It rings and rings and rings and rings and my anger is just steadily growing because my head hurts and I hate whoever is going to answer even though they didn't call me personally. I hate them. Hard.

"Thank you for calling _____, how can I help you?"

"Well, you can start by removing my damned number from your system and leaving me the hell alone!"

"NO! YOU can start by addressing me accordingly!"

(NO YOU JUST DIDN'T!)

"Address you ACCORDINGLY? And how would that be?" (I'm a little loud at this point, as is the guy.)

"I'm sure your mother (MY MAMA WHAT, SON?) advised you at an early age to answer the phone with 'hello' before you start..."

"YOU LISTEN TO ME YOU PEDANTIC LITTLE PRICK ----"

"NO! YOU LISTEN TO ME! blarljfohifokhjfldkh------"

I hung up on him.

I was seething! I have never been quite so angry about any 30 seconds of phone conversation in my life! But I realized that he hadn't removed my number from shit and that this would keep happening, so I went outside and called him back.

*ring ri---* "Thanks for calling ____"

It's the same mother fucking guy, y'all. The same. Mother. Fucker.

"Hello, Sugar. How are you today? I don't want us to fight anymore, but could you be a dear and do me a favor?" (I'm Southern and have an accent, but I really poured it on thick here.)

"Yes, ma'am, what was.... I'm sorry. I can't *Dies laughing* Oh my God. *more laughter* What did you need?"

Now, I'M laughing too because this whole thing was fucking ridiculous.

"I need you to take this number 000-000-0000 off of your call lists because I'm not the person you're looking for."

"So, you don't know ____ (Completely mangles last name)?"

"(Corrects last name.) Yes, but also no."

"So you're not speaking to them?"

"That's right. And I'm sorry about earlier. I keep getting calls from these 855 numbers, which is a strange number, so I assume it's always the same company and I keep telling them to stop and they never stop."

"I understand. I've taken your number off. Have a wonderful day!"

"You too."

The last time I had gotten a call, I put the number in my phone but had forgotten to call back and go through this with THEM and so I called THEM too.

*ring ring*

"Hello, darlin'. Did you get another call from us?"

I died.

Zoloft Zombie

2013-07-19T13:17:00.000-04:00

I suck at this. I don't even feel that bad about sucking at it either because I just really never WANT to do it anymore. I've had SO many things that I could have entertained you with over this last year and I just didn't feel like it. Those moments are gone and so is the rage that would have carried me through the posts that should have accompanied them. And that makes me mad. Those moments needed to be recorded for more than altruistic or entertainment purposes, which I will sort of cover in a bit.

I do feel that I owe you at least a brief-ish explanation as to why I just disappeared for so long. I'm not going to even try to make this funny but it may happen on accident. It really just depends on how angry I become.

I made the truly horrible decision to injure my shoulder at work last April. I compounded that stupidity with the truly enormous load of dumb ass known as filing a Worker's Comp claim. My work life took a turn for the worse as you would expect when you hold your large box store employer accountable for their bad planning and your bad luck.

The day after I filed this claim my (I can't think of anything to call him that's not derogatory) boss wrote me up. He made it his mother fucking mission to ruin my mother fucking life. At least at work. He bullied me. He pulled me into the "office" for stern talking-to's on a weekly basis with his pet bitch about how I was unproductive and kept disappearing, or so says the anonymous person who apparently gets paid to watch me and not do any actual work. I had one functioning fucking arm. My dominant arm was in a sling and I was put on restrictions where I wasn't allowed to use my arm in a job that requires two hands for just about everything. So, yeah. I guess I was less productive than usual. For months on end he would have these threatening talks with me that never resulted in any disciplinary action because he knew he was making it up and would have no proof of anything he'd accused me of if he pulled the security tapes like he should have. I was also written up and threatened with write-ups up to the point where one bad move would get me fired. It was illegal retaliation and discrimination and no one gave a flying fuck when I reported it.

It got to the point where I was getting so angry that I would have panic attacks on a daily basis. This caused the PTSD to flare up in a bad way. I wasn't sleeping, I could barely eat, and the thought of going to work and seeing him made me physically and violently ill which of course lead to absences and the aforementioned write-ups. Right around the time the anxiety started flaring up I went back to the free shrink and had to start a daily regimen of Zoloft. To be fair to the Zoloft, it did manage to take the worst of the edge off and allowed me push through the nightmare that was work without having a complete mental breakdown. That's where my fairness with it ends. It also blunted the edge of everything. Fun. Life. Goals. Dreams. Whatever I found pleasant and fulfilling in life became a thing I could no longer summon any enjoyment or energy for. So I stopped writing. The major goal of most of my life was taken from me. I blame that mother fucker whose name I want so badly to spread across the masses. He's a childish dick who has never amounted to anything and takes pleasure and pride in belittling and putting down those that aren't like him. Wow. You made it to middle management on the store level of the largest employer in the world. Feel proud, you useless cunt.

I had an actual legal case with this, but haha, they don't pay me enough to afford a lawyer. And another, bigger haha: The promoted him. Every single person in the store that had an ongoing Worker's Comp case was retaliated and discriminated against by him and we all complained. He did what he was there to do. I hope you choke on a dick, person whose name I won't say. Yet.

Anyway, yes. The Zoloft kind of ruined everything that he didn't, including this blog. I stopped taking it the day before I had shoulder surgery in November. I don't recommend the shoulder surgery. I didn't regain "full use" of my arm for almost six months after it. Which is another reason why I haven't blogged. And then we add into it that even though Fuck Face is gone from my store, work has started to suck again and the edge is back because I wanted to grow back the feelings that Zoloft stole (they didn't come back, just the rage) and well, my PTSD is the worst it has ever been in regards to anxiety and anger. I throw things now. It's not as freeing as you would think because then you just want to throw more things. All the things. Just throw 'em all. I'm just so Goddamned angry all of the time at everything. Which is apparently hilarious to everyone until the throwing and screaming starts. Then they just look really afraid of me.

I have a plan though. A plan to get me away from the situation for awhile, to have a lot of fun, and the best part is... I think this fun escape plan is actually going to go a long ways toward treating my PTSD. All will be revealed in time and know that I'm probably going to need some help from whoever it is that still checks in on this dead blog from time to time.

So, This Happened Earlier...

2013-01-23T21:26:00.000-05:00

This happens more than it should. You start off asking a perfectly innocent question and then shit starts getting real in Oz. I'm not sure if I'm pleased with the turn of events or ashamed of myself for having no control.

Hannah ** also, if anyone has any tips on caring for 4wk old puppies that the mother stopped nursing but they weren't ready to stop...that would be greatly appreciated.

12 hours ago · Like

Heather Facebook ate my comment. I'll try this again.

***Related to post and not entertaining***

10 hours ago via mobile · Like · 1

Heather You should feed them 3-4 times a day at regular intervals and aim for the same time every day. You can try to schedule when they dirty bomb your house with their unexpectedly rancid surprises.

If you know what they were feeding the mother, try to feed them the puppy version of it. Might help minimize the damage from the aforementioned biological warfare attacks since they've been mainlining it since the womb. Or just make them more likely to eat it because that's what their mom ate before she dropped them off at the library and took off to Tijuana with that sketchy Dalmatian, Tito, from two blocks over.

The milk isn't even necessary unless they just won't take the gruel at all or if you just feel better about using it at first. Just don't give them cow milk. It's about as nutritious to dogs as water and way too fatty. Sort of like liquid Twinkies. Don't let them eat their feelings. It feels good now, but it will feel a lot like shame later. Then they'll have to eat Shame, too. A deliciously vicious cycle.

9 hours ago via mobile · Like · 1

Heather There is something deeply and irreversibly wrong with me...

9 hours ago via mobile · Like · 2

Zach Ol Tijuana Tito lol.

9 hours ago via mobile · Unlike · 1

Heather If I could get a no chewing guarantee and knew that they had some sort of force field that would repel my sexually deviant and soon to be neutered lab mix, I would take one. I don't think my dog has left me enough sanity to go through the EAT ALL THE THINGS! stage again while constantly having to protect the virtue of everything, living or inanimate, that smells appealing to him. Mostly cats and small woodland creatures. If you throw in a bonus inability to use the bathroom inside, I will take them all and trade you a traumatized but really, friendly cat.

9 hours ago via mobile · Like · 2

Heather Tijuana Toto is bad news. Hide yo kids. Hide yo wife.

8 hours ago via mobile · Like · 4

Heather Not Toto. He's so bad that my autocorrect won't let me type his name right.

5 hours ago via mobile · Like

Zach They're brothers. Toto got hooked on the bad stuff while in the Land of Oz. Same stuff the Munchkins were on. When him and Dorothy came back to Kansas, he couldn't shake it. But Tito, I've heard, is much worse.

5 hours ago via mobile · Unlike · 1

Heather I knew that Lollipop Guild was a front for micro organized crime!

5 hours ago via mobile · Like · 1

Zach The Wicked Witch of the East was gonna rat them out. They through her under that house.

5 hours ago via mobile · Like

Zach Threw* my bad

5 hours ago via mobile · Like

Heather Their arrival from Kansas at that time was no coincidence. Stumpy Two Toes from the East Side Shorty Squad was sending a message. Y'all came to the wrong neighborhood, it said. He needed muscle and he needed someone to get his inhaler off of the top shelf, because, fuck you, Roland, that shit ain't funny. Given her instructions, enough hallucinogens to take down an elephant (just the really small ones they had at that roadside petting zoo right off of the Red Brick Road exit) and the threat of being sold into a life of slavery with the other Reachers, should she fail, Dorothy set off to give the Wizard a message he'd never forget.

5 hours ago via mobile · Like · 1

Zach Nobody likes Roland. I heard, from the Cowardly Lion, that he turned the sprinkler on the Tin Man while he was cutting wood. I wouldn't mess with him though, he'll take your knee caps out.

4 hours ago via mobile · Like

Heather He was later involved in a terrible "accident" that confirmed the rumor that flying monkeys love midget meat.

4 hours ago via mobile · Like

Zach Yep, it was a sad story. VH1's doing a show on his life. From his childhood, to his drug abuse, to his "short" time in the adult film industry. Kind of a tell all. I hear his widow Bridget is went through a shallow depression during the filming.

4 hours ago via mobile · Like

Heather The part where his former adult film star Chuy Bravo, alleged lover of boss Chelsea Handler, gives his heartfelt eulogy brought tears to my eyes. It was tough to watch. Going from fluffer to fame to having to make a living from selling Trojan balloon animals on the streets is hard and leaves a man a little bitter. Falling short of his dreams sent him over the edge and straight into a life of crime. He merrily skipped over small crime and was reaching for the top. Sadly, it was just out of his grasp. Roland " Little Pun" Goldstein had many enemies, but those that knew him before he tried to climb that ladder to the top will miss him dearly. In lieu of flowers, Bridget is asking for donations for her leg extension surgery. She just wants to rise above it all and aim for something higher in life.

4 hours ago via mobile · Like

Zach I gotta hand it to Bridget, she's a bigger person than most munchkins that have been in her shoes. What I couldn't understand is why producer Marv Levinsteen, who was friends with Roland, would just turn his back on him after his bout with ED. I mean sure he kinda ruined the film with "Tiny" Tina Levey, but to knock him all the way back down to low budget films with D list actors? That's just cold.

3 hours ago via mobile · Like

Heather Even professionals need a little help from time to time. Medications have really stepped up their game. They could have cleared that hurdle together, but sometimes wounded pride is just too big to swallow. (That reminds me, Tina has left the business and started a non-profit to help uplift out of work actors when they're low.).

I think I'm going to die of puns and go straight to hell where Tiny Tim will beat me with his crutch.

3 hours ago via mobile · Like

Zach I guess it is kinda small of us to be making midget jokes. Oops lol

3 hours ago via mobile · Like

Heather We should learn to be the bigger person and walk away.

3 hours ago via mobile · Like · 1

Zach We should...but what's the fun in that?
Didn't we start out talking about a puppy?

3 hours ago via mobile · Like · 1

Heather I think it was mentioned.

3 hours ago via mobile · Like · 1

Zach It was short lived.

3 hours ago via mobile · Unlike · 2

Heather Quickly overshadowed by our tall tale.

3 hours ago via mobile · Like · 2

Zach Our short stories

3 hours ago via mobile · Unlike · 2

So many puns. So. MANY.

I felt bad about how offensive this was until I remembered my dad telling me that during the filming of the Wizard of Oz, filming had to be stopped or postponed because the munchkins were going behind props and having monkey sex. So I googled.

Click Here to Ruin Your Childhood!

And then I google imaged Tiny Tim.

I had to go looking for that specifically because what I found was a fucking nightmare.

The fuck is this shit?

Mother fucker has red eyes, baby teeth, and probably skitters. With a crutch. This is what I fully expect to be waiting for me in hell. Except it gets worse...

Scrooge should have just let this one go...

I may never sleep again. Tiny Tim and his ukulele playing ass.

Don't google image this shit unless you set very specific parameters. Ever.

Not Quite Dead Yet

2012-12-22T22:22:00.003-05:00

There’s a very long ~~excuse~~ explanation for my taking over a year off from blogging. Long, as in, I don’t feel like typing that shit up one handed. ß Clue #1.

Zoloft, working for giant pieces of shit, work related injury followed by shoulder surgery for same six months later. Six. Months. That’s how long it takes for them to realize “Ow. That shit hurts.” means something.

That’s all you get for now because my dominant arm is bound up in one of these bitches:

I Can't Feel My Face

2011-09-29T14:56:00.000-04:00

I now present to you my trip to the dentist, as told through a series of text messages and Facebook statuses.

Me: Fuuuuuuck. They’re running behind. No fix for me today. Yay. Why can’t they just handle this in one fell swoop? I hate sitting in this place with these people. 10:59am. (I was in the dental office at the Health Department… because I’m poor and they charge less.)

Me: I’m starting to feel poorer, pregnant, and less smart…. I’m a terrible person. 11:08am.

Me: These kids across from me are borderline creepy… and I think the woman with them is slow. Most of these kids are just emitting some kind of annoying pheromone. There should be an adults only day. 11:13am.

Me: This one kid seriously looks like an old man. I’d take a picture if I could. 11:15am.

Quasi-Mexican: Gross. I take it you’re off today? 11:17am.

Me: Yes. What a way to spend it. I think one of these crotchlings has shit… Something smells… My ovary just shriveled up and died. 11:18am

Me: Nope. Pretty sure it’s the mother that smells that way. 11:25am.

Quasi-Mexican: That’s just nasty. 11:36am.

Me: In all fairness, the bathroom smells like that, but it did get stronger as they passed by. I feel like I should brush my teeth like 5 more times. 11:38am.

Me: Come shoot me? 12:08pm.

Me: $183 later, my tooth is filled, my eye is numb, and I have a severely weakened tooth that is mostly made of filling. That is why it broke. Yay. 1:05pm

Heather Ray: I feel a giant blog full of hating coming on. If you can not control your crotchlings, I will punt them across the room. Being at the dentist is horrible enough without having to deal with your walking welfare checks. 2 Hours Ago.

I almost grabbed a little boy. I almost said, “Do you know what happens to little boys that don’t listen at the dentist? No? They take you to the back, strap you down, and rip your teeth out one by one while you scream.”

But what came out of my mouth was: “They’ll take you to the back, strap you down, and bring out ten little girls to kiss you all over your face.”

My self-control is phenomenal. And I probably need asshole lessons. I also kept myself from smacking a woman across the face while screaming “HEY! FAT ASS! It’s your own Goddamned fault you got knocked up! Stop telling your kid that he’s the reason your life sucks!”

Fucking. Cunt. That kid, the one who looked like Benjamin Button, asked to go home with me. I almost took him and his Depends with me.

I had to wait in that room for over an hour with those people and their shitty kids. And then the dentist, thankfully, decided to go ahead with the fillings. She also managed to stab her needle right into my nerve. Again.

I can’t feel my fucking eye, y’all.

I feel like my face looks like that mythic, noble man-beast from Beauty and the Beast, the soap opera… with Linda Hamilton. I’ve got your fucking woman, Outlander.

Now I just need her to mush my lips over my cigarette and possibly tell me when my drink is at my mouth.

Lazy Bitch

2011-09-19T23:13:00.001-04:00

I’m lazy, okay?

This whole “getting famous” thing is taking a lot fucking longer than I had initially anticipated. I’ve dreamed of fame and fortune since that long ago day when I picked up my first guitar with the plastic strings, popped the collar of my red jacket, and began to strum and swivel my hips while watching myself in the mirror.

I was five.

Okay, I have to admit that that wasn’t my initial dream. I gave up on being a fireman after a bad pull from a wishbone and I set my sights on marrying Elvis.

Then I found out he died before I was born.

And THEN I decided that I’d just BE Elvis. I feel like this is pretty fertile grounds for some kind of analysis about stalkers and psychosis and maybe people that wear other people’s skin.

Five minutes ago I had absolutely no intention of writing any of that.

The point, somewhere, is that I know that I need to be irritating the shit out of you with new blog posts, perhaps even two a days until I whip my slack ass into shape, but you know what? I’m tired. I’ve been sad. I’ve been really fucking angry.

Angry, you say? We LOVE it when you’re angry!

This is bad angry, y’all. Like, people would probably burn my house down and tell all of my secrets on the internet bad. Like, someone is going to cry and I’m probably going to relish in their tears, but that’s wrong so I won’t bad.

I’m completely cool with loner moping. I prefer loner moping to public moping and we all prefer it to blog posts about smacking your own self in the face with impotent rage moping.

(Don’t hit yourself in the face.)

(Aim for the side of the head.)

So, there’s that…

I just want to be fucking famous already. And rich. That would be good. I like that part.

But, I’m lazy and I’m tired and I’m angry and I don’t want to bring that shit to the table. I want to bring my fucking A game, y’all. I want to make you cry tears of snorty joy. I want to ruin your makeup, make you spit out your drinks, and choke on your food… but in a non-life threatening kind of way because if you’re dead you can’t read this shit anymore.

Setting all of those feelings and shit aside, I just want to say that I’m sorry for being a slack ass and for breaking the ‘cardinal rule’ of blogging by pointing out the obvious… that I haven’t posted in awhile.

That and I have news. This site, OLAP as I’ve started calling it because Oh, Look, A Paddle Boat is too long to write all of the time, is getting a face lift soon. The days of having to squint to read bright text on a dark background will be gone. It may also involve Kevin Bacon in some capacity.

We’ll also be launching a NEW blog. I can’t even keep this one updated and I’m making another one. I’m funny. This one will be a lot more interactive and reader based than the one you're currently viewing. (Although I am open to suggestions on blog topics. Too afraid to rant the fuck out of someone? Shit, I’ll do it for you. Because I like to give back.)

Heather Heartless deserves her time to shine so I’m giving it to her. In order to get this bitch up and running, I’m going to need you to send me questions.

Heatherheartless@live.com ... bitches.

They can be serious, stupid, random, or whatever. I might even answer a homework question or two if it comes to it. Just bear in mind that I’m probably going to be a complete bitch about answering it, in a sarcastic but loving kind of way, that is. Just be advised that until I get it going, you’ll have to e-mail me your questions. If you wish to remain anonymous, please say that somewhere in your e-mail. If the question is serious enough or if I feel that it would be terrible to publicly answer it in a drunken bitch fashion, I can answer it privately in a “I’m just here because I care” kind of way.

Sarcasm and the internet don’t often mix well, except when you’re expecting it, so if you send me something like “My grandma just died of leprosy and was then devoured by a colony of rabid badgers…” and you’re being completely fucking serious, you might want to mention that somewhere because, otherwise, I’m probably going to offend you. And your grandma. And that colony of rabid badgers who now have to deal with leprosy.

No one can win here.

And Then I Threw Up

2011-08-21T21:51:00.000-04:00

Okay, I have to get this out of the way before I can move on to the hilariously violent rage that I keep bottled inside of me at all times.

You guys are the most amazing fucking people I have ever had to pleasure of communicating with. Seriously. Never forget it and if anyone tells you that you aren’t, I’ll come bite their ankles off… right after I stab them in the face with a pen. It’s more fun when they run first. All of the comments have done what months of therapy and bottling could not. I feel … light… again. I feel free. I feel pretty and witty and fun. And there the moment goes.

A Brief Lesson on Grammar and Common Fucking Courtesy. Asshole.

“I stay down in Pageland.”

“Yeah, that’s where we stay.”

“Where do you stay?”

Completely ignoring the fact that ‘stay’ means that you, well, fucking STAY somewhere, as in, you don’t ever fucking leave it or it’s only for short periods of time, I’m going to point out how stupid you sound.

You stay in a mother fucking hotel.

You stay THE NIGHT at someone’s house.

You stay at the bar until it closes.

You don’t fucking stay at your place of residence. You Goddamned live there.

I stay in a state of constant rage. That’s where I stay.

No, you can not axe me. It would probably hurt and I’m going to be pretty angry about it. You can axe me a question only if I can rotary tool you the answer. This conversation is going to take awhile. I don’t care who you are, what you do, your level of success or education, or about any or all of your accomplishments in life. If you ask if you can axe me a question, I’m going to lose respect for you.

How in the Goddamn fuck do you shit on a wall?

Seriously.

Someone came out of the WOMEN’S bathroom at work today and told me that someone needed to have their ass beat. She then proceeded to tell me that someone had taken their own shit and smeared it all over the stall.

I’m assuming it was their own shit because while it’s difficult to wrap my mind around why anyone would smear their own shit on the walls of a public restroom stall, I can’t even begin to imagine why you would use someone else’s.

I had to go in the back and tell someone about it. This lead to a ten minute discussion on how it was carried out.

Did they wear gloves?

Did they at least pick it up with toilet paper?

Why would you touch shit?

Did they scoop it out of the bowl or did they just shit right into their hand?

Was it some kind of fecal Tourette’s? Like they just had a tic where they flung their poo like a monkey?

I had been cleaning the absorption pads on our printers, so my hands were covered in ink and I needed to wash them. I go into the bathroom and sick curiosity gets the better of me. Slowly I creep towards the stalls, checking them one by one, and then the smell hits me. The smell of rancid shit makes me gag like a cheap whore, y’all.

I get to the stall in question and poke my head around the corner. This is where I see the most God awful thing I have ever seen in my life and this includes going to change my nephew’s diaper and screaming, in a public restroom, “It’s in your hair! How the fuck does it get in your HAIR? OH MY GOD IT’S IN YOUR SHOES TOO!”

There is no shit smeared on the walls as I was told.

I swear to God someone snuck an elephant into the bathroom when I wasn’t looking because it is just not possible for a human to do that. There is not enough pressure in the bowels and there is not enough shit in the body to accomplish that kind of coverage.

This is the only explanation that I have for this:

Holy Christ balls on Jesus toast.

It was all over the back of the toilet seat. You know what? I’ve seen it happen before… but not like this. It was ALL over the back of it. It covered the rest of the porcelain and the thing sticking up in the back for automatic flushing. It was on the floor.

It was four feet up on the side and back walls of the stall and it went all the way down.

There was none in the bowl. None at all.

How in the holy fuck does this even happen?

No one could survive it.

No one.

They had to have died shortly after. I’m watching the news now to see if anyone’s found a shitless body in the woods.

Side note: My dad actually has Tourette's, so it'd be cool if we kept the jokes to a minimum. Or I'll stab you. In my mind. Because I have no idea where you people live.

Now For an Unfunny Change of Pace

2011-08-16T23:14:00.001-04:00

I’m coming out.

That deafening roar you just heard was 95% of everyone I’ve ever known shouting “I KNEW it!”

Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not coming out of THAT closet. My sexual preferences lie where they always have, mostly in myself.

I’m coming out of what might be a scarier closet. There are certainly more skeletons in this one. It’s a door that everyone wishes would stay firmly shut, but I’m going to open it, again.

I want to stand up today and introduce myself to you. I want you to meet the real Heather Heartless. Not just the bitchy angry one, not just the one that makes you laugh, but the one I keep hidden away.

My name is Heather and I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder… among other things.

On March 14, 2009, I looked out the window of the gas station where I was working and saw two men approaching on foot from the road. My very first thought, honest to God, is “They’re going to rob me.”

And they did.

Violently.

No one asked for money. No one said “This is a stickup!” No one gave me a fucking clue as to what was about to happen.

This is the first time outside of therapy, the cops, and my mother that I have ever shared the details of that day.

Two men came in and bought $20.00 worth of gas for their green SUV. They went outside to pump their gas. Two other men (the men that came from the country on foot) entered the store and went around the back aisles, browsing. I rang up a regular customer and had to fight the urge to ask him to stay with me for just a few more moments. I rang up an elderly woman that ate her dinner in our café every Sunday with her sisters.

I stared at the panic button.

The two guys that bought gas came back in. I asked one why the paint on the hood of his vehicle looked different in one spot. I said it must be the rain. They bought a soda, a twenty ounce bottle of off brand fruit punch, and a Slim Jim. Two years later and I can still remember what they bought.

The other two had made their way around to the aisle leading up to the register, looking at our drink selection.

The one I was ringing up, his name was James, asked me if I was from the area. I said “Unfortunately.”

“Why ‘unfortunately’?”

I opened the drawer to make change. He looks down the aisle and nods, a fact I didn’t remember until I was in bed that night trying to forget.

“Well, I lived in St. Louis for a --------“

That’s when it happened.

For a minute I thought that the guy rounding the counter was going to hug me. I have no idea why that even popped into my head. I was going to tell him that he had to stay on the other side of the counter and I would get whatever blunt wrap he wanted. It just seemed to happen so slowly. He was coming towards me with his arm raised and I remember turning my head to smile quizzically, and then I remember fighting.

His arm wrapped around my neck, his hand on my head, and he was pulling me backwards. I looked up to see the other two watching and then running out of the store, pausing at the door to look again.

Parts of this had to be filled in by watching surveillance videos and trying to figure out where the weird bruises came from. I couldn’t remember what happened, not all of it anyway.

As he pulled me back, I grabbed on to the open drawer of the register to hold myself up. The video shows that I lost my footing and while I was being dragged, I pulled the register off the counter and made a grab to catch it. Again, I don’t know why. The register drawer slammed into my knee and closed before crashing to the floor. The other man ran to it.

My attacker was still jerking me backwards by my neck and all I could think was “I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” I felt the hand on my head start to push as the arm holding my neck pulled. He was trying to twist my head. He was trying to break my neck. I twisted with him as he jerked my head so that I could have at least a fighting chance. I have no idea what instinct made me do that, but it probably saved my life.

When he saw that murdering someone wasn’t as easy as it looked on TV, he began to choke me. I clawed and clawed at his arm sobbing, “DON’T! DON’T! NO! PLEASE DON’T!”

He just increased the pressure and screamed “GO TO SLEEP! GO TO SLEEP!”

The video shows me flailing my arms wildly as he continued to jerk my body side to side, his arm around my neck, that hand still on my head. The other man was pulling wires out of the register after he realized he couldn’t open it.

Pleading for my life had no effect on this person. I began to fight harder, growing more and more dizzy from my air passage being restricted. I started beating at his arms yelling “FUCK YOU! LET ME THE FUCK GO! FUCKING LET ME GO! I won’t look if you let me go. I swear to God I won’t look at your face if you just leave. JUST FUCKING LEAVE!”

He stopped fighting for a second and then threw me to the ground and ran.

I managed to get up after a few seconds of stumbling and punched the panic button I had wanted to push earlier. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911 as I ran out of the store to chase them.

They were running across a field with the entire register in their hands.

This was 4:15 in the afternoon and there were people in the parking lot.

They never noticed that anything had happened.

They wouldn’t have noticed if they had succeeded in killing me.

I looked at these people and screamed “They just fucking robbed me! Go after them!”

The two that bought the Slim Jim and fruit punch, the cowards that had deserted me, were standing there staring at me. They and the couple that had been pumping gas got into their vehicles and drove off to find the two robbers who were walking down a country road with the register. Several cars passed by and no one even stopped to ask why this was going on.

After having the 911 dispatcher LAUGH at me and having to call the store owner to apologize for being robbed (the mind works in weird ways), the customers returned but all four of them were in one vehicle. Apparently my robbers carjacked the two that had run. I felt terrible that I had begged them to give chase and I hugged one of them and apologized.

Twenty minutes later, a single police officer finally showed up to let me know that they had caught them a few miles up the road. He took down my name and address in front of the two that had been carjacked.

The boss’ daughter showed up to check on me, comfort me, and give me a ride to the police station to file a report. I was put in a room with the two from the store along with their girlfriends. I apologized again and told James that he could hit me for getting his car stolen, if he wanted. I also told him that I would kill those mother fuckers if I ever had the chance. Around that time a cop walks in and says “THAT’S her?! Ma’am, come with us, we didn’t know it was you that had been robbed.”

I gave my statement to a detective that I later overheard saying “We could get them for ‘this, this, and this’, but let’s not make it anymore trouble than it has to be.”

This is where I found out that all four of them had been in on it together.

James and Derrick, the two from the green SUV had dropped off Jose and Mario down the road and were probably going to pick them up after it was over. They did this so they wouldn’t be connected to the crime. James asked me questions to distract me and then nodded his head at the other two to let them know the register was open, except I fucked that up when I dragged it with me and it closed.

They were never carjacked and were never charged with filing a false police report. James had been charged with robbery with a deadly weapon and was currently awaiting trial.

The cops then sent me out into the lobby where I was cornered by the family of the boy that had tried to kill me. They wanted to know who I was, where it happened, what happened, what was going on with their baby. When I told them I didn’t think it was a good idea for me to be talking to them, they became rude and offensive. I had to ask the receptionist to take me into the back to get away from them.

Jose, the boy who robbed me, was 17 at the time and was given 100 days in juvenile detention and three years of probation, minus time served… for strong arm robbery and assault by strangulation, both of which are felonies. They never charged him with attempted murder because they couldn’t prove intent.

Mario, the stealer of the register, had seven felonies under his belt before this happened, including possession of weapons of mass destruction. He served less than a year in prison after a plea deal and was released on the one year anniversary of the robbery.

James, of the many robberies, had his sentence lessened in order to get him to plead out on his other robbery charge. Two years of probation for him.

Derrick, who was pretty much just there for the hell of it, was sentenced to two or three years probation also. I’ve not found any other criminal activity on his record… yet.

I was never contacted by the victim’s advocate. I had to call them repeatedly just to be sent a pamphlet informing me of my “rights”.

I was never given my right to testify.

I was never given my right to be told of their sentencing until five months later when I called them again.

I was never given my right to speak to the sentencing judge before he sentenced them.

I was never given my right to compensation because losing your job doesn’t count towards lost wages. Also because I didn’t have any medical bills because I couldn’t afford to go to anything but free counseling after I lost my job.

I wasn’t fired, guys. I quit. I had to.

I went back the next morning and worked in the café as a waitress because I couldn’t afford to lose the hours and I had to prove to myself that I could be there. All day long no one talked of anything but the robbery and pointed and stared at me as I walked by. The boss’ daughter finally had to tell the customers to stop asking me about it because it was killing me. The gas station was down for three days because we had to wait on a new register to be installed and get the gas company to reinstall all of our software after fixing our pumps. When you rip the cords out of a register, it fucks EVERYTHING up.

I worked at that store for nine days straight after the robbery, and then I just couldn’t anymore. I jumped every time someone came in. Every time a young black man entered the store, I froze. Every time I saw someone in a hoodie, I shrunk into myself.

I called the cops almost every day for one reason or another. I was too scared to stay there anymore. I rarely go into that place at all, even two years later. I hate it in there.

My boss was kind enough to tell the unemployment office that she had laid me off so I could draw unemployment. I did that for the better part of two years because I couldn’t face the possibility of that happening again.

Running a register is a part of my job now and I still get nervous when the drawer is open.

The very worst part of all of it is that most people believed that I was doing all of that to myself. I was making it up, dwelling on it, making it worse for myself. I couldn’t talk about it and when I started to, their eyes would glaze over. Someone actually tried to dump their problems on me five days later and when I said “I was just robbed, I don’t think this situation compares. It’s not that serious”, he said “That was like a week ago, get over it.”

Someone tried to MURDER me five days ago. No, I don’t think I’ll be fucking getting over it.

People don’t think it was that serious. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but I kind of wish that they knew exactly what it felt like to know that you’re about to die. To know what it feels like to have some stranger try to murder you for a couple hundred dollars. To know that there is nothing you can do to stop it. To know how it feels when everyone tells you that it’s no big deal, they didn’t do anything to you; suck it up, move on, just fucking get over it. To know that they don’t give one single fucking damn about you at all.

It’s better now, but it’s not gone. It probably will never be completely gone. There are things I can’t do, places I can’t go, and people that give me flashbacks that paralyze me with fear. It’s not really any fun and if I could quit being this way, I would.

I will never again know what it’s like to not constantly be afraid of everything.

There, that damned closet had too much shit in it. It needed cleaning.

To everyone that is uncomfortable after reading this, good luck with putting it all back in again. I’m sorry that you can’t deal with my feelings and shit, but whatever. I guarantee it makes me a lot more uncomfortable than it does you.

I’m sorry that you only like me when I’m funny. I’m sorry to all of my Facebook friends that it’s awkward when I express any emotion that isn’t hilariously violent rage.

I’m sorry that you’re such little people.

That being said, I'm extremely thankful to the community that I've been brought into by blogging, reading blogs, and tweeting. You guys are seriously amazing with the unflagging support you give to me and to each other.

I want to thank all of you for being just as fucked up as I am and even funnier about it.

I also want to give an epic thank you to Noa Gavin for letting me know that I will always have support when I decide to share my load and to Elizabeth Kennett who let me know that funny or not, you'll love me anyways. You guys gave me the balls to do this. Now I just hope I can honor The League and not take it down tomorrow.

And of course the biggest thanks goes to my mama, because she's my mama and she's awesome.

I did manage to get some jokes out of the situation though. I mean, who else would be in the middle of trying not to be dead and thinking "You're doing it wrong...."?

Tasteless Merchandise to Fuel My Pillow Addiction

2011-07-17T23:28:00.000-04:00

Do you want to know what I was doing while I wasn't blogging?

I was creating a Zazzle store called Mo Waffles.

Jenny Lawson is to blame for this.

Why is it named Mo Waffles? I have no fucking idea. Just like I have no idea why I created anything that I did or why Zazzle lures you in with promises of setting your own royalty rate when if you set it to 80% your t-shirts are priced to sell at $53.74.

This is a small sampling of the tasteless products I have to offer.

Goof-Off can't fix this mistake by MoWaffles
View other Tasteless T-Shirts

The front says "J/K", you know, for potential un-rapist boyfriends.

Dear Rapist by MoWaffles
See other Random T-Shirts

And because the movie Teeth freaked me out...

Vagina Ventata by MoWaffles
Become a clothing affiliate at zazzle.com

Please don't hate me...

... and go buy things.

The Five Seasons of North Carolina

2011-07-17T23:10:00.000-04:00

It is universally recognized that most places on this big green ball have four seasons.

Winter – It’s cold.

Spring – Shit grows.

Summer – Shark Week.

Fall – Shit dies.

That being said, I would like to point out that the state of North Carolina actually has five seasons each year. Some of these seasons overlap for maximum discomfort and they’re known to us by slightly different names than the aforementioned.

Season 1: Buy Milk and Bread

Seriously, winters are coming, you better be prepared. If there is even a slight chance that a single snow flake could fall from the heavens, the grocery stores are going to be packed and then emptied of everything but candy wrappers and sadness.

It is a state law that mandates that when there is a winter weather advisory, you must go buy all the milk and all the bread in all the lands. You could perish in the temperate winters of the South. We’ve seen Alive; we know how this story ends. We’re prepared to eat our neighbors if we have to.

When you live in a place where the power goes out when there is a breeze, you become accustomed to the Laura Ingalls’ brand of life. We once lost power for an entire week after a blizzard dumped three feet of snow on us in a few hours. The weather man said we’d get nothing. I’ve not trusted him and his Coke bottle glasses since.

This also happens when there is two inches of snow. The state becomes crippled by mental deficiency and the inability to drive. See that patch of ice? Wait until you’re right on top of it and then slam on your brakes. They teach it in driver’s ed.

Season 2: Oh Fuck, My Allergies

Mother Nature is a sadistic bitch. We have more species of pollen producing vegetation than should be allowed. We grew up here; we should be used to it.

We’re not.

Every single one of us is allergic to every single type of pollen there is. Then there are the chiggers, mosquitoes, bees, wasps, and all manner of bitey shit you have to contend with.

We’re all allergic to those too.

I don’t have statistics to back this up, but I’m relatively certain that we’re number one in snot production. We’re a sickly state.

Every time the season commonly referred to as “spring” rolls around, it’s like a giant allergic reaction to life. The older I get, the worse it gets. I can’t breath, my eyes itch, I look live I’ve smoked about a pound of kind bud, and my lips swell up to look like Lisa Rinna. Carolina girl’s ARE the best in the world, just not in the spring.

Season 3: Swamp Ass

There are petitions in Congress to have the name of summer officially changed to Swamp Ass. It’s like a fucking sauna down here for a quarter of the year. I could eat the air.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve just showered; you’re going to feel like a three dollar whore in July as soon as you walk outside.

It’s… moist. The only thing grosser than saying it is feeling it. It’s not sweat, it’s condensation.

You’ll constantly feel like you smell bad and you’re probably not wrong. If you’ve ever wondered what it felt like to be slimed on Nickelodeon or to walk through soup, you’ll know as soon as you go out.

It’s like walking through Mother Nature’s vagina. That sounds disgusting. It feels worse than it sounds. People from out West have said that they’d take 115 in Arizona over 90 here any day.

Season 4: Seventh Circle of Hell

This is often paired up with Swamp Ass to make you lose your will to live.

It’s 102 in the fucking shade, y’all. Eggs will fry in their shells and pool water is too hot to swim in.

You’ll start to feel a breeze and fall to your knees in thanks to God for the blessing that is about to be bestowed upon you only to realize that it feels exactly like opening an oven that’s been on all day. Our summer breezes will not make you feel fine. They’ll give you second degree burns.

When you’re outside for any amount of time, you fully expect your face to come off with your hand when you wipe away the sweat.

Imagine putting on all of your winter clothing and then getting into a tanning bed with five space heaters.

It’s like that, except you’re soaking wet and there are misting fans throughout the room.

Season 5: Oh Fuck, Floridians

Seriously. Do you people not have any leaves where you come from? Are there no leaves between Florida and North Carolina?

Yes, they change colors and it’s really pretty to look at. We just like to look at them while we drive past them at high rates of speed. There really is no need to drive eight hours just so that you can drive fifteen miles per hour down the Parkway to see nature and shit. It’s not going anywhere. Additionally, there is also no need to fucking STOP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GODDAMNED ROAD BECAUSE THERE ARE TREES THAT ARE NOT ACTUALLY IN THE FUCKING ROAD.

I’m tired of these mother fuckin’ leaves on these mother fuckin’ trees.

We don’t like you! Go away! Did you know that we don’t officially kick off swamp ass until one of you dies going over a waterfall? True story. Did you also know that the most commonly used phrase during the fall is “Fucking Floridiot Leafers”? That’s right, we named you.

Also, you really can’t drive.

That’s not fair. The half-backs can’t drive. For the uninformed, half-backs are the people from Connecticut that move to Florida to be warm, get too hot, and then move to North Carolina to see the fucking leaves. They’re halfway back. They need to keep going.

We live here because we like our abundance of nature and shit. We like that our nature and shit is quiet, uncrowded, and easily accessible during all five seasons except for one, the one where you decided that being an asshole while you look at fucking leaves is acceptable. Have you not seen Deliverance? I’m not saying that someone is going to sodomize you; I’m just throwing it out there for your consideration.

I Broke My Brain

2011-07-13T23:46:00.001-04:00

The last few weeks of my life have been terrible and confusing and I had to take time off from blogging to have a small nervous breakdown.

I also think that I broke my funny.

Seriously.

I hold my own well in conversation, but Jesus the shit splattered off the fan too fast for me to keep up with it. This is why I still think that I need a stenographer, you know, for those special moments. And because I’m too lazy to write any or all of it down before I forget it.

For your sake, I will be breaking the chain of events down into small portions to make it easier to digest.

Why I Tried to Make Auto Zone Employees Cry

Holy fuck balls, y’all. Is there some kind of competency test they give their applicants and only the people who fail get to work there?

The condenser fan motor on my car went out. This is the fan that cools the compressor so that you can have cold air coming out instead of blowing your shit up. I went to various used parts stores and junkyards trying to find one, but theirs were either gone or not working. Insert a lot of driving around in an un-air conditioned vehicle.

I finally order the $82 fan assembly from Auto Zone. Easier to install, but I didn’t need all of the other crap with it.

“It will be in by noon tomorrow.”

“That’s great. I’ll pick it up after work.”

I call at noon. The part isn’t in.

I call at two, still not there.

I call at four and again at six and the fucking part is still not there. This is where I demand to know why.

“It’s not ALL Fed-Ex’s fault. The manufacturer wasn’t shipping Friday because of the holiday.”

“Well fuck, that sucks, dude.”

“We’re sorry. It should be in Wednesday.”

Wednesday? WEDNESDAY?!? That’s four more days of living without conditioned air. It needs conditioning!

Monday was the Fourth of July so I had to wait until Tuesday to begin my reign of terror on the manufacturer. I was not going to stop until someone cried, I didn’t much care who as long as it wasn’t me.

I call Dorman Auto and ask them if they were open on Friday. They were. Then I ask them why they weren’t shipping if they were open.

“Ma’am, we were shipping. As long as we received your order by 4:30pm EST, it would have arrived on Saturday.”

I ordered it at 1:20pm EST.

“So, why wasn’t it shipped? I guess I need to call Auto Zone and kick someone’s ass there.”

“I guess so.”

I call Auto Zone back.

“Dorman said they were open and shipping until almost 5:00pm on Friday, so why isn’t my part here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, CHARVIS, when did you send them the order?”

“It was supposed to go out immediately.”

“Okay then. I’ll call them back and see when they received it.”

They couldn’t tell me without a PO number and the one on my receipt didn’t match anything in their files. I was told to get Auto Zone’s PO number and then call back to find out.

“Auto Zone, this is Charvis, how can I help you?”

“CHARVIS, this is condenser fan assembly here. I need your PO number.”

“Well, let me see if the part is here.”

“I didn’t ask for that, I just want your PO number,”

“Our manager says that Fed-Ex didn’t run on Saturday because of the holiday.”
“That’s funny, CHARVIS. He told me that Fed-Ex was delivering twice that day.”

“Well, they didn’t.

“CHARVIS, how exactly does Fed-Ex deliver two separate times when they’re not running?”

“That’s just what the manager told me, so they didn’t. We found your part.”

“You… Excuse me? You found my part? The part that wasn’t delivered on Saturday?”

“Yeah, it was under the wrong name.”

“CHARVIS, my receipt has the name under which it was ordered. You might want to call that person and tell them that you’re about to give their part away.”

“Well, it’s yours.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Being in the middle of a bitch fit of epic proportions, I call Fed-Ex.

“Were you guys running on Saturday?”

“Yes, we sure were. We don’t run on Sundays and holidays, but we were open on Saturday.”

“Good to know. Did you deliver to this address?”

“We’re just the retail location, so we don’t have that info. I can give you the main office number, but they might not be able to tell you.”

I called. They did. They delivered two packages to that address on that day. Two packages on a day when they weren’t operating. That’s dedication, y’all.

I’m pissed. I am pissed the fuck off. You had my part the whole fucking time and now you’re lying to me to cover your ass. Also, CHARVIS is the dumbest fucking name I’ve ever heard. It matched the person it belonged to.

I roll up in Auto Zone spitting fire, but calmly. You can’t alert your prey that you’re about to destroy it. The first person I see is CHARVIS who sees something in my eyes that frightens him. He goes to get my part and I stare him down. When he brings it back to ring it out, I demand to speak to the manager and he starts to stutter.

When manager Bill comes over, so does his handy assistant Kyle, the one that ordered that part.
“Why did this come in under a different name?”

Kyle: “Yeah, haha, I kind of messed up on that order.”

Do you see me smiling? Do you? I’m about ready to rip your fucking balls off and cram them down your throat. This isn’t a happy amusing time for me, dick wad.

I pull the manager aside and then point out every single lie he and his employees had told me over the last few days.

“Fed-Ex didn’t deliver here on Saturday.”

“Well, then I guess their records are wrong because they have it down that they delivered two separate packages here. Now, I’m not saying you’re lying, Bill, but…”

“No, no, their records are probably right. I didn’t see Fed-Ex that day.”

Mother fucker, who runs this store? For all you know the “guys in the back” could be dealing un-cut Colombian coke back there.

“Now, Bill, this wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I don’t have a dick, would it?”

“What? NO! No, I mean half of our employees are women!”

“I’ve never seen them…”

“Uh… uh…”

I did not get the refund I had set my heart on because I couldn’t stand dealing with this jackass while his nervous employees stared at us with scared looks on their faces.

I take my part and start to walk out of the store only to be stopped by Bill.

“Are you sure that you need that part?”

“What. Did. You. Just. Say?”

“Are you sure that that’s the right part? I mean, I’d check the relays and wiring and freon before I ordered that.”

Are you fucking kidding me? You assure me that you’re not treating me like an idiot because of my tits and then you have the fucking nerve to imply that I don’t know what’s wrong with my own car?

“Seriously? I checked all of that shit before I ordered the $82 part filled with parts I didn’t actually need and that you had the whole time. I hope you never procreate.”

The part was installed and worked beautifully. However, the air is still blowing out at just slightly cooler than the surface of the sun, but only when the car is in motion.

Then the transmission went out. No, let me clarify, the one part of the transmission that wasn’t under warranty went out and the dealership was literally the only place that could fix it because my car is a giant piece of shit and I would make mad, passionate love to the first person that set it the fuck on fire.

Deep breath.

Let it out.

Nervous breakdown is officially over.

I know I promised to deliver in small, easily digestible pieces, but once I get started… People needed to know about CHARVIS. I even say his name in all caps when speaking of him.

I usually call people Skippy or Sparky when I’m irritated with them and asserting my dominance, but I think that they’ll forevermore be known as CHARVIS.*

Tune in next time for: And That’s When He Told Me He Sold Crack…

*You’ll also be able to tell that you’re irritating the fuck out of me if I keep using your name repeatedly while addressing you.

Also, if you’re name is CHARVIS, I apologize… but seriously, you’re name isn’t great.

Eat Pray Love Makes Me Want to Kill Myself

2011-06-10T21:48:00.001-04:00

New director's cut of Eat Pray Love
comes with a complementary
noose.

I’m a little late in coming to the review game on this one, but I couldn’t hold it inside any longer.

I’ve never hidden my feelings towards to movie “Eat Pray Love”. I’ve also never truly expressed my feelings about it in such a public arena… until last night, when my rage was renewed.

The following took place on Facebook.

HCW: I never get tired of watching Eat Pray Love. :)

Heather Ray: Really? That movie made me hate Julia Roberts... and I kind of wanted to kill myself five minutes into it. I seriously would have cheered if she'd been hit by a bus at the end.

HCW: Hahaha I thought it was a very calming movie..like a "im feeling depressed so I'm gonna watch eat pray love and eat an entire carton of ice cream" movie.

Heather Ray: I can’t stand her character. Somewhere towards the end of Eat and the middle of Pray, I warmed up to her a bit, as in I didn’t want to stab her in the face quite as much as I did before, but as soon as Javier Bardem came into it, I was really hoping she’d die painfully. It was the worst two hours of my life but I kept watching it thinking that it couldn’t possibly get any worse, but it did. Julia Roberts has been ruined for me forever now. I don’t even know if I can watch My Best Friend’s Wedding without thinking YOU TOTALLY DESERVE TO BE HEARTBROKEN, HAG!

HTC: Bahahahaha.

Somewhere in the middle of that I decided to Google “Eat Pray Love makes me want to kill myself” and it lead me to one of the best reviews of that piece of contrived bullshit I’ve ever read. First off, anything called Jump Up My Ass, Lady is a winner in my book. Secondly, it’s exactly how I feel about it, but with less expletives and violence. Thirdly, I should have known that this movie was going to be a God damned nightmare when it couldn't even be bothered with basic punctuation.

I would seriously rather systematically gnaw all of the flesh from my body than have to watch this again. I felt dead inside when it was over. I wanted to sue Red Box for that $1.08 back. I wanted to sue Julia Roberts for killing every one of my dreams. Within five minutes of the movie, I hated the lead character. I had been prepared to like her since her name was Elizabeth Gilbert which reminded me of Melissa Gilbert which reminds me of Little House on the Prairie. Surely if my Kevin Bacon Brain Syndrome connected her to that cherished childhood television show, she had to be something special.

She wasn’t.

As I told HTC, I did at some point start to warm up to her a bit, but I was still holding the razor blade over my veins. I was totally going up the road with that shit too. There would be no crossing the street for attention here. I meant business.

I'm actively trying to keep any traumatic memories from that movie from popping into my head. I spent the last 140 minutes of the movie like this...

Praying to God that it would end quickly.

I wanted badly for my mother to hold me and tell me it was going to be alright, but she was doing the same thing. It was like watching a fucking train wreck, y'all. I could not look away. I don't even think I got up to pee. The urge to take it out of the DVD player and burn it was overwhelming, but I had to keep watching it because there was no way in hell that the entire movie could be that horrible. Something had to give and it had to get better. It couldn't be any worse than the beginning.

I was wrong. So, so totally wrong.

It did get worse. I was actively rooting for her to get some kind of disfiguring, bank account draining, incurable disease with a 0% chance of survival. Ebola would have been nice. Where was a carrier monkey when you needed one?

I wanted to stab myself in the fucking eyeball with a pair of scissors.

I wanted to jump into Flatliners, hand Keifer Sutherland a copy of the movie and beg him not to bring her back. Just let her go, man, and save us all the trouble. And also that even in 1990, they all looked too old to convincingly pull off medical students, especially Oliver Platt, who still looks exactly the same.

All of her dreams have been crushed.

But most of all, I wanted to go back in time and apologize to this little girl for growing up to be an idiot and also for ruining her life with that movie.

I've honestly spent a more pleasurable two hours throwing up violently from drinking a half gallon of vodka after selling my plasma. It made me yearn for the time when that thing on my ovary went all 'splodey and I wanted to die or possibly for all of the times my dad recounted his sexual exploits to me.

In summation, if I ever have the displeasure of meeting this self-indulgent, egomaniacal, bitch pigeon of a twat waffle, I'm probably going to kick her in the vagina.

P.S. Bitch Pigeon = Someone that comes out of nowhere and shits all over your life, metaphorically.

P.P.S. Blog - Eat Pray Love - Julia Roberts - Flatliners - Kevin Bacon. BAM!

Dolls Creep Me the Fuck Out, Y'all

2011-06-07T19:59:00.002-04:00

Yes, I'm still on the kick about inanimate objects that scare me shitless. When I finished the original post, I realized that I had made a huge mistake. I left out the one that scared me the most.

Dolls.

Mostly of the porcelain variety.

You have to understand a few things about me. I don't scare easily. I'm the chick everyone wants to take to a haunted attraction or horror movie because I laugh my way through them... and also because I can point out exactly where, when, and what is going to pop out at you. The success rate is roughly 95%. Paranormal Activity 2 fucked up my perfect record. Only because I thought it was safe to look directly at the screen when it was day time to them and because those cabinets were really fucking loud when they opened.

I was that weird kid that was reading 800 page Stephen King novels in elementary school. I watched Pet Semetary and IT when I was a toddler and never had an issue, which is saying a lot when you have this staring back at you.

This is totally a guy in real life.

And also because the really cute dead kid ate Herman Munster.

When we factor in that by the time I was six I had been exposed to more gore and violent death than most adults, it's surprising that I never had nightmares about any of it.

Until this came along.

I will fuck your shit up, yo.

I had nightmares for a week after watching Child's Play. I have absolutely no idea why. When it came down to a choice between a child molester that fed off of fear and killed you in your dreams, a mentally challenged, overgrown kid that drowned and now seeks revenge, a clown that would eat you, and a doll that you could just give away or burn, I don't see why the doll won. I slept with my parents for a month after watching this thinking that they'd pose more of a challenge to a two foot chunk of plastic, or, at the very least, serve as a tasty distraction while I ran away.

They were a little wary of letting me watch horror movies after that, but I finally convinced them that I could handle it and I did. Week after week I would select the most horrifying movies I could find at our local video store and I was fine with it, but I drew the line at that cymbal crashing monkey murderer movie because it just seemed like too plausible a story line to me. That could totally happen to someone, I'd seen Puppet Master.

Having regained my confidence in the "Shit That Will Kill You" area, I decided to test the doll waters once again. But this time I was prepared, I was going with the B-rated movie. How bad could it be? As it turns out, pretty damned bad. I've carried this constant fear of being murdered by dolls for going on twenty years now. I can watch Chucky today and laugh, but I won't even touch the case of this movie for fear of angering it. I present to you now, Dolly Dearest.

You're probably thinking, "Is this bitch serious? THAT has given you nightmares for twenty years?"

That's just because you haven't seen her hulk out yet.

You won't like her when she's angry... or possessed
by evil Mayan gods. Whichever.

I can't even LOOK at a doll without thinking it has ulterior motives. My worst fear (behind spider spitting fire tornadoes) is that I'll walk into a room of porcelain dolls and that one will turn its head and wink at me.

I now present to you "Creepy Ass Dolls on Parade".

Bitch, I will hunt you down and eat you.

It has baby teeth. And a sly look on its face. Nothing good can come from this.

Homeless doesn't mean harmless.

Again with the baby teeth. This one's hungry, psychotic, and evidently homeless. She also has poor oral hygiene. So, like a Komodo dragon, even if she doesn't succeed in devouring you whole, the infection from the bite will kill you. Lose/lose.

I'm dead inside.

This one seems harmless enough, but take a closer look. It's the dead eyes. They're always a give away.

I honestly just don't have any words for this one other than WHY DOES THIS EXIST?

You might find my fear of inanimate objects silly, but it's not.

Dolls are only inanimate when you're looking at them.

Sometimes I Don't Like Learning

2011-06-01T20:11:00.000-04:00

This is probably going to become a regular thing on here because I inevitably learn things that I never wanted to know on a weekly basis. I'm not talking about finding out that your parents are still having wild sexual gymnastics parties involving swings and your childhood bed, but random facts that I pick up here and there, like how there's pig skin in gummi bears. Although now that I've put the image of your parents having athletic sex in your head, what I'm learning you today is probably a lot less horrifying.

I'm a HUGE fan of learning things. I like to be smarter than everyone else and whip out my scholastic prowess at random to impress the masses. I also love to read and I do it quite frequently. I even read shampoo bottles when I'm in the bathroom when I can't quite bear to gaze upon fine Swedish home furnishings one mo' again.

However, in my educational and literary journeys, I often come across things that appear interesting, so I research them. This is usually a mistake. While doing a project on Sex in the Civil War, I decided to Google syphillis. Google Image is not your friend. I honestly had no idea that it so closely resembled leprosy of the penis... or that it would cause said appendage to fall off with little to no provocation. I do now.

Yesterday I cleaned out the front passenger seat/floorboard of my car to allow access for at least one passenger in a five passenger vehicle and I found the book I had been meaning to read for the last two months.

One doesn't typically associate Nora Roberts with horrifying images, but one would be wrong. She's my guilty pleasure that I generally try to keep people from knowing that I read. Sometimes a bitch just needs a happy ending, okay? She's also an excellent writer. I suggest you give her a try if you haven't already. Even if romance isn't your thing, the story lines in her hardcover novels are intriguing and well written. She also paints a very vivid picture.

Somewhere in the second half of the book, she has her two main characters and sprained ankle guy running from a "fire devil". This is not to be confused with an actual demon from hell, but it's close enough.

I says to myself, "Now what in the world is a fire devil? I must look this up." No, no you shouldn't.

THAT is a fire devil. It's a tornado made of fucking fire, y'all. They can grow up to a mile high and have wind speeds of 160mph. And uproot 50 foot trees. On fire. They spawn out of forest fires because apparently fires create their own weather systems.

Mother Nature has effectively merged my two greatest fears. If this shit starts shooting out spiders, I'll die. I'll just go right ahead and die and get it over with.

Yippee kay-yay, Mother Fucker.

To quote Hyperbole and A Half, they're "little pieces of death wrapped up in scary" and I'm not fucking with them.

There are just some things I'm better off not knowing about and this is one of them. Sometimes I don't like learning.

Three Inanimate Objects That Scare the Living Hell Out of Me

2011-05-23T21:21:00.000-04:00

I have a lot of fears that other people don't. I'll blame most of them on Stephen King. Trust me when I say that this is just the short list of weird and probably unfounded phobias.

Take storm drains for instance. What is there to fear about a seemingly innocuous hole in the ground? I'll tell you.

You'll just be sailing your awesome paper boat down the flood water when this fucker pops up.

"Hiya, Georgie. Aren't ya gonna say "Hello"?

Just count that boat as a loss, man, 'cause he's going to eat you.

I told you. "It" didn't make me fear clowns, but it did make me afraid of storm drains because that's where they live.

Banana Boats

Again, seemingly innocuous, but they aren't. I will NEVER ride one of these. Ever. I like watercraft, but I hate banana boats. You'll just be riding along on your yellow phallus, not a care in the world....

Hey, we're just chillin'.

You're just chillin', having a good time, looking at the camera and the next thing you know...

Dammit, Bruce! Not again!

Something is going to fucking eat you.

Closed Shower Curtains

You THINK you see where this one is going, but trust me, you don't.

My opaqueness gives you a false sense of security.

You have to pee and you walk in to find a closed shower curtain. What's behind that shower curtain, you might ask. Mildew? Rust? Hardwater buildup? Awkward feminine hygiene products? Nope. This is.

I believe in miracles. Where ya from? You sexy thang.

Trust me, you never trust hot naked chicks that show up in your bathtub out of nowhere.

Why? Because they're going to fucking eat you.

I'm starting to see a trend here. All of my weird phobias involve something eating me. I should probably talk to my shrink about that one.

Things That Irritate the Shit Out of Me

2011-05-23T18:16:00.001-04:00

The title doesn’t really leave much room for a preamble, so let’s get this party started.

Rachael Ray.

She makes me ashamed of my last name.

People who talk like Rachael Ray. I will break that fucking bottle of yummo delish EVOO all over your head, asshole. The point of an acronym in to make a short word out of a series of longer words, not to spell out the acronym. Eeevooo. Say it with me. We don’t call it N-A-S-A or S-C-U-B-A, do we?

Microsoft Word Spell Check. Only one of those sentences up there is a fragment. Also, I’m sorry that you recognize Ebonics as our official language and not English, but you’re not correct.

The fact that I can’t eat generic “fudge pops” without getting a ring of chocolate all the way around my mouth, which is exactly what I’m doing right now while trying to type this with one hand.

The fact that I type faster with my left hand than my right.

The fact that fudge pops look like shit on a stick and still manage to be appetizing.

Having to wipe chocolate ice cream from right beneath my left eye. Seriously, that’s nowhere near my mouth, how did it get there?

Having to wipe pancake batter from between my toes when I make breakfast. Again, I’m not understanding this.

People that have graduated high school and/or college and still don’t have a grasp on the English language.

People that spell ‘you’ as ‘yhu’.

People that abbreviate words when talking and/or typing. Delish, deets, preesh, presh, and vacay, or for the extremely lazy, vaca. What the fuck is a vacka? Did you feel so heartsick over the loss of being able to writ3 lyk3 dis dat yhu had 2 mak3 up n3w w3rdz?

People who think they’re rappers and are also too lazy to spell out their words. It took me a solid five minutes of saying “toma” out loud before I figured out that you were trying to say ‘tomorrow’. Also, it doesn’t have an ‘a’ in it. Neither does ‘definitely’. I defiantly spell my words correctly.

Yankees who think we’re stupid because we use language in a different way. I’m fixin’ to make me a mater sammich and you can go over yonder to hell if you don’t like it. “Yonder ain’t in no fucking dictionary.” Yes, it is, and way to throw out a double negative in the middle of harping on our dialect. Don’t like it? Go the fuck home. We don’t like your kind around these here parts anyway.

Chiggers.

I will crawl into your skin and eat your ass
from the inside out, bitches.

People who aren’t funny or talented but become famous anyway.

Bad grammar.

Misspellings.

Double negatives.

People that ineffectually try to make me feel bad about myself so that they can feel better about their own shitty lives.

Broken records.

My Hanson and Lion King CDs not working.

Having to pee.

Having to hold gas because I’m so fucking polite.

People farting in front of me.

Birds.

Ugly people with bad attitudes. God couldn’t have been so cruel as to make you ugly AND not give you a personality.

People that get mad at me because I don’t speak their language. Lo siento.

Guys who grow vaginas because their girlfriends put their balls in a box with her earrings.

Having to shave any part of my body.

Aaaand… I’m going to stop because just about everything annoys the shit out of me.