midgets on stairwells

dear minions, i’ve broken down.

in more ways than one, i’ve lost my shit.

i’m just kidding, but i am breaking my own word.

i’ve started actually writing again, and there are some people out there who i feel deserve a little peak into what i never let seep out of my system. people, i guess i should say person. i’ve always had an error code in my communication skills, lately it’s reached an all time “high as fuck at a cypress hill concert” high. typically, you can get me to talk through spanish inquisition methods. and by that i mean get me drunk and the words practically scramble their way out of my brain and sloppily land on my tongue. they then proceed to not so gracefully trudge across your eardrums and stumble all over your brain waves. what i’m really saying is that i suck at expressing any semblance of a feeling, at all times. hammered or not. 

anyway. now, you ask me to talk (express and share unnecessary feelings, etc) and i freeze. the words dig a little hole in the corner of my medulla (no idea if that’s anatomically correct on my part, anatomy wasn’t my shit) and stubbornly hold their mouths shut. there’s no way i’ll even form a sentence at this point.

this is why i write, or complain to you lovely people. 

another thing. i have absolutely no writing process whatsoever. i don’t even know what it is i’m going to say until i pick up a pen and the first thing resembling a thought pops into my head. sometimes, i don’t even know what the next sentence will be, more or less the next word.

god this blog is rousingly serious. and dull.

on to the whole point of why i clicked “new post.” you may not fully understand the intent behind my writing. you may even find yourself thinking “what the fuck is this bitch on about? she must be depressed or some shit.” no worries, you may even find some grammatical errors and write off (that’s funny, writing puns) the whole piece entirely. a bitch don’t give a shit, so enjoy if you will and hate if you must. 




down with stinging reminders that i once coaxed the venom to burrow into my soul. flirted, pleaded with it to bring me the pain that can revive whatever semblance of a soul, a presence that i still cling to. though what i’m desperately clutching does not adhere to the mundane definition of spirit.


after what manifests itself as something of worth, only to realize that the remainders are, in fact, in tatters. piecing, cajoling, willing them to form a bond; attach the fragments to conjure up what fools people into judging it as though it were a complete piece. though the components waver and steal any chance to escape from this pretending.

an act.

is what it boils down to. simmering with a passion to never let down the safeguards that provide me with a fabricated strength, courage. cooling when it sees that for whatever, however long a period of time it has succeeded. flaring when someone discovers the cracks, jabs their fingers into the gaping orifices until they bleed. 



some deep shit huh! i almost feel like sharing more pieces with you, yes i call them pieces.

perhaps in the near future, you’ll all stop reading my shit because it gets too depressing. not to worry, i couldn’t change my topic from humuor to “depressing shit and cats.” i’ve got you. the next one WILL be funny. 


blocks: writer’s, cheese, traffic

that was possibly the most cohesive thought i will muster all day.

it feels like all day, but really it’s been probably an hour that i’ve been mindlessly staring off into vapor space and quietly muttering things to myself. sure, we all do it right? tell me i’m right or i will quite literally lose my shit right here in the office. i suppose bat shit crazy is an ok thing to be when you’re a woman who has failed at every one of life’s outlets: career, school (being that i should have grabbed the man by the balls and gotten a degree in biology. fuck) love, making anything of yourself that could possibly be described as admirable. 

ok. dark place today, because of a man.

for pete’s sake.

but it is cloudy.

adding to the darkness.

i don’t know who pete is, but for his sake can we take it down a notch and find a happy place for stephanie to reside in? just for a little while i would like to not feel a rather strong urge to either jump off a cliff or simply hope that god strikes me down with smite. 

smite me.



please help.

as i sit here drinking a purse temperature redbull, i am getting increasingly high strung. maybe the caffeine surge will make me happy. being tired and depressed really don’t go hand in hand unless you’re a heroin addict. i suppose. i know nothing about heroin. you know you can get clean needles and drugs in europe? perhaps i should leave home and go be a street walker in switzerland? it might work out, i could find a rich lesbian who finds my wide and hopeful eyes to be charming. or maybe i’ll get murdered for my shoes.

who knows.  

what i need right now is a slim jim and 30 cigarettes. a 5th of scotch. a gun. a safe place to hide.

ya that’s it. this one’s for all the ladies out there who are bitches. this is where it takes you. hate to say i told you so but i am a bitch. one you should steadily run away from. youuuuuu are too niceeee for me. 

team stephanie now has one point, but it’s a bitter point because she will now die alone with her many cats. 

burnt waffles

 did i miss something? seriously.

all these years that women have been bitching about finding a man who is attuned to his feelings and willfully discusses them has done us all in. thanks ladies, because now i can’t carry on a normal conversation with beefcakes without having to hear about their feelings as well as how much they bench and how awesome beer is. when did it become an acceptable trait to be more complicated than me? i really want to know who started this absurdity so i can put an end to it. my shit’s already scrambled enough, and now you want to throw an emotional egg into the mix (cooking puns. i’m either angry or drunk) that i literally have to treat like that fake baby thing teachers in movies make overly sexual teenagers do.

 stop with the bullshit men, unless i live in los angeles and other sub divisions where organic food is a statement and no one complains about the traffic because its bad for your heart, i don’t want to openly discuss the status of our “relationship” every fucking week because you feel some infernal need to validate that i’m actually spending time with you. you’re doing something wrong in the eyes of men when your brain functions the same way that mine does.

chances are if i say “i hate you” it means that i’m impulsively expressing my deep longing to murder you and possibly your family. if i say “let’s hang out and shit without worrying how to categorize it” what i really mean is let’s hang out and shit without worrying how to categorize it. my brain has already gone through this phrase about 50 thousand times and weighed all significant outcomes within a 15 second span and has also decided that YES that is what i want and if you can’t handle it and feel that need to define what “and shit” means then get back on that horse you rode in on from fairyland and fuck off. end scene.

talking about your feelings

is it just me or does getting soft usually, and i do mean always, backfire horrifically?

now, as a general rule i refuse to open up to new people for a while. a while: depending on the severity of how much i genuinely tolerate your company, anywhere from months to a few years. i know what you’re thinking, and i’ll tell you one thing about your ill conceived notions on communication. IT’S NOT ALWAYS GOOD to spout out every little trivial thought that pops up and makes you stop thinking about how bad you want another hot mess burger for lunch today. sometimes, just ignore that fleeting little emotion and focus on the more awesome things in life. like a slab of cow meat drenched in oozy cheese with jalapenos mushed between some salty sourdough bread. 

i am so hungry. forget being skinny. 

i’m going for a walk later today anyway, and asshole (this would be the man i’m seriously terrorizing with my inability to let him be nice to me) promises adventure time after my pooter gets his neighbourhood fix. perhaps i’ll burn off those delicious calories. here’s hoping. 


anddddd i’ve lost it.

well, for one thing.

being this excommunicated from your feelings and letting your mind vomit while you drink your 6th martini surrounded by women who would love nothing more than for you to actually speak to them on a friendly, let’s put bologna and saran wrap on your ex boyfriend’s car because the vodka is running on reserve, doesn’t always serve its purpose (looking like you’re a strong sexy woman with tattoos who doesn’t even NEED to talk about shit once in a blue moon). 

someone call guiness, cause that was seriously the longest sentence i have ever written. 

right. so. that moment when my brain goes “they’re all talking about soft serve shit, why don’t you chirp a little tune about much you: would love to murder someone, would love to be able to emotionally advance with the asshole (he’s not really an asshole, we’re just cute like that) that you’ve been driving batshit crazy with your emotional unavailability, perhaps drive your car off a cliff and hope you get reincarnated as a cat, ohh i don’t know stop being the world’s biggest asshole to yourself.

you see folks, i tried that. but due to the constant reminder (from me) that i don’t like to, nor do i need to, talk about things that are systematically ruining my life and possibly steering me towards of life of too many cats and cigarettes, they don’t listen when you throw them a scrap of your inner turmoil. don’t blame these people if you’re anything like me (and i sincerely hope you’re not, cause then no one would like you when you’re not drunk or haven’t had a cigarette) cause they don’t know any better. they’re actually doing you a favour. in that case, you don’t realize that they truly like you, even though you suck hard at consoling and all that shit that friends do. they want you around because you’re a tough little shit who isn’t going to sugar coat and bullshit them around every stupid corner. 

i’m staying this way forever, and i shall never have children.  



sorry, but family does suck. at least mine does. that’s why i’m glad i have you people: my fake family.





if anyone i know immediately due to blood relation ever saw what i dare to splay out on my blog, they would have a shit fit and try to perform the last exorcism of the child that went horrifically wrong. 

i just listened to my dad and aunt talk over each other for an hour on a family topic that i will never speak of simply because i’ve tried giving everyone “the shit” as i like to call it. no one listens to my wisdom. i am 22. but really i’ve been in narnia for 38 years and am past the point of wisdom, my exterior just fails to reflect that. it’s cool though cause i’m still young and sexy. 

speaking of sexy. i’m going to a wedding in june. black dress that looks like a classy version of a naughty lawyer with thigh high garter stockings. also black. the goal here, ladies and guys who suck and can’t ever do anything right, is to out do the bride. and by that time my sleeve will be completed.

i win so hard.

ANYWAYYYYYYY so yet again i’ve been nominated by this sweet little lady **kateginnivan.com** for the wordpress family award. sorry girl, but my heart stopped beating a while back so my post was far from sentimental. satan welcomes me with open arms and a smile. 

of course, there are cyberspace rules that i could care less if you follow. these are super boring and have no questionnaire attached so i lost all interest entirely. but since my spirits are still high, i have decided to add a bonus section. because fuck tha po-lice, a bitch does what she wants. my job is to make you smile with my crude and irreverent humour. 


  1. Display the logo on your blog
  2. Link back to the person who nominated you
  3. Nominate up to 10 others you see as having an impact on your WordPress experience and family
  4. Let WordPress family members know you have bestowed the award upon them.                     


     1. find the tiniest object within reaching distance and balance it on your pinky toe. report back to no one when you’ve defeated the task.

      2. go to youtube and search ghost in the stalls. you’ll thank me.

      3. the next time you step outside, take a deep breath. inhale all that smoggy goodness and thank buddha for not turning you into a desert mouse.

       4. find a desert mouse and feed it cheez its. this has been proven to give you the best karma.

        5. hug yourself sincerely in front of a medium sized crowd and tell them it’s from me.

now that you’ve sat through all that hoo ha, here are my choices.




you thought i was going to have a whole list didn’t you? just goes to show you that i love these bloggers and not you. try harder. 

running out of toilet paper

you know, i had a moment of clarity this morning. for those of you who don’t have any brain cells and have already forgotten that each blog title is something that proverbially “sucks,” you suck. but something happened to me this morning, something that should have been number one on part one.

and guess what.

i forgot it.

SO rifling around within my constant poop theme, i stumbled upon the fact that i’ve mentioned crappy toilet paper (my own unintentional puns slay me every time) but i’ve failed to remember that no toilet paper is worse than any brown coloured recycled toilet paper.

that’s true by the way.

so life sucks, but i’m hoping you all knew that by now. i know i’ve been stingy with the flow of my personal genius, but this bitch has HAD IT with the whole “i’m putting on a semi happy front so you’ll stop picking up on my inner depression and asking me about it” front. 

i don’t like to talk to people, as you might have noticed. no, i just type furiously in my office and hope that a complete stranger won’t track my IP address, find my workplace, bring me a dead parrot as an offering, then skin me and wear it around like next season’s couture. 

that was descriptive. dark place. 

moving on. 

i feel like i was going to actually stick to a topic today, but that went down the drain when i forgot about that little brilliant tid bit. sooooo

what’s up with the lakers?




knowing your next tattoo will hurt worse





yes, ladies and gentlemen, i have started my sleeve. and a shout out to mike’s moonshine, you made my night pretty freakin excellent. of course, i knew it was going to hurt and i’d be under the stab of tiny vibrating needle for a few hours.

i was wrong.

one hour, zero pain, loads of therapeutic ink.

shading will SUCK.




i have no wordiness today. this might be due to the moonshine and beer. 





ya ya i’m breaking my own cardinal rule by blogging all down in the dumps and shit but if i give two flying fucks what wordpress has to think then i just wouldn’t be myself.
starting my sleeve on the 20th. it’s going to hurt so bad i might punch my artist in the face but it will be beautiful.
i’ve got nothing. sorry minions. this lady is sad and has no awesome words to grace your eyeballs.


i must look like a complete idiot because i have long hair and a cute ass. surely, i can’t remember that you wanted an oil change, tire rotation, and an inspection on your piece of shit dodge because my tiny woman brain can’t process such a request. i don’t even know why you want your tires rotated because i hope they all get slashed.

fucking prickhole. what do i look like to you people? really, i want to know why men see me working at an auto shop and just assume i know nothing more than how to put on eyeliner and a push up bra. fuck. you. all. and just because you added a tart “please” after you repeated your remedial request doesn’t make me want to punch you in the smug compilation of stubble and glasses that is your face any less. i will find you.

i’ve had it. who’s going lesbian with me?

then again, i’ve witnessed a lesbian partnership. the estrogen levels…..



do you see what breakups do to me? i’ve gone from a witty, lovable on some level woman who likes to drink beer and spit while she smokes to THIS: bitchy, irritable, quick to say fuck you asshole who has nothing positive to say. 


why do men have any control over my emotions? i hate them all, so whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy fucking piece of shits whyyyyyyy

if the person on a cell phone keeps calling and going out of range i am going to lose my shit real quick.

good day to you all. 

my life

i’ll tell you one thing that really fucking sucks: my life for the past 2 months.
steady happy boyfriend shit: gone
awesome new job: gone
my very will to live and not become a psychopath: gone.
watch yourselves cause i’m about to get nasty.

WHEN THE FUCK did it become so damn important to plaster a smile on your face and kiss everyone’s ass just because they’re handing you money? apparently, growing out of a patriarchal subservience has taught us nothing.
i fucking hate women. and i just happen to be one. but dammit if i don’t stick up for myself and proudly verbalize every thought: be they pleasant or a fucking nightmare on bitch street.
i don’t even give two shits that i’m sharing this on a fucking blog with people i don’t know.