that itch you can’t scratch

why on earth is this phrase solely related to the vagina? who decided to use that in their commercial for feminine products? we all have that itch that we can’t scratch, but god forbid it be my lady bits. that would be disgusting wouldn’t it? it must mean that i’m less of a woman for having a completely normal human thing happen to me, just in an inconvenient place. why is it ok for men to adjust, finagle, AND SCRATCH their fuckin hairy nuts in public when a woman has to run to a corner and hide it? honestly.

my writer’s block has already begun. someone send in the cavalry. bring tea.

my absence should come as no to shock to anyone who regularly visited me back in the day when I would actually update this stupid blog. shit happens, I disappear, you wonder why, then think “not really.”

back in the day. the days when I wasn’t emotionally scarred and distressed from the shit show that has now become my life. the only good outcome of my crippling depression was the loss of 20 pounds.

depression. she said depression. swim away, this ones crazy.

first thoughts on tinder: who takes their profile picture in the grocery store?

tinder is the level of boredom that I have unfathomably reached. again, please send in the cavalry. preferably men with beards, tattoos, and an unconditional love for dogs. 401k plan is a bonus.

kill my single self now because this surely can’t be worth it.

it is.

and don’t call me Shirley.





especially when you’re the only one in your building, which, coincidentally, is my territory. one building, and some of the used car lot is all i get to play with. and let me tell you something about used cars when you’re on a hourly pay plan……FUCK THAT SHIT. joe fuckin dirt over there in east berlin (commission sales people) gets to make 1200 dollars on a single fucking truck while i make 50 dollars. the sense here, my friends, is not being made. at all. but hey, at least i get to pay my bills so praise buddha for that.

i like to think of my building as one giant fish bowl, where customers get to stare at me and NOT buy my vehicles. foreign brands are so up and down in my small hick town. and by that i mean fucking DOWN. you know who wants a tiny two door? hipsters. you know who lives in my hick town? zero hipsters. where i come from, we actually use our hands and brains to do manual labour. we don’t drink espresso or eat tofu. we (some of my team) live off of an endless supply of cigarettes and redbull. gas stations are our grocery stores, because who has time to shop for organic food when you work 12 hour days?insert the hispter readers out there saying “no wonder she’s always so bitchy, she isn’t getting the proper nutrients from a locally grown, sustainable, grass fed, gluten free, paraben free, sugar free, msg free, air free, basically made out of nothing food source.” as you might have already noticed from previous rants attacking the city folk, i can’t stand them. i’d rather hang out with the chatty customer who is planning to buy next year sometime than the girl who likes to go to the newest club where there’s barely even breathing room. the fuck kind of time is that? the time when i have to solely place all of my concentration on not spilling my over priced and under alcoholed (not a word, i know, fuck off) drink whilst simultaneously getting molested and also unintentionally molesting other people’s body parts. if a bar has a cover charge, i already know to run in the opposite direction. places like that charge you double what you should be paying and they play shitty music. and the men in there, don’t even get me started. the kind of guy who rents a lamborghini just to have it valet parked for 60 dollars is purely moronic. if i’m renting that shit, you know it’s coming back with bald tires. as it should.

things about the city and it’s inhabitants that evoke sheer hatred from me:

1.) the parking predicament, other wise known as hell

2.) the traffic

3.) the amount of prius’s dominating those infuriating roads

4.) when the lane you’re driving in suddenly ends or turns into one of those lanes where there are cars parked halfway in it

5.) nordoff, because it’s the longest stretch of road where everyone seems to be

6.) crappy apartments for way too much money

7.) better apartments for an impossible amount of money

8.) the restaurants, because 9 dollars is too much for a basic salad

9.) the term basic. i suspect it originated from a city girl

10.) the fact that everyone likes nicki minaj out there. what happened to you people in your youth that made you dumb?

11.) the fact that they all think they’re better than us because they don’t “shame” anyone. you’re so full of shit

12.) trying to order a burger and fries, only to be met with the most complicated menu of your life

13.) the amount of tofu on the menu being greater than the amount of beef

14.) the fact that the streets will eventually turn into different streets

15.) trying to ask a city person for directions. like i know where your whole foods is. stop it

16.) the street names

17.) the clothing stores that look like they are a low key goodwill, but charge 290 dollars for a grandma sweater

18.) when your city friend thinks that that sweater is a “find”

19.) not having an ounce of fun with your city friend anymore because they’ve morphed into this weird version of not even themselves

20.) an apartment full of city girls. enough said

21.) staying in said apartment, and finding out that they snack on what appears to be bird food

22.) the amount of indie films those people watch

23.) the fact that they seem to think it’s ok to stick up for another race/culture and get offended when you say something about it that they don’t agree with. you’re a white girl at starbucks, stop preaching about a group of people you will never relate to.

24.) the person who got offended by that statement

25.) the fact that literally everything, EVERYTHING is offensive to them

26.) the man buns. they’re everywhere

27.) the guy who is wearing an outfit that would cost me an entire months paycheck

28.) or the girl wearing that outfit

29.) or the sexually neutral person wearing that outfit

30.) people who believe in gender neutrality so much that they let their boys wear tutus. he’s gay, or a transvestite. knock it off

31.) the bars. i can’t even start with these.

32.) the guy at the bar who buys you a drink and wants to talk about documentary films and jazz festivals and this great organization he read about on facebook. please be a man and go shovel something.

33.) that guy, who is also not interested in cars. BYE FELICIA

34.) the girl who comes up to you afterwards and tells you how much of a creep that guy is. obviously, this is all she does.

35.) the “secret girl club”

36.) the bartenders. just make me a whiskey sour and stop asking questions.

37.) being an out of town smoker. the looks you get.

38.) the dogs. all tiny and stupid

39.) vegan dog treats. for FUCKS SAKE

40.) uber drivers. either really fucking creepy or kind of ok. or assholes.

41.) being that out of town smoker, being completely shit faced, only to have some girl say “just get a lyft” WHAT IS THAT

I can’t believe this has sat in my draft box (box? idk, place where I obviously write genius content and just fucking forget about) for literal YEARS and i’m just now finding it. how. well, lucky for me, the content was already there and minimal effort was required on my part to actually be funny.

here you go.

being a salesperson. of any kind.

what’s up my lovely fuckfaces. just checking in so that you know i am, in fact, still breathing. though i am a smoker so that breathing is questionable at times. especially in the morning. moving on.

hashtag lung cancer.

so trendy.

let me take a selfie with my cigarette and put a caption somewhere along the lines of “i dont’ give a fuck.” that’s nice. you’re fucking stupid, keep smoking and shorten your already tiny, ignorant lifespan. insert everyone who has a pulse finding some way to get offended riiiiiiight here. seriously people, stop it. the world is offensive, get the fuck over it already and have some fun. shoo, go on, do fun things.

the reason why i hate being a salesperson, but still keep doing it:  

ok, so like some of you who’ve read my earlier entries started thinking, it’s not just one reason. i am a person who likes to live and rant in excess. small list of things i like in excess life wise: tequila. wine. bigger list: fucking ranting. anyway.




it’s one of my 12 hour days and i am no humuor for people who don’t know BASIC FUCKING MATH.



1.) the aforementioned people who think it’s ok to put a grand down on a 35 thousand dollar vehicle, while expecting a 300 dollar payment. who raised you?

2.) people who show up 20 minutes before you close and want to test drive 7 vehicles. WHO RAISED YOUR DISRESPECTFUL ASS

3.) above mentioned people who say they aren’t ready to buy, they’re just doing research

4.) lastly, those same people who say “oh are you closed?” we all hate you.

5.) customers with more than one child who don’t seem to realize that they’re little parasites are crawling over a 40 thousand dollar suv with their grimy little fucking shoes

6.) asian wives.

7.) guys who try to do an inspection in front of their woman thing while looking at used cars.

8.) guys who just want to look at your ass, so they keep coming back and promising that they’re going to buy. don’t worry, you’ve already been shunned, go home.

9.) people who just want to test drive your fastest vehicle. we don’t get paid for that fuckwad.

10.) people that like to throw around the fact that they’re not financing. ooooh you’re rich, please let me suck your dick, it’s my biggest dream as a female car salesperson.

11.) customers who astoundingly bought from you that continue to text you….casually. and follow you on instagram. that’s not how this works, no.

12.) customers who text you at all hours of the day

13.) those same customers, only when you genuinely don’t remember who they even are.  oops

14.) customers who say “well this vehicle over at this dealership is: cheaper, does better on fuel, looks better”. why the fuck are you even here. that car sounds great, go buy that one you fucktard.

15.) men who assume that i don’t where the exhaust brake is on a heavy duty diesel. fuck you

16.) when my vehicles are already CLEARLY discounted, and you ask for a ridiculous amount more.

17.)  customers that take months to buy. we love you for buying, but you’ve been yanking my tail forever. rude

18.) repeat customers that bring their family and bitch about every tiny little thing that may have went wrong with their deal.

19.) customers who threaten to buy at another dealership. you’re not hurting anybody, you won’t get a better deal. here’s the keys to your shitty trade, bye felicia.

20.) customers who have a 99 bmw or mercedes and expect 5 grand for it. stop it

21.) customers who buy your foreign brand and then ask “do the parts take a little while longer, since they come from europe?” no, of course not. the car came from europe, but all the parts are here in your hometown. idiot.

22.) customers who buy performance vehicles then bitch about the cost of synthetic oil.

23.) customers who expect free shit. just cause you bought a whole car, doesn’t mean you get extra things that cost MONEY. you just rode my ass for 2 hours on the price of the damn thing, and now you want me to give you more things. NO. NO. NO

24.) the customer who has the mindset that “they are always right”

25.) people who say “is that the final price.” you came in wanting a car. you came in with a budget. stop looking at things you know you can’t afford.

26.) customers who are offended when you give them a high interest rate. “well so and so got a lower one.” hate to break it to you but: your credit is shit and you’ve already got an open auto loan….that you still owe a shit ton on. use your brain. for once.

27.) customers who come in knowing what payment they want, then try to haggle with you even though you got them what they wanted. we’re not negotiating fruit, it’s a fucking car.

28.) customers who come in and rag on your brand. you’re an asshole, and i bet your chevy has an exhaust leak.

29.) customers who have no idea what they want. these are the people that you show 15 vehicles to, only to have them buy somewhere else on the first try.

30.) people who love everything about the car you showed them, but it has cloth. so you find one with leather for them, and they back out.

31.) customers who back out after they’ve agreed on a price

32.) customers who just generally come in with the attitude that you’re a pushy salesperson who only has lemons. take your narrow mind over to camacho and get fucked.

33.) customers who look at your heavy duty diesels and go “that’s really pricey.” no SHIT, it’s designed to literally haul anything you want, and it has heated and ventilated seats/steering wheel, bluetooth, nav, it even makes you a fucking sandwich. get FUCKED.

34.) customers who literally run from you. you do realize that this is my job, it pays my bills. so the next time you’re hesitant about going onto a car lot FUCKING THINK ABOUT THAT.

35.) customers, and this applies to all of them, who say that they’re just looking. fucking shocker there, my job is to help you look. because i know my inventory and what discounts we have for your cheap ass.

36.) customers who know that your key machine is a long walk, but refuse to let you grab a handful of keys so you make about 18 trips. i fucking LOATHE you.

37.) customers who let you spend hours with them, then say ” oh, we were working with so and so last time.” you just fucked me

38.) customers who come in to literally talk. you think you know more about the vehicle that i’ve been trained on for months? try me.

39.) customers who say “show me your lowest priced vehicle.” then they get exponentially more picky and wind up trying to run numbers on a car that’s 10 thousand dollars more than their budget. basic. fucking. math.

40.) the customer who says “can you price match.” I AM NOT A FUCKING WALMART.

41.) customers who act like they’ve done you a favour and you should be kissing their feet. just doing my job sir. you lost money, and i made some. you didn’t start that trend, that’s just part of what i do. i’m not amazed.

42.) customers who offer an out the door price for the vehicle, but keep lowering said price throughout the conversation. you’re not smart. we know what you’re trying to do. psychology doesn’t work on us. we literally get people to purchase cars.

43.) customers who love that v8 you showed them, then complain about the gas mileage. again, use your brain. (do you even have one?)

44.)  people who complain that there are no discounts on a brand new model that’s been on your lot for a week.

45.) people who complain about the backseat room in your sports cars. just……come on.

46.) people who don’t understand how offensive it is when you come in and work with another salesperson. there goes my water bill. fuckface.

47.) customers who ask for the invoice, then say that’s not the invoice. i don’t have this magical word program that lies to you. stop being a fucking twat.

48.) when customers say that the mileage on a used vehicle (let’s say a 2008 civic with 103k on it) is too high. you’re looking at a used car you wingbat. mileage will be high, price will be low. get your shit and your finances figured out.

49.) customers who complain that your rebates went down from last month. not my fault, that shit comes from the factory. i have no  magic wand for you.

50.) lastly, customers who say “i’ve bought ten vehicles in my life.” bitch, i sold 14 last month. what’s your point?

that felt good. hopefully none of you who follow me have ever been this customer. and if you have been, knock that shit off and wake up. cars are cars. not toys or doughnuts. they cost a lot of money, and that’s how it will always be. goodnight.

wind. just wind.

guten tag!

as per usual, it has been a hot fucking minute since i’ve posted anything that could be construed as mildly amusing. i come to you today (on a 12 hour work day with no customers to talk to) with a topic that you will not only find out of character, but also slightly irritating. any takers? could it be about the ever so popular police brutality, or perhaps the ongoing hatred of a ms. kardashian’s “black face” photoset? shall i revisit the time i hashed out how both rose AND jack could have fit on the door? i still find that it plagues me. worst movie ending, ever.

moving on.

let’s talk about body shaming.

the popular trend of waist training has swept the pinterest boards and instagrams of women everywhere. whether they be impressionable young women who think that “bae” is an ok thing to say or simply the thirty-something female reminiscing about her former figure before her 3 bratty children ruined her body, it seems to have made a comeback. back in the day, corsets were a common item you might find in a lady’s boudoir. unlike the vibrating phallus companions that we have to designate an entire drawer to (let’s be real. not everyone washes their portable johnsons after each use, so keeping the residual lube in one space is mandatory). losing my train of thought. and we’re back, thank you stacy.

i am a woman of reason, so i say (ever so cliche. that rhymed) to each her own. not everyone gets to have tits and ass coupled with a 20 inch waist. in fact, no one does. this is a ridiculous image that only exists with the alteration of one’s natural composition. fuck you victoria’s secret angels. we all hate you. don’t tell alesandra with the last name that sounds like a salad you bring to a barbeque. i still love her.

and we’re live.

ANYWAY, i recently stumbled into the practice. you see, what had happened was…my friend had purchased one for herself. what had also happened was was that she did not use her brain to decipher which size she should get. in short, she did all the legwork and i got a waist trainer.

act one: scene you’ve got to be kidding me, only a 5 year old can close this damn thing shut. PULL HARDER

in retrospect, it was on upside down. so my internal lady bits and hips were severely compressed and i lasted an hour. mind you, this was the trial run anyway to see if i was remotely thin enough to get all clipped in.

step one: have hope.

step two: lose hope.

step three: gain determination.

step four: fuck this shit.

step five: i’m almost there. it can’t be that bad.

step six: ah, i’m in!

step seven: *takes in a variety of tiny breaths to adjust to being suffocated*

step eight: how long am i supposed to wear this?

step nine: 3 minutes and 40 seconds left

step ten: but i look so good, maybe i’ll keep it on for another hour.

5 minutes later you’re in the biggest sweatpants and are forcing your boyfriend to rub your belly. your organs have shifted back into their comfort zone and you dread the next day.

act two: scene getting slightly addicted to your fake waistline.

day two wasn’t so bad at all. i made it through 4 pole up the ass hours (you have NO choice but to sit up straight and use your expired ballet abs) and felt mild discomfort. they say “if it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.” pretty sure that discomfort and the rearranging of your rib cage and internal organs will be painful no matter what. this saying is dumb and i think we should abolish it. you will be uncomfortable. side note: you will not want to eat whilst you are inflicting this torture upon yourself, so losing those extra inches may not be such a far shot. this is what i keep telling myself.

intermission: personally, i believe that it yields results. i follow a certain somebody who has the same body build that i do, just with ginormous tatas, and the results of her training leave me simply drooling. so why not give it a shot?

act three: scene never want to take it off despite the lack of oxygen

about a week into my training and suddenly i’ve turned into gollum. i count down the hours until i’m free, but when the time comes i find myself making excuses to stay in it longer. it’s true that the longer you’re in it, the more difference you can make. that’s logical, right? anyway. you stand in front of the mirror ogling at your curves, debating on whether or not it’s actually worth it to feel normal.

it’s not.

still in it.


i wants it. i needs it. i must have the 23 inch waist. ok 20. how tight does this thing take me?

disclaimer: here’s where i get to the point that made me want to write this is in the first place.

the whole “love yourself” movement that literally everyone has been clinging to has changed (or at least it’s trying to, good luck polishing a turd) the way that people see beauty. “your beauty is not defined by your weight or your blah blah blah.” women, in particular, have latched on to this trend and are hating on the shamers. the shamers being the men and the supermodels. what i have discovered in this past week is that men…..get this……ohhhhh man this is good…..wait for it…..actually, really, truly do not give a shit. if you have a vagina and it smells nice, i think you’re going to be ok. just don’t have a lot of cats ok?

let me tell you something, the hypocrisy level is TOO DAMN HIGH. for women to urge their fellow bleeders to be comfortable in their own shape, but to encourage this practice makes zero sense. the few female friends i have are all for it, curious even. they are encouraging me to continue (mostly because i think they’re using me as the experimental rat). my male coworkers, friends, and boyfriend are all questioning me. “but why? you’re already thin and have a great figure.”

i’m baffled, you’d think it would the opposite, wouldn’t you? not to say that my friends are in the wrong, no one is. but still.

act four(?) end scene. i plan to keep up the training and see if i can’t have my dream waistline. god did not bless me with budding basoomas, he decided to put them both into my lower region. brief summary of my experience so far: i feel more confident in the trainer, and yes i am becoming codependent on it. judge me.

people who don’t get the memo

you know who you are. your feeble attempts to contact me and “chip away at the ice” are starting to really ruffle my dander; good luck chipping away at the glacier that took the titanic down with a plastic spork. i could be bitter and vindictive and tell you to fuck off, but i’m a better person than you are. you can’t win me back with your house and tax returns. i’m not impressed. also, a friendly reminder that i hate kids and you happen to have one about knee high to a grasshopper that doesn’t need a parade of women in her life. you fucked up, and i will never forgive you.

having said that, WHAT’S UP FUCKERS. i’ve missed the witty repertoire of the modern philosopher and the insatiable ability of you all to keep plugging away with your personal blogs. i fucking don’t crush dicks with my posts anymore. mainly because there are none. but it’s the thought of one that counts. to me. shut up.

life lesson number fucking ONE i have to bestow upon you all (the 3 that are probably skimming through right now) is to never work in the service department at an understaffed car dealership.

my xanax is wearing off, so here’s where I sign off before a steaming bitch pile of fuckery lands atop your virtual heads. i love you all in a creepy cyber connection kinda way. until next year my lovable peers.

p.s please tell me not to quit my job.

my grandma’s decrepit dog

shit is so ugly i can’t stand to look at her. being of yorki and chihuahua, with a widely noticeable under bite, she makes a good case for world’s ugliest dog. she comes fully equipped with: periods of staring, which also include small whimpers and whining, the inability to get onto the couch by herself (selectively), mass tissue/trash massacres, the need to go outside every five minutes, and also a general hideousness that invokes a slight hatred. 

it was brought to my attention that i possess no pictures or obsessive love for the “cats” that have been my trademark name. i’m not even sure of the last time i genuinely smothered a cat against its will. not sure i really possess the desire to do so anymore. none of them sleep consistently with me, and i have a HEATER BLANKET. 

i am contemplating a name change for all of my blogs and other social media..things. since i am completely and unequivocally enamored with my pitbull, i feel that he has earned his rightful place in my name. 


1.) thisbitchandherdog – kinda boring, but the people that support the change have spewed it so here you go.

2.) thisbitchanderpit – this is my personal favourite, so obviously it wins. but i find myself asking myself “this bitch and what pit? pit of: despair, wild geese, vodka, etc.” i’m not sure it works. or that i should even stoop to a name change because people are stupid and want their ideas to be synonymous with my own. 

i put it to a vote. someone fucking respond. 

not having a working computer to blog on

guys i know why i haven’t been on here now. it’s because my mom played too many facebook games while she should have been cleaning (instead of bitching about how much cleaning there is to do in a house that she insisted my father move us into)((elaborate, i know, but you didn’t come here to read anything non elaborate)) and done got herself a virus and now that piece of shit pc can barely muster up enough courage to load the main screen. SO, seeing as iphones are fucking weak sucks when it comes to typing anything out or applying online for a job that will get you nowhere in life except stuck in a break room standing around a water dispenser type thing, i have not blogged. these sentences are fantastically long, i hope you’re keeping up. otherwise i might have to publicly shame you for being a moron. tumblr: making viral examples of idiots everywhere, for all time.

giving “how to draw on your eyebrows” lessons via text message is a hard fucking task to accomplish. i couldn’t even tell you the synopsis of a book without giving unnecessary details and/or spoiling the ending completely. how do you people (friends) expect me to teach you how to get marvelous fucking eyebrows like mine over the phone? picture references, come on. i have like 80 pictures solely dedicated to my rows. i swear to you, that is the only hashtag i ever use aside from “pooter” (my awesome pitbull).

i couldn’t get away from the heater this morning, now i’m freezing my fucking nads off.

i suppose there needs to be some sort of topic. who wants a topic? anyone? no? ok.

thinking about lighting the “summer rain” scented candle just to keep warm. not that it will help, but seeing fire makes you innately warmer, right? i put summer rain in quotations because the candle in question here may in fact smell like “spring rain” or “winter rain” or “that not so seasonal part of the year where it’s perfect all day then your sprinklers freeze over and now you have to call your dad or a plumber or whoever the fuck fixes sprinklers rain.”

i’ve got it. i should start a tangent list. like the hate list, but instead of limiting myself to a few key words, i should just blow the fuck up. i love myself sometimes, i come up with the best most negative things ever. as usual, i will take requests, and as usual NONE OF YOU WILL MOVE SOME ASS AND FUCKING SUGGEST SOMETHING. therefore, i shall prepare.

i’ll most likely be typing this out today since i have a working computer in front of me thank you JESUS. look forward to it, sniff the screen when it’s posted, bask in the glory of the tangent.

if i don’t post it because i forgot or got sucked into tumblr, be mad. it’s a perfectly natural emotion and cheeseburgers are good for you. smoke a cigarette to calm you down, because yoga is stupid. guys i hate this computer, it’s doing this fun thing where if i click to add a word or what have you, it just highlights the area and when i try to type in something new it just starts deleting letters from the following word. what the fuck is your fucking problem you fucking robot from hell. So there is a sentence that states “i have 80 pictures solely dedicated to my rows when REALLY what i was trying to fucking say was that “i have 80 pictures solely dedicated to my HASHTAG EYEBROWS.” but nevermind, i won’t have the sentence worded the way my little heart desired for fucks sake. have it your way you outdated home office computer.

i have another redbull. byeeeeeeee

having to poop on a date

the context of above title would suggest that taking a shit on your date really is the pits. i mean whether or not the poo was intentional, it still sucks for someone. but really what i meant to say was that it sucks when you are physically on a date and you feel the need to excrete. gosh, that rhymed. love it. sounds like a intense slogan for some sort of poo product. just picture it: some buff dude with a cutoff tshirt getting all kinds of close to the screen with an incredulous look upon his face asking you “DO YOU FEEL THE  ? THE NEEEED TO EXCRETE?” my marketing skills should be revered. 

so i’ve been absent. my bad. but you all know this happens for a good few months when some life shit goes down. 

i shall try to maintain a steady flow (woman joke) of posts for you bored little Internet people. 

p.s. i typed this on my phone and it is SERIOUSLY wigging out. so please disregard any weird typing errors or extra letters. and also, unnecessary capitalization. 

let me just let loose a little aggression and shit real quick.

obviously posting a winded rant about your friends, then denying its sheer relevance to all of our situations. i don’t even know. you’re right, people lie and hurt each other; but if we all spoke the truth constantly, the amount of trouble and butthurt that would ensue is not worth you feeling higher up on the honesty food chain. lately, i stopped lying about my feelings, and now it’s caused a whirlwind of shit that i can’t even begin to mend. i quit with you people. it’s like we’re all stuck in our first year of college. we all think we’re done with the highschool bullshit but we’re really not and it just never ends. it’s one shitty situation after the other; you all complain about how it perpetuates itself without any real fixes, but instead of just saying fuck it let’s agree that we’re all shitty people and we piss each other off at times, we just go in circles of apologies and fights. as far as the truth goes, you’ll never get to hear it. having said all that, call me a bitch and let’s be done with it. i won’t be surprised.

reasons people don’t always text back:

 the phone is dying and perhaps the response is too long. it can wait

 sometimes, no one knows what to say so they ignore it and hope they don’t have to answer until they’ve had time to think about it

 you simply don’t think the text warrants a response

   ex: i’ll be there in 15 minutes

 maybe this statement has been overdone and your response still hasn’t changed.

the only think you could say is “ok” and you don’t feel like throwing that out there

i know there’s more, but i am so emotionally exhausted that i don’t want to go any farther. i’m pissed, frustrated, and tired of people trying to make things seem worse than they are. we lie, we choose our boyfriends over hanging out for girls night because some of us would rather have sex. it’s that simple, yet you all take it to heart and wish that someone had the decency to sugar coat it all. i am not nice, i am blunt, and i have no issues with confrontation. pick a fight with me for saying the things i do, i’m all ears. but i refuse to apologize for speaking the truth. now, if you could all just take a pill with a glass of wine and realize that we don’t have to have girls night every week and be all buddy buddy with texting to be the best of friends, that’d be great. as of now, i’m a little be done (as in overcooked) and would love nothing more than to just hang the fuck out and drink. instead of bitching about each other behind backs and on tumblr, let’s bitch to each other’s faces. i guarantee it will all turn into giggling and name calling after everyone cries about hearing the ugly truths we all seem to have a problem disclosing. 

a coned/half blind cat that wants food before dawn

pretty sure i alerted the danger sense in the derp dogs when i screamed at the cat to kindly “fucking stop” early this morning before the sun was even awake. really, i do feel bad for the little kitty man, but just because you now have one eye and a cone on to keep you from scratching the zombie eye doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole. and the other cat in the house, who is morbidly obese, tries to attack him ( i have not seen any evidence to support this) so i have to keep them separated. also, the other dog, being of small brain and gargantuan body, will not leave me alone. he’s too fucking big. 

right then. i have many pizza rolls and cheesy popcorn to stave off my impending mental breakdown, there’s wine too. and soon to be the best fucking eggflower soup on this earth with jasmine tea. sounds like a winning mix for my already torched stomach lining. must stop drinking. but when someone buys you a bottle of wine called “cookies and cream,” you’re not sober until it’s finished. 

guys, there’s a wine called fancy pants too. the cuter the name, the more of it i tend to drink. this marketing campaign is going to give me cirrhosis. 

here’s the part where my real followers come in. i’m not up for making another suck list yet, since it would mostly consist of all the shitty grown up things in my life right now. it just wouldn’t be funny. SO: ask me anything and i will answer it. there is no personal boundary that you could cross with me, i dare you to try. you can ask as many questions as you want. but don’t ask me stupid things like: who was your first love (it was probably a cat, most likely my pitbull cause that shit’s never going sour), what inspires you to write this blog (please. spare me), what’s your favourite soap so i can buy it and reek of your grace (please don’t find my ip address), and so on.