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.

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. 

being sore. fuck this shit

for the few of you who may or may not read every post, you know i haven’t seen a leotard or tights since february. maybe even january. i had my first class on monday, and one again yesterday. and tomorrow. how i made it through those sweat and fire in the ankles/all muscles filled hours remains a mystery only to be solved by nancy drew herself.

that’s what i’ll do with my life. i’ll start a whole new series: book one = the case of stephanie’s missing muscle strength and endurance. sounds like a rousing tale of body odor and aching feet to me. i want coffee. shall return.

you know what doesn’t make sense to me? besides people who don’t like white wine and cats?

coffee stirrers. how in the actual FUCK do you expect me to properly distribute the powdered creamy goodness into my coffee made wrong by coworker with this minuscule barbie pole vault? yes i use powdered creamer, cause it’s way better than liquid. it’s also room temperature and doesn’t take away the slight burning sensation on the roof of your mouth that you savour later when you eat a chip and it practically slices open your entire face. do you see what i mean? stupid. stupid invention.

i really have no sense of literary (?) direction here.

where to now stephanie, oh grand poobah of pointless ramblings?

not pointless. must remind self that people find me amusing.



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.