somyroommate

I blog. About life.

Month: January, 2012

Gotta Nom!

So I was routing around for some snaffels in the store today and I noticed that there were a lot of “party sized” snack foods sitting around. You know, the super-grando-walrus-endorsed-butter-approved sized portions. Like 2 1/2 pounds bags of candy. The problem at hand?

We all know the vast majority of these “party sized” portions aren’t serving a party…

A little sketch from my tumblr.walrusgrande.com blog

But, I’ll be real with you, ‘Murica. We have a problem.

Now, don’t get me wrong I did get me some of those delectable…delicious…bits of joy and happiness wrapped in colorful unicorn paper. Not necessarily the jumbo sized, but noms enough to make me happeh… until they were gone.

My desire for the “party sized” bag of candy, all for myself. AWL MYNE!!11!!one!!    Left me wondering…  what am I becoming?

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My apocalyptic dinner.

So, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been asked this question as an icebreaker before, but since I worked as an RA (resident assistant) at the university for three years, I’ve heard it a few times:

“If you were about to die, but you could have dinner with anybody you chose (live or dead), who would you have dinner with? You may only have room at the table for eight people.”

There’s one answer that I think is poorly thought out: religious figures. Aka: Jesus/Vishnu/Mohammad

Like, what if “said religious person” wasn’t the entity that modern religion made them out to be, wouldn’t that be an awkward turtle?

Issue number two: if your religion proves to be the correct one in the afterlife, this entity is the one you’re going to have to spend lunch/dinner with for the rest of your deadness.

But, I get it, some people are religious. I can respect that.

My religion is internet.

not joking

Thusly, here are my (epic) eight:

1. Shocantelle Brown

2. Lorraine

3. Carol Beer

4. Tracy

5. Ken Lee

6. Diana    — this is original Diana for those who don’t know her awesome.

7. Bon qui qui

8. Ms. Swan

Pure win.

Those sitting at the kiddie table (honorable mentions):

1. Blueberry

2. Dog girl

3. Wilfred

Who would be your eight?

Wha’ ha’ happened?!

Okay, Christmas happened, right? Time to use those gift cards we all got. #awsum!

Welp, my sister-in-law and brother got me a gift card to Wal-Mart. #problematic

The nearest Wal-Mart to my current location is 45 minutes away… it’s also in one of the most…. trashy urban fabulous… areas.  I know what you’re thinking, just shop online.

But, I’m cheap. I’d rather not pay full price and pay for shipping. They always have those stupid ass sales that nobody celebrates, IE:  It’s Gradma Shat Herself Day. Prices are dropping faster than grandma’s grasp on reality.

Bam. sale. Totally gonna cash in on this card.

Anyway, so I made the trek to this cesspool of struggling human intellect, hoping for some bargains. On my way in I got stuck behind a four year old (ish) tottling along saying “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…” as his parents laughed. Definitely a good sign.

I figured I’d scurry off to the food section. Maybe I could snaffle some cheap sustenance.  If there’s anything in life that understands me, it’s a stick of butter. The food was poisoned. Some pube of an employee had put moth balls under the aisle separators… presumably to rid the store of a bug infestation? But, it only served to make the whole food section reek like old lady carpet. For the love of God. Need. Air…. and a bath

I made way to the furniture section. Hoping for some clarity to bolster myself enough to find something to buy with my damn gift card. I ran into some trailor queen and her cigarette hero stealing a lamp. The fuck people?! A lamp?! An ugly lamp too? Uuugh. Trash without vision. At least Oscar was pimp.

By this point in my venture, I’m too embarrassed by my own species to function. So, I grabbed my own lamp and beasted my way to the check out.

Got stuck behind a 45 y/o guy with track shorts, a headband, and a wind breaker. People of walmart are real.

As I’m waiting in line, the floor manager sees somebody he knows behind me. So he swaggers over and greats his friend with some form of language I don’t understand. Followed by a “dude, dis front is mine. I could smoke a bowl up in here, if I wanted to. Ain’t nobody gonna stop me. This my area.”

Apparantly all it takes for you to manage a the front of a walmart is some facial tattoo’s, a strong swagger, and a mild marijuana addiction. Why did I get my bachelors? Why?

Never. Going. Back.

Failboat

You know, you’d think that when it matters the most, I’d be able to be the most awesome-unicorn-approved hero, ever. You’d think.

Well, that’s not the case. The moments that most need a unicorn hero are when I bust out the very best dumassitry

I’m reasonably sure this inability to shoot magical stars and rainbows out my ass on demand is probably why I’m still single.

Not getting what I’m saying?

Let me clarify. You know when you have a crush on somebody, and that somebody is holding up their portion of the conversation in a very clever, witty,  and charming manner… Yet, despite the precedence, when it’s my turn to respond. I just vomit up some vaguely english based response (usually not relevant to the conversation.)

My sub-conscience generally decides that moments like this are best to follow up with an epic action. You know: food in the teeth, spilling something, falling into a bear trap, sharting yourself, eating your napkin, … skillz that would attract a mate.

But, it’s not just these in-person encounters that make having a crush easy. It’s also the utter and  total lack of knowledge about timing.

Being an aspiring comedian, I’m aware of how critical a well placed line can be, or how powerful …. silence…. can be.

Those rules and ideologies melt like soft shit in the rain when I start texting.

I generally continue in a spastic and incompetent manner until the battery on my phone dies… or I delete their number to keep myself from becoming a desperate texter…

But, I have great hopes for the future.

So, here’s to all the people out there like me. Here’s to you, future cat ladies… here’s to us!

Be real with yourself.

Okay, seriously?

Why is the New Year when people decide to post their list of 235978521 things they are going to change about themselves? When in fourteen seconds they’ll end up breaking their commitment… you’re setting yourself for a good hard fail.

I’ll be real with you all.

I’d love to say that I’m going to lose weight. But as soon as I see cake, it disappears:

And sure, I should probably be nicer to people…. but as soon as I go in public some annoying customer service wench is just waiting to death smog me with the newest version of liquid skank butthole perfume. So, to avoid enduring smelling like trollop ass for the rest of the day, I’ll just bonqui my way to a good hard win…

And we all know that everybody’s planning on cutting back on alcohol and the lot… But, seriously, the world is a much more beautiful place when I’m too drunk to think of all the assholes that live in it.

I’d like to make New Years resolutions….but, no! Not me! I’m going to stay the same drunk fatass with a shitty attitude. But, you know what? I love myself for who I am, not who I could be, chins and all.<3

So, to all the people who post one million things you’re going to change this year, when you’re done flirting with Jenny Craig and smelling like Eau de Slut then grab a slice of cheesecake, pick up a beer, and we’ll snarfle at the skinny bitches running from their personalities.

I give you until Valentine’s Day.

Where have I gone? Well, I moved. Yes, I moved out of hell’s butthole and into a wonderful, empty apartment. Roommate free. (gasp)
I’d like to say that my move was painless. Everybody likes moving, right? But, to be honest, I’d rather try to ass handle a porcupine with a pineapple than deal with roommate while moving. It wasn’t easy.
 

And, I’m sure that you remember from high-school vocabulary class that the word “move” is also a synonym for “fucking expensive.”  Sooooo, to pay for my move escape from hell, and newfound expenses therein, I’ve picked up an assload of hours at work. IE, I’ve worked the last thirteen days in a row and this weekend will be my first full weekend off in 6 weeks. Translation: no time to blog life is pointless.
That is not to mention, that you have to deal with all those billing companies during/after you move. Electric, gas, rent, and internet added to the student loans and phone bill. fml. I just graduated college. I don’t understand what these fabled “bills” are. I always figured it was just a way to scare adults into being good.
You know the “better be good or the bills are going to come and steal your money!” kinda thing… I mean, when I was younger, getting mail was the most bomb ass shit. Ever. Who could ever despise getting mail?! No, bills do not exist. College proved this idea: you get free money to make friends and have fun. Just go to class and do your homework… else the bills will come and get you post-graduate.
Clearly I fail at life because I’m getting it handed to me. And, they’re voracious too… sorta reminds me of a fucking seagull. You go to the beach (new apartment) expecting everything to be awesome, sunny, and prettyful. But, as soon as you arrive “they” greet you with ass clenching, ear bleeding scrawking, yell back and you get shit on, and after you’re quivering, shit covered mess, they steals your noms. -> Yes, bills are the inanimate form of a seagull. I have decided.
 
But, I’m finally caught up with all my bills and I have this weekend off. Thus, my grand return… to alcohol. Dear beer, I missed you. 😀