Ok, if we all put our super-mega-head-laser-power together at the same time, maybe we can create a remote trigger that will make my fucking boss explode from miles away.
I'm kind of counting on that, guys.
I hate him.
Nevermind he's 32 and looks 65.
Nevermind his name is Erik with a fucking K.
What a tool. I've had it. I might not even go into work tonight. This might be IT.
He treats me like shit because...
a) he doesn't know how to order merchandise for the store, and always ends up ordering 5 katrillion cases of products that we only sell 2 or 3 a week of, and I nicely asked him where he learned to order, mainly because I'M the one stuck finding a place to store all of the extra shit.
b) He left a note telling all of us to "check the PURPUL assignment book on your shift", and I corrected his pathetic spelling of a K-1 level word.
c)I'm only 7 years younger than him and look like I could be his great granddaughter.
d)he has a 711 jacket with his name embroidered on it, and if that doesn't spell l-o-s-e-r, then I'm not sure what does.
e)when he told me not to payroll deduct anything else for the week, I proceeded to payroll deduct 16 bucks a few hours later, because afterall, it comes out of MY fucking paycheck, and only serves to profit the store. WTF??!!
So, in conclusion, he must die. But not before I tell him how much of a moron he is, spit in his French roast, and flash my titties to a full line of coffee-loving retirees.
Cocksucker.
-----------------------
On a lighter and brighter note, today is my little sister's birthday celebration. I can't afford to get her anything, but I also don't remember even getting a call from her on my birthday, so there aren't any worries. (Ok, so I was in Tennessee on my birthday, playing a show to a most-appreciative audience including Ken Coomer of Wilco, but that's beside the point.)
Anyway, my little sister will be 20, and she's awesome, though you will never see her on a website of this....variety. at least not until CelibateChristianChicks.com is launched.
--------------------
I've also been working my ghostly-pale ass off in the studio lately. I can't wait until everything is done, mixed, mastered, pressed, etc etc...so we can get back out there on the road, and rock some tails. I added a new "most humbling moment" that you might find amusing. It took place at a Baltimore show as I was reaching for my complimentary beer. Haven't brought a brew on stage since then. See, being the "frontwoman", I am supposed to exude sex-appeal, grace, and demonstrate that "star quality". I suppose I haven't quite gotten it down yet. Apparently, according to my bassist, my favorite LONDON shirt is not sexy, so I think I'm going to have to retire it from the stage, though I can think of nothing that makes ME pop a pea-size-little-girl-boner faster than fucking London.
"You know, fish...chips...cup-o-tea. Bad food, worse weather, Mary fucking Poppins, LONDON!" (Name the movie.)
Of course, all this talk about sex-appeal is coming from a skinny 28 year old with a scene-cut, and a Celtics jersey on, who has somehow convinced himself that he is the epitome of mod style. He does get the plumpies though....
You may be wondering what a plumpie is. It is synonomous with a thickie. It refers to a booty that is stacked just right. There are three stages of booty, according to my bandmates - plump, frump, and dump. Skinny asses or non-existent asses do not fit into the classification. A frump booty may have been plump in the past, but is showing signs of deterioration ie cellulite, saggage, etc. A dump booty is beyond repair. Your middle school lunchlady's booty was more than likely....dump.
Evil is plump.
I hope you're enjoying this journal entry. It spurs from many things. Band stress. Job loathing. Best friends going down the crapper. Removing dead dogs from the road on national hotdog and beer day. Money stress. Strange sleeping schedules. No earthly idea where my vibrator is hiding. Impending doom mixed with an impending bright and sunny future. No idea whether I'm in a relationship or not with Russ. No idea whether I should be or not. No AC. No desire to eat McDonalds (this is a critical warning that the world is coming to a end), too many turds to scoop out of the litter box, and too much cat piss in one day on too much fabric in my room.
--------------------------
So, regarding the Russ, I realize I haven't said much about him. I was wary that he might be reading this, but I've come to the conclusion that I really don't think he's interested or even aware that I indulge in this kind of patter on the site. We've been "hanging out" for nearly two months, and the other night, the unspeakable issue came up. You know the one. The "what are we?" thing. Neither of us asked that absolutely wretched question, though. It came up in kind a joking fashion, and therefore we were both able to gracefully step around it without tripping on the point. In other words, we ended up right where we started. I don't know what I want, so I was delighted. Well, maybe not delighted. Ah fuck, I don't know. I told myself that there would be no point entering into a relationship unless I was head over fucking heels in love, but I don't know if I even hold that potential anymore. Not scared of committment. Deathly afraid of intimacy. Can't remember how to open up. Can't remember. Hmmmm.... We'll see what happens. But one more thing...
Russ. He likes me, but when he looks at me, it's almost as if he's admiring/appreciating, enjoying my company, amused, etc....but, I don't know if he's feeling. Not that I need him to....it's just strange. I'm used to being able to pick out a visible sign in a blink, a smile, a subtle sort of break in eye contact, a fumbled phrase, SOME kind of body language, and with Russ, I get nothing. I clearly don't intimidate him. I don't think I surprise him. I don't think he's fascinated, and I don't think he's longing. He just always seems happily composed. More and more this makes me believe that he may be even more difficult to break open than myself. This draws me to him, but also frustrates the bejeezus out of me. Am I not a deep, hurting, creative, private, existential creature? Erg.
BY THE WAY, IF YOU LOVE ME, LEAVE ME A FRICKING TESTIMONIAL. MAKE A SAD TRYST A HAPPY TRYST.
I'm kind of counting on that, guys.
I hate him.
Nevermind he's 32 and looks 65.
Nevermind his name is Erik with a fucking K.
What a tool. I've had it. I might not even go into work tonight. This might be IT.
He treats me like shit because...
a) he doesn't know how to order merchandise for the store, and always ends up ordering 5 katrillion cases of products that we only sell 2 or 3 a week of, and I nicely asked him where he learned to order, mainly because I'M the one stuck finding a place to store all of the extra shit.
b) He left a note telling all of us to "check the PURPUL assignment book on your shift", and I corrected his pathetic spelling of a K-1 level word.
c)I'm only 7 years younger than him and look like I could be his great granddaughter.
d)he has a 711 jacket with his name embroidered on it, and if that doesn't spell l-o-s-e-r, then I'm not sure what does.
e)when he told me not to payroll deduct anything else for the week, I proceeded to payroll deduct 16 bucks a few hours later, because afterall, it comes out of MY fucking paycheck, and only serves to profit the store. WTF??!!
So, in conclusion, he must die. But not before I tell him how much of a moron he is, spit in his French roast, and flash my titties to a full line of coffee-loving retirees.
Cocksucker.
-----------------------
On a lighter and brighter note, today is my little sister's birthday celebration. I can't afford to get her anything, but I also don't remember even getting a call from her on my birthday, so there aren't any worries. (Ok, so I was in Tennessee on my birthday, playing a show to a most-appreciative audience including Ken Coomer of Wilco, but that's beside the point.)
Anyway, my little sister will be 20, and she's awesome, though you will never see her on a website of this....variety. at least not until CelibateChristianChicks.com is launched.
--------------------
I've also been working my ghostly-pale ass off in the studio lately. I can't wait until everything is done, mixed, mastered, pressed, etc etc...so we can get back out there on the road, and rock some tails. I added a new "most humbling moment" that you might find amusing. It took place at a Baltimore show as I was reaching for my complimentary beer. Haven't brought a brew on stage since then. See, being the "frontwoman", I am supposed to exude sex-appeal, grace, and demonstrate that "star quality". I suppose I haven't quite gotten it down yet. Apparently, according to my bassist, my favorite LONDON shirt is not sexy, so I think I'm going to have to retire it from the stage, though I can think of nothing that makes ME pop a pea-size-little-girl-boner faster than fucking London.
"You know, fish...chips...cup-o-tea. Bad food, worse weather, Mary fucking Poppins, LONDON!" (Name the movie.)
Of course, all this talk about sex-appeal is coming from a skinny 28 year old with a scene-cut, and a Celtics jersey on, who has somehow convinced himself that he is the epitome of mod style. He does get the plumpies though....
You may be wondering what a plumpie is. It is synonomous with a thickie. It refers to a booty that is stacked just right. There are three stages of booty, according to my bandmates - plump, frump, and dump. Skinny asses or non-existent asses do not fit into the classification. A frump booty may have been plump in the past, but is showing signs of deterioration ie cellulite, saggage, etc. A dump booty is beyond repair. Your middle school lunchlady's booty was more than likely....dump.
Evil is plump.
I hope you're enjoying this journal entry. It spurs from many things. Band stress. Job loathing. Best friends going down the crapper. Removing dead dogs from the road on national hotdog and beer day. Money stress. Strange sleeping schedules. No earthly idea where my vibrator is hiding. Impending doom mixed with an impending bright and sunny future. No idea whether I'm in a relationship or not with Russ. No idea whether I should be or not. No AC. No desire to eat McDonalds (this is a critical warning that the world is coming to a end), too many turds to scoop out of the litter box, and too much cat piss in one day on too much fabric in my room.
--------------------------
So, regarding the Russ, I realize I haven't said much about him. I was wary that he might be reading this, but I've come to the conclusion that I really don't think he's interested or even aware that I indulge in this kind of patter on the site. We've been "hanging out" for nearly two months, and the other night, the unspeakable issue came up. You know the one. The "what are we?" thing. Neither of us asked that absolutely wretched question, though. It came up in kind a joking fashion, and therefore we were both able to gracefully step around it without tripping on the point. In other words, we ended up right where we started. I don't know what I want, so I was delighted. Well, maybe not delighted. Ah fuck, I don't know. I told myself that there would be no point entering into a relationship unless I was head over fucking heels in love, but I don't know if I even hold that potential anymore. Not scared of committment. Deathly afraid of intimacy. Can't remember how to open up. Can't remember. Hmmmm.... We'll see what happens. But one more thing...
Russ. He likes me, but when he looks at me, it's almost as if he's admiring/appreciating, enjoying my company, amused, etc....but, I don't know if he's feeling. Not that I need him to....it's just strange. I'm used to being able to pick out a visible sign in a blink, a smile, a subtle sort of break in eye contact, a fumbled phrase, SOME kind of body language, and with Russ, I get nothing. I clearly don't intimidate him. I don't think I surprise him. I don't think he's fascinated, and I don't think he's longing. He just always seems happily composed. More and more this makes me believe that he may be even more difficult to break open than myself. This draws me to him, but also frustrates the bejeezus out of me. Am I not a deep, hurting, creative, private, existential creature? Erg.
BY THE WAY, IF YOU LOVE ME, LEAVE ME A FRICKING TESTIMONIAL. MAKE A SAD TRYST A HAPPY TRYST.
VIEW 25 of 49 COMMENTS
I'd be honored if ya kept it but see how it works for youz.