I’m going to bleach my hair white. I will be the tattooed Agyness Deyn, and you will piss yourself over it.

I’m off for a 4am beach picnic! Wheeee!

I didn’t realize this (of course) until someone pointed out my habit of masturbating while watching “Dexter” is probably not normal. And I’d never really noticed the pattern until it was mentioned to me.

What’s funny is that everyone knows lately I’ve been watching a lot of Dexter. I promise you, I wasn’t masturbating every time I watched it…

Just you know, most of them.

Alright, this guy isn’t actually older. He’s only seven and half (not that I’m counting) years older then I am. But he’s still crossed the border into the big 3-0. First, let’s discuss the fact that man is beautiful.

Oh, and let’s not forget the man has magical fucking fingers.

Is he seriously covering a song by Justin Timberlake? And making it sound good? AND posting it on YouTube for me to drool over?

This is what I want for Christmas. Gimme.

I was listening to Dance Gavin Dance and I’ve come to the conclusion that lately every song sounds a lot more depressing then it was probably intended to. When I’m bummed out I write, read, and fuck around in Photoshop when I’m too stoned to drive around the city aimlessly for hours.

When I purchased my tickets for a quick trip back to Denver, I should’ve made the mental connection that the fare was at least $50 less then I was expecting for a reason. After entering my credit card information it alerted me that having e-tickets issues was not an option; I wound up paying an extra $30 for the delivery of my paper tickets via UPS. While checking my bag at the [name removed so they don’t try to sue me later] Airlines counter, the sales representative said that was “downright archaic” in what sounded like a scolding tone. I thought she was just a snob, until I boarded the plane.

She was absolutely right—this flight has been a blast from the past and not in the same somewhat positive way as VH1 Pop-Up Video marathons. As we are riding however many hundreds of miles in the air, I have noticed the plane is completely devoid of mini-TV’s that tend to play a rotating assortment of the same three movies for months on end. Not in the seat backs or awkwardly mounted in white boxes by the overhead storage compartments, not folded down from the low-hanging overhead button command center that I have now hit my head on three times… none.
There’s roughly a foot and a half under the seat ahead of me that I am supposed to fit both my feet and carry-on item in. I’d guess there’s twelve inches from where the seat ahead of mine ends and mine begins. I am six feet tall and comprised almost entirely of leg—it’s a pretty tight fit here, folks. No airline provides an appropriate amount of leg room for anyone over 5’7” in coach. Unless you’re in the first row, which means you have no place to store your laptop bag and $8 bag of beef jerky you bought in the terminal. (Substitute “I” for “you” in the proceeding sentence, and then add in the beef jerky stomach ache that has followed. I could’ve used those eight bucks towards two tallboy cans of PBR tomorrow night. :/)

Several minutes after situating myself in my seat I started to wonder what that strange scent wafting through the aircraft was. After much deliberation I decided it’s a combination of old lady sweat, cheap perfume, wood smoke, and baby spit-up. Immediately I began looking for the exhausted middle-aged new mother in a Denny’s uniform that surely was sitting mere centimeters from me. While turning my head I accidentally brought my face too close to the back cushion of my seat and was horrified to realize there was no person fitting such a description anywhere in the vicinity. This is apparently the scent of frequently used (and possibly quite aged) airline seats.

Did you just throw up in your mouth a little bit at my description? Good. At least you were able to locate the nearest trash receptacle before I could even consider finding that pretty white bag they provide you to vomit in should you suffer from airsickness. (Does anyone aside from toddlers even get airsick at this day in age? I simply must know.) Aside from room-temperature soda, you’ve discovered the only other thing they provide you free of charge on the whole fucking plane.
Shooters of low-grade whiskey are $5, and my mother is the one picking me up in 45 minutes when the plane lands or I’d be well on my way to Belligerent-ville by now. I’ll wait and be sure to get myself really wasted at the airport bar prior to boarding my return flight to LA.

If I’m really lucky, I’ll finally have reason to use one of my complimentary airsickness bags.

Typically I don’t like talking about money because it’s depressing… but I just spent a lot of money I don’t have after a particularly horrible computer meltdown. Over $300 to find out my MacBook was beyond repair and then $650 for a laptop–my cards are maxed out.

This is where you come in. Over the years I’ve shown all my goods to the internet, and I hear some of you lurk this page that remember me from my more, er, “risque” activities on sites like CamWhores.
If you’re feeling sympathetic (or just think I’m cute) you can donate in two ways: via Amazon donations or by signing up for GodsGirls using this affiliate link. I don’t get a huge cut, but I think you guys might be into that.

Thank you for your pity/monies.

I am taking a very serious look at my life today. Actually, I am looking at my whole life–and I’m not liking what I’m seeing, folks. I suspect part of it can be attributed to the shitty week I had last week. $750 I don’t have for my MacBook’s board to be replaced, one of the only people I’ve connected to while living here has to go back to their respective home, my brother getting mugged in Mexico, and on and on…

With a trip back home (Denver) on the horizon, I’m starting to feel like maybe the six months away hasn’t helped me do much except end up further in debt. Homesickness isn’t really the word I would use to describe what’s going on in my head right now–I just feel like I haven’t accomplished anything. The reality of the situation is that I’m a 22 year old college drop out with no idea what she’s doing in life. People keep telling me this is normal, but I feel like maybe I’ve taken two steps backwards. I don’t have a career, nor do I think I possess a skill-set that allows me to find a career I could go into. I live paycheck to paycheck; that in and of itself is enough to spiral me into some kind of gnarly depression. For a brief moment yesterday I considered packing up my life and just heading back home, but I’m pretty sure there’s even less there for me than there was when I left in December. I won’t be going home rich, in shape, or with an amazing haircut. (I suspect I have the exact same hairstyle right now that I did as a rebellious “punk rocker” in my sophomore year of high school. What a depressing thought.)

Every time I have one of these moments where I question my whole existence (they happen far more regularly then I should probably admit to) I call my mother and pour everything that hurts out to her. One thing I can say about my mom: she might not always like me, but dammit she’s always there when I need her. When she gets phone calls and emails along these lines she jumps directly to Google in an attempt to find something she thinks I could easily train to do. Thus far we’ve covered courtroom reporting, medical transcriptionists, and technical writing (as in manuals for retards). None of these professions is appealing.

I am having a hard time really accepting the fact that I will probably have to choose a career path that I don’t enjoy to pay the bills for the rest of my life. On the upside, I’m fairly sure that at least it might bring me closer to something resembling financial security.

Mid-meltdown it was pointed out to me that with the exceptionally large amount of Benedryl I’ve been taking to try to control the swelling/itchiness of my bug bites might be impacting my mood. I’d love for this to explain away several days of emotional outbursts and crying fits… but I don’t think it does. If anything I’d like to blame it on the PMS I’m currently experiencing. I still think this has less to do with outside influences then it does the actual realization that I am still completely lost as to what to do with the rest of my life.

I think it’s strange that while living in this city I’ve gained a new appreciation for my insightfulness, ability to spot shitty people, and learned a lot more about what I consider to be acceptable behaviors and conversations between “friends”–but I’ve found a bundle of physical insecurities I’d never known before. How I can I seriously stare in a mirror and think I’m FAT? Since when do I think my shoulders are too wide? What made me decide my jawline is manly and that I should counterbalance it with a set of C-cup implants?

My head is in entirely the wrong place right now. If it doesn’t get ironed out in the next few days I’m seriously debating packing my bags. I hate feeling this burnt out on life.

Let’s be serious for a moment… this dude has been in charge of the radio show “Loveline” for over 10 years. He is a 49-year-old man whose whole area of expertise seems to be based around fucking and substance abuse problems.

Obviously, he and I were meant to meet.

Check out those epic fucking teeth! Oh Doctor, please teach me the way of the sexually knowledgable, FOM!

On page nine of my Google image search results, this picture popped up without explanation. I am a little disturbed, but choose to interpret this as a sign from the internet powers-that-be.

Read the rest of this entry »

Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had to talk shit about everyone and then pretend to be their friend to their face to get along in this town.

I hope you fucking hang yourselves.

At nearly 2am this morning I realized one of the following is true:

a) lately I’ve listening to Kottonmouth Kings
b) reverted to my 13 year old self
c) a complete stoner
d) all of the above

Correct answer would be D, by the way. I am fucking ridiculous.

Someone shoot me to keep me out of the gene pool. Alternately, you could always have me sterilized if you think I’m highly entertaining (but still should not reproduce).