Category Archives: hatred

A Series In Poor Choices

i just wanted to lay in bed all day and watch bedknobs and broomsticks.  but no.  it’s wednesday.  and i had to work.  while hungover.  severely.  

so severely that i ate my lunch before 9am.  so severely that i didn’t even heat it up – just dunked a cold hamburger patty in lemon poppy seed dressing.  i’m a fucking wreck.

in my defense – it was shitler’s last night of bowling and i can’t tolerate being at that fucking place when i’m sober.  so i indulged.  and now i’m paying the price.  here’s a few ridiculous fucking pictures from last night:

me. and the wheez.

because normal pictures would be too easy.

oh, good news.  shitler is the champion of his fantasy football league.  

also, he got a trophy.

what’s that?  you don’t care?  ya, me either.

but i do like trophies.

and shoving them up people’s asses.

and apparently shitler and i can take a decent photo together:

you’ll have to excuse me.  i need more bayer advanced strength.  and another gallon of water.  if there were a contest for being the most dehydrated – i would win.

but today wasn’t all bad.  i remembered that i did hit the eight ball in to win a game of pool last night.  i only won because b was my partner and he got every other ball in.   i’m not even joking.

and then my friend the super fox sent me the best text in the world.  seriously.  it was this and only this:

but now i’m concerned.  does jeff have cancer?  and why is his hair like that?

also – i would post a picture of the super fox and me but i don’t have one.  and upon thinking about it – i don’t know if i do want one.  because she’s infinitely gorgeous and i am infinitely not.  

also – my hand smells.  that is all.


Throbbing. And Not In The Good Way.

update: remember when i cut myself on the sink?

well, great news.  i dug glass out of the sink the other day – so i don’t feel quite so stupid.

but this morning is another story.  

there’s nothing better than being woken up due to the fact that you have somehow thrashed in your sleep and cracked the back of your skull on the corner of your bedside table.  

even better?  
it hurts so bad that you start sleepily crying and then your significant other blindly extends his hand and pats you on the head (where it happens to fucking hurt) and slurs ok, “y’ok?”  and then rolls back over.  thank you shitler, thank you.

then, you’re so delirious from sleep and pain that you convince yourself that you probably have a concussion and you’ve seen way too many movies and decide that there’s no way you should go back to sleep because if you do – you’ll probably die.  but you do fall back asleep, for like fifteen minutes.  and when you wake up, you somehow have a cold.  and a massive headache due to the blunt force trauma to your head.  so your morning consists of this:

and then you discover, upon attempting to brush your teeth, that your dog has done this:

it's like a fucking shiv.

and the drive to work is painful, because you’re convinced that the sun is trying to kill you and you have to wear two sets of sunglasses to just to make the trek somewhat tolerable.  but then you’re at work.  and everyone is loud.  and your head throbs.  and then you realize it’s good friday.  the day people acknowledge that jesus was crucified and died on the cross.  and you kind of wish that you were dead.  but you’re not.  you’re just quietly suffering.  until you find these pictures:

but then you realize it’s only noon.  and you have ten to twelve hours worth of work left.

happy good friday assholes.

I Cut Myself on the Sink

i know.  it makes no sense.  

well, in retrospect – it makes perfect sense.  i’d been drinking.  and then cleaning.  

i’m really, really good at one of those things.

ack. also - i suggest you click on the picture. the close-up is way better.

the artsy version:

i like the one with the hearts.

boring, un-decorated band aids are for losers.
so this one is for later when it’s time to change the dressings on my wound and when i’m in a better mood.  

that smile will soon be bloody.

 this is now:

because i'm angry.

what have i learned from this?

1. sinks are sharp

2. i shouldn’t clean

I Don’t Think This Was The Jelly Beyonce Was Talking About

and lord knows i wasn’t ready for it.

apparently b put these in my purse two or three months ago and i’m just finally discovering that they exploded all over.

yes, they're covered in hair.

that’s fine.  

even though everything in my purse was covered in a sticky layer of jelly it at least smelled like strawberries.

oh, here’s my purse.  and its contents. 

contents include, but aren’t limited to:

  • wallet
  • 2 books
  • twilight returns movie
  • re-usable grocery bag thing
  • pepto
  • various beverages
  • headphones
  • deodorant
  • tiny satchel thing
  • 2 kinds of body sprays
  • 3 chapsticks
  • sunglasses
  • loaf of bread
  • triscuits
  • new barbells and nose rings
  • a thousand receipts
  • birthday card from last year
  • keys
  • lotion
  • jelly
  • 26 cents
  • my crumpled march madness bracket

oddly enough – no pens.

and no, that printer wasn’t in my purse.  although i’m sure it would fit.

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Textual Feeling: B’s B-Day!

in trying to honor b on the day of his birth and his cursed existence in my life since i encountered him however many years ago – i give you these:


me: i had asparagus with dinner last night and my pee has smelled alllll day.
b: i love when that happens.


b: why aren’t we supposed to cry over spilled milk?  if not cleaned up properly, spilled milk can get pretty nasty.  that seems like something to cry over.

—— (this is me ignoring him)


—— (this is me ignoring him again)


—— (me ignoring him)

me: those are old news bitch.
b: la dee da.  i just had them sent to me.  sorry for thinking you’d enjoy them too.  now answer my question.
me: i guess my answer would be that i wouldn’t give a shit because a dog or cat would lick it up and it wouldn’t be my fucking problem anymore.
b: why are you so bitchy today?
me: i need a drink.


b: well, it’s what she wants.
me: all that she wants?
b: you got it.
me: what about another baby?
b: that’s me.  duh.
me: quit being obtuse and acknowledge my ace of base reference.
b: nope.  i refuse to give you that satisfaction.


so here’s to b.  on his fucking bday.  

here’s to many more times we get hammered and make poor choices while shitler judges us, to hours spent watching “my cat from hell,” and to discussing books and how much we love them in front of shitler till his head explodes.  

to vodka presses (with lime -because if you prefer them without – odds are you’re a fucking communist) and john daly’s, and ranch dressing on the thighs of hot girls.

to daring me to steal shit when i get drunk out of my skull, to encouraging you to drunk dial people and leave embarrassing messages, and most importantly – here’s to poor-decision making (especially on your bday).

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Shitler Is Breaking My Heart

i need to stop thinking i’m invincible.  i made some poor choices this weekend in regards to food and alcohol and my poor, poor body is currently paying the price.

my back hurts because i spent the majority of my day yesterday hunched over the toilet.  my head is pounding.  and everything i encounter is literally the most annoying thing ever.  people are walking loud and they are talking even louder.  it’s crazytown.

and on top of all of that – lincoln is making me give charchar binks the cat back to its original owner because he’s a fucking devil-man.

from here on out – he will be referred to as shitler.  in an effort to campaign against his current nazi regime – my friend made some convincing photos that are pretty self-explanatory.

maybe shitler wouldn't hate him so much if he drove us home when we were hammered.


charlie was never very good at penmanship.

or cropping photos.

i’ve decided to occupy the pussy for catgate 2K12.  although i’m not sure if i’m utilizing the concept correctly.  or if that makes me a democrat or a republican.  or if it makes a nazi.  or if this will even work.

i’m sure it won’t.  shitler doesn’t even care that he’s literally ripping my heart out.


Why It’s Fucking Bullshit Working At a Restaurant

ever have one of those days where you know that you shouldn’t get out of bed but you do and then everything throughout the rest of your day is terrible and therefore confirms your earlier sneaking suspicion that you shouldn’t get out of bed?

everyone’s day is long and usually filled with bullshit (unless you’re a video game tester).  but there is nothing worse than having to work your typical eight-hour day and then go to a part-time job – especially if that part-time job is at a restaurant.

people think it’s comical that i work at a restaurant.  lincoln can’t believe it because he thinks i’m a bitch.  it’s easy for me to be fake nice to be people over the phone while i’m flipping them the bird because they’re fucking idiots but it’s super, super hard to be nice to a stranger’s face when i swear they’re trying to slowly kill me with their stupidity.

case in point.
last night at the restaurant.  

below are some highlights of my fucking bullshit night.

bullshit table #1:

bitch customer: i hope you know the menu inside and out.  we have a lot of questions.
me: i’ve been here for awhile.
bitch customer: hm.  we’ve never seen you before.  and we’re here ALL the time.
me: i’ve been here for two years.

bitch customer: i’m on a NO-rice diet.  i can’t have anything with rice.
me: ok, how about about the vietnamese fresh rolls?
bitch customer: tell me about them.
me: umm, they’re wrapped in a soy paper and have carrot, lettuce, cucumber and shrimp in them.
bitch customer: there’s no shrimp in them.  i’ve had them before.
me: there’s shrimp in them.
bitch customer: i have NEVER had them with shrimp in them.  it doesn’t even say it on the menu that there’s shrimp in them.
me: *point to the place on the menu where it says there’s shrimp in the vietnamese fresh rolls*
bitch customer: oh.  we’ll have a bottle of sonoma cutrer.

observations about bitch customer:

  1. if you come here all the time then why do you have so many goddamn questions about the menu?
  2. if you’re on some schizo fucking diet – do everyone a favor and don’t go out to eat.
  3. enjoy that bottle of white wine on your diet.

bullshit table #2:

pretentious old lady customer: i LOVE calamari.  honey, we should get the calamari.
me: would you like me to put an order of calamari in for you?
pretentious old lady customer: no
me: ok.
pretentious old lady customer: i’ll have this seafood dish.  because it has squid in it.  i simply love squid.
me: ok

*the table’s order has been entered.  i come back to check.*

pretentious old lady customer: you know what, dear?  put in an order for some calamari.
me: ok.

*bring pretentious old lady customer’s entree with squid in it.  give her time to try it and come back to check on pretentious old lady customer.*

me: how is everything so far?
pretentious old lady customer: this squid is INEDIBLE (as she hands me a tiny dish full of squid that she has meticulously picked out of her meal).  i can’t even eat this.
me: ok?
pretentious old lady customer: can the chef make me something else?  like some more shrimp?
me: umm, let me ask.

*go back to the kitchen – get the green light on some new fucking shrimp.  in the meantime, the other calamari dish is up.  bring that to the table.*

me: the chef is making you some more shrimp.
pretentious old lady customer: oh thank you, dear.
me: ok.

*bring the lady her new shrimp.”

me: would you like me to wrap up this calamari for you?
pretentious old lady customer: no, this was just as inedible as the other stuff.  must have come from the same batch.  make sure you take that off the bill.  i barely touched it.
me: ……ok.

*take it off the bill.  bring her the bill.  later discover that the fucking twat left me $10 on a $79 check.*

observations about pretentious old lady customer:

  1. don’t order something because you think it makes you sound hip.  it doesn’t.  stick to sesame chicken.
  2. you’re a cheap fuck that needs to the stay the fuck at home.

bullshit table #3

me: hey folks – how are you doing tonight?
completely silent couple: *SILENCE*
me: uhh, can i get you two something to drink?
completely silent couple: *SILENCE*
me: i’ll just bring you two some water.

observations about completely silent couple:

  1. perhaps you shouldn’t venture out in public if you have zero social skills.
  2. also, thanks for the shitty tip.


to all my fellow servers out there – good god do i feel your pain.  if there is ever a case for how cheap, fucked up, and ridiculous people are it can be made at any restaurant across the country.

there was one thing that happened at the restaurant once.  

some legit people left this sticky rice creation behind:

i challenge you to a duel.


i recently finished what i would say is my new favorite book.

sharp objects
by gillian flynn

it is supremely fucked up and all things terrible.  an incredible twist focusing on women as nasty, conniving characters.  none of this women being victims bullshit or simply that women are on the receiving end of awful behavior and the results of said awful behavior.  in this book, women are presented as horrible human beings – hell bent on inflicting pain and damage if it benefited them.  we very seldom see women presented as they are in this book and it’s quite refreshing.  and if you’d like, the author wrote a little essay about her book here.

for the love of all that’s holy – read this fucking book.
because it has everything.  drug use, sexual exploits, creepy, fucked up small town bullshit, deep seated family issues, murder, psychological issues, etc.

there is something about the way the author writes that makes you sympathize and hate all at the same time.  not to mention that although some parts are completely fucked up – you can’t help but judge yourself a little because at one point in your life – you’ve thought along those exact same lines.

the quote below is like an honest slap in the face.  because who doesn’t or hasn’t used alcohol as a buffer, an excuse, an escape, or as a way to cope?

“i’ve always been partial to the image of liquor as lubrication – a layer of protection from all the sharp objects in your head.”

not to mention that it simply refuses to let women be standby characters.  it pushes back when it tries to pigeon-hole women as soft characters.  it serves to prove that women be just as sick, sadistic, and fucked up as many male characters can be.  it’s nice to be able to read something that’s not so cliche when it comes to women.

this book forces you to face some of the awful truths about the character of women and that those personality traits, to some extent, exist in all of us.

who doesn't want to read a book with a fucking razor blade on the cover?

“sometimes i think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom.  i have known so many sick women all my life.  women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases.  women with conditions.  men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip.  women get consumed.”

Sick, Fucked Up Books Make For Great Reads

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Chuck is Going to Murder Me

if this is the last you hear from me – you know who killed me.

check out that look in his eyes.  if that doesn’t scream serial killer i don’t know what does.


Things I Fucking Hate: Updated

thought i would do a quick update because these two things have been bothering me since last friday.  while making/decorating massive amounts of balls with G – we watched eight hours of the food network, during which i was subjected to two shows that i will forever refuse to watch from here on out.

Down Home With the Neelys –
it’s terrible.  while viewing the show, i feel that there is a strong possibility that the two are going to start fucking each other at any moment. 
it’s frightening. 
and i shouldn’t be made to sit on the edge of my seat with the remote balanced precariously in my hand should the need to frantically change the channel arise.  not to mention they say “ya’ll” far more than any person should ever be allowed to and it makes me want to punch a baby.

here they are eye-fucking each other.

ugh. foreplay.

here he's taking her from behind.

$10 Dinners with melissa d’arabian –
she’s a lying fucking bitch.  cook a dinner like a normal person.  a normal person that doesn’t have a pantry stocked with the most ridiculous things known to man.  no one has mass amounts of frozen shrimp stockpiled in their freezer or fancy ground coffee beans to whip up a dessert.  it should be a show about the last $10 you have in your checking account and you have to make a gourmet meal out of a package of ramen noodles.  

just add the expensive spices you should keep on hand!

this just made me smile.

i found this.  there are others that feel like i do about sweet melissa. 

also, lincoln has been whistling a lot more lately.  which leads me to believe he actually does read this.


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