shit i laughed, ooh-ed, or ahh-ed at:

10 things you don't
know about women

her name is laurie garrett.

valentines are fucked!

re: people to read
one of these names is
not like the other ones

it's happening

mom, this is why

slap that ho!

dude, dope

digital needle

these are a bitch to make

at times i miss tv

love these

like black velvet

fish wake up!


how much to kill a puppy?

cnn sucks

a list
[via donger]

anna nicole smith:
can't act for shit

kitties not war

toddler take-down

drew needs a ninja

spam composition

bubb rubb and lil sis

big love for the shout out, dog

i'm avril

britney: sundance is weird

masturbate for peace

die michele

poufbunny pin-up parlor

pizza is a trap

mary jane got pregnant
a discussion
[via archipelapogo]

4 bukkake (text-only)

cool as ice

discuss links

8th grade
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
12:21 a.m.
8th grade was my lilac sweater/skirt combo from K-Mart that skimmed by budding curves in a way that made the young twenty-something crossing guard smile at me in a way that I was embarrassed of, but often thought about in my room late at night, staring into the box fan. 8th grade was playing Nintendo in my room, Tetris probably, and the paralyzation that took over as the DJ cut off Paula Abdul to announce that we were now officially at war with Iraq. 8th grade was 4-page letters, front and back, to a boy who wore Polo cologne and once hit me with a chair. 8th grade was Latin class with the 6-foot tall teacher who carried a stick, a huge cane that was wrapped in black duct tape that she threatened the students with jokingly. She was funny and irreverant and stole the heart of the Mr. Snook, the shop teacher who was married with two girls. He once told me he hand built one of them a make-up mirror.

8th grade was trading clothes with Karah, who was blowing up popularity-wise, since her being featured in Teen magazine's model search. She was chosen as one of the ten finalists, then went on to be a Nexxus girl, then later a hostess at a popular Nashville eatery. At the time I thought wearing her denim skirt brought me closer to the cool. 8th grade was my first kiss during a basement game of spin the bottle, with Bryan Dwyer, a sweetheart of a kid who happened to suffer from Tourette's. True story. That kiss remains, to this day, the longest kiss I've ever engaged in. Not literally, mind you, but my mom was out in the car, blowing the horn, the entire party was watching, and Bryan twitched and licked my teeth for what felt like fucking monnths. I was glad for us both he didn't curse.

8th grade was awkward, hush-hush fumblings with a girl in her room while listening to Bryan Adams, looped, on her pastel boombox and deciding for sure while she slept that boys were more my style. 8th grade was tears spilled over B+ tests and pretending to read Tale of Two Cities to impress my English teacher. 8th grade was red clay suntans from the softball field, where I learned how to throw a ball really, really hard. 8th grade was hot summer nights beneath screenless, opened windows and the sound of crickets and dreams of true romance. 8th grade was winning the Student of the Year award at semester's end, a plaque I could not accept as I was in In School suspension for french kissing before History class.

8th grade was before the wrinkles, before the loss, before me that is now, hardened and disillusioned. 8th grade is a collage of moments, a foggy, ancient yesterday, a place I'll be happy never to return.


au natural
Monday, February 17, 2003
02:10 p.m.
Ariel and her boyfriend are doing this raw food cleanse, wherein she gets to sip glop shakes, rid her bowels of something called mucoid plaque and nosh on nothing but natural, saltless fruits and vegetables. She'll have apples, dry salads, avocadoes, strawberries and zuccini. Hummus is considered a "cheat food." She's been keeping a fairly detailed food journal; just the sort of thing I never thought would be interesting, but yes, it is. I look forward to how Ms. Ariel has prepared her rawage that day, and hope like hell maybe she'll break down and pig out on pizza.

This chick makes me feel like such a enormous fatty with her baba ganoush breakfasts and her almond milk desserts. And this has got nothing to do with the fact that my supper last night consisted of corn chips and Reese's Cups, no sir. This girl's dedication to her cleanse is steadfast, even when visiting friends wave fish tacos in her ever-thinning face.

From now on, I'm gonna call my bagel and butter or pancakes and bacon or whatever I eat for my pre-lunch meal a Juicy Excuse for Breakfast, because it's too cute and that is what she calls it (JEFB for those in the know). Aunt Jemima's can be considered a juicy excuse for breakfast, right?


My sister, Mus, popped in for a visit
Sunday, February 16, 2003
12:41 p.m.
Mus: -thumbing through my closet- Who's coat is this?

Me: Mine.

Mus: Oh, it's nice.

Me: Are you kidding?

Mus: I haven't decided yet.

Pictorial proof of Amy's visit.


Sunday, February 16, 2003
03:05 a.m.
A two-day look at how this website stacks up in random searches at various engines:

#18 - "twin beer tap tits"

#15 - "hot wet pinky naked girls"

#1 - "country girls taste like chicken"

#5 - "big asses"

#14 - "lara flynn-boyle concealer"

#16 - "panties etc"


big buyout
Sunday, February 16, 2003
02:53 a.m.
I never feel compelled to write about what it means to blog, the whole meta-experience; never bother to identify my role or position in the "blogosphere." I use pitas, because they are free, and easy to work with kind of people.

I considered blogger, briefly, but wasn't as keen on the usability (pitas spells it out in a pleasant, yet elementary manner I find condusive to posting).

However, I do take great interest in Google's recent purchase of Blogger. Or rather, with the story itself. News broke fast, as it often does, at metafilter, and as some people have suggested, this could be the ultimate newsmeme, what with every Blogger blogger blogging who their newest daddy be.

I'll be interested in the changes, perhaps positive ones, that may occur in the time to come.


Friday, February 14, 2003
02:17 p.m.
She escaped up the stairs, rounded the corner to the bathroom where she stood making eyes at her reflection, trying to calm her pulse. She had orange food between her teeth, but she slid on lip gloss, never smiling.

She smoothed her blouse over her bra and fingered a curl near her ear.

He turned the music off downstairs. She raised her chin, decided on yes, and made her way back down into the thunder.


a public thank-you
Friday, February 14, 2003
01:44 p.m.
A reader of mine, by the name of Christopher Robin, just hooked me the fuck up. I got a nice gift from him just now, and whether or not it was meant to arrive on Valentine's Day, I do not know. But I feel loved all the same.

Thanks, you.


sprint sort of sucks
Friday, February 14, 2003
01:07 a.m.
My cell phone gets pretty crappy reception in my apartment, which is a pity as it's my only phone. I can dial a number 3, 4, even 5 times and make no connection, but if I wave it over my head like a baton just after dialing it will work every time.

Go figure.


in other news
Friday, February 14, 2003
12:01 a.m.
Fred Durst feels sorry for Britney Spears.


Queen LaQueefa
Thursday, February 13, 2003
06:40 p.m.
This one time, at an after-work party, we played Truth or Dare. I guess I was twenty at the time, and I went to hang out at Trevor's place. Upon my arrival I was handed a blown-glass water pipe, at which time I grinned and asked the person nearest me for help on how to work the thing. Weed was smoked, malt liquor was drunk and we settled in the living room in search of something exciting to do--something that required very little effort. Mad geniuses, we--we decided on Truth or Dare. I kissed Trevor's cheek, though I didn't want to since I knew Chrissy liked him and I rather didn't. Naturally a couple of prank phone calls were made and then it was my turn to assign a dare.

To Jenny. My dear, sweet Jennifer from Alabama, who knows how to have a ridiculous amount of fun and drink her weight in whiskey. Jenny is a girl who will come dressed as, not just a booger for Halloween, but a Protesting Booger who feels her boogery rights have been compromised. She was a picked-on booger. I mentioned she wore this costume while waiting tables, right? Right.

So, Jenny is in the floor, in a long, flowy skirt and she chooses dare, and my stoned ass goes: "I dare you to put both legs behind your head."

Never one to turn down a challenge, Jenny turned away from the nine or so of us crowded in the apartment den to be sure she didn't expose herself, lady like, then with great gusto swung a leg toward her shoulder with astounding force, causing a sound much like, but distinctly different from, a fart.

Many months later we all stopped laughing long enough to swear we'd never tell this story, though as much as a year later when Jenny closed the restuarant, instead of her name it would say Queefer Sutherland on the dry-erase board.

[inspired, sort of, by cowboy sally, though I doubt she wants any credit]


i work with these fools
Thursday, February 13, 2003
02:17 p.m.
Check out these photos I took of the punks from work.


today's to-do list
Thursday, February 13, 2003
11:27 a.m.

-post office
-store for bread, milk, 3 gallons of water, batteries, duct tape and plastic sheeting


and the winner is...your mom
Thursday, February 13, 2003
11:09 a.m.
I was all raring to do an Oscar nominee post before the list was announced. Two years ago I won my Film Theory class' contest wherein I was given a chocolate bunny, and last year had a little two-person party with my ex-boyfriend Justin, who besides me, is the only person I know who gets as worked up about the awards as I do.

But this year, after browsing the list to see that it looks the same as last year's list and the year before that, I grew immediately disheartened. "The Hours," "Chicago," "Gangs of New York," I could have told you who they'd be weeks in advance, if only you'd asked.

My commentary is as such. For the first time ever, I could give a rat's ass. I may not even watch. (That was a lie.)


catchy phrases
Tuesday, February 11, 2003
03:11 p.m.
All the best things about Monkey Island are captured in its ever-accumulating list of taglines.

These snatches of textual conversation that take place there are a constant source of amusement for this easily amused individual.

Tell me, how can lines like "We have an incredibly high ratio of 'third nipplers.'" and "A naked man with a Garden Weasel will mark your days deathward." and "Face first into the clusterfuck." go unshared?


*big, stupid grin*
Monday, February 10, 2003
01:50 p.m.
I'm not going to tell you that I just got a call from the Scene's lead critic to assign me a film review for next week's edition, because I don't want to jinx anything.


yet again
Sunday, February 9, 2003
04:17 p.m.
More of the same.


on the way
Sunday, February 9, 2003
02:48 p.m.
Just a note to say I owe e-mail to a lot of people and I've got replies coming up very shortly. Weekends are hectic for the pink-collar worker, but sweet, sweet Monday is just around the corner.

You'll get email from me then.


are you good, bad or maybe offensive?
Sunday, February 9, 2003
05:48 a.m.
Any and all stick-worthy surfaces, I have a message for you:


foiled ad campaign
Sunday, February 9, 2003
04:55 a.m.


"I am fucking over Subway. Ever since that first commercial, I haven't eaten there since. Jared and that Clay Henry can take their six inches and shove it."


Saturday, February 8, 2003
11:53 a.m.
I've recently been informed that I often have dry elbows. One other person silently nodded in agreement.


dickney spears
Friday, February 7, 2003
03:39 p.m.
My search referrals led me to the yahoo results for "brittney fucking," of which my blog is number one. I am, not surprisingly, proud. Further down in the results I discovered this gem of a discussion: "If Britney Spears had a dick would you fuck her?"

This thread, you guys, has got it all. A lot of logistical thinking went into these answers, and here are a few funny best:

-"If it's really gettin' in the way, i'll tell her ass to move it. Then, just keep hittin'..."


-"I still couldn't do it if it was tied up and shit... I'd just be like... lets have a titty fuck and get out of here. i mean, she still would have her tits, right?"

-"If the dick was on her back or her leg, I'd do it."

-"why not just chop it off?"
-"holy shit ur a genius."

-"I'd tie a rubber band around it so tight that no blood would get to it, therefor it wouldnt get hard. Then i'd tap."

I swear, these are just a few. I'd go on, but I want to leave you some gooders to find on your own.

Now, to come full circle, would you?


ya know...
Friday, February 7, 2003
03:35 p.m.
I've never, even for a moment, gotten the allure of Toad the Wet Sprocket.


birthday suit
Friday, February 7, 2003
12:01 p.m.

Travis-Anne: So, my friend Heath took some old jeans and cut them off really short, into Daisy Dukes. And I'm sitting there, at the party, and one of my nuts was hanging out!

me: Wait, wait, wait. You were wearing denim Daisy Dukes?

Travis-Anne: Oh my, yes, girl. When it is my birthday I wear what I want.


Friday, February 7, 2003
12:52 a.m.
I love my family very, very much. I love my mother with a kind of love I don't bother trying to understand--a raw, yet entirely complete love I'll never express to her as eloquently as she deserves. And I love my father in much the same way.

But I think I may love my sister more than anybody in the whole world. I love her like I love my mother and father, yet we are also peers, and have a kinship so natural and complementary that she often feels like an other me--in our unnoticed similarities in speech and actions. We have exactly the same nose and both laugh just like our mom. I'll catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and remember just how very alike we are.

Physically, we are like night and day. People say they'd never guess us for sisters. Until they see us sit beside one another and nod, and grin and comment: "You two act just alike."

Anyway, I wrote all that because I ran across this picture.

It always has been and always will be my favorite picture of the two of us. I'll wager those who know us would take one look at that photo and agree it perfectly captures the Gilbert Girls--a prime example of our yin and yang.

I'm not usually all mushy, but I fucking love this picture. And her. A whole bunch.


you don't know me
Thursday, February 6, 2003
01:29 p.m.
Being a "writer" means spending a bunch of time with yourself, with your thoughts. After a while, anyone, even your own self, becomes very annoying.

Best to remedy these situations by confronting the offending person and let them know. Here are some things I do that bother the fuck out of me:

Why won't I get up when the alarm goes off? I set three alarms. I wake up for none of them. Ever. I turn off all three alarms and sleep another 30 or 45 minutes before waking up in a confused frenzy.

Why do I habitually sit on my legs? I should put my two feet on the floor in front of me, not have them crossed or folded up under my butt. This is terrible for my posture and my circulation and it isn't helping those ever-increasing broken veins I find popping up around my calves and ankles. Yet, unless I'm in a position where one or both feet eventually fall asleep, I am not fully comfortable.

I have lost the battle with nail-biting. I wish I would get over that fact.

I hate how I avoid the telephone. Just answer it already. They aren't going to yell at me. No one is after my ass. Just pick it up. Could be someone on the other end to offer me gooey hot doughnuts or even sex.

I abhor that I'm absolutely addicted to a site I can't even talk about.

I can't do yoga at home for thinking about checking my email. Weak of mind, weak of soul.

I hate that I operate better in a pile of disorganization than a clean, tidy space. I can't stand the mess, yet, I can also not avoid it.

I update my blog rather than balance my checkbook.


monkey swag
Thursday, February 6, 2003
01:13 p.m.
TJ designed a bunch of monkey merchandise just because I am way too poor to buy any of it. He made thunderslut panties. These blow my day of the week panties right out of the water.


sneek a peak
Wednesday, February 5, 2003
11:08 p.m.
My beloved digital camera takes little 30 second movies with sound. I'd yet to utilize this feature until tonight. I made a short movie that is a guided tour of my studio apartment. To see it, click here.

(P.S. Updated the about page.)


allusion or obsession?
Wednesday, February 5, 2003
05:58 p.m.
Do you think that Barry Sonnenfeld included that scene in Men in Black 2--the one where the two agents sit across from one another at a diner, remarking about the how good the pie is* (the scene just after we are introduced to Lara Flynn Boyle's character for the first time)--as an homage to "Twin Peaks"? Or am I just that nuts?

*That is all the occurs, just as quickly as it begins, the scene ends. It seemingly serves no other purpose.


winners, all of you
Wednesday, February 5, 2003
05:48 p.m.
I think my guilt trip post about having no contest entries paid off because I got a few more right around deadline time, and a couple right after. The letters were funny and entertaining but two really stood out. One of these two is this guy, who I happen to work with. He sent me pretty pictures that told a story, plus this .gif of a ninja kitty, so ding! He's a winner. The other entry that caught my attention was a story from a fellow by the name of Snack Mastr that incorporated references to posts I've made, in a rather creative fashion, so ding! He's a winner, too. One prize for a real-life reader, and one for one I've never met. Now you each get half as much as you would have.

Congratulations, and thanks to all who played. It was fun.


throw away the oar
Wednesday, February 5, 2003
05:22 p.m.
Things* are getting better, because earlier today I rocked out, full on, to REO Speedwagon's "I Can't Fight this Feeling Anymore" in the car. Something about an electric guitar/piano combination for the instrumental interlude masks any sized scowl.

*Recent emotional duress.


forever and ever, amen
Wednesday, February 5, 2003
04:43 p.m.
If you had to fuck one person, and only one, for the rest of your life, and you had to pick someone you'd never slept with before, who would it be?


for this instant
Tuesday, February 4, 2003
12:57 p.m.
Sometimes the weight of the air on my skin drives me mad. Sometimes I feel deluded and lost and lonely. Sometimes I think it must be soon, it must be soon or I will surely cry myself invisible.


Oh. Oh dear.
Monday, February 3, 2003
10:42 p.m.
Okay. So I was perusing metafilter and naturally I'm reading the shit about Courtney Love being naked when I run across this story entitled "Don't Shave Your Ass Hair!" Since the removal of ass hair is a topic I have some investment in, I clicked the link. At first I was sort of grossed out and almost stopped reading, but couldn't, really, and I'm glad I didn't because I laughed. Out loud, and more than once.

So, I go back to the source and browse around, and come to the Other Thingies page. There I am told that I must read the Infamous Lobster Story. So I do.

And if you haven't clicked it already, and are still here reading this, and not reading that--which is the most vidid and fantastically horrid story ever told (okay, so maybe not)--then you have at least been properly warned. Read at your own risk.

Then come on back here and let's discuss.


Monday, February 3, 2003
12:32 p.m.
Just now at the gym, I opted for a treadmill next to my student advisor from college since that treadmill has working fans.

Dr. Blake: Hey, how ya doin', Brittney? You should be about graduated by now.*

me: Actually, I graduated in May.

Dr. Blake: Oh, right. You are out of there. So, what are you up to? Please tell me you aren't waiting tables.

*It's a huge school.


i got one of three
Sunday, February 2, 2003
12:54 p.m.
If the people who attend the church right across the street from me are indicative of what people in heaven look like, heaven is a noisy place, full of flowered Laura Ashley dresses, bolo ties and big asses.


a Saturday night in the life
Sunday, February 2, 2003
02:47 a.m.
Went to work today, and as always it was eventful. Here's a run-down of how things went:

2:50 - run inside convenience store before work to look for Slim-Fast for later when it's 11 and I'm famished. No meal shakes at the gas station, so I run out to avoid Indian man at the counter with the cocaine pinky nail and the gold chains and the wild-eyed leer. Barely escape with a "I'm late! See ya!"

3 - arrive to work

3:20 - small mouse runs into the restaurant as the hostess opens the doors for incoming guests. People remain oddly calm. Patrick, a server, grabs the mouse up by the tail and takes off. Patrick disappears. He comes back to inform everyone he flushed it down the toilet.

4:15 - a man at my table orders LOC water. In my seven years of waitressing, and now bartending, this is a first. It's water with a lemon slice, and orange slice and a slice of cucumber. She'll have one, too.

5:25 - Took this from the window.

6:30 - Jenny W. falls down.

7:15 - I grab Sam's ass for about the dozenth time.

7:25 - I start my period.

8:05 - Seated with a party of six. After I sense their neediness and secure a drink order, one of the women follows me to the kitchen to inform me of a birthday at the table. She follows that up by informing me the other guy, the one drinking whiskey, he's just learned he's dying of cancer. So let's get them two desserts and just say, "to two special people."

8:25 - Chick at my other table begins crying. Seperate and unrelated to the cancer.

8:40 - Annoy my co-workers by quoting a prank phone call they've never heard. Again.

8:55 - Had the guy from the birthday/cancer table yell "HEY, ANOTHER BEER!" from a solid 30 feet.

9:05 - Woman from birthday/cancer table comes over to my other table, where I am sitting with them, taking their order and interrupts without so much as an "Excuse me.," to order herself another beer.

9:06 - I roll my eyes in disgust.

10:00 - The high-maintenance birthday/cancer people left me 20 dollars on a 171.96 dollar tab. I tip out 3% of that.

10:05 - Bussers arrange my table for a party of ten.

10:06-10:09 - I moan and bitch and make empty threats.

10:20 - Party finally arrives, and I beg, bribe and pay David, the closer, to take it. He did.

11 - I leave, feeling guilty and nauseated.

Of note: The times are all, frankly, made-up. It is safe to say they are nearly approximate. The rest is true, even if not especially thrilling.


some things
Saturday, February 1, 2003
02:02 p.m.
I'd tell you the contest (scroll to bottom for more info) ends tomorrow at midnight if I thought anyone but Edgeling (who made a stellar entry) and that pastor in Humboldt who wrote me at the contest address to call me out for being a stoner loser, gave a shit. Since the good pastor veered from the contest guidlines, I'm gonna have to count that as just one official contest entry. Anyway, I'd extend the contest date if I seriously thought anyone would write (It can be as short or simple as you'd like.), and make it a Valentine's Day themed goodie-box. But then my one, single entry will be even more embarrassing in another week. So, you have approximately 32 hours to enter if you like. Which, apparently you don't. No hard feelings. Really.

Also, Folger's is really only good until the last ten or so sips.


yay or nay
Friday, January 31, 2003
02:23 p.m.
I often toss a coin or do any-many-miney-moe to decide the unimportant shit in my life. Like half an hour ago, I did a best 2 out of 3 coin toss to determine whether it would be green or black tea. Three times heads for black tea, so I'm having green. I'm like that.

A co-worker just rang and wants to know if he can have my shift. Naturally, I want not to work, but I've promised myself to keep up 6 days a week (in efforts to save for The Big Move) and I've already had my day off this week.

I'd use the coin toss to decide, but I opted for green tea anyway, so I can't be fucking trusted.

It's up to you. I have to call him back in 30 minutes. In 30 minutes, I'll tally the votes and go with what I've got.

So, tell me--should I give up my bartending shift tonight and go see a double-feature and take some photographs and further delve into that freelance piece I am writing, or go in and sling beer and sweat and come home 70 dollars richer?

Results: The people person has spoken. I'm going to the movies.

Am I going to work today? Your vote here.

soon as she's 18 she says she's headed to Hollywood
Friday, January 31, 2003
03:34 a.m.

runway*, the hostess: (standing at the hostess stand near front door) It is cold up here, but hot in the kitchen, I don't understand.

sam: I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that it's because the winter air from outside is coming in through those doors right there.

runway: Oh, Sammy, (giggling) why do you have to be so realistic?

*We call her runway because when she is seating guests she fucking owns the aisleway. She carries the rolled silverware across her forearm like a sceptor and struts that shit. She also says things like, "Tell him I'm a model--guys love to hear I'm a model." (She's 5'5".) I learned tonight she knows her name is runway. And, you betcha, she likes it.


Thursday, January 30, 2003
12:28 p.m.
He came in search of "funny comments say to your girl friend and impress to her quotes".

I say I don't know any person more apt than you, wry reader, to give this guy what he wants. Needs. What he needs. And besides, it looks like he needs all the help he can get.

Leave funny comments to impress to her quotes right here, please.

have you heard?
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
11:29 p.m.

Country girls taste like chicken.


Once more, and I would have punched him on his girlfriend's birthday.
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
10:48 p.m.

turtleneck-wearing man: What are your soups tonight?
me: We have Creamy Onion. We also offer French Onion.
man: What is the Creamy Onion soup?
me: It is a mild, cream-based onion soup, with lots of melted jack and cheddar cheese.
man: Does it have onions in it?
me: Yep.
man: So, it does have onions in it?
me: Yes, sir. It is onion soup.
man: That French Onion. Does it have onions in it?
me: *looks around for candid camera*
me: Yep. That one has onions too.
him:'s not just onion-flavored?


am I a clown for you?
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
02:14 p.m.
Make-up is messy. Maybelline and Cover Girl and the like hire the best and brightest to design packaging and displays for cosmetics that convince the customer they just must have the lip gloss with real diamond dust inside or that horse placenta on your hair will make it shine. I go into the store with a shopping list than contains a single make-up item (white eye pencil) and all the sudden I'm considering the fourteen dollar creamy blush that promises to refract light as it strikes your cheekbone.

I snap back to reality upon visions of a spinning, discoball face and grab only the white pencil. On my way to the register I stumble upon make-up boxes and bags. The place where the make-up lives.

Well, some women are lucky enough to have drawers. My bathroom is the size of a standard closet and the sink just juts out of the wall. I keep my cosmetics in a clear bag on the back of the toilet.

I did, anyway, until I bought a purple make-up case, retro-style (ladies, it's a Caboodle), at just four little dollars. Mine is the smallest version, though, since my makeup consists mostly of various eyeliners and mascaras, hence it's petite price. I needed something new since as I mentioned before, make-up is messy.

Once you get the stuff home, and pack it into the makeup bag with the others, things start to go awry. The lid to the lipstick cracks and never seals correctly after that. When digging for the concealer (that, more than the rest, loves to play hide-and-seek when I'm five minutes late already and have to get gas) the lipstick top wiggles off and begins painting the place red. The hinge to the lid of the powder snaps in two and snows mauve all over everything. Reaching in for a tube of mascara calls for a thorough handwashing, lest you blend your eyeshadow with your fingers and accidentally paint on a third eyebrow.

So I got a new makeup container, and I begin the rinsing and reassigning of cosmetics to their new space, when I pop open my purple Caboodle to find a free gift.

Mary-Kate and Ashley shimmer powder and shimmer lotion in blue and lighter blue! I shouldn't be this excited, but I have now a new Caboodle and two matching tubes of pubsecent, billion-dollar estate sheen--one for when I want to part my hair on the side, the other for when I part it in the middle.


Wednesday, January 29, 2003
01:08 p.m.
What do you think?

About the new look, silly.

what it's like
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
01:12 p.m.
in the end, our faces and clothing are a mess, our hair tangled, our hair sticky, lacerated, burned.


about last night
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
12:16 p.m.
Me and the boys went for taquitos and tequila at La Siesta. I got drunk and let the flash fly.

See a small selection of photos here.


Let's see your spritz do that.
Sunday, January 26, 2003
03:08 p.m.
I use an arsenal of products to create curls out of this frizz that constitutes hair, one of which is mousse. My favorite thing about mousse is that as it dries, it snaps and pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies near my ear. Magic, crackling hair products. Neat.


my bad
Sunday, January 26, 2003
01:58 p.m.
I once ran over my sister with a car. Yes, I did. Given, it wasn't a large or particularly heavy car, but a big ole real car was driven atop her. By me.

On accident. Naturally. I had been given a tan, not faceless biege, but Tan Mercury Lynx, which, if you'll throw back a good decade is a notch down from a Ford Escort. Same car maker, even shittier economy car. And that shit was old,too. Had over one hundred thousand miles on it when I got it, I think, and one had to master a laborious and intricate series of foot movements in order to get the damn thing in gear. I can now drive anything, my father rationalized, and he's right, I guess, if anything is junker, hatchback compact cars. Junker, hatchback cars are my bitches, 'tis true.

My 15-year-old sister who later became far too cool (what with her sneaking out to smoke cigarettes all the time with a confused homosexual and an adult woman with two kids and a house full of truly repugnant-smelling pets) to ride up in the Lynx of Love. Yet her ass didn't want to be seen near a school bus, so she begged rides from me. I think maybe there was a clause wherein I was forced to drive my sister home. Regardless, we both hated every minute, she hiding in the backseat, embarrassed and ashamed of the Little Tan Van.

This incident was pre-that, when she was still thrilled not to have to ride the cheese wagon to classes. It was winter and the windows were icy and the girl volunteered to scrape the ice from the windsheild, all excited about it and shit. So she was out there getting her scrape on and I'm blaring Little Earthquakes at top fucking volume because "so you can make me cum, that doesn't make you Jesus," and all the sudden bitch is rapping on the windsheild with the scraper and I think she might even crack it, so I scream back assorted profanities, but the windsheild is still icy so I can't see that she is in intense pain.

Apparently, the Lynx slipped into neutral and parked on Amy's foot. I cringe, still, when I think of how much that must have hurt. Once I turned the CD off to ask her "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" I realize what I've done. Paniced, I put the car in reverse and back up, at which time the tires roll forward off Amy's now purpleing foot and back over it. She hops, I believe, inside the house where she whines and cries and acts like I fucking ran over her with a car or something.

Amy got balloons from me, a pair of crutches, a shitload of sympathy from my mother, a day off school and maybe even a few covered chores. I got a lifetime of, "That's nothing, Brittney ran over me once with her piece of shit car."



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