aka, shit i laughed, ooh-ed, or ahh-ed at:
Thursday, May 1, 2003
Dear TN Department of Safety,
You fucking assholes. Fuck you, fuckers. After the mishap regarding those tickets the night I was, um, apprehended--and you suspended my freaking license--I was angry. Nay, I was appalled. After that mess was cleared up I was over 600 dollars poorer too, you dicksmacks. But I paid my dues, my debts, and waited 2 and half freaking hours to have my license reinstated at the DMV. And what do I get from you?! A letter, addressed to me stating you "have learned that (I) was convicted or forfeited bail for a charge of failing to show evidence of financial responsibility that occured on May 26, 2002 (the night of the DWI)." I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!
Let's hope this bit about my license being suspended AGAIN is a joke, or a really funny-haha-we're-so-sorry mix-up, because if not, well, I'm gonna cry a lot and work extra and pay it.
But TN Department of Safety, you fucking busters, I won't let you let this keep me from moving at year's end. I'll deliver newspapers if I have to. On a freaking BIKE, but I have to, have to get out of this town.
I was thinking of driving there, if you don't mind, cocksuckers.
Hate you so much,
maybe if I say it aloud it won't sound so retarded
Thursday, May 1, 2003
In all its improbablility, I've begun a screenplay--a small, word-driven comedy set in/around a restaurant. I can't think of any movies in which restaurant workers are the focus. Not only is this a fucking goldmine for material, the film already targets a substantial population of the movie going public. How many of you have worked at a restaurant before? You likely have. Even if for half a day. And that whole thing you've heard about writing what you know? Yeah. I could write this motherfucker in my sleep. I need only the drive. One of the things mentioned first thing in this book I bought, is the screenplay author's need for brevity. I find brevity one of my stronger qualities, so I was immediately inspired. (I acutally think I am going to do this, and do it well.)
Anyway, I've vowed to write four pages a day. In a month and a half I'll have 160 pages. I've never written a screenplay before, but thankfully know those who have, and I bought myself that book that claims to teach me how. I only state I'm undertaking this project publically to further ensure I'll stick with it.
I'd like very much to finish something substantial. I figure a screenplay is substantial e-fucking-nough.
(Hey! No stealing my very good idea!)
on leaving messages
[And, a few pictures from the park.]
favorite movie cliche
Best of luck to your film; I hate I can't be in attendance.
Your complimentary Bloomin' Onion goes in the mail tomorrow.
See you in LA in May, though!
oh my fucking wow
It is, beyond a doubt, the funniest/saddest thing I've seen in some time.
If not watch it now, watch it someday when you feel like a big, fat loser. This'll change all that.
i love my new red shirt
TP for me!
That pic makes living in this dick-shaped fly-over state a little more bearable. Thanks, you two.
this bitch is crazy
So, lemme ask you. Did/do you talk to yourself as much as I do? Because, sometimes I freak me out. I was just walking around the room, answering my thoughts ALOUD. If a fly on the wall had big ears, and understood English, this is what he would have heard just now: "No...charge it...at 5...ha!...noooo...please." I mean, for real, who the fuck does this? I don't do it all the time. Really, I don't. The scary part is I don't know I'm doing it sometimes. I realize I'm talking to myself like someone's spooky aunt and get embarrassed. Why do I feel the need to speak?
Most of the time I am at home, I'm online or writing. Television off, no music (I get distracted), just the sound of typing and passing cars. It's really, really quiet in this room sometimes for many, many hours. These are the times I find I converse with my self. I haven't spoken out loud to anyone in so long, it is as though my tongue and mouth need the action or they'll grow up like a forgotten piercing.
Sometimes I'm too weird even for me.
country music marathon
Some of those other crazies out there today...26 miles! I don't like to drive 26 miles. And some of the full marathoners were fast. Hauling. Ass. I think the winner buzzed by me while I was whining about being cold.
Melanie, Ashley and I parked, walked, crusty-eyed up and down the deserted streets of Downtown Nashville in the not blistering, but highly uncomfortable cold, and promptly decided on coffee. Then breakfast. Next thing you know we are having assorted breakfast breads and eggs and sausages at the Marriott while Amy plodded through her eighth or ninth mile.
After talking Ashley out of eating a waffle for dessert ("It's a kit! Make your own!"), we found seats on a ledge and clapped half-heartedly for the gaggle of runners. Our cheers got louder if the cute men grew to pack size. Um, did I mention the fucking hotties? Apparently I need to take up running. And find out where these honies do their hoofing. Because, maybe it was the fruit plate talking, but the sexy men were out in full force and sweaty and without shirts on no less. Just saying, is all.
Eww, and some men--whoa! I wince even thinking about it. I saw this man in white, sweat-drenched t-shirt that had a bright red streak of blood down the front. From his bloody nipples. The thought makes my butt tense up and I saw three more shirts like his after that. I have nothing else to say on the matter except, OWWWW.
[And, one of my companions this morning told tales of marathoners shitting themselves upon completing the race. She had no backing for this outrageous claim, and I was gonna google this supposed after-race pants-shitting legend, but I spent so much time looking for shat pants this morning that I'd hate for it not to be true. You tell me.]
Anyway, Amy finished in just over two-hours, nipples pert, and thankfully not bloody. Pants free annd clear of crap. She was emotional, teary-eyed, and walking like her kitten done been punched retarded, but was not at all near death, passed out in the hospital. Which is where I would have been.
Can I just say, sitting up on that window ledge in the cold, full of pork products and scrambled eggs, that I felt like the fattest, laziest fuck on the planet? I came home tonight from a 7 hour bar shift and am washing down Aleve with red wine to ease the leg tension and back pain.
My ass needs to run a damn marathon. If she can do it in two months, surely I can do it in 12.
Lest you fear, I don't disappoint: I give you the optical evidence that I actually got up at 5 a.m. on a Saturday.
I've been reading Coraline
It's sunny out, there is no dead leg, yet I remain a bit spooked.
So rather than flesh it out, and make it front page worthy, I'll just tell you to go read it over here.
Don't look at me like that, I've got shit to do today.
I'll leave the discussion on this post closed, since it would be silly to split the discussion into two threads.
Word to your mother.
Amazing they could recreate and can such a delicate smell, isn't it? Gardens of butterflies smell like nothing else, and I am happy to see that the good Glade people haven't resorted to foolin'. Or trying to pass off the smell of a dragonfly garden as that of butterflies. That would be unforgiveable. And, frankly, down right tacky.
No fair. I want to STUN MY PARTNER too.
I'm fresh fucking out of ideas for these titles.
Lament of the dyslexic :
Why the fuck does "address" have two Ds?
Seriously... what's your damage, english?
Why the fuck does "address" have two Ds?
Seriously... what's your damage, english?His diatribe on Turn Off TV week is, as they say, spot-on:
It's TV turn off week!
TV turn off week!
Please, buy a one-way ticket, you fucking wankers, and be sure to drink the water.
TV turn off week!
Please, buy a one-way ticket, you fucking wankers, and be sure to drink the water.Also, go read his rant about commerce and Easter. Put your drink down first.
In other news, Tantek lumps me in with the likes of Zeldman and Powazek for hand rolling my blog. Truth is, it's just because it's what I've done for so long. I'd be scared to try something new--this seems to work so well.
Then I noticed Matthew's assessment: my markup is "atrocious," and I am not pushing any envelopes.
I never, ever once considered that this site was anything besides barely stiched together, so I can't exactly disagree with Matt. But it does take some effort to archive these pages by hand, and I do hand code every bit of HTML in every post, so I'll take the props where I can get them. Thanks, Mr. Celik. (I look forward to Part 2 of your story, sir.) [Also, what is a "pull on the pigtails" approach?]
love it, love it, love it
bylines: better than sex
I could get used to this getting published shit.
one of those days
Well, hey dicksmacks! Whatever you choose to do with your day today, make it so that you remember it.
But it couldn't be him. His kisses were too soft. His hands didn't go, with ease, where they should go, when she wanted. They clanked teeth. Banged knees. And he owned that miserable sack-of-bones dog.
And then he'll say "Julie" and her skin gets really hot and she can't understand why she wants to know why. She supposes it could be him, who surges through her veins, who picks her neck hairs up by their ends. It might be his hand on her, in the morning and in the car and in the grocery. It could be that he's the one she wants counting her freckles. Calling her "girl." (That, she loved.)
But she longed to let him go. She hoped with all her gut it wasn't true. She was tired. She wished for peace, a cool spot on which to lie down. And sleep.
But it might be him, the boy she knows will cut her. Cut her hands for trying to touch.
She says whatever the fuck she wants.
Witness (the scene: over lunch)
dad: Jen, How do you like that Boston butt?
joli: She should love it, she hasn't had any ass for days.
dad: (spins around on his heels, walk away)
jen (to joli): I can't believe you just said that to your father.
joli: He's the one who fed me margaritas for breakfast!
I brought my camera along, you lucky devils. Here are the pictures.
P.S. "Six Feet Under" last night: Ho. Ly. Shit.
My bosses are fucking hard asses about EVERY THING, but this was still up when I left tonight, the day before Easter.
smack it, flip it, rub it down, oh nooooo
This guy's response was, certainly, one of the dumbest questions I've ever been asked as a server. I don't know if he wanted me to compare the taste of cheesecake to another food item, or what. (Which, let me say, drives me nuts. I tell them Mahi Mahi is the fresh catch of the evening and the look at me and go, "Is it good? What does it taste like?" Now, I'm armed with information about Mahi Mahi, the texture, the firmness, none of which, though, accurately describe how a fish tastes. How am I to know if you [not you, them, silly] will think it tastes good? I try my best to answer those questions, because I suppose they are valid, but I get really tempted to say, "How the fuck would I know what you'll like?")
Anyway, this guy's question was exactly this:
"How do I know if I like cheesecake?" Then he added, "Ya know?"
No sir, I'm sorry, I don't know. I don't know what the good goddamn you are talking about. Does that question, repeated in your head, sound the least bit logical?
My response, after a distinct moment's pause was--because he was waiting for an answer--"After you put it in your mouth and taste it like, Everything. Else. You've. Ever. Eaten."
This was, thankfully, a sufficient, if not somewhat boggling, answer for the man...who proceeded to order the cheesecake.
Best. Waitress. Ever.
I took a couple of pictures. Here ya go.
And you should read this story by Paul A. Toth. It is the type of story that makes me want to write some really bitchy shit. Which I just may.
Also, I got really conflicted about killing this giant bee (the size of an infant's fist) with Pledge, but ultimately did so, because his stinger caught the light and its sheen nearly blinded me, so he clearly had to be destroyed. But, for real, this bee's taking over my apartment shit is getting out of hand.
And another thing, LADIES, Biosilk Silk Therapy hair splooge (it is a silicone product, but I like "splooge" better) is the very best thing you can do for your social life. It makes your hair as glossy as the pages of Glamour AND it smells like sex. Apparently. You don't even have to flip your hair, so much as turn around and some guy will be all, "Whoa. Come back here. Let me smell you."
I personally, don't use the apron as a catch-all as she does. This is due specifically to my place of employ. Where I work we have a laborious hand-written ticket system. Orders are written onto 3-ply, lined paper tickets--in all caps, with exact and specific abbreviations for each item and special instructions--then each carbon copy is distributed to various line cooks. Pinks ones get appetizers, green is for salads and soups, and the top, white copy is for entrees. There is a superfluous, secondary-ticket system for add-ons, desserts, cook-ups, etc. that is as confusing and tree-unfriendly as it sounds. These tickets take up the bulk up the left pocket of my purple apron. I carry them upside down, placing used tickets in back of fresh ones. Pens, two or three usually--chewed on most times, or carrying logos for prescription drugs--I keep one tucked inside the first button of my shirt (which, I'll get to shortly), and a few in my hair. Makes me feel a bit like Flo. (When bartending I keep pens in my back pocket. I need them more often and more quickly.)
The right pocket contains all the other sundry junk. Slips of paper with notes to myself, tracts from pushy patrons (we usually pin these up and draw on them), loose change. The ocassional wrapped hard candy. Alison uses a book, which is an empty, black, flat, two panel writing pad with pockets. Very useful. But since I am encouraged to squat or sit with my tables, I simply write on the table top. No book needed. And so I keep my paperwork on my person.
About the shirts. They are called "Bushman's shirts" and they are safari shirts in the loosest sense of the word, that come in assorted, garish colors. Like salmon. And hot pink. Cash goes in the right pocket of the shirt, credit card slips in the left. Gift certificates, checks, etc. go in the back jeans pockets. Attitude and condecsensions hidden just beneath thin skin. Everything has its place. I'm a walking, compartmental organizer.
i kill me
jesus rose, but did he rock?
I'm a goddamn comedian.
But this is funnier than anything you'll read all day. Was to me at least.
ye olde rental guide
I can scratch only these films off the list:
Blue Velvet, Clockwork Orange, Doctor Strangelove, Vertigo, Say Anything..., Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Princess Bride, Princess Mononoke, Vertigo, Read Window, Taxi Driver, Eraserhead, The Godfather, The Godfather II, Hannah and her Sisters, Manhattan, Dreamlife of Angels, Sunset Boulevard, 2001, This is Spinal Tap, Fantasia, The Apartment, and Duck Soup.
I don't guess that is so bad.
get your booty on the floor tonight, make my day
How very professional of me.
And yeah, those emails are still coming--later today rather than last night. I drank
Those e-mails should be jaunty.
Things I might ought to keep to myself:
How cool would it be to have a tape of the snatches of music heard at drive-thrus? The cashier must hear the most astounding array of genres. 30 seconds of hip hop, maybe a minute and a half of Christian hardcore. It would be intriguing I think, if there was some way you could record it successfully without the voices or background noise, but that is impossible. Still, it'd be neat.
Thesauri is the plural of thesaurus. This is endlessly amusing to me.
I snap a rubber band on my wrist to keep myself from propping my chin up on it. It must be what is contributing to my ever drooping jawline. I'm fucking 25 with jowls.
35 things you didn't know about me
part(s) of speech
me: *snort* Did you just say "fire like a flame?"
me: Best. Metaphor. Ever.
mark: That was a simile.
me: Oh, well, very good Mr. Fire is Flame.
mark: Now, that was a metaphor. Like Brittney is Bitch.
I, however, suck outright. I used to be pretty good at it, but this video taken today illustrates I have lost all my skillz (.avi version, .wmv version)
it so wasn't even serious, just bureacracy bullshit
And I won't be bartending anymore. I've been demoted to only waiting tables.
Funniest part of it all, I'm so not bitter. I feel a bit stressed. I have a lot of unanswered questions. A lot of doubts about motives and intentions. But all things considered, I totally don't give a fuck. I hated pretending to like those bar regulars anyway. So needy, the lot of them. All but Popeye, and Commish and that guy who lived with his parents. But it isn't as though I won't see the motherfuckers. I'll be delivering their pastas.
Anyway, before the shift I circled 25 ads for jobs outside the restaurant industry. Everything from receptionist to web editor.
Exepect this to become the Mission Critical: Find New Job blog in the near future. But pray not too long, for then it will be Brittney Becomes Whole New Happy Woman Without Restaurant Job blog.
[Outbackers: Say shit all and I will burn you or something. Shush!]
a composition in verse rather than in prose.
The season of lurid wildflowers
A ditch opens its legs
Scandalous view of a hilltop
i should say so
It read, "God Bless Menudo."
yawning in technicolor
Feeling better. Thanks. While I haven't wretched in some hours, my body is empty and weak, the thin skin around my eyes freckled with purple, broken veins. I might not be in the best shape to serve up food. It wasn't a hard decision to call in today, what with this race ending at around 6 tonight. I may have been able to drag my weary, disoriented ass through a Saturday night wait shift, but there is no way I could do it tonight. With the beer-logged, redneck race fans coming in for greasy fried onion flowers and sweet taters. I was supposed to work in the smoking section. Aw, hell naw.
I'll spare you the details of what must have been a 24-hour stomach virus of some kind. But I will say this: I would rather do just about anything than throw up. I might not prefer killing kittens to puking, but I may hedge a bit if forced to choose.
I denied it for years, but I have an incredibly low tolerance for pain. Of any kind. Which sucks since I am, seriously, an accident waiting to happen. I've broken two bones 5 times. My left arm twice and my nose three fucking times. I've sprained and twisted just about everything else. And, I'm especially prone to throwing groceries.*
I've never been much of a drinker. Just not my bag. I have a few drinks a few times a week, but mostly it just makes me sleepy. I've been utterly annihilated on tequila before, have you no doubt, but I have a glass of wine to relax and that is where it usually ends. I've never once thrown up from driking too much alcohol. And besides, it's legal, and where is the fun in that?
I prefered, for a time, being a bit more hardcore. I went, like most, through an experimental phase (though, thankfully, abbreviated) which included such items as speed, acid, opium and lots of Ecstasy. I could go on, but I am on enough FBI watch lists already. (I made a list once of all the drugs I'd tried and it's length surprised me.) I say this only because you should know that I threw up on them ALL. I dropped E probably 25 times, and every single time I was sick. (Which led me to attempt alternative routes of administration which also ended in throwing up. Even when the route totally bypassed my digestive system altogether.)
Anyway, I wanted to tell you about the one time I ate psychedelic mushrooms. And puked. You can see why this might be interesting. I'd never tripped before ever and was naturally nervous. What if I snapped? What if I never came back? I'd read countless research articles, seen accounts from others who'd tripped, asked a hundred thousand questions, but nothing can truly prepare you for your first trek inward.
So, with a bit of peanut butter and a cracker I injested one stem and one cap from a truly gnarly-looking mushroom. And waited.
I was told prior to eating them that I would enjoy a body buzz, probably the giggles, and maybe some wavy walls. 'Shrooms weren't as mental a trip as LSD, they said, I was likely not to see any visuals at all.
It wasn't long before the body buzz crept in. Soon thereafter the four of us in that room couldn't speak for laughing for what must have been an hour. And underlying it all was this gnawing nausea. I walked into the bathroom to hang my head over the toilet, spitting the way folks do just before they get sick. And dammit if my spittle in the water didn't converge to form the faces of dead presidents in the commode. Abraham Lincoln, Jefferson, Monroe. I wiped my face and looked into the mirror, and saw a reflection of my face I'll not soon forget. Fragmented, broken--I was the scariest thing I had ever seen.
I returned to the living room, feeling a bad trip starting to swell, and before long collapsed back into giggles. Two hours and five Bjork tapes later, I returned to the bathroom to rid myself of the ever-present nausea. I began to puke and I swear to you, I fucking swear, that it was so intense that I seperated myself from myself. I sort of rose up above my physical form, because the vomitting was so violent, so entirely overwhelming that I couldn't handle it. Or, that is how it seemed at the time. It was truly one of the most magical, frightening, mind-blowing experiences of my life. And every time I have been sick since then I think of that time.
I can't believe I just wrote an entire entry about drugs and throwing up.
[After rereading this I recognize that my current illness has caused a sort of dementia which prompted this candid post, of which I am very sorry, but haven't the rationale to delete. I need something to eat.]
*Throwing groceries! Ha!
Something that moved in fast, ferociously, reducing me to shivers and incessant vomiting. At least I am not at work.
Now, if you'll excuse me.
I can't remember any more.
The weather today, as the kitchen thugs at work would say, is en pointe. Edgeling likes the cold and drizzly mess we've had recently, but I'm more motivated by crisp, cool and sunny. I'm tucking my hair under a hat and heading outdoors to the park, for lying in the grass and writing things.
I've got two letters to write--penned sentiments in long hand. May stop for new stationary on the way. And a bagel. Yes, a wheat one with hummus.
Three pens in my pocket and four hours until work. I may put something on paper today that matters.
And the results of my quiz are surprising in two ways. I didn't expect them to be that. And I didn't expect them to be so incredibly spot-on. Oh, my results:
You are the pilot.
And now, I want to read the book again. It's been since tenth grade. It's high time.
*I always wanted to make a Twin Peaks quiz. Know where I can easily construct one of those?
hey ya'll, listen up!
But, when I go to San Francisco or New York I'm told how charming my southern lilt is, or that once I move I may be discriminated against for it.
When I get drunk or around my family it becomes very pronounced. Also, I can turn it right off. If need be. Except if I have to say "thank you," in which case I'm always found out.
Well, I recorded a message to the remaining Puppetmaster 2 players and Ernie, which he then posted at headquarters. The other losing contestants phoned in, too. If you listen to any of them, listen to Henry's. It's pretty funny.
stinky meat and cheese is for sure for me
Muffuletta, I know you are just a silly sandwich, but will you marry me?
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