::growl::

Feb. 28th, 2011 12:50 pm
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I want to throw the stupid fucking office photocopier out the fucking 15th floor window and onto a pile of stupid people who ask too many stupid fucking questions. Then I want to make a t-shirt that says "My uterus made me do it!" and wear it to my own court hearing.

However, social decorum and my own annoying sliver of a moral compass that has somehow managed to evade the wrath of my PMS dictates that I should probably just have some ice cream for lunch and try not crying in public.
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Roomie and I were coming back from kettlebell class last night and, like, I was seriously chafing?  Like, ungodly pain where there should only be awesomeness, which is so fucking unfair I'm not even going to get into it because that's for another post.  Anyway, it got to the point where I was in agony and really couldn't walk without looking like I had something shoved up my ass. 
 
So finally I just said "fuck it, sorry Roomie, this needs to happen now" and picked the first alley way to duck into.  Because this is my life, this particular alley was fucking *stupidly* well lit because it was, of course, right beside one of the maybe 18 bridal boutiques in Greek town and the place was playing really loud opera music from a set of outside speakers for some Greek reason, and I totally just shoved my hand down my pants and did some enthusiastic rearranging.  Roomie finds this all incredibly amusing, considering I was in so much pain that I didn't even notice the cop car parked right *there* until I left the alley. 
 
So, y'know, I think publicly readjusting your clit almost in front of a cop with your roommate snickering like this is the greatest thing that's ever happened to her life scores me some butch points.  I'm not an expert on what constitutues butch, but I have it on pretty awesome authority that being butch involves assembling IKEA furniture, which I always need help doing.  So, if we use that as a basic foundation for butch, where does this put me on the whole butch spectrum?  Do I get a toaster or something?
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I have the weirdest Starbucks luck.  I've been taking crazy advantage of the Starbucks half-price tea latte deal they've been having and today I ordered an iced chai.  While waiting for it, I pondered with a co-worker over whether or not it could be turned into a chai frappucino and still fall under the same deal.
 
Upon hearing our conversation, and having just finished making my order, the barista was all "Did you actually order a frappucino?"  Which, I didn't, and I tried to tell her that and she just kept insisting that she could make me frappucino if that's what I wanted and, like, we went back and forth before she finally just got really frustrated and ordered me to let her make me a free frappucino.
 
She was scary.  And yet?  I am now enjoying a delicious chai tea frappucino AND an iced chai latte.  So, thanks Terrifying Barista Lady!
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Question:  Why would I spend my valuable time watching UFC fights when I could just as easily watch gay porn and have a significantly more satisfying payoff in the end without all the mood-killing dude-jeering in the background?
 
I mean, don't get me wrong, some of those boys are pretty and, in the past, I have enjoyed watching them do whatever it is they do.  And, like, I'm sure all those moves have totally technical and completely heterosexual sounding names so that their target audience doesn't catch on to how fucking awesomely gay their favourite sport is and run away in fear of tarnishing their manhood.  But, really, I'm just gonna say what everyone else is totally secretly thinking:  Whatever those moves are called, it's just a fancy ways of saying "Spooning" and "Oh Wow, Your Cock Is In My Ear, How'd That Happen?" and "Mind If I Ride Your Face?  Don't Worry, I Waxed".  
 
God, UFC is like the biggest cocktease *ever* for me.  In my world, every single fight would eventually lead to blowjobs at the *very* least.  And when I'm forced to come to the realization that this isn't actual gay porn and guys fucking isn't what's for dinner unless I start writing the fanfiction for it?  Not gonna lie, I get frustrated. 

And there lies the reason why UFC has joined the ranks of inspirational football movies and "The Fast and the Furious 1, 2 & 4" in terms of things I am no longer allowed to watch outside of the privacy of my own home unless I'm with [personal profile] mantaraggio, [profile] sravenk, and/or [personal profile] bigboobedcanuck because they totally understand and accept my propensity for yelling things like "Drop and give me twenty locker room blowjobs!" or "Garage sex on the hood of that Camaro, Vin Diesel!!! Make Paul Walker your cock-bitch already!" out loud whenever something particularly slashy is happening on screen.  And, let me tell you as someone with personal experience with this kind of thing: Screaming for gay dude gang bangs in the middle of a crowded bar full of UFC fans screaming for blood?  Kinda awkward.  I don't think they appreciated my sports commentary, even if I was totally better at it than the sportscasters who were calling the fight.
 
Y'know, all this reminds me that I have to have a "The Fast and the Furious" marathon soon.  I'm totally overdue for one.
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Seeing Pat Burke march with PFLAG in the Gay Pride Parade in memory of his son was, for me, one of the best parts of Toronto's Pride festivities last year.

::sigh::

Feb. 9th, 2011 11:18 am
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I bought another pair of boots last night.  I don't need them at all.
 
In my defense, though, they were regularly $350 marked down to $95 and I've been waiting oh-so-patiently for last season's FLY London line to go on sale.  They're brown leather and they have really neat detailing and I kind of got the shakes when the sales woman told me how much I was saving (75% off!!!!).  And then Tracy Chapman came on the stereo at the exact moment I zipped them up and it was just me and the other sales girls in Body Blue at the time and we all started singing "Fast Car" together and it was kind of magic.
 
So, if you think about it, this is all Tracy's doing.  She wanted me to buy them.  And when Tracy Chapman wants you to have something, you don't ask any questions.  You say "Okay, Tracy Chapman, you saucy minx.  You win. This time."  And then you slink warily back to your corner of the ring with a beady eyed, suspicious glare because thus is the nature of Tracy Chapman's mysterious powers.
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Today, I had the supposed-to-be-brilliant plan of waking up early, heading for the grocery store, and buying a roast for my new slow cooker, which I've only used for soups so far.

I got up, got dressed, washed my face, put a cute hat on, grabbed my iPod and walked jauntily up the street to a soundtrack entirely comprised of Adam Lambert and Amanda Blank, because today was just that kind of happy day. I was going to make a delicious meal and it was going to be awesome.

I bought the roast and the veggies and a bottle of red wine and waltzed back home, feeling completely content with myself and my go-getter attitude towards my most favourite kitchen appliance ever, outside of my blender.

I followed the recipe and turned on the slow cooker and sat back, happily letting magic take over.

Cue now, eight hours later: I have disintegrated vegetables, something that should be delicious gravy but that kind of smells like vomit (literally) and a roast that makes me feel like I'm chewing on leather. As someone with something approximating basic experience with leather-chewing, let me tell you that there is a time and a place for that, which doesn't include me, by myself, in my kitchen, with a pouty look on my face. Usually.

Which is the story of how I'm now waiting for a medium, double pepperoni and black olive pizza and getting drunk on the rest of my "cooking wine".

Happy Saturday, everyone!

Hee.

Feb. 2nd, 2011 12:03 pm
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 Oh, Toronto.  I love you.  I mean, I really, really love you.
 
You are the only Canadian city, other than *maybe* Vancouver, that gets this surprised and worked up over snow in the middle of winter in the middle of *Canada*.  It’s like it somehow caught you completely off guard that blizzards sometimes happen this time of year and, when they happen, you act like an incredibly bewildered hamster who is forced to stop, mid-run, because your wheel broke and you have absolutely *no* idea what to do with yourself other than stand there with huge “WTF HAPPENED!?!?" eyes.
 
I do find that really kind of adorable sometimes.
 
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Okay, having one Days of Our Lives dream is awesome, especially when it involves being part of a carnie jury under the streets of Paris.  I hope I was responsible for beheading John.
 
However, having two DOOL dreams in one week is...worrying?
 
Last night, I had a dream that I was Marlena's daughter and we were fighting because I couldn't live up to her expectations.  She wanted me to be a psychiatrist like her and I wanted to build skateboards.  I blame this on a potent combination of gin, which I never drink, and a conversation I had with [profile] meowsaregreat last night about an alternative high school in Toronto that is centered around fostering an interest in arts and culture by having the students design, create and showcase their own skateboards.

ANYWAY, Marlena thought I was wasting my life.  I violently disagreed, but I woke up before I could brain her with a lampshade, which was disappointing.  I never get to the good part of the dream where I get to murder the annoying soap opera characters I always used to hate.  Luckily, my coffee was super good this morning and I didn't have a hangover, so it all ended well.
 
 
aivilo_18: (Default)
Dear Lunch Thief:
 
There was something like $8.00 worth of smoked Scottish applewood on that fucking salad you just enjoyed.  There is absolutely no possible way you mistook this particular salad for any of the other shitty salads in the fridge today.
 
In conclusion, I fucking hope you fucking choke on it and everyone around you conveniently forgets how to administer the Heimlich, you sadistic fuck.  Your thieving hands should be separated from your body in the messiest, most painful way possible, ground up, turned into a soup, and then fed back to you.  I'm not sure whether your washing and drying of my lunch container, which you then left on the kitchen table for me, was considerate or if the act makes me want to beat you to death with a tire iron. 
 
Either way, I still hope someone visits you in the night and sandpapers your nipples off.
 
Fuck you very much.
 
::twitches::
 
Me.
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I know. It's been a while since I posted about DOOL.

But, does anyone on my flist remember that storyline from the mid-to-late 90's when Stefano kidnapped Marlena *again* and kept her in a giant, guilded bird cage under the streets of Paris and then John saved her but then *he* was caught by Stefano and then there was a trial under the streets of Paris and Stefano was the judge, I think, and the jury was comprised of a group of John's "peers", which actually meant that the jury was comprised of literally a bunch of carnies employed by Stefano who worked for him under the streets of Paris and they were totally his very own band of flying monkeys and the carnie jury ended up finding John guilty of something weird like "Looked at Marlena that one time" and then he was sentenced to death by guillotine? UNDER THE STREETS OF PARIS!?!?!?!?!

Well, last night I had a dream that I was a member of that jury. It was awesome.

::purrs::

Jan. 13th, 2011 08:17 am
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::sigh::

I love the internetz. It's where the porn lives.
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Okay, none of you are allowed to judge me for this question:
 
Narwhals exist, right?
 
Only, I've just discovered that Roomie truly believes that they don't.  And I'm trying to tell her that they sort of actually *do* but she thinks they're, like, a conspiracy theory or something.  I thought she was joking at first.  But she's *isn't*.  

Then I pointed her in the direction of the internet, because narwhals have their own wikipedia entry, so they *have* to be real and she got all crazy and paranoid, accused me of being "with them" (i.e. scientists, National Geograpic, David Suzuki, polar bears, Photoshop), out to get her with my crazy "whalecorn" theories. 
 
Then she locked herself in our bathroom with her cats and a roll of tinfoil to make the hats. 
 
Okay, she maybe didn't do that, but it would have been the next logical step in her methodology considering how violently she refuted my claim that no, narwhals *aren't* actually a huge governement lie meant to distract people from who really killed JFK.
 
 
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Cut to save you from my whiny ass... )

Kudos if you made it through that. You deserve pie.
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This week has been the stupidest work week I’ve ever had the bored misfortune of working through.  It’s been a veritable town of ghosts, absolutely devoid of human life.  I never really appreciate how much my job is about other people pestering me to death until no one is here to pester me to death.
 
Anyway, in order to make it through this week, I’ve been writing various zombie apocalypse scenes in my head where I’m the lone survivor in our building and behind every corner there could be a horde of the walking dead ready to chase me down and eat me alive.  Like I’ve said, “The Walking Dead” is doing weird stuff to my already weird brain.
 
Fuck, I’d be an *awesome* zombie hunter.  In my head, I’m a potent combination of Sigourney Weaver from “Alien” and Laura Dern from “Jurassic Park”, a thought that kept sidetracking my imagined zombie rampages and costing me precious sweet kill shots because I’d get stuck on that crossover fic I never wrote for [personal profile] mantaraggio about how Ripley and Dr. Ellie Sattler join sexy forces to take over the world by being really super hot and awesome and all the stupid world leaders are just like “Y’know what?  Here.  Just take it.  Take over the world.  I step down in deference to your combined hot awesomeness.  Also, that army of trained velociraptors you have is really kind of terrifying.”
 
And now Laura Dern and Signourney Weaver are making out in my head again while they take a break from training their dinosaur warriors to attack on command.  Awwwwwwsome. 
 
God.  I need to watch “Jurassic Park” again.  I always…I won’t say I forget about my crush on Laura Dern.  But sometimes it fades into the background due to the sudden more fleeting crushes I am constantly getting.  But then I’ll remember “RUN!” and get a big dopey smile on my face because she’s so fucking kickass awesome and hot and TAKE DOWN ANOTHER VELOCIRAPTOR, LAURA DERN, LAURA DERN!

::sigh::
 
I could probably rope the Roomie into watching it with me.  She has a weird kink going on for Jeff Goldblum that I don’t really understand but could make work for me.
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Taking a break from starting the third episode to say that nothing puts me in the Christmas spirit more than watching a show about a zombie apocalypse.

Oh man. Whoever thought that zombies needed to go *fast*, like they weren't already fucking scary enough? Is awesome.
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Dear Father on the TTC this morning:
 
I know everyone else on the streetcar got all giggly and amused and "awww, isn't that the absolute *sweetest*?" when your precocious toddler started singing the entirety of Katy Perry's "California Girls" at the top of her lungs, but let me tell you, hearing someone who probably still needs a booster seat in a restaurant sing about wearing daisy dukes with bikinis on top is not cute in any way, shape, or form.  In fact, it gave me so much second-hand embarrassment for you as a parent that I had to practically deafen myself on The Grateful Dead this morning just so I could drown out the whole ridiculous situation.
 
It's not so much your kid that so fundamentally bothered me.  She doesn't know any better.  She doesn't know what the hell she's saying.  She probably just knows that sometimes Katy Perry has teletubby hair and her songs are ridiculously catchy in a way that, at least for me, makes me want to dance and kill myself at the same time.
 
You, however, need a lesson on when public displays of toddler precociousness are cute and when they are creepy.  For example:
 
Cute:  My nephew's reaction of "It's THOMAS!  Da choo-choo twain!  Toot, toot!" when he opened the Thomas the Tank Engine train set I bought him for Christmas this weekend.
 
Not Cute:  Hearing your similarly aged child sing about being so hot she'll "meowt you popthicle".
 
See how that works?  How one example is appropriate and the other is not?  She had a lisp, for god's sake.  A fucking *lisp*.  The kind that most, if not all, kids get WHEN TALKING IS STILL SO NEW TO THEM THAT THEY DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE PROPER SOUNDS OUT OF THEIR WORDS YET.  I know because my nephew still has one.
 
Now, I try to be careful when judging the parenting skills of others because I have absolutely no concept whatsoever of what it means to be you.  However, I do know that *my* parents, my father *especially*, wouldn't have let me do that, wouldn't have let me sing sexually suggestive songs on a streetcar in front of strangers, would have made sure that I was listening to Raffi instead of Katy Perry at that age, and wouldn't have so obviously gotten off on all the attention from those strangers the way you were this morning.
 
God.  I just...I was choking on the humiliation that you weren't feeling.  Like, a giant humiliation cloud showed up and, incapable of penetrating your thick force-field umbrella of cluelessness, looked for someone more vulnerable to piss it's embarrassment rain on and found *me*.
 
I mean, I'm sure you're a decent parent.  Your kid seemed happy enough and you actually did stop her from launching into another Broadway-esque style number when others started actually *clapping*, and don't *think* I'm not even more weirded out by them than I am you, so it's not like I think child services should get involved.  But could you, I don't know, maybe take away the Teenage Dream CD for the time being and replace it with some Fred Penner or something?  Like, what happened to Fred Penner?  What went on during the transition between the 80's and now where he suddenly wasn't cool and legitimate for kids or something?  Because that seems like something that, at the very least, deserved a memo.
 
Still suffering residual embarrassment twitches, thanks so very much.
 
Me.
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I'm sorry.  I've tried because I like a Happy Quinn as much as the next person, but I really, seriously don't buy what this Sam character is trying to sell here.  There is absolutely no way the kid doesn't like the taste of dick.
 
Ryan Murphy, you don't hire an actor with a horrendously obvious case of Cock Sucking Lips and then just throw away all the gay potential on an attempt at a proving heterosexuality.
 
I mean, I love Quinn and I don't want to see her sad.  But I also don't want to witness what will happen when she eventually discovers that Sam has shower tile burn on his knees from all the after practice blow jobs he's been doling out to the football team. 
 
See, I like Sam.  He's leaps and bounds better than Finn, who needs to become a cautionary tale on Shark Week right about now. It's just that his mouth is so goddamn distracting that I can't actually concentrate on whatever is being said whenever he's on screen.  He could be explaining in explicit, horrific detail about why he wants to take up puppy murdering as a lifestyle choice and I'd still be more interested in finding out all the details of his gag reflex so that the Puck/Sam fic I'm writing in my head is as accurate as possible when it gets to the face fucking part.
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Dear Winter,

Thanks for the sudden punch to the tits, you fucking total cock-slapping douche-canoe.

I dislike your sneaky bastard ass intensely.

Absolutely zero fucking love EVER,
Me
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Is anyone really all that surprised by Don Cherry’s speech at Ford’s inauguration? Like, really? He’s *insane*. He’s been an absolute train wreck for years now. That’s what happens when you spend your entire life talking in hockey metaphors.

I actually find it hysterically delightful that Rob Ford chose Don Freaking Cherry to speak on his behalf. He is absolutely the most fitting person to be backing Ford. Cherry’s intelligence, personality, and social graces have been shaped by the fact that he is completely incapable of talking, with any kind of authority or knowledge, on any matter that does not involve the pursuit of a tiny, black, rubber disk by angry, mostly white men with giant sticks.

Don Cherry is obnoxious, loud, narrow-minded, and unintelligent and every body *knows* it. Even his fans! I am freaking *ecstatic* that his name has now become synonymous with Ford’s. It’s f@cking *brilliant*.

Why are more people not celebrating this? This is a love story for the ages.

Aaaaaand! ::pukes::

I will now prepare for mass defriendings over the fact that I may have just accidentally thought about Don Cherry and Rob Ford slash.

Oh, fuck. I'm so gross.
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