You Know What I Hate?

These are some things that I hate:

1. I hate when you tell people you don't like a certain food and then they insist on force feeding you their version of it saying "Well, you've never had MY ______ !" No bitch, I fucking hate pineapple. Putting Old Bay seasoning on it actually makes it worse.

2. I hate when you are out with one of your girlfriends and two guys approach. Then they end up boxing you out to fight over your friend. What? Is that just me?

3. I hate my scar on my thumb. It's from this one time I was trying to open a dented can of ravioli and the can opener could only open it half way. So fattie here tries to pry the metal the rest of the way open and slices her finger. Probably should have gotten stitches. And yes, I ate that ravioli.

4. I hate when men drive. People are always saying Asians and women can't drive. Sure, they may be slow, but it's always a man that just comes right over in your lane assuming that his giant truck will just scare you out of the way. It's always an elderly man holding up the left lane. And dudes always hit on you while your driving, too. That shit is unsafe AND unwanted. Oh, yes, please let me stop going 70 mph on this freeway, pull over onto the shoulder and talk to you, man I've never met before!

5. I hate when, for example, you're going shopping for a friend who is a plus size. You find a store that is specifically for them - 1XL through 3XL - and you are finding lots of great stuff, draping them over your arm. You make your way to the back of the store in the middle of your own conversation with your shopping buddy when the chick that works there asks if you're ready to try on your clothes. Um...  no, I am not ready to try on this table cloth. No, madam, I cannot say I am ready to see if this flag will squeeze over my apparently enormous body. No, you fucking whore, I don't want to try on this tarp for a hover craft!

What? That's just happened to me?

An Ocean and a Pond

Remember when our parents let us swim in the creek together? Despite suggestion from public safety officials? We were so happy there. But eventually, the water became too thick and muddy and you needed to find a bigger body of water. You found a pond.

I met you at your pond and it was wonderful for so long. We helped each other swim laps. While no one could beat my canon balls, you had a mean flailing leap with which I could not compete. The days were endless and lovely there in our pond.

Suddenly, a clock started ticking. An alarm. It was so loud and it made me mad. But I couldn't ignore it.  I knew it meant that I needed to leave the pond.

I found myself at the edge of an ocean. A brilliant, sparkling ocean full of blues and greens and even gold. I wanted to show you. I wanted you to see that I had found a better place, like when you showed me your pond. When I tried to though, you said you had built a pier over your pond. Better yet, you had found some floaties to keep you safe.

While the clock seems to have lost it's alarm, I still hear it ticking. It takes away day after day that I do not have with you. These days, these years, I will never get back.

Sometimes I walk to the shore, at the edge of my great ocean and pray. I pray that your pier would rot away and that your floaties would deflate. You would be left in the pond alone and a great tide would sweep you out into a river. That river would carry you into my ocean and pull you onto the sand. There I would be waiting to pick you up and take you home.

Killer Robots!

It was brought to my attention the other day that I never discuss anything of real importance in my blogs, just my drunken shenanigans and "self loathing". But I am a deep person who has opinions on all kinds of world affairs. My stance on politics, religion, and New York Fashion Week is something that should be heard. Ultimately though, our greatest issue on earth, as a whole, is obviously killer robots. So, fasten your seat belts my good sirs, I'm about to blow the lid right off this issue!

Anti - killer robot groups would have you believe that these robots are nothing but a terror to our society and a threat to our way of life. I am here to tell you that they're not so bad. Imagine, if you will, a world where you could create your very own killer robot to do your bidding. Let's not be naive here bitches, if these robots are evolved enough to kill, they are evolved enough to do your laundry and be your little slave babies.

What would I do with my personal killer robot you ask? Good question. First, I would make it look like Ryan Reynolds and train it to work out sans most of it's clothing. (Some of you may find this creepy, but you must understand that I am doing this for the sake of humanity and there are some things that I need. So stop being so selfish, ok?) Then, I would teach my robot Spanish and call him Miguel. A bilingual robot will come in handy more often than not. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I would install a Gaydar system in it so it could find me new friends to dance with. (Naturally, my robot could also dance and would eventually join Dancing With The Stars. His team mate will be Mischa Barton.) And finally, I would put together a list of people for my robot to kill, making our planet a better place to live. The list is as follows:

1. Carlos Mencia
2. Paris Hilton
3. My old religion teacher from high school. She was a real bitch.
4. Terrell Owens
5. Speidi
6. Whoever invented Crocs
7. That jerk that peed on my stairway last night
8. Cats - the entire species
9. Miss California
10. Matthew Glen Kelley

As you can tell, my list is thorough and well thought out. You may be asking why I would list one of my closest friends, Matt Kelley, however, so let me explain. Setting aside the fact that I hate him, I could give him no greater gift in this life then to let him be killed by a huge robot. He is such a hard core loser, that it would be his greatest moment, a gleam of true happiness in his eye, to fall at the hands of a metal monster who will conveniently be singing "Man in the Mirror" as he destroys Matt's very life force. Sometimes all we can do is murder our friends as an act of true selflessness. *sigh*

In closing, killer robots are hardly the worst things that could happen to the earth. Sure, they wreak havoc on every country and do not have morals preventing them from mauling women and children. Sure, they have no emotions and cannot ever really love you back no matter what you force it to say to you. (This one is all YOUR fault James Cameron. You made me believe...) Sure, they will probably turn on you and rip your head off at any given moment. But what about all the robot piggy back rides you could get? Does that mean nothing to you people? Or all the lawn mowing and weed picking they could get done? Do I even have to mention the fact that you will NEVER have to get up for the remote again?!

Don't hate on killer robots, it's not cool. I wouldn't want you to, Matt wouldn't want you to, and neither would Miquel. I rest my case.

No, These Are Just Leftover Flowers From Work

Recently, I worked a commercial that had a high profile talent and was sent to pick up flowers and magazines for the trailer of a man that could buy my soul three times over after taxes. Spending the rest of the day watching the trailer so that no one would thieve in it, I felt the familiar burn of bitterness and hostility creep into my chest.

The day ended and the only thing left where the trailer had been parked was the bouquet of autumn flowers that I had arranged in a water filled pretzel barrel (Crafty was supposed to supply the vase and used this barrel instead. They make at least $150 more than me PER DAY and this is what they came up with). Being that my efforts were left for trash, I picked up the neglected flowers and put them in my front seat. As I left the lot for the evening, the security guard stopped to get my pass and hit on me in an incredibly unprofessional way.

"Those from your boyfriend?" he asked.
"No," I admitted.
"This your last day on this lot?"
"Yeah, so you take care now."
"Well, maybe we could keep in touch."
"Yeah, totally, I'll come back and visit you," I laughed, driving away while he yelled after me for my number. But it brought up an old and weathered thought - why is it that I attract guys like him? The creepy, weird ones? The night shift security guards, the physical trainers, the bouncers, the mentally unstable, the elderly?

This question has plagued me for years, since I was a teen. My mother tried to reassure me that when I was older, men would appreciate who I was and what I looked like. She failed to mention which men, though, probably out of kindness. Time reveals all truths, however, including the bangs she cut me in seventh grade that were an atrocity of an epic proportion.

I parked and got out to walk to my apartment. Passersby looked at me with questioning eyes and I could guess what they were thinking. Some nice man, an investment banker or a lawyer perhaps, bought me beautiful flowers. Was it my birthday? Anniversary?  And what's up with the vase?

Rounding the corner, another creepster waited in the dark with his creepy questions.

"You gotta boyfriend?" he slurred.
"No, these are just left over flowers from work," I barked. Why didn't I ever just lie to these people? I rushed past him, not eager to continue a conversation with a guy I'm pretty sure I've seen before on America's Most Wanted. Coming into my empty apartment, I set the flowers in my kitchen and fluffed them a bit. Even guys that I've "dated" never bought me flowers and I could only guess as to why, none of the reasons very flattering on either party.

My friends say that if I don't want to be alone forever, I might have to start lowering my standards like every other woman on the planet. Maybe one day, I would have to say yes to the freaky dude at the club with the long hair or the Mexican guy whose been screaming sexual things in Spanish every morning on my way to work. I must trade happiness for companionship and abandon parts of myself for the sake of this. Because the women who get the guys that I want are amazing - they're beautiful, petite, smart, and socially tactful.

I know what I am. I'm a loud mouth, a little dumb, lumpy and some have called me "man-ish". What I am not is someone who settles, unlike 90% of the population. So perhaps my flowers will always be left overs. But at least at night, I can eat Cheetos dipped in ice cream, read my paranormal books and write my weird stories. Girls who get first hand flowers might have men but they don't always have freedom. So suck on that bitches.

There Will Be Snickers

If you're anything like me, you can gage how drunk you were the night before by what is laying beside you in bed the next morning. And no, we're not talking a bisexual situation here (this time). We're talking food my friends, food.

My people tell me that once I am thoroughly drunk and I start demanding food, we have a ten minute countdown before I am face down, passed out asleep. Obviously, this time line does not always allow the proper amount of time to eat the food before I am asleep which results in evidence on my pillow. And as a horrific side note, this ordeal has no exceptions - not concerts, clubs, beaches, football games, or sobriety check points. My drunk waits for no one.

It has gotten progressively worse/impressive over time and all the local fast food chains know me by name. But what do you do when you're wasted and you can't drive yourself (and no one else will either) to a combination Pizza Hut/ KFC, you ask? You either plan ahead or cook yourself.

I have woken up next to half cooked meat, messy chicken nachos, a variety of Lean Cuisines, frozen pizza (literally), blocks of cheese (with gnaw marks in them) and a very elaborate plate of spaghetti. As you can imagine, the bigger the plate, the drunker I was. Usually, the plates like spaghetti would be partnered with a stolen street sign leaning against my door and the sinking feeling that I may have committed a few felonies the night before.

No delicacy I could convince my roommates to cook me could ever compare to the morning I awoke next to a king sized Snickers bar. I woke up at about 8 am and rolled over to discover my lover - nay, my soulmate - for the night. Only a bite was taken out of it and I was glad to be able to enjoy it's chocolatey goodness with at least partial sobriety.

"Well, hello there sir. I didn't catch your name... Mr. Right you say?" I cooed at the bar. A wide grin and  a few chomps in, I passed out again, chin full of chocolate covered drool. Hours later, about noon, I woke up startled. Had I fallen back asleep and so rudely ignored my new house guest?

With a sigh, I turned to face the Snickers. Although it was now halfway gone, I began to chew excitedly again, marveling at the peanuts and caramel.

I should really wake up. I have things to do and people to see... I thought as I drifted back into slumber, letting the bar's tranquility take over.

Waking up the third time that day, at about 2 pm, I realized that I seriously needed to get the fuck out of bed. But there he was, just staring at me, only a few bites left.

Why are you so good to me...? I wondered as I finished the bar. I dragged myself out of bed and stretched. It was one of the best nights of sleep/ one night stands I have ever had.

As time has passed, I have realized a few things: I can't stand people that drive slow in the left lane (it's rude and annoying and I don't care if you're old), I think asparagus taste like puke, and while there may not ever be boyfriends or husbands to be around when I'm drunk, by God there will be Snickers.

Ode to My Fanny Pack: The Underdog of Bags

Oh, sweet Fanny Pack. How do I love thee?

Your skin is weathered and licorice black
Your zippers are strong and grounded
You grip my waist with a sense of duty
A sense of pride
An attention whore for the decades existed
And decades to come
You demand to be front and center
Drawing eyes, you hold steady in your position

There you wait
Ready
Ready to hold my phone
My lipgloss
My flippy floppies, if need be

100% genuine leather
Made in Mexico
Found at a thrift store
You were fated to be mine
Fate
Kizmet
To join me at every dance party requiring tube socks
Patent leather pants
Mullet wigs

You bring people joy
Laughter
Jealousy
Pain
You bring me nothing but satisfaction
Pictures
Adoration
High Fives

Those that say you can never be
Let them be silenced
Let them gaze upon your beauty
And weep.

*** If you'd like to see me rockin' a fanny pack via youtube, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQ7Lqo15aIU

Hermosa Fiesta: A Labor Day Celebration

This past weekend was Labor Day, a day to look back and honor all of those people who ever had jobs and fought for fair laws and hours in the workplace. In their honor, apparently, Americans feel the need to have barbecues, fireworks, and in the case of Hermosa Beach, CA, an enormous festival. This festival shut down the main streets leading to the pier where vendors could sell things and people could get shit faced drunk and not get run over. I was one of those people.

Saturday morning, after hosing off my stairs because some drunk asshole decided to half die there the night before, I looked out upon the vast sea of tents floating along the street. A hot guy jogged by and I thought it my best interest to dive right in.

A USC game was on, so Freaky and I left a screaming and hollering DNasty to her game so that she could freak out alone. We made our way through the free samples, a few times naturally, and decided to wade through the tents that were actually there for monetary gain. While some of these tents had cool stuff and unique artwork, I beg of you tell me: why in the fuck would someone put up an entire tent dedicated to sell nothing but cheap, wood, "funny" signs saying things like "Wine a Little Bit, You'll Feel Better"? Or a tent that viciously attacked defenseless hats and shirts with an enraged bedazzler? Or better yet, a tent that only sold thick, leather bracelets with yin yang symbols that only a member of Creed would be caught wearing? The answer: old people. (Side note: Watch yourselves. They're everywhere and they will buy anything that would fall under the category of junk.)

As we made our way through waves of the excited elderly waving dollars, we came to the opening of a fair ground. To our left we saw that there was a beer/ wine garden. Exchanging a glance, no need for words, Freaky and I skipped to the garden where we got the biggest cup of wine ever sold to us in the continental United States. Plus, all proceeds went to charity so we'd tell people that was why we were there. Instinctively, we scoured the crowd that was enjoying the live band for hot guys. With a sigh, we realized that there were none and that those god damned old people infiltrated our shores once again. We'd have to just swig our wine and rock out to the 80s cover band "Heartless" that was playing. Man, they were awesome. The lead singer was a fatter, red haired version of Steven Tyler and her voice was made to sing "Barracuda".  Obviously, this is what Labor Day was all about.

We were not the only ones enjoying the band's fortysomething enthusiasm for the music of their youth, however, and two heavily intoxicated twentysomethings with no self esteem got onto the grass dance floor and continued to dry hump the air and each other for an impressive five minutes (I believe they recreated a scene from Cirque De Soleil at one point.) as random, elderly men slowly staggered by . There was a lot of drink flinging, falling down, awkward gyrating, and cries from the crowd to "please God make it stop!" before a crazy, Asian tranny broke up the scene by trying to join. He/she was wearing a barely there red swimsuit and, quite frankly, I think her/his angry face and "sexy" face are on in the same. The crowd, as a whole, took a step back and the singer made a depressing yet utterly true comment about the fact that her life had brought her here to this moment. Best charity event EVER.

Our lips now purple from our massive drinks and a decent wine buzz in us, we decide that we want to get on a ride. (Bad idea after you've been drinking? Yes, yes it is. However, we're professionals, we know what we're doing so stop questioning it, ok?) After being told we were "too big" and "too old" to go on almost all of the rides, we found one that we were allowed to ride. Not without parents looking at us like we were creepy and *gasp* perhaps a little drunk. The man told us to climb into the giant green dinosaur and we did so. It was one of those rides that spin but have a steering wheel inside to spin you around faster. Whirling and whirling we went, laughing hysterically, and slamming our heads into the side, delighted at speed and sheer stupidity of what we were doing. Stumbling out, I thought it best to leave because apparently acting strangely around children is a good reason to get the police.

We made our way back through the tents again and met up with DNasty so she could get us more free samples. (I actually considered changing my clothes so that I could get more as well. Then I realized how pathetic it is to go to such lengths for a free carton of soy milk that I will never drink.) A guy popped out of nowhere and offered us free drinks at his tent. DNasty answered yes before I could go over the probability of this guy being able to maim and murder us in public without me being able to leave a trail to his warehouse where he would surely hide us. I don't like to think anyway (it hurts) so we all followed and had free drinks while they tried to sell us some cable bullshit. I wasn't listening because I couldn't care less. Jack Daniels wanted to make out and I had to plan my outfit for the night.

Awhile later, we came inside and began the long, music filled, make-up smearing, pregaming process of girls getting ready to go out. Finally, we were ready, and on our way out, ran into a buddy who got us into Sharkeez and paid our cover. The dancing began and so did the drinking and smack talking. We're having a great time when the girls spotted a dude that apparently looks like USC's new quarterback. (After Mark Sanchez left the team, a part of me died. That piece of man meat was basically the only reason I accompanied DNasty on the couch to watch the games.) Freaky was talking in a language the guy didn't understand, and to help, I translated. Actually turning to look at him, I was momentarily stunned. He was absolutely gorgeous.  I'm not sure how I formed words after I saw his face but I managed. And for a reason at that moment I could not understand, he seemed interested in me. (Yes, me you asshole.)

He was nice, beautiful, tall, completely ripped, and a Navy Seal. A Navy goddamn Seal. Could he be any more perfect? As the night went on, I realized that the answer was no. I also realized why God would allow me to think this incredible god like creature would want to talk to me. The answer: to insult me. (Now I'm not sure why perfect strangers feel compelled to say rude, uncalled for things to me with no provocation, but they do. [It's been hypothesized that I make people feel very at ease and they feel they can say anything to me including the ugly truth. That makes me the ugly truth so this theory is not one of comfort.]) So, after being informed that I have "lumberjack hands", a question regarding whether I was a whore or not, and the overall sense that he had no respect for me or women in general ended my little bubble-o-happy. On a nice note, Freaky and DNasty both met very nice men who spoke to them like human beings and I assume told them they were pretty.

The next morning, I awoke from my whiskey haze feeling sorry for myself.  After devouring an enormous burrito and two mimosas, my two girlies led me back home for a nap (not before I knocked over a bike in the street) and made me lay down. I felt better (aka sober) when I woke again and we all talked in my kitchen for a bit. We discussed the weekend and the fact that we didn't have to work the next day (Monday). I posed an asinine question : "What do you guys want to do tonight?" They looked at each other, rolling their eyes at my stupidity and internally questioned my patriotism.

DNasty: "Um, we're going out tonight, Brenna. It's Labor Day and in America, this is how we celebrate."
Freaky: "Dance Party."
DNasty: "Did you vote? Do you enjoy your freedom? Then how about you not be so selfish and let this country know how much you care by drinking."
Freaky: "Dance Party."

They were right. I was being unpatriotic, selfish. After all, my work, my writing, my labor, was based a lot on how I go out and drink so I would be doing this country a service by going out and dancing my ass off at Union Cattle. God bless all those workers, Americans, that came out to dance with me. I applaud you and so does Uncle Sam.