Really, Mr.”S” Key?

Okay. So in one of my less impressive moments when a bout of severe writers block got the best of me and I, in all my wisdom, decided to pound on my computer and take my lack of creative juices out on my college graduation gift, by sheer dumb un-luck, my nail ended under the “S” key and ripped it from its place. Now, I might mention, this happened a couple years ago, so I’ve been working and writing without the full “S” key all this time. The little rubber mechanism is still attached so I’m able to type but recently—and this is as of yesterday—the rubber do-hickey gave its two week notice and has been jumping off the keyboard and onto my finger every time I type. Do you know how many S’s I’ve used? In this paragraph alone? And each time, I have to stop, shift the rubber thing back into place just so I can continue typing. DO YOU KNOW HOW ANNOYING THAT IS!!!!!!

Moral of the story: don’t take writer’s block out on your keyboard. Shoot a pillow or something.

Look at how it taunts me

Look at how it taunts me

Garage-Saleing at My Cubicle

Hello…

I haven’t blogged for a week, since I wrote about my new experience paying someone else to touch me. For those of you wondering—the two or three out there who actually read this—yes, it was definitely a good experience. No bleeding, so that’s a win. And actually, it wasn’t too bad. Peaceful music played, candles were lit… it was like an E-Harmony highlight except I didn’t eat anything and my date spent the entire hour massaging the stress knots out of me. Which, let’s be honest, sounds like the best date ever. Unless it’s with Ryan Gossling, in which case, all bets are off.

I mean, don’t get me started on that Notebook scene. You know the one I’m talking about. With the rain and the swans and the whole I wrote you every day for a year! And then the steamy moment when he pushes Rachel McAdams against the wall and every girl becomes a woman. Yep. I love that movie. That’d be a slightly better date than the one hour massage fest I had with a very nice woman who I never really saw. I was either face down in one of those head-things (shout out to Phoebe Buffay!) or staring up at the ceiling, wishing there was a soaking wet Ryan Gossling nearby but hey, what’re you going to do?

Mrs. Whatever had her massage right after me so that was nice. Since we’re no longer employed together, we used the hour to catch up on some much needed gossip. Like who they’re currently considering to play Christen Grey. Very important. And also, how the Mortal Instruments movie will compare to the book. See, Mrs. Whatever and I are big readers. At least with the romance and YA books. I can also get down with some Game Of Thrones action, but our Venn diagram basically includes all the current populars and the other E-books she recommends. This is how I get all my new books. That, or my friend Seattle, who introduced the Hunger Games and my newest—and probably truest love—Jenny Lawson. Sad, I know. Being a writer, I should probably stalk the NY Times Best Sellers List or one of the thousands of book-nook websites for recommendations, but I’d rather get a personal reference. From Seattle or Mrs. Whatever. Because they’ll tell me what I’ll probably be reading in the next few weeks. And I trust them.

Except—hello, ladies. Let’s get on it. Snap, snap!! Especially you, Mrs. Whatever. I’m rereading Sherrilyn Kenyon because you wouldn’t let me keep Zadist’s book, even after you went garage-saleing at my cubicle. For shame. You know I could read Lover Awakened a thousand times, and still, you couldn’t gift it to me? Or at least, looked the other way when I snuck it in my purse? (For those of you not enlightened, please race out and buy—or download—The Black Dagger Brotherhood by JR Ward. It’s AMAZING. I’ve never been into vampires. Let me repeat NEVER, even when Brad Pitt pulled off an oh-so sexy Louis in Anne Rice’s version, but this series will give your hard backs creases, okay? The pages will be so worn from all the times you’ve reread it, and that dear friends, is the true meaning of Christmas).

But I digress…

Where was I? Oh, yes! So, it’s been a week since my last posting. But I promise I’m going to try to post more for the two or three of you out there. There are so many things the world needs to know about my not-so-crazy, somewhat unimpressive life. Like Sir Carlton, the raggedy neighborhood cat who sits on our porch when it’s raining. I think he’s been sent by Aslan to tell me the entrance to Narnia, but he refuses to spill the beans. And either will Professor McGonagall, the all white cat who always stares at me when I leave the apartment. I think the two are conspiring. There’s got to be a magic door or tunnel around here somewhere. And with Batman only using his Jedi mind powers for evil, I’ll never find it.

So, to sum up: massages are awesome, Ryan Gossling is hot, more postings will come and the cats are conspiring. Oh, and I need a new book.

Suggestions?

Massage Envy?

So, I’m getting a massage. Yay! Except not really… because I’m slightly nervous. I’ve never had one. The closest I’ve come is having Batman rub my cankles or painfully knead my neck and shoulders and call it a back massage. I imagine this is not the same, but what do I know?

I have nothing against massages—they look awesome. But my experiences with other people touching me have never been at the top of my I want to repeat that list. Especially when I’m paying. I know what that sounds like—like I’ve purchased one too many terrible prostitutes or whatever. Not what I mean at all. But when I’ve gotten the few pedicures in the past, I’m cringing, counting down until I can grab a drink afterwards and forget about the pinching and jabbing and overall uncomfortableness while Amish Mafia plays in the background.

Plus I have to deal with the cankle exposure. For those of you who don’t know, cankles are the unfortunate occurrence when the calf fuses with the foot. Not sexy. Not sexy at all and don’t even get me started on the lack of cankle accessories to try feminizing this problem area. But that’s a topic for another day. Right now, it’s letting someone else touch me for a pre-negotiated price. Except I’m not paying. Thanks to Mrs. Whatever and her awesome husband for buying a birthday two-for-one Groupon massage, I’ll be trying out this whole new experience for free. And if it’s free, it’s for me.

Except gonorrhea. You can keep that.

Ensuring My Own Mortality

There’s nothing I enjoy more than a good cup of coffee in the morning.

 Actually, I’m lying. There are *tons* of things I enjoy more, but my mild addiction to a couple cups of caffeine is definitely up there.  And yes, by a couple, I mean at least two to three. Maybe four… But in my defense, my mug is especially average in size and not one of those bowl-like mugs you could drink soup out of. I’ve wanted to get one for a while but I know I’ll still want my two to three servings worth and at that point, I will literally be running around the apartment, tripping over various shit that has somehow journeyed from the furniture to the carpet. So, it’s a safety issue.

 I know what you’re thinking. Four cups of coffee? Is she mad?

 No, just really energetic. Besides, it’s coffee. Yes, I know, too much of anything will kill you. But you know what? I don’t plan on being immortal. Nope. I’d make a terrible vampire or zombie or whatever. I’d get super bored, super quick and would end up all Emo and although black is slimming, I don’t think I could pull it off for a millennia. (I’m not good with accessorizing.) SO, drinking coffee would be like ensuring my own mortality, if you want to put it that way. And if you’re still spinning that whole, it’s not good to be addicted to stuff, listen—at least it’s a legal yummy. It’s not like I’m sniffing Elmer’s glue or getting high off Crayola markers. If people even do that.

 So stop judging me. You’re not perfect either.

Mary Poppins comes closest and she’s still an inch and a half away.

Batman Killed Binder Clip Man

Naturally, I’m upset by this. I mean, what did he do? He was sitting in my box of office memorabilia which I’d repeatedly said not to open because it was organized.  And what happened? Batman opened it. To see if there was anything cool we could put around the apartment. First of all, I’m offended. Of course there was cool stuff. The whole box is filled with random shit that probably shouldn’t have been allowed in the cubicle to begin with. And secondly, no, I don’t think my rubber-band ball needs a place of honor on our dust covered furniture. Thanks.

But still, he opened it. Because Batman does what Batman wants to do. I’m not sure what he was searching for but I’ll tell you what he didn’t find. Binder Clip Man, positioned perfectly in the bottom corner and standing on his little T-pin legs. Had Batman seen him, and not so carelessly shuffled my items, my little office mate I’d kept alive for three years might not have ended up one T-Pin down and his notebook paper head severed from his little binder clip body. But it’s too late now. No future generations of office supply men for this girl. That dream has sailed. And, like, what do I tell Mrs. Binder Clip when she asks why he hasn’t come home? That he’s been decapitated? By Batman? Yeah, there’s no hallmark card for that. Sorry, but your husband’s dead because of Batman’s retardation.

I’ve already ordered an emergency surgery and in the midst of the chaos, another T-pin leg was lost. Thanks. You can put down the remaining pieces and leave my shit alone now. I’d arrange a funeral for my dear friend, but seeing as it’d be me and the murderer, it probably won’t happen. I’ll say goodbye by burying pieces of him in the box meant for precious memories. Damn right I’m still mad, Batman.

You killer.

Binder Clip Man in his former glory

Binder Clip Man in his former glory. He’s hanging with Ninjallama on my old desk. *memories*

Out of Wine and All is Lost

I’m desperately trying to figure out this blogging site. Mrs. Whatever and I spent three hours on Sunday learning out how to put together a blog while sipping chocolate wine. Yeah. It was a good afternoon. Of course, after we struggled to find headers and figure out what widgets do, we found the tutorial. To teach us everything we did. In the last three hours.

Yeah.

So, that was worth topping off my glass. And now, two days later, I’m still looking at this site. It’s not public yet because I have NO IDEA how to get it public. For those of you rolling your eyes— I am not computer savvy, okay? I use my computer for minesweeper and Microsoft word and fully believe Sara Connor will save us all. It’s only a matter of time.

So, what started as a simply quest to update my blog’s appearance, quickly turned into watching Jenny Lawson’s daughter teach her cat a new trick. I did figure out how to follow the Bloggess so I guess all is not lost. I just wish I knew how to turn this on public so you can read this. And I’m out of chocolate wine.

Is there no hope?

I Am the Fingers

So, I quit my job.

Probably shouldn’t sound so cocky now that I’m unemployed. But how cool is it to start a blog with that sentence?

So, I quit my job.

See… you want to read more. Except now that I’m gone, I won’t be interacting with all the craziness I’d usually encounter, and thus, no great stories for you. At least not about parking lot turkeys and pictures of cartoon mice intercourse up at my desk.  It’ll just have to be me and my own meandering thoughts about life, occasionally interrupted by my boyfriend, who I’ll lovingly refer to as Batman. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of that. Not that he minds me using his name but I have a weird thing with outing identities—at least here, in this blog. Not that you’d know him if you saw him. Unless you live in the area and see the pictures I post, in which case, go away. I don’t like stalkers. Unless you’re my new friends with money… then we can talk. But still in a public place. And I’ll choose.  But anyway, I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t like (and probably won’t be) using people’s names. I’m weird like that. So boyfriend will be Batman and my dear friend who’s helping with this blog, my Mrs. Whatever. Because she helps me with stuff and does whatever she needs to. And good friends like that deserve a title.

My mother, my sister, everyone else… we’ll get to them. When something happens—and it usually does—I can talk about it here. With you. All of you. Or no one. It could just be me and that’s fine because I’m an awesome audience. I never boo or heckle—it’s rude—and if I’m falling asleep, I don’t snore. So, win there. But then again, how could I be boring? If you’ve never met me, first—I’m so sorry and second—congratulations! Your life has just improved. Actually, it probably hasn’t but you can’t say anything back because right now you’re just a pair of eyes instead of lips. And I am the fingers. See me type! Again, because you’re the eyes, which I’m sure are just lovely.

See, I don’t even know what that means. About “I am the fingers.” I know what it means because I thought it, but as soon as I typed it, I imagine me with little finger limbs being rejected by a village of Thumbelina’s peers. Because my brain goes in super weird places like all the time. And I try to describe how the world is this somewhat fucked up cartoon in my head and no one gets it. Some do. Those odd balls I’ll most likely be talking about here but the rest, those normies…. they don’t get it. They’re too Barbie and I’m the wishing troll trying to break into the dream house. And if I was one of my old wishing trolls, I’d probably be bald. Because I cut off all their hair. Including all my Barbies.

Don’t ask.

At least Batman loves me, despite all my weirdness. Although he does look at me from time to time like he’s trying to kill me with his Jedi mind powers. I know this because he tells me. And I’ve told him to be careful because he’d feel like an asshole if he actually did it. Besides having to move my body and deal with paying rent, like, what would you tell people? The first thing you did with your Jedi powers is crush your girlfriend’s heart? Or in my case, ovaries. He always tries to crush my ovaries. And, now that I think about it, what have I done so wrong that merits crushed ovaries? I need to talk to him about this.  There’s no reason for ovary crushing. Sending the remote control flying into the kitchen—I get this. But internal bleeding? Come on, man. Not cool.

It’s not like I can fight back. I never got my letter to Hogwarts and so, no trip to Ollivander’s for me. But I still practice just in case. And mostly in my mind. I never use the three curses—it’s illegal—but Accio cookie! Or Lumos! whenever Batman shuts off all the lights when I leave the bathroom. It never works, which doesn’t make me think I’m not a witch, but an ill trained one. I’m sure I could’ve passed my OWLs with flying colors but I guess we’ll never know. We’ll just assume.

And I wouldn’t fight back even if I could. Because that’s wrong. And besides, my spell would probably rebound and go terribly wrong like Luna Lovegood’s mother. I’d end up imploding my own organs and I’d feel bad leaving Batman the cleanup. He didn’t do anything wrong. Except try to mentally kill me. But what boyfriend doesn’t do that? He tells me it’s because he loves me that he wants to strangle me a little bit. Says something about it being healthy. I’m not really sure. He could be lying. But I don’t really pay attention. I’m too busy thinking about people made of finger limbs and the other important matters of the world. Someone has to.

Anyway, I quit my job. So I have more time to think and write. And type.

Because I am the fingers.

Welcome, eyes.