Tequila, my friends.  (*shudder*  hearing “my friends” makes me think of John McCain in the last debate. I’m sorry if you are now picturing John McCain.  Picture Tequila.)

 It was brought to my attention today, when I called Tequila, “my friend”, that Tequila is in fact no one’s friend.
*whacks self in head with hand*  How could I be so stupid??  Thinking I can befriend Tequila is like confusing sex for love!   And so with Tequila…just because it makes me warm, fuzzy and oh so smiley (and hilarious may i add)–it doesn’t mean we have a friendship.  Here, all this time, I thought we *sniff* ya know…bonded.
There was that time in Philly when I made friends with all the cross-dressers at Woody’s–Helena Handbasket said she’d write!  We walked around in the freezing cold, for hours, and I thought–since Tequila kept me so warm–that, ya know, we were “together”.
Then there’s time we went to the beach together and I almost died of sun poisoning.  I felt so close to Tequila then.
Now that I think of it I probably would never have had sun poisoning if it hadn’t been for Tequila.
There were all those nights that I went to bed with Tequila…and when I got up in the morning Tequila was gone.   I felt nothing but sick, I tell you. Sick.
Then I think of all my hard earned money spent on Tequila.  I shouldn’t have to buy my way into this friendship!  Why doesn’t Tequila ever pay me?  I’ve anted up plenty for Tequila, sometimes even everything in my stomach, but Tequila has neglected to give me my one true desire…a friend.
So, on Friday I am headed out for happy hour with some good office friends.  We’ve been talking about getting some Patron together for a long time and that time has finally come.  The question is, do I continue wooing Tequila with my saucy ways or should I give up?  Will we ever, ever be friends?

Sunday’s feel like funeral days to me. they are mopey and dull and looming ahead of them is 5 days of living without saturday. Sunday is a day for mourning saturday. My sunday’s usually consist of trying not to waste the day counting down how many hours I have until work starts. depressing, huh? They are just so drab and although they make great lounging days there is a darkness to them–like sitting at a funeral and wishing it would get over so you can go eat and leave.

Usually my Sundays consist of:
1. sleeping until 11 and then feeling guilty b/c I didn’t get up earlier. I hate being unproductive. but seriously, if i were awake before 11 i’d just mope about listlessly.
2. laundry.
3. making a yummy meal. i view the sunday meal as sort of a death rowers last meal. only, if all goes well and I don’t expire at my place of work during the week, i get another last meal next sunday.
4. reading a book. and occasionally writing.
5. wincing every time i think of going to work
6. not getting dressed. I wear a white trash t-shirt that says, “What? I’m out of bed and dressed, what more do you want from me?” my boyfriend hates it and i can’t help but keep it around even though i hate it too.
7. staring off in oblivion. almost all sundays include some form of hangover. this hasn’t changed for about 8 years. 1/2 of sunday is a fuzzy headache and a blank, empty stare at the wall –this is actually in-depth contemplation of my station in life.
8. brain straining. thoughts like this: if i did just get up and leave could i honestly be a cleaning lady in hawaii? would hawaii piss me off just as much as this place? how come the US health care system is so SHITTY–why do i have to have a job in order to have health insurance? that is why so many americans stay in jobs they hate.
9. non-alcoholic calming. after the brain straining i have to come back to terms with being myself and going back to a predictable, unwelcome week of blah blah blah.
10. channel flipping. sitting in that part of sunday that falls before or after oblivious staring. usually falling on the food network and watching that annoying ass guy with the dyed blond hair… and ninja warrior.

that’s how my sunday goes. how do you spend your sunday?

I have a slight case of exaggeration. here is the back-story.
Call it what you will; luck, karma, fate, destiny, God, chance, life, good, evil, tea leaves…..
It hates me.
“Unfortunate” follows me as if I’m eating a pile of crunchy Jinx and dropping a fat crumb trail. I don’t walk around tempting the gods by stating obvious facts so that they can be jinxed and then thrown at my wallowing self. But yes, yes, I did in fact get excited about a random expectation.
-My stimulus package.- That money owed to me by the governments… (sorry. i’ve fallen prey to the “everything is plural” phenomenon) I even made a public comment on my Twenty Something Blogger site regarding my surprise that this so called money exists and that maybe I’ll be a believer since others were receiving this fabled money. how stimulating.
**PIANO COMES CRASHING OUT OF BLUE SKY ONTO HEAD**
I am notoriously known for getting the shit end of the stick. I try not to make a habit of picking up shitty sticks but again, it’s like I have a posse of them trying to hang with me.
I should be grateful that the United States Postal Service even considers me alive. I had to fight for this right. They killed me off when I moved and my mail service discontinued. All my Netflix movies were leaving their Netflix queue but being mysteriously returned by someone who was NOT ME! The post office said i was deceased. They took the liberty of putting a yellow sticker onto the bottom of envelopes coming to me that simply said “deceased”.
I was now:
“Stick it in my ass” Jones
151 wehateyourlife Court
Die, MI 66666
DECEASED

After I convinced them that I didn’t die, I just moved up the street, not into a cemetery but a condo…they finally stopped breaking the news of my untimely death via a yellow sticker on the front of my mail envelopes.
No one seemed alarmed when they found out, in this manner, that I died. Most people nodded and went about eating their Cheerios. Thanks Friends. Their expectations of my finality was laid to rest. excuse the pun. yay.

this is just one little story in the unique collage of karmic repercussions I’ve managed to survive. Anything from getting a brand new car without working brakes to being chased up a flight of stairs by an astonishingly quick midget to having my car stuck in the driveway of a fraternity house across the street from the office i worked in….(no worries aye….Jeff, the husky, red-bearded and incredibly hostile Facilities guy drove it out “no problem”. In the meantime my car is doused in cheeseburger remnants and slime from Nick and I, who grappled, with soggy, greased fingers at car parts to hide in as we slid down a hill of ice where we thought we’d plunge to our death. But THANKS Jeff for just driving it on out like it was a horse heading to his barn.)
Here for a while the waters have been calm. I’ve been chugging along at a miserable pace but nothing disturbingly inconvenient has surfaced. (i’m going to fucking pay for writing that out. the universe isn’t one to let me get away with these types of naive statements. Seriously, just ask my butt.)(I like to kid about anal rape. I know it isnt actually a laughing
matter but it’s so graphically descriptive of my feelings…)
Like I said, exaggeration is probably key to these little disaster recipes.
So, my boyfriend, lets call him Life Loves Me, gets in the car with a funny envelope. The envelope has my name on it in the return address side. Weird. The envelope only has a return address side…the rest appears to have been chomped off by ….a shark, maybe? Yes, that must be what happened. Ooooor, the mail box does have an axe and it chopped off half of my envelope. But, why? The partial envelope is contained inside a bigger envelope with a clear, plastic window to display my slaughtered piece of mail. Honestly, my measly murdered mail should have been delivered inside a Band-Aid box or via a cast…or at least they could have delivered the culprit shark.
But no, it was just me, Life Loves Me and this illegible cut of something that was just about to make sense.
Life Loves Me: that is your return address and my handwriting…*pause*…What did I mail for you? Oh shit, your taxes. I mailed your taxes for you.
upon opening the strong, secure, well-put-together envelope from my friendly, neighborhood USPS I was horrified to find that the small triangular shaped envelope was indeed housing the triangular left-overs of my taxes. so i guess they’re late.

they move backwards and forwards at the same speed and they are highly adapted at moving underground (wikipedia).

I’m at a loss for words.
I think the penis got loose and this is what it did for itself. It’s a lot more than i expected from a penis.

hi, i’m the asshole who is too good to look like the kind of asshole who dresses up for halloween.

i can never think of what to go as. obviously nothing that would cause me to get a splinter in my snatch, nothing that requires me to worry about my boobs accidentally being exposed, and nothing that is a shortened, transparent, sleazy rendition of an actual uniform.

for instance:
She’s a police woman who fights crime in fishnets and spiked heel knee high boots.
There is nothing like following the yellow brick road in her pleated porno skirt, all the better for the munchkins to see up oh, and toto is her bitch.

Pirates will never survive her; as the tiny and ferocious knife she hides in her cleavage will scratch them so horribly that they will be forced to become angry and rape the bad, bad piwench she is.
It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s SUPER SLUT! She can fly like a jet thanks to her aerodynamic push-up bra. The lack of panties keeps her light and fast. Be good or she’ll sit on your face and whip you with her red sequined cape.

I realize there are other options for women. I could go in some genderless costume. a bum. a ghost. a clown. none of those are appealing either. why can’t i just go as drunk girl? she could turn into party slut. by the end of the party i could have the best costume of all–my birthday suit! drunk girl could be like a super hero; she saves me from having to remember halloween at all. this year my costume is baggy jeans that can hold several bottles of liquor, a shot glass taped to my hand and a bucket looped into my belt. sounds sexy as hell to me.