Category: Funny shit

My relationship is really a prison of judgment

Me: Can you get me a La Croix (pronounced La Crotch, which is what my co-workers decided on since no one seems to know how to actually pronounce this) out of the fridge?

Harrison: Ugh, I don’t know if I like that (meaning how I pronounce the brand of delicious sparkling water). Are you up to like three of these a day now?

Me: So? It’s zero calories.

Harrison: The only thing you’ve done more than drink these is watch this show. (He’s talking about the almost 4 whole seasons of Billy on the Street I’ve watched this week.)

Me: That won’t be the case much longer because I’m almost done with it. Also, they’re short episodes, and there’s only like 10 episodes a season.

Harrison is really judgmental.

P.S. I bet someone will judge my relationship based on the contents of this post. It’s a never-ending cycle.

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Beer + Fireball = Bloated Fire-breathing Dragon

I haven’t posted here in almost 2 weeks. It’s been a busy couple of weeks, people. Sorry about that, but here I am to tell you a story of how I was reminded why I don’t partake in certain activities and drink certain kinds of booze.

Remember this post from WAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY back when I started this thing? I’ll wait.

You good?

Great. Let’s talk about Saturday night.

I went to a yoga class at 5:30 (more on this topic later). I was feeling pretty damn amazing about myself for getting to a class on a Saturday, at a studio that I don’t particularly enjoy, due to the height of the horse the yoga-bitches who work there seem to be on, so I wanted to get out of the house and take advantage of my momentary confidence. I ended up with a friend who was out celebrating with her friends celebrating a birthday.

This is a big fucking deal for me? I spent several hours with a bunch of strangers. Catch me on the wrong day, and the thought of this makes me curl up in the fetal position and sob.

We left a perfectly acceptable restaurant/bar with a lengthy beer list and moved to an awful place in the middle of Downtown where the worst people in Denver and ill-advised tourists go on Saturday nights. At this point, I had consumed 2 beers in 2 hours – the pace of someone who prefers to remain mentally intact. But I was in shithead territory, so of course, a couple of 21-year-old twerps plowed into me as a result of a hug turned tackle, spilling part of beer number 3 onto my friend’s husband.

I’m going to take this moment to address all the young, peppy, bar-goers who still have energy after 11pm. Stop. Please stop. Yes, I was on your turf, but someone needs to help you before you bring your shit behavior to the places adults go to drink. If you are in a crowded bar, it is not the time to run to your friend and aggressively hug them. They’ve probably been drinking for a while, making you the bowling ball to their wobbly pin. People will topple. I would also be pleased if I never saw a group of girls take a selfie in the mirror of a bar bathroom again. You look ridiculous, but at least that doesn’t cause injuries.

Later, my friend’s friend, whose birthday party I sort of felt like I crashed, REALLY wanted to do shot with everyone. Fireball. I don’t remember the last time I did a shot of any kind, but I didn’t want to be rude. And as much I loved the craft beer I’d been drink all night, craft beer comes with a price. You will pay in the likelihood that someone will mistake you for pregnant. See where I’m going with this? Bloated fire-breathing dragon.

dragon
This seems like an accurate representation.

I left that bar with a beer baby and cinnamon lingering on my tongue, but I was mentally intact even after the shot. I had an engaging conversation about feminism that I clearly recall. I came home and went to bed, feeling proud of myself for not sitting on the couch all night and for socializing with strangers.

At about 6:30am on Sunday morning, I was hovered over toilet.

Thanks, body. And also, fuck you.

The End.

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Stop the presses everyone! I wore a skirt today.

It has happened everyone. Hell has frozen over, pigs are flying, and I, the Sultan of schlump, courter of comfort, wore a skirt today. You would have thought my more-feminine-than-usual outfit was a damn sign of the apocalypse given peoples’ reactions.

There was no occasion; I did not have a job interview I was sneaking off to or any plans after work. I purchased something, and then I wore it. That’s the whole story. I put no more effort into myself than usual, except that I was also wearing tights, which automatically means that you have to put forth a smidge more effort throughout the day, particularly with bathroom breaks.

Look, I realize that of those I most closely associate with, one of them should probably quit her job and accessorize for those of us who can’t accessorize for ourselves, one could drape herself in road kill and look gorgeous, and one knows what Louis Vuitton means. Oh and they all wear heels – often. I do not. If I did, I would probably be filled with more rage than the time a gave up carbs and mostly avoided sugar for two weeks. Inevitably, someone would end up with a heel in the eye. By comparison, I’m frumpy AF, so a skirt is surprising to people.

But can everyone just let me wear a skirt in peace, damnit! Otherwise my self-deprecating self will look myself up and down and regret the moment I looked in the closet and thought that red skirt I JUST FREAKING BOUGHT was a decent idea to wear to work. Allow me to demonstrate: When I got dressed in the morning, I didn’t notice that my new skirt really brought out my diaper ass. That’s what I call the kind of ass that is disproportionately large but doesn’t have a great shape; its mostly dimply, and abnormally unimpressive. Also, I mistakenly wore black tights with black flats which made me look a little like a librarian or maybe a nun, but I wore them because I’m weird about showing my legs. Why? I don’t know, maybe because my legs are an extension of my diaper ass and possess some of the same weird qualities. Oh and chaffing is a problem. Beauty is pain, right? Fuck you, no I don’t have a thigh gap.

 

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Maybe I’ll try this another time with better footwear.

P.S. I looked up the feminine form of “sultan” as I wrote the first part of this post. In case you were wondering, it’s “sultana,” but it doesn’t mean anything royal or authoritative; it’s another word for concubine. This is why the feminist movement exists, folks.

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The kids are saying what now?

I’m apparently too old to understand things at this point.

Scenario 1

Me: I did not know what “Netflix and chill” actually meant for a really long time.

Harrison: Wait… really?

Me: No, and I definitely said it to at least one person before I knew what it meant. I thought it meant actually watching Netflix for an extended period of time, which I am really really good at and can completely understand.

Harrison: Sure, by yourself, but when you invite another person to “Netflix and chill,” it means something different. It means you’re doin’ it.

Me: I’m still confused. So if you’re by yourself it means actually watching Netflix…alone? Doing nothing else? But if you invite someone to “Netflix and chill,” it means doin’ it?

A quick aside- Can someone please confirm this for me, so I do not use this incorrectly ever again?

Harrison: Yes.

Me: It never even occurred to me.

Harrison: Think about when we first started dating. You’d come over, the internet wouldn’t work right, or we just wouldn’t watch things that we put on because we were more interested in other things.

Me: I guess that’s true.

Harrison: Now we actually watch stuff and do it later.

Me: Right.

Scenario 2

There’s a song called “Cake by the Ocean.” I’d never heard of it before a co-worker brought it up. My initial thought was that it seemed a little impractical to eat cake while sitting by an ocean. Cake is great; the ocean is lovely, but I don’t know why anyone would want to have those two things together. Obviously sand would contaminate your cake, and it would no longer be an enjoyable dessert.

Little did I know, the word “cake” does not always mean a delicious, fluffy dessert, topped with the frosting of your choosing. Thank you Urban Dictionary for clearing this up for me.

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I would like to assert that I despise the word “pussy.” What the fuck is “caking?” 
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And there we have it.  

You’ve heard this absurd song whether you know it or not, unless the rock you live under is somehow larger than the one I live under. That’s a Jonas Brother, right?

I still have a lot of questions.

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I did a thing.

I did something yesterday, which I will be able to share with all of you very soon. I learned some stuff while doing this thing:

1)      The bar for being a writer is very low (thanks, Internet), so if people are going to call me a writer, I better step up my game. I never studied journalism or English in school, and I’ve only done a few incredibly basic writing jobs in my life. I am far from excellent at this, but I really really want to be an excellent and interesting blogger. That is a perplexing statement, I realize.

2)      There is a reason I use the Internet as my platform. Coherently formulating thoughts while talking to another human is not my strong suit. I like barriers. Again, thanks Internet.

3)      I’ve really done a lot of random shit in my life, and I have no idea which thing I’ll end up sticking with. I might even try something else altogether. Who knows?

4)      In order to make this interesting and turn it into a conversation instead of a spewing of my idiotic thoughts, that for some reason, a few people have taken an interest in, I need a favor from all of you. If you like anything you read here, please tell a friend or five. Please tell me what you’re interested in. What do you want to hear about? What do you want to know about me? (Keep it non-weird please). This is something I started in order to give myself an outlet to say whatever I want and to feel a little less restricted, but if I can make someone’s day better, that makes it completely worth it. I might bitch about stuff a lot, but I really am a nice person.

Now, while you wait for the thing I did, here’s a four minute mashup of cat videos.

Whitney2 Comments

Booty-lifting jeans are lies

Consider this a Public Service Announcement. Do not buy booty-lifting jeans unless you are a size 2-6 and have cute little skinny-girl ass shaped by years of yoga. Aside: I’m not shaming skinny girls or yoga addicts. I applaud your efforts and your metabolism. I guess in that case, no one has a reason to buy them because if you have that kind of ass, it’s already plenty perky. They tell you that putting these jeans on your body will give you the perky yoga ass affect. What actually happens is that all of your dimply ass-flaws will be exposed because they are mostly spandex-like, and it will look sort of like you’re wearing a diaper under those jeans. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate some stretch in my jeans, but there’s a point where they just aren’t jeans anymore. They aren’t even jeggings, and I would know because I own some quality jeggings (Banana Republic, ya’ll).

If you already have a sizable rear, but not the J.Lo kind that almost makes twerking acceptable, don’t. Just. Don’t.

You’re welcome.

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