46 posts tagged “boys”
Anyway, these ads are pretty cool and Chris is an awesome dude. Hi, Chris!
When I was growing up there was this family in our church community that would have big Christmas parties every year at their home. It was the kind of party that was filled with more or less every familiar face you'd ever seen in your life and the house was huge, so while about 200 adults cut loose up stairs, all of us kids would hang out in the furnished basement creating messes, beating the crap out of each other and arguing over toys. You know, kid stuff. It was the most fun of all the parties I was miserable being at every year.
One year, I was probably about nine years old, I was laying on the floor with a coloring book that I was too old for but too bored not to play with. There was a boy at the party who I recognized from church and he was kinda hot in an eleven year old way, but he was an asshole in that "my parents are divorced and I'm on the cusp of puberty" kind of way. I spent most of the evening trying to ignore him, using this holy night themed coloring book and an eight pack of Crayola crayons to keep me distracted.
After attempting for quite some time to shade the side of the manger red as delicately as possible, I finally gave up and held the crayon at an angle to maximize my coverage. I was kinda digging in there, trying to knock out the entire left side of the manger using as little wrist strength as possible and BAM! the crayon snaps in half.
Now, I don't know if you guys remember this, but breaking a crayon of your own was always devastating. You had fresh new crayons that were longish and perfect and easy to hold with pointy tips that ensured that you were able to keep in the lines like it ain't no thang... and then when one would finally break the whole thing would be over. Like, the way I feel about the economy right now, the feeling that my financial situation and the situation of others gives me? That's the way breaking a crayon felt as a kid. It was like "Woah, man. Everything was fucking GREAT until this whackness went down." But the kicker here was that it wasn't even my crayon. It was a crayon that belonged to the child of a man who worked for my church. With God. And I carelessly broke the crayon because I was trying to cut corners and get the left side of the manger done.
The shame spiral set in and next thing I knew I was privately hyperventilating, thinking of ways I could somehow make this whole situation OK again. Maybe I would take the broken crayon and the next week bring one of mine to church that was whole and say that I accidentally took it from them? No. That would look like I stole the crayon and then pussied out. Maybe I could glue it back together? No. They only had that thick blue paste that you applied with a stick that came inside the jar. Maybe I could figure out a way to blame the kinda cute 11 year old boy? Probably. That was probably the best option.
First I put the crayon halves on the stairs and tried to trip him while he was walking up to get some more Sprite. He cleared the crayons and failed to notice them, but I did piss him off so I knew that I had another chance when he came back down. I put the pieces into my cardigan pocket and sat on the couch waiting for him to come back down to confront me.
At first it just started with him telling me I was an ugly bitch (I told you, he had angry parent issues!) Then I kicked him, which was always my signature move because I have long legs that allow me to hurt someone without actually getting that close. When I went in for the second kick, he grabbed my ankle and flipped me on my stomach. If the crayon in my pocket that I was trying to fake break wasn't already broken, that would have done it. But that kinda hurt, that belly flop I did on the carpeted basement floor, so I stuck my foot in between his ankles and dropped him before I stood up, reached in my pocket, took out the damaged goods and cut him a deal. "You broke this crayon when you flipped me on the ground. I'm telling... or you take it and get rid of it and we won't ever talk about it again if you don't tell on me for tripping you."
Then I sat on the couch drinking his Sprite while he snuck off into the back yard to hide the red crayon in the snow.
This is one of the earliest examples I have of me being kind of a bad person.
There's no moral here, I just think that this is an element of my life I need to introduce at this juncture. I'll post a fun song or something next, don't worry.
Alexis: I saw the comment you left on [Redacted]'s photo yesterday.
Me: You saw that? WHAT? I deleted it from my feed for that reason! Where was it?
Alexis: On my feed.
Me: Are you friends with him?
Alexis: Nope.
Me: I specifically deleted it like anything else that could create a potential situation.
Alexis: But it still showed up on my feed.
Me: Because Facebook hates me. Why? Why is Facebook a breeding ground for humiliation?
Alexis: Because the people who started Facebook were humiliated their entire lives and now they like to do it to us to get back at us.
DORKS.
"And to the person for which this whole video was made -- Jimmy Kimmel -- who broke my heart, um, who'll always have a place in my heart" - Sarah Silverman at last night's Creative Emmy Awards. (Variety)
I'm glad she did this. I'm glad to see a woman at the peak of her career still be human enough to publicly shame the man that hurt her.
Today I went into the kitchen to grab a spoon to eat my yogurt with.
I rarely use my kitchen or any of the appliances, although I do have a lot of stuff from when I first moved out here and attempted to be domestic with my ex-boyfriend. I actually came home from work and made things like chicken parmigiana and random pasta dishes I invented every night single night. Some Sundays I would stay in all day and cook food for the week and save it neatly in tupperware containers that I had labeled with its contents and the date so we could easily reheat them when I was too tired to cook. I'm sure you all think I'm lying because it's the opposite of pretty much everything I've set you up to expect from me, but trust me... there was really a time in my life where I cooked for a man seven days a week and then did the dishes after... and honestly? I didn't mind it because I loved him. Needless to say, pretty much all of the cooking utensils I acquired over that time are now just sleeping in kitchen drawers and will stay there until I move again and pack them into boxes in preparation for them to live in new drawers where they'll never be touched. It's all just shit I gotta move around now.
So, I'm looking in the drawer to the left of my sink where I keep all the utensils, corkscrews, and other small shit of that nature and I noticed that I keep seeing the same vegetable peeler over and over again. So I take it out of the drawer and put it on the counter so I can continue on my hunt without tripping over it again. Then I realize that the reason why I kept seeing the vegetable peeler is that I own THREE of them.
I own THREE vegetable peelers. I don't ever remember a time where I was peeling vegetables while I've lived here. Even when I was playing Julia Child for the ex, I still dumped a bag of mini carrots in the steamer. Maybe for mashed potatoes on a couple occasions-- maybe that's why I had one of them... but three? I am borderline fully confident that most of my friends don't even own one vegetable peeler, let alone three of them that are wasting their lives away inside of a drawer.
This is why I hate Americans. Like, who the fuck is running around with three vegetable peelers in their possession and doesn't even know it? I feel like I have to donate them somewhere now because I feel so guilty. It's not that they're expensive or that important, but how can I have multiples of something completely unbeknownst to me? Did I also forget about the blood diamonds I shoved in the back of my freezer along with that piece of pie I bought on impulse over a year ago? I know that pie is still sitting there, I remember the pie... but who knows what else I've accumulated and forgotten about. Do I have an adopted AIDS baby shoved in the storage box I keep my leggings in? What about an urn full of Abe Lincolns pubic hair or Frank Sinatra's last breath trapped in a mayonnaise jar just haphazardly crammed under the bathroom sink next to the toilet brush?
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
If you live in LA and need a vegetable peeler, send me an email. I have at least two I'm going to give away. I figure I need to keep one because I'm sure my mom sent me one of them. I know if she came out here and needed to use it, I'd have to explain that I gave it away over the internet because I realized that I'm a wasteful whore. That's too much work just to eat some yams or whatever.
Seriously, if you want one of the peelers, email me. I'll see what I can do about getting it to you.
1: No. But seriously I love [Redacted] and that vanilla Haagan Daas himself, [Redacted]
2: He ain't vanilla... maybe FRENCH vanilla
1: Oh, GOOD one.
2: Or maybe like vanilla BEAN.
1: That's actually very accurate as well, because I bet he is Nordic. His great granddaddy be like, from Belgium.
Let's say you took half a Xanax around 5 yesterday and then forgot about it because you were working and you're generally forgetful about such things.
Then let's say you didn't really eat all day because you were at the beach and working and it didn't particularly come to mind until late night that you were kind of starving.
Then like, perhaps you went to go hang out with this dude you used to date who you still hang out with sometimes and to whom you feel this weird attachment because you make each other LOL a shitload and he occasionally ignores you, which is your weakspot in this hypothetical situation.
Then pretend that you sat around for a couple hours watching The Best of Will Farrell SNL DVD and drinking beers and it was going pretty fucking well.
So then maybe his roommate comes home and he's eating a hamburger at the dinner table and it's around that time you realize that you're not buzzed, you're not tipsy, you're practically Puketown wasted.
Then you smoke a bunch of cigarettes and pound another beer, 'cause when you're too drunk the only solution seems to be to just keep drinking.
Then for some reason, you start mouthing off a whole bunch. Not that you aren't usually a back-talking, smartass, know-it-all (and you are!), but like, just basically being particularly venomous for no reason other than you're blackout drunk and kind of in a weird place in your life.
Then the blackout that you kind of knew was coming sets in and you don't really remember anything happening for the rest of the night other than the roommate with the hamburger telling you to be quiet when he was watching Cloverfield. Using logic you are able to piece together that whatever was happening up until that point involves you talking. Probably very loudly. About God know what. You kind of remember saying something along the lines of "Fuck Michael Phelps" at one point, but that might be just because you've been saying that a lot lately. Saying "Fuck Michael Phelps" is kind of your new bit. Because he's an American Hero or whatever. Anyway, this is hilarious to you but no one else almost all of the time, so it probably didn't go over too huge when you were blasted on a Sunday night with an old flame and his roommate who just wants to watch an impossible J.J. Abrams movie.
Sooooo. If all of that happened, what do you think the odds are that you're a good person without any sort of substance abuse problem?
Strictly a hypothetical.
My mom and I have to sleep in a room on a double bed that is next to another double bed in some room I've never been in before. When I check into this particular dream, my mom and I are already laying next to each other in bed and about to fall asleep. That's when I realize that in the next bed my ex boyfriend and his friend who happens to be gay are trying to fall asleep, too. It was awkward, but for some reason we either didn't want to or couldn't leave and get our own room or find different beds that were not near these guys.
So, I spend the night in that room and when I wake up (dream within a dream!) my ex boyfriend is giving his friend a handjob. So I look at him and say "[Redacted]! What the fuck are you doing?!?" I'm not upset because it turns out that my ex-boyfriend was probably jacking off his friend the whole time we were seeing each other, but because my poor mother is sleeping next to me and about three feet away from them.
At this point the friends crawls out of bed and runs to the bathroom. I'm left alone with my ex who I'm kind of having a stare down with. He has this genuine look of hurt on his face and he says "God, Molly. I was just doing what I had to do!" Then he stands up with the comforter wrapped around him like a cocoon and starts to walk out the door. Right before he leaves he turns to me and says "Beside, we've been over for awhile."
And I'm left laying there in bed wishing that I could explain that I'm more upset he was getting his friend off in the same room as my sleeping mother than I am about the implication that he was prostituting himself to his gay friend for God knows what.
I honestly have no interest in looking up the interpretation of this dream.
