B1: Someone please give me a Pop Tart

Some things are so ironic that they quit becoming ironic and turn into a cliche. Example: seeing a cowboy in Starbucks order himself a caramel macchiatto and find great delight in his iced cranberry poundcake. His spurs, his real spurs, jangled all the way out of the store, and presumably to all the way to his F-350 with a 4-horse trailer attached.

B3: Today itches

Somehow, as if by magic, everytime I drop something at my desk, it rolls to the farthest corner (which I will refer to as the Goddamn Corner from here on out) so that I have to get out of my chair, on my knees, and reach for whatever I dropped. It's a fun little game that always ends with me hitting my head on my way up.
This morning I dropped the lid to my water bottle, and as suspected, it rolled into the Goddamn Corner. Taking into consideration that I have on a skirt and tights, I lowered myself gingerly onto my knees, reached blindly into the Goddamn Corner, and grabbed the first lid I laid my hands on. The first lid...was there more than one lid, you ask? Yes. Apparently, I am not the only person cursed by the Goddamn Corner. About 20 minutes and 4 twist-ons and -offs after I put the said lid on my bottle, I realized that it was the wrong lid. It was white while mine was clear. Someone had previously failed to retrieve their white lid when it rolled into the Goddamn Corner, leaving it for me to find and mistake for my own lid this morning. Lesson learned: look at what you pull out of the Goddamn Corner.

Still B1: Lonely in the 'brary

I have officially completed my first semester of graduate school. Where is my beer?

moar funny pictures

B1: I chose the wrong shirt to meet Jeff Bridges

Mr. Bridges is coming to town to premier his new movie, The Amateurs, and to do a Q&A afterwards. I hope his hair is floppy.
Yesterday, I ate frozen pizza, watched Young and the Restless, then spent the rest of the afternoon navel gazing. I believe that this makes for the Perfect Day. That is, of course, if John Mayer isn't available for a naked date.

W1: My cable wouldn't work this morning, so don't ask me about the weather

There is a particular radio show I listen to for a few minutes every morning on my way to Starbucks. It never fails to get my brain firing and my anger juices flowing. Sure, this isn't the healthiest way to wake up, but it works and I use my Mayer-therapy to calm me down afterwards. Anyway, this morning there was a female guest who was asked by some (self-loathing douche bag) caller to tell him to "shut his face" in the meanest tone she could muster. She announced the phrase at a pitch almost inaudible to humans, then followed it with an airy giggle and an apology, "I am so bad at being mean!" Anytime a girl says she "is so bad at being mean," I want to smash her face into the nearest countertop. Not just because I am really good at being mean, but because she is full of shit. I guarangoddamntee you that if anyone called that girl fat/slutty/fake, she would become really good at being mean. What she meant to say is that she is not good at being mean to boys. This is because she is afraid that being mean might tarnish their image of her as a flaxen-haired trick pony, ready to be ridden at a moment's notice with nothing but words of praise and juicy kisses waiting anxiously in her mouth. If she had the slightest glimmer of mean in her eyes, the men might be afraid to approach her and sing lengthy odes about her overwhelming sweetness while they felt up her ass. What is a woman if she isn't sweet, a sugary fucking pile of tits and ass ready for the taking? She is a scary bitch who might just throw herself off the Pedestal of Nudity, put on some jeans and a bra, and tell a man to fuck off unless he had something worthwhile to contribute to her life, and I am not talking about a fat wallet or back massages.

B1: Falling in the shower makes my back hurt

moar funny pictures

It's a slow day around here, and I won't apologize. It's a holiday week, after all.

B3: Holiday traffic makes working through holiday weeks less painful

I worry about my safety when I get older. In my 24 years of living, I have fallen three times in the shower. So far, I have not suffered any serious injuries, and I credit that to my sturdy build. I better dose up on calcium and red meat, otherwise my golden years are going to be spent in assorted bandages.
The first fall involved massive amounts of vodka and, much to my mother's dismay, I took out the shower curtain with me. The second time involved a particular transluscent lizard that was haunting my house. I was quite sure that he had decided to join me in the shower and in that fleeting moment of insanity, tried to spin my way away from him and out of the tub. That situation ended with me folded over the side of the tub, my breath knocked completely out of me, and the lizard nowhere in sight. This morning, I experienced my third fall. Here's a little tip: when your mother tells you that Draino leaves your tub really slick, take her word for it and clean it up before you use the tub again. Otherwise, you might find yourself in the same situation I did: flailing mid-air for the countertop wondering how on earth you became air born so early on a Monday morning.

B3: Endorphins and Genitalia

A list of some things I love and hate.
Love: When my best friend's cousin calls me drunk and leaves sloppy voicemails.
Hate: Geographical barriers that prevent me from drinking with said cousin on a regular basis.
Love: Starbucks latte with no foam.
Hate: Waiting in the awkward and anxious early morning crowd for my latte to be prepared.
Really Hate: Waiting in aforementioned crowd without John Mayer there to hold my hand and wait with me.
Love: The bouncy puppy that lives in the yard with the free roaming horse just down the street from the library.
Hate: That puppies aren't allowed in libraries.
Love: Peeling my burn scab because it itches.
Hate: It hurts worse than it itches after I pull the scab off.
Love: Flirting with boys.
Hate: When boys I flirt with end up being 5 years younger than me and act as though being 24 means I am mere months away from assisted living and Bingo nights.
Love: That my favorite West Texans are coming to visit Friday.
Hate: That my favorite West Texans are leaving on Sunday. Shouldn't I be able to keep them with me forever and ever and never let them go?
Love: Americans are easily lured with free food.
Hate: Puritanical values that infect American society and make things a lot less fun.
Love: The way grandma calls attractive men "gorgeous."
Hate: It's only 8:30 and I have a good 12 hours of stuff I don't want to do ahead of me.

B3: IT'S FALL!

The wind is blowing and it's cold in the house. My toes are reluctant (they get claustrophobic when I wear thick socks and boots, thus restricting their wiggling abilities), but the rest of me is THRILLED! No more flowy skirts that keep air moving between sweaty thighs! No more slimy boobs and dingy bras! No more sticky t-shirts clinging to my damp back! (Fat kid sweat is a bitch).
I just got finished reading The Daily Siege. While I was slightly disappointed by the absence of oceanic porn (no octopus sucking today, kids), I did experience my usual urge to create. More specifically, the urge to create art and practice creating babies. The nudity on his blog does something to me, something more than spread warmth and cause a dull throbbing. The man manages to live his art, to take a piece of his day and prove its beauty. My days are full of those moments, those little bits that if I took the time to write them down, cling to them in my memory, do something with them, I could feel that sweet release of creation. Or, perhaps, it is more of a manipulation of the truth so that it makes things more interesting, but whatever the case, now is the time that I step away from the computer and do something worthwhile. My assigned reading can wait, right?

W2: I just exposed a student to herpes (information)

John is bold, bold as love baby, when talking to me.

P1: The Barista knew my order before I yelled it out, I am officially a regular

TWO zits. I have TWO zits on my forehead. That's pretty awesome. One of them popped up just before I walked into class on Wednesday night. Despite my predictions, it did not make any of my classmates warm up to me. (I know, I am an arrogant asshole thinking that an imperfection would make me more appealing to my peers. But at this point, their source of their obvious disdain towards me is a complete mystery so I choose to believe it is because I am SO good looking. And smarter than your average bear.)
I am going to a wedding tonight. Yes, my hooters will be slightly on display. Come on, it's a wedding. The mood is always somber. The least I can do is show a little cleavage to get the party going.

B3: I got my hairs cut

I don't see summer fading anytime soon, so I opted for an off-the-neck coif. I also opted to wear a summer dress today. The fact is that my beautiful hooters stay cooped up all week. Libraries don't deal in nipples, they deal in books. We are there to inform, not arouse. So, when I am not in the library sometimes I choose to practice my right as an American to wear anything I damn well please. On occasion, that means I choose a low-cut dress. Today was one of those occasions. Unfortunately, I had an encounter with another free American that did not agree with my clothing choice. There I was, standing in line waiting to pay for my new red skinny jeans (so awesome) and black t-shirt, my new hair cut shining and my breasts sitting calmly on my chest and minding their own business. I was noticing the detail stitching on the pocket of the soon-to-be-mine jeans when I felt someone looking at me. I looked up and there she was staring at my tatas. Her eyes then traveled from my funbags to my face, making it possible for me to now see the full extent of her frown. Then, in the most blatant display of disapproval by a stranger I have ever experienced, she SIIIIIIIIGGGGGGHHHHED, tsk tsk'd, and turned around while shaking her head. At first, I was a little confused. I glanced down to make sure I hadn't inadvertently stuck a dead baby between them but saw that they were just as I had left them, unadorned but sitting pretty. I don't know what that woman's problem was, except that perhaps she was bothered that I expressed my freedoms in a beautiful summery dress and shiny hair while she expressed hers in flannel clogs and disapproving sighs.

B3: I wish it were going to be cold by October

Three weeks into the 2-year program and I am already thinking about my graduation party. I have a theme in mind: Fried Chicken and High Life. This is such a good idea that I might not be able to wait until graduation to use it.
Raise your hand if you like big butts.

B1: Isn't it funny how nude-colored bras work better under white shirts than white-colored bras?

When I am president, after I outlaw video games and legalize prostitution, I am going to instill a law that requires individuals to take a merging-intensive driving course every time they renew their drivers licenses. Because, frankly, people can't merge to save their fucking lives and this inability causes much unnecessary traffic which in turn causes me to be late to work. I have a library to open, people.
All it takes is turn signals and common courtesy, then we could all arrive at our destinations in a timely manner.

Hello Uni-Boob

Can you blame the Old Guy with Sweaty Nuts? I guess I can't.

Sweaty Sports Bra

What's that, Old Guy in Sweaty Gray T-shirt? You like to watch my boobs bounce on the elliptical? Awesome. Because I like the way your old sweaty nuts leave a greasy streak on the ass crack of your shorts. Those must be some long ass nuts because I am pretty sure that the last time you bent over to pick up the row bar one of them popped out the back and made a sexy little lump on your butt. Your lovely manly lumps. Let's go on a date.

NEW BLACK BRA! Who knew the GAP would make such good bras?

Driving in this morning, there was a point at which the West bound lane of the freeway was suffering a deluge and the East bound lane was bone dry. Scattered showers are one of life's little tricks that can make Mondays funny. If you are East bound, anyways.
I have officially suffered some seriously nasty hangovers close enough in succession that I am avoiding the sauce for at least a week. Next weekend, these sweet tits will be sitting at the Singer mastering the art of sewing. You just wait. It is only a matter of time until I kick Kate Moss's boney ass out of the Top Shop window (because Londoners will understand my fashion better than my American peers, I am just too fashion-forward for the American palate) while sporting one of my hottest designs created with the breastly-equipped woman in mind.

P1: Emulating

My friend GEORGE writes about his relationshits all the time, so I thought I would do my version. Plus, I wrote this in an email to a friend this morning and realized it was kind of funny and a very accurate example of how I deal with boys. It isn't the right way, it is just my way.
Ok, so now for my Pad Thai date with a virgin.

Mistake 1: His name was Kip. Seriously.
Mistake 2: My nerdiest friend told me this guy was a nerd, and not in a good way.
Mistake 3: He wanted to cook dinner together for our first date (the pad thai, which he had never made before.)
Mistake 4: I drank too much beer while cooking.
Mistake 5: I ended up making out with him.
Mistake 6: I continued making out with him even after he told me that he was a virgin and had broken up with his last girlfriend (a month previously) because she wouldn't sleep with him. (Hi, my name is Ryan and I have a tattoo on my forehead that says "feed me beer, I'll bang you)
Mistake 7: I went on a second date with him.
Back pedaling 101: At the end of our second date he said that he felt like the first date hadn't even happened (read: the making out part) because I hadn't been as warm (read: given him a hand job) on the second date. I pulled the "I am not looking for a boyfriend" card (read: I get drunk and screw a lot of people, don't want a relationship cloud hanging over my head showering me with guilt) and drove off as quickly as possible.

Someone should give me a good Samaritan award.
He really was a nice guy, loves Jesus, and going to serve the public in the future. Too bad my sex appeal wrangled his better intentions to the ground. Damn these fun bags and their magical charms.

B1: Also in my favorite Chuck high tops

Yesterday, I did not eat a single thing that was not fried.
Breakfast: Chick Fil A sandwich and fries
Lunch: Southwest eggrolls (and 2 Miller Lites)
Dinner: Fried shrimp po' boys, hush puppies, and fries.

Well, I guess the Peanut M&Ms I ate at the movies weren't fried. But I think you catch my (greasy) drift. I bet my co-worker would point his finger and accuse me of staging a fried coup against his great state.

Great State (Af)Fair

I just overheard a coworker make the statement that the astonishing array of fried food at the state fair is what gives Texas a bad name. Well, naturally. A culinary whim is the downfall of our great state’s reputation. A month long celebration of deep fried indulgence and vomit churning carnival rides are the reason Texas is flailing as a state. Our abstinence only sex education created by a pro-life contingent has led to a whole new generation of children, (not choices!), that should not have to face the daunting decision of fried Oreos or fried guacamole.

I can't lie to you people

My boobs look really good today. The black rocket bra really makes them look juicy and delicious. Well, they are juciy and delicious, but this thing really puts them up and out there. I keep looking down and them and getting excited that they are mine.
I will try to remember to take a pic and post it when I get home tonight. Then all of your computer screens are going to end up smudgy after you reach out and try to touch my peachy orbs.

B2: Too juicy for Corporate America

I got to my cubicle today and noticed something sticking out from under my keyboard. I pulled it out (heh) and thought it was a pay stub. I tore it open to check the amount, because around the last pay day I thought that my checking account seemed slimmer that usual. This was my chance to figure out why. Well, it was because my pay wasn't automatically deposited. I got a real check.
Hooray for cash surprises under your keyboard! Sometimes being too dumb and lazy to balance a check book or investigate suspiciously small pay days pays off.

B1: On the way to work today

Both of my elbows itched at the exact same time.

Conclusion (Following Internal Dialogue)

People suffering from great tragedy should be given respite from cause and effect. If God was all-knowing and fair, he would recognize those suffering and give them relief at least temporarily from the consequences of careless living.

2 hours 53 minutes of solitude

Wear an ice hat in your coffin, you never know where it will take you.
You twisted your steering wheel in the wrong direction, you stapled your doom to your forehead.
Wear an ice hat in your coffin, I think you know where you’ll need it.

3 more hours of solitude in the 'brary

Red kicked a limp bicycle tire left to rot on the side of the road. Being a kangaroo, he really had the ability to kick the shit out of stuff when he was mad. Damn that Marlene and her silky hair. Damn the heat that was melting his Peanut M&Ms in his backpack. Damn Frankie and his insistence that the lamp he had found in his garage was the funniest thing to throw at the next passing car. Red was certain of two things: he was grounded forever and he would kick the shit out of Frankie the next time he saw him.

Sigh sigh sigh

She drew hard on his flesh lollipop, pulling her mouth tight around the swollen, pink head. It was hard to ignore the clinking, tinkling sound of her dangling diamond earrings as she worked his throbbing bit hoping his impending orgasm would act as an eraser on his memory. Her violent jealous outbursts had to be balanced with the soft warmth of her mouth, otherwise she was nothing but a fountain of venoumous rage. Her cantaloupe breasts bounced with the violent rhythm of her passionate act, straining against the thin flesh stretched across the unnatural girth of her chest, just one of the beautiful gifts he had bought her that proved to be a great tool of distraction for them both.

B2: Plus a camisole means high and tight tits

I did find some adventure, in the form of leaving my purse at the bar. My enormous red purse containing my only car key and a copy of "A Beginner's Guide to Fellatio." If I had left it anywhere but Paddy Red's, I might have been slightly embarassed. However, that bar has seen me dissolve so much of my dignity in Jagermeister and whiskey that I felt nothing but extreme relief. A replacement car key for a Mini Cooper ain't cheap, especially when you are struggling to just make the monthly payment on the Mini Cooper.
In addition to losing my purse, I was able to steal some salt water taffy, get lost in an apartment building, and opt for the stairs over the elevator because I could not seem to get the elevator to work no matter how hard I concentrated on the buttons.
Thank the heavens for my friend Cole. He saved my weekend in so many ways. Not only did he manage to keep me upright physically, he kept me upright emotionally. A silly girl like myself is extremely luck to have a perfect boy like him around.

B1: Mo Money Mo Bitches

I have champagne and whiskey in the freezer awaiting my jubilant consumption. I predict adventure.

B1: I am growing a horn

As my grandmother loves to point out, I am far from normal. Sometimes I have to reluctantly agree. Exhibit 1: the growth on my forehead. If I were average, it would have developed a whitehead so that I could pop it (with glee) and it would begin the healing process. However, as so many people in the Metroplex and a few in the London area know, I was never issued an Average Citizen membership card. Or perhaps my Girl Scout leader never put in my application because she didn't like the way I flung hot glue like splatter paint. Whatever the case, my abnormality is materializing in a huge, red, quite sore knot on the left side of my forehead.

Mike Rowe's crotch has returned to Discovery Channel. Praise Jeebus.

August GQ

Just in case anyone is wondering, I did get the August issue of GQ Magazine. I am currently sitting on it and will sleep with it under my pillow for the next few weeks, or until it falls to pieces. Then I will tape selected pictures in my Dreaming Corner.

P1: Playing Corporate America

Today, my underwear match my shirt and my bra matches my shoes.

P1: Looking Luscious in Stripes

There is nothing like an empty bank account to inspire one to do some shopping. After much wandering around eBay searching for the perfect 80s party dress to lust after, I was reminded that not only are my tits unseasonably large in 2007, they would have been point-and-stare-she-should-be-bound-or-institutionalized-because-white-male-America-cannot-handle-hooters-that-hulking had I been lucky enough to be alive in my favorite era of fashion, the 1960s.
So, now my sizeable stature is slouching in my desk chair while I try to decide if the I will forever regard my behemoth build as an obstacle or find the strength to turn it into a power.
Apparently, this also makes me aspire for award-worthy alliteration. An astounding accolade, aiming at an admired assignment as America's Astounding Alliterator.

Brilliant Ruminations While Bored

Things chewing my nails has taught me:
Fingernail polish remover tastes like burning.
Streptococcus can thrive on free weights at the gym.

B1: Been busy drinking

I was drunk three nights this week and not once did my hooters lead me astray. Where is my trophy?

I have not looked up any pictures today

I wonder if it is a coincidence that these 100-calorie packs of preztels have way less salt than they should. I can't decide if they taste stale or if the salt has just fallen off of them because they don't have any fat holding it on, but I am certain that it isn't the lack of salt that makes their calorie content lower. I think.
I wish I could remember to bring change with me to the library because not-salty-enough pretzels with water instead of a Coke almost seems like punishment. But I am going to keep eating them. Just in case, you know, I did do something wrong.
As an officially registered graduate student, I can tell you that I don't feel an ounce smarter than an undergraduate student. Just painfully aware that being out of school for 15 months has resulted in some seriously atrophied thinking muscles. I haven't been reading enough, which I am usually most aware of when I am trying to convey a complex emotion to someone and can't quite spit it out. I am at a loss for words most of the time these days (also see previous posting about Gossip Freeze Syndrome). I am also aware I have not been reading enough because I picked up the first book of Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty triology to reread and am feeling my writer's muscles begin to stretch and flinch. Not to dog Anne Rice or anything, she is a good writer, but it says something about my lack of intellectual activity as of late if it takes a hard core BDSM book to awaken my word nerd. Or, perhaps it is just another telling example of how all you have to do is wave a wiener my way, and I wake up. Which brings me to another point, that I am determined to earn enough degrees so that I am allowed to teach a literature course and do nothing but discuss sexual innuendo and say wiener with textual support.

P1: I want some more Peanut M&Ms

When I read Perez Hilton, my brain freezes up. When I read McSweeney's, it thaws out.
I should spend less time curious about the wealthy and underfed.

5 Word Game, because things in the 'brary are slow

The ground was burning the soles of her feet. She opened the mailbox and timidly reached in, careful not to touch the black metal sides which had reached scorching temperatures in the dead summer sunshine. Tip-toeing back towards the house, a little bit of Happy creeped up inside of her. It was a familiar comfort to have the blue sky pressing the heat down on her. The front door slammed behind her, she tossed the mail on the floor and went straight for the bar. This kind of weather called for rocks in her whiskey. She sat on the divan where her dog lounged belly up, begging for something cool or maybe a good scratching since Cool somethings were sparse that day. The pit bull’s alligator jaw was impressively taut beneath her hand. She stroked it once and let the dog know, “it is fucking hot outside.” What else was there to do but lay still and dream about ice cream?

W1:Are your hands big enough?

I think it should be noted that my quadriceps are becoming larger and more defined by the day. If you are lucky enough to get to experience them in person, feel free to compliment their shapeliness. Maybe I will let you touch them.

While Driving, because that is when I do some of my best thinking

It is time that I admit that on occassion I am effected by the sorts of biologically influenced emotions most staunch feminists refuse to acknowledge. Usually, I am on their side, arguing with the loudest of them that biology does not dictate my role in society, my fate, or my decision making skills. While biology may define my sex, it does not define my gender. However, in recent months I have caught myself several times saying, "I would have his babies." I intend this to be a complimentary suggestion, a variation on the theme "I Want to Ride Him Like a Trick Pony." The sticky part of this is that I mean it. I have actually considered, fantasized about, and planned the genetic superiority of children I would have with certain individuals. I never would have said or believed this nonsense three years ago. As much as I complain about everyone around me growing up, getting married, and having real babies, the truth is that I have sensed the desire to reproduce. This desire is usually driven by my overactive libido and a good smelling man, but I cannot deny any longer that I have felt the urge to make babies. The worst part is that it seems hypocritical in light of my past (and present) behavior, not to mention the aformentioned bit about how I refuse to let silly biology tell me how I should live my life. Somehow I have to figure out how I can continue to live with my mind leading the way but keeping my body satisfied and Convention crying in the dust.

B2: Working a full 8-hour day (sans 18-hour Playtex bra because those things are just matronly)

Plus, I don't want to wear a bra by the same company that makes my tampons. I guess I am ungrateful considering Playtex wants to cover ALL of my feminine needs, but the fact is that I don't like it when anyone is that eager to help. If they really care about my feminine needs, then hook me up with a Boner-On-Call, or passes to the photoshoot for that new delicious GAP ad featuring my favorite man in the morning. That is a need being unfulfilled at the moment, Playtex. Otherwise, I am just going to continue using your hygiene products and ignoring your undergarment line because the thought of being swaddled inside and out by Playtex just icks me out.

B1: The cheese boy likes my hooters in my Vespa T

There is nothing like a cruise around town on a summer night with your favorite puppy to make you feel pretty damn good.

B1: So desirable even I can't control their powers

Struggling through the haze of a hangover is like being one of those cursed pirates who is alive but doesn't experience any sensations. I stare at faces, but they don’t make sense. I can’t seem to grip any thoughts for longer than a slippery second. My guts are rumbling, and I know I should be drinking more water. But it is a struggle to take a drink and not puke it back up. I am trying my best to think of something significant to say, but all that comes to mind is that I am lucky I made it to work on time and in one piece. So here I sit, all broken hearted, came to work but only farted. This is officially the Summer of Insignificance and I am doing my damndest to keep things interesting. Things would be so much simpler if I didn't bore so easily.

No Idea: I am lucky I got a bra on

Who has two thumbs and is drunk in the library? That would be me. Yes, me. Some people are born without their 46th chromosome. I was born without self control. I don't have any facial disfigurations, but I can guaran-goddamn-tee you that I suffer a whole string of consequences due to my lack of self-control. Holy butt fucking hell, I suffer.

B2: Full of Pei Wei

The best part of a good rock show is the way it sparks that feeling deep down that you have something great to achieve.
Incubus totally rocked my face off. They were all very polite in the meet and greet: I want to take Mike and put him in my pocket forever, Ben is totally perfect and I wonder if he is taking applications for kick ass, busty, librarian girlfriends, Brandon is pretty in a perfume ad kind of way (he didn't win me over until he did this total body thrust at the microphone stand and that is when I decided I would give him my last drink ticket), Chris's dreds are enviable, Jose has the sweetest smile you have ever seen on a soft-spoken drummer. There were more couples practicing PDA than I would have liked, but other than that, 'twas a good experience. I highly recommend experiencing Incubus live.
Chuck just came and sat down beside me. He sure is a sweet boy, with his passionate eye contact and extra furry neck. It is time for some puppy kisses.
Oh, and 7 points on my Propriety Card for not saying anything inappropriate to the band (except for telling them they probably shouldn't be drawing on the linen tablecloth as it didn't look disposable to me).

Observation

The way Andy Roddick grunts when he plays tennis makes me go uhhhhh. The way he smiles at the ESPY awards makes me go mmmmmmmm.

W1: It's raining in Utah

If my Mini Cooper were an Autobot, I am certain that it would brush its teeth regularly and do a lot of head spins whenever I played JT.

B1: I am in the salty holy land

Saturday I attended a party wearing a shirt that requires a safety pin to remain modest. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring a safety pin with me. Double unfortunately, the party was attended by no less than 6 devout Mormons, family members of my gracious hosts. Dock two points off my Propriety Card for not changing shirts, give the Mormons 2 points each for not trying to save me whilst I enjoyed my Wild Turkey and played the Wii with my hooters hanging out.

B1: I will fart you right out of the bed

I love GEORGE! because he laughs when I threaten to do this. Anyhow, I was at the airport today. At the airport there was a small child who answered to the name Harley. This child, Harley, who was ironically quite heavy set, had a serious staring problem. Somewhere in her rather short education, Harley was told that by staring at someone she could make friends. Harley stunk of french fries, I imagine because there were several crusted on her face and one was dissolving in her mouth. I did not care for her or her older sister who kept head butting me whenever Shrek 2 playing on her portable DVD player made her laugh. I was in no way encourage to reproduce any time soon.
I am in Utah. I think I like it here. Chuck received me with some kisses. This made me happy.

B2: Beer causes headaches

I am 24 years old. My ID was rejected at a bar last night because it was expired by three weeks. I am 24 years old and I could not get served. Did I feel like a dumbass? Yes. Did the fact that I was the oldest person in the group add to the embarassment? Yes. We opted to go to a bar where the bartender does magic tricks, none of which included magically renewing my license. Nonetheless, I believe that the only way to make your bar more fun is to make your bartender a magician.

B2: MyTits, Inc.

I just filled out my official paperwork...I am once again a part of Corporate America. At least I am not just an intern this time, although that was a really good excuse not to do stuff or when I really messed shit up. This cubicle is less depressing than the last because it is closer to a huge window. It's grayness is just as gray, though. I will be glad when they get my set-up set up because the only thing sadder than a cubicle is a cubicle with nothing but a laptop, some Post-Its, and a bottle of WhiteOut.
One bonus of Corporate America: free beer. We are having a German brew fest this afternoon celebrating some huge deal we signed. I am so glad our Fat Cats like to party.

B1: I just discovered a stain on my hoodie

I am beginning to think I should not have eaten the whole bag of peanut M&Ms, because while they were chocolatey and satisfying, I now feel a little sick.
My boobs got me into no trouble at all this weekend. Isn't that sad? Although, on Saturday night they looked mighty tasty in my new navy blue cotton dress with the v-neck. I wish someone would ask me to a garden party so I could wear the dress with my red platform shoes and just wait for a studly someone to be drawn to the shimmer of my cleavage. Then he could offer me a cocktail and a twirl around the yard to the tune of the magical waltz playing in both of our minds but silent to the rest of the fools sulking in the itchy grass in their wrinkled Bermuda shorts swigging Arbor Mist. I know red platforms are not traditional garden party footwear, but a wedge is much safer than a stiletto, not to mention my red ones are pretty kick ass.

B1: Breaking library rules in my flip flops

For the first day in a very long time, I woke up to a sunny morning, and I don't see a threatening cloud anywhere on the horizon. Is it real? Has summer arrived, albeit extremely tardy? Are the Days of Sweaty Boobs knocking on my door, ready to slick up my cleavage and dampen my bra? I am pleased...

After a very large sloppy joe last night, I decided that I would watch some Intervention. I think that my problems with fried food and cheap beer really fade in the shadow of a man's crack addiction that led him to steal his 8 year-old nephew's PlayStation for drug money.

P1:Screaming child in lobby makes me want to throw books

(Score 5 points on my Propriety Card for not throwing book at aformentioned screaming child) If you are feeling on edge, I suggest you eat some Peanut M&Ms. They really help.

A Little Truth

John Mayer was put on this earth to wake me up.
(here's why: I am the meanest person you know in the morning. I have had actual urges to physically harm my own mother in the morning. The only way I have found to self-soothe is to listen to John Mayer. Any of his albums will do. I actually sing along sometimes. That is a feat. Or is it fate? Will he someday soothe me into sunlight by humming into my neck and giving me a friendly nudge? Only time will tell. As it stands, his albums are enough to make me want to take off my clothes, lie prone on a towering, cold, Marble Slab of Sacrifice and offer myself up to The Sword That is His Penis.)

B1: A smudge of special sauce, because that Big Mac was extra sloppy

I started a new job today, hence the celebratory sloppy Big Mac. Yes, I celebrate with fast food. Greasy, cheesy, God bless America fast food. But I can top that steaming, slippery pile of patriotism. I celebrated Independence Day in the most American way I knew:

In a swimming pool. Toss in some ice cold High Life and a couple of beach balls and you've got yourself a guaranteed good time. Oh, and don't forget Mom. Mom, who thought that if she drank her bottle of wine only half a glass at a time she wouldn't get drunk. There was an abundance of penis talk, fiesta dip, and Mom refilling her little plastic cup. Sugar Butt Angel Face took part in the fun, too.

As for my peaches, they were glorious in red Esther Williams lycra, although a little itchy by the end of the night. Mosquitoes have no regard for holidays.

Observation

Finishing my cardio is way more fun when there is a beefcake on the treadmill in front of me. Also note: don't be the girl grooving on the Stairmaster, no matter how good Mr. JT sounds when he asks you to call him Daddy.

B1: Happy not to be squeezed into the sports bra at the moment

My hooters found themselves submerged in a salt water hot tub this weekend. Twas nice. There is nothing quite as satisfying as sitting in a hot tub, drinking Rumplemints, and watching porn. Well, the porn was shortlived because the hag who lives at the house and is supposedly married to my friend turned it off. Later, when I was jumping on the trampoline drunk (insert thanks to guardian angels here for not letting me bounce smooth the fuck off and snap my neck, because while that would be kind of a funny way to go, I don't want to die in my Esther Williams swimsuit, it could bruise her rep and she doesn't deserve that), the Hag climbed on and decided she and I should have a heart to heart. This mainly consisted of her telling me she wishes her husband would fuck her more and that is why she turned off the porn. Umm...would you like to screw someone who turned off your porn in the middle of your hot tub party? I sure wouldn't.

B1: Mine are better fed than Alba's

Odes to Bodaciousness: Trading haikus with another bookish friend about our beloved body parts.

T:

Titanic lovely breasts
Creamy white orbs of heaven
Bounce house fun for all!

Massive mammary mixup
Get in between, lose your way
You know you want to.

and A:

A luscious full moon sits soft
Envied, high, sated in self
I wish it were mine.

Round, bouncy, buoyant, big.
Attractive to some people,
My ass is lovely

Speculation

Justin Timberlake is the type of man to pull your hair but whimper in your neck. This is not a bad thing.

B1: Wet with sweat, then rain, then shower

And...now I am clean and dry. IMing with drunk people makes me want a cocktail. Rainstorms make me want to watch movies and hump. Alton Brown makes me want to eat eggplant and hummus.
I get to go to Utah in 15 days. Does that make you jealous?

Does this make you want...

Japanese strawberry-flavored gum?

Mom used to be a gymnast, but there were no Ziploc bags near the balance beam

"I am about to be there, but I don't want to park and get out. My foot hurts."
"Why?"
"I didn't tell you? Did you see the skid mark in the kitchen?"
"Uh, no."
"I fell down."
"In the kitchen?"
"Yeah."
"When? What on earth were you doing?"
"I am surprised you didn't hear me. Yesterday morning. I was putting something in a Ziploc bag and fell down."

Helpful Hint 1

If ever you are surrounded by Puritans and feeling overwhelmed with their righteousness, just imagine the goosebumps that would cover your naughty bits if Mike Rowe would just whisper dirty things into the back of your neck. Naked.

P1: Damp, but Swaddled in Michael Kors

There was a monster in my bed this morning.

She smelled like Fritos and liked it when I rubbed her belly.

B1: Restored confidence, refreshed sense of purpose

I sweat so much at the gym today, my iPod got wet. That’s right. I am so sexy when I work out that I turn on electronics. Wait. Was that an entendre plus a reverse? I am so sexy and clever.
I wore eyeliner to the library today. Waste of make-up, you say? That is just because you haven’t had to sit quietly for 8 hours praying that someone would just come ask you a question. Any question. Even a stupid question. Wouldn’t you rather ask a pretty person a question than someone who looks like a Gibb Brother, smells like tuna casserole, and is sulking through hangover?
Oh, and bonus point on my Propriety Card for wearing an undershirt so my cleavage doesn’t show through my t-shirt despite the fact that I feel like I have too many clothes on.

Rewind: Saturday Night, Corset

Saturday night, as a means to bounce back (pun very intended) from my bout of Unrequited Love, I strapped on my trusty corset and hit the town. Let me be the first to wan you that when I put that corset on, the Earth pauses to catch it's breath. Yeah, seriously. The planet has to catch it's breath. I have shed a few pounds since the last time I wore it (insert good for me comment here) and was surprised to see that I looked less like a fat girl making use of antiquated, tortuous devices to pull a little tail and more like a hot piece of ass whose waist was meant so that an admirer could get a better grip while motor boating his/her way to delirium. Because honestly, anyone faced with my fleshy delights in the corset would have to display record-breaking self control not to nuzzle. I must also admit, thought, that I was a little nervous about bringing all that sexy out in public. I kind of looked like a cartoon and was unsure whether or not this was a good idea. While I am not afraid to stand out in a crowd, I also did not want to get arrested for indecent exposure. Hooters get you free drinks, but they also get you side glances from dirty old men, jealous twiggy blonds, and sneaky cops just biding their time until you are drunk in public and they have an excuse to manhandle your satiny skin. Heh. Coppers on my satin pillows.
I did choose to wear the corset. I did get some side glances as well as the attention of everyone in the bar. Unrequited love? Psh. In the corset, you will requite my love anyway I give it to you.

W1 36 DD; Unappreciated, but standing firm and hopeful

The truth is, a bottle of champagne, 8 Pabst Blue Ribbons, and one Jager Bomb did nothing to ease the sting from a slap in the face by Unrequited Love.
Another truth is that the smell of cheap coffee and the sound of proactive students lobbying for new bleachers is no way to face a Saturday alone and hungover in a library.