Tag Archives: media


Neal Bledsoe hates my guts.  He won’t accept my friend request.  We have been in a pending friendship status for 4 months now, what is the flipping deal! You’re not that famous.  With that being said, I’m still a loser, and he knows it.

So I’m back for good (hopefully.) I know I’ve made these false promises before, but it looks like the internet is going to stick this time, just like an unwanted pregnancy.

For my transition back to the blog world, I’m going to do it sloowww and steady because typing up 1000 words about my weekend of sitting on the couch crying to Dear John and eating Chinese food could really turn some people away.  But for now, a post from a few weeks ago that continues to show my loserdom slash new found fascination for baby Jesus…

Here I am cleaning up my frat house and I find this shoved behind the tv:

Come to find out it’s stolen and now no one knows what to do with it because you can’t throw baby Jesus in the garbage.  What nerve.  They will steal baby Jesus, but won’t throw baby Jesus away.  I suggested taking baby Jesus to a hospital or fire station and leaving him because they are “safe places” but that was a no go because there are surveillance cameras on every street corner.  For the hookers. I don’t know what they expect.  Baby Jesus can’t get any love.

Anyway, on to the big St. Patty’s day extravaganza, Gizzy terms: loser-aganza.  I went ca-ca-clubbing Friday night with Chuck and was too ashamed to show my face in the daylight on Saturday.  1 day of drinking is all the embarrassment my almost 26 year old ego can handle.

She took us to some schnazzy apartment downtown where there was some hot husband who would probably cheat with their sexretary’s but it wouldn’t matter all that much because you’d have lots of money in da bank material.   They took us to some upscale club, got us vip, and bottle service, you know really pulled out all the stops because big city girls don’t put out for nothin’.

I caught the eye of the tall funny goon of the group, he lingered for a while and we chatted it up, things were going pretty well and I actually thought I was starting to kind of like him right before I blew it.   There was a little flirtation going on and we kept making eye contact yada yada yada, so I waved him over to come sit next to me on the couch.

Instead of grabbing his head and proceeding to suck face, like I think he was expecting me to do, I pet a section of the couch between us and told him to feel it.  It wasn’t a sexy come getcha some pet where I was like licking my lips and had do me eyes, it was super nerdy slash you’d of thought I owned a furniture store.   I don’t know, I thought we were to that point where I realized he was the tall lanky goon and he realized I was the socially awkward girl who likes to pet couches and we were going to fall in love and live on the island of misfits and have a heard of outcast children.  But it didn’t happen that way, instead he took 10 giant steps backward and screamed, “Did you really call me over here to have me feel the couch!?”  Yeah, is that weird? I wanted his opinion on what kind of animal he thought it was made out of and I thought we were friends and he wasn’t going to think I was a couch loving freak.  But I digress.  Freak.

I did catch him petting the couch later and commenting on how soft it was and me being all, see I told you so, now go tell everyone I’m cool and not a couch hugger.  Just when things were looking up, I fell and slid across the floor only to be hoisted up by security and thrown into a cab – alone.

Hello, hot mess and end of my drinking career as we know it.


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I’ll kill it. I will.

I don’t know where to start.   There’s 4 things on today’s agenda:

1. I got in trouble at work

2. I got in a fight with Anth

3. I dumped HOTTIE and shoved a fork in his eye.

4. I live with a snake.

But not in that order.  Although that order would make more sense then the order in which it all actually went down.

It all started a few weeks ago before I got the plague and was deemed terminally ill.  I was going home for the weekend for some good old TLC when I decided to stop and have dinner with HOTTIE on my way through.  All was good in the hood until a text popped up on his iphone.  (Iphones.  Blast!) It read:

Text Message WHORE #2

I know that since you’re all up to speed on your outdated Cocktails At Tiffany’s characters you’re sitting there thinking, “Wait a tick, WHORE #2 is a whore of Snoop-Linus.” And with those thoughts you would be correct.  Which is why I was instantly infuriated.  Not only was HOTTIE FULLY aware of my man hating trust issues, he also knew every last detail of what went down with Snoop and all of the whores, #2 included.  So imagine my surprise when I see her name pop up on his phone.  No, I didn’t grab the phone and speed off to the bathroom to analyze every text and then smash it like I wanted to.  I simply said:

“What the fuck is this shit?” (Now mind you, I normally don’t cuss when I am fighting with someone face to face because I think it’s tacky/trashy and we know I’m all about the CLASS.  So I was pretty much as pissed as a Gizzy can get.)

To which he said, “Oh what, WHORE #2? She’s cool, she’s my friend.  She probably wants to party tonight or something.”

Which left me with one choice.  To stand up and stab him in the face with a fork.   Kidding kidding.  Even though I totes wanted to.  But I did make a scene by standing up and throwing my napkin on the table and screaming, “FUCK THIS AND FUCK YOU!” And then I stormed out of the restaurant and realized my car was parked like 2 miles away.  I walked, because I’ll be damned if I was going back in there to look weak and say, “Umm hey, can you take me to my car?” Which is what he totally expected because it took him 2 weeks to call me and apologize.  But he did call.  Sunday – just in time for Valentines Day.

The conversation went down pretty much how you would expect.  He apologized for being the biggest douche on the face of the Earth and I told him an apology didn’t mean jack shit 2 weeks later and he could go live it up on drug island with WHORE #2.  He claimed she’s just a friend, I claimed she’s just a whore. He asked to see me again, I asked where he got the ring so that I could kindly return it, and he hung up on me.  HE hung up on ME.  Yeah wtf, that’s some BULL-shit!

So here I am back to square 1.  Anth feeling ever so sorry for me because I picked another winner and had a crying fit Monday morning when I realized one of our roommates has a boa constrictor living in his room,  (Which I am totes NOT ok with.  Anth claims he told me, which he absolutely did not.  It’s cool though, if I ever see the thing I’m going to kill it, which is what I told him. Don’t go all PETA on me, because I don’t care.  If it ever gets out of it’s cage, it’s dead.  End of story, there is no purpose for a snake in the city and I’m not going to get choked out in the middle of the night and served for dinner because this guy needs to feel like a “man” and own a snake.  No!) offered to take me out for Valentines Day on Monday so I got all ready, I even curled my hair and put on perfume, and then he stood me up.  Some words were exchanged, I went out to dinner with an ex out of spite (like Anth cares), went to work yesterday with what might be the biggest hangover of my adult career and got in trouble.

Here’s the thing, when I was hired and numerous times after that, my boss explained that we have “flex time.”  So we are allowed to come in anywhere between 7:30 and 10 and have to stay 7.5 hours then we can go home.  Last time I checked 9:30 was within those hours but yesterday I got in trouble for being late.  My boss said, “Next time call and let me know.”  I said OK, but lady – after what time do you consider me late? Because I’m pretty sure I was on time.  IDK.  I can’t take these old people.  They’re all senile.

So in case you were wondering Anth came home from work tonight and we played Jeopardy like it ain’t no thang.  However, I did find a pair of my shoes in the oven – so I’m not really sure what happened on Valentines Day while I was gone.

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