Wednesday, August 31, 2011

What's up, sluts?

So, my computer's effed.  That sentence right there?  Had to retype it about six times.  Awesomeness.  So, this'll be brief.

The first time I spent three sequential days at "genius" bar at the Mac Store at the goddamned Freehold Mall in historic Freehold, New Jersey, well, it sucked donkeys.  Really.  My harddrive was wiped clean (fortunately after backing up) but one net result, that I hadn't thought of beforehand, was that all my bookmarks were lost.  Aw, sad.  (#firstworldproblems)

I recently just remembered the fantastic website Bangable Dudes in History.  How could I have forgotten Bangable Dudes in History?  Maybe because posts are few and far between.  But, in any case, I shouldn't have forgotten because it's one of my all time favorite websites.  Along with primamomma and Steam Me Up, Kid.  Oh, and Denny Delvecchio.  And the Bloggess.  So, now I guess I have this post of mine to keep me from forgetting!  Holy shit!  Like Memento!

Also? I don't get tattoos.  I mean both, I guess.  I neither "get" them (so have none) nor do I "get" them in that I don't understand them.  A woman at Wendy's tonight was with her about 10 year old son and she had a Franklin tattoo on her ankle.  And she was dressed professionally, like she just came from her administrative assistant job while her son, in his pajama pants and Yankees cap (askew, naturally), had been sitting on his ass all day at home, playing WoW.  Which, I know, it's summer, it's his right, but pajama pants?  I know it's just Wendy's and all, but you couldn't put on real pants?  I don't know.  Somehow, all together, it was depressing.

Anyway, why Franklin?  Was it her son's favorite show at one point?  And it took me a while to place it, you know?  I was all, hey, that looks familiar.  Huh.  Is that some sort of a Dead figure?  Or a stoner thing?  No.  No, it's not.  Nickelodeon.

Also, today at a park, a young-ish woman (early 30's, I'd say) sat near me and she had a Coach diaper bag (it was big and clearly Coach, due to the word "Coach" written all over it) (UPDATE: Clearly I'm in the 00's because Coach bags aren't actually that expensive now.  Huh.  I'm out of the loop on luxury items.  Still, all in all, it was pretty flashy for a diaper bag.  I stand by my initial judgement.) and a brand spankin' new Bugaboo stroller.  Oh, and she had a tattoo of a heart on her neck (above the neckline, right on the jugular -wait! a reference to the cardiovascular system and the fragility of life?).

So, I don't get tattoos.  They seem painful.  They're permanent.  I mean, at one point I had a huge crush on Billy Corgan and, I suppose, could've gotten a tattoo of him and then where would I fucking be now?  Huh?  Or Matthew Fox?  Jesus, dude.  I mean, it's permanent, is all I'm saying.

Also, I feel like I can tell you this (as if you don't already know), but I have spent way too much time on the Twilight Saga in the past few years.  Way too much.  At one point, I had a Twilight sticker on my car.  Boy did my husband hate that.  I scraped it off a year ago (Eclipse sucked, yo.).  Both very expensive and very painful to scrape off a tattoo.  So disgusting.

Also, this wasn't short after all!  Until next time, sluts.  xoxo


  1. Sluts? I don't know how I feel about that.
    Ok, I've had a minute to mull it over. I'm ok with being one of your sluts.

    I considered a tattoo once for like half a second. I wanted a lion head on the ball of my shoulder. I know. Shut up. I still maintain that it would have looked pretty... uh... INTERESTING, because the mane would look full due to the placement on the ball of the shoulder... Just shut up! Never mind.

    BTW, if you have a tattoo of a Disney character or Looney Tunes character ANYWHERE on your person, visible or not, I automatically subtract IQ points and cool factor points from you. No exceptions.

  2. FUCK how I hate your commenting process. Damn you Blogspot and Wordpress. Damn you straight to hell.

  3. Being called a slut takes on a special meaning when you say it.

    Thanks you.