Monday, November 23, 2015

Disneyland, orphans and bestiality.

Friends, family members, and strangers that have the unfortunate luck to stand anywhere near me in a public place have likely heard one of my rants against the Disney franchise. Maybe you're sick of hearing it but I don't give a fuck. I'm at work, hating everything because I day drank yesterday, and no one believes that my shakes are from meningitis so it looks like my ass is stuck here for the next 7 hours. I went to college for this. Welcome to my hell. 

I saw some shit online about Disneyland and it inspired my third rage blackout of the day. The first was when I discovered that my blacked out ass knocked Ibuprofen all over my kitchen last night and the second was when I stepped on a dripping wet pee pad after I had just dragged my ass out in public so my dog could pee on someone else's property. Again, I went to college and this is my life. 

I've never been a Disney fan. My mom said she was so excited to take me to Disneyland for the first time when I was like 4 years old and the second I saw one of the characters I screamed my ass off and ran for the exit and tried to leave with an Asian family. Why was anyone surprised? It's a total mindfuck that you see these people and talking clocks and shit on your TV and then all of a sudden it's standing in front of you trying to touch you. NOT running like hell and screaming your ass off seems abnormal. What kind of life lessons are we teaching our children? If I had kids you're god damn right I'd be telling them that if a candelabra tries to touch them they should run for their fucking lives. Also I've seen the way Goofy pelvic thrusts at children. Keep your dick away from us Goofy you son of a bitch. 

Can we also talk about how Disney movies ruin your life? Apparently when you wish upon a star your mom dies, or your dad dies, or you get pricked and sleep forever, or little demon dwarfs make you their bitch. The people that work for Disney clearly have daddy/mommy/aunt/uncle/grandpa/grandma issues. Ya'all are fucked up. I had nightmares that my mom was going to be shot (Bambi style) or just pack her shit and leave me one day (almost all other Disney movies). No one has a great Mom in Disney movies. And if you have a cool Dad? Oh, well he's gonna die too. Maybe your Uncle pushes him off a cliff and you watch him fall to his death. Or maybe he marries some evil cunt who kills his ass to pay for her vaginal reconstruction or whatever. Either way, your going to be alone and unloved. Something to really look forward to!

I also blame Disney for turning us all into sad cat/dog ladies. Animals can talk and be your best friend. That's totally normal. Why wouldn't you have mice and birds helping you get dressed in the morning?  Why wouldn't my dog respond when I ask him to back the fuck up and give me 10 more minutes of sleepy times? The people in Disney movies are generally assholes. So of course we should hate people and be friends with animals. Dear Disney, thank you for reaffirming to a child that people are twats and animals are your only friend. Clearly I've become a very well adjusted adult. 

Can I also point out that Disney really fucks with our heads when they make us sexually attracted to animals? I mean, who didn't want to fuck Simba? I did. I wanted to get down so hard on that animated dick. I'm not even ashamed to admit that I was a little sexually attracted to Pumba. Don't you fucking judge me. To this day I'm more likely to leave a bar with a short chubby dude. But seriously, it's hard enough going through puberty and trying to understand what's happening to your body and now I have to worry about wanting to hump on animals? It's a miracle I made it to adulthood. Seriously. I probably have PETA waiting outside to throw paint or feces or something on me. Cool. 

I also learned that you're never gonna get the high quality D unless you're white, helpless, preferably stupid, and supermodel smokin hot. Also, Prince Douchebag is gonna need you to be asleep so he doesn't have to listen to your ass talk. I'm not the damsel in distress type. I will probably start a bar fight before you and I walk my dog at 3:00 a.m. with my shank out ready to stab a bitch and I hammer shit into my walls all by my god damn self. I've played the helpless, dumb, opinion-less girl before and it's not my jam. I don't need to be rescued. If I'm asleep and you try to molest my mouth that's called assault. Although if you want to walk my dog for me at 3:00 a.m. so I don't have to put on pants, that's modern chivalry and I'm not mad about that. A true modern romance is two people getting blacked out at a bar, swapping STDs, and deciding to make it work and move in together because rent is high as fuck and sharing toilet cleaning duties with another person makes life slightly more bearable. This is the reality when you don't have a mouse to bleach your toilet for you. 

If you're still waiting for your Prince Charming or if you've been arrested for trying to hump on a lion or inanimate object I get it and I think you should sue Disney. Class action lawsuit. Protests. All of it. I got your  back. 

Now I'm gonna go watch The Little Mermaid and count the phallic symbols and try to pretend I'm not still sexually attracted to Sebastian. Cheers. 

Friday, November 20, 2015

Nightmare on Viagra street. The prequel.

I rarely ever dream. It’s not because I’m a soulless bitch and hope has been replaced by Xanax. I mean that’s also true. But what I mean is I’m usually medicated/blacked out when I go to sleep so my mind is a dead zone. No cell service, no brain function; I’m basically Terri Schaivo. (Yes, I’m quite aware I’m the worst person on the planet, bye.)

Sometimes though after a hard day of dealing with dipshits and pee pads and cat litter strewn about my entire home, I’m girl down with only half the normal amount of meds and booze. This was the situation a couple of nights ago and I had a dream. Actually, it may be better qualified as a mother fucking nightmare.

I’m ashamed to admit that I had a sex dream about an ex-boyfriend. I know. It’s plagued me for days and last night I was so scared to go to sleep I took two sleeping pills and drank a whole bottle of wine so today I have the shakes and some fucked up wonk eye. (Just a reminder guys, I’m totally single and available. Tweet me.)

I wouldn’t have minded a super hot sex dream. At this point I probably have cob webs in my vagina and the other day I sneezed and swear dust flew out of my basement. But this wasn’t a super hot sex dream. This was a realistic nightmare.

I don’t think I need to go into super specific details about my dream. Actually, fuck it. You’re getting the raw dog version of this dream. No protection. If I have to live with this, so do you.
My nightmare started out at some party in a basement. Like the basement in someone’s parents’ house, so clearly even in my dream life I’m hanging out with some bottom feeders. Dream big? NOPE. I’ll dream small thanks very much. Anyway, so I’m with some people that my sleeping pill made up because I don’t know these bitches. But I have a boozy drink in my hand so things aren’t too bad. Then I spot the ex. I wasn’t surprised to see him, so I’m immediately suspicious of my dream self that she’s being a little hoe and showed up here on purpose. TRAITOR!
The ex approaches and some awkward small talk ensues. This is when I had to check myself and make sure this wasn’t real life because awkward small talk is my real life, in my dream life I’m nailing everything always. So I took a drink and it tasted more like ginger ale than liquid drainer so I knew this wasn’t real. My real life drink would have murdered my liver already. (Dream Jenn you need to step up your boozing game, seriously.) All of a sudden I’m inviting the devil back to my house. TO DO SEX. WHAT IS HAPPENING!?!?!? It was at this point that I know my real life self barfed in her mouth because I woke up with the worst acid reflux ever.
So we’re walking back to my house, holding hands which again reassured me this wasn’t real life because we never were hand holders, and Dream Jenn feels like this is totally ok. We get to my house and it’s furniture in a god damn park. I don’t have a house. I have the set-up of a house in a fucking park without walls, doors, a ceiling. Even my Dream Life is a fucking tragedy. I may have roaches, termites and nails coming out of my floor in my real life home, but at least I have a fucking ceiling. Is it too late for my mom to have an abortion?
Dream Jenn realizes, oh shit, I sleep in a park where people walk around. We can’t go to Pound Town here. I mean it just wouldn’t be very romantic if a homeless person made this a double penetration situation without my permission and a STD check printout first. So then we make the responsible decision to just go to a stranger’s house and walk in. Totally normal. Nothin weird about that. At this point the entire dream universe is telling me I’m making a bad decision. Bare backing with Charlie Sheen would be a better decision than the one I’m making right now. But one thing I’m not is a quitter. The hunt for the D will go on.
We find a stranger’s house. Walk right in. Maybe I’m not making a bad decision because this plan has worked out perfectly. Empty house. Comfy looking bed. I’m about to swallow so many mistakes right now. Things are getting serious but his penis is like a sad, shriveled hose. It’s just there. Not doing anything. I mean I didn’t expect it to put on tap shoes and give a performance (though how RAD would that be!?) but I at least expected it to stand at attention. I’m just staring at this sad penis and neither one of us are talking. (Again I had to double check this wasn’t real life because I’m not having fun yet.) And then, his dick falls off. Let me say that again…HIS DICK FALLS OFF OF HIS BODY AND HITS THE FLOOR. That thing goes down harder and faster than Miley Cyrus on a bong. It was the dick splat heard round the world.  
Even in my dream life dudes are disappointments. Seriously!? I live in a bed in a park and that’s not the worst thing in my life? Jesus Christ.
Now every time someone utters the phrase “man of my dreams” I’m going to picture a sad dick, lying on the floor, completely useless and crushing all hope. My patronus would be a limp dick. Take that Voldemort! I just threw a sad dick in your face! (Yeah, I brought it back to Harry Potter. Fuck off.) Get a gun.
Turns out if you do some dream analysis research and look up a dream like this you get one answer: no. So much no. Do I need therapy? Should I get hypnotized and let someone poke around and see what the fuck is wrong with me? Do they still do lobotomy’s? Does Blue Shield pay for that? Do I have a brain tumor? Is it because I ate cheese before I went to bed? Help. I’m applying for a life alert again. This has to qualify me.

If you have nightmares about sad dicks, I’m not sorry because I shouldn’t have to be in this alone. The lesson I’ve learned? Always protect yourself and double pill and double wine. Every time.

Friday, November 13, 2015

meet Jerry.

I think Jerry is like the best dude name ever. When I picture someone named Jerry I picture them with permanent plumber’s crack, busting ass in public and not giving a fuck, and drinking a lot of beer. And peeing in public. You do you, Jerry. If I was a dude, I’d totally want to be called Jerry.

You’re probably wondering where the fuck I’m going with this. Or you’re blacked out and wondering where your pants are and who that dude snoring on your couch is. I truly hope it’s the latter because I only want my spirit animals to read my blog.

But last night while drinking some wine, and I mean shit got serious because I was literally just drinking from the bottle after I found a super long straw that someone gifted me so I didn’t have to move my arms, while scrolling through the trolls and hot pieces on OkCupid I had a revelation. Or a spiritual awakening. Or acid reflux. Whatever the fuck it was. I think I have a man’s brain.

Throughout my extensive dating career, I’ve learned something about dudes. No matter how unattractive, uninteresting, unemployed, and despite having an ant-sized dick, dudes ALWAYS think they deserve a super smokin hot girlfriend. No fucking joke. It seriously chaffs my very sensitive ass cheeks when I see a dude who sucks, with a super cool lady friend. For real? I can smell your ball cheese from here and you’re clearly hiding some balding issues under that Dodgers hat and there’s more hair coming out from under your shirt collar than a legit 70’s bush. What is happening? But it’s true. Gross dudes with hot chicks. It’s a god damn plague.

And I think I might have caught the disease. Maybe it’s sexually transmitted? I’m pretty sure I got a slight case of Asperger’s through sexual contact with one of my dipshit exes. Sometimes my vagina loses all social skills and makes public outings super awkward. So it’s completely possible I caught the aim way, way too high disease. And obviously there’s not a cure since it’s still running rampant in the world.

I diagnosed myself after I realized my criteria for dudes that I would respond to. Ethnic sounding name? Nah. I don’t want to have to roll my tongue every time I yell at your ass in public for cutting me off at the bar. Hats in every picture? Nah. I don’t care if you’re bald or balding, but I need to know what’s going on with your head. Posing with random babes or porn stars in your pictures? Fuck nah. You’re going to try to put it in my butt immediately and I’m not going to go into detail, but nothing goes into my asshole because I don’t trust her. She’s shady as hell. Oh you like rock climbing, surfing, mountain biking, running, getting out of bed, etc.? NOPE. I like sitting in a bar, or if it’s a nice day I’ll even be down for an outside bar, and drinking until everyone seems hotter and funnier. I’ll walk there. But I’m sure as shit not gonna climb a fucking mountain or swim in the ocean to get there. NOPE. I could keep going, but I’ll sum this up with I will ignore your message if one small thing irritates me about you. It could even be that you’re wearing aviators and I think you have a more of a wayfarer face. Yup. I’m shallow as all hell.

It made me think, am I aiming for Channing Tatum when I should be going for Tourette’s guy? If you don’t know who Tourette’s guy is, first of all SHAME ON YOU, secondly look it up on YouTube immediately. It will change your life. Also, RIP my friend. But seriously, am I a dude? Trying to date a Victoria’s Secret model when you look like you just emerged from under a bridge after terrorizing some fucking goats or children or virgins or whatever. I also hate cuddling. I get talking about feelings is necessary but it makes me nauseous and I’d rather get drunk and scream that I hate you and then make you get me Del Taco and forget I was mad. I like to drink beer and watch war documentaries and zombie movies and curse and burp and laugh at poop jokes. I could also be 13 years old.

However, I know I have ovaries and a uterus because I hate video games and love puppies and like to make babies laugh because it’s crazy cute when they giggle until they almost vomit and start crying. Does this mean I’m gender fluid? I don’t have my tits out all the time and shove glitter in my peesh like Miley Cyrus. So maybe not. I know I don’t want to be a dude because ew. Am I just fucking nuts? Don’t answer that. Am I one of those letters from the LQBTQRFHSUO that I don’t know what the fuck it means?

All I know is, I don’t want to be the troll under the bridge trying to rape models. I don’t know if that’s what I was trying to say but now that it’s out there I can’t, won’t, am too tired to fix it. I guess maybe I can give the dude wearing a fedora non-ironically a chance. Actually, no, no I can’t. Fuck that guy. But maybe I can suck it up and hang out with the dude that wore dad jeans. Son of a bitch I can’t do that either I’d barf in my mouth. I could handle the pink polo. No. No no no. I can't. I have to maintain some sort of self-respect after the couch incident. 

Shit. It’s going down. This is real life. Guys, call me Jerry.  

Monday, November 2, 2015

people are shit & other musings during a rage blackout

I don’t want to hate people. Truly. My life would be so much easier if I thought people were okay and liked being around them and didn’t mind sharing my oxygen/space/existence with them. Turns out though, people are mostly shit.

While most people try to make as many friends as possible and jizz themselves every time they get a Facebook friend request or new follower on Instagram or someone pokes their tweet or whatever, I’d rather not. Generally if I get a Facebook friend request I sigh, roll my eyes, and try to decide the level of awkwardness if I decline or ignore it. If the level of awkwardness will be less than 80%, request denied mother fucker. You’ll be worth the “accept” if you’re somewhat entertaining, a complete hot mess, or at least I know you won’t be talking about your fucking baby or lame ass boyfriend/girlfriend every 10 seconds. Seriously, fuck your baby. Pictures of puppies and videos of your cat trying to climb into a box or sneak attacking your other cat, I’m so down.

I have some friends I guess. I like some of them more than others. Real talk, if certain people just disappeared it would probably take me 6 months to 14 years to notice. I’m disgusted by neediness and clinginess and codependency. I try to understand it, but if I’m really honest with myself I don’t empathize with it. You can’t wipe your ass without someone’s permission? Gross. You’d ditch your friends to get some random dick? Die.

I think every year I give less and less fucks about how many contacts I have in my cell phone. I know I have a handful of ride or dies that I can text at 3:00 a.m. to ask their opinion on bloody poops and what level of ass cancer that probably indicates. Being able to block people from calling/texting is the greatest phone feature that ever happened to me. Oh, you’re excited that you can watch amateur teen porn on your commute home? I’m excited that I currently have 112 blocked numbers. To each his own.

I guess I should wait until I’m older to play the senile, it’s cute when I’m offensive/racist/sexist, card until I’m at least close to diaper times. But fuck it. I’m gonna play that card now. Let’s be real, with my lifestyle I won’t have any of those golden years to fart in public and shrug my shoulders and have people just smile like I laid a fucking golden egg. That was a mushroom cloud of stored up ass that’s been brewing for 70 years. That’s not cute. Ever. But I’ll play along because I walked to school barefoot in the snow while battling bears and vampires. I do what I want!

I’m not going to pretend that you’re not a douchebag. I’m not going to pretend that you’re fun to be around. I’m not going to pretend that the sound of your voice doesn’t make me want to drown baby mice. (I know, I know. Baby mice!? I’ve gone too fucking far.) If you’re a shitty person I don’t have time for it. I never signed a contract that I had to hang out with you. I need another obligation like I need more ass cancer.

I’ll start caring when people stop sucking. Unless I wake up one day and have the magical power to turn everyone into puppies and kittens. That just made me feel something that might be happiness. Oh wait, I farted.