Private School Girl

(A Poem)

Private school girl
in your tiny plaid skirt
and creepy winter tan.
Driving your daddy's SUV
without a care.

(Because the world is all about you.)

Private school girl
with your perfect hair
and really happy skip.
Do you know
how obnoxious
you are?

(I would like to shoot you.)


They Give Crackheads Awards Too!

So I was given an award the other day by fellow blogger Rachel.

Awards Show-1.jpg

But obviously there had been a misprint. So I fixed it.

Awards Show-2.jpg

The evening ended, like every other award show I've attended, with me making out with my award.

Awards Show-3.jpg

It is now framed and hung in my foyer.

And now for other people who deserve the award (almost) as much as me:

1. Cynnie- Has quite possibly the most awesome boobies I've seen on the web.

2. Rachel Schell - Our relationship began over a year ago when I started stalking her because of her fabulous photography. I have continued stalking her to this day. Go look at her photography. NOW!

3. New York Dactyl- Tall, blond, beautiful...and soooo much more (to find out what more is, go read her blog).

4. Angelique- I really love her honesty. Also, the girl can write! And she's fun and awesome and all the other things old-school goth girls are made of.

5. Miss Little Pea - Absolutely adorable AND smart as can be. A very hard combination to find.

6. Julianne B- Super cool is an understatement.

7. Terry- I have never met a sexier nun.

8. Empress Magnificent-She doesn't have a real blog and for the life of me I can't figure out why. So I linked to her myspace page. She blogs there. I heart her.

Oh , I think you're only supposed to give out six. Ah well, I'll stop here and call it even.

Tomorrow's Post: What Happens To Your Stomach When You Drink 18 Cans Of Coke In 9 Hours.


Example #2 (Of Why This Breakup Is Working For Me)

Yeah, remember what I said yesterday? Ummm, you guys can just go and scratch that. I mean, it's still true and all, but last night, while dropping my movies back at the video store and getting us Chinese food for dinner, he also picked up these:

And as a thank you, I did NOT bleed all over his side of the bed last night.

God knows I love this man. Which is why every time I use a tampon today I'll be thinking about how much I really want to just squeeze his ass cheeks and nibble on his penis ear. And how sad it is that I have to wait 5-7 days to do it.


Because Ex-Boyfriends Should Be Touched And Not Heard

Conversation that ensued after watching Man-friend slip past me real casually and put about six of his shirts in my closet today:

"Oh no you don't! Don't you go putting your clothes in there. We're broken up, remember? You don't get to go moving all your stuff back in all sneakily and shit. You think I haven't noticed that your toothbrush's back in the bathroom cabinet too?"

"Shhhhhh. Haven't you heard the proverb- 'A woman should be seen and not heard'? It's real old. They came up with it in the 1930's I think."

"And haven't you ever heard the even older proverb- 'Men are freakin' idiots'?"

"Yeah well that one's been proven wrong."

Honey, you're proving it right everyday.


For The Record

It's not so much that I have a fear of dying, it's more that I have a fear of people seeing my dead body. After watching many a crime show, the thought of having a pair of police officers and some chick in a trench coat staring down at my powdery white face, discussing how, according to forensics, the victim was probably stabbed with a corkscrew fifteen times in the elbow before slipping on a banana peel and falling down six flights of stairs, has caused me many sleepless nights. Although if a banana peel turns out to be the cause of my death, I hereby give the entire world permission to stare at my body. As punishment for being an idiot.

That being said, I've thought long and hard about how I can go about keeping anyone from seeing my dead body and I'm currently in development of a product that will, with a series of levers and pulleys, alert my house when my heart stops beating at which time it will burst spontaneously into flames and burn down around me so thoroughly that my body will be unrecognizable in all the rubble and for years people will debate about whether I really died in there or if I'm off hiding out with Tupac and Elvis. By my calculations I should finish the invention by the time I'm 120, which, coincidentally, is the exact age that I want to die.

Given the chance, however slight, that I might not die peacefully in my sleep as an outrageously old lady, I've had to plan for the possibility that someone might see my body and have begun to stress to friends, family, and anyone else who will listen, my desire to have as few people as possible to see my dead body and what to do should they be the person to find me deceased. These conversations are always a bit uncomfortable for the other person, partly, I'm sure, because they always end with me forcing them to vow to respect and carry out my last wishes with a spit handshake, which, as you might know, is as good as a signed contract. That being said, I don't trust nary a one of them and therefore am leaving it to you, Internet, to make sure my dying wishes are followed.

First, if you find my body, I would appreciate it if you bring it directly to the crematory, stick it in the big stove, and turn that thing on full blast. Twice. Make sure every thing's ashes. No need to stop at the morgue, I don't really need an autopsy. No! Not even if I'm the victim of a horrendous crime! I don't CARE if people know how I died, I don't want anyone to see me! This is also the reason why I must stress that under no circumstance do I approve of the use of my body for scientific research, nor will I be able to donate any organs. Sorry little girl in Kansas who would be a perfect match for my heart, you just can't have it, because it would mean that somebody might have to look at me.

Now as far as the ashes go, I don't really give a damn what you do with them, just don't keep them in a vase on top of your mantle please. If you find a little fingertip that you must absolutely store in a locket to remember me by, then fine, but the majority of my body? Please throw it away. I'd prefer if you bury it somewhere or pour it into the ocean or something romantic like that but I'm actually quite okay with you flushing me down the toilet too.

The Funeral: Seriously, don't bother. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I approve of you wasting my hard earned money on something that won't benefit me anyone. But as I have been told time and time again, "The funeral is not for the dead, Yvonne. It's for the ones who are left behind."

So fine, have your stupid funeral, but if you're going to do it, I have some specific demands. First, before you go blowing up my senior portrait and placing it on an easel in the front of the church, please make sure you photoshop it until I look like this:

Because that's how I'd like people to remember me.

Second, I'm pretty sure I don't have to remind you that under no circumstance is my actual body to be at the funeral. If you even think of setting me up there in some sort of open coffin situation where little girls can come up and touch me and go, "Mommy, she feels rubbery!", understand that I am also in the production stages of a device that will bring me back to life long enough to climb out of that coffin and STRANGLE YOU!!!!!!


Third, we've all heard those people who say they don't want anyone to cry at their funeral. They want people to wear bright colors and sing and rejoice for the passage of blah, blah, blah. . . whatever. If people aren't sad about my death then why the hell are they there? For the free lasagna afterwards? Not only must people be wearing black to attend my funeral, but they are required to be heartbroken. I have already reserved a set of bouncers to guard the front doors and they have strict orders to only allow people in full fledged fits of angst to enter. It's not required that they're actually crying over me to get in, only that they're crying over something.

Fourth, anyone who speaks about me must refer to me, not as Yvonne, but as "Her Highness Fancy Pants, The Most Wonderful One". It's a bit complicated so I encourage people to start practicing now.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I would like this song to be played on a loop during the entirety of the ceremony and reception. If you can get R. Kelly to come and perform it live on a loop, even better.


E.T. Is Eating Our Brains!

I really hate it when a movie starts out being intellectually interesting and then ends in aliens.

I REALLY hate that.

What is your movie pet peeve? Inquiring (and perhaps more intelligent from other planets) minds would like to know.


You're Really Very Cute But I Have NO Idea What You're Saying!

I always wondered* what Scientology was all about.

Luckily, Tom Cruise has explained it all so thoroughly and eloquently here:

You're absolutely right Tom! It is rough and tumble, wild and wooly.

As of this moment, I would like to announce my conversion to Scientology.
I'm a born-again Scientologist, if you will.

Please, feel free to ask questions. I'd love to share my extensive knowledge** on the subject.

*wondered=don't give a flying fuck
**based entirely on this nine minute video, of course.

Tom Cruise Ate My Blog

I posted a blog about Tom Cruise earlier this afternoon and it caused my blog to blow up. Okay, maybe not blow up but definitely stop working.

Obviously Scientology is a more powerful religion than I had realized. My apologies to Tom and the rest of the Scientology community. Now make my blog back to normal please!

To everyone else: Sorry about stupid boring template. I'll be trying to get things back to normal ASAP. For now, please feel free to send your angry hate mail to:

Care of Tom Cruise

151 Up My Ass Drive
Wherever the Aliens Are, CA 90210.

Update: Never mind, I fixed it. Above you can see the original post. Apparently it wasn't Tom Cruise at all, but Blogger. I am hereby REALLY apologizing to Tom Cruise and for the rest of the day I will say Blogger in a very icy tone, with a glare, and follow with a curse word under my breathe.


January 15, 2008: Lesson Of The Day

Lesson Of The Day:
One should not assume that EVERYTHING tastes better with cheese. It is a horrible, horrible mistake to think that strawberry ice cream could possibly be improved by shredding up a chunk of cheddar and sprinkling it over the top.


Why This Breakup Is Working For Me...

You can call me dumb and say I'm just setting myself up for more heartbreak, but when he does things like this...

(tastes better than "birthday head")

and then this...

and then other things that I won't illustrate with a photo...

well, I'm pretty sure it's worth the risk.


A Sign Of The Times

You know things are really tense between the two of you when, for the first time in eight years, baby's daddy doesn't call to say happy birthday and offer you some "birthday head".


And Then He Landed A Perfect Triple Axel

The Kid and his grandfather got matching hockey skates, pucks and sticks for Christmas. However, they had nowhere to ice skate. So the only reasonable solution was for grandfather to build an ice skating rink in our backyard. That way, mother nature willing, they can skate whenever they damn well please.

Ice Skating
My poor kid has no chance whatsoever of growing up to be normal.