I Frickin' Love You!

Maybe it's the Starbucks Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino and Oatmeal I let myself have for breakfast (It's a bloody holiday, okay?) or the fact that I am about a half hour from going home for the weekend. Or maybe I'm groggy from staying up until the wee hours of the morning (which is 11 o'clock for us old people) playing Beatles Rock Band with my siblings, boyfriend, stepmom and daddeh (Of COURSE there will be videos!).

But I am super-happy. I love everyone!

Even my sister who deleted me from Facebook because I joined a group called, "Justin Bieber, you don't love that girl. You're 12."

But I digress.

Things suck. This is true. But for everything that sucks, there are 500 things that don't suck. And they may not all be big enough for me to notice all the time. Sometimes I'm so worried and stressed that I overlook the sweetness of finding a dollar under my bed or smelling snow outside or how totally kick-ass Slurpees are.

But today? Today I feel good.

Because it's Christmas Eve, my friend, Beth has a new daughter, and the other night Corey was telling me what a whiny bitch I am and then got cut off because he stepped out of my car onto a patch of ice and fell on his ass.

"You're such a whiny bitch."
"Yeah? You wanna know how much of a whiny bitch you are? You're such a whiny bitch because--whooooooooaaaa!"

Merry Christmas!

Love,
Katie

That Darn Rap Music

You know what I'm talking about: That crazy stuff the kids are listening to these days. Those songs that all share the same beat and feature one or more indistinguishable rapper and maybe some chick with an auto-tuned voice.

Don't get me wrong; I like rap. It just seems that lately, it's been getting more and more ridiculous. Maybe I'm getting old, but I'm starting to not even know what people are talking about anymore. I mean, when "My Humps" came out a few years back, I thought that kid singing in the band room was making it up. And it's only getting worse.

I just listen to the radio and wonder WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

Case in point, "Tik Tok" by Ke$ha (who apparently did the girl part in "Right Round" with Flo Rida...?). Not Keisha. Ke$ha. Somebody tell me her parents didn't really name her that. For the love of all that is good in the world. Please? Anybody?

Anyway, the only reason I took a liking to the song is because at one point she mentions "boys tryin' to touch [her] junk" and I totally sympathize. Boys try to touch my junk too. And then my boyfriend reminds me that I don't have junk. Because he's stupid. And jealous.

But seriously, the girl is nuts. I have the lyrics to prove it:

First off, why spell it "Tik Tok" rather than "Tick Tock?" Too reminiscent of the Three Blind Mice? Not hardcore enough?

"Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy..."

Really? I wake up feeling like P. Diddy sometimes too. It feels like a hangover. But like, a played-out, self-absorbed, washed-up rapper/producer's hangover.

"When I leave brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack 'cause when I leave for the night, I ain't comin' back."

Dude. You totally can't brush your teeth with Jack Daniels. I'm pretty sure that has no oral hygienic value at all. In fact, I think it might actually corrode your teeth. Plus, it's probably hard to get it to stay on the toothbrush.

"Boys linin' up 'cause they hear we got swagger, but we kick 'em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger."

Excuse me? Have you SEEN Mick Jagger lately, Ke$ha? Dude is like, a million. And you're like 22. Or something. I didn't bother to Google it. But yeah, you'd have a Hugh Hefner situation going on for sure. Plus, what kind of boys at the club look like Mick Jagger anyway? Unless you were at Boogie Fever in Ferndale. In which case, there are totally a million old people. And my friend, Bret claiming to be a "dancing machine."

But yeah. I don't get it.

Love,
Katie

Distraction

Oh hi, are you guys still here? I didn't mean to be neglectful to my dear blog, but my life lately has been filled with crap. Sucky, sucky CRAP.

Hear ye, hear ye! For none shall be spared from my wrath today. None! Because my sinuses are swollen and pressing on the portion of my brain that makes me hate everyone.

For example: Facebookers. Please hear me. STOP. SENDING. ME. JUNK. I do not want to build a farm or accept your Twilight gifts (!!!!) or read the question you aswered about me and I especially do not want to attend your concert for your unknown band of which you are the lead singer. We were in a ballet class together two years ago and we never talked. I do not want to hang out with you.

Also on that note, everyone on Facebook seems to be obsessed with thanking soldiers. Now hear me out: I love soldiers. I do. I work for and with them and they are wonderful people working hard and sparing themselves to keep our country safe. But you do not have to be one to be a hero. I repeat: SOLDIERS ARE NOT THE ONLY HEROES IN THE WORLD. Don't tell me my life is worthless because I don't serve in the military. I got soul, but I'm not a soldier, yo. Don't tell me that doctors aren't heroes. Or police officers. Or the dude that knows my Starbucks order before I get it because Lord knows how I need my caffeine and quickly. I love you, Mike.

Overly affectionate couples suck too. On Facebook and in person. Seriously. Get a room. Come back to me when you get it out of your system and turn back into a real person and not some giggly, ticklish, slobbery doppleganger that can't keep your hands, lips, or goodies to yourself. Because your dry-hump makes me dry-heave. No, really.

Death sucks. And 2009 has been full of it. Just 15 days in to the year, I lost my uncle. Then Sweet Selden. And now the world has one less Dream Cat:

And now my poor Sven, my Pink Fluffy Cat to which I would sing such classics as, "Sven In A Box," "Birthday Sven," "Sven-Per Anne" and "Viva Las Svenny." And then he would show his approval by biting my nose. Out of love, obviously.

But it's almost Christmas. And I'm surrounded by people I love. Plus, I'm totally going to Chicago.

I know things will get better. They have to.

Love,

Katie

An Open Letter to Generic Birth Control

Dear Generic Birth Control,

Can I call you Previfem? I like to keep things casual.

You and I are just getting acquainted and I have to say, my first impressions were kinda sorta...off. You see, I was expecting magic and happiness and wonder. But I got nausea and dizziness and nausea.

I know the doctor told me to give it time. And it's evident that you're trying (I mean, one day of excruciating cramps? Just one? Heaven. Or kinda more like purgatory since they still suck. But the doctor also gave me some Motrin 800. So yeah, Heaven.) which I totally appreciate, but why do you hate me? Why can't we be friends?

My stomach, as we all know, is sucky and sensitive. My stomach is a bitch. And you, Previfem are not helping. I do not like nausea.

And what's with this swelling thing? Are my boobs not problem enough already? Lord knows I can't eat pretty much anything without the greedy bastards sneaking a drip here and a crumb there. Plus, Corey keeps staring at me and it's totally creeping me out. Oh, and old guys. Old guys dig boobs. It's like, common knowledge.

On top of that, I don't feel all that protected. You can make your promises about controlling birth and stuff, but I am not fooled. You, Previfem, are a liar. Now, I don't know this for a fact, but I have a suspicion that super-fertility runs in my family and I don't like the odds. 99.8% is not enough for me. Except, cramps are your real raison d'etre so whatever. I guess that point is invalid.

Oh, and my mom doesn't like you because she thinks you'll make me all trampy and stuff. When really, I think meth is the drug that does that. But I digress.

I like you, Previfem. I do. I want to be your friend. I come in peace. My doctor said it would take time, but I'm impatient.

Work, damnit!

Love,
Katie

P.S. Everyone, please dismiss me. I haven't eaten anything today and I've been super-stressed pretty much all afternoon. I'm ridiculous and aware of it.

Vet Visits by Pig (Via Text)

Pig: "Was the cat very obnoxious when u took him to the vet?"

Me: "Yes"

P: "He won't shut up."

M: "I recall."

P: "Epic dog battle in the waiting room."

M: "Awesome. I bet they can't beat Molly."

P: "In the right corner weighin in at 13lbs Scribbles, the shitzu! In the left corner weighin at 25lbs, wearing the gold chain collar, Duster the pommaranian mix!"

My brother, ladies and gentlemen...

Love,
Katie