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

Regularly Scheduled Programming Will Resume

But I've been kinda busy for the past few days.

Bad things happen and they tend to take a lot of time and you don't always want to share them with The Internet. (Sorry, Internet.)

Thanksgiving was good.

Karaoke Night could've been better (Some people failed to show up after saying they would. Some people showed up that shouldn't have. Really shouldn't have. Some people got falling-down drunk and had to be babysat all night. You know how it is.)

My favorite pink, fluffy cat is home from the vet and pissed.

I've got class tonight, Internet. We'll chat when I get a moment to myself.

Love,
Katie

These Boots Are Made For Pitching Hysterical Fits

I'm totally going shopping for boots.

By the way, if you're ever thinking of borrowing ANYTHING from Kels, oh please for the love of all that is holy THINK AGAIN! The risk-reward ratio is so not worth it.

For example, last night I asked to borrow a pair of black suede boots (The black suede boots that she constantly complains about because they're all she got for Christmas last year, mind you.). Innocent, right? NOT IN THE LAND OF CRAZY.

You see, I was loaned the boots on the condition that I have them back before she had to go to school at 7 the next day. Seeing that I was just going to dinner and would have her prized boots for 5 hours tops, I figured it was okay. It was not okay.

I got sick after dinner and decided to drive home in the morning to shower and get ready for work. Apparently, this did not work for my sister.

She called me nonstop for an hour and a half. Sometimes texted. Thinks like, "I know you're there! Stop ignoring me!" and "Mom's coming to Corey's" and "I'm never lending you anything again EVER!" and sometimes it was just unintelligible, hysterical shrieking.

My sister? She is nearly 17 years old. And she throws tantrums. Screaming, crying, foot-stomping tantrums. Corey's brother? He is nearly seven. He does the same thing.

Anyway, being the diurnal person that I am, I decided that enough was enough and succumbed to the Boot Nazi's demands and DROVE HOME AT MIDNIGHT so I could have some peace and sleep. Because she's been spoiled all her life; why stop now?

Got home and the psychopath was in bed. Lucky cow. So I took off the boots, put them outside her door and went to brush my teeth. When I was done, I walked past her room just in time to see her open the door, take the boots and close the door. Like she's fucking Gollum or something.

"The Fat One wants the Precioussssssssss!"

Seriously.

But whatever. It's Pay Day. Anybody got any Sugar Free Red Bull?

Love,
Katie

In Which I Am Much Calmer

Dear Internet,

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go all Flavor of Love Girls on you yesterday. I had a rough weekend.

Internet, I am just...tired of being everyone's friend only when it's convenient for them. Nobody seems to care when I need a friend to talk to.

I got some bad news on Sunday night and all I wanted was to talk to someone. And Corey does his best, but I just needed one more person. Someone who wasn't so involved in the situation. And as I looked through my phone for someone to call, I couldn't find anyone that I thought would care. I felt like I'd be bothering everyone.

On top of that, I'd been cancelled on consistently all weekend. Listen, I get it: People are busy. But don't make plans with me so that I'm hanging out waiting on your call and then cancel at the last minute when it's too late for me to do anything else. That's just shitty and unfair.

Then the Bar Night Fiasco of 2009 thing just put me over the edge. Nobody even wanted to waste their time hanging out with me. Nobody could be bothered to take time out of their busy schedules just to spend a few hours talking to me and drinking with me and watching people make crazy fools of themselves as they attempted to single-handedly sing both parts to "Everybody Dance Now." (True story. I totally saw a guy do that.)

It hurts my feelings. And I don't think that matters to anyone, though it should. I'm a person, after all. I matter.

You know, Internet, I will let you in on a secret. I've never told anybody this before. But when I was 14, I used to spend hours on a Weight Watchers message board every day. Talking to people. Just needing some kind of attention. It was sad. It was pathetic. I don't want to go back to that place.

I don't wanna be that pathetic kid anymore.

I don't wanna be Paul Rudd from "I Love You, Man" putting out ads in the paper for friends.

I don't wanna be lonely no more.

I just want my friends to care about me. Is that so much to ask?

Love,
Katie

In Which I Go All Passive-Agressive And Cranky

You have been forewarned.

I don't have any real friends*. As in friends-that-care-at-all-about-me.

Oh sure, they'll Facebook me every now and then all, "Oh em gee, I miss you! I haven't seen you in foreverrrrrrr! Coffee sometime?" but that's about where it ends, you see. Because when I wanna see them, they flake out on me.

They have plans or homework or say maybe and then just never show up. Some even go to the trouble of contacting me AND making plans only to repeatedly break them.

So I'm fine to talk to when I'm the only other person online, and Facebook comment and text when you're all bored, but when I'm feeling lonely and want to actually make human contact with you Fair Weather Douchebags, you can't pencil me in? Awesome. The only people that want to see me are my boyfriend or are related to me.

So I'm cancelling bar night. Because I don't want another repeat of my 14th birthday where only one person showed up and could only stay for a half an hour.

You guys can go to Hell.

Love,
Katie

*Please note that I didn't mean to generalize. Some people are out of town (i.e. Jen) and excused.

LEAVE BRITNEY ALOOOOOOOONE!

If thinking that Britney's hacked Twitter account is funny, I don't wanna be right.

Love,

Katie

P.S. Yes, I follow Britney on Twitter.

When Even An Apple A Day Won't Save You

I had my first Girly Doctor appointment yesterday. Yes, yesterday was the die...er, day. Freudian slip. What a feast for the senses that was!

There were cold things, wet things, clanky things, chemically-smelling things. Everything I dreamed and more.

I got there early because apparently, I needed extra time to obsess and FREAK THE EFF OUT. Seriously. I know I had that deer in headlights look about me because as soon as I walked in the place, the lady at the desk was all, "You've never been here before, have you?" So I filled out all the personal questions on the paperwork and tried to calm myself down by reading short stories on the Kindle app of my iTouch while I waited. Newsflash: It did not work.

Desk Lady finally calls me back and weighs me and Jesus Tapdancing Christ, I gained 10 pounds since the last time I weighed myself (I don't remember the exact date, but it's been a few months, okay?) so ha-fucking-HA! to my boyfriend who insisted that I wasn't getting fat. I win, Corey! I. WIN! Except really, nobody wins. Because I am still fat.

Anyway, they take my blood pressure and I'm so nervous that Desk Lady tells me it's abnormally high. DUH! And then she's all, "Get completely undressed and put on this tissue paper vest thing making sure that the openpart goes in the front so you totally look like Fat Pasty Aladdin with an estrogen issue. It's not long enough to cover your doughy ass, so for modesty purposes here's this sheet made out of paper towels." That may not be exactly what she said. I was nervous and shit gets hazy.

So I took my time changing. I folded each item of clothing. I considered wearing my hoodie over the vest thing under the guise of being cold. I hid my understuff between my skirt and sweater (because nobody needed to know that I mismatched). And while I was taking part in this shenanigans, Doctor Lady totally knocked and then opened the door....and then quickly shut it.

And all I could say was, "Uh....I'm almost..uh ready."

Then I sat down on the paper-covered table (Doctors' offices are single-handedly killing the rain forests with their paper consumption, yo.), pulled my Bounty blanket over my lap, folded my arms and sat. For a long time before Doctor Lady finally got up the courage to come back.

Maybe I cried a little. Maybe just a little. Because I was scared. Whatever, you don't know me!

Doctor Lady finally comes back in and asks a few questions and punches me in the chest a bit to make sure I don't have The Cancer, which I don't (bonus!) and before I know it she's all, "Put your feet in these thingies which are like, a mile away from where your feet end when you are lying on this table because you're so effing short." I had to scoot wayyyyy down, y'all.

So then Doctor Lady starts making all kinds of noise down there. Metallic noises. Like she was making chain mail or something. And I get curious and look down to see what she's doing and she's holding something that looks like the trigger of a caulk gun. And she tells me I'm gonna feel some pressure.

Pressure? Pressure does not accurately describe what I felt. What I felt was more like...cold and...pinchy and...ohmygod I have to pee like RIGHTNOW!

But all in all, Doctor Lady was quick and nice and smelled like Katie (Light Blue by Dolce and Gabbana) so I guess my experience wasn't all that bad after all.

Plus, she gave me Motrin 800 (What are the odds? Four days after I take myself off Motrin 800 because my hip is feeling better!), Vicodin (not sharing) and Birth Control so I don't get ungodlyexcruciatingdebilitating cramps!

Or, you know, babies.

Love,
Katie

Let Me Slip Into Something A Little More Uncomfortable

Internet, we have a few brief things to discuss and I will let you out early (Sidenote: That is my most favorite sentence in the entire world to hear from my professors.). I'm about to make you reallllllllly uncomfortable. Enter at your own risk.

First off: Summer. I miss it. I know, I know. I bitched and moaned and lamented and wondered when oh when fall would start. But you know what? I miss tank tops and shorts and sunshine and Slurpees. I do. Summer, I am sorry I doubted you.

Second: Why does everyone always think I'm pregnant? One mention of a craving or a stomach ache or, "I have to tell you something" and everyone's all OHEMGEE do we need to make a drug store trip? I will totally go with you and guard the door to the public bathroom while you pee on stuff. Do you people have like, a checklist or something you go through?

Has to tell me something? Check!
Stomach ache (regardless of whether or not it's in the AM)? Check!
Random craving for Swedish Fish? Check!
Cranky? Check!
Cries for no reason? Check!
Big, squishy gut? Double check!
Period? Doesn't matter, it's probably spotting.

Seriously, people. Too much I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. These traits? These are my normal everyday traits. I have a weak stomach and am lactose intolerant. Maybe someday (80 bazillion years from now) when I AM pregnant, I will feel tip-top, eat a healthy, balanced diet and will have total control over my emotions. Then you'll know what's up and you can be there when I accidentally give birth in the bathroom.

Third: Doctor's appointment is Monday and quickly approaching. I am reaching panic mode. Do I get there early? Do I bring my iPod to drown out the scary/uncomfortable? Do I participate in No Shave November (TMI? Don't care.)? Do I talk to her? Do I stay silent like I'm at the Dentist? Do I refrain from making echoing noises when she's down there? Do I wear body glitter? Do I draw a face and do a ventriloquist act? Do I tell her to buy me dinner first? WHAT DO I DO?!* I'm thisclose to just cancelling the appointment altogether. That is how afraid I am.

Alright, Internet. I'm glad we had this talk. You're dismissed.

Love,
Katie

* Note to self: Refrain from making pregnant jokes as with x-ray technician.

So 16-Year-Old Boy With A Cheesy Mustache

I'm ridiculous. I don't even need to say that for you to know that I am ridiculous. I may as well say, "the sky is blue," or, "grass is green, " or, "Lady Gaga is a dude," and it would be less obvious and unnecessary than telling you how ridiculous I am.

Case in point: I think I am funny. Scratch that; I think I'm hilarious (a sentiment not shared by...pretty much anyone). And I laugh at my own jokes all the time. Even in my dreams.

So last night, I'm sleeping (No, really?!) and I have this crazy dream where I'm on a competitive rowing team with my mom, my dad (who are divorced, FYI), my brother, my sister and two guys that show up named Luke and Marcus. Why are they names Luke and Marcus? I don't know. Ask my subconscious.

Anyway, my brother keeps making gay jokes about Luke and Marcus and I'm all, "Patrick, stop it! They're going to hear you."

But he is carrying on and on and finally my dad goes all Father Brady and says, "You know son, the exit road works in both directions." (It's my dream, so OF COURSE it's the perfect set-up.)

And what do I do? I say, "Apparently!" and then crack up laughing SO hard at my own dream gay joke that I wake myself up.

Oh my God. I'm going to Hell.

I'm sorry Gay Rights Activists! I wear a White Knot on my purse that goes with me everywhere! The Birdcage is my favorite movie! The best concert I ever went to was an Indigo Girls concert! I think Clay Aiken and Lance Bass are...well, okay I still don't like them all that much. And Perez Hilton is a complete and utter douchebag...But Ellen! She's awesome! And Neil Patrick Harris! And Melissa Etheridge! And OHEMGEE Nathan Lane is adorable! AND SHAME ON YOU IF YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT GEORGE MICHAEL!

Gay people are just people. And luckily, most of us people can laugh at ourselves. Especially me.

Because in my case, if I don't laugh at myself, who else is going to?

Love,
Katie

I Don't Like To Brag (Total Lie)

But I totally rock at Halloween costumes. I started young.

At 14, I was a SUPERSTAR!

A few years later... Step 1: Cut a hole in a boxLast year I had Faith.

And this year? Well, let's just say...Bears...Ditka...Polish sausage...Ditka

Happy Belated Halloween!

Love,
Katie

I Am The Walrus

Goo goo g'joob. Seriously.

Internet, my days of freedom are numbered. And by, "freedom " I mean, "eating lots and lots of junk and then laying around" as well as, "skipping the gym for MONTHS at a time because I'd rather lay around with my boyfriend." As a result (of this as well as normal PMS and salt-induced bloating), I'm starting to look like this:

Or this:

Or even this:
I am squishy and jiggly and every now and then, I remind myself of something Jen Kober said to a boy in the front row when she came to perform for us in East Vandenberg at Oakland University: "Ever been with a fat girl, Ryan*? You'll love it! Everything feels like a titty!" Something's gotta give.

Plus, my boyfriend is a teenage girl in a 21-year-old guy's body and all day every day I have to listen to him wallow in body image issues: "Oh, I'm so fat and I used to be so cute in high school, " and, "Back when I was skinny..." Dude, I already get enough of that from my eating disorder-ridden friend, Rachel. Enough.

So this Saturday, Corey and I are going to El Gymo and getting him a membership so that we can go together (if motivation allows) and we're gonna try a little harder to not eat so many delicious, salty, sweet, greasy, delicious....where was I? Um, things.

I even downloaded the Lose It App for my iPod Touch and started back up with my rule about not drinking regular pop (soda for you tools that say it wrong) on the weekdays that somewhere a few months ago got lost and forgotten.

Bottom line: I'm a Fatty-fat-fat Fat Kid and it needs to stop. Not skinny, just healthier.

However, Saturday is still three days away. Three greasy, lazy, delicious days away. Ba-da-ba-ba-baaaaa! I'm lovin' it!

Love,

Katie

*I made the name up because I don't remember it. Sue me. But don't, really. I'm poor.

Halloween

Well, Internet. Unless you've been living the past 24 years trapped in a basement dungeon giving birth to children fathered by your own father (What? Too soon?), you know that this Saturday is Halloween.

(Also, it is my brother's 19th birthday. Yay, Pig!)

And, I just wanted to bring to everyone's attention that I have not yet been invited to any Halloween parties. Or I at least haven't received my invitations yet.

Facebook must be broken. Or the mailman died. Or you don't have my email address. Here, I'll give it to you: dryerboyssis4123@netscape.net

That must be it. Because I know y'all want me at your parties with my flabby thighs poking out the bottom of a Slutty Viking Costume!

But actually, I am not telling you about my costume, Internet.

Not until you apologize....or until I have pictures to go along with it.

Love,

Katie

MST3K Hobgoblins by Kels

Oh how smart I look in MY SISTER'S glasses that I STOLE!

"Oh the show's starting, yayyyyy!"

"Turn on your baby-minder!"

"You and your stinkin' kindness can go to Hell!"

"My beautiful dream from my childhood of exploding another human being!"

"You just made me laugh out loud in a quiet classroom. Thanks."

"I just did the same at the tire place, so don't even talk to me about that."

"Now I look like a weirdo."

Love,

Katie

P.S. MST3K Hobgoblins. Check it out. It rocks.

The D, The OB/GYN, and All Sorts of Other Acronyms

With a title like that, I'm sure you have high expectations. I hope not to disappoint.

Last night, on the way to a The Hounds Below concert, Corey and I hit a BIG-ASS POTHOLE thanks to the oh-so well-maintained City of Detroit. Why, thank you, City Council! While you are busy fighting billboards for local radio stations and cheap beer, your city is a fast-deteriorating ghetto with derelict buildings, disobeyed traffic laws and crumbling roads that make people's tires all flat and junk. (By the way, check out the horrendous reporting on that 89X billboard article. Quoting Facebook? Are you kidding me?)

Luckily, with the help of the dude in the parking garage at the Detroit Institute of Arts (Thanks again for the screwdriver, buddy! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!), a very helpful black Michigan State graduate couple (and the woman's father over the phone), a dude with a well-stocked toolbox that was fixing his own tire after hitting the very same Godforsaken pothole, and even a drunken homeless guy that tried to remove the imaginary lugnuts (that we'd already removed), we fixed it....but we missed the whole show.

An extra thanks goes out to all the snooty white people leaving the DIA that drove past us as we struggled, my dad who called to berate me and remind me how dangerous Detroit is at night as I tried to explain what was happening, my mom for not leaving the concert to bother helping us, but still proceeding to call every five effing seconds (just enough to harrass and hinder us in our efforts), aaaaand the Detroit City Police who told us to call AAA for a tow truck. For a flat tire. Seriously.

Anyway, the invisible-until-it's-too-late pohole is located in the left lane Southbound on Woodward Avenue between Palmore and Ferris and it is a fucking doozy, so be careful out there, people.

I made my first appointment for the Girly Doctor the other day and there are people out there yelling at me, "It's about damn time! I'm pretty sure if you waited just a little longer, your uterus would implode!" Seriously, people act like if I feel fine, but I don't go see an expert to tell me that I'm fine, I have some hidden, symptom-less, life-threatening disease.

Please, people. My STD slate is clean.

The only reason I've finally broken down after four years of denying strangers' hands up in my business (Sounds pretty logical when I say it that way, huh? Doesn't seem like I am at all unreasonable. WHO'S BEING A BABY NOW?) is that my cramps are debilitating. My lower abdomen is crying--nay--SCREAMING, "Uncle!" and I am waving my white flag.

Fine lady, put on your rubber gloves and knock yourself out. Just don't prescribe me Yaz because heart disease already runs in my family.Oh, and Breast Cancer. And Diabetes. And ADHD. Fuck! Maybe I should have gone in sooner.

Oh well, too late now.

Anyway, any girl I talk to is all, "Oh, it's really not that bad. It's not the most comfortable thing ever, but it's not that bad." Seriously, like three women have said that to me. Verbatim. But you know what? I'm still petrified that it IS that bad. How can somebody sticking their hands all up inside you be good?...Don't answer that.

I'm just afraid it's going to end like this (click the picture, genius):

So here's the deal, lady. I'll answer your questions (Last period? Sometime last month, lady. I don't keep much track. Smoke? Once. It hurt my throat and I coughed and everyone made fun of me so I never did it again. Oh, you mean regularly? No. Sexually active? Lady, these questions are getting a little personal, here. How about you tell me something about yourself so we can get to know eachother first. Sexually active? ...Yes. God, lady! How do you do it? I just wanna tell my life to you! I...I wanna spend my life with you. Oh, you're kicking me out? Okay, see ya!), you'll write down your notes so you and the nurses can giggle later, you'll give me drugs, and you keep your hands where I can see them as long as you possibly can. Let's keep the touching minimal unless you're buying me dinner first.

Then, we'll talk.

Love,
Katie

Feelings

Unfortunately, I have them. Major inconvenience.

But yeah.

Now, I realize that my recent posts have been few and far between as well as rant-y and smad. But seriously, people have been super-sucky lately.

From Matt (Yeah, I said his name because I'm sick of his shit and I no longer feel like protecting his identity. I'm calling you out, DOUCHEBAG!) telling the entire softball team that I was, "starting shit" and that he, "bitched Corey out" when what really happened was that he got cranky, told Corey to, "get [his] shit together before [he] get[s there] next time," and sent me a bitchy text that said, "Thanks for calling Corey and making me go home. It made for a lovely evening," to people that claim to be friends leaving me alone when I need them most, I've not been having the best time.

Plus, I'm worried about seeing a doctor before my liver explodes from taking Motrin EVERY SINGLE DAY, and work has been stressful, and I REALLY hate Accounting. Like, really.

And why? Why do I have to care about other people's feelings when they don't care about mine? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Yeah, that's all fine and good. EXCEPT that you can be as nice and pleasant to everyone as you can be and they might still treat you like you're nothing.

And my friends have been doing exactly that.

They ignore my calls and texts and don't call me back. And if they do? Oh, it's at some ungodly hour of the night when they know I'm sleeping for work the next day.

They're mean to me and if I speak up, they tell me I'm being too sensitive. If I say something to them that they don't like, they get mad at me and don't speak to me until I apologize.

And you know how everyone always told you that if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all? My friends ignore that. Seriously. (For example: When I died my hair red, I honestly had one of my friends say, "So, you died your hair red." "Yes, I did." "...Why?" THAT REALLY HAPPENED.

People are rude and inconsiderate, yo.

Listen. I am not one to hold grudges. But seriously, this is a repeat offense and I'm getting smad.

So here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to go to work every day. I'm going to go to school when I have school. I'm going to go home when I don't. And I'm going to hang out with my sister, my mom, my aunt, my Katie, and my boyfriend in my spare time.

Because my family's always there, my Katie is always willing to talk to me or see me and my boyfriend is funny and pretty to look at.

Love,
Katie

P.S. This doesn't apply to ALL of my friends. Just MOST.

What Is This? The Hills?

I like, totally already graduated high school. Obvs.

So why? Dear sweet Baby Jesus, why is there so much drama in my life? (or "dramz," as the kids are calling it these days)

First I've gotta deal with Psycho Ex-Beast Skank trying to meet me (and expecting said meeting to go peacefully, hah!) and now I've got a person that I'm not even friends with mad at me. And do you know why this person is mad?

I called my boyfriend.

I know, right? Gasp shock horror! How do I sleep at night?

The answer: wrapped in a zebra-print Snuggie, beneath a blue polka dot comforter with three Winnie the Pooh plush toys, that's how.

Love,

Katie

In Sickness and In Health

Sorry, Internet. I think I may have lost my cool in yesterday's Tila Tequila Wannabe-Induced Madness. Internet, I apologize. Not to her, mind you. But you guys? You guys are cool.

Anyway, I haven't been updating much lately due to laziness and illness, but mostly laziness.

Speaking of illness: WTF, People? A girl can't even be sick anymore without getting harrassed and harangued. Everyone's all, "Ooh, you're 21 now! Been hitting the bottle a little too hard, eh? Heh heh heh." or, "Get away from me with your pork flu! I don't need none of that!" or, "You feel sick? Your FACE makes ME sick! Hahahahaha!"

And I'm about to be all, "I don't have Swine Flu and I'm not a giant lush, my girly parts just HATE ME! Come back to me when your intestines feel like they're trying to escape your lower abdomen and you start to believe that you are in labor with ROSEMARY'S BABY."

I need an old priest and a young priest, yo.

Plus, Corey's totally got a Man Cold and I have to sit around so that every few minutes I can tell him that yes, his forehead is warm and yes, he can wear my Snuggie.

It's ridiculous.

Tonight is gonna totally rock, though because we are going to the Laundromat and getting takeout and y'all know how I feel about doing laundry and if you don't, I LOVE IT. No, seriously I'm super-excited.

I mean, this is just one step closer to a clean room which I haven't seen the likes of since my high school grad party in '06. We're not hoping for sterile, we're just looking for the floor. Because I totally know there's one under there somewhere beneath all the things that break when I step on them causing me to scream and swear and hop around on one foot.

But yeah. Um. The End.

Love,

Katie

With My Spear and Magic Helmet

That's how I'm going to kill the wabbit. Or in this case, the stupid whore.

Because, I mean, you'd have to be stupid to believe for a SECOND that this is okay.

Let me clear this up for you, Skankface:

1. It is NOT okay for a girl that is skinnier and prettier than me that looks like an Filipino prostitute/porn star to Facebook my boyfriend.
2. It is NOT okay for a girl that has previously dated my boyfriend to contact my boyfriend.
3. It is ESPECIALLY NOT okay for a girl that has slept with my boyfriend to contact my boyfriend.
4. Lastly, it is NOT okay for you to try to get my boyfriend to bring me with him to meet you and double date with his cousin.

Bitch, I don't want to meet you! Are you crazy? The thought of you alone makes me so angry I get sick.

Now, if you wanna sleep with Jay, go ahead. I am not stopping you. Get your skank on, I don't care.

But you are not allowed to talk to, Facebook, speak the name of, look at, or contact IN ANY WAY my boyfriend (your ex-boyfriend). You will never see him again if I have anything to do with it. And I don't want to see you ever.

Irrational? Jealous? Mean? Sure. I am being all of those things. But I don't care because THIS IS NOT OKAY.

Please die a slow, painful, STD-related death. Thanks, and have a lovely day.

Love,

Katie

P.S. Fuck off.

How to Win an Argument

"You were drunk last night."

"I was fine last night."

"Yeah right. You laid down on the bed and told me you would put the stuff away in a few minutes. Then you fell asleep."

"Whatever. It didn't affect me."

"You had like, three hurricanes. "

"I was fine."

"You tried to do the Stanky Legg."

"...Touche."

Love,
Katie

Tropical Devastation

Last night we went to dinner. We gorged ourselves on sushi and gyoza. And because I could, I ordered a drink.

I was all, "Ooh. A hurricane. I've heard of that!" All innocent and pinkish-orange sunset colored. Oh. My. God. That single pinkish-orange, innocent, grapefruit juice-tasting drink? Knocked me on my ass.

I'm such a lightweight loser.

By the time I (over)paid the bill and was ready to leave, I almost fell off the stool at the sushi bar. Then, I giggled all the way to the car. Which caused a case of hiccups that made me giggle more. It was a vicious cycle.

A vicious cycle, in fact, that lasted around 15 minutes. Apparently, it was 15 minutes too long for Corey who decided he was going to scare the hiccups out of me.

Biggest mistake of his life.

Mid-sentence, he turned from the driver's seat of my car and shouted, "BAHHHHHHHHHH!" to which I responded, "AAUUUUUUURGHHHHHHHHHHHH!" with my arms thrown up into the air.

And then I started to cry. Like, really cry. Sobs and waterworks and reaching for napkins and laughing from Corey which totally made me cry harder.

And today I'm all, "Dude, can we do that again?"

Love,
Katie

The Closest to Sentimental You May Ever See Me Get

You should probably close the browser window right now. Seriously. It's about to get reeeeeal gross and mushy up in this blog.

Anyway.

Six months ago today, I was standing outside my car shivering in the dark. I knew I should be on my way home because it was totally late on a Wednesday which is totally a work night. Okay, maybe it was 9:00.

But I wasn't leaving yet.

I was scared and nauseous and worried that what I was about to do would be one of the stupidest things I'd ever done. If I went through with this stupid plan, I was inevitably going to hurt myself.

But whatever. I'm a risk-taker. I'm young. I'll recover.

So I did it. And I was so nervous that I thought I'd be funny and GAWD it was awkward. Especially when I had to repeat myself because I hadn't been clear:

"So, are you gonna be my girlfriend yet, or what?"

And he laughed. Thank God. Then he said he would.

That was it. I knew I was done for. Because this boy was leaving in less than two months for basic training. And I would be heartbroken when he left and lonely while he was gone. And life was going to suck balls.

Then, a few weeks later he told me: He was staying. And he called his recruiter and told her the deal was off.

And now here we are six months later.

Sometimes we hate each other. Sometimes he drives me crazy and stresses me out. Sometimes I wish he would stop singing (if you can call it singing) my name into songs. Sometimes he deserves (and receives) a smack to the face.

But he still makes me laugh. He still makes me feel better when stuff totally sucks. He's still one of the best friends I've ever had.

And I still love that idiot who stayed home from the Army for me. As stupid as it is.


Love,
Katie

Whatever, Facebook Quiz!

You don't know me!

Seriously. Last night on my way home from Julio's (and his hair) class, I called Corey. And we spent the entire 30-some minute drive home on the phone as he took Facebook quizzes with my answers.

Which totally makes him a good boyfriend. Because he humored me as I learned what kind of beer I am and what kind of uncommon fruit I would be and even what kind of parent I will be (based upon four obviously well-thought out questions) through quizzes obviously developed by 14-year-old British girls*.

But yeah, I took one quiz to find out what swear word I would be and all the choices for each question were all violent and scary except for one each that was all sweet and goody-two-shoes and of course I'm gonna choose lame in lieu of MOTHERFUCKING KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS BECAUSE YOU MAKE HULK ANGRY.

And guess what my swear word was:

Damnit. It was damnit.

Really? That's it. I mean, I don't even use that word very often. You may as well have given me, "Oh fudge!" or like, "Dangit!" or, "Sugarsticks!" How lame is that?

I want something worse. Something vulgar. Something fun to say.

I deserve better.

Damnit!

Love,
Katie

*based on words like "mates" and "mum" and misspelling and ridiculous questions in the How Slutty Are You? quiz such as, "How far have you gone? a. eeewww grossssss! b. i wOuLdnt' DO tHaT! My MuM wOulD find Outtt! c. all teh way d. kissing."

C'mon! Any girl over the age of 18 will look like a dirty, dirty whore taking that quiz! I was destined to get the Skanky Skank Skank-Skank result.

Open Letter to The Internet

Dear Internet,

I apologize for my sucky posts lately. I seem to have lost my touch.

And I don't want to make excuses, but I've just been so stressed and strained and angry and sad about so many things and constant nightmares and sleeplessness and completely douchebaggy people that I wasn't there 100% when I wrote them.

I'm sorry, Internet. I did not give you my all.

And even last night on the phone with Corey, he said, "I see you have a new blog post." and I said, "Yep." and he said, "Not your best work." and I said, "Suck it, Douchebag."

But I knew he spoke the truth. So Internet, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've been emotionally distant lately and I swear I still love you and there's not another Internet out there. It's all you. It's always been you, baby.

I just...need some time to myself. To think.

I need sleep.

I need inspiration.

I need a cocktail. With like, one of those little umbrellas that I can play with when I get all giggly.

Love,
Katie

I Don't Speak Spanish, Japanese or French

But the way your body's talkin' definitely makes sense.

Yo, Jesse McCartney and T Pain. I know your new single, "Body Language" is awesome and busy getting stuck in my head. And Imma let you finish, but just so you know: RICK ASTLEY HAD THE GREATEST EAR WORM OF ALL TIME!

I'm sorry. I had to.

Moving on, then.

So yesterday, I woke up to six missed calls from my house. Six. All from around midnight. Along with a text message from Kels:

"Get the fuck home. She's pissing me off! - That's what mom said"

Seriously? I had been sleeping for two hours. In my bed. At my house. The one from which my mom called me. The one at which I had said, "Goodnight" to said mom when I arrived home around 9:40ish. The one in front of which, my car was parked in plain sight on the driveway.

Whatever, Mom.

So then I went back to sleep because I had a headache and nausea (due to either a cold or allergies) and had a dream that I was at Target with a headache and nausea and I couldn't buy anything because I don't get paid until tomorrow. Plus, the Ex-Limp Noodle showed up and was having lively conversations with my mom.

I can't even catch a break in my dreams. I mean, even last night I dreamed I was gonna be in Jesse McCartney's music video. Except I didn't know the dances and we were right about to start filming and I was holding beef jerky. So weird.

By the way, I'm pretty sure I will make a terrible parent because I totally suck at remembering kids are like, in the room. And either I say something and they ask me what it is or someone else says something and I don't even notice the child's presence to protect their virgin ears.

Case in point: Corey's little brother, Casey whom you might remember from my Kids Say the Darndest Things post.

Well, the other night I'm at Corey's hanging out with him and his cousin, Jason who's telling me a story about an ugly girl which started with a story about ugly strippers. Yeah.

Basically, his friend had shown him a picture the chick had sent to his phone of her, "below parts" (as Jay put it: obviously a classy broad), and Jay liked what he saw, so he stole her number and proceeded to text her. And he chick (still classy as ever) started sending Jay pictures. Except they were of her face.

And chick was hit. We're talking like, Fergie after meth hit. Plus she was grotesquely skinny.
And then ohmygod, I think I still have the pictures on my phone, hang on happens and long story short, he is shoving his phone in my face going, "Look! She's disgusting and skinny!" and I'm all, "Awesome, Jay. Yes, I can see it. Yes, her ass is bony and gross. Please take your phone out of my eyeball. Thanks."

Anyway, he leaps up off the bed in a fit of excitement over the UGLY! LOOK AT THE UGLY! and says, (Remember: His words, not mine.) "She's the kinda girl where you penetrate her (he seriously said penetrate) and you can see it on the outside!"

Then, he starts to pantomime.

He puts up three fingers on his right hand and thrusts them upward (I'm not gonna explain if you don't already know what I'm talking about.) and goes, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Suddenly, from atop the bed a tiny voice shouts excitedly, "THREE!"

Ohmygod. Casey. Hi, yeah. Jay was just telling a math story, yeah. Good job! He is holding up three fingers, yes. Now go upstairs and don't tell your parents what he said.

And then Jay high-fived him.

Internet, this is my life.

Love,
Katie

Oversharing

Guilty as charged.

I am the oversharer to end all oversharing. And my friends are just as bad. I mean, I have had to endure gruesomely-detailed sex stories, phone calls to the carpet cleaning service about "hard vegetables" and colostomy bag mishaps, and even tales that began with, "Katie, I apologize ahead of time that you have to be here for this, but...Hey, Chris: Have you ever sat on your balls?!"

I tell the internet my every move whether it be through this blog, Facebook status or just a public post to another one of my friends.

It's sick, it's wrong, but I don't care. It will not end anytime soon, so suck it up, Internet. Get used to it.

You will, from time to time, be exposed to TMI on this blog.

For example, I accidentally put three blue shirts in with my laundry again. And now a large majority of my underwear is blue.

And now when you all see me, you will be thinking of my blue underwear.

And you won't be able to pretend it's not totally hot.

And I will know you will be thinking about it. And you will know I know.

And it will be awkward for you.

And I wont even care.

Love,
Katie

Happy 21st Birthday to Me

Love,
Katie

My First Promotion

"Yeah, but you know what your degree is for. You wanna be a cop so you have a criminal justice degree. And you know what career you have ahead of you. I wanna be a chef, but there isn't a BA for that."

"You have a long career ahead of you too...a long career of loving me! And you're up for your first promotion!"

"What's my first promotion?"

"I actually don't know. Honestly, I've just been pulling stuff out of my ass for the last half hour."

Love,
Katie

Sweet Dreams Are Made of Cheese

I totally have a shirt that says that. My dad got it for me for Christmas and every time I wear it, someone inevitably breaks out into a Eurythimics sing/hum/dance fest. Similar to my New Kids On The Block t-shirt that ironically makes people burst into LFO's "Summer Girls" and not at all NKOTB songs.

Anyway.

I totally had this dream the other night where I was in some kind of warehouse store (like Sam's Club) and had to pee. So I asked one of the employees where it was and they were all, "Oh, George can show you."

And it was George Clooney. Seriously. And the whole time he was walking me around the warehouse with a bathroom key, I kept telling him how jealous my mom would be.

And then suddenly George Clooney (who at this point had started to morph into John Mellancamp) and Kels followed me into the bathroom and I kept telling them that I couldn't pee when they were watching and that I had dreams like this all the time where I couldn't pee because there was no stall door, or it was a communal bathroom or someone was with me watching. Which I totally do. All the time. And it was crazy to remember other dreams within this dream.

Then, we ordered Thai food. And I did not pee.

And then I was standing on the porch of my house in Grosse Point and apparently looked too hard at a guy that drove by because he ducked into his car and came out with a gun and took three shots at me. And I could see the bullets coming at me in slow motion like I was Keanu Reeves and I screamed, "DADDY!" and leapt to the ground.

The bullets skimmed over me and I got up and ran to my dad, an enormous black man getting into his SUV.

And then I woke up.

It was weird. Plus, I'm probably forgetting parts because dreams get hazy after a few days and I've been busy.

Either way, I thought it was worth sharing. When I woke up the other day and was still half-asleep.

I now know I was wrong.

Love,
Katie

The Times, They Are A-Changin'

And I'm ready to change with them.

Birthdays are the real New Years. I mean, I did not begin my first year on January 1, 1988. I began it on September 16th. So now is the time that I'm going to make my resolutions.

Now is my time for change.

I need a new iPod (Still too soon.), a new phone (Because I'm tired of paying AT&T's rates for no extra features. Plus, the back is falling off my phone. I'm looking at Verizon.), and I'd like to get a netbook: Simply because I LOVE NEW TOYS! And birthdays have always been the time for new toys. Why stop with the toys just because you're a grown-up?

I want to get my tattoo this year: Dee reminded me about it when she got her new one done and she gave me a card for a place that hand-draws anything you want. Plus, hers looks SO GOOD.

I need to go to doctors: I need to go to the Long-Procrastinated and Dreaded Girly Part Doctor. My uterus is screaming, "UNCLE!" and I'm tired of getting sick, fat, pimply and weepy every month. I think birth control would stop all that shenanigans and also, as Jess put it, "control the birth." Which is always good.

I also need to go to another doctor, any doctor that can finally stop my poor leg/hip from hurting. I've endured this pain since December 18th and I think it has been long enough. I'm done with taking 800mg of Motrin four times a day. I'm too young for chronic pain. Get back with me when I'm 90 and arthritic.

And I need to do well in school: Gone are the days of skipping class because I didn't do a paper I was supposed to, or because Katie and Rachel missed me or because I simply didn't feel like going. I'm tired of my 2.05 GPA. I'm smart and I can do SO much better.

This year of my life holds so many possibilities. And I want to make it a good one.

Love,

Katie

Under Construction

You may have noticed that we here at I'm Short. I Know This. Let's Move On. are under a bit of construction. A little retooling, redecorating and fighting ruthlessly with HTML coding trying to get things thewayIwantthemdamnit!

As Michael Cera's character in Superbad, Evan once put it, "Life's bullshit, Miroki." That is how I am doing today.

I don't much feel like getting into it, but to summarize: I am nauseous, crampy, tired and dizzy because my parents had a girl. Thanks a lot, Mom. Were the pink fluffy dresses you got to buy worth it?

My car was egged over the weekend resulting in chipped paint on Chance's (My '06 Chevy Cobalt LT and Love of My Life) driver's side. Not to mention someone keyed my hood.

My iPod? Well, scroll down a bit to see the picture. It's still too raw and painful to talk about. Too soon.

I dropped my phone on Saturday when Molly tried to climb me and broke one of the clips inside that holds the back on, so it's loose and it's always fun to try to hold a conversation with the Financial Aid Office at school whilst worrying about the battery popping out at any moment.

My eyes are puffy because I spent the night crying. Because my hormones run my life and everything in said life appears to be going wrong all at once. Plus, my sister took my laundry out of the dryer and put it in with dirty clothes...and that SO seemed like something to cry about last night. Anyway...

I start school on Thursday. I am registered for two classes and waitlisted for one. The waitlisted class is on Monday, but the semester starts tomorrow. So I will go to class Thursday, and then on Monday, I will find out if I'm getting into the waitlisted class. If I do, I may drop my Thursday class and just have class on Mondays.

And please someone remind me to send in my financial aid worksheets tonight so that I can afford said classes!

This week is a nightmare and it's only Tuesday.

I need a hug.

Love,
Katie

Heartbreak

Things I Would Like to Buy Me For My Birthday

My 21st Birthday is 12 days from today. There shall be lots of red wine in my future.

And I do not like gifts. I mean, I do, but I don't. I'm more of the, "You shouldn't have!" kinda girl. I feel guilty when people get me stuff.

I don't, however, feel guilty buying myself presents. Therefore, I present to you lovely people of The Internet:

Things I Would Like to Buy Me For My Birthday

1. An Asus 7" Eee 8GB PC Netbook with Windows XPI adore Herman (my Dell 1520 Inspiron Laptop). I really do. But the fella is just a tad too big to lug around in my backpack at school. If Herman comes to school, Lord help me if I need my book in class that night because dude barely fits in my backpack alone, nevermind with a book or binder or something. Plus, they're cheaper on Target.com and I have a Target card and could pay it off in increments.



2. A Leopard Print Snuggie
   Mock as you will, but as stupid as they are, I can't help but want a Snuggie. Maybe it is my gullibility or my affinity for falling for nearly every advertising campaign (WHAT? Goldfish Crackers that are RAINBOW? They cost how much more? But...RAINBOW!), but I feel like I need one. Plus, now they come in "designer" styles. And leopard print takes me back to my Spice Girl days. You know, when I thought I was one. (I really have to scan the picture of fat, little, blonde me with knobs on the front of my head a la Scary Spice.) And who can turn down a free booklight? (Especially after the blackout of 2009!) C'mon! P.S. They also now come in dog sizes and sports team logos. AWESOME.



3. A Nice Corkscrew and Wine Glasses
   Because I plan on some wine in my future. And it just looks ghetto when you drink aged Merlot out of a Winnie the Pooh coffee mug.



4. A Day Off
   Between working overtime and driving back and forth to everyone else's house, I am becoming exhausted. Plus, I now start school on the 14th (More on that later.) and I need a break. I'm taking two days off work: my birthday and the day after so that I can get a real pedicure (first one in at least a year and a half), go shopping alone (My sister hates, "watching [me] shop" and when I, "tell [my] life story" to cashiers and salesgirls.) and maybe even take me out for sushi. I love you people dearly, but I need a few hours to myself.

I mean, World Peace would be nice too.

I'm not picky.

Love,

Katie

A Love Story

Picture it:

A girl.

Her iPod.

Her dad fixing the iPod.

The hope and promise that soon the girl and her iPod would be together again sharing in the beauty that is R. Kelly's "Remix to Ignition."

Yeah, I was that girl once.

And then last night it all came crashing down when my dad called me (while Corey and I were running the track at East Detroit High School and I had to rush to unzip the phone from the pocket in the back of my stretchy running capris [nice visual, no?] all out of breath and trying to stop Hannah Montana's "Rockstar" from blaring so effing loud it could summon preteen girls from miles around) and told me the news: He couldn't fix it.

And I almost cried right there on the track. I was already close to tears because running the track makes you feel like a big fat kid when you realize that you can't even do the half mile straight after skipping out on El Gymo for a month. But still, it was like, real sad.

But today I got the iPod back from my dad.

I dipped a Q-tip in acetone (of which we have a large jug in the garage for some reason. I don't know. Ask my brother.) and stuck it into the audio port to dissolve the Superglue.

Some cotton stayed when I pulled the Q-tip out and so I grabbed a toothpick and scraped it out.

Just then, I felt the piece of metal move. OH MY GOD, IT MOVED!

So I reached in, and pulled it out! IT CAME OUT!!!!

And I danced around, piece of metal in hand screaming, "YES YES YES!" like I was in an Herbal Essences commercial!

And then I woke up.

Goddamnit.

Love,

Katie

A Text Conversation Between Katies

K1: "Michelle Duggar is pregnant with her 19th child. This fuckery needs to stop."

K2: "Holy cow! Sex with her must be like throwing a hot dog into a sewer pipe."

K1: "Haha dude from dlisted.com keeps talking about kids cartwheeling out of her cavernous vagina."

K2: "Sounds about right. Bet she has a trampoline stored in there too."

K1: "They need to stop fucking. The world is running out of names that start with J."

K2: "Or he just needs to get snipped. Either way."

K1: "Or at least wrap it up."

K2: "Maybe his sperm is so strong it could break through latex."

K1: "Maybe!"

Love,

Katie

I Got A Question: Why They Hatin' On Me?

I ain't did nothing to 'em, but count this money.

And I'm sorry I had to quote Soulja Boy. But seriously. My neighbors are douchebags. And all we ever did was live near them

And we didn't call the cops when their middle son would get off his meds and rampage around the neighborhood like a tubby 12-year-old Aryan Edward Scissorhands.

And when their oldest son had to move back home because he lost his license after too many DUIs? We turned the other cheek.

And yet, every year they call The City on us for one thing or another. This is actually the second time this year as they called in the winter after Molly (The Black Lab of Doom) brought a bunch of pop cans and bottles into the backyard...and then the snow melted.

Welcome to my neighborhood.

Whatever, asshats.

So yeah, my mom, Corey and I spent Saturday afternoon with a chainsaw and a ladder dismembering the trees in our backyard so that nary a twig hung into Their Yard.

And I got sawdust in my underwear.

Not cool.

Plus, a piece of the audio jack on my radio transmitter for my iPod broke inside the iPod's audio port on Tuesday evening. And I have been lamenting about it all week on Twitter and Facebook, and OH it is sad.

And like, seriously, there had been NOTHING on the radio since I haven't been able to use it.

The most frustrating thing about it, is that it works perfectly except for the not-being-able-to-plug-anything-into-it thing.

And someone (not naming any names, Eric) got Superglue in it (long story) and I do not have the tools, the knowledge, nor the logical sense to get the piece out.

Except now, My Dad the Electrical Engineer has it and is going to fix it (since he already got a piece of it out last night and is working on trying to open the casing with a guitar pick) and soon enough I will once again be in my car blasting my iPod on shuffle mode belting out George Michael's "I Want Your Sex" while running out to grab a Slurpee.

Sex is natural, sex is good

Not everybody does it

But everybody shouuuuuuuuuuuld

I'm so excited.

Love,
Katie

Fashion by Kels

Me: "Why are you ironing a purple silk blouse to wear at Org Day?"
(The equivalent of ironing a purple silk blouse to wear at the gym.)

Kels: "I like it."

Me: "Whatever, you're gonna get it all sweaty and dirty. The rest of us are gonna be wearing t-shirts."

Kels: "I wear t-shirts... When I'm not leaving the house."

Love,
Katie

Blogging by Kels

Kels: "Hey, do any people you don't know read your blog?"

Me: "Some."

Kels: "Are you gonna be like, one of those really famous blog people?"

Me: "I hope so. Then I'd get paid for doing it."

Kels: "And then you're gonna go to Comic Con?"

Me: "Comic Con isn't for bloggers."

Kels: "...Blogicon?"

Me: "There's no such thing. It's Blogher."

Kels: "...What's that?"

Seriously?

Love,
Katie

Stop There and Let Me Correct It

Oh hi, Women's Health Fair table lady. No thank you, I do not have a prostate that needs checking ergo negating the need for me to know how.

No, I don't think the situation will ever arise where I would need to check someone else's either. I cannot be paid enough.

But thank you for the free plastic bandaid and Neosporin kit.

Anyway, I believe I may be coming down with a cold as I am stuffy with a headache and fell asleep around 8:30 PM last night. And the thing is, when I'm sick, all I can focus on is pitying myself and whining and wanting hugs.

Which doesn't mesh well with working. Because I don't think my co-workers are up to cuddling with me.

Perchance I contracted something from all the ADORABLE BABIES at Addison's birthday party. ADORABLE BABIES that my mom did not have a big enough purse to carry out unnoticed. And plus, Corey wouldn't let me have any.

That boy never lets me do anything fun.

Also, I've got "New Perspective" by Panic! At The Disco stuck, nay JAMMED in my brain today. And it's such a good song. Especially because it's so blatantly, unapologetically, deliciously inappropriate as many of their songs tend to be.

My favorite line? "Can we fast-forward to you going down on me?"

I mean, seriously. This is no "Mr. Brightside" (The Killers).

This is no coy play on words:

Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it's all in my head
But she's touching his...chest, now

None of that. No beating around the bush. It's dirty and everyone knows it.

And I like it.

Love,
Katie

Too Many Mutha'uckas Uckin' With My Shi'

My weekly statement shi'.

Seriously. Stupid bank. Which (fingers, toes and internal organs crossed) seems stable for the moment.

Then a store at Birch Run Outlets (at which I bought Corey's birthday present and will not name because the boy is a total blog lurker. Hi, Corey!) charged me twice for a large sum of money.

And homie don't play that. Especially when my account had finally been positive for more than 20 minutes.

So I called the number listed on their website. But that was just the customer service for the website...

And the girl gave me the number for the individual outlet store...

And the girl at the individual outlet store told me to call corporate and gave me that number...

And the operator at corporate gave me the name of and transferred me to "Mary Anne," the "only person that handles the credit portion."...

And I got Mary Anne's voicemail...

And then I called my bank back and they had me make a claim and took it off my account and told me to call immediately if it showed back up....

I am still waiting on a call back from Mary Anne.

Plus, when I got home from work, we had a letter from the city (our second this year, woo!) as we get from time to time because our neighbors are asshats. And we have 8 days to cut down several trees. There go my Saturday plans.

Stupid neighbors. "How many mutha'uckas are too many to kill? Mutha'uckas."

In other news: This morning, my phone started vibrating while someone was talking to me and when I finally got back to it, I had two voicemails. From my half-asleep boyfriend:

"Hey babe, I just had a terrible dream that you cheated on me with Bill Maher or Mah-her or whatever, and I don't know why. But if you did, which I don't think you did because it was in Washington D.C., but if you did, he would have to die. And I don't know what the punishment for you would be, but there would be some harsh punishment. I miss you. Bye."

Followed by:

"Also, during my dream, he said he had a Jew nose, smacked some other girl's ass and you gave him your car. So please don't do that. I hate him. I love you, bye."

Seriously.

And then he called back and asked if I got his messages and went on a tangent about what a "pompous bastard" Bill Maher is.

I told him to get ready for work.

"Okay, but don't rail Bill Maher while I'm gone."
"I won't."
"And we're never going to D.C. ever."
"Okay."
"Not even Vermont which is close. Or probably New York either."
"Get dressed."

Do you see? Do you see what it's like to be me?

Reee-dicul0us.

Love,
Katie

The Most Detail I've Ever Seen on Weather.com...EVER

Had to fight the bank for the 4th day in a row.

We won't get into it.

I won't say it's straightened out because that has been getting me in trouble.

But (knock on wood) everything should be okay soon.

Plus, thunderstorms are badass, Jess's birthday party is tomorrow night, Addison's is on Sunday afternoon, and I'm surrounded by people I love.

Love,
Katie

Update!

I meant that to sound the way it does on Unsolved Mysteries, one of my vices in my younger years. Well yes, I am 20.

I CAN HAVE YOUNGER YEARS, DAMNIT!

Anyway, fought the bank again after work yesterday on the phone. Except I didn't fight this girl because she was awesome and helpful and pleasant and could obviously tell that if she didn't say exactly what I needed to hear, she was going to have to listen to me bawl.

So, since there was still some stuff pending, I had to wait until today to call back and she said they could reverse the fees as a whole so hopefully there will be more than $0.64 in my account by later tonight. And if not, hey, it's not negative.

By the way, we have this giant box of Sugar-Free Popsicles at home (which are SO much better than the sugar ones due to texture reasons) which I'm positive was my sister's idea. Said sister saw me eating one yesterday and apparently tried to hide them.

Seriously, Kels? Seriously?

Popsicles have to be in the freezer. We have two freezers in our house, total. If it's not in the one attached to the refrigerator...

But yeah...I don't have much to say, I just thought I'd clear some stuff up. Plus, I'm tired and not making much sense.

Love,
Katie

Bustin' Heads

Oh. Em. Gee.

I am so mad.

I don't wanna get into the grisly details, but basically I overdrafted my checking account by a teensy weensy bit and goddamnmotherfucking Bank of America (by the way, NEVER GO THERE. I repeat: NEVER GO THERE. Boycott the hell out of that money-sucking black hole.)

Seriously. Eight, count 'em EIGHT $35 "debit hold" fees in a single day, not to mention a few $10 "overdraft protection" fees which, correct me if I'm wrong, is a TERRIBLE idea seeing as hey, if I'm close to overdrafting, what good will it do my account to SUBTRACT $10? Hmm? HMMMM?!?!

Anyway, so I leave work figuring I'll go there, pay them with my mother's money (Don't worry, I'll pay her back if it takes another 21 years.), get them to reverse the overdraft fees (like everyone keeps telling me they should do) and be on my broke-ass way back to work.

Apparently, that was not the case.

I sat there for a good 15 minutes listening to Careless Whisper on a boom box, sitting next to two elderly men (Apparently, 3:00PM is like, Prime Time for the elderly at the bank. Seriously, I've never seen so many orthopedic sandles in my life.) who I'm sure could smell my feet since my anti-odor shoe inserts were not at their freshest.

Mind you, this branch currently has four employees that I can count: one teller, one woman at the drive-through, one at a desk helping an elderly Indian couple apply for a loan and one chick greeting people at the door and sitting us all in a row to wait for "Cindy," the woman at the desk, who would "just be another minute."

My ass.

Evidently, I looked perturbed because the Walmart greeter girl sent me to the counter to deal with the teller who was actively flirting with the young guy in work clothes that had come to cash his paycheck. And she was laughing and giggling and making conversation as I tapped my ripe-smelling black ballet flat and fumbled in my pinstripe pants for my wallet.

So finally, dude leaves. And when he turned around, he wasn't even hot so girl was obviously desperate. But moving on.

I get up there and am trying to keep my voice down as I calmly explain to her that I am overdrawn and want to reverse the fees and pay it off. But suddenly, teller chick isn's so helpful and she's all, "We can't do this at the branch and call this number blah blah blah..."

Whatever, chick. Sorry I lack things like a wang and the necessity to stare at your boobs and say clever things like, "Haha yeah..." to make you giggle. Here's your effing check and could you please not announce to the entire Bank of America population that I spent $14 at McDonald's, thankyouverymuchwhore?

Whatever. I'm over it.

I'll probably have to pay the electric bill next month to make up for this and I am switching banks the absolute milisecond I get my paycheck (I may even stay up until midnight waiting outside the credit union like a new PSP game is coming out.) and I'll be damned if I ever even use a Bank of America ATM for the rest of my life, but as soon as I close this account, I will be free.

And not free except for a bunch of hidden fees free, either.

Love,
Katie

On the Bright Side #5

On the bright side...

• I may be having a Fat Day, scratch that, an Obese Day, but my boobs look pretty good. I'm banking on that, actually. I'm all, Gut? What gut? You do not see wonky, muffin-top rolls! These are not the droids you're looking for! Please, view my lovely lady lumps instead!*
• I have to run later, but it's for a good cause. Two good causes, actually 1. my gut (see above) and 2. Corey's fitness testing. So there!
• I haven't spent any money today. And I didn't have to sit outside a Chicken Shack fogging up the glass with my fat kid anxiousness.
• I'm wearing my glasses which means my contacts will last longer, plus they are the correct prescription so I can actually see better.

AAAAAAND...I'm totally having an amazing pant-comfort day. Especially after yesterday's khaki situation.

Love,

Katie

*Bonus points for using BOTH a Star Wars and a Black Eyed Peas reference in the same bullet.

Karmic Payback

This is what I get. This is what I get for being so cocky. All, ooh look at me! Everything is going so right and my life is so charmed and awesome!

Bah humbug.

You wanna know how my day is going? I'll tell you how my day is going:

Everyone is mad at me. Which is an exaggeration. But one of my friends is mad at me and my mom is mad at me and consequently, other people that have chosen their sides are mad at me. And you know what? It's not my fault.

It's not my fault that some people can't be trusted and can't take it when you tell them so. And I didn't mean to be an accidental cock-block in my underwear with dye in my hair screaming about moving out. Not my fault.

You know what is my fault? The fact that I had to wear tight pants all day because I had to get all cocky at The Gap. Because damnit, I needed those khakis!

Also not my fault? The fact that I forgot about the potluck at work. Because my boss forgot too! So I was sent to Chicken Shack to pick up chicken and potatoes and cole slaw (which ironically, I hate). Except they sent me to pick it up at 10:30.

Do you know what time Chicken Shack opens? 10:30.

I rushed the doors at a Chicken Shack.

I felt like a total fat kid.

Plus, once they finally opened the doors and I almost fell inside, my face being pressed against the glass and all, I found out that whoever had ordered the chicken had ordered from the wrong Chicken Shack.

I was 3 miles away. Which is not far. BUT IT'S THE PRINCIPLE.

I'm obviously still bitter.

So yeah, that sums my day up. I am not allowed to be happy.

I mean, did you ever notice that there are always people that hate when you're happy? They're all, Oh, you have a boyfriend you love? Yeah, that's cute...while it lasts.

and

Is that ice cream good? Yeah? You're lactose-intolerant and that is going straight to your ASS.

and

Is that the new Miley Cyrus song you're excited about? SHE'S A DIRTY TEENAGE WHORE.

Basically, there are always going to be rude, stompy people crushing your happiness. All Godzilla-like and jealous. Haters. Drinking Haterade.

And make all the fun you want, but prostitots (see what I did there?) are people too.

Besides, she's just being Miley.

Love,
Katie