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.