The One Where I'm a Douche Bag

Last night I yelled at my boyfriend. I know, right? That like, totally never happens.

Moving on.

So, I yelled at him. Because it was late and I was tired and I had gotten home and realized that he'd deleted the background on my phone because he thought it was a bad picture. And now my phone is blank.

Then, I fell asleep while I was talking to him, never quite resolving the issue entirely.

But then, I got in to work this morning and opened my email:

Subject: sorry about deleting the picture

Message: At least you still have these. The one where I look retarded is the most awful picture I've ever taken btw.

Attachments:

Yep.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

Project Chick

That's the fourth song stuck in my head today. Preceeded by Uptown Girl by Billy Joel (WHY?!), Sunday, Bloody Sunday by U2 (because 89X plays it every morning as I'm waking up), Talk to the Animals (from the original Dr. Doolittle movie) and now Project Chick by Big Tymers.

BECAUSE I'M "LOW-INCOME" AND WILL BE IN "THE PROJECTS" WITH "METH LABS" HOOKING ON STREET CORNERS FOR SPARE CHEETOS. Yeah, hardened by the cold streets of Sterling fucking Heights. Shiny Tall, y'all.

And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Give me a project bitch. Give me a hoodrat chick. Damn, that's catchy.

Anyway, it's been a whirlwind lately what with the power going out for AN ENTIRE 24 HOURS which is totally, like, the END OF THE WORLD because the sump pump dies and floods the basement and the cats have to float around on makeshift laundry basket dinghies and the load of laundry you put in the wash an hour before containing ALL of your work clothes will stay wet and soapy until further notice and the internet goes out and the tv and even the lights so you can't even read an effing book and begin to pray for one of those booklights that everybody thinks is such a great gift because, hey, you like to read.

Where was I?

Oh, so that cliffhanger thing you were all in a tizzy about? False alarm. Basically, a friend and his roommate had kicked out two other roommates and had a spare bedroom for $150/month including rent, cable, wifi, water, gas and electricity--everything. Except we went to see it and it was a pit inhabited by DIRTY PIG BOYS who throw their garbage on the floor (which also had several large, unidentfiable stains, by the way). Also, that bedroom was NOT one and a half times the size of Corey's bedroom and the "walk-in closet" was only walk-in if you were a midget. Definitely not enough room for two people PLUS all their stuff.

Because I am a girl. And we come with lots of accessories.

Spent Friday night doing dinner with my mom, my sister and DELICIOUS HUMMUS whilst Kels showed us her photos from New York. With bonus narration from the mouth of Kels that included things like, "And these are some pigeons. New York pigeons!"

Not an exaggeration. My sister is hilarious.

Did the usual weekend stuff and then, like I said, endured the no-power catastrophe of '09.

But I went swimming for the first time in probably two years at least and it was fun. And don't you judge me for swimming in my underwear and a black wife-beater because a. I forgot my bathing suit at home (even though I finally bought two this year) 2. It was impromptu swimming (i.e.: "Hey, wanna go swimming?" "Heck yes, it's hot out here.") and c. That combo is probably less revealing than either of my bathing suits anyway. Plus, I mean, I'm probably doing the neighbors a favor.

With my hotness.

Anyway, then my underwear was wet, so I got to borrow a pair of boxer briefs and oh my GOD why hasn't anyone told me about these before? They are soft and stretchy and wonderful and have just enough room in front for my balls...wait.

Love,
Katie

Children Are the Future

That's right! I am the future of your country! You are granted the right to build a panic room, underground shelter, and/or hide your head under the bedsheets (because everyone knows that what we can't see can't hurt us). I won't take it personally.

Because sometimes, I have full conversations with people that I don't realize are weird until it's too late. Like, 13 hours too late.

For example. (Oh you know all the good stories start that way!)

Yesterday, I was talking to Jen on instant messenger and somehow got into the subject of turning into a pillar of salt. (I believe it was in reference to Steve threatening to be wearing his boxers on his head if I arrived late for camping on Friday. Anyway.) And I told her, that it would be okay if I turned into a pillar of salt (as long as I could turn back into a person) because then I could help people with french fries.

Seriously. I said this.

And she expressed distress at this prospect saying that if I were salt and people ate me, pieces of me would be missing when I turned back. And do you know what I told her?

I told her that it would be okay because they would just "take a little off the gut" and it would be a win-win. I told her that my superpower was going to be teaching people not to be greedy.

WTF.

But listen! That's not even the worst part.

The worst part is that later that night, as I was lying in bed drifting off to sleep and mindlessly babbling on the phone to Corey, I repeated this to him. I subjected more than one person to my vision of SALT PILLAR SUPERPOWERS.

But you know what? It's okay because he is just as insane.

He told me he would turn into a giant glass of water and dissolve me and he would help countries where there was no clean water like Somalia.

And I, indignant, shouted into my poor cell phone mouthpiece, "HA! You won't be able to help anybody because salt water is undrinkable!" And I was confident in my response.

Until he shouted back, "SOMALIS WOULD WANT ME!"

This was all before we started talking about titles for gay porn movies (which I think we totally have a future in, by the way) and arguing about whether Forrest Hump or Star Whores would do better.

Fear the day that people like us run the world.

Love,
Katie

P.S. Now I have THIS song stuck in my head.

To All the [Boys] I've Loved Before...

Listen, boys,

From Jeff, the subject of many of my attempts at writing a novel in the 9th grade, to Jordan, the second hour English class hottie, to my 11-12th grade obsession whom I shall not name since we're still friends, to those up until the present day: It was nice while it lasted. What we had was special.

One of you grew up to sleep with my best friend. One kissed me (the second person to ever do so) and then must've changed your mind and ditched me a few days later. One led me on for a few months and then went away on a religious mission and never called back again. One turned into a psychotic, controlling abuser.

Nevertheless, you all had one thing in common: I followed you around like a puppy waiting and wishing that someday you'd like me back.

But guess what. That never happened.

So I moved on. I found myself a boy I'm happy with and hope to stay with. We're good together.

We laugh. We cry. We argue about whether or not "demasculated" is a word, whether it's John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt or John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith (Schmidt, by the way. I win!), and whether the Muffin Man of nursery rhyme fame is a man that bakes muffins or a giant muffin with arms, legs, and facial features.

Basically, we're awesome.


Anyway, what I want to say to you is that you had your chance, you blew it, and it's never coming back. But that just doesn't have the ring to it that I'm looking for. So I think what I'm going to do is look to my vast musical knowledge database to get my point across.

Maybe I'll say it like Joni Mitchell: "Now, don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?"

Or perchance Ben Folds: "If I'm the person that you think I am; the clueless chump you seem to think I am, so easily led astray; an errant dog who occasionally escapes and needs a shorter leash, then why the fuck would you want me back? Maybe it's because you don't know me at all."

R&B sensation, Mya?: "I'm moving on, on, on, on. I'll be moving on, on , on, on. I'll be moving on." (Simple, but to the point.)

Ooh, what about chart topper and Chris Brown beatdown "victim," Rhianna?: "You put on quite a show. Really had me going. But now it's time to go. Curtain's finally closing. That was quite a show. Very entertaining. But it's over now. Go on and take a bow."

Or lastly, my personal favorite, Miley Cyrus: "Just because I liked you back then, it doesn't mean I like you now."

I'm happy and it's not my fault that you're not. So cut the drama and grow up and act like the men you're supposed to be (since the law saw you that way when you were 18).

Love,
Katie

Reason #692 Why Bothering Me Today is a Poor Choice

So, if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you may have heard about my recent trip to the ER. And by ER, I mean Emergency Room. In the hospital. Because injuries had occurred.

Long story short, I was being carried (at a rapid pace) and, well, we fall down go boom. In other words, my SKULL HIT ASPHALT causing me to begin sobbing and babbling (barely coherently) about how I was going to DIE LIKE BILLY MAYS!

And Corey was all, "Shut up! Billy Mays died from congestive heart failure! Now follow my goddamn finger!"

I then moved on to the Natasha Richardson and Sonny Bono arguments.

Anyway, he then drove my car to my aunt's house and she drove us to meet my mom the Emergency Room where I made friends with my faaaaabuloussssssssssssssss male nurse and the adorable x-ray technician who must've been 26 at the very oldest and was all excited to see me because I was young.

And then she was all, "Any chance you're pregnant?"

And I was all, "Not that I know of!"

And she was all, "OMG, do you want a preg test?!"

And then I assured her that I was kidding.

To summarize, I learned I was not concussed and not going to die and they gave me an ice pack which resulted in this sexy picture (encouraged by my mom and aunt) in which you can totally tell that I had hysterically cried all of my makeup off and also that it was at least 2AM:
Also, that ice pack is made to be tied around a leg. Not a head.

So yeah, my boyfriend then goes MIA ever since (except for one fight we had over the phone yesterday about him removing my picture from his Myspace and replacing it with some porn chick chewing on handcuffs because it "matches [his] layout" which is apparently cop themed because is includes a picture of a gun and a promo for Southland. Ass.) and when I finally get a hold of him, I am crying because I am fat and bloated and hormonal and crampy and PMSing and had to go into work even though I had planned not to because oh, I dunno I HAVE HEAD TRAUMA and I COULDN'T GET A HOLD OF HIM, WHYYYYYYYYY?

And we talk for a while (Well, he talks. I blubber.) and then he says, "I'm gonna go to the gym. I'll call you when I get back in an hour. I love you. Stop crying."

And I'm all, "Motherfucker, don't you tell me not to cry! I have a lump on my head the size and shape of a golf ball, had a terrible day at work and YOU DON'T LOVE ME ENOUGH!"

Speaking of working...

If you didn't know, I am a slave to obsessions. I go through phases where things, or foods, or songs become the reason that I am alive.

For example, the year or so where I discovered a new appreciation for Simon & Garfunkel as well as Paul Simon as a solo artist. I tried to get everyone in my newspaper class to call me Al. And then I named my bettas Simon and Garfunkel.

Where was I, now?

Oh yes, obsessions. So when you work in an office as I do, for extremely long periods of time (say, 10 hours a day, for example), you become obsessed with the outside world. Windows are much more exciting than normal.

If I'm at home and someone points out a window, it's like, "Okay. Yeah, that's a window. La-de-fricken-da."

But at work? Oh. My. God. It's like I could stare forever.

Who are those people? Oh. Gardners? Amazing.

Is that a bird? Oh my God, it's flying! Have you ever seen a bird do that?!

The Weather is another thing that gets you. I check Weather.com much more than is healthy. I can pinpoint an exact time that rain will begin.

I know I'm not alone because Steve used to refresh the Doppler radar all day.

So, let's recap:

I have a headache which makes me cranky.

I have PMS which is making me into one of those things that used to battle Godzilla.

My boyfriend doesn't love me enough. Worship is mandatory.

Annnnnnnd, weather is my hobby.

So uh, yeah. Don't make me hurt you.

Love,
Katie

P.S. I am still wearing my hospital bracelets.