A Day In The Life

5:30 AM - Alarm goes off. Hit snooze until 6:30.

6:30 AM - Grudgingly roll out of bed and curse yourself for not getting up sooner. Grab towels and shuffle towards the bathroom for a shower.

6:31 AM - Shuffle back to bedroom. Mom is in shower. Check email until she gets out.

6:40 AM - Shuffle back to bathroom and take a shower. Refrain from using face scrub because lady at Sally Beauty Supply said to only use it at night. Drop everything in the shower at least once. Swear.

6:47 AM - Towel off and apply various creams/pomades to wet hair and wrap towel around head. Brush teeth and get mad every time the towel falls off due to the gravity of leaning over a sink.

6:50 AM - Start getting dressed and end up hating the outfit laid out the night before. Change everything.

7:00 AM - Apply makeup and argue with sister trying to get in the bathroom. Call her a Nazi. Speak German to her.

7:03 AM - Leave house in flip flops and start car. Realize there's no gas because it was too cold last night after class to stop at a gas station. Swear. Drive to gas station and get gas as well as breakfast. Be classy.

7:23 AM - Arrive at work. Spend five minutes looking for a parking space. Spend the next 10 minutes walking the half mile from the parking space to the building. No exaggeration.

7:40 AM - Walk into office la te. Curse parking lot. Wonder when parking structure will be done.

Work. Change Facebook status periodically. Tweet when something amusing happens or when boredom strikes.

3:30 PM - Wander back to car parked in BFE.

3:46 PM - Arrive at car. Get in and wait in line for 10 minutes to get out of the gate. Stop at home to change and eat dinner.

4:42 PM - Leave for school. Worry about being late the entire way there. Speed.

5:14 PM - Arrive at school an hour early. Go to bathroom. Waste time. Go to class and sit in the dark Facebooking on netbook until someone turns on the light. Facebook in the light until class.

6:15 PM - Professor arrives five minutes late. Class starts. Sit through class. Fear the TA and her crazy eyes. Imagine her turning the class to stone. Type everything professor says verbatim. Get midterm back. Be disappointed in your B-.

9:00 PM - Leave class. Book it to the car because the parking lot is dark and full of terrible drivers. Speed home.

9:26 PM - Arrive home. Mom says boyfriend called. Talked to him for several minutes about enema he had to give autistic person in group home he works in. Make fun of bleach blonde goatee thing brother is attempting to grow. Tell him it makes him look like Hulk Hogan. Tell orange fluffy cat that bears resemblance to Wilford Brimley at the time that he "don't know 'bout mah Diabeetus." Laugh at own joke. Make and eat corned beef sandwich in front of "vegetarian" sister. Moan at deliciousness as she ogles and talks about how good it looks. Laugh as she gives herself a pep talk: "They're so mean to the chickens! You've done this for two weeks, Kelly. If you do this, you can do anything!" Laugh when brother tells her that they throw the chickens because it tenderizes them and makes them delicious and then leaves to get McNuggets. Page phone and realize mom is sitting on it. Call boyfriend. Wander upstairs to bed.

10:26 PM - Finally get off phone because boyfriend has to change adult diapers before getting off work. Stay up until he calls back.

10:27 PM - Fall asleep.

10:55 PM - Wake up because phone is ringing under pillow. Talk groggily for three minutes. Hang up and fall asleep. Have nightmare about a doll.

Love,
Katie

So Sick And Tired Of Being Sick And Tired

In recent days I have been busy, Internet. Incredibly busy. Like, obscenely offensively (to me) busy. It's nuts.

I've been working and having nervous breakdowns and crying and screaming at poor unsuspecting boyfriends. Oh, and preparing for SCHOOL! which started on Monday. And I apologize for not being around much, but oh Internet, I haven't had the time!

But do you know what I do have time for? Facebook status updates. Oh. Yes. You wanna know what's been up with me? I'll tell you what's been up.

Katie Cole is mad at Corey's douchebag friends because they're the male versions of the cast of Mean Girls.

Katie Cole is irrationally angry simply because her boyfriend's ex-girlfriend is alive and trying to bang his cousin.

Katie Cole's tattoo artist has Guy Fieri's voice.

Katie Cole is wondering if she can get her tattoo artist to tell her that her tattoo design is "killer" or "money." Also wondering if it will cost extra for said things.

Katie Cole is tattooed and trying not to let her dad find out because he once told her that if she ever got one, she'd have to change her first and last name.

Related: Katie Cole has back fat.

Katie Cole has gained 16 pounds since March last year because her boyfriend is an enabler of fat kid-ness.

Katie Cole is taking her first online class ever.

Katie Cole is trying to stay on top of school this semester lest she never graduate.

Katie Cole's Urban Geography professor has the same voice as the Piggy Bank from Toy Story and she can't stop picturing said pig when he lectures.

Katie Cole has been recognized by her Sociology professor. Yes, Professor McNeece, she DID fail your class last winter and yes, she shamelessly IS back for more.

Katie Cole is easily angered lately.

Katie Cole is angry at Jason because he is trying to bang Tila Tequila-looking whore.

Katie Cole is fighting with Jason on Facebook.

Katie Cole is mature.

Katie Cole is calling her boyfriend to cry and tattle on his cousin, Jason.

Katie Cole is getting Starbucks on the way to class to make her feel better.

Katie Cole just talked to her boyfriend again and Jason is sorry.

Katie Cole is sorry she was mean to Jason.

Katie Cole is continuing to sob uncontrollably and for no real reason so that it is probably dangerous driving on 696.

Katie Cole is not only the girl that is recognized by her Accounting professor as a student that has taken and failed the class not once, but twice, but is ALSO the girl that shows up to the first night of class bleary-eyed from crying the entire way to school.

Katie Cole's Accounting professor caught her in the bathroom and asked her if she was okay and promised to help her with her homework if she needed it.

Katie Cole is embarassed.

Katie Cole has convinced herself that somehow by tattooing her uncle's last words on her body, that she has created some sort of intuitive connection between herself and him and is experiencing the feelings of overwhelm and helplessness and anger that he was experiencing last year at the very same moment and that is why she is feeling the way she is lately.

Katie Cole swore she heard a heartbeat speed up, slow down, and then stop as she was trying to fall asleep last night.

Katie Cole woke up at 4 AM with a soreness in her neck.

Katie Cole thought she saw ligature marks on her neck in the mirror this morning.

Katie Cole is seriously fucked in the head.

Katie Cole probably needs therapy.

Katie Cole cannot stand the anniversary of her uncle's suicide today.

Katie Cole is trying to keep her crying to a minimum at work.

Katie Cole needs gum because she has coffee breath, but can't make it downstairs to buy any because she is manning four different phone lines.

Katie Cole has several people calling her repeatedly and telling her how to do her job.

Katie Cole forgot to bring a lunch.

Katie Cole is beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, Big Mac Snack Wraps might not be so bad.

Katie Cole is really fucked in the head.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

To Make a Brand New Start of It

BONUS POST!

My sister (as previously mentioned) is currently in New York. The following is a text message conversation between us:

Kels: "Ask me who I met at the wax museum."

Me: "Who?"

Kels: "Diana Ross and Michael Jackson and Obama and JoBros and George Clooney and many many many more!"

Kels: "Jihlous?"

Me: "Sure."

Kels: "You're mean."

Me: "Am not. Just too stressed to be jealous of scary mannequins."

Kels: "I saw a guy in a man thong at the beach yesterday. Now r u jihlous?"

Me: "You are obviously living the life."

Kels: "I think you need to come here."

Hurry home, Kels.

Love,
Katie

Lessons by Kels

Me: "Hey Kels, can you show me how to stop the toilet from running? You said you knew how."

Kels: "Well, first you flush it really hard."

Me: "Okay..."

Kels: "And you hold it down."

Me: "Mhm..."

Kels: "And then you wash your hands because you just touched the toilet."

Love,

Katie