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

On the Bright Side #3

On the bright side:

• Monday night-Tuesday morning's trauma is over.
• These cramps are bad, but the Motrin will kick in soon.
• My office has air conditioning.
• I did not have to take I-75 to work like my poor mother.
• I met not one, but TWO of my favorite bald, 20-something boys in the parking lot on my way in.

AAAAAAAND, today is PAY DAY!

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.

On the Bright Side #2

On the bright side:

• I have a giant bag of Starburst.
• I don't have a real concussion. (More on that later)
• I'm leaving on time today.

AAAAAND, I will not be working tomorrow.

Love,

Katie

On the Bright Side #1

On the bright side:

• I don't have to wear blush.
• From the calves down and in a few spots (including where my back fat rolls and the "underboob" region), I am not sunburned.
• My arms are still tan, maybe tanner.
• It doesn't hurt as bad today.

AAAAAND, my back is starting to bubble which means PEELING! And as gross as it is, I am WAY excited about it.

Love,

Katie

Burn, Baby Burn

Oh what a mess I've gotten myself into this time.

I mean, I make stupid decisions; we know this. I mean, look at my ex-boyfriend.

Ew. Shudder!

Anyway, what I have done this time is right up there.

You see, my legs? They are milky white. Glowing white. In fact, they are nearly transparent-skinned white.

And my arms? They are normal.

And I find it ridiculous that I require constant applications of sunless tanner FOR MY APPENDAGES TO MATCH IN COLOR.

So what did I do? I went tanning.

Yes, tanning. At this fine establishment a block from my house:And the girl was all, "I suggest a Level Two tan because that's what most people get."

And I was all, "Awesome. Let's go."

"I usually do a stand-up because it's the most even. In fact, some people usually use laying-down beds and then use the stand-up when they want to even it out."

"Okay, standing it is."

"How long do you want to go in for?"

"How long should I go in for?"

"12 minutes is the maximum."

"Okay."

And then she was all, "Are you sure? You don't burn or anything?"

And then I was all, "I don't know. I've only done this once. Let's go, I guess."

I. Am. Stupid.

Long story short, my entire body is sunburned and I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like I'm sleeping on shards of broken glass.

Plus, I'm this color:Please note my Budweiser pajama pants as they are unbelievably sexy. Also sexy? My no-ass.

Also, I am a fat kid.

I know this.

You know this.

We know this.

I've been getting fat lately. Probably because I haven't gone to el gymo in two weeks. Or because I woke up to this:
The empty candy box and I are expecting a child in April and we're trying to make things work.

Love,
Katie

Rated R for Language

Listen up, kids, I've gotta address something here: I swear. Yes, it's true! I know you find it hard to believe that this innocent little angel could possible utter a "dang" let alone a...oh, I dunno... "fucktard" (one of my favorites). Anyway, I just thought I should get that out of the way so that those that had a problem with it could just stop reading...my blog entirely.

With that said, I shall begin!

So last night I stayed home for a little bit after work because my mom was making dinner which has become an event in Casa de Loco over here. It's like, "Oh em gee, mom's making dinner! Stop the presses! Cancel all my meetings, Marjorie! Tell the President I'll call him back!"

I mean, that's an exaggeration. But it's close enough.

Anyway, my mom was all pumped because we were having shrimp etoufee which we've never had before. She's on the phone with someone and I'm lurking in the kitchen staring at the pot wondering WHEN, OH GOD WHEN IS IT GOING TO BE DONE!? and, as usual, listening to my mom's conversation of which I can only hear her half:

"Yeah, but I mean, maybe it wasn't from his childhood that makes him act like that. Maybe it was something in early adulthood, you know? Like, something nobody ever talked about."
"Yeah and the alcohol and drugs."
"It's just so sad. Where are they holding the funeral, now? Do we know yet?"

And I'm all, WTF? because I just then, after about 1o minutes of eavesdropping/drooling, had realized that she was not talking about someone we know; she was talking about Michael Jackson. Seriously.

And you wonder why I used to ask if he could come over for breakfast: It's because my mom has always acted like Michael Jackson is a part of my family!

Then, last night I had this totally upsetting dream about him involving a glass door and crying, but we won't even get into that because I have only posted on here thrice and TWO THIRDS OF MY BLOG ARE POSTS ABOUT MICHAEL JACKSON. This is apparently affecting my life much more than I was originally aware.

Death affects me probably more than it affects the normal human population. And that is where my commemorative tattoo comes into play (Whenever I hear the word, "commemorative," I think of $250 worth of Seen on TV plates with pictures of Elvis on them. Weird, right?).

You see, it has been a little over six months since my only uncle, my dad's baby brother, hung himself in his cell of the Macomb County Jail. And it feels like it was yesterday.

I still cry myself to sleep. Often.

I still burst into uncontrollable sobbing whenever I hear a Queen song or watch Jesus Christ Superstar (a family Easter tradition, and total fave movie among ex-Mormons).

I still can't handle hearing about my dad, a devout Atheist, asking my stepmom where she thinks Chris is right now. Or when he calls me and tells me to take care of my little brother and sister because they need me and his brother, his baby brother, his only brother is gone. I can't listen to him cry at night. I can't listen to him drink a bottle of wine and talk about it. I can't listen to him tell me "[he's] not mad, [he's] not mad": a (sort of) direct quote from the suicide note left for the siblings ("Don't be mad. Don't be mad. I'll be ok [sic] now.").

The feeling is just as raw now as it had been the day right afterward, and I cannot deal.

So I am getting a tattoo.

I have always held a connection with Winnie the Pooh. He comforts me and reminds me of easier times. Plus, we're both short, chubby, and a little slow in the verbalization of our thoughts and often come off less intelligent than we are.

Thus, because of these two factors, I am getting this, a picture of Christopher Robin taking Winnie the Pooh upstairs at bedtime along with the words, "I'm not mad" tatooed upon my flesh.

Because Christopher Robin is just going upstairs to bed.

He'll be back again tomorrow morning, ready to play.

And that makes me feel, just a little better.

Love,
Katie