My cat has a tantrum

I took this series of photographs after my cat became overstimulated by the brushing I was giving him.  This is photographic proof that he is an asshole.

This is Spinner

Now you know the truth.

I ran my first race, and I won 564th place

There were 1,138 runners in the half marathon.  Since that is such a large amount of people and it’s hard to fathom, I’m just going to divide that into three groups.  Being that I placed in the middle group, I’m just going to say that I won second place, and as you may know from reading Big Dog T-shirts, second place is merely the first loser.  So I want to write about this weekend when I was crowned the first loser. 

I want to preface this by saying that this year started off with me being seriously unwell, but since I already started writing about this weekend, I wouldn’t exactly be prefacing here.  In any order, I must divulge a little bit of gossip about myself.  I named this website “Stupeh” because I knew that I was being a moron.  I was in an unhealthy relationship, smoking, drinking and having a party animal time.  I usually skipped the party, though and went straight to animal.  Little did I know things were about to get different. I was about to transform into a running and clean-air breathing machine.  I didn’t even realize that I was destroying myself until I stopped doing it and started building myself back up again…you know…growing new parts. You know.  Looking back at this picture of me smoking and texting, I can see how unhealthy I was because my gut protrudes enough to be a little ash-shelf in case some of what I didn’t suck into my lungs fell off of the tip of my cigarette. 

Everything that was wrong with this is now wrong with someone else. Stupeh now has an undisclosed amount of legs.

What a gross. So despite this awful photo, I ended the year as the first loser in a 13 mile race.

The race itself was great.  It was cold and overcast and after six miles I was shocked that I had already run six miles.  Unfortunately my big race-day fear was realized when I had to stop and make use of the port-a-potty at mile 4.  I only mention this because I want the world to know that I maybe could have won the gold.  Maybe you have a suggestion for how to make sure you’ve evacuated before a race.  I mean, you’re supposed to carb it up the night before, so I’m at a loss here because excersize gets you going in the morning…if you know what I mean.  Sexy wink.  Port-a-potty.  That was my biggest setback during this race.  

My second biggest setback was the  discomfort and fumbling of my fuelbelt.  I used it during training because I needed it, and it’s wonderful.  Do you remember back in May when I had to walk to my daughter’s school and steal her juice box because I had outrun my fuel?  Well, this race was like the opposite of that…or maybe the sideways of that?  I discovered while running that I didn’t need the extra weight of my Camelbak because running the course was like running alongside a bunch of my daughter’s schools, but in this sideways world the school came to my side to offer me water instead of me having to bust onto campus and highjack it, plus all the little children along the course cheered me on like an 80s movie hero.  Well duh, it’s not every day you see a second place runner whiz by on such a short set of legs. 

Set. 

If I say I have a set of legs does that imply that I have more than two?  Why wouldn’t I say a pair?  I don’t know. 

You decide.

In which my pussy reveals to me the true meaning of Christmas

If you’re expecting things to get hotter than that title, you should go put  on your own sweater right now because this is a cold story about a cat in the winter years of his life.  This winter cat is the one who lives with me, and I am going to stop calling him ‘mine.’  He is not mine but merely a presence that I am forced to tolerate.  If you’ve been with me from the beginning, you know he is just a turd.  Well this turd is teaching me a lesson about giving and all of its hazards.

This story begins, as most Christmas stories do, with a crazy little occasion called Black Friday.  I turned my post-turkey Friday black by waking up at 3:30 a.m. and rolling my daughter and myself over to my friends house, so we could all go to Toys R us, and Khol’s, and the mall at an hour that didn’t make any sense.  I did this despite the nay-saying of the people who were impersonating the horses.  I just really thought that everything opening up at midnight to provide a stage for human tramplings was something I should see.  Well guess who didn’t see anyone get trampled.  ME.  I have the kind of Black Friday story that is rarely told but is probably more often the case than the carnage everyone likes to tisk tisk about.  In my Black Friday story, I drank two large cups of coffee and shopped while nearly half asleep.  I bought some intimates, a blanket for Karli, a stuffed bear for one of her friends, and a bed for my cat.  Now that I think about it, I apparently only bought items which had to do with going back to bed.  Hm.  I know I should have bought a TV because I think that’s what you’re supposed to buy on Black Friday, but I had just recently made the decision to tuck my very small television back into my closet so that it would stop trying to stifle my creativity.    All of this bullshit you see before you is the result of that decision.  I could be watching My So-Called Life.  You can stream it on Netflix.  Jared Leto. 

So, I bought my cat this bed because of the wacky sale and also because I thought it would solve all of our problems.  ‘Our problems’ are mainly me wanting him to stop grooming on my bed.  Mostly, I want him to stop licking his ass right next to my ear while I’m trying to sleep.  He actually doesn’t really have a problem or seem to worry about much in life except for something at 3 in the morning which makes him leave the room and go across the hall to cry loudly.  Despite my problem with him, I thought it would be nice of me to buy him a bed that is super-comfy.  I was carrying it around the store wishing I could shrink down to the size of a cat and lay in it myself.  Why wouldn’t he love it?  Oh God !   I remember why…because he’s a son of a bitch who would rather puke on my pillow than give a damn about me and my bedtime sensitivity to cat-tongue sounds.

So I brought him home and put him in it.  Of course he immediately jumped out and went back to the spot on my bed where I would want to be laying.  I was determined, though.  I would not let this cat push me around and not give me the satisfaction of seeing him curled up and cozy in his fancy little bed.  I put him back in three more times with the same result.  It wasn’t until I switched things up and put the bed on top of him that he realized we were going to do this thing.  He laid like that with the bed on top of him for a good minute until he decided to slide out from under it and sit down a few feet away. He must have felt a little defeated and vulnerable because the next time I put him in the bed, he licked it once and then laid down. 

I'm just not into it.

Now most days are like that first day.  We just play this ongoing game of Put.  I walk in the room and find him out of his bed, so I put him in it.  Sometimes he gets mad and bites me.  Sometimes he scratches me.  Sometimes, though he just stays there just kind of still defiant about it even though he is doing what I want him to. 

This has taught me to never buy a present for my cat at 4:30 a.m., and also it has taught me to give the kinds of gifts that money can’t buy…like this stupeh blog that I give to you free of charge because we’re tight,

and because I don’t know what else to do with these pictures of my cat and his bed.

Iconic hipstorer bag is merely a sequel to the baby-sling

Last week I worried everyone with talk of my running career being over because of leg and back pain, and although no one came over and massaged my aching body, someone did give me some excellent advice which actually seems to have remedied the problem.  This person was my mom and her advice was to buy new shoes.  Let this be a lesson to all of you Googlers out there who don’t know what you’re doing.  Sometimes you just have to ask your mom what you should do.  Unless your mom is a dumb-ass.

In other news, I made this amazing Coach fanny pack for my rugged male companion for his birthday:

It's a Coach Hipstorer. It doesn't need a caption.

After the making of this, I laid in bed thinking about fanny packs, which we will now refer to as hipstorers.  I thought to myself about different materials I could use to make more hipstorers for the betterment of the world.  The thing is, though that I don’t really want to be the one to make them.  I want other people to make them because I’m really less of a manufacturer and more of a thinker.

Remember the other day when I was thinking about this memory in my head of the last time I had an idea to make something useful to people?  Of course you don’t because it was going of inside of me, and you’re out there.  This other useful thing that I made was a babysling which is a bag for carrying your baby.  I wanted to make a line of slings that matched the mother’s style of dress and wasn’t baby-themed.  This was around the time that I was in the slave portion of my motherhood, which is very different from this period of motherhood where I just have this ten-year-old person that just kind of hangs out with me.  In the beginning, I had to carry her.  Something strange happens when you carry a person around for a couple of years.  Your arms become tired, and your brain becomes full of ideas for giving your tired arms a break.   I actually made a prototype of a sling that copied the design of the Dr. Sears babysling, but was a fashionable black with red paisley trim.  I’m so cutting edge.  My mom mostly made that bag because I was the thinker and she knew how to sew.

This lifetime of making two bags made me realise that maybe I’m just incredibly tired of carrying things.  Maybe my mom shouldn’t have made me carry groceries in from the driveway to the house.  Even though she solved my back problem with her shoe-buying advice, I think it’s only fair that I blame my mom for this fatigue I feel.  I mean, she sent me a text message this morning that said I needed to make pancakes for my daughter every morning and stop buying soy milk.  I know my daughter was speaking through her, and because of this I feel incredibly sandwiched by the surrounding generations.  They are squishing me with their pancake demands.  I now blame both of them.  The Coach Hipstorer is their fault.

My job of professionally carrying things is also to blame.  I basically wear a hipstorer to work everyday.  In the restaurant biz, we call it an apron, but it’s a hipstorer.  It’s a waste-fastening method of carrying all your crap around, so now what?  I get enough practice carrying things around at work.  Why do I have to carry them here in the outside world?  I don’t think it ever stops either.  Old people have to carry their walkers and iron lungs.  We have to carry our smart phones.

We have to carry our smart phones.

Yesterday I was sitting on a couch in the middle off the mall with my phone on my lap when I looked over at one of the guys who was about to fall asleep at the mall.  He had his phone on his lap.  I think I’m not so different from the people who fall asleep at the mall.  I’m addicted to my electronic device too.  I’ve had this idea to go through electronic device deprivation for a few days and then to write about it.  I’ve had this idea for two years but am so incapable of not being in contact with the rest of the world via my smart phone that I can’t even go  through with it.  What is that?

We all need fanny packs!!! I think my running career is over too!!! AMERICA!!!!!!!

Your purse just bit you and got you robbed. Who's dorky now?

We definitely have a mixed bag of things to discuss here, or should I say bags?  Or should I say waist-fastening bags?!  YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!  Fanny packs.  Let’s talk about them.  We had our first “discussion” about fanny packs back in may when I discovered the distance runner’s dirty little secret.  It’s not even that dirty…it’s just a link to my Camelbak blog.  It wasn’t a discussion either that’s why there are “”s around that.  Well time has progressed since ye auld fanny pack monologue, and we are in October.  In the moons twixt now and then I have learned many things.  I have learned that I can still lose things regardless of this incessant sobriety, and that things need to be carried around, AND things need to be carried around around my waist but not in an ugly way.  I know you’re wondering ‘why the waist?’  The reason you’re wondering that is the same reason why you would buy a bag just because it says the word ‘Coach’ on it.  You don’t think!  I’m going to make a whole list of reasons that fanny packs are better starting with number one…..

1.  Fanny-packs are theft deterrent.  Have you ever heard of anyone getting belt-snatched on the street?   NO you haven’t because it’s not easy to steal a belt.  Also, belts aren’t even that great.  Why don’t you just get pants that fit, and you won’t have to worry about people stealing your belt.  Jesus.

2.  You don’t have to put it down to do things with your hands.  Have you ever done anything with your hands?  It’s easier when you’re not holding something.  Hands-free, people!  don’t they make everything hands-free?  Why not our bags?  I’ll tell you why.  Sexism.  It’s true.  Men meet up in secret cigar rooms and plan this shit.  “Oh hey, how can we slow down those uppity dames?”  “I know!  Make them carry something at all times so that they are super slower when we are trying to chase them down the street.”

People are getting chased.  Not chaste.

3.  You’re dance moves are way better when you’re not holding a bag, and it makes everyone less (and more) nervous.  Have you ever been to a party and just didn’t want to put your purse down but needed it for one reason or another?  Annoying right?  At a club and you and all your girlfriends leave your purses in a pile while you dance?  That’s pretty stupid and nerve-racking and distracting enough to make you a target for being chased later when all the cigar-smoking males have become sex-crazed from lurking on the dance-floor.  Not chaste.

4.  You can hold your bfs hand while walking down the street without having to switch sides with your purse.  I don’t know why this is so annoying.  It just is.  I hate my shoulder bag, you guys.  But also I hear that I might not have to worry about hand-holding activities while wearing a fanny-pack because of the ‘dorkiness factor,’ and this is where I need all of you to come in and unite for a better future of being able to carry things without arms.  While we’re at it, think about the people without arms.  Don’t they deserve more attractive fanny-packs?  Don’t we all?

Also while we are on the subject of being chased, I have to put this out there in the hopes that maybe a doctor reads it.  This is my new form of seeking medical attention besides google since I don’t have health insurance.  I have not really been able to run for the past few weeks because of a pain that extends from the right of my lower back down to the front of my knee.  Because of this, I am experiencing a terrible sadness and many lower back pain google sessions.  I wish I had health care, America.

to be continued…

This blog has lost its innocence, Katy Perry style.

 I have to tell you firstly that I haven’t written because I was really busy doing loser things like joining the gym, eating doughnuts, and going boot-shopping.  I may have also played phone games and trolled Facebook for God knows what, and I’m really sincerely sorry because I realise that no one knew what to do without my gentle words of eternal wisdom.

Wellll….here I am.

I don’t know if you guys know this about me, but you’re about to find out that I strongly dislike Katy Perry and other similar creatures.  This isn’t a case of the playa’ hatin but the result of being forced by everyone and my daughter to listen to popular songs.   Due to circumstances beyond my control, my lovely and intelligent young daughter has developed a taste for top 40 hits.  I understand that the popularity of anything at her age has a great influence on whether or not she will see the value in it.  I also have a number of peers who are fans of pop music.  It is not my job to correct the lack of taste in my peers, but as far as my child goes, it is a never-ending war, and I’m pleased to announce that my side won the battle against Katy Perry.  

Well my first attempts during the auditory invasion that has been Miss Perry were just weak declarations of disgust.  When ‘California Girls’ came on I  would just tell her, “this song is awful.”  Unfortunately, ten-year-old girls are not concerned with their mothers’ opinions on music.  This is one of the reasons why I don’t understand the point of children.  In fact, I think I’ll ask her what the point of her is when I pick her up from school today.  Maybe she’ll make one of her confused  ’what do you mean?’ faces, and I can answer my own question by being amused at her looks. 

I’m kind of a shit-head.  This is why I make a better personinpilatesclass than a writer. 

So I finally broke Katy’s lyrics down to the child when the song ‘Last Friday night’ just became too much .  You dug your own grave, Katy Perry, because every time the child plays this song I have a new opportunity to disgust her at what is actually happening in the lyrics.  I’m like, “Hey guess what a menage a trois is! That is where three people have sex with each-other!” 

At first she just pretended it didn’t affect her and that she had total loyalty to the song, but my full disclosure must have sunk in because a week after she found out that this song was mostly about getting drunk, my daughter told me she didn’t like Katy Perry anymore.  Whoop.

Real men have curves

No…they have curses.  No…they wear purses.  NO!!! They read about my trip to the mall!  My coworker who is male and takes food to people and sets it in front of them told me that I should stop writing blogs that were so focused on women.  So, I’m here to tell him two words right now in front of the Internet and everybody:  ‘anorexic vagina.’  Now shut-up and find out what happened to me when I bought a crop-top.  

I just have to share this because I’ve had a trying experience in the world of commerce…or a trying few experiences.  It all began with the want of a crop-top.  I noticed that I needed one for incentive to groom my happy trail (manly enough?).  Unforrtunately, H&M Ventura is putting me through layer upon layer of failure.  After I returned home with my Croppy, I discovered that the security tag had been left on my shirt.  This means that both the employee who rang me up and the security system that’s supposed to alarm when that shit leaves the store forgot to do their jobs.  When I took it back in, I didn’t make a big to-do about finding the receipt because the crop-top fiasco was a secondary reason for my trip to the mall, and I just wanted to get the damn security thing taken off…I mean it was their fault it was still on right?  You would think.  So I go in to get it removed yesterday, and the cashier asks me for my receipt.  I don’t have it because I’m not returning or exchanging the damn shirt and she’s like, ‘well we have no way to prove that you bought it.’  Let me tell you why I think this is so stupid:  I still leave with the shirt.  They are basically accusing me of stealing a twelve dollar shirt and then coming back into the store with the stolen item to ask them to help me steal it.  Since they have no outright evidence that I stole the shirt, I’m just in crop-top purgatory where I have this item that I can’t wear because it’s going to set off alarms everywhere but guess what I was thinking I would just wear it with the security tag still on and make-believe like I’m a thug. 

 Except I found the receipt when I got home, so I’m going to go in there Pretty Woman style today like when Julia Roberts moted that Rodeo Dr. shop girl who wouldn’t help her buy fancy clothes.  I’m going to mote H&M for sloppy service, having defunct security alarms, accusing me of theft and almost making me into a poser of a clothing stealer. 

I’ll be like, “hey are you the store who wouldn’t take this tag off this shirt for me?”

And they’ll be all, “I don’t know.  Probably.  We have crop tops.  Do you have the receipt?”

And I’ll stick the receipt in their faces and rub their noses in it and be all, “You have internet, right?  Check out stupeh.com where I just moted you.  Big mistake! Huge!”

I also purchased a pair of work shoes from the comfort shoe store.  Remember when I went on and on about farmville’s ugly sandals?  Well I have bad news for everyone who ever believed that I cared about what I slide my feet into.  Well you know I’m a double waitress, right?  So I had to get these shoes based on the fact that I’m on my feet for extended periods of time, and they are starting to feel numb by the end of my double shifts.  I know this is no consolation for what I’m about to show you.  I bought orthopedic slip-ons.   

  Ha hahahahahaha.  Oh the butterfly.  How’s that for female centric?

  I don’t know, man.  They feel good, and my pantleg will be covering most of them.  And by the way, no one’s going to be looking at my feet because hubba hubba.   

Quick this is the most important thing I’ll ever write that includes soft-core porn and David Duchovny

Nor your pelvic thrust, dear. Nor your pelvic thrust.

Gotcha!  Just like Duchovny got me tonight when I was feeling lonely and trying something I had never tried before.  This thing was called looking up soft-core porn on Netflix.  I’M SORRY!  I just didn’t feel like redtube.  I’m really sensitive right now.   You’ll be glad to know that Netflix doesn’t really seem to have a lot of it, but I know that my search will go on because I have a cat and I’m single and 30.  Anyways, there was this Red Shoe Diary that was not sexy enough, but it starred David Duchovny.  The opening scene was him and some chick  and involved many sounds of saxophones, and I was growing weary of that.  Weirdly.   When I saw DDs face, I realized I had a movie movie in my instant queue that starred him, and that he is slightly dreamy.   The movie was called The Secret, and I’m about to share it with you.  Promise not to tell. 

The Secret proved to be one that should have been kept from me.  I didn’t read the premise of the movie, and I guess I should have.   I guess I let the pretty faces of actors bewitch me just as the real-life man ones do.  I just go, ‘oh he is pretty with his beard and eyebrows.  He would never.’  These are the times when I am mostly wrong.  When I’m being bewitched by faces, eyebrows, and beards.   They are scratchy on my back, and I love them.   Stupeh. 

So Duchovny is this wonderful husband.  I don’t remember the character’s name, so we will just call him Mulder.  We can tell that he is wonderful by the way he makes a grand anniversary dinner for Hannah, his adoring wife.  The rub lies in the eternally surly teenage daughter, Sam, and her hatred for her mother’s buttinski-ness.  No.  that’s not the rub.  The rub is a semi-fatal car crash that dramatically causes Hannah and Sam to die simultaneously in side-by-side hospital beds while Mulder cowers in the corner.  After the doctors declare time of death on both of their bodies, Hannah’s soul jumps into Sam’s body, so we are left with the awkwardness of a husband and wife mourning the loss of their daughter while the wife occupies her daughter’s body.   The movie doesn’t try to make it any less awkward when it has Hannah say to Mulder (in an effort to seduce him) with the mouth of her daughter, “the mind of a 35-year-old woman in the body of a sixteen year old:  that’s every man’s wet dream.”  I just really think that if I was occupying the body of my daughter it wouldn’t matter how hot Mulder is or how married to  him I am, I wouldn’t find it sexy to make a dad have sex with his daughter’s body.  So the bulk of the movie involved this creepy sexual tension that wanted you to not think it was that creepy (it was), and Hannah discovering her daughter’s life. 

 The lives of teenagers are dark and scary.  Blech. 

 Also, the ending was fucktarded.  Spoiler alert if you’re ever going to watch this piece of creep.  Sam’s soul finally comes back after Hannah does some snort drug that makes people lay and stare at the ceiling.  Sam is initially only back for a night because she  faints when she finds out her mom is dead.  I guess the fainting knocks her soul right back out because Hannah is back in there when she comes to.  Fortunately, Hannah can feel Sam slowly coming back again for reals this time, and we can finally end this nightmare.  We all get through it together.  Hang on.  Knowing that Sam’s permanent return is coming (because now they are body/soul-jumping experts),  Hannah and Mulder make a video of Hannah giving a speech addressing Sam about how great she is and how she can do anything in life.  So Sam watches this video of her mom giving herself a speech, but her mom is occupying her body so the video is of herself speaking as her mom.  She seems pretty okay with it and even lovingly caresses her own face on the television screen.  Double u t f.   What a piece of shit.  Hannah should have apologized to Sam for trying to make her have sex with her dad.  Stupid film.

I watched the whole thing and at the end, I was just like, ‘I don’t need this crap.  I have enough shit going on in my life.’  That’s what it was like.  Should I have stuck to redtube and not journeyed down this rabbit-hole of cinematic waste?  I don’t know. 

Pornography is disgusting but at least it never pretends not to be, and neither do I.

At least that.

Google plus?

a whole 'nother' way to waste the day.

So there’s a social networking site called Google plus.  It’s new, and I’m on it.  This is a whole new third chance to make a fourth impression in the social networking world.  I’m doing this by using sidebangs and sunglasses to let everyone know I’m cool.  I”m like, “hey guys, I’m new here at goople.  Sup?”  Super chill.   But seriously, I want to let you know what my attraction is to Google plus because I like to endorse things willy nilly for no money.  They have these things called ‘circles,’ and you can put different people in different circles and have different things viewable supposedly so your grandma doesn’t have to hear about how much you’re going to masturbate all over the likeness of Megan Fox’s naked body that you drew in your journal.  I made a circle called BFFs and I’m going to post everything I ever wanted to say about tampons and butt pimples in there. Honestly I think the last thing any of us need is another social networking site, but supposedly in this new world of technology and e-everything, if an aspiring author wants to  publish a book, she should develop some kind of readership and self-promotion skills-so they say.

That’s really boring to talk about. 

Let’s switch gears and talk more about the potential for circles.  I could create circles based on what I want from certain people and how I want them to see me.  Like maybe I have friends that are really sympathetic and good at comforting words, so I’ll make a circle called ‘the crying corner’ where I can complain about cats and boyfriends.  YOU GUYS!  I could make a circle for only my smart friends where I spout off about the GDP and how to synthesize a methylated alkaloid!  I could make a circle of people who I know are really squeamish and judgmental and post a bunch of bat shit crazy things like that I’m cooking cats and eating them in my Satan worshipping chamber.  I just have to figure out how to use it AND I need more people to get on there, then I need the sun to come out  because the beach would have been a healthier way to spend the day!  I could make a circle for all my writer friends, and one for all my exercise friends, and one for all my cat-fancying friends, and one for all my Dr. Who-loving friends.  All I see is circles.   More of what you want and less of what you don’t. 

That’s why I have googly eyes for google plus right now.  It’s got curves in all the right places.

just like Megan Fox.

If you ever go out to breakfast, read this! It may save my life!

I warmed it with my wild flames of misplaced anger

Hey, you Food-Eaters sitting there with menus in front of you about to order eggs.  See those little symbols all over the page?  Remember around kindergarten and first grade when they taught you how to interpret those symbols and recognise them as words?  That was a great skill to learn, and you can use it for making my life easier.  All you have to do is read the menu.  No.  I’m lying.  Don’t just read the menu, but interpret the information and be an efficient customer for the good of all mankind.  See, the thing about breakfast is that it gives you many options.  You have to choose what kind of potatoes you’d like or whether you want fruit.  It’s possible you might have to choose an egg style.  Eggs are very stylish.  I prefer over medium unless I’m not having toast or potatoes.  What do you prefer?  Can you figure it out before I come to the table, please?  This is all a big deal because of volume.  If I had five tables and had to hold your hand through every breakfast choice that lay before you that wouldn’t really bother me,  but can you imagine having to repeat this fifty times in one morning: “how would you like your eggs?  would you like hash browns, sauteed potatoes, au gratin, fruit, beans, sliced tomatoes, or cottage cheese?  Would you like toast, muffin, biscuit, sweet potato biscuit, or tortillas?”  Can you please anticipate that you are going to have to make these choices and not make me go through all your options?.  Also, can you talk to your spawn about what they are going to eat before I get to the table?  I really don’t need to see your family dynamics, and on that note, why is your kid afraid of me?  Did you teach him not to talk to strangers?  That one backfired on you didn’t it?  Maybe instead of that, you should have taught him how to drink out of a glass so that I don’t have to kill the earth with your request for a cup with a lid on it.  Why are you making that face at me?  What is your problem anyways, don’t you have eggs at home?  Maybe if you’re going to make that shitty face, you should be making it at your home-eggs, Holmes.

I promise I don’t hate you, and I really want to love you.  I want to love all of you in a timely manner with extra butter.  I live to bring your hollandaise sauce on the side.  I breath so that you may eat frittatas absent of onions or whatever food you happen to hate.  I rise from my beautiful slumber because I know you want some coffee and more blue creamers, please. 

Really.  Really. 

Don’t want to be a server no more.

Because I have to tell you something else.  I think my job is sexist against me.  I’m like the world’s food-bitch.  I’m a ham-steak geisha. 

Yelp this, mutha-fuckas.