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.
Now you know the truth.
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.
Now you know the truth.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
If you don’t know what they are, here are the lyrics of the song that I wanted my daughter to stop singing:
Some people may think that I’m being an uptight stickler about this, but this is a very upbeat anthem for binge-drinking and being an asshole. I don’t want children or people to ever think that anything that happens in this song is cool. Except for streaking. I actually am a fan of streaking.
I’m also really annoyed with myself while I’m writing this because I’m constantly raining on parades.
I also have to tell you guys something else that I’m struggling with. I started doing group excercize classes at the gym because I need to get big muscles and carry large objects long distances (by large objects, I mean my giant imaginary breasts). In these group classes, I think they expect you to ‘whoop.’ That’s when you yell ‘whoop’ loudly. I’m really having a hard time with it, and I feel like the instructors are annoyed that I don’t do it.
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.
Now that I’ve calmed down from Memorial day I can deliver the boobies I’ve always been promising you. We should take a trip down mammary lane and notice that boobies come in many shapes and sizes. Also we should notice that this is a boob log. What I want everyone to know is that I have to go bra shopping. I think that the idea of bra shopping has inspired me to send a message to all the womenfolk out there, especially the small-breasted ones. The message is to stop buying push-up bras. The whole big boob phenomenon is out of hand. I don’t know how it is in the rest of the country, but in SOCAL we shorten south and and California because we are too busy having gigantic fake boobs to finish words. Push-up bras make us liars for eighteen hours of the day and they probably also cause people to get surgery. Surgery is bad because it involves being cut open. Also, the TLC music video for the song unpretty lets us know what’s what. Left Eye always had really great bangs, but that’s not the point. The point is that you can buy your hair if it won’t grow and pierce your nose if you say so. If you don’t know it, know it. I like how in this video, people are getting forced to get boob jobs. I especially like when the girl runs out of the operating room and has a breakdown on the ambulance tarmac. This kind of behavior is not only socially irresponsible and stupid, but it’s also preventable. I’m going to be crazy, sexy, cool myself and do my part in preventing forced boob job hospital freak-outs by proudly representing my little dudes (my boobs are male for some reason?) in the world as they are. I’m going to do my part for my daughter, ambulance drivers, and all the little girls in the world by not wearing a push-up bra anymore.
You see, a boob is meant for the purpose of feeding a human baby, and if you wear things that make your boobies look big, all you’re really doing is giving the hungry babies false promises of milk. I think everyone can get on board with an idea that doesn’t make babies cry.
I still love all my friends with big fake boobs even though they hate the happiness of babies.
I am one of summertime’s #1 fans. It is unfortunate that one of the best seasons is tainted by what happens to shoes during it, or rather what happens to feet. See, with the heat and water activities one has to wear atrocities such as flip-flops, water shoes, and other gross strappy toe-exposing contraptions. To the right is an artist’s rendition of my boyfriend Farmville’s summer/lounge shoes. I call him Farmville because he is an internet sensation that keeps me coming back. Anyways his floppitys are black rubber and from Korea. He is very into them and I am very into him, so by default I should be into them, right? Wrong. Oh so very wrong. On a few occasions I have had to see them being worn with socks about the house and even once I saw them in a sacred public place of coffee-drinking. I understand the attraction a wearer of this type of shoes has for them. They can easily be slipped on and off without lacing or velcroing or caring about people’s eyes, but I think they need to be stopped. I think we can solve this by inventing some kind of hover device that prevents the soles from touching the ground and enables a summer-long liberation from footwear. I also think that this alien guy who stole Farmville’s shoes in the artist’s rendition of them should steal them in real life and take them far away to outer space. Outer space is at the top of a really big hill that I tried to climb the other day but couldn’t master because I ran out of water. I think if the alien guy took Farmville’s shoes to outer-space, Farmville would definitely not be able to find them because he does not have the equipment for becoming half-camel like me.
First of all, my cat threw up a hairball last night. Secondly, it’s still there. Finally, I am leaving him. Who needs cats?
Anyways, this isn’t about him. This is about how amazing my job is, and how I’m going to make you all jealous of me and my job right now. I’m a waitress, and if I had any musical training (mom’s fault that I don’t), I would write 12 songs about it. I would write an album and make enough money to stop being a waitress, and then I would write an album about how much I miss being a waitress. That wouldn’t sell as well, though, so I would have to become a waitress again to support my yoga habit. For now, I just recently got a waitressing job to support my waitressing habit. The only thing that could improve this waitressing fantasy life I’m living is if people would stop talking to me about stuff and start asking me for sides of ranch all the time everyday.
I realized that I may live the rest of my life without anyone ever wanting to pay me to do anything besides get them food, and you know how I feel about that? Totally ‘meh.’ I don’t even care anymore. I get to walk around and ask people if they want some bread. How nice am I? They give me cash to do it, so how nice are they? It’s like stripping only instead of taking off my clothes, I’m taking off my not wanting to retrieve things. Not a big sacrifice really. People act like it’s not a real job because you get janky hours, and usually don’t get benefits, but I’m getting ready to go to the beach on a Wednesday morning so WAH. Who’s the sucker now, deskers?
Stupeh ‘went out’ this weekend. I think the only thing that made the bar scene tolerable was the fact that I was hating on baby-daddy drama with M&M. Being out and not drinking makes me painfully aware of why it was so easy for me to get shitfaced at bars. It’s called people who go to bars suck. They’re just mostly approaching me from across the bar wanting to tell me how great the reggae show was all while I’m trying to figure out whether or not they are actual retards. I’m no anthropologist, but the mating ritual is never so apparent as it is when we are late night at a bar. Saturday night seemed especially matey with all the large woman displaying their dangerous crevaces. I felt like there must have been a casting call for a John Waters film nearby because check this bosom out.I’m not trying to make fun of large women or people with yellow faces, but it all kinda makes me a little bit sad. It also makes me think that maybe bars are not the best place for anyone I care about to try and meet people for sexual intercourse. The underlying conversation that preceeds a hook-up may as well go: “Oh you came to this bar and drank alcohol? I came to this bar and drank alcohol too. I guess we should introduce our privates to each other.”
As I get older and approach the pinnacle of my own personal genius, I realize just how dangerous and almost insane that is. People (including me–yes I’m a person, dicks) have built whole relationships after having their first encounter at a bar, but that’s so wrong because of this: people are not who they are when they are drunk! Being that I’m a person and experienced in this, I’ll just use myself as an example. See, my sober personality is a little uptight, doesn’t want to talk to strangers, and mostly thinks that most people are talking out of their asses 85% of the time. That number increases with booze, so in order for the meat market situation to be tolerable, I have to lower my own intelligence level with as much vodka as possible. And also, I just really come from a long line of people who like getting drunk. This dumbing down of myself has been really great for maintaining relationships with complete assfaces and for keeping me poor and kind of sick. Had I never had that first wine cooler at the completely appropriate age of twelve years old, I would be the stuck-up commoner marrying Prince William on Saturday.
I’m by no means one of those people who romanticizes childhood, or thinks that kids have everything super-easy, but the one thing that children have that I’m envious of is the ability to play with eachother and celebrate without having to undergo the ritual of poisoning themselves. They basically all see grown-ups getting wasted and think that we are fucking idiots. I like that about them.
What.? I said it’s over. What don’t you get? I don’t owe you anything. I never made any promises to you.
Oh yeah you want this to get ugly? You think I can’t complain about things without you? You think you’re GOD’s gift to ways of snarkily expressing myself?
Well I don’t need you either. I’ll deal with the the weather or bad traffic in ways other than letter form!
Hmmm? Oh yeah that was funny when I wrote an imaginary letter to the sound of someone chewing ice. Don’t cry! It’s not like I’m going to forget you, and I’m sure lots of other people need you and still find you attractive.
Okay. For last times sake. I DO have some letters to write. Once and for all. And Justice for All. Metallica.
Here they are. Down there. Below this.
Dear people drawing mustaches on their fingers and holding their fingers above their mouths and being all, “I have an finger- mustache. Take-a the picture, now,”
DEAR THE BODY OF THE LETTER BEING WAY SMALLER THAN THE ADDRESSEE,
Dear caps lock,
Where are you? I’ve been waiting for you and might die without you. Do you understand how much of what I do is inspired by vanity? The road is a dangerous place, and I don’t want to get more stupider by smashing my skull all over the pavement. I know that wearing a bicycle helmet is whatever right now, but I need it to be cooler than my hair. Why do you think Brett spent all that time making a bicycle helmet that looked like his hair? Because YOU’RE NOT HERE! My look just gets dorkier every year. I mean, glasses and a helmet? I always knew that on the inside I was the nerd of my friends, but do I have to look like it on the outside too? I just can’t imagine how much dorkier it’s going to be when I’m mentally retarded from a cycling related head injury, though. I’m waiting for you. I’ll always be waiting for you.
Are you satisfied?