Posted: August 24th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Food service manual., Weird ways to be a womanly woman of womanity, Weird ways to fail at men. | No Comments »
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.
Posted: August 4th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: I'm not going to lie, Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: afterlife, Crazy, funny, my cat, porn, you're dumb | 2 Comments »
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.
Posted: July 18th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: Crazy, heavy drinking, sobriety, toilet paper, you're dumb | 1 Comment »
OH! There you are, Stupeh!
So this is how it went down on Friday night. No wild drinking for Stupeh of course, but there were mild amounts of awkwardness and what the feelings. I just wanted to take a shower with Thrice. That would have been the perfect thing. But nooooooo, Thrice is out drinking and ready to go completely into party mode. Don’t get me wrong. I fully appreciate party mode and all that it can do for the destruction of brain cells and mornings. The thing is that the last time I partied with Thrice and his friends, I wound up homeless and heartbroken the next day because of making out with some mystery person at The Benchwarmer. Fast forward four months and I’m being asked to meet him at this bar up the street where all the witnesses to this will be and where I will arrive to Thrice sitting inside of a booth surrounded by them. I approach the booth which is pretty much full and where he is on the inside and say, ‘hi.’ Everyone including Thrice says hi because they aren’t complete assholes, but he also hasn’t made any effort to get up and greet me, and so I’m left standing there in front of this booth full of people feeling uncomfortable until this other guy scoots over and asks me if I want to sit down. This is an important moment for congratulating myself that I didn’t just get up and order a bottle of vodka for my brain at the bar. Also, in-between this and our last public event together, Thrice has been in a short but serious relationship where he was in love, so the weird looks I was getting from his friends were completely justified. It was kind of a ‘what the fuck is she doing here?’ kind of evening which turned into a ‘what the fuck am I doing here?’ kind of evening. Each new moment was a flashback to another party time at a bar that led to a shitty morning of wishing for death by a mallot to the brain.
I’ve got to tell you guys also that soda-water with a splash of pineapple juice does not take the edge off nor does it stop anyone from concerning herself with who her Thrice is texting and or much he is going to drink, or whether this is worth being tired for a double waitress shift the next morning. It bubbles and is quite refreshing but does nothing for the supression of thoughts. The recurring thought of the night: am I going down this road again? I’m not the most on top of my shit person in the world, but my habits and what kind of shit I’m willing to accept as a constant in my life have changed. I know the answer, and also I know that all my friends and mom are going to read this and want to punch me in the face for considering it, but when I fall in love, I go down hard. One of the hardest things about changing your life for the better is knowing that you are going to have to leave some of the people you love behind because they just don’t fit in that space anymore. So I left the bar early that night and stayed up till after last call anyways just pondering everything.
But you guys, maybe a magical fairy will hit him in the head with a wand. Magical wands make people honest and not party animals, and commited to being awesome and not breaking up with me all the time, right? Not a day goes by that a magical wand doesn’t hit someone in the head and all of a sudden they are the best person in the universe. Happens to me anyways. I mean, I don’t wet the bed anymore, so that has to mean that other people can break their bad habits.
It has been theorized that women make projects out of men because they have low self-esteem or just want to fix people or they just love raising 30-something-year-old children so that they have someone to take a shower with on Friday night. That’s a real theory. Women get lonely in the shower. I don’t think I have low self-esteem. I’m just kind of pissed that the novel I decided to write may or may not be a remake of a really bad Adam Sandler movie. That was not what I intended when I started writing it, but learning that that may be happening has really bummed me out and made me feel lonely and dirty.
Whatthefuck.
Posted: June 23rd, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Short essays that prove the existence of odd, Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: 2nd perspective, dancing, gypsy death star, I have really good ideas, interpol, music, shows | 2 Comments »
you didn't have to cut off your arms, Stupeh.
You were just listening to Interpol for the last three days thinking about things that you think about when you listen to Interpol, i.e. the hopelessness of love and how to wear shoes like a dove. You noticed not more than usual the way that what you listen to can affect your mood and why that is. There always seems to be an explanation from anthropologists for these things. Like how your body pumps out endorphins when you’re scared, so that you can become superman and save babies from the underneath of cars (stop leaving your babies under there- it’s not safe!). You’re just trying to figure out for what reason the whine of a certain instrument causes your head to whine. Is it like the sound of babies dying, and that tells you to be sad? There’s a certain self-indulgence that is experienced during the solitary act of listening to music. If you listen to a sad band that seems to always be breaking up with its lover, you can end up burying yourself in bed and get your pillowcases all mascara-stained (note to you: black bedding or eye-makeup remover). This is 100% a choice you make for yourself, though, so you must get some kind of satisfaction out of it? Is this because you need to feel connected when you are feeling really alone, but not to a person in the room rather to the recording of a voice and instruments composed in a certain way that lets you feel your feelings even more so than if you were at..say a panel discussion of what can be done to stop urban sprawl? Eh, YOU?
Music at a live performance is a different experience, though. For you, it’s hard to experience the music as well when the performers are standing in front of you playing their own instruments. Even though they are the ones who created it and are sharing it with what is usually a crowded room full of people, you resent them and everyone in the room for tainting your experience with the songs. In this way your experience with music at best must always be a selfish one-like you want the band to play for you, but you don’t want to see them-or anyone else. The last time you saw a band, your M gave you more things to think about and distract you from what you were experiencing when she brought up the subject of arms. She didn’t know what to do with her arms at a show because if you cross them, you look like you’re being a bitch. At the time, your arms were crossed, and you thought, ‘by jove, she’s right!’ So you had to uncross your arms and become conscious that they were just hanging more conspicuously than ever at your sides. Then there’s the subject of dancing, which is a really tough one for you. Don’t get me wrong, you love to dance, and I think that if you never danced, you would be one of those people who needs to stop taking herself so seriously and cut a fucking rug at least once. What all these things add up to is a self-consciousness that stems from the lack of organized rituals in the modern-day music scene. Like, in the fifties they had dances to go with the songs. Like The Crocodile Rock comes on and everyone does The Crocodile Rock. Now, you’re either too cool for school and head-bobbing or you’re the free-spirited music junkie whose moves are on display mostly because very few others are moving. You think it would be cool if bands came up with dance moves to go with their songs so that everyone could do them and take the ‘show’ experience to the next level. You think Wyatt from Gypsy Death Star already invented one, and he doesn’t even know it. You call it Gypsy Death Starming, and he does it when he sings. Watch for it. Now you know that everyone doing the same move is conformist and soooo not cool or whatever we all happen to be about, but what’s the headbob if not conformist?
In the end, none of this really matters to you, so go back to being a pretty princess.
NOW
Posted: June 15th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Short essays that prove the existence of odd, Weird ways to fail at men. | 1 Comment »
When I picture this thing I keep seeing windmills inside of my chest just swooshing the blood around. I tried to draw the windmills and they looked more like flowers because I'm such a good drawer.
Oh my Lord. The world is too much. That’s what I thought the other day as I watched this young woman stroll with a four-inch-heel induced hip-sway into the ladies room. Ugh the scenes of human courtship and romance and what it all does to your brain and organs just makes me want to put on a potato sack and smear fowl on my neck. Too bad I think like a feminist but feel like a pretty girl who just wants to be loved. I was reading this article one day while I was trying to impress myself with how intellectual I am. The article was about how a Heart with no beat offers new lease on life. I think I just really want one of those. I love science and scientists and people who went to school and learned things so that they could build replacement hearts in their garages so that I can imagine a ramshackle whirling heart inside my human chest.
Now I know that I have in the past implied that surgery was not my favorite thing, but this new heart business sounds pretty awesome like a fresh start. You know how they say people who have had organ transplants will develop habits of the donor? Remember that movie “Return to Me” where Minnie Driver had Duchovney’s ex-wife’s heart implanted into her chest and they fell in love? Don’t you think that getting a fabricated future poocher heart would be like having a clean slate and/or a whole new swirling approach to things? I know that the heart is not the actual location of “love,” but I do think that if I judge the possibilities of what could happen through the lense of someone who just watched “Return to Me,” I think that perhaps getting rid of at least one memory-holding body part would help me to become a more normal person. Maybe I would fall in love with a car and find fullfillment in that. So I have to find these scientists and make them watch “Return to Me” and explain why I should love a car.
Why I should love a car for everyone.
Posted: May 24th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: I'm not going to lie, Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: camelbak, farmville, funny, I have really good ideas, outfits, summer shoes | 3 Comments »
Please stop them
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.
Posted: May 20th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: It's a parent, Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: china, daikokuya, farmville, little tokyo, ramen, toilet paper | 3 Comments »
- I was supposed to publish this on Mother’s Day, but I became a millionaire from the food-eaters instead. I’ve been really busy decorating my mansion.
My new boyfriend, Farmville took me to eat some authentic noodles at Daikokuya because he is super Asian. While the noodles were cool and had a whole hard boiled egg that I chased around the bowl with chopsticks, the thing that I have to share words about is the toilet paper in their bathroom. I noticed it at the first touch, and I thought to myself that this restaurant must really care about its clientele. I was too busy having to pee really bad when I first entered the restroom to notice how the rolls were displayed like a bouquet of frowers across the toilet’s water reservoir tank. (What is the name for that part of the toilet? The reservoir and not just plain old ‘the back?’). I really wanted it when I saw it, like most things Asian. You just never really see commercials for “Mama Love” toilet paper, so I googled it in much the same way that I google everything and found that I can purchase it if I want to buy 8.5 metric tons or 50,000 rolls. Does anyone want to go in on it with me? It’s from China. You guys like getting baby girls and toilet paper from China.
Farmville doesn’t even know that I was planning on writing about toilet paper because he mostly speaks Asian and thinks that I am a plus sized model and isn’t interested in toilet paper…I think. I don’t know because I have to imagine most of what he’s saying based on his facial expressions.
Also I just want my mom to know that I love her, and I found a website that teaches me how to play the keyboard for free and that I am going to rock the universe despite what she has always wished. Which is for me to not rock. Sorry mom.
The dishes are done.
Shotgun blast.
I’m not going to tell you about the babysitter.
Posted: April 26th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: I'm not going to lie, Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: heavy drinking, you're dumb | 2 Comments »
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.
This is one of MANY
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.
Posted: March 30th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Being creepy on the internet, Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: Crazy, porn, social networking, stalking, you're dumb | No Comments »
Hey! How'd that get there?
When I say “I’m,” I mean “you’re.”
I think social networking has made people more neurotic, self-centered, and just plain creepy. When I use the word “people,” I’m mostly meaning “me,” but I think everyone is a little like or at least trying to be or not to be like me.
I’m still Facebook friends with my ex and am conflicted about that because of what I’m about to write about right now. I’m just going to bring you into my head. You see, it’s not like I drive past his house to see if he’s home and it’s not like I ever would. I live on the other side of town now for Christ’s sake. So I go on Facebook to mind everyone’s business and see what they are eating, and I of course look at his page. I mean we used to spend every possible minute together, so what do you expect? It’s right there. All I have to do is click a damn link, and I think most people either do this or lie and say that they don’t do it. He knows that I’m going to do this.
So I see this bullshit facebook flirting and picture-posting crap with another girl, and in my head I’m just thinking, ‘So that’s what we’re doing? We’re just going on dates to the snow and tagging eachother in pictures? Huh? Two weeks, huh? Two weeks is all it takes, huh? So now I have to go on a date with someone and flaunt it all over Facebook? Is this your new girlfriend? Is that what I should do? IS THAT WHAT WE DO NOW?! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!’ If you have ever screamed inside your head, you know what I’m talking about.
I mean, you can block a person but that gives the implication that you’re too weak to be able to handle seeing an internet profile. Also, I blocked him the second time we broke up, and that ended with us moving in together and then breaking up again. Wow that sounds stupid but have you noticed the title of this page? This is all so weird, and social networking on the internet is what our kids are growing up with. Can you imagine how neurotic they are going to be? Can you imagine going through puberty with access to to the daily drama and musings of a bunch of other people who are also going through puberty? I want to put on blinders and sound an alarm and rock back and forth in the basement sometimes. Guess what though! I have grown up hormones and more experience in getting through bullshit. Guess what else! I don’t have a basement and never have. How do you rock back and forth in a room that doesn’t exist? You don’t. That’s how.
I’m mostly okay and really wanted to write about this cool cat I know, but I had to expell that from my brain.
Posted: March 26th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Weird ways to fail at men. | Tags: Crazy, iphone, steroids | 1 Comment »
What the HEY!?
So now I’m wondering why there isn’t an app that assesses the mental stability of the person at the other end of incoming calls. I know that there is caller ID, and that does help for known and repeat initiators of shitty phone calls, but what about the surprise attacks? I’ve had to hang up on people that I have to talk to on a regular basis three times in the past two days. I wish that my phone would not only warn me not to answer, but also maybe let them know that they are about to spew a bunch of crazy talk and should maybe be talking to a therapist instead of me. I wouldn’t even mind it if my phone created some kind of Avatar to just pop out and give the Crazies a hug. Even better would be an app that noticed tone of voice once you’re in the crazy phone call, and automatically switched on a conversation recorder, so that you could play the crazy talk for all your non-crazy friends, and you could all laugh together at whatever nonsense is coming from the other end. If I had that technology I’d remix it, make it into a music video, and post it all over the internet so that at least something entertaining and potentially awesome could come out of it. Since I can’t though, I will just leave you with my favorite quote from the last crazy conversation I had.
“Just because you can’t keep a boyfriend doesn’t mean you have to piss my boyfriend off!”
Ummmmmm…uh…ummm….huh?
