March 28, 2007

First Off, It's a Rooster

I just saw this commercial during "American Idol" (I can't even talk about it, consider me officially OFF the Sanjaya bandwagon...not that I was ever really all the way on, but I might have been being drug behind it because my shirt got caught in a door or something...), and it disturbed the crap out of me.



Maybe I *DO* wanna be a french fry.

This is like the Chips Ahoy commercial where the cookies are all excited about getting eaten.

(Well, wouldn't you be?)

Feelin' Hot Hot Hot

So, my St. Patrick's Day acrobatics on ice left me with a throbbing lower back that practically has me sleeping flat on my back on the floor with my knees hugged to my chest just be comfortable (or, as I like to call it, "taking 6 Advil PM and sleeping however I damn well please).

After a week of this, I decided that maybe it was time to haul my ass back to yoga.

Not just any yoga, mind you, Bikram yoga. As in, "won't it be fun, on top of the agonizing contortions we're already forcing you into, if we jacked the heat in the room up to--seriously--108 degrees so you feel like you're not only going to tip over, but also die, then possibly puke and poop in your pants?"

Speaking of pooping in pants, upon leaving this 90 minute torture session, my shorts were so thoroughly sweat soaked that they flopped about uncomfortably on my butt and thighs, bringing horrific flashbacks to pissing my pants in the 4th grade becuase freaking Mrs. Webster woudln't let me go to the bathroom until class was over, and my poor little 8 year old bladder just couldn't take it.

*shudder*

But yeah, the yoga. The thing about it, is that I'm actually surprisingly flexible. ("That's what he said!") (Man, I really wish "The Office" would come back.) But when you're doing this shit in 108 degree heat, you tend to feel, basically, like you're going to spew chunks all over the cute little hard-bodied 100-pound girl in front of you, who is offending your fat rolls with her freaking bikini.

(Seriously, a lot of girls wear bathing suits to this class becuase the sweat pours off you in buckets, which would have explained the shockingly high number of men in my class, if I hadn't ascertained that they were in fact mostly gay.)

Luckily, I managed to keep my chunks in my belly, and I only had to sit out one set to do it.

I've never before done a workout that has made me wish for my own death for more than an hour, but then make me anxious to return as soon as I can scrape up another 12 bucks. I guess for me, Bikram yoga is like that asshole guy that verbally and mentally abuses you, and makes you feel like utter poo, but then sends you flowers the next day or something and sends you running back to his arms.

Okay, shitty metaphor. But seriously! I can't wait to go back.

March 27, 2007

American Eye Dolls...Yum

"American Idol" keeps getting worse and worse.

There's like two good singers on the show, but there are two of the most prettiest beautifulest gorgeousest boys! I pray that neither of them is voted off any time soon.

I'm even climbing aboard the Sanjaya train and strapping myself in. He's too bizarrely, horrendously awful not to just love at this point. Mainly becuase he knows damn well that he's terrible, and it's like he's laughing at us.

I'm kind of starting to love it.

But seriously, Chris Richardson and Blake. Blaaaaaaaaake. He beat boxes! Chriiiiis...He looks like Justin!

Mmmm.

What Fu will dream about tonight:


Me Flunk English? That's Unpossible!

You know, maybe I expect too much. I know not all the world shares my particular obsession with the proper placement of commas and apostrophes and such.

(By the way, I'll thank you not to find any of the myriad grammatical errors in this very blog and email me about what a hypocrite I am...I enjoy my own hypocrisy, thankyouverymuch.)

And I know that certain rules of grammar, in particular those of commas and apostrophes, can be rather hard to grasp, especially if you're a particularly retarded advertising executive for an adult escort company.

Or, for that matter, a copy editor for a major online news publication.

Otherwise I wouldn't have seen this in a banner ad today:



Now, I'm not actually sure what the proper plural form of the word "ho" is, frankly. I'm going to go out on a limb and say "hoes," as in, "I got hoes in different area codes."

(Which, I'll also point out, doesn't even fucking rhyme, so don't ask me how it became a saying.)

Hoes looks all wrong, but I can't say "hos" looks much better, eh? Dang, I'm really lost here.

But then I went back to the same page and saw the offending banner ad again. And it was at this point I realized that I was complaining all for nothing, and felt like an even bigger weirdo dork than usual:

Becuase it is now obvious that the letter "W" is obscured, and that my zeal for finding and ridiculing grammatical errors overtook my critical thinking ability. After all, it does seem unlikely that a newspaper would be asking its readers whether there were hoes searching for them.

As the Sports Guy might say, the answer, as always: I'm an idiot.

(But seriously, don't ever let me catch any of you trying to use a damn apostrophe to form a plural. I will break my freaking designer heel off in your ass--and then I'll be even more pissed, becuase you'll have made me break my shoe.)

March 22, 2007

Shut Up, CATS

I've tried, after evaluating it in my own mind and consulting with others. I've tried really hard to NOT be cat-blogging lady.

Becuase the only thing worse than someone who won't ever shut up about their kids is someone who won't ever shut up about their cats. At least kids are like, important in life. Cats are just something single women acquire to feel 1/10th less lonesome in the dark and lonesome nights, right? Right.

And I am far too young, far too cool, and frankly far too awesome to allow myself to be that lady that sits at home at night blogging about her cats.

But I guess that's not really true now, is it? They are making me crazy. I understand now why spinsters get them in lieu of getting to have babies. Becuase they wake me up every single goddamn morning at 5 in the goddamn morning.

Fu? IS NOT A MORNING PERSON.

They've even proven too tough for all the Advil PM I had to take after hurting my back on St. Patrick's Day.

They purposefully rattle my goddamn jewelery around on my dresser. They scratch, and I'm serious here, I timed it, they scratch in their litter box for 12 minutes straight.

The litterbox is in the bathroom, but they scratch in it with such fury that it WAKES ME OUT OF A SOUND SLEEP IN MY BEDROOM.

And when they hear me stir? They come running into the room, looking at me all expectantly. So I know it's on fucking purpose.

And alls I'm saying is, I'm gonna snap.

Furthermore, why does anyone even agree to be on "The Bachelor" anymore? Do they not realize that a) America generally thinks you're a crazed whore, and b) aside from one exception out of dozens of crazy bitches, no one ever actually ends up married? And they actually had to give that chick her own show so she could end up married.

I assume it's about wanting to be famous, but being famous for being a crazy bitch on TV isn't really all that cool, is it?

Maybe that's why I'm sane.

Of course, I did just write a big old rant about my cats, so maybe not. But cat ladies very rarely end up on "The Bachelor."

March 20, 2007

Has Anyone Ever Told You....

As I mentioned last week, a guy last Saturday wouldn't shut up about how much I look like Izzie from "Grey's Anatomy." And on St. Patrick's Day, the following Saturday, another guy wouldn't shut up about how I look just like Drew Barrymore.

Of course, it's entirely possible he was only trying to get in my pants (ahem).

I do not tell these stories to be all "hey aren't I the shiznit?" (Although I'm not going to lie and say it doesn't stroke my ego to hear it...)

I tell these stories to ask this simple question: if this is true, then why do I only seem to attract the sketchiest men in Manch Vegas? I mean, if Drew herself were out meeting dudes down at Margarita's (or would she be a Strange Brew girl?), something tells me she'd do better than me.

Maybe once my work at the gym pays off, it won't just be over-the-hill-potentially-married-guys and sketchy-skeevy-man-whore-seeming guys. (Or maybe eff the gym, and I just need to move somewheres a little more sophisticamated.)

= ???

Move It or Lose It, HAPPY People

Here's the thing.

Like most single women my age (27), I would someday like to settle down and have kids and get married and stuff.

Preferably the latter before the former, come to think of it, my dad's heart isn't in the greatest shape.

But sometimes I wonder if it's just societal pressure, in all honesty. I tend to consider having a boyfriend really just a sexual convenience (although granted, it's also nice to have someone and all that...as long as they have their own place to live and don't cut their toenails in your bed) (and obviously, it was different with some guys, so don't go freaking out, Brian).

I don't ever want to have another roommate, and isn't a husband rather roommatesque? It's someone who is all up in your shit and making messes and taking gross dumps in your bathroom. I already have cats for that.

As much as I bitch about being single, I honestly do enjoy taking care of myself, and, wow, really don't have any room in my closet for anyone else's clothes. I'm already out of shoe room, my most recently purchased shoes are now occupying boxes on the floor outside the closet.

Then there's the child factor.

I kind of....um...I kind of despise them. I'm not mean to them or anything, and I don't envision being one of those cranky old spinster bitches that keeps their toys if they land on my freaking yard, but they make just about any situation 148% more annoying.

Airplanes. Waiting rooms. Restaurants. Weddings. Shopping.

I honestly see few reasons why a kid should ever be present in a grocery store with their parents.

If you're a single mom or dad, okay. If your spouse is out of town, or working late, okay.

But I was accosted by those giant-ass "race car shopping cart" bullshit things in like four different aisles at the grocery store tonight, and noted that several of them were manned by both freaking parents.

Someone explain to me why this is necessary. If I ever do get married and punch out a few of these little beasts myself, Husband (Victim) will sit home with the kids while I do the shopping, or vice versa.

Becuase shrieking chidren in a race car shopping cart blocking all the singletons from their single serving Easy Mac?

Annoying.

(And also, WTF is up with couples shopping together anyway? Honestly. I don't recall ever having shopped as a couple, unless we were like, on our way home and realized there was no toilet paper or ice cream or some other essential. Stop depressing all the single people in the damn grocery store.)

March 19, 2007

The Best Part is, You Always Win

I took 2 Advil PM forty-five minutes ago, and am only just now beginning to feel drowsy.

Before you accuse me of being a pill-popping weirdo, know that the taking of the pills (while awesome and all but guaranteeing that the Evil Kitties will not be waking me as usual at 515 am with their combo attack of "litter box scritchitchy scratch loud loud LOUD" mixed with "dresser top jewelery-heave! Ho! On the floor! Rattle rattle!") is actually medically warranted this fine evening.

Why, you ask?

Becuase St. Patrick's Day happened, that's why. And apparently being 27 means your body is not really all that amenable anymore to "428 Drinks + Icy sidewalks = Falling directly on one's huge ass, which does nothing to cushion the fall like you'd think." If I were 22, none of this would be happening.

Yesterday, not only did my whole body hurt from my monstrous hangover, it hurt from my one woman performance of "Fat Chick On Ice." I've done...something to my back, which appears to also be affecting both legs, both wrists, both shoulders and every tendon and muscle in my neck.

(The good news is, I slammed a shot of Jameson in front of tablefull of men, who were very impressed when I didn't even flinch or gag or make a face or reach for my beer to chase it...the bad news is, I slammed a shot of Jameson after a cherry bomb, Jager bomb, and several suspicious drinks called, and I'm serious, "Liquid Panty Removers." I don't even know how I brought myself to even order one, considering I find the word "panties" to be one of the grossest words in the English language, right up there with "crampons.")

Anyhow, I'm officially babbling incoherently, so I guess that means it's time to hit the hay (or fall face first into the hay in an over the counter narcotics-induced haze).

March 16, 2007

It Doesn't Count as Drinking Alone if There are Cats Present

Caption on this photo: Oh, Matt Dillon, you scamp!

Alternate caption: Oh, Drunk Eye, why are you all squinty when the other eye is so bright eyed? No fair!

So, not only am I drinking alone in my pj's on a Friday night and watching bad chick flicks (although really...is "Beautiful Girls" a chick flick? I'm really not so sure.. I mean, it's a movie about bonds between a bunch of commitment-phobic men, right? I think it's a movie for one and all, and that's what I'm sticking to.

Becuase I'm on glass number 4 of champers and am thinking of cracking beer number 4. I like to even things out, you see.

This photo is FAR more egregious on the drunk eye, as my diagrams will show you. And while I took the first photo with my crap ass cameraphone (I have no idea where the actual camera is, this is disconcerting) to show my enjoyment of said bad chick flicks, this one was taken with a straight face so you can all witness the bizarre things that happen to my poor nearsighted left eye when I've had more than two drinks. It's fascinating, truly:

And I hope you appreciate my willingness to put photos of my drunken, pj-clad, non-makeup wearing face.

If you're reading this entry it's becuase I've yet to sober up and delete it. Whooooo....

Honestly though, I'm not sure I want to watch "Sliding Doors" at this point. I have too hard a time believing the pooooooor Gwyneth Paltrow is unlucky in love. I'm thinking of the old standby, "When Harry Met Sally," but that might just make me depressed. Hmmm....

I'm sure I'll figure it out, and be sure to let you all know. Maybe "The Sweetest Thing?" But I feel like I watch that all the time. Maybe instead I should go deal with the fact that it looks like i have a mustache in this picture.

I don't have a mustache! Ask anyone!

Snowbound Nor'easter 2007 Special Event: Sarah Gets Drunk

So all of Manch Vegas is at a standstill, it's snowing like it's the freaking march of the penguins out there, I can't go anywhere, no one's going anywhere, and it's looking like a Friday night of pajamas and girl movies.

So, to spice things up I've decided to get shitfaced.

I stopped by the Rite Aid to get supplies and I've got it all planned out. My only regret is that I didn't get cigarettes, because alone in the dark would be as good a time to cheat as any. But I guess it's for the best, bad enough that I got frozen pizza for later (wasn't I just ranting about how healthy I've been eating?).

So, I've got a little White Trash Loser Snowstorm Bonanza going on here tonight, including the following:

1) Bottle of cheap-ass Rite Aid champers
2) 12 pack of Bud Light in cans (ew) that my parents left here (they like to have supplies here becuase they know I don't keep beer in the house, certainly not canned beer. I love them).
3) Purple pajama pants and a hot pink tank top
4) Two words: Chex Mix
5) Chick flicks

I'm one can of beer and a few handfuls of Chex mix into the night, and already having the best time. Who needs good weather and bars and, like, friends and stuff? I got all I need right here.

I've even staged a mini-Cameron Crowe-athon so far, as I just finished the last 20 minutes of "Say Anything" and am 15 minutes into "Singles."

(I love "Singles," it's so deliciously dated....so very 1992. They even have the old Preview Guide on the TV, and seriously old school Nick-at-Nite with "My Three Sons." I was only in 7th grade when it came out, but I swear to god I had one of the outfits that Keira Sedgwick sports in this film; the high-waisted faded tapered-leg jeans with a faded yellow flannel from the Gap...tucked in. Like grunge your mother would approve of. And this was when Bridget Fonda was working regularly and so beautiful in that "you could have been friends with her in college" kind of way. Actually I think I was friends with her in college.)

But I just watched it last weekend, so I'm switching to another Matt Dillon classic, "Beautiful Girls." A trulyl embarassing picture for all involved, particularly one young Natalie Portman.

One of my faves.

I'll check back in later, before I put in "Sliding Doors."

(Awwww, yeeeeeeah.)

You're Dead to Me

Some guy on Saturday night told me I looked just like Izzie from "Grey's Anatomy."

This is the second guy in just a few months to say this to me, something I find both delightful (I mean, she IS hot) and puzzling (I mean, I'M not), but have always taken as a great compliment.

Now, I'm going to say "oh thanks, I look like a vile ho that would loudly and obnoxiously complain about my best friend's wife despite his desperate pleas to tell me to suck on it? And then would actually sleep with him when he has one little fight with said wife? THANKS!"

After that, I'll throw a drink in the guy's face (just becuase that always seems like it would be fun to do, and I'm terrific at misdirecting my anger...just ask my books, who get chucked violently across the room whenever I fight with my mother or have difficulty getting an electronic device to work properly) (okay replace "books" in that last sentence with "cats," and you'll be slightly more accurate) and storm off indignantly.

Becuase I'm pissed.

Becuase my favorite fricking TV show has been officially ruined.

Maybe I'm just continuing my post from earlier tonight, and being indignant on behalf of fatties.

Becuase Callie was the awesomest thing about this show. She was bad-ass, smart, good at her job, fucked hot guys (except stupid puppy dog George...but take it from someone shaped not unlike Callie--the hot guys will do it to you, but you always fall in love with the puppy dogs...I have on numerous occasions), was considered to be sexy, no one ever even brought up that she probably weighs twice what Meredith does.

But now they had her go off, rightfully, on her idiotic husband and what does he do? Runs off to evil vile bitch Izzie--who has been acting like a jackhole about his wife to his face for ages, hating her for NO reason-- and gets drunk and laughs at how "insecure" his chunkified wife is, and then they FUCK.

I honestly can't even watch next week.

(Except of course I totally will.)

(I am so ashamed.)

(Not about watching next week, but about the fact that I've been trying to get to sleep for the last half hour but couldn't becuase I was seriously that fired up.)

(About a tv show. Good lord.)

March 15, 2007

Did you mean: "I heart hotties"?

(The title of this entry: I usually find my images by Googling, and was hoping there'd be something funny when I Googled "I heart fatties." Google apparently wanted to make sure I was serious.)

Big mistake tonight. Big. Huge.

I bought a bathroom scale.

I've never been an advocate of at-home-weighing for those trying to shed poundage. It's just too goddamn tempting to weigh yourself every three minutes. And weighing yourself every three minutes is really not conducive to actually making the number go down.

For the men out there wondering what the hell I'm talking about, just read this. I guarantee you that the reason this made the best-of list on Craigslist was that every single woman who read it was like, "OMG! That is SO me."

We're obsessed. OBSESSED. I've had the thing in the house for literally 30 minutes, and I've already weighed myself 5 times, no lie.

Once with all my clothes and shoes on. Once in a tank top and undies (down 5 pounds, wow my clothes are heavy). Once after peeing (down half a pound). Once holding my fat cat (up 13 pounds). And once holding my svelte cat (up 9 pounds...I'm surprised that Pork Chop only weighs 4 pounds more...but I guess that's actually almost 50% more than the thin one...If someone weighed 50% more than me, they'd be....yikes). (Wow, Pork Chop needs a diet.)

So you get the idea. I'm thinking the over/under on how many more times I'll weigh myself before going to bed has to be about 7.

This is going to turn out to be a big mistake.

On a related note, you know what pisses me off? This. Which is very disappointing, because I normally love Wonkette's Metro section, it keeps me in touch with D.C. (although at least they helpfully point out how misogynistic the entry is).

The post is funny, no doubt, but in that really mean way that makes a person uncomfortable, like hearing a racist joke. I could deal with it, laugh, say "some guys are such pricks" and move on, but then he had to go and link to an older entry, and that's when I just started feeling sorry for him, becuase god, outside of the age of 15, who is still this big a prick?

"But Fu! You were complaining about "lazy bastards" at the gym in January yourself, not two months ago!"

I know. I know. I'm a damn hypocrite. The difference, is that my problem was with ALL the lazy bastards who never work out and make it miserable and crowded at the gym for those of us who do, once the new year starts.

Not just the fat ones. Becuase not every jerk who decides "this is the year I get in shape!" on January 1st is actually...fat. And not every person who works out regularly (such as myself) and eats healthfully (such as myself) gets to be thin.

Thems the breaks, I don't waste my time complaining about them (okay, sure I do, sometimes). I just get my booty to the gym and say things like "can I have the fat-free dressing, and can I have it on the side?"

Seriously, my biggest pet peeve about carrying extra weight is that I probably eat less and work out more than your average thin person. Alicia, my best friend from high school, is a size two on a fat day (since she's usually a zero), and the girl can eat like a bastard. And she hardly ever exercises.

But the hateful people assume that everyone who isn't a size two or zero is just "lazy" or, as the Misogynistic Blogger thinks, "owned by food." Sure, some are. But not all.

Anyway, the point isn't just about the Assholish Yet Funny Blogger. (Who, after reading a bunch of his entries, is most certainly both of those things....the entries are funny, but exactly in that way that makes you feel guilty for laughing....it's like he's still the meanest jock in high school who busts on all the nerds. It's funny, but you feel bad. Only now that guy is acting the exact same way, but he's an adult, so it's actually just really, really, sad. Like the way I feel when I read another Wonkette gem, the excerpts from Late Night Shots.)

The point is that I learn nothing, becuase as pissed off as I get about the assholishness of others, it sure as heckfire don't stop me from being a grade-A asshole myself, pretty much 96.2% of the time.

But oh well. At least I don't make fun of the fatties.

(Unless they're like, REALLY fat. I mean, I'm only "a bit" fat, I am a fricking Olsen twin compared to like, that chick in Mexico that died and stuff.)

(See what I mean?)

March 8, 2007

Iowalcoholic

So I booked tickets to the Hawkeye state today for one of my favorite couple's wedding.

I'll be rendevous-ing in the airport to share a ride to the hotel with two other pals, and since I'm landing an hour or so before them I'm already thinking about whether or not the airport in Cedar Rapids has a bar.

I'm also wondering what the bar in the hotel is like, and whether there are other bars in the vicinity.

I mentioned on IM to a friend today that I was thinking about calling the hotel to find out, and we had the following exchange.

Them: Are you serious?
Me: Well...yes.
Them: The wedding isn't for more than two months.
Me: So?
Them: And your'e already wondering where you're going to get drunk?
Me: What's your point?
Them: You're seriously going to call the hotel and say 'I'm going to a wedding there in two months, can you fill me in on the alcohol situation?'
Me: ....
Them: I think you have problems.
Me: So I shouldn't look up the airport to find out about the bar situation either?
Them: ....

But come on now! I'm excited for this wedding. All of my favorite DC people will be there, and I already bought the cutest shoes ever. Nevermind that, as is my usual move at weddings, the shoes will end up under the table as I drunkenly slosh around barfefoot.

Hmmm, maybe I do have problems.

(Shoe problems, that is, as those were the fifth pair purchased in only a week...but so cuuuuuute!)

Man. I have been busting my ass at the gym this week, chugging green tea, still not eating candy or ice cream (my two favorite things) (besides smoking, which I'm ALSO STILL NOT DOING) (can you tell how bad it's starting to get to me? Why wasn't I informed that it takes two months for withdrawal to set in?), and if I don't start getting some results soon I'm goinig to snap.

Snap. For real. Like, I'm contemplating whether or not it's possible to simultaneously eat a Snickers and a gallon of birthday cake ice cream while smoking three packs of cigs and drinking a pina colada.

(That sounds so good!)

March 7, 2007

No Thong You

My latest favorite blogger, “Good at Drinking, Bad at Life” (see how much we have in common?), complains occasionally why more women don’t wear boy-short style panties.

As a celebrator of all things boy short, allow me to offer a possible explanation (aside from the panty-line argument, which is also totally valid depending on your outfit): boy shorts are made for fatties.

Now before y’all jump down my throat, allow me to ‘splain: this is not to say that thin women would never wear boy shorts (and look damn sexy in them) or vice versa, but I think in general the division in undergarment preference is between women without much booty and women with a big ol’ butt they want to cover up.

Or maybe it’s just me.

When I was a bit thinner, I wore plenty of thongs…although granted mainly those halfsies thongs that had more than just a little string connecting the back to the front. String underwear is not a good look for me, I end up looking like a pork roast.

Furthermore, I don’t really get why g-string wearers don’t just go commando. That three centimeter triangle of fabric covering your gremlin isn’t really doing much, you know? My assumption is that they just secretly like the way the string sticks out at the top of their ass when they bend over.

Sluts.

(No, I’m not jealous.)

(Shut up.)

But with the right sexy matching boy short/bra combo, a girl can look hot and not worry about her butt showing too much, or that the guy is going to try and season her love handles and stick them in the oven.

There’s also the comfort factor. Even when I wore thongs on a daily basis I was always remarkably aware that there was a piece of fabric parked between my ass cheeks. You get used to it, but it’s always there. When I get back down to my fighting weight I think I’ll probably only break out the thong when a severe panty line situation is on the horizon.

Consider me officially in the boy short camp.

In other news, I'm dying for a fucking cigarette.

Since giving them up at New Year's, I've cracked and cheated only twice, once on a night I was so drunk I ended up glued to the bathroom floor with alcohol poisoning, and once when I was in DC with all my goddamn chimney friends (you try staying strong through that).

Other than that, I haven't really thought much about them.

But ever since ditching sweets for lent, it's all I think about....I have actual fantasies about sitting in my favorite spot back at Mackey's (where you can't even smoke anymore, the travesty), dragging luxuriously on a nice Marlboro light and knocking back Rickeys with my partners in crime.

Mmmmmmmm......

(Must. Not...Fold!!)

March 4, 2007

It's My Wine in a Box!

I keep seeing these commercials for Fish Eye "wine casks," which can hold 4 bottles of wine at once and last for weeks and weeks!

The commercials make it out like this is quite fancy, but I just think about all the good times I've had with the illustrious Box o' Wine!

Ah, the box o' wine. Five liters of fun in a sack, wrapped in a box with a spigot. You can get drunk like, three nights in a row for about $9.99! Now that's a deal. Aching, skull-splitting, back-breaking hangovers aside, the only better time you can have with a box involves Justin Timberlake's junk.

So as it turns out, it appears that eliminating high-sugar foods from one's diet can yeild positive results. After giving up candy and ice cream for Lent, despite my utter lack of Catholicism, I dropped six pounds in a week. Seriously. And the only thing I did differently was not eat ice cream and candy. Six pounds in a week! I was astounded. I didn't even cut out all sugars, I still have my low-cal cookies and fat-free pudding and all that.

Apparently, I used to eat quite a bit of candy. Who knew?

In other news, I'm a huge loser.

I have only a few friends, several of them are in what the kids are calling "romantic relationships with members of the opposite sex," and the others are on the 28-day program (I fell off that wagon last week, I suck ass) and are avoiding bars like the plague. So I've had pretty much jack-all to do lately.

Friday, I was all excited to hang out with my bestest buds. My fucking parents. No lie, I hang out with them more than anyone else.

We had dinner Friday night, discussed the Oscars, and they said they hadn't seen my favorite movie of 2006, The Departed.

Me: Oh! Well let's go rent it then, we can watch it after dinner.
Them: awkward silence
Me: What?
Them: We sort of have plans to go out tonight.
Me: Oh.
Them: If you're not going out tomorrow night either, maybe we can do it then!
Me: (slits wrists)

Good times!

March 1, 2007

America Loves Tits (and Crappy Singing, Apparently)

God, I love American Idol.

My favorite part is that every year, some truly craptastic singers get put through, and I swear to god it's all rigged so that people like me will get all up in arms about it.

Controversey is just as good PR as anything else, after all.

But I'm actually tickled pink that Antonella is sticking around. She's hot, she has nudie pictures all over the Internet, and she couldn't find the proper key if it was hidden in some guy's crotch.

Basically, she's a delight for the sarcastic assholes of America, frantically typing texts back and forth throughout the show like I was last night.

"OMG, she sux so bad"
"I know, how did she even get on this show?"
"Is this supposed to b Celine? It's like...GASO-line instead!"
"Yeah, gas like my farts."

See? It's just too much fun to give up right now. Not that I didn't like Leslie and all, she was quite cute.

She just had too much talent, and not enough pictures of her boobies on the Internets.