Real, live letters to Santa

Don't ask me how I got these. I'm sure that I'll get fired for posting them. (Which means you didn't have to ask me at all. You just had to wait for me to say I GOT THEM AT WORK.)







Piggy Smalls. Come on, that's good stuff right there.

12

An unimpressive list on a most impressive day. Sorta.

I couldn't possibly let such a significant milestone go by with only a short tweet to commemorate. And, yes, "short tweet" is redundant.

Today, peeps, is 12/12/12. And not only that! It's my 12th anniversary. At work, that is. We all know I won't be seeing a 12th wedding anniversary any time soon.

A lot has happened in the last 12 years. Since I was a wee babe of just 18. With my whole life ahead of me. And with that lead in, I present to you 12 Significant and Not-So-Significant Moments From the Last 12 Years on My 12th Anniversary on the 12th Day of the 12th Month of the 12th Year.

(2012th year just didn't sound as good.)

1. Started a job. My first real, adult job.

2. Met a guy and lost my V card. (Yes, I just used the term "V card." How mature am I?)

3. Moved. And not just out of my parents house (but, yeah, that too) (God, those were the days) but away away. Like 8 hour drive away.

4. Got a tattoo.

5. Got married.

6. Moved again, this time back to my home town, and had cats.

7. Started a blog. (Moved blogs. Stopped blogging. Started again. Moved again. And again. Blah blah blah.)

8. Read Twilight and was never the same.

9. Got divorced. (This could easily be significant moments 6-12 all on its own.)

10. Joined Goodreads and read some books. And read some more. And spent way too much money on said books. I freaking love to read.

11. Started a list of 12 significant moments of my adult life and realized I couldn't come up with that many significant moments. And was sad.

12. Contemplated the meaning of life and the meaning of me being in a job, that was not and still is not supposed to be my career, for such a long period of time.

13. Realized I have no interest in delving into such a deep, potentially (likely) depressing topic that would require me to look at myself and all the things I've done wrong over the last 12 years and The End.

Still... 12 on 12/12/12. It's worth buying a lotto ticket on the way home.

Undeniable by Madeline Sheehan

Not really a review 'cause I don't really say anything nice about it except that it's really, really good.



I have a problem. And, no, this isn't, thank goodness, another post about blogging. (Although it might turn into a post about comma abuse.) (Which can be a serious problem.) No, I have a problem with poorly designed book covers. All that swirly text... and in all caps no less. It's painful to look at. (I'm an e-book reader, hence no covers. Still.)

So, I did something kind of embarrassing and, well, just fixed it a little. IT'S NOT A BIG DEAL.



I mean, it's still practically the same! It's just... well, it's better, okay? There. I said it. Of course, one person's "better" is another person's "not so much," but to them I say YOU'RE WRONG.

Anyway, I just finished reading this book. And I wanted to write some sort of something about it, but I just kept getting stuck on all that ugly. (Yeah, the crazy really has taken over.)

This book, though... holy fuck, was it ever hard to read. Entertaining as hell, but painful. Heartbreaking. Gross. Infuriating. And a whole bunch of other adjectives. I should have known better. The reviews all told me how gritty and dark and disturbing it was, but did I listen? Of course not.

And I gotta admit it. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Then again, I'm not easily offended by cursing, name-calling, cheating, rape, etc... in books, that is. Real life? Well, I'm still not offended by the cursing, but those other things? Yeah, I could probably get my panties in quite a twist over most of it. Especially the rape. Yes, rape. (Did I mention this book was painful to read at times?)

It's a love story... just a really fucked up one. And, like, the hero and heroine? They're both totally fucked up, too. And so is their lifestyle. And all their friends. And the whole time you're thinking about how fucked up everyone is! But you can't stop reading 'cause it's just so good.

Dumbest quote of the book that I actually highlighted so I'd remember to share 'cause it made me scoff and roll my eyes: "Watching Deuce orgasm was absolutely beautiful. Aurora Borealis kind of beautiful." To which I say, chick, no man's "o" face is that awesome.

Pitch Perfect

I went to see Pitch Perfect last night at the dollar theater. Again. (Even though it was kinda late and the dollar theater is kinda ghetto and I'm kinda nervous about being mugged or worse there.) Leaving, I had an idea to make a list of all the best worst movies I love. I think I was confused by all the singing and dancing which tends to be prime "best worst movie" material, but then I caught myself thinking again about how much I freaking loved it and finally realized that the most awesome movie ever doesn't belong on a "best worst" list. It belongs on the best movie ever list which wouldn't even be a list 'cause it'd just have this one movie. I tend to be a bit of a sucker for singing and dancing. Throw a love story into the mix and I'm sold. Yeah. I know. I'm easy. That's when my all consuming love of this movie just plain ruined the best worst movie list idea. The end.

Once more with feeling.

I believe everyone is in possession of some obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Some worse than others. Some padded cell worse than others. I'm not sure where on the severity scale mine fall, but I do know that they all seem to come out through my blog. The name, the appearance, the posts themselves. It's something that's gotten progressively worse the longer I blog.

It's the reason for all the moves, all the changes. It's the reason I quit blogging. It's the reason I decided to not quit blogging. It's the reason I decided to start over. Hence the deletion of all content. (Yes. Deleted.) It's pretty much the cause of of all my angst. Okay, not all (I have a lot), but most. I've let what was supposed to be fun completely ruin my life. (And apparently cause me to be completely over-dramatic.)

So, I'm starting over. This is post one. This is me throwing caution to the wind. This is me holding both middle fingers up in the air with a sneer to rival Johnny Cash and saying "fuck you, world!" Although I'm not sure why it calls for the double-finger salute. Or the F word. But trust me. It does.

I want to have fun blogging like I did when I first started. I want to not care if my posts are perfect (which they're not) or if people will love them (which they may or may not). I just want to have fun. (And be repetitive at will.) (And abuse parenthesis.)

This is the one and only time I'm going to talk about blogging. As soon as I hit publish, I'm letting go of all the angst. (Well, not all. I live at home with my folks after all.) I'm going to loosen up, have fun, and just write. Silly stuff. Serious stuff. Stuff about books (of which I read dirty nasty ones) and weight loss (of which I need to participate) and whatever else strikes my fancy (of which I'm not even sure what a "fancy" is).

I'm going to take my own advice and Just. Fucking. Relax. And maybe pop a Xanax to help me do so.