Monday, February 23, 2009

Genital or Mental

The great thing about a "turn-on" is that the littlest thing can do it.

"You know that guy Josh is in a band?"

"Oh my god, that's SO hot!"

"I know, right?!"

"I wanna DO him."

"I know, right?!"

"Because he's in a BAND."

"SO in a band."

"SO wanna do him."

"SO in a band."


Or, from a fella's point of view.

"Did you see that chick, Kate?"

"Nah, but I saw her tits!"

"Dude, that's what I was talkin' about!"

"Hellzzzz YEAH!"

It seems that many girls and guys share the same "turn-ons." If a girl doesn't talk about her weight 24/7? TURN-ON. If a girl has an ass? TURN-ON. If a girl has a friend with an ass? TURN-ON. And for girls' turn ons, which is more my forte...if a guy treats his mom well? TURN ON. If a guy leans on something when he talks to you? TURN ON. If a guy has a crooked smile? TURN ON. If a guy hasn't shaved in a few days and has grown out some stubble and his hair is kinda messy because he hasn't washed it in a few days and he has on a black t-shirt? TURN-ON. That last one may be more on a personal note...The point is, it's the littlest thing that does it. The slightest move or the tone of a voice can be like BAM!

"Did you see how he picked the pepporonnis off of that slice of pizza? GOD, that was sexy!"


"Did you see him rubbing his pecks horizontally across his torso like that? GOD, please get on me now!"


"Did you see him staring at his reflection in the window as he passed by it? LOSER."

That's right, just as the slightest thing can turn a person on, the slightest thing can turn a person
off. It's sad, but it's true. It may also be shallow, but if the world wasn't shallow we all wouldn't read the tabloids, now would we? We all wouldn't make fun of people, now would we? We all wouldn't masturbate to porn, now would we? (Those would be rhetorical questions, please keep all answers to yourself. I don't need to know if you jack off to naked cyber chicks, because I already assume that you do.) You could like someone for months, months! And yet one thing they do, just one little itsy-bitsy tiny thing that they probably didn't even realize they're doing, (those things tend to be the most embarrassing, the things you don't realize you're doing. Yeah, those would be the ones everyone else realizes you're doing. Example? Picking at your pimples. Moving on.) that one thing will turn you off, and I don't mean for a little while, I mean for GOOD. There are the obvious turn-offs...

--Odor strong enough to annhilate deodorant.
--Visible crack. (That would be pertaining to both 'butt' and 'cocaine.')
--Lackin' a fanny.
--Packin' a fanny. (not 'packin' as in 'inhibiting'; 'packing' as in 'that thing in the '90's everyone wore but no one will admit to)
--A strong resemblance to Tweedle-Dum.

But those are just some obvious ones. I'm not sure what specifically turns a
guy off, wish I did, but I don't, which I've grown to accept, it's not a big deal, but if you know you can tell me, so I'm just gonna focus on the ladies. What little things can turn a woman in the opposite direction?

Scenario #1
Cheesy Pick-up Lines

"So baby, do you like making pancakes?"


"Cause you just made my heart

Scenario #2
Inappropriate Pick-up Lines

"Hey sugar, how much do you pay your gynecologist?"

"I don't really know at the top of my head...why?"

"Cause I'd be your gynecologist for

Scenario #3
Pick-up Lines That Make No Sense

"Yo baby gurl, you related to yo momma?"

"Am I related to my own mother?"

"Cause if you are, then she must be hot!"

Scenario #4
When Guys Talk Like Guys When They're Not Around Guys, Especially When They Use The "P-Word"

"I better get some pussy tonight, dude!"

"Excuse me? I'm not your dude, and I don't appreciate you using that word."

"Cooter, beaver, twat, whatever man, as long as I poke the hell outta that shit tonight!"

Scenario #5
When Guys Talk About How Hot Another Girl Is Right In Front Of You To Make You Jealous When Really They're Just Making You Feel Unwanted and Insecure And Then You'll Probably End Up Going Home and He'll Be Wondering Where He Went Wrong When You Know If He Had Been Telling You How Sexy You Looked All Night He Would Be Feelin' Happy All Night If You Know What I'm Sayin

Dialogue is a little unnecessary. Just reread the title if you're confused.

The list goes on forever, which really just makes it even sadder, that there are THAT many things that can erase your infatuation with a person for all eternity. That
obsession, that want, that need...gone. Whether or not there are more turn-ons or turn-offs, we'll never know. (Unless you sit down right now and make your own list. Have I ever made one? No. Have I ever thought about making one? Absolutely.) It's healthy to know what turns you on, otherwise you'll see someone do something hot in the middle of class and you'll be like, 'shit!', have to excuse yourself, then when you walk back in you'll stare right at them and it WILL be obvious, I assure you. Same with turn-offs. If you don't know what turns you off, you'll be dating this guy, and it will all be roses and rainbows, and then he'll do one little thing and you'll be like, "Let's not..." and he'll be like, "Not what?" and you'll be like, "Not date..." and he'll be like, "But we were just in the middle of making out!" and you'll be like, "Yeahhh...the thing with your tongue licking my front teeth just kinda sealed the deal." and he'll be like, "Sealed the deal on what?" and you'll be like, "Sealed the deal on dumping you." and he'll be like, "Really?" and you'll be like, "Yeahhhh..." So I suggest you avoid THAT awkward situation and make yourself a list. That's right, jot down those turn-ons and offs, whether they be genital or mental! I don't care! Just don't whip it out (the list) in public. That may be someone else's turn-off. (so could whipping "it" out, just in case you were desperate and contemplating it). So list it up! It's a way of "discovering your likes and dislikes." (NOT in the physical sense).

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Call Me Quazi

I'm a fan of Red Bull. That's right, the thing that "gives you wings."

Now, what does this exactly mean? Is there a phrase I don't know about, like, "She's got her wings on today!" Honestly if someone said that to me I'd think that they were implying that I had eaten a lot of chicken wings and looked fat. I've got my wings "on", aka, "on my body," aka, "underneath my skin" aka "tub of lard." I mean, what does it mean, "Red Bull gives you wings?" Do we take this literally? It makes you fly? That's what the commercials imply. So can we sue them?

"This drink did NOT make me fly, did NOT give me wings, and you GUARANTEED it
would, so I'm SUING!"

"Sir, it is a figure of speech."

"Well did you SAY that in the commercial? 'Red Bull gives you wings! That is a figure of speech!" NO, I don't think you DID."

obviously, sir..."

Obviously? What do you take me for, a moron? I don't know about YOU sir, but when someone tells me something on a commercial, I'm sure as hell gonna believe them!"

"By 'give you wings' we meant...well...we meant that...errrrrrrrrrrrr...shit."


Red Bull is the thing that "improves performance, especially during times of increased stress
or strain."

Now, I have always thought that 'stress' and 'strain' were the same thing. Until, that is, I saw the can of a Red Bull. 'Stress OR strain,' it says.
OR. So, I took the liberty of Webstering it up to educate myself on the foolish mistake I have been making for years.

strain (verb): to cause mechanical deformation in (a body or structure)
Wow! I never knew Red Bull could fix the deformation of my body! So wait, I have a hump on my back. Hot guys won't talk to me. My fellow peers call me Quazi. (as in Quazi
moto.) (as in THE Hunchback of Notre Dame. That's right, folks, he wasn't just A hunchback, he was THE hunchback.) So back to my hump. All I have to do is drink some caffeinated carbonated water and BAM! Hunch? Gone. Hotties? Present. Is that what they're telling me? But wait...the can uses 'strain' as a noun, not a verb. Silly me! Let's find the noun of 'strain.'

strain (noun): the body of descendants of a common ancestor, as a family or stock

So. If there suddenly is an abundance of my dead great-grandpappies' decaying bodies, INCLUDING the livestock they had back in the 1800's, Red Bull will get rid of those bodies? Well that's just disturbing.

stress (noun): physical, mental, or emotional
strain or tension

So, stress IS strain. Stress and strain are the exact same thing. Should I really be drinking something that doesn't even check the definitions of their words before they print them on the outside of billions of cans? Should I really be drinking something from a company that assumes it's consumers don't have the time on their hands to sit and read the back of the can, analyze it, whip out a dictionary, then spend an hour writing about it on the Internet? Surely someone else does that besides me...

Red Bull is the thing that "increases concentration and improves reaction speed."

I drank a Red Bull before the SAT thinking it would help me concentrate. Turns out all I could concentrate on was where the fuck did all these words come from and how the hell am I supposed to know what they mean? I have yet to test the 'reaction speed.' I'm thinking I'll just ask everyone to try and punch me for the next hour after I've consumed a Red Bull and see if I can duck fast or not. And if not? SUE.

Red Bull is the thing that "improves mood."

I just spent 3 dollars on a drink the size of a baby bottle. That improves my mood? And, as I have just now recently noticed, the
Sugarfree Red Bull does NOT say it will "improve your mood." So basically, they're saying it's the sugar that improves your mood? Does sugar do that? I'm sure that if I got sad and chugged a sack of sugar it would NOT make me happy. If I was 5 years old it would, but not at 18. I have things to worry about now that I didn't have back then, such as "LOVE HANDLES."

Red Bull is the thing that "stimulates the metabolism."

Now they're just asking to be sued. Fat people got nothing better to do, as we've seen in the past few years.

"I gained 10 pounds after drinking your "wonderful" Red Bull! I'm SUING."

"Well how many Red Bulls did you have?"

"ONE, right after I ate a couple of baker's dozen cream-filled chocolate eclairs, and I STILL gained weight!"

"I assure you, ma'am, it was the 26 eclairs you ate, not the 110 calorie Red Bull."

"But it SAYS it stimulates my metabolism!"

"Yes, that is why instead of gaining 25 pounds, you gained 10."


Red Bull is the thing that "robs you of your money."

They don't put THAT on the can.

And yet, I'm still a fan. Whether it be Sugarfree or Sugar...captive?, I'll buy it. I'll drink it. And after that? I'll buy another. Because Red Bull gives you wings! Whatever the fuck
that means.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Toilet Talk

I have more important things to do with my life than clean a toilet. I have more important things I could do with a toilet other than cleaning it, such as using it. Making sure my open mug of coffee is far from it when it is flushed because apparently the water invisibly sprays up into the air. Keeping my 2-year-old brother FAR from it because he likes to experiment with the nature of the independent swirly. Those are just a few things I could do involving toilets that would better my life other than getting down on my hands and knees and scrubbing the exact place a countless number of asses have been. Clean asses? Dirty asses? Any kinds of asses. And here I am, in the same position people get in to pray to the lord, looking as if I'm worshipping the Crapper and whatever might have been plopped down into it. Or tinkled down into it. Or kerPLUNKED down into it. I restate my case. I have better things to do with my life, THE ONE LIFE I WILL EVER RECEIVE IN ALL OF ETERNITY, than spend one second of it cleaning a toilet.

What's the point, anyway? If you're willing to put your ass where other asses,
stranger's asses, fat auntie's
asses, have been in the first place, then exactly what sliver of dignity are you trying to hold on to? You have none left. None of us do, really. And if you're patting yourself on the back for being one of those people who rip three pieces of 12 inch toilet paper strips and then place them on the left, right, and back of the toilet seat then stop patting yourself and slap yourself. Sure, I'm putting my ass there but I'm not letting my hands get anywhere NEAR that seat! And here you are putting them near where people's butt cheeks have been three different times! In three different locations where the germs could have spread! Its called germs, people. It's called hepatitis, people. It's called shit on your fingertips, people. And what? I'm gonna clean it and everyone is going to be like, "Hey guys, Natasha just scrubbed the toilet so let's not empty our bowels for a couple of days." Please. I wish that were the case, but it's not. People gotta pee and I can do nothing to stop them. Cleaning a toilet probably encourages them to go anyway. "Use it before someone else's fat ass gets to it, man!" You know the drill.

My point in raising this minor problem in my life is the fact that "cleaning the toilet" happens to be one of my weekly chores. Sure, I don't have a job. Sure, I get paid 20 bucks for cleaning a toilet. Sure, I do nothing around my house to help out. BUT CAN'T I HAVE SOME OTHER USELESS CHORE? Like dusting, perhaps. I could dust. I could dust
gooooooood. But oh no, I'm stuck getting yelled at for not cleaning my toilet. You don't use it, do ya, Pops? NO. So why do you care what I do with my bum? Or if it's clean or not? Or who it is that gets a peek at it on the weekends? It's my private property and if my bum is my property than so should be my toilet.

So you're stressing the fact that the toilet needs to be cleaned once a week. Does it really get that dirty once a week? Do me and my 15-year-old sister shit on our toilet seat? Have we not learned what the hole in the bowl is a target for? Did we not grow out of Pampers almost 2 decades ago? And what if I skipped a week, huh? What
if we let that toilet go uncleaned for two no no! Three Eh? Or should we dare and go for FOUR WEEKS...what would happen? Would 4 weeks of using a toilet a few times a day turn it brown and stained? Would the water be dirty and murky? Poisoned and lethal? Would disease spread throughout the entire house, or would the house merely smell like pure shit? (That's right folks, pure shit, none of this inbred shit you've heard of. Pure.) I don't think so. You know what I would think would happen? I'd think our toilet would be the same old toilet it always had been. We'd still use it, it'd still flush away our little brown secrets. If I didn't clean the toilet, life would go on just as we've always known it to go. I mean, I'm not saying OTHER people shouldn't clean it...I'm just saying I shouldn't. I'd like to give a shout out to all plumbers of the world. I respect you people. I know you fix them rather than clean them, but cleaning them is a way of fixing them if you think about it. You know what they say...a dirty toilet leads to a dirty conscience.When I stop getting paid 20 dollars to clean my own toilet every Sunday, I'll be giving you a call.

I Will Follow Thee

Would it be seriously unprofessional if I started out this post with the F-bomb in it? No? Okay then.


I mean, at first it was quite entertaining. Amusing. A laugh-a-minute. A gut
wrenching grab your ribcage laugh till noise isn't coming out and instead you're gasping for air kinda laugh. But after SIX YEARS of my life being spent hiding from STALKERS I am quite sick of it. And yes, I have pondered over the fact that since this newbie stalks me, he might possibly read my blog. And if he does?


And if he doesn't?

"Hey, Ross! Have you read my blog?"

I have been stressing over this for weeks now and today I have had it. Absolutely HAD it.

"I like your tights."

"Thank you, Ross."

"Can I touch them?"


"Can I touch your tights?"

"Not today, Ross, no."
Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day, NOT IF YOU WERE THE LAST 14-YEAR-OLD ON THE PLANET. Yeah, he's 14. Did I not mention that? That may be why I can't just be like, "FUCK OFF." because he's so young, and nice, and apparently autistic, so yeah, do I really want to be the 18-year-old bitch who told the autistic freshman to FUCK OFF?

"You're very exotic."

"Thank you, Ross."
Get me away get me away get me away get me away for the love of god GET ME AWAY.

"I mean that in a good way."

"Yes, I figured that."

"I meant it in like, a sexy way."

"Thank you."

"I mean it in like, a sexy panther way."

"Panther...yes, I see. Thank you again, Ross."

"Yeah, yeah definitely sexy panther.
If you guys reading now are fans of my blog, you would have read the post about Hot Cheetos Stan, who stalks me to my car. He is the one who had walked up to join me and Ross in order to cross his arms over his chest, nod in a fast, repetitive manner, and agree that yes, I do indeed look like a sexy panther.

"I'm gonna write a song about you called, "Sexy Panther." "

"Thank you, Stan."

"Just text me tonight and remind me. You got my number?"
Smooth. Very smooth.

"Yep, I got it!"
Yep! That's a lie!

"So where do you live?"

"What, Ross?"

"Where do you live?"

"In Springfield."

"Me too."

", cool."
Oh. Wow. Cool. Way to creep me the fuck out.

"So where in Springfield?"
I have come to the assumption that if Ross was 16 and had a car, he would follow me home. He absolutely would. He wouldn't do anything to me; I am definitely not in danger of Ross, but yes, he would be outside my window at night when I went to bed. This is why I thought it best not to answer the question. Which, by the way, i immediately regretted, because for some reason me not answering was a hint that we were now on cuddle-buddy terms.

"Are you tired, Ross?"


Ross had taken the liberty of resting his head on my shoulder as we sat in the bleachers. I truly believe this could officially be deemed The Most Awkward Moment of My Life.

"You should sit up then."
You should go get kidnapped, then.

I mean, what am I supposed to do? I have this kid who waits outside of my first and second periods, follows me everywhere I go in P.E. class (saying, "I will follow thee." every time I pivot my foot to get the hell away), waits outside of the girls' locker room until I come out, (he almost followed me in there one day but I told him he couldn't go in, in which he said, "Oh." and sat down right there in the middle of the floor.), and if he happens to be behind me on the way to 6
th period, will RUN to catch up with me, (I can hear his feet pounding behind me and yes, it is the scariest thing ever) stopping when I stop, blatantly staring at me as I talk to other people and I just have one thing to say about this mess because really I know I'm gonna have to tell him to leave me alone and I don't know how and telling a stalker to stop stalking you right to his face is more stressful than you think. But back to the one thing I have to say.


Saturday, February 14, 2009

Who Gets Their Noo-Noo On?

Here's the deal about Valentine's Day. It sucks. Now, some of you happy "takens" may have just become offended by my blunt remark I made not 15 words ago, but I hope that by the end of this post you, too, will despise February 14th, and maybe even your "loved" one for wanting to celebrate it. Yes, that is what I hope. I hope you will fall out of love when you're done reading this and go read a romance novel. Because that's what single people do. I'm not just saying this because I have never had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day, or because I've grown too old to hand out those kick-ass little cards you buy to stick in people's shoeboxes, or because that one guy I liked in 7th grade bought my best friend a box of chocolates for V-Day and gave me a high-five, or because I got dumped 5 days before the holiday of love. I'm saying this because the government should not pick one day, out of 365 of 'em, to tell people THIS is when they can open up to each other. THIS is when they can express their passion. THIS is when they better not screw up or their significant other will never forget "the time they screwed up...ON VALENTINE'S DAY!" No. I don't need the government to choose February 14th, an often freezing, dreary day not even close to my birthday or to any concerts I'd like to go to, for me to buy my man something. Why not choose a day in May? When the sun is out and the animals are mating everywhere you turn? Are we really that different from animals?

"We're humans, we're going to have sex when it's cold and wet and dank and depressing. Cause that's how humans DO IT. You stupid animals with your hot sex."

And Valentine's Day is 2 days before President's Day? Eww. As if any of those guys had a good relationship with their wives. George Washington? Can't kiss a woman with wooden teeth! Abe Lincoln? So honest he told his wife all the women he thought about when he masturbated. Bill Clinton? Do I even need to explain that one?

According to, the Greeting Card Association has declared that an estimated one BILLON valentine cards are sent each year, making Valentine's Day the SECOND largest card-sending holiday of the year. (Christmas comes first with an estimated 2.6 billion cards sent.) (Natasha Ferrier's birthday comes in third with an estimated 6.2 cards sent.)

I mean, come on people. It's just pathetic. People in love should celebrate their love EVERY day. I would much rather my boffy (too soon to be thinking of hubbys) bring me roses on a random Thursday. That is way more like, "I wanted to do something nice for you because I love you." Not, "I'm going to bring you flowers on the day every other guy brings his woman flowers so maybe I'll get some tonight." GO CONFORM SOMEWHERE ELSE YOU ASSHOLE. I'm sure you're thinking, "But wouldn't it be awful if everyone had presents on Valentine's Day and your fella didn't give you anything?" WELL HE GIVES ME A LIL' SOMETHIN-SOMETHIN EVERY NIGHT SO SORRY TO YOU COUPLES WHO LOVE SOMEONE ONLY FOR THE 24 HOURS WHEN EVERYONE ELSE IS ALLOWED TO LOVE SOMEONE. You pansys.

And really, it's just a holiday to make single people feel like shit. I bet the statistic to people getting dumped/been dumped/soon to be dumped within a week of Valentine's Day is pretty high. Let's just depress the entire nation by rubbing it in single, independent people's faces by creating a holiday that only half of the world can celebrate. Let's force all single people to eat chocolate and read romance novels and watch The Notebook once a year so they feel like shit. WOO HOO, GO V-DAY!

Hey, here's a sentence for you to finish! About 85 percent of ALL valentines you know? Do ya?


Come on ladies, get with the program.

And did you know that the "Day Of Romance" is celebrated in the United States, Canada, Mexico, the United Kingdom, France, and Australia?

That's six countries total. SIX. What? So six out of the thousands of countries were born with hormones? Or maybe THEY'RE the ones who are with the program and really, they just get their noo-noo on everyday. Who gets their noo-noo on? THEY get their noo-noo on.

If your lovey-dovey obeys the govey-govey (I know, clever, right?) when it comes to you two's relationship, I'm thinking you need to make some adjustments. Talk to them, work things out, explain MY views...

"Well Natasha Ferrier says Valentine's Day is stupid."

"Who's Natasha Ferrier?"

"This 18-year-old who blogs."

"And she says it's stupid?"

"Yeah. Read it."

"She's SO right!"

"I know, right?"

"Get over here baby and give me some lovin!"

"But honey, it's February eleventh, not the fourteenth!"

"If Natasha Ferrier says it's fine, then by golly, it's damn fine!"

Or, if all above options fail, you could just dump their ass. They'll get over it. They won't really be sad anyway until a year later when February 14th rolls around and they're like, "WHHYYY??? WHHHYYY CAN'T I BE LOVED ON THIS COLD SUCKY DAY TWO DAYS BEFORE PRESIDENT'S DAY???" Then, 24 hours later, on February fifteenth, they'll forget all about the fact that they're alone and probably try to pick up some chicks in a bar. Or, if you're a woman, read something with Fabio on the cover.

You may think I'm bitter. But really, I see it as just way more romantic and loving than any of you. I don't need to be TOLD when to think really hard about something that will make my boo feel special. I want to do things like that all the time. So really, YOU'RE the bitter ones, you Saint Valentine worshippers. You government worshippers. You candy-hearts-that-taste-like-sawdust-worshippers. You people IN LOVE. You people with someone to CELEBRATE YOUR LOVE with. You people who get free chocolate. I buy my chocolate on my OWN time, thank you very much. And then, I eat it. As I read a romance novel. Then I watch The Notebook. Then I write a post bashing all people in love. You know what I think you should do on Valentine's Day? I think you should GO FUCK YOURSELF. But then again, that's what all single people will be doing.


Psycho moms. Gotta love 'em.

"Are they still behind us?"

"Uhhh...yeah. Yeah, they are.
My sister and her friend Raegan were following my friend Rose and I back from a party. Suddenly, my sister calls me.





"Dude shut up!"

"HaHA! Sorry okay, what's up?"

"Raegan's mom is freaking out."

"What do you mean?"

I assume my sister had held the phone away from her ear, arm extended, head turned away as if in agony, as I sat and listened to the retaliation from a 16 year old girl to her psycho mother.


Not that interesting. But it sounded BAD.

"So what's she freaking out about?"

"Raegan's curfew was 20 minutes ago and her mom didn't know she was in East Nashville."

"Well we're 10 minutes from her house."

"She said it's all your fault."


"Wait. Hold on..."


"Hold on..."




"Raegan's mom wants dad's number."


"To call him and tell him what we've been up to."

"But I
told Dad where we were going."

"She says she wants Dad's number now or she's grounding Raegan for 6 months."



"She can't call Dad at 11:20 at night after he had a date with Stepmom!"

"Not if she doesn't have his number."

"Give her mine."

"Are you gonna answer?"


"What about your voicemail?"

"It's automatic."


"Let me know how it goes down. Bye."


We pull into a parking lot 5 minutes from Raegan's house, my sister jumps into the car, and Raegan waves politely, answers her phone, starts screaming into it, looks back at us, and waves again with a smile on her face. Poor girl.

"Dude, Raegan is FREAKING OUT."

"I would be, too!"

"Her mom was calling her over and over and over and
over again, then when Raegan would answer she'd just start screaming at her."

"Poor girl."


"Who is it?"

"Fuck! It's


"Should I answer?"

"Should she answer?"



Rose, my sister, and I all leaned in...attentive, curious, scared shitless.

Hello. I am trying to reach Natasha and Violet's father. This is Dawn Arnold, Raegan's mother. Your daughter Violet is at large with my daughter right now, in the car, on the way home from East Nashville. Raegan has gone outside the perimeter radius zone I have given her, and it is all because of your oldest daughter, Natasha. Natasha has led Raegan out, past curfew, to East Nashville to do god knows WHAT, and now I am sitting at home with no transportation. I have anxiety. The last time Raegan had gone over to your house I talked to your wife about your daughter Natasha refusing to give Raegan a ride to the YMCA for me to pick her up at. I had anxiety at the time because of that, and I have anxiety now because my daughter cannot be led 30 minutes away by your daughter, who should know far better than that. If this is a faulty number, you just be glad you don't have teenage daughters who lie. I have no transportation."

First of all, "at large"? What does that even mean?

Second of all, The whole YMCA thing? WE LIVE 2 AND A HALF MINUTES FROM THE YMCA. WHY COULDN'T SHE DRIVE HER LAZY ASS A HALF MILE AND GET HER OWN DAUGHTER. And I didn't even know I was supposed to take her there.

Third of all, you don't have to tell us you have anxiety.
We know.

It seems like this would be an appropriate time to laugh, but we weren't. We were frightened. And just really pissed off.

"Dude! I'm 18. I have no curfew.
And, me and Rose had two hours left to spent at that party but Raegan was too scared to find her way back alone so me and Rose agreed to take her home. That woman should be THANKING US!"


"Violet, is that your phone?"


"Who is it?"

"Fuck! It's


"Should I answer?"

"Should she answer?"



"Well no."

Beep Beep! Beep Beep!

"What was that?"

"Fuck! She left a voicemail!"


"Should I play it?"

"Should she play it?"




"Put it on speakerphone."


Violet, this is Raegan's mother, Ms. Arnold. Raegan was supposed to be home TWENTY minutes ago. You, your SISTER, and your sister's friend are all out PAST CURFEW. I called your FATHER to let him know where you have BEEN and what you all have been UP TO, and I will call him AGAIN. If my DAUGHTER is not home in 5 MINUTES I am calling the COPS to track her down, and then I am telling the cops to track your SISTER down. Your SISTER has led Raegan to the middle of NOWHERE in the MIDDLE of the night and Raegan BETTER be home in 5 minutes or THE COPS WILL FIND YOU.

First of all , cops have better things to do than hunt down teenage girls who are out when they are legally allowed to be out, under the influence of nothing, driving in their cars listening to Bananarama.

Second of all, I'm about to call the cops on YOU, BITCH.

Third of all, you know that Mike Myers skit on SNL?

"I'm sorry, I am having trouble controlling THE VOLUME OF MY VOICE!"

That's what Raegan's mom sounds like.

"That woman is nuts."



"Off her rocker."


"Straight-jacket worthy."




Psycho moms. Gotta love 'em.

(Unless they call the cops on you.)

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Where The Party At?

At sixteen years old I had one thing on my mind and one thing only.


Did I ever party? Hell no. But that's doesn't change the fact that that's all I could think about. Boys? Psshhh.
boys? Psshhh. Boys with cars? Maybe. But aside from boys "with cars" (Cute boys with cars was just too good to be true.), I had the party thing goin' on in my head. Like a song. A song you only know ONE freaking lyric to and you just keep reciting that lyric over and over in your head. And you're like, "I have a song stuck in my head!" when really it's much worse. It's, "I have a sentence stuck in my head!" Sure, it has a catchy tune, but it's still just a sentence, possibly even a sentence fragment. NOT a good feeling. So, I had something like that stuck in my head, except it wasn't a song, just a question. "WHERE'S THE PARTY AT?" That's all I could think about. It made me very antisocial.

"Yeah, so he said he loved me, but like, he's not
calling and I've left him messages and I texted him a few times, and that was after leaving him several messages and I don't know what's wrong with him, what do you think, Natasha?"

Where's the party at? That's what I'm thinking.

"I mean, do you think I should just give him space, or like, call him from another phone to see if he answers, or talk to his friends..."


"Or like, should I hit on his friend and then maybe they'll casually mention it to him ad he'll get jealous and call me..."

"Maybe he didn't call you back because he was at a party."

"Maybe...I don't think he really parties though."

"Maybe he heard
of a party and so he was calling people to find out the deets and so he couldn't answer his phone."

"Well the thing is he's not much a a "partyER" so..."

"Who isn't a partyer? We're sixteen, aren't we? Aren't we
supposed to be partying? Isn't that what sixteen year olds DO?"

"Well I'm fifteen."

he could be sixteen, and in that case I mean, DUH, he's partying."

"Aren't you sixteen?"


"How many parties have you been to?"

"What kind of questions IS that? I'm SIXTEEN, for crying out loud!"

This is a common tactic used among homosepians called, "avoiding the question."

"Oh, so you've been to a lot?"

"I'm sixteen, aren't I?"

This is also a common tactic used by homosepians called, "answering a question with a question so you don't really have to answer the question."

"Yeah. So you party like every weekend?"

"Hell yes, I do!"

And yet another tactic frequently used that is most often called, "lying your ass off."

So, truth was, I didn't go to any parties. I didn't hear of any parties. All I heard were the stories on Monday morning of how AWESOME and how CRAZY and how "FUCKED UP, MAN" people's weekend had been. (At the parties.) Was I not elligible for a good 'getting fucked up' session? I would hear about who had hooked up with who. (At the parties.) Was I not fit for some good random fellatio with total strangers? Or better yet, guys who went to my school who I never talked to so I could come back and have countless awkward silences with them? I would hear about who saw who, who ran into who, who drank with who, AND I WANTED IN, DAMNIT. It wasn't until February that I thought I had gotten that chance.

My best friend, (BFF, girl! Turned out to be 'BFFN' friend FOR NOW. Heard that in a movie, thought it was very honest and so I liked it.) So my BFF at the time had a birthday coming up. What do people do on birthdays? That's right, baby. THEY PARTY. After weeks and weeks of planning, we were ready. I, having done none of the work to prepare whatsoever, had no idea what was in store. But oh, did I have my thoughts. BIG mansion, TONS of alcohol, LOADS of people, SEXY fellas, sexy while at the same time NICE AND CARING fellas, (what? nice and caring fellas don't party?), DANCING, MUSIC, DANCING
TO THE MUSIC, all of it. You name it, I imagined it. The time...had come.


I should have paid attention to the warning signs. The signs that were so blatantly obvious that I couldn't see them. The signs that blinded me with their blatanty making it impossible to recognize them. But I was sixteen, and like I said, I was ready to party. That's what happens when you want to party. You get wrapped up in it, man. Like a drug. All I could think was, "BITCH I

Warning Sign #1
I pull up in my car. (Actually it was my dad's car, being that I was sixteen and did not have a car of my own yet and therefore rocked the shimmery beige Buick LaSabre that I now miss since I never got pulled over in that thing because only 90 year old men drive those things and who's going to give a 90 year old man a ticket? Who's going to even try and
communicate with a 90 tear old man?) (Besides Anna Nicole, that is.) (Yes, that was uncalled for because she is dead and yes, you read correctly. BUICK. LASABRE.) So I pull up in my beige "boat" that people used to refer to it as, and a 50 year old man with white chops speed walks over and taps on my window.

Since I had never been to a party, I did not know at the time they they usually had middle-aged men as crossing guards. How clever!


Since I had never been to a party before, I did not know at the time that the crossing guards extended all of the vowels in their words at a heightened volume right in your face. Party tradition, I guess!

Warning Sign #2
The door was locked. So I rang the door bell.

Do people usually answer the doors at parties?

"Why, hello! You must be NATASHA!"
Do 50 year old women in velvet track suits usually answer the door at parties?

"Yep, that'!"

"Come IN, come
IN! Just head on over to that table and Dot will help you!"
Finally, some ALCOHOL!

Warning Sign #3
Do people usually keep the kegs hidden? Duh! So cops don't see! I am such a party pansy.

"Here you go, little darlin'!"
Dot hands me a permanent marker...oh wait, DUH. To write my name on my cup, I'm sure!

"And here's this!"
Dot hands me...a name tag?

"Write your name on this name tag and stick it right on your bosom there, honey. That way folks here know who ya are!"
After poking my bosom with a permanent marker of her own, Dot shuffles over to some stoned little mother fuckers who have probably done more drugs than centimeters her boobs have sagged and hands them a name tag. You know those times when you're embarassed for someone else? That was not this time. I was embarrassed for MYSELF.

Warning Sign #4
I walk into the kitchen. One, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN adults stand there, clutching their booze. At least I get to drink! I head over to what looks to be "the bar."

"Ah Ah Ah! Miss...
Damn this name tag.

"I don't think you're 21, little missy!"
I don't think you are either, ya old fart.

"But we have something special for YOU!"
If he gives me a fucking goody bag...

Man I wish it was a goody bag.

Warning Sign #5, a.k.a. The Last Straw
"Who wants to dance?"
Music blasts on. Rap. Typical. But hey, it's a party, isn't it? People start dancing, grinding even! and I start to get excited for the first time that night. I rip off my name tag (it's good to start small), and start to head over to the dance floor. Time to PARRRRTAY!

Music cuts off. Everyone stops. Ol' Mr. Rogers lookin' ass is standin' there holding the iPod.

"Too loud, guys. Come on now, you all know better than that."

So I leave. Yeah, I left my best friend's birthday party, without even saying goodbye. Or thank you. Or picking up the name tag I had tossed to the "dance" floor. (More like "FANCE" floor. FUCK. ALL. NAME TAG. CARRYING. ELDERS. FANCE.) That was one of the lamest things I have done. But you know what? That was THE lamest party I had ever been to so I think that must give me SOME kind of leeway. I guess what I took from that experience was that I had been asking the wrong question all along. You don't ask, "Where the party at?' What you need to be asking is, "Where the party at and WILL THERE BE FUCKING NAME TAGS BECAUSE IF SO THEN I'M NOT GOIN." With that advice, all you 16 year olds of the world, go party.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Shout Out To The DONK!


Okay. May we stop and analyze the fact that the entire male species suffers from Tourette's?


Because they do.

"Hey Annie!"

"Hey, what's up?"

"Who's yo friend?"

"This is Natasha."


First of all, can you not just ask ME what my name is? I'm standing not two feet away from you, not two inches from the girl you just asked my name for. Second of all, who uses the word 'donk?' It only makes me think of donkey, which makes me think of a...ahhh...I see now...okay so it's kind of clever, but it still sounds dumb. (For those of you who have trouble catching on to my unspoken "dot dot dot" epiphanies, 'donk' means 'ass.' 'Ass' is another term for 'donkey' yada yada yada I hate explaining myself.) And third of all, YOU ARE RUDE. Now I can't turn around, because I'll be feeling self-conscious and extremely aware that you'll be looking at my ass, hence the self-consciousness. And for those of you who are thinking I'm writing this post to boast about my ass, you are incredibly mistaken and should be embarrassed. Would YOU take someone yelling at your ass as a compliment? SHOUT OUT TO THE DONK! No. I don't understand this "ass craze" people seem to be going through. It's a phase, I tell ya. An ass-craze-phase. A big ass only means someone has been eating a lot of lard and that lard has gone straight down to the area above the anal canal. That's right. If baby got back, she really just got a hunk of lard sitting on top of her ass hole. WHAT IS SEXY ABOUT THAT? Please tell me. I'm dying to know. So, in conclusion, NO, I don't take someone telling me I have a donk as a compliment. I take offense to someone telling me the area below my back has a few layers of fat piled up on to it. Now back to what I was saying. YOU ARE RUDE. And, MEN HAVE TOURETTE'S.

It's not that women don't find parts of the
male's anatomy as visually pleasing. We just decide to keep these thoughts to ourselves. I don't know, it's like, for some reason, we decide NOT to yell out random comments depicting parts of the naked body to total strangers as they pass us. I know, weird, right? Same thing when we're driving in the car. If someone is walking on the sidewalk of the opposite sex, we just never have the impulse to roll down the window, press the middle of the steering wheel with the palm of our hand to make a "BEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP" sound, and then yell out word fragments, such as, "AY BABY!" or, "LOOKIN GOOOO!" and then drive away, roll the window back up, and act as if nothing happened. It's not like we'll be thinking about that one person walking their dog who we impulsively screamed at for the rest of the day. Therefore, we decide to not make complete asses of ourselves over an ass you can't even see because it's covered in pants. ABNORMAL, I KNOW. I was contemplating over this, and a thought struck me. Do men think women get turned on by the fact that they were just yelled at by a stranger? I can see them thinking this. "Aw man, that girl is gonna be thinking about me for the rest of the day. She'll tell all her friends about the guy who almost gave her a stroke by screaming at her from the road as she was trying to go for a walk in order to get some peace and quiet, not to be blatantly honked at. She was just THAT fine that I had to yell, "THAT DRESS WOULD LOOK EVEN BETTER ON MY FLOOR!" and that will totally boost her confidence, man. That chick is gonna be dreamin' about me tonight no DOUBT." So if you're a guy thinking this, thinking that we just love when unattractive guys we've never seen before and never WILL see again yell inappropriate "compliments", you're wrong. Wrong.

I'm not gonna lie. If a random guy yells at me as I pass, it's entertaining. I may tell a couple of friends. I may laugh about it the next day. (Unless he's
one, in his 40's. Anything below 40's is relatively young, anything above 40's is just hilarious because those would be some old dudes yelling at you, but 40's is just gross because that would be someone my dad's age. Or someone my dad knows. And yes, that would in fact disturb me for days. Two, he's driving a pick-up truck. Those guys are creepy, probably in-bred and possibly rapists. Three, he has his kids in the car. I've never actually witnessed the third one, but you have to admit, that's pretty fucked up if some guy has his children in the car and he's yelling at girls closer to their age than his to bend over.) Other than those three, it is pretty funny. But I'm not sure if men know that we LAUGH at them for doing that. We're not flattered, or turned or, or curious as to..."ooh who was that guy...", we're embarrassed. For you. And it's funny. (At the same time we pity you. And feel bad. Because you're suffering from Tourette's.)

Maybe it's the words we get thrown at us that aren't cutting it. Maybe if you yelled something like, "YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL!" instead of, "SEXY
THANG!" out your car window. Or instead of, "MILF!" you yelled, "A ROSE WOULD ENVY YOU!" as you pass us on the street or maybe instead of "GIRL GOT A DONK!" you could yell, "YOUR GLUTEUS MAXIMUS IS THE MOST CAPTIVATING GLUTEUS MAXIMUS MY EYES HAVE EVERY SEEN, MY STUNNING PEAR-SHAPED LOVE!" I don't know. It's hard to say. But the other thing definitely isn't working, (has a woman ever asked you out to coffee after you screamed at her in public about her "twins?" NO, and if she did, she's probably got a couple of straight jackets hanging in her closet), so you may want to give it a try. Or you could just book a doctor's appointment. Not that it would help. There's no cure for TOURETTE'S.