Thursday, July 29, 2010

Shit On Your Dick

Where am I?



Physically, I will soon be on my way to Vegas. But sexually, I'm over at Dan's blog.

Wait, what?

Anyways, Dan asked me to guest post for him while he's on vacation this weekend, and I have never been a guest blogger before so this is all very new and sexciting. Also, Dan is disgustingly awesome so I know you guys will like his blog. Plus he says really awesome things about me. Ch-ch-ch-check it out!

Plus I knew y'all would miss me like WHOA so now you have a little bit of Sara for the weekend. You're welcome.

Now go read my post over there about "shit on your dick" niz-ow!

Trust me, you need to know this.

Also, I plan on having this picture made into a shirt and wearing it all weekend. Good idea, no?



Also, I plan on getting some treats for y'all while I'm there which means there's going to be a badass giveaway coming up. And you KNOW that I'll pick out something good for you. (Hint: It will probably be shaped like a penis or a vagina. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Also, I was reading Jordan's blog, and she had a great idea regarding postcards. I would really, really LOVE to get postcards from all over the country (or even the world) and make a fucking awesome living room decoration to hang on the wall. So if you want to be a part of my home eternally, send me an email at tatorhead328 at yahoo dot com.

And if you want a postcard back, let me know! I'm sure I can find one with an alligator on it for ya. Unless you want one from Vegas... if that's the case, you better let me know ASAP because I'm coming home on Monday, procrastinators.

ALSO, I went to a Japenese sushi & grill Wednesday night and ended up seated next to a couple I'd never met. As the girl was leaving the restaurant when we were finished, she said, "It's like you have situational aspergers!"

Fuck.

Yes.

Hope y'all have a great weekend! (Though it definitely won't be as good as mine!)

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Not It!: The Story of Fiancee & Sara Swears a Lot (Part 2)

We're changing things up around here today... Your regularly scheduled hilarity will be back next week! To read part one of the Fiancee & Sara Swears a Lot story, clickity click hiz-ere.

After leaving Andy's house in such a rush the morning after our first date, I was panicked that he would think it was just a one night stand and write me off as a total slut. Little did I know, Andy was at his house worrying about the very same thing. (Well, not the slut part. Guys aren't called "sluts". I think they're just called "cool".)

(Aside: In fact, Andy STILL teases me about leaving that morning without saying goodbye. He tells me that I used him and was only interested in sleeping with him and leaving. Apparently his penis was more amazing than I expected because look how long I stuck around.)

Thankfully, we both realized that we are incredibly awkward individuals and it only took three days for Andy to say, "So... will you be my girlfriend?" to which I replied, *giggle, giggle* "Yes," because I'm a girl, and it's in our rule book to giggle when situations like this arise.

We hadn't even been dating 6 months when I started feeling the "I love you" sitting in the back of my throat. There were so many times that I wanted to say it, but the timing just didn't feel right.

And once I realized that I was undeniably in love with this man, I started freaking out. This was my first real, adult relationship. I had never experienced a connection with anyone like this. Andy had become my best friend. And realizing that scared me even more. If I lost him, if he didn't want me, if I wasn't good enough, I would not only be losing my boyfriend, but also? My best friend. The person who understood me and my weird sense of humor best.

So I did what any girl in this situation would naturally do. I became the most insecure person on the planet. Every girl that walked by was prettier than me, funnier than me, better than me. I just knew that one day, Andy would realize what a mess I am, how innappropriate I am, how boring I am.

So I started fights. I started fights over nothing because I figured if he broke up with me over a fight, at least it wouldn't be just because he didn't like me anymore. I don't know how the poor guy put up with me for a while there because every little thing hurt my feelings or set me off.

There was one night in particular that I wish I remembered better. I have no clue what our fight was about. But it was a pretty bad one. After some yelling back and forth, Andy left my apartment in a huff to go back to his house for the night.

I sat in my room in silence for an hour or so, thinking about the fight, about Andy, about our relationship. I've always been better writing things down than speaking them so I started writing Andy a letter. I told him I loved him. I told him that I loved how every day, he would come to my apartment after work and greet Jean-Claude right as he walked in the door. I told him that I wanted there to be a future for us. A future that lasted forever. A future that involved him coming home from work, greeting our kids at the door instead of our dogs.

I never gave him that letter. I don't even know what happened to it. But after writing it all down like that, I knew what I had to do.

It was 3 am on a cold night in January. I was already in my pajamas for the night, and Jean-Claude was in his kennel, ready for bed. But 3 am or not, I had to see Andy. I had to tell him I loved him. I couldn't keep holding it back anymore. It had to be said, and goddamnit, it had to be said right then.

So I threw on a coat, grabbed Jean-Claude's kennel and my purse, and we ran to the car for the longest 30 minute drive of my life.

When I pulled in the driveway, my heart was pumping like crazy. I walked up the steps to his front door and knocked quietly, almost hoping he would take a while to answer so I could form my speech in my head.

When he finally stumbled to the front door, still half asleep, he looked taken aback to see me. "What are you doing here?" he asked, still groggy. "I'm sorry for everything," I said as I immediately fell into his arms. We stood in the doorway, just holding each other, for what seemed like forever. It was like I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, but my mouth couldn't move no matter how many times my brain screamed, "Come on already!"

"I.... I, well.... I'm really sorry," I said again into his chest.

"It's just... well, I... "

"I just love you so much."

I held my breath and waited the three agonizingly long seconds it took for him to answer me.

"Really?" he said, sounding hopeful. I finally looked him straight in the eyes and was only able to nod.

"I love you, too," he said with a smile. I let out a sigh of relief as he leaned down to kiss me.

That night was the first night I ever really "made love" if you want to call it that. It was also the first time I really, truly understood what my mom had meant all those years ago when she said sex was a beautiful and special thing between two people who love each other.

People usually say that the day they get married is the beginning of the rest of their lives. But I think that that night is the night I started a new life. That night was the first night that I started becoming a better person. Everyone always says that they love somebody because they've become a better person with them or for them. But I don't necessarily think that Andy MADE me a better person. I just think that he's the one who helped bring it out.

I have grown up and learned so much since that first date. I've learned when to hold my tongue, how to be patient, and how to really, truly love myself. I look in the mirror and I see a woman now. I see someone who knows who she really she is in this crazy, fucked up world. I see someone who isn't afraid to make inappropriate jokes in public. Because I know that even if it's just the two of us laughing, that's really all that matters to me.

When my friends ask me how I know that Andy is the one for me, the one I want to be with the rest of my life, I never know quite how to answer them. How do I know I'm in love? If I wrote down all the reasons I love Andy, it probably wouldn't make sense to other people.

I love that he wakes me up smiling and joking because he knows how much I hate mornings. I love how he brings Jean-Claude to me every single night for a goodnight kiss before he puts him in his kennel. I love that every time he has to cross two lanes of traffic he says, "Good luck everybody else!" in an Asian woman's accent. I love that every day after work, we can sit on the couch for hours just talking about our days with no television, iPod, or phone distracting us from really listening to each other. I love that I can sing Disney songs at the top of my lungs (with impressions and dancing) in the car and not feel like a total idiot in front of him. I love that he made Jean-Claude a mini-hamburger for his birthday, complete with cheese on top.

I can't wait until we're that annoying old married couple that makes everyone else sick with jealousy. I can't wait until the day I get to see Andy with kids. With our kids. And I only wish that every single person in the world got to feel something like this at least once in their lives.

So that, friends, is the broad outlined version of this crazy relationship I'm in.

I don't mean to get so sappy, but I have never been happier than I am right now. And part of that is due to having this blog. So I want to be serious for two seconds when I say that you guys make me a better person, too. Because reading your blogs and hearing your comments makes me realize that I don't have to pretend I'm some normal, run-of-the-mill kind of girl. Because I'm not. I'm weird and I'm gross and I'm inappropriate and you know what? I don't give a fuck. Because you guys are weird and gross and inappropriate, too. (That was a compliment, I swear.) And we're all in this together.

So thank you for helping me realize that it's okay to talk about blow jays and vaginas around people I barely even know. Because if this is a world where we can't discuss vaginas and penises freely... I don't think I want a part in it, thankyouverymuch.

I realized that if I tried to do our entire relationship story from start to finish, it would take entirely too many "To Be Continued" endings. So I'm just going to make this into a once-every-once-in-a-while kind of thing. Just wait for the one about the proposal...

Also, I will eventually explain why the "series" is titled Not it! So be patient, bitches.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Can I Pre-Order a Hooker in Vegas?

So I was planning on giving y'all part 2 of the Fiancee and Sara Swears a Lot story this week, but something major has come up. (To read the first part, clickity click hiz-ere.)

And by major, I mean I'M GOING TO MOTHERFUCKING VEGAS THIS WEEKEND!

I am the girl who never plans spur of the moment trips because I am all about lists and details and plans and bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

So this is the first time I will be embarking on a trip to a place I've never been, where I know no one, with absolutely no plans and not a hell of a lot of spending money.

So if you've been to Vegas before - let me know what places I just *have* to go to, what places to avoid, and where I can find a hooker because if I'm going to Vegas, I'm doing it right, ya hurrd?

Wish me luck!

PS - Let's see a show of hands of who all thought I was going to Vegas to get married!

PPS - I'm not, I promise. But I definitely will be taking a picture in front of a chapel just to scare the shit out of my mom.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Not it!: The Story of Fiancee & Sara Swears a Lot (Part 1)

We're changing things up around here today... Your regularly scheduled hilarity will be back next week!

The first day I met Fiancee was my first day working in an office. I was the new Administrative ASSistant at 18 years old, just 5 months after I graduated from high school. I remember it being a great day, mainly because I wouldn't be working a job that required me to wear a visor (::cough:: SONIC ::cough::), and I actually got my very own desk! Squeeee!

My new supervisor walked me around the tiny office, introducing me to the only seven people that could actually fit inside. Most were old, fat men whose names I wouldn't remember for weeks. But there was one man that stood out. She introduced him as Andy, but I would later find out that everyone else called him Andrew.

My first thought was that he was cute in that computer geek kind of way which is just my type. But for some reason, I thought he was much, much older than me. I'd never worked in an office before, and I assumed anyone working in an office must be at least 30. Because I assumed he was so much older, I also assumed he would be married or have kids or something along those lines.

For the first six months of working there, I rarely spoke to him because every time I did, it just became one big, embarassing mess. I would be standing at the copier, copying a stack of papers when Andy would walk by and say, "Good morning, Sara," which would result in my face turning beet red, tripping on my heel, and papers flying everywhere.

There were also many moments when I would try to make a joke with him around that came out all wrong. The rest of the afternoon would be spent beating myself up about it, thinking about what I should have said and how ridiculous I sounded.

The first day we really had a conversation still sticks out pretty vividly in my mind. There was some project that needed to be done for his team. I didn't have anything to do so my supervisor sent me to help. It was incredibly boring work, but it did keep the two of us standing right next to each other while doing work that didn't require a lot of thinking.

This is the first time I remember being myself around Andy. I'm pretty sure I spent the entire two hours making fun of his taste in music, movies, and television. One of the best things about him that first day was that he held his own. Instead of just laughing at my jokes, he made fun of me right back for my love of alternative/indie music that nobody's ever heard of.

"Oh, I just surf Myspace until I find a band no one has ever heard of to be my favorite band. And then once they become popular, I don't want to like them anymore because I'm an indie rocker."

After that particular day, I looked forward to going to work every day. I would find ways to sneak in to his office on a daily basis so I could start a conversation. His office held the only three-hole punch, and I would often bring blank pieces of paper in there to hole punch just so I could talk to him. Later, those papers would just be thrown away.

My favorite thing about Andy was that he never looked taken aback no matter what conversation topic I brought up. We often talked about hookers, why their lack of teeth was so beneficial to the ahem, process, and I spent many days asking him to please pick one up just so he could tell me what it was like. I babbled on and on, trying to cover any silence so he would realize what an interesting and beautiful and amazing and perfect girlfriend material kind of girl I was. And somehow? He didn't think I was the weirdest girl on the planet.

After a few months of talking at work, social networking provided us with a way to exchange phone numbers without being creepy and ruining our work relationship. For a few more months after that, I texted him every single night until I fell asleep with my fingers still on my phone when I woke up.

(I even had a drunken night at one point where I sent him a text message that said, "So when are we gonna make out?")

This is the point where Andy and I have differing stories. I'm pretty certain that I'm the one who asked him out on a movie date, but he thinks he did. Whatever the truth is, the date was set for a Friday night movie to see Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist.

I spent HOURS planning my outfit for that night. Something comfortable and casual, but also hot and sexy, but not too sexy because I don't want to look like a slut, but just sexy enough to make him think about having sex with me, but I'm not shaving my legs because I need a reminder that I can't have sex with him tonight because it's the first time we are actually going on a date date.

Being a girl is fucking tough, okay?

So the night of the date came around, and saying I was nervous would be quite the understatement. I was practically that girl with the note cards in her pocket just in case any awkward silences arose. My heart was beating about a million miles a minute, and I was sweating like a fucking dude. (Attractive, I know.)

I told Andy that I would drive to his house and he could drive us to the movies from there. I, of course, was late as usual. When we were in his car and heading to the movie theater, I said, "You should really just get used to this. I'm kind of late to everything."

(Aside: You are so lucky I love you guys because I'm going to get a lot of shit for that last paragraph. Andy and I always fight about who made us late that night, and I tell him over and over that I had been sitting outside for fifteen minutes before he finally noticed me. I have officially been caught.)

He drove slow, he went the long way, and I made sure to make fun of him the whole way there because that's my go-to when I'm nervous.

I remember most of the details of that date perfectly. I remember whispering in his ear during the movie, hoping he was wanting to make out with me. I remember buying a Dr. Pepper for the both of us, but he didn't take one sip the whole goddamn movie. And I remember missing half the jokes in the movie because I was so fucking nervous.

After the movie, he started driving us back to his house so I could get my car. The conversation flowed perfectly, with no awkward silences or bad jokes. We were both incredibly nervous, but we somehow made it through without looking like total jackasses.

After I climbed out of his car, he said, "So do you want to come in for a little while?" "I was already planning on it," I said over my shoulder, on my way to the front door.

While I was getting comfortable on the couch AKA laying my clothes just right so they cover all the flabby bits, he went to pick out a movie from his less-than-stellar movie collection. Somehow he decided it would be a good idea for us to watch a movie I've never seen before called Ravenous. Just a little FYI: It's a disgusting movie about cannabilism. I still think he did this on purpose, knowing that I would get so bored with the movie that I would need something else to do (like make out with him).

After about 20 minutes of that Godawful movie, he asked me if he could kiss me, and I could feel both of our hearts racing in our chests. He tilted my head up, and when we first kissed, my whole body went into extreme heat mode. I had never kissed someone before whose lips felt like they worked so well with mine. There was none of that disgusting slobbery-ness that I experienced with my first kiss and many others after that. There wasn't that obnoxious "open your fucking mouth because I'm tired of kissing like middle schoolers" thing. It was just... honestly perfect.

Obviously I wasn't planning on things going any further than that, but.... come on. If he was that good at kissing, that had to mean something, right? I figured the theory needed to be tested.

And thank the good Lord in heaven that it was.

The next morning, I woke up at around 7 in the morning and panicked. After glancing in the mirror and having my suspicions confirmed that yes, indeed, I did look like absolute shit, I knew I had to get out of there before he could see me looking like such a fucking trainwreck. So I crept out of bed, grabbed my bra off the floor, and crept quietly out of the house to make the 30 minute drive-of-shame home.

To Be Continued...

For part 2, clickity click hiz-ere.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Don't Judge Me Based On a Post About Loogies Please.

Yesterday I was thinking about all of you people and how weird you are and how in love with every single one of you I am. Seriously. How often can you exchange emails with people talking about the three big Ps -- period panties, poop, and penises -- without them freaking out and being all embarassed? I'm pretty sure that if we all got in a room together the world would just fucking end because it couldn't handle that amount of awesome in one place.

Also I'm pretty sure I have a notsoevil twin or I'm schizophrenic. Because I was reading a blog the other day, and I was like, "What the fuck? Did I write this? Because I'm pretty sure this is me." And then I left a comment about a horrible occurence that happened the other day that I will share with you now.

I went out drankin' Saturday night like I told you Monday so I was a little hungover and pukey and snotty on Sunday when Fiancee drove me to pick up my car from the bar (because I don't drink and drive, yo). So on the way there, I realized I was a little phlegmy (that's the right spelling, I swear). And then all of a sudden, I had to....

PHWAAAAAAAA.

At least that's what the sneeze sounded like anyways. And I had no fucking warning that it was coming so I couldn't aim at the floor like I usually do. Instead, I ended up phlegming all over my shirt. Yep, a huge wad of loogie ended up on my shirt. I mean, SOFUCKINGHUGE that you would think I did it on purpose. And then I grabbed some napkins to try and clean it up before Fiancee could see because ohmygodsoembarassing. Except when I tried to clean it up, it just ended up spreading like a goddamn disease. And all of a sudden, I had a wet spot the size of Massa-fucking-chusetts on my shirt. And that's right when Fiancee looked over from driving and saw it. And made a noise that resembled this:

OHGODUGHGROSSEWWHATTHEFUCKSARATHATSDISGUSTING

When OBVIOUSLY I couldn't fucking help that this had happened. My fucking bad, jerkoff. So I was all, "Ahh! Stop looking at it! You're supposed to think I'm sexy and hawt and not loogie-fied, JesusChrist!" And he was all, "Oh my god, it looks like someone blew a wad all over your shirt!" And I was all, "I'm going to let someone that's NOT YOU blow a wad all over my shirt if you don't stop being a dick about it!" And then I forced him to take off his shirt while he was driving 70 mph down the interstate and then I took off my loogie shirt and put his shirt on and problem solved. Except I'm pretty sure the loogie shirt is still in the back of his car, and I just remembered. Whoops.

-------------------------------------------------

HOUSEKEEPING!

Okay, so I thought of a prize, but I'm kind of waiting for some confirmation on it before I write about it for sure so just calm the fuck down, all right? (I just really like telling people to calm the fuck down, especially when they aren't upset at all.)

Also, I'm working on a post about Fiancee and how we met and how in luuuurrrve we are so be patient until I can get that done and have a decent post to show you. You guys are so easily excitable. (Just pretend you care because I'm working sosososo hard on it, got it?)

And I'm trying to get around to all your blogs but a bitch has to work at least two hours out of the day, yaknowwhatimsaying?

Last night, I tried to watch a movie called Hard Candy, and there was a scene about cutting a guy's dick off and ohmygodohmygodohmygod it was sosososo gross, I thought I was going to die. Just thought you should know in case you wanted to see it. Yuck.

I'm pretty sure that's all. Yep, that's it.

*Oh, except, do you guys ever wish you could have theme music for every time you walk into a room? Because I have always wanted porno music to play behind me in every scene of my life. #imjustsayin

(Goddamnit, why can't I ever just end a post on a normal note? Seriously...)

Friday, July 16, 2010

The One In Which I Almost Get Murdered.... Twice... At Least I'm Pretty Sure

So, I would ask you how your weekend was, but I'm really just asking you so that you'll ask me so I can tell you about it. Anyselfishbitchiness, I got pretty drunken Saturday night to the point of thinking I was cool and totally not going to be sick at 2 am when I went to bed except then I woke up at 5 am and ralphed for like ten minutes so that was fun. And, wouldn't you know it? I was unselfish enough to think to take a picture of me post-Pukefest '10, party of one. That's a grimace, by the way. Because puking sucks.



And hows about you stop staring at that ugly ass wallpaper that I haven't had a chance to cover yet. I see you. Moving on to the part in which I almost got killed...

Despite how my blog reads, I am typically a very nice person. Especially at work. Because I gots to keep that money flowing in, yaknowhwatimsayin'?

The other day at work, I was outside smoking a cigarette and reading a book (NOT a book from the "teen" section of the library because that would be so super embarassing, okay it was, stopjudgingme) when I saw a man I didn't recognize leaving my building.

Since I didn't know who he was, I probably held eye contact for one split second too long trying to figure out who he was.

MISTAKE NUMBER ONE, Y'ALL.

Because I kept eye contact for one split second too long (the longest fucking second of my life, by the way), the man thought I was up for some chatting.

"How are you doing today?" he asked me as he walked past. "Oh, I'm fine, how are you?" I replied.

MISTAKE NUMBER TWO.

Do not. I repeat DO. NOT. ask a creepy looking person how they're doing. Fucking end of your life.

He started talking about some stupid shit nonsense - I'm not really sure what because I started making my grocery list about ten seconds into the conversation. While I was debating whether or not Oreos really needed to be on the grocery list (they do, by the way), I noticed him pointing at the tattoo on my foot.



"I really like your tattoo. My daughter just got a tattoo."

"Oh, mhm, that's nice," I said, resembling one of those mothers in Walmart who is obviously not listening to their kid babble on and on. At this point, I started backing up slowly to the door, hoping to make a smooth escape. Unfortunately, Creepy McCreeperson did not pick up on that vibe.

"Yeah, I got a tattoo recently at Skin Works. It's pretty badass," he bragged as he stared at my non-existent chest.

(Aside: Seriously, y'all. If someone is looking at my boobs, they are obviously desperate. There's nothing there to look at, I promise. I'm like a prepubescent boy for Christ's sake.)

Then with no warning, he twirled around and TOOK. OFF. HIS. AFFLICTION. SHIRT. so I could see his tattoo.

A) Nastyassbackfat. (I had to type that all as one word because it's making me a little gaggy.) (Speaking of gaggy....) (Ok, no, I can't go into a blow jay joke while talking about this guy. Scratch that.) So, yeah. The back fat. Hawtandsexyy'all.

B) Who the FUCK takes their shirt completely off to show someone they don't even fucking know a tattoo? I mean, I know I'm weird, but seriously?

C) AFFLICTION. SHIRT. I don't think I have to explain this one.

D) The actual tattoo itself. Now I didn't snap a picture fast enough, but this is a pretty close replica of what the tattoo looked like:



A motherfucking wolf. Howling at a motherfucking moon. On his motherfucking back. My face turned red because I was trying so, so hard not to think of this:



(On a positive note, I'm pretty sure I just found Fiancee's birthday present.)

Anycreepywolftattoo, I was still backing up slowly towards the door the whole time Mr. McCreeperson was talking. Here are some of the conversation topics I was forced to listen to as I inched my way closer and closer to sweet, sweet relief:

1. He got hit by a train. No, really. He has a plate in his arm and everything. You probably think I'm a bitch now, but I think you must have forgotten.

Wolf.

Tattoo.

2. He has a daughter who just started college. After telling me this, he says, "I know I don't look old enough to have a daughter in college," ::smug grin waiting for confirmation from scared & confused girl who just wants to get the fuck back to her desk:: (I did not give that confirmation, by the way.)

3. His marriage is on the rocks.

4. He hates Louisiana. (Yeah? Fuck you, too, asshole! We don't want you here anyways.)

After all these topics, I had finally inched my way to the door, opened it, and was standing with my body inside the office and my head peeking around the corner of the door still saying, "Mhm. Oh okay. Yeah, that's interesting. Mhm. I think I'm just gonna go in-- Oh, you don't say? Well, yes, it is hot today. Maybe because it's July in LOUISI-FUCKING-ANA?"

And the conversation pretty much went like that for another fifteen minutes.

I'm really not sure how I made it back to my desk. In between the second half of the conversation and getting to my desk, I'm pretty sure I blacked out just like the first time I ever got kissed because it was so horrible and awkward and during the movie Finding Nemo and I wanted to pretend it never happened because the only reason it happened was because the guy wouldn't stop fucking staring at me all creepy-like, and I'm pretty sure he was trying to figure out just exactly how he could murder me and I don't care that it was only 8th grade IT COULD HAPPEN, OKAY?

Wait, what?

So yeah, I survived.

Also, if you didn't notice, I reached 100 followers the other day and FUCK YES, SEAFOOD DINNER! I really owe you guys one. Or two. Or two thousand because seafood is the shit.

So now I just need to figure out how to reward you guys (bowchicawowwow, ifyouknowwhatimsayin') via this little old blog here. And no one gave me ideas because you're as uncreative as me apparently. I would give something away, but I'm pretty sure you guys don't want any shit I have to offer. (Besides blow jays, but like I said -- I can't travel all over the country to give BJs okay?)

**I don't know how this next paragraph came to be. I'm pretty sure that being at work is making me delirious. You might want to skip over it because I don't think BabyJesus will like you being associated with me.

Don't get BJ confused because sometimes it stands for "blow jay" but other times it stands for "BabyJesus". It's really all in the context clues.

For instance, "My girlfriend is going to give me a BJ when I get home from work, yo." (I'm pretty sure that's how dudes talk when girls aren't around, right?) BJ stands for: Blow jay. You should have known that.

Next up, "Thank goodness BJ invented the internet." BJ stands for: BabyJesus. Everyone knows that the sweet BabyJesus invented the internet.

Next, "I can't wait for BJ time tonight!" You really have to be able to read the person on this one. If it's a dude, they're probably talking about blow jays. If it's a super religious creeper, they're probably referring to BabyJesus. Context clues, people, context clues!

**Okay, this crazy is over. Moving on.

So for reals though, I need to think of something to give you as a present AKA I need you to think of something and then I'll just pretend I thought of it because that's how the world works.

Oh, and I almost forgot to put on here that Fiancee has never read my blog before because he obviously doesn't love me enough. Except once he found out I had reached 100 followers, he wanted to check it out and "see why people care what you have to say".

After reading three posts, do you know what his response was as to whether or not I'm funny?

"I live this every single day, Sara."

So basically, he doesn't love me as much as you guys love me. That's what you got out of that, right?



*Also, every single time I'm watching a movie / tv show / commercial and one woman says to another woman, "Can I ask you a question?" I always expect them to say, "Do you ever get that not so fresh feeling?"

*So this is getting really long, but I need to know something, like, now. I emailed Heather and somehow, I mean, I'm not sure how, okay I brought up picking your nose in the car and she said she didn't do that so then I felt a little weird at least until she told me that she does it in bed and flicks them over on her husband's side of the bed and all is fair in love and war is what I always say.

So do you have that certain place you pick your nose? Because the car is my go-to spot for nose picking. Not when other people are in my car with me, though, duh. #donthate

Oh! And I got a new header. So ch-ch-ch-check it out.

Monday, July 12, 2010

I'm All Over the Fucking Place. Also, a Vagina Story.

My mind is kind of all over the place, and I have a lot of shit to say so bear with me. It's probably the fifteen Starbucks drinks I had this weekend. Starbucks is fucking badass, y'all. Also, I have a ton of coupons and shit so I'm not wasting money. Boo-yah!

(Aside: Do you say coo-pon or cyoo-pon? Because I say cyoo-pon, and Fiancee says I'm weird for it. That's not weird, right? Right? Whatever. Fuck you, too.)

So first off, I'm super fucking pissed. I was just leaving a comment on someone's blog and made a typo by writing "sexcited" instead of "excited". And seeing that I had invented the coolest fucking word ever in the history of time, I just about had an orgasm SHAZAM! (Looking at you, CkretsGalore.)

And then I went to Urban Dictionary and was PISSED to discover that someone else thought of this magical word before I did. I quit life.

Plus I've been visiting a lot of your blogs recently and finding some awesome shit. If after reading my blog you say to yourself, "That bitch is fucking WEIRD.... we could totes be friends," then I'm going to need for you to leave me a comment, send me an email, drive to my house, etc. so I can see your blog and we can be besty bloggy friends. Pimp that shit out, yo.

(Aside: I've been playing Mario on Wii for the past three days, and I get a little ghetto up in herrrr when I'm playing video games. Fiancee is getting really tired of me yelling at the top of my lungs, "THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE....... SON!" after every single level I beat. Also? I have this weird habit of saying episodes instead of levels. Apparently I watch too much television.)

And speaking of finding a weird fucking freak to be besties with, here is an email I sent this bitch in order to force her to be friends with me.

Hello there,

I'm pretty sure that we need to be best bloggy friends so I figured I would let you know. I'm Sara at Sara Swears a Lot. I'm not going to link to my site because that would just be creepy and "hey! look at me! look at me! over here! yeah, right here! hey!"

But yeah. I read through some of your blog, and I'm falling in love a little. I figure once we're best friends, we can have sleepovers and pillow fights in our underwear because that's what girls do, duh. Also, we can talk about boys and how stupid they are. And you can carry love notes to the boy I like and ask him if he likes me but don't mention that I wanted to know because that would be so embarassing just ask him what he thinks about me without letting him know that I like him because if he doesn't like me back that would be horrible and I would cry a lot. Breathe. Okay. That is all.

BFFFE (Best Friends For Fucking Ever),
Sara


And instead of punching me in the nose and running away, she replied with this:

Hi Sara,

Awesome email. Most of the time I get stuff about discounted generic Viagara and winning the UK lottery but I have yet to receive anything in the mail. Weird. I follow your blog and think you're fucking hilarious so this just proves that awesomeness attracts more awesomeness without even trying. In other words, stick with me, kid.

Also, I have drafted a love note for you. Please find it attached.


You're newest, most attractive friend,
Tee.


The attachment was a naked picture of her.

I kid, I kid. I would put the actual love note on here, but I'm a little slow and a lot lazy so it ain't happening.

*Insert appropriate segueway.

So when I was a little girl and I had to pee, I would literally hold my vagina in order to keep from peeing until I got to a bathroom. I did that shit all the time and didn't think anything of it. But apparently it was weird or something? Because I was at church camp, swimming, when I realized I had to go. But we only had 15 minutes of swim time left! So what's a girl to do, right?

While I was holding my vagina in order to stop the flow, I realized that my friend was looking at me weird. "What are you doing?" she said, pointedly staring at my crotch-al region.

"Um, nothing. What are you talking about?" I said, trying to play it cool. My hand still had not left my vagina area. I was actually squeezing harder at this point because everyone knows that when you're nervous, the flow gets a little more difficult to control. Right? Riiiiiiiiight?

My friend just looked weirded out and swam away. What a bitch, right? How was I supposed to know that people could SEE my vagina through the clear pool water? And there were only FIFTEEN MINUTES left in pool time. That's like fifteen seconds in church camp world, a'ight?

I'm pretty sure I ended up making it through without peeing on myself (too much), and my friend never mentioned it again.

The reason I suddenly remembered this day? I was holding my vagina in the Starbucks line because I had to pee REALBAD, and I'm pretty sure a Starbucks employee saw me. Luckily they didn't say anything, but I definitely felt their judgy eyes looking me up and down.

That's all I've got. The thing in parentheses at the bottom? I was in the middle of writing this when I sent a text message and realized this fact so I threw it at the bottom. It makes no sense. But neither have I so far in this post so I really don't care.

(When I mistype "want" on my iPhone, it changes it to "Wang". I'm starting to look like such a slut, y'all.)

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Texts From All Day *UPDATED*

I text A LOT during the day. I mean, a lot. I sit in a cubicle so I don't have a whole hell of a lot of human interaction which is why it is completely necessary for my health to text Fiancee alldaylong. However, sometimes he chooses to pretend he doesn't hear my texts and not write me back right away. (Because it couldn't possibly be that he's actually working or anything. Who does that?)

When Fiancee makes the mistake of ignoring me, these are the texts he has to put up with:

Do you think guys made up the "opening doors for women" thing because they just wanted to check out hot girls' asses as they walked by?

The principal from Ferris Bueller is a registered sex offender! That would be one cool fucking sex offender card to get in the mail.

Wonder woman is so not sexy anymore. What's the point of fighting crime if you can't do it in stripper boots and a miniskirt with your cooter hanging out?



Do you remember that part in Emperor's New Groove when Ezma asks Krunk if he can feel the power and he said, "Oh... ... ... ... ... I feel it." I just remembered that and thought you should know.

Oh my God, there is a sarahjessicaparkerlookslikeahorse dot com. Life is complete.

Someone found my blog by googling fuken sexy very small girl. I think they found the wrong girl. I wonder if my blog did it for them.

Louisiana ranks 7th in penis size! Whooooo!

Did you know tons of guys will drink milk from their wives' breasts just to try it? You can never do that. Just FYI.

VANILLA FUCKING ICE IS GOING TO BE AT FAT DADDY'S SATURDAY NIGHT OHMYGOD

And sometimes he actually responds, mostly to tell me I'm not as funny as I think I am:

Me: Someone left me a comment that said OMG ROFLMA. Man, I'm so fucking funny.
Him: They weren't literally rolling on the floor laughing their ass off. You're not that funny.
Me: I bet they were. I mean, I am funny.
Him: Not really. Just a little.
Me: I'm soooooo hilarious!!
Him: ......
Me: Sooooooo funny omg haha rofl lololol
Him: I disagree


And speaking of Fiancee telling me I'm not funny....

He also things that I can't possibly reach 100 followers. Which is why I need YOU to help me! And once this challenge is over, you can unfollow me, no hard feelings. But the prize at stake is incredibly important.

If I win, Fiancee will have to take me to a nice seafood dinner and never call me again. (Name that movie!)

And I want some fucking seafood, okay?

Also, I put a new picture up of me actually blogging from home. So you can go ahead and masturbate to that image.

You're welcome.

UPDATE:

Okay, so it's not really fair that I'm asking you guys to go through all the trouble of "following" so I can get a nice seafood dinner and you guys aren't getting anything in return. And I'm obviously a very giving person, ifyouknowwhatimean. So I want you guys to have a little sumthin' sumthin' if I reach my goal.

Unfortunately, I have no ideas as of right now. So why don't you let me know? Throw some shit out there that you want me to do for you (blow jays don't count....) (unless you live in northeast Louisiana and then it's fair game), and it shall be done.

Make it extra embarassing, please. I mean, seriously. I know you guys. You're probably going to choose some cheesy ass shit that I could do in my sleep. But no. I want to be embarassed for your viewing pleasure.

My only rules are no sex on camera (I do that enough, y'all) and no nudity (unless you ask really, really nicely.)

Bring it, bitches.