Symbolism Never Tasted so Good

So maybe I'm a couple of months behind the whole "write-what-you-really-think-about-people-on-your-blog-without-actually-giving-their-name" fad. It's never too late for spite-sparking rants of brutal honesty.

Ahoy!

Right. So as the token fat girl, I hath decided to put a spin on list mine. Instead of just out and saying what I think of you, everyone will be represented by food. The symbolism will be deep. The menu, delectable. And the overall effect... probably disappointing.

Bon Appetite!

-You, my friend, are the cheese. Provolone, baby swiss, sharp cheddar... the kind is of no importance (but NOT Velveeta). You are ever-growing and ever-changing, and sometimes I find it hard to keep up with you. But that's what makes you so interesting. Plus, you taste really good on enchiladas

-Honestly, I thought pretty hard about this one. And after much deliberation, and a slight tingling sensation, I've come to the conclusion that you are the matzah in my life. Not in the sense that you are flat and tasteless and primary associated with traditional jewish ceremonies, but you just seem so... wise. You think and (usually) act on a level that makes you seem older than you actually are. Just don't forget to keep kosher.

-You, sweety, are my chips. Always to be found somewhere in the house and reliable when it comes to stuffing my face after a long day. Although obviously unhealthy, you still give comfort. Although, under a few circumstances, you can come off as over-processed and stale.

-Veal kidneys in a white wine marinade over a bed of linguine with a light buttery cream sauce. You're flamboyant and delicious, but sometimes a good ol' plate of spaghetti and meatballs is ok too.

-I couldn't decide between dark fudge or wasabi sauce for you. You're nice in small doses.

-To me, you are the old fashioned chocolate chip cookie. Though subtle, your attitude is one of class and you will be sure to bring joy wherever you are found.

-The sushi of my life, I feel like we have some kind of freaky deep connection, even though we rarely talk to one another. We might actually have the potential to be close friends if we weren't both so self-shielded and reclusive. Sad story.

-Fluffy, light, and always good with a fruity topping, you are my angel food cake. Unlike your rich, overwrought counter parts, you display a simplicity that is surprising.

-My deepest darkest secret. The butter pecan ice cream of my life that I hoard for myself and willingly get sick off of every chance I get. I try to play down my love for you, but it's starting to become increasingly apparent. *points out love handles*

-It may seem insulting to call you salt and pepper, but it's probably the most accurate role on this entire pathetic attempt at confessional blogging. You are the spice of life. The cryptic pizzaz in every dish. You are also underappreciate and overlooked by most of the people that are privileged enough to get even a pinch of you in their life. Push it real good.

-You are the mysterious pie crust. I could never fully comprehend the complexity behind your creation and I probably never will. So until then, I will harbor my secret jealousy of your elusive-pastry-ocity.

-Oh, my dear Baklava. I still can't truly understand the allure that makes you so appealing to so many. Hmm...

-You look so nice, what with your swirling whisps of steam and your mystic hintings of spices, but you have a bite to you. Therefore, I proclaim thee to be the Chai Tea of my world. Honest, refreshing, and not afraid to claw at any uvula with hidden powers of bitchiness.

-My chocolate milk. My ultimate comfort food. When the rest of the world is bitching, I can always count on you to make it all seem alright, at least for a few minutes. You make me feel like a child... well, as much as I can anyway.


-And finally... the crunchy peanut butter... that I lost in the pantry a few years ago and still haven't found. Oh how bitter is the parting of ways. I know that I didn't do my part to find you... in fact, I probably deserve most of the blame for the fall out. But sometimes I think that maybe you really didn't want to be found at all.

Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Cunt Bitch Cunt

I hate my father. And I hate pomposity. And I hate the word "hate", what with its over-simplified implications. I hate grammar. And I hate lunch meat (especially bologna). I hate people who can eat chili dogs and wear spandex (simultaneously) and still look good. I hate the smell of formaldehyde and the feel of construction paper on your fingers right after you get out of the shower. And I hate my father.

How are you?

Today I skinned a cat. That was fun until Jeff started splashing me with the residues of his blunt probe. Cursed properties of fluids.

In Utero is actually going to be published. Granted, it's on the school's online publication thing that will never get viewed by anyone. Ever. The internet is for porn. Not for the fruitless dreams of aspiring hormone bombs seeking gratification for their "talent". Bahumbug.

More when my brain starts working again.

For some reason this game reminds me of Becky. Plus it's always entertaining to watch the mangled bodies of ridiculously-cute anime characters flying through the air.

Zubaaaaaaan!

(Note: it takes a few seconds to figure out what's going on. Just keep playing.)

Good times, good times...

I'm pretty sure this is some kind of joke... oh well, so is the rest of my life.

www.yourgoingtohell.com

I may be destined for a fiery pit of sinners, but you're still the grammatically-stunted dumb fuck.

(Note: Don't miss out on the special links for Catholics, "The Jews", and Whoremongers!)

My pope can kick your pope's ass!

Guhhhh... I don't want to write a paper for english. And I don't want to take TAKS. And I don't want to learn the second half of Chopin's Waltz in C Sharp Minor. And I don't want work on my creative writing. And I don't want these sacks of flab that hang where my triceps should be.

*Much compulsive eating*... and I'm spent.

I want a pope. And I don't wanna share him. If I had my own pope he would follow me everywhere I went and bless everything that I ate and drank. He would have a spike attached to the tip of his pope-hat, and would gore anything that penetrated my personal bubble. And whenever I walked into a room, my pope would announce my arrival in that chanting-prayer voice that they use in traditional Catholic ceremonies... and in seven different languages... and while making a sandwich.

And when me and my pope finished a hard day, we will stow away into our own little club house and play board games and tell ghost stories until we are too exhausted to do anything but curl up in our papal sleeping bags (made from the hides of blessed yaks) and nod off into the land of slumber.

The Yoga Class Scoring System

(Hey! You're hip. You're trendy. Jeez Chrise, you're practically Madonna! what with your sleek body and your mad "at-peace-with-the-inner-qi" skills. Why not add a swanky score sheet to your ultra-cool lifestyle?)

• Cell phone going off during class - 1 point
• Fuchsia mats - 1/2 point each
  
• Exposed thongs - 1 point each
  
• Woman in over-priced work out apparel - 2 points
• Woman in over-priced work out apparel w/ matching shoes - 4 points
• Man in over-priced work out apparel - 6 points
• Confused elderly woman - 2 points
  
• Old man - 3 points
• Old man in short/spandex shorts - 5 points
• Someone falling down during pose - 8 points
• "Gastro-Intestinal Release" during pose - 10 points

Namaste, bitches!

In Utero
(a short story of repulsive themes and tasteless humor)

{Parts}

• Gary (a sperm)
• Carl (a sperm)
• Prometheus (a sperm)

Gary: (Looks behind.) Wow. I must really be out in the lead now. I haven't seen anyone else for hours now! (Triumphant flick of flagella. Swims on.)

(Gary encounters Carl who is desperately attempting to burrow into the fleshy wall of the fallopian tunnel.)

Carl: Hey! Back off, buddy. This one is mine!

Gary: (Confused and slightly taken aback) Sorry. (Swims on.)

(Gary encounters Prometheus who is chasing his tail in circles.)

Prometheus: Thank goodness you're here. This thing has been chasing me ever since I passed the cervix and I just can't seem to catch it. Would you mind...

Gary: I'm fairly certain it's not going to hurt you.

Prometheus: Oh, thank god. I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to get it off once I did catch it, seeing as I have no mouth or appendages.

Gary: Yes, one might even go so far as to question how we are talking right now, considering we are mere sex cells with laughably short lifespans and only 23 chromosomes to our name.

(Awkward laughter. Abrupt silence. Swim on.)

(Carl catches up to Prometheus and Gary.)

Gary: Hey. I remember you. You were the one who had the thing for the wall. How did that work out for ya'?

Carl: Not so good.

Gary: Sorry to hear it. Better luck next time.

Carl: Not a chance! There's no way I'm getting caught in one of those relationships again. Impenetrable.

Gary: Maybe next time you could try it with an actual egg. You might find it a bit easier.

Carl: Whoa! No one ever said anything about an egg.

Gary: (Rolls eyes)

(Prometheus is circling around Gary and Carl making various sound effects and bouncing back and forth off the walls of the tunnel.)

Prometheus: Guys! You've totally gotta' try this.

Gary: Calm down. You're going to use up all of your fructose, and then you'll get left behind. Just like the rest of the brothers we lost back there.

Prometheus: Is that what happened all those guys we passed on the way here?

Gary: Unfortunately, yes. Some men just don't have what it takes to go the distance.

(Carl, who has a clear coat of disgust on his face, is beginning to lag behind the other two.)

Gary: What's wrong?

Carl: (Hesistant) I think I tried to penetrate one of those.

Prometheus: Oh shit!

Carl: I was confused!

Gary: Shut up! Both of you! We're wasting ATP. (silence) Where is that bloody egg? We should have reached it by now.

Carl: Hey. What's going to happen when we reach this thing anyway?

Gary: I suppose one of us will climb inside, and that will be the end of it.

Prometheus: Only one?

Gary: That's all it takes.

Carl: How efficient.

Gary: Yup.

(Silence. Sidelong glances. Silence. Suddenly, Carl takes a swing at Gary with his tail.)

Gary: What the...

(A tangle of sperm conflict breaks out as flagellas fly and chunks of plasma membrane are thrown from the fight.)

Prometheus: Wait! What's that?

(The outline of an approaching mass lingers in the distance and is steadily growing nearer. All three sperm make a dash for it. The object gradually becomes clearer as the sperm trio approaches at full speed. Only when they are right on it do they realize that they are in pursuit of a hefty white blood cell. Before any kind of retreat or witty sperm dialogue can be made, the companions are swallowed in one grand leukocytic bite. Phagocytolicious!)

End

Copyright©The Bitch. All rights reserved.

You bitch-sluts!

Due to reasons beyond my control (i.e. Meagan/Bellami whoring out the location of my blog at the Alvin Writing Convention [note: remind me to kill you two later]), the location of the blog has been moved.

If you're reading this right now, you probably found it. Kudos to you. If not, tough luck. You have no idea what kind of fun you're missing out on. All the sexual references and unnecessary cussing and rash generalizations. Boy oh boy, aren't you sorry that you didn't get the memo?

Right. So that's that.

So this is what my life has come to...

Yah... so here's what I do with my weekends.

Watch as Fetal Alcohol Syndrome girl learns about the miracles of WOMANHOOD!!! *sigh* there's nothing quite like a good 1960's brain-washing.

Whoosh!

(Warning: Viewing entire video may result in severe drop in I.Q. and increase in loser-ness-ish-ness.)

Crack babies con queso!!!

Sitting in Creative Writing... pretending to be creative... failing... *glances at watch*... yerp.

I feel sorry for people with ugly faces.

*Prepares self for general statement and bout of passionate inner-searching*

Why are we so scared of change? Don't sit there shaking your head and chuckling lightly to yourself in denile. I see right through you. If I came up to you the day after tomorrow and offered you all your hopes and dreams and wishes and demands and a slice of rhubarb pie, you would think twice. In fact, you might even think thrice. THRICE!!! And then you would wet yourself a bit. Because change is scary.

Who knows what lies in the great beyond? Who knows what frightening enlightening horribly wonderful things might await us in the future? I don't know. And neither do you.

I'm sure that was some deep underlying message that corresponds to my life and things happening in it right now, but I'll never tell. Leave me alone! Silence is my shield.

I need some Jell-o.

"I wanna live in a wooden house where makin' more friends would be easy..."

Have you ever had one of those days where all the world seems to be working in your favor? The kind of day that renders the trees are a bit greener, the sun a bit warmer, and the wind suddenly laced with the essence of creation and new life. Have you ever had a day that filled you up, yet left you craving more? Yah, me neither.

Prom night was... amusing. But I don't really want to talk about it... at all... hmm, I wonder why that is?

I've decided what I'm going to do with my life... besides the whole "spending 11 years in school to become a doctor and then shipping myself off to a third world country". (I've already told a lot of people this story... if you've already heard it, go here and save yourself from my pompous rambling). I am going to be a benefactor. Almost like the crazy convict from Great Expectations except without the whole life sentence to the penal colony thing. Ick.

First, I shall aquire large sums of money by means of blackmail, big pimpin', and various other endeavours. Then I will fake my own death. Nothing too showy. Just a mass cult suicide or a spontaneous act of martyrdom where I run onto the field during half-time at the Super Bowl and light myself on fire to protest the killing of the ozone or cancer or whatever. But that's not the point! Because you'll only think I'm dead. When in reality, I'll be financing Bellami's films and David's political campaign and Meagan's writing projects and Carolyn/Wayne/Jeff's fashion empire and whatever-the-hell Alex will be doing and Lindsey's midget bar. By the way, Lindsey, you need to open up a bar that caters exclusively to midgets.

... and while you're all running your lives and concealing your mysterious donations from the IRS, I'll be on a beach in Mayaguana, sipping a Wiki Waki and working on my melanoma.

*slurp*... *slurp*... *sigh*

Priceless Moments with Megs

Meagan: The Great Depression must have been when all the world's Prozac spontaneously combusted.

Mr Rinehart: I... uhh... imagine at that time Prozac was not... uhh... in its current form.

Meagan: Yah, back then it was called cocaine.

Guffaw!!!

Oh, Meagan. Your desperate attempts at historical discussion never cease to amuse. Keep on rockin' and rollin', Sister of Love.

"Sorry, I dropped my tater tot."

Two days. Two accidents. Coincidence? I think not. Someone wants me dead. I'm pretty sure it's God, but it might also be Big Brother. But then again, who can tell the difference these days...

...or maybe I'm just a bad driver...

To Expound: Yesterday I backed into a shiny red PT Cruiser with a bitchy teenage girl inside. Oops. My bad. No notable damage sustained. Today, as I was driving to the Health Food store with Fausia (to explore the fine realm of ingestion paranoia), I got rear ended by some girl from school. Apparently, she had dropped her tater tot. She got a grease stain on her shirt, and Fausia and I got whiplash. But apart from that, no damage... which leads me to believe that there might be a god afterall. And if so, he/she probably wants me dead. And promptly.

I was thinking about Steve Qin the other day (wow, never thought I'd start a sentence off that way). For the two people that actually read this: I'm sure you already know who he is. You may skip over the next 34 words. For the rest of you: Steve is a clever, bitter, cocky, arrogant genius of an Asian. And many people hate him. Many many people. Personally, I don't really have a problem with the guy.

Because of this unanimous hatred flowing in his general direction, he is often singled out and bitched about... and bitched about... and bitched about. Yet, the other day I was sitting next to someone(she shall remain nameless), and I realized that she was just as bad as Steve. Really... there were little bits of arrogance and pomposity flopping all over.

But how come Steve is always the one we hate? Why can't we see the bastard within everyone else? Because we are looking for Steve's inner-bastard. Constantly focusing in on it and blowing it up to collosal proportions and then poking at it with spears of spite every chance we get.

It's the classic bully-picks-on-nerd scenario. I could have sworn those died out sometime in the '70's. I could be wrong.

"... they've got the guns, but we've got the numbers..."

Wow... I really have nothing witty to say. This must be the reason why people don't post everyday. And those that do usually just brag about all the great shit they blew up over the weekend or pine over the "hottie in fourth period" for pages and pages and pages and pages...

To comment on a post on Meagan's blog (Lady's Lair), I think, at times, "the group" can get rather pathetic in their secret loathings of one another. I think it's even more pathetic that I referred to them as "the group" *cringe* I hate when that happens. I would say that we should just put an end to the madness and tell each other what we really think. But that's just begging for disaster, and a sucker punch or two (note: if anyone knows what the hell a "sucker punch" actually is, please leave a comment). True, ignorance is bliss. But what's the point of even hanging out with someone if the only way you connect with them is through hatred?

Does anyone else ever giggle to themselves when they drop the soap in the shower?

Ear wax doesn't get enough mention in this world of ours. Neither does cream of celery soup.

I did a spinning class today. And now I finally know what it feels like right after you've given birth to a bowling ball. For those of you that aren't obsessed with self-image and don't live at the gym, "spinning" is when you ride a bike for long periods of time while a bubbly bundle of peppiness (a.k.a. the instructor) makes enthusiastic sound effects and blasts music to make you forget that you're actually exercising. It was pretty kick ass... besides the fact that I'm going to be walking like I replaced my tampon with a baseball bat. Yah, that's right. I said it.

Short splooge. Sorry, I just don't have the stamina I used to...

I want to ride my bicycle.

Oh my god! I missed a day! What am I going to do? I've stained the Manifesto. I've defecated on the creed. Oh dear god, the humanity...

Alright, I'm fine.

Friday was... probably stupid... I'm still not quite sure. I've managed to snatch 4 hours of sleep in the last 48. Things are starting to spin. Lucille Ball is flipping blueberry pancakes in the corner of the room. I need coffee.

The Official List of Words that I Officially Hate:

• Stupid
• Weird
• Slurp
• Indeed
• A'ight (actually, I probably use this one more than anyone else... damn)
• Schwing (oh my god, kill it... kill it now!)
• 'sup

Random Story: After lunch on Friday some kid started break dancing in the hall. There was no warning. There was no preparation. He just got down on the floor and did it. The best part was that no one cheered him on. No one even began to forming of a circle around him; they all just kind of stopped walking and watched for about 30 seconds. And then he got up and walked away. And then everyone else continued walking too. It was the most spontaneous wonderful act of freedom that I have seen all year. I wish you had been there.

Everyone is dying this week. First Johnnie Cochran, then Schiavo, and now the Pope. Bam bam bam. One two three. It's depressing... sort of...

(Warning: this portion of the blogging may contain rash generalizations and one-sided opinions. Enter at thine own risk.)

It makes me laugh how shit-lickin'-scared of death America is. In Mexico, they embrace the act of "biting the dust" with a celebration. I really hate when tradition gets destroyed by consumerism, but Día de los Muertos is one of the few holidays that I can still see a purpose in. Unlike the propagandic bonanza of the Fourth of July or the materialistic sham that is Christmas, El Día actually teaches a good lesson. Death is just as much a part of life as birth, and as so, it should be embraced. With candy skulls and flowers and food food FOOD!!! FIESTA!!! *rolls tongue for no apparent reason*

American likes to express everything in words. Joy. Grief. Rebellion. It's all written down and edited and revised and by the time it gets through the entire process it's almost as fake and plastic-ey as Joan Rivers (alright, cheap shot... but someone had to say it). I hate political correctness. Whoever invented it gave us all a royal screwing up the butt... hardcore... no reach arounds. And we are still suffering.

Whatever happened to good old fashion expression? Oh, how I hunger for the day when we will all realize the sweet jubilee that is life and perform nude dances of elation on our front lawns. And flailing our bare appendages we won't have to worry about the prude bitch across the street suing us for "corrupting little Timmy". God, let's all get naked and form our own nation in the Brazoswood parking lot and live under anarchy and say what we think and and do what we feel and live.

Fuck bureaucracy. Fuck Bush. Fuck like bunnies and come be naked with me.