Monthly Archives: June 2011

People who celebrate Father’s Day and People who are ungrateful tools

I am a woman of few pet peeves. Though I may grow a stomach ulcer whenever anyone uses the word ignorant, ignorantly (boo-ya bitches) and dry heave whenever an adult woman complains that she is cold in 85 degree weather, in general I try to be a pretty laid back gal. But there are some sins of humanity that cannot be ignored. There is one thing this week, that irks me to the point of needing a new word to describe my annoyance (exasperate? aggravate? madden?). I cannot tolerate when people don’t celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day

Before proceeding I must of course account for those people who have the right to not celebrate. Those who have lost their parents, those who do not know their parents, “The Child Called It”, and others with generally shitty parents.

Aside from that, all others who do not celebrate these holidays need to be dragged into the street and shot. Or something slightly less dramatic and less illegal. Let’s be real. But if you are one of these no class, free-loading leeches, who don’t celebrate these holidays solely because it is a “Hallmark holiday” you might as well go curl up and die.

Do I sound like a bitter mother whose children abandoned her in a nursing home right after her 65th birthday? No, not really. Holy, crow, I’m a 22 year old woman. Read someone else’s blog, a-hole. But if you are still reading and wondering why I feel so strongly about this, then drop those pupils to the next paragraph.

Your parents had sex. I know. Kill me. But they did. Lots of it. Tons of it. They lost their jobs and couldn’t pay their bills cause they were too busy having sex. You had to wear used underwear from the Salvation army, because your parents were too busy having sex. You had to drop out of private school and attend public schools where kids peed in each other’s lockers and ate their napkins for lunch, because your parents were too busy having sex. Ok, you get it.

So as a result they had you, the biggest regret of their lives. Crying all the time, throwing food, taking a dump on everything, and generally being a huge pain in the groin. But with weed and prescription pills, they dealt with that. They dealt with your swamp ass diapers and constant whining. They even burped you, when you were too lazy to do it yourself.

Eventually you decide all of this revolting bathroom humor isn’t enough to really mess with them. So you get a little older, little bigger, and decide to start ruining all their stuff. The stuff they bought with the money they made from the job they had to get once they had you. You spill your Pediasure on their newly paid off couch. Take your Crayola’s to the wall and write slurs about their bathroom habits, “Mommy smells like Poop,” “Daddy farts.” In other words, you become a real asshole.

A few years later, you get a little taller, a little hairier, and a lot bitchier. You start to pretend that you, in your measly thirteen year old mid-pubescent body, with your acne, weird body odors and confusion about the real use of tampons, know more about life than these people. These people who have literally had to wipe your ass with their hand on a camping trip when you wouldn’t stop defecating and went through all of your diapers on the first night. These people who have had to deal with your incessant voice-cracking pestering because you want the same cell phone that your friend Wyatt’s abusive parents bought him in payment for the eternal emotional scars they have left. But do you care? No. All you care about are glitter pens and sexting on your iPhone.

A few years later, you begin to grow out of this. Right when you start to become a tolerable human being, you go off to college, meet someone, move away and only visit on Christmas and Easter. And your parents are left in the dust of all the destructive torture you have put them through during the first two decades of your life.

Then May and June roll around. After calling you for months at a time to no avail, they finally catch you when you’re on your way out the door for a night of hard clubbing. The conversation goes something like this:

Daughter: “Ummm…..hahahah, shut up, Amber…..Hello?……HELLO?????”

Father: “Patricia? Honey? Is that you?”

Daughter: “What? Who is this?”

Father: “Patricia, dear. It’s your Dad.”

Daughter: “Dad? Um, what do you want? I’m leaving….hahahhaa, stop it Kimber!”

Father: “Oh, where are you going?”

Daughter: “Just out, Dad.”

Father: “Oh. Well, I haven’t talked to you for awhile. We wanted to see how you are.”

Daughter: “I’m fine. Busy. Work’s great. I really gotta go.”

Father: “Oh, well I won’t keep you. But I was wondering if you’d be available for-“

Daughter: “Ummmm…probably not. I’m really busy. Chad’s parents are having a Father’s Day picnic and I’m going to visit them.”

Father: “Oh. You’re visiting Chad’s dad for Father’s Day?”

Daughter: “Um, yeah. I mean, Chad really wants to and I love him so……yeah….hahhaa….quiet, Kimmy!”

Father: “Oh. Will I get to see you at all?”

Daughter: “I.D.K., Dad. Look I gotta go. Tell mom, I love you, BYE!!!

Click.

Dad is left in the dark, lonely corner of his recently remodeled home that you never bothered to come see. He is nursing a bottle of whiskey, as your mother watches Leno in the other room, wondering where he went wrong and what he did with his life.Wondering why he gave up all the great sex, all the vacations, all of the fun times he could have had with your mom before she got stretch marks and a permanently flabby hoo-ha.

And you’re out, lying on a bar somewhere while your overly tanned boyfriend does Tequila body shots out of your belly button.

Quite a grim picture, huh?

So this Father’s Day, instead of being a Patricia or being a Chad, do the right thing and be a good son or daughter. Give your dad a call. Buy your dad a card. Make a surprise visit to his house. In other words, don’t be a douchebag.

Love,

The girl who is running late to lunch with her dad

People who can accept a break up AND people who can’t and continue to wallow in their own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t

I’m a professional. Or at least I like to think I am. Of what, I am not sure, but I want to believe that there is some sort of code of conduct I will be violating with this blog entry. Because really, it is only satisfying if I am crossing the line, killing the illusion, or breaking the fourth wall.

I say this because there comes a time in every professional’s life, when they must take personal matters into their own frustrated, disgusted hands and rant about it in an online forum. I choose this very blog, (twosortsofpeople.com “like it” on Facebook!), to do just that.

Because, ladies and gentlemen, I discovered something tonight. Yes, yes, I did. Something many of you, formerly heartbroken individuals may already be quite familiar with. There is something called a “break up.” For those of you familiar with the term, you may skip ahead. But for others, who have yet to experience such a travesty, continue reading, my sweet break up virgins. You shall quickly be enlightened. I’ll start from the beginning.

Break up: (n.) A term used to describe the end of a relationship between two people due to one party’s eternal lack of character, respect, and non-asshole behavior.

Straight out of Webster’s, ver-f***ing-batim.

But if that does not characterize this situation well enough for your innocent minds to understand, allow me to consult Urbandictionary.com for further explanation.

On August 22, 2003, “Swampy”, a fine bloke of prominent upbringing, explained that a break up is “the most probable outcome after your girlfriend finds you playing hide the sausage with her sister.” Nice one, Swampy!

On July 21, 2006, “Babanash,” a well-educated fellow from Newport, Rhode Island, reveals that a break up is “the time when the person who you love the most kicks you hard on your ass and tells you to fuck off.” Poor, Baba.

On August 21, 2003, “EroticusPrime,” a middle-aged white man who sold his daughter’s Barbie collection on Ebay to buy the Full House dvd boxset, preaches that a break up is “when yo ho don’t want you no mo, and/or you don’t want her, you break up.” Werd.

As you can see, there are some consistent themes among the definitions of this term. Yet there still seems to be a disconnect for some people. Because what I learned tonight is that there are two kinds of people in the world:

People who can accept a break up AND people who can’t and wallow in their own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t.

I understand that there are varying levels of intelligence. I get it. I’m not here to judge. Some people are simply not as intellectually gifted as others. Perhaps there are some people who take phrases like “I never want to talk to you again,” and “leave me alone,” and “stop calling me, I hate you,” as invitations for continuous contact, even, I don’t know, twelve months after a break up. Totally normal! Or is it?

After yet another vague and unaccounted for study, conducted by anonymous researchers, it has been found that only 1 in 27 individuals think this is normal behavior. The other 26 think you need to safely and quickly remove head from rectum, check for your ball sack, and deal with the fact that it is over. Yes, over. There shall be no miracle of miracles here that will reunite you with that special someone who wants nothing to do with you. Let it go, and for God’s sake, move on. It’s just getting pathetic.

Now, I may sound like a heartless, scum sucking, ho bag. But I preach a gospel of truth and unquestionable accuracy. There’s an acceptable amount of time you can contact an ex, before throwing in the towel and telling her to go die in a fire. A few weeks, of course. Three months, maybe. But twelve months later is not in that time frame.

SO for those of you who fall in the category of the kind of person who can’t accept a break up and chooses to wallow in your own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t, I provide you with a top five list of ways, to NOT get over someone.

1. Three months after your breakup: Continue to text her several times a day, to no response, to remind her that she is a horrible person, and a whore for leaving you. Repeat this for the next several months, leaving her voicemails and sending her texts reminding her why no one will ever love her. Don’t forget to explain that you hope she is abused in her next relationship!

2. Six months after your breakup: Start a serious relationship with another person, only to continue asking, to no response, for sexual favors and other inappropriate things from your ex. She will continue to reject you, but that just means it’s working!
3. Ten months after your breakup: Impregnate your new girlfriend but pretend it is still your ex’s fault that your relationship didn’t work.
4. Eleven months after your breakup: Show up at your ex’s apartment when she is not home, then leave her a voicemail asking where she is.
5. Twelve months after your breakup: Text your ex, and proposition her for sex. She will most definitely be offended and angry but that’s ok! Just ask again! Explain that she is better than your pregnant girlfriend, because you’re a scumbag who can’t keep it in his pants.

These are five, surefire techniques to ensure you will spend a year staggering through life in a state of eternal self pity, unwilling to take responsibility for your own unhappiness.

This guy’s got the idea:

However, if you want to become the other kind of person, the kind who can accept a break up like a mature, rational, human being, please take the following steps:

1. Stop texting your ex. She has been trying to move on for a long time now. Let it happen. Stop making her more miserable than she has to be.
2. Stop reducing her to a sexual asset you once had, and cease to ask her for anymore sexual favors. She is NOT interested.
3. Focus on your new girlfriend. It is not her fault that you are too much of a jackass to get over someone before starting a new relationship.
4. Pull yourself together. ‘Nuff said.
5. Grow a pair and let it go. It’s been a year.

So there you have. Follow these steps and you will surely live a life of happiness and less regret.

Thank you for reading, supporting my rant, and allowing me the opportunity for some long due vindication.

Love,

The girl you want to have a watermelon seed spitting contest with

***Please note. Nothing in this blog was taken from real life or directed at one specific person. Facts and situations were completely fabricated for the sake of the topic, with the only exception being the entire entry.

Culture wars: Those who update their technology and those who do not

Tonight I was going to make history. Break barriers. Conceive urban legends. I was planning to compose a literary masterpiece of such insane blogliness that it would knock the metaphoric socks off of yo’ asses (not physically possible) through a saga of witty ramblings about inane bullshit that would turn up in response to some very desperate Google search. (Apparently a lot of people ask Google if it’s strange to crumple their toilet paper. See below, son!)

But no. As I sit in my sister’s overheated non air conditioned second floor apartment, with her 17 pound cat by my side, I am in wonder, absolute God-fearing WONDER at what I have just discovered.

Apparently there is something known as: Microsoft Word 2010.

I was just sitting here, innocent as a virgin lamb, braiding my curly locks and singing When You Wish Upon a Star when I saw it. Right there on the desktop screen of my sister’s archaic piece of machinery she calls a laptop, the icon screamed to me with a banchee’s echoing cries fading in the distance.

Micrsoft (soft, soft, soft, soft)

Word (word, word, word, word)

2010?

What????

How is this happening? How did my dear sister get caught in this never ending, high-priced trap of constant updating and upgrading? Did she pay for this hogwash? Illegally pirate this gobbledygook? Did she want it, or was she forced into it by a third party? My dear sweet sister. The thought makes me want to run into a knife.

So in honor of her, victim forever to the Microsoft machine, I dismiss my previous topic (I’m lying, I had no topic planned) and focus solely on what I think is a crisis. A silent killer. An epidemic of astronomical proportions.

The raging jihad between those who upgrade and those who do not.

Ok, I admit. Raging jihad is a small exaggeration. But still! There is most definitely a cultural divide here. While some people teeter on the line between casual iTunes updater and committed Droid user, I find that most lean more loyally in one direction or another. So it is those loyal leaners I will focus on in tonight’s blog.

Because truth be told, I don’t believe my sister intentionally did this. I’m sure when her guard was down, in a moment of weakness, someone forced it upon her. She certainly wasn’t asking for it!

You know how tech junkies can be. All you need is someone to help clear your search history so no one finds out how frequently you search Google Image for pictures of flamingos in tutus, and suddenly they are changing your wallpaper, mouse speed, and upgrading programs you didn’t know existed. You are confused and overwhelmed and they say things like “cookies” and “virus protection” and “who watches amputee porn?” and you can’t help but tell them to just do what they need to do. Get in, get off, get out. Wam Bam, no thank you ma’am. I digress…

Point is, like a Catholic high school valedictorian caught up in a sexting scandal, this was not her idea. My sister fits comfortably, if not entirely in the non-upgrading category. She has two pairs of shoes: sandals and clogs. She uses my mother’s discarded laptop with a crack down the left side of the screen. She mends ripped jeans with patches derived from Salvation Army purchases. She’s a cool, laid back, chick who would not be caught dead with an iPhone and probably thinks a Kindle is a new brand of dog food.

She has nothing in common with the upgrading type.

The upgrading type comes in various forms.  The aforementioned tech junkie, busting a nut over every new form of technology introduced to the world. The “I’m lower middle class but want to pretend I’m upper middle class, so let me take this second mortgage to pay for my iPad 2 and my children’s unnecessary private school education” type. And of course the everyday hardworking American who chooses to simply purchase the items he/she has earned the right to own.  All very different, the only thing these versions of the upgrading type have in common is the agreement that the program/product in question actually needs upgrading. This is where I run into problems.

I have a hard time understanding, let alone justifying why Apple introduces a new iPhone every 36 hours, or what the difference is between 3G and 4G, or why Word 2010 is necessary when I have yet to even update to 2007. I write a lot. 2003 has yet to let me down.

So why reader? Why do some people find value in upgrading their technology while others do not? Same reason I buy new vinyl and scoff at digital downloading. Some people are just cooler and smarter than others. I am one of those people.I know you don’t need to update your technology to be just as superficial and materialistic as the “woo girl” wearing Uggs and cut off shorts in December. I know that by simply placing too much value on any product of your choosing, you can accomplish the same level of sheep-like product loyalty at a fraction of the cost of new Apple products. Buying things with money you do not have is comforting and fun! But being sucked into the idea that you need to buy something because Steve Jobs makes it available to you is not. Instead of focusing your debt building energies on products you are told you should have, why not pick something more tailored to your individuality? Like ceramic armadillo figurines or dashboard hula girls. Or in my case vinyl records and concert tickets.

Why is it so important to not get sucked into this belief that we need to spend our borrowed money on products we are told to love? I’ll tell you why.

Or maybe I won’t.

It’s 3:59 a.m.

Why am I still awake, updating this blog?

I give up. I’m throwing in the towel. Popping my own cherry. No boy will ever want me with these braces and blackheads. I hate my body! Cry, cry, cry.

Have fun deciphering the hidden meaning of this poorly versed conclusion sentence.

Feedback is encouraged, as well as monetary donations and Auto Zone Coupons. I need wiper blades.

Love,

The girl whose commitment to this blog should be ridiculed on an hourly basis

Shit storms, Gatorade, and wandering idle hands

It has been 11 days (or 15,840 minutes in Rent speak) since I have taken time out of my busy and fulfilling life of perpetual unemployment, to write another insignificant posting about my own personal segregations of the human race. I know this has left many a heart broken, dream shattered, and life hanging in the delicate balance of suicide and recreational self mutilation. And for that I do apologize.

I want to say that there is a specific reason for this behavior, but I must confess there is not. In the past 11 days, I have had a shitstorm of a stomach virus (no pun intended), a busy concert-going weekend, and my usual unapologetic laziness to explain my lack of productivity and the general disappointment I bring to my family.

But do you want to know the truth? Even as I sit here typing away at an impressive speed, eloquent streams of prose that will no doubt force all of you to change your soiled delicates at least once during the arousing and hilarious experience of reading this, I do not want to write. My uterus is hemorrhaging, I have spiders and other creatures setting up camp all over my pad (yes, pad – you can suck it if you don’t like my lingo), Bob Dylan is touring in my area a month after I am moving, and the blades on my Ped Egg are really quite dull. Aside from my health, great family, and excellent well-being, there aren’t many things to be happy about.

I need some inspiration or a heavy dose of opium to get out of this funk. I want to run in place for ten minutes in sweaty slow motion and pour Gatorade all over myself, getting energized to write a blog so perfect my three readers will wet dream over it.

I will do this. I will write a blog entry, I will kill a spider, I will use steel wool on my heel if need to be. I was told many moons ago, that idle hands are the ones we touch ourselves with. I will beat this.

Love,

The girl with idle hands