When people DIE....

Someone died.

And you know that means when you're Italian....a huge glass full of fucking FEAR that the deceased may not be given access to the V.I.P. crowd hanging in Club Stairway to Heaven.

It means chanting back canned phrases at a man dressed in an embellished robe, while tuning out and thinking about the kind of casserole the Parish may offer at the end of the service, or if the pretty stained glass was painted by hand (?). Rosary's aren't a form of "meditation" they're superficial comfort of familiar words that are supposed to "mean something" so that you feel less guilt about the fact that you haven't prayed since Easter and some sort of ease that you've "done your part", or put in your request for her swift acceptance into such an exclusive club.

My Great, GREAT, Aunt Margaret, kicked off after 80something years of feisty red-headed, Italian/Irish existence and then last night, we had to attend the Rosary to pray for her PERMISSION into Heaven. Like it's the fucking country club for do-gooders.

.....? No? No one else finds that strange? That a woman who lived a full bountiful, incredible life, loyal, kind, happy- would need to be given permission? To me, the whole praying that they weren't "too big of a sinner" thing is like asking if a child deserves to be fed. OF COURSE they do. Were we not created by a PERFECT creator to be perfectly the way he/she envisioned us being?? Have the lives we lived not been exactly the plan that the Divine has planned for us???

Our "source" created us, therefor- I'm sure would like to see us at the end. Sort of like a Time Capsule, you put it away for awhile and then you're like, "WOW! Good to see you again!....I remember you." Or an old sweater that used to be your favorite until you lost it behind the dryer and then found it seven years later. We're God's favorite lost sweaters. Of course we're allowed back on the shelf (unless we're some heinous argyle pattern.)

The idea of Hell is simply one I can't and won't buy into. It implements an idea of fear, and GUILT, both of which if you've been reading my blog are emotions are abhor.

So, yesterday sitting in the pews staring at my feet and listening to the rattle of my Granny's beads and other mourners, I couldn't help but think- do you think that my Aunt Margaret, in the moments before she died, was really asking for forgiveness for eating too many meatballs and partaking in gluttony? Do you think she was sorry for taking pride in her fire engine red hair and making sure that it was dyed PERFECTLY crimson even when it should have turned gray?? Or was she thinking, "Damn, what a great ride."

Were her "sins" really sins at all or just a part of how she lived and shouldn't we CELEBRATE them rather than worry that she's in a waiting room in the sky waiting for her "final verdict."

At the END of my life, I won't be sorry, or begging for MERCY (yes, we repeated the words "have mercy" 20 plus times in the service) because I was " a sinner". In fact, I'd like to say that every moment I was greedy for another piece of chocolate cake, or licked my lips lustfully when I saw someone's abs, the times I wanted MORE, or felt a pang of jealousy, the nights I've slept pre-maritally with someone that I loved, the times I've been PROUD of my gay friends, or my friends who had a different religion that I, or been consumed with other seemingly sinful activities... I haven't and WON'T be begging for mercy for ANY OF THEM.

So, Aunt Margaret- I hope your Chariot arrived with a glass of champagne in hand and that your return to the divine started off with one kick ass party.

What's your favorite SIN?...And do YOU believe in HELL?

I AM AN ARTIST HEAR ME ROAR!

I'm back! Sorry I've been absent. I've been juggling late nights, a shitload of commuting, a million different jobs, and sanity all at once, so please forgive me.

....which all got me thinking, since that's what I do.....

When you're busy chasing a dream, often THANKLESSLY- at what point do you stop??

Obviously, to me the answer is "Never." If you continue pursuing then there's absolutely no other option than for you to succeed, because you have no other choice. Period. When there is no backup plan, there is no safety net, you can't spin off into the oblivion on nothingness- you just must succeed. AND THEN, of course that strong, "never" becomes..."how much longer can I ACTUALLY do this?" It becomes, "but I need to be able to function like a normal adult..."

or the worst mindfuck of all, "what if I really never 'make it'?"

It's at the point where the momentum is enough to have me spinning out of control with a racing mind and an empty tank of gas and circles under my eyes- but no money to fill the tank. Both literally and figuratively. It's at the point when the most exciting part of the evening are the free drink tickets allotted to the band.

When my freelancing work is taking up several hours of my day but I still have yet to see the success I'm looking for....

and then, what if I never do? What if it's all just busy work and we're all just little ants, scurrying about and burning mind fuel on fear and doubt, until one day we hunker down and say "fuck dreams, I'm tired. The ones in my sleep will do."

AND THEN, I feel like an asshole for being in a constant state of WANT or of pursuit...its like I'm spitting on my present as if it weren't good enough, even though it is PLENTY. I love my life. I have a beautiful family, incredible friends, and an amazing man. I'm pursuing not one, but several of my dreams and have already achieved so much as it is....and then there's the BUT, the BUT; what if the money continues to be "just enough" to pay the bills (barely) and all of the vision boards I've created are just a waste of a perfectly good glue stick.

I'm at the edge where I could opt for security or I could continue to scramble. Daily digging, hitting the pavement, scratching with nails and raw fingertips until I get what I want...or find a better angle, a better connection, a more lucrative opportunity. Huffing and puffing up a steep and unkind hill, then waking up in the morning smelling like a dive bar and a pack of Parliaments.

So there's moments, just MOMENTS, in the day when I think- "what if this is IT? What now?" Then I usually opt for doing things like Googling the word dessert to distract from my inner Crazy that wants to threaten me with visions of doom, a big ass, a tiny house and weekly karaoke contests at the local Suburban strip mall bar.


I watched a video the other day by Elizabeth Gilbert on TED.COM and she said something that really struck me (I'm paraphrasing) about how as artists people are constantly asking if we're "afraid", what if we can't make it, what if we've already done our best work, etc. etc. Then she said she tells them, "My Dad was a chemical engineer. That is what he did, and no one ever asked him if he were afraid."

SO WHO AM I? Who am I that I shouldn't be afraid of being, because it simply IS.
I'm not a chemical engineer, or an accountant. I'm not a school teacher or a dental assistant. I don't work retail, or sales. I don't have the personality for 9-5, I don't have the patience to teach children.

I AM A WRITER. A MUSICIAN. A TRAVELER.

.....So, that is what I will be.

WHAT ARE YOU????

ONE MORE REASON WHY I LOVE HIM, before I make you all gag.

The whole Valentines SCHTICK is never anyones "thing" when they're single. Those people who say, "yeah I don't really get into Valentines..." and then babble on about the shameless propaganda of Hallmark, "you don't need a day to declare your love, that should be everyday!" and SH*T are just bitter that they've never had an INCREDIBLE Valentines Day....and I know this, because I was one of those people.
In fact, last year instead of whining about it I wore an excessive amount of eyeliner and Beyonce sized hoop earrings, drank 7 hot-pink-you're-drinking-this-to-get-smashed cocktails, and pranced around New York City borrowing cigarettes from door guys and taking Myspace pictures, like "see...I'M NOT DEPRESSED, I HAPPY!" It was all just a big crock, or an Internet decoy so people didn't think I drowned myself in whiskey in my closet sized apartment with red velvet cupcakes half-eaten and scattered about the floor.

I was bitter and pissed at the colors pink and red, until I met My Love. The one who yes, I can't stop talking about-because I'm gloating just.that.much. The one who I wear PDA with like it's a new pair of Marc Jacobs shoes that I want everyone to know that I HAVE because they're so effing awesome. AND UNIQUE.

This year, I couldn't wait for Valentines Day. Because of the one who I got to spend it with, is the kind that makes me breakfast while I'm still asleep, so I can wake up to the smell of bacon. He's the kind that says so convincingly that I look better without makeup that, I almost believe him. He's the kind that brings my Mom a pound of coffee cause he noticed she was out, and will shot-gun a beer with my Dad and Uncles while listening to Metallica in the garage instead of pussying out under the pressure of such unabashed "man-ness."

He's the kind that notices the tone in my voice when something is wrong, even if I don't say so. The kind that remembers the name of my favorite restaurant, in some random state, on some random street, at some RANDOM time in my life and makes mental note. He's the kind that knows how to talk-down my "crazy" and makes me BREATHE a little bit better. He's the kind I was certain was a figment of my delusional imagination?

He's the kind that creates a plot to get me out of the house, sneaks in, decorates it in all the romantic cliche-y things that make single people gag and coupled people SWOON, and leads me to a TV screen, with THIS video of him and his MUSIC on it......

He's the kind, that to me- is perfect...........

That, I'm quite sure- is a ONE OF A KIND kind of thing.

Tell me lovely readers, how was your Valentines Day. ALL VOICES WELCOME: Bitter, single, coupled, married, drunk, indifferent....I've been all of those voices, except for married.

I hope he thinks I'm SEXIER than JESUS.

There's nothing quite as strange than surfing cyber space and finding that your boyfriend has had a seriously PROFOUND relationship with someone else;

Someone named: JESUS.

...and the remnants of their love still float around on web pages and random social networks.

You're like, "HM, I'm certain that's him- it looks like him, but who's this Jesus guy he keeps talking about, because my CURRENT boyfriend doesn't have this third wheel hanging around of of my parties, that's for sure."

Old friends (whom I've never met) are leaving comments and quoting being "yolked in faith" and Twittering church get together's the way my CURRENT boyfriend and I Twitter Happy Hour, quote Kat Williams, say "I just bought a hooka!!" and attribute our "strength" to hefty ale and mounds of greasy bacon we intake on a regular basis. Sinful schminful.

Then it occurs to me; Maybe My Love is in his Final Phase, and I'm lucky enough to have snagged him or trumped his tryst with Jesus in turn for a tryst with MOI.

What's a final phase?? OK- in our teens and twenties we go through a SERIES of phases that involve bouts of identity crisis and missteps; confusion and exploration- if you will.

For instance, I had phases- OH YEA, phases that if they existed in cyber space I'm certain people would bet was "just some girl who looked like Chelsea, but was DEFINITELY not her."

I.E. Phase1; I think I'll be a cheerleader and start wearing ribbons in my hair. Phase2; Private Catholic School may be where I belong, yay for communion and virginity! Phase3; Just kidding, I like sex, weed, liquor and tagging "Siren" on dumpsters while hanging out with my friends who resemble Eminem. Phase4; I'm going to be a socialite in Los Angeles. Phase5; NO, I'm a high powered networking machine living in New York and attending "events" fancy, fancy.

Then of course, mini phases that involve finding "your calling" in various forms; yoga, saving children, bartending and for some; spreading the word of Jesus.

It just so happens that when my boyfriend found Jesus, he also found the Internet.

Now, in the "phase" we're both in we don't shun Jesus we both just have deeply spiritual beliefs that are less exclusive, than Jesus'. The Buddhist religion is beautiful, so is the Hindu religion, and many parts of Christianity. Religious Science and Judaism. We're all ultimately looking for the same thing right? LOVE. PEACE. Happiness. We just go about it in different ways....and it's OK for all of us to be DIFFERENT.

So, shortly before dropping Jesus he also dropped many of his friends that only believed in BELIEVING IN Jesus and Jesus ONLY. Friends who would certainly would not be approving of his relationship with ME being AS profound, as deep, as SPIRITUAL and as real as his once was with Jesus. And, much. much. more sexual. That part doesn't threaten me at all, Jesus doesn't have the moves I have when it comes to his style in the bedroom ;) Know what I meaaaaaann...

So it is STRANGE, to say the least, when a part of you that was only ONE part of who you've become- still exists somewhere, but doesn't reflect your current self at all. Sort of like My Love and Jesus. If I had met him a couple years ago I would have run, quickly, with my heels on FIRE, in the other direction. Or, tempted him with my cleavage while I engaged in a heated debate regarding the exclusivity of organized religions while batting my eyes and dangling "forbidden fruit" in his face.

Is this his Final Phase? The phase were you take all the PARTS and PIECES of previous "self's" and settle into the TRUTH of who you really are. Maybe?....whatever it is, I hope if we move into another phase it isn't following the footsteps of some Gospel....I'd like to follow the footsteps of a musical great, an explorer, an adventurer climbing mountains in foreign countries and a pub crawl in London before we do that.


What "PHASES" have you or your Love been in that are different than your current "phase"???

Uh yeah, the BABY isn't on my guest list.

Once a month, I have an IRRATIONAL fear that I am indeed; PREGNANT.

Well, I take that back- it's not so much irrational when you're having sex, that's pretty standard- so I've heard. Sex=risk of babies. The word RISK being a very cherry-picked choice of wordage, if you will. Simply because, at this point in my life, having a baby would be like, slipping on ice and breaking your ass forever- therefore leaving you with a limp, and a blowup donut pillow that must be taken with you everywhere you go. But, when walking on ice, you take that risk.

That sort of irreversible risk taking. Baby carrying is like tattooing your face. You can't rid yourself of that tattoo once you decide to get it...and obviously, it's on your face which, would HIGHLY affect your day-to-day functioning. Like babies.

All that being said, when you have your "little bundle of mushy-baby-powder-poopy-pants JOY", when you're READY for it, I'm sure it's complete euphoria.....a type of euphoria, I'm certainly NOT ready to have. Sure, ecstasy is AWESOME -to some people, but not my preferred drug of choice, thank you very much. It's sort of like how, I'd like to eat five pounds of cake without of the "risk" of gaining weight. Can I please have five pounds of sex without of the risk of a seven pound, oh-my-good-god-dream-crushing-ounces of baby?

Precious? Yes, they are. But not for me-right now.

STILL, because of my inability to take my birth control pills on time, (so I'm popping four of them at once like bad-baby-breath-mints), I grab each boob when they start to feel a bit "tender" and say, "YEP. I KNEW IT. A baby." Then...sure enough, Aunt Ruby comes along after a delayed flight from False AlarmVille, all unapologetic and "fooled ya kiddo, I just took a detour to Bali first!"

I know I'm not ready for a baby because the word BABY, makes me choke on my spit and break into hives. Instead of waking up in a panic after a baby dream, I wake up in a full SWEAT covered in golf ball sized tears. A "blessing" HELL NO, not a blessing a fucking nightmare....that's what my parents called me "a blessing." I.E. A surprise, a "mistake", a lets-hurry-along-that-wedding sort of "blessing" and what'd they end up getting, a little HELL CHILD that was nicknamed The Mean Bean until she was thirteen and finances SO STRAPPED that their idea of a "date night" was trekking two miles to the 7-Eleven for a Big Gulp.

Fuck that shit. My blessing can wait.

So:

Dear Period:
I'd appreciate it if you'd stop being a stingy biatch. This isn't about you, it's about me and my sanity. Maybe it's your fault I have a DEEP NEED for a stick of butter rolled in salt and dark chocolate, but because of your tardiness, I'm thinking it's some strange "baby craving" like pickles dipped in strawberry ice cream. Sure, sure, they'd be cute kids. So fucking cute I'd like to wait til I'm ready for such INTENSE CUTENESS.

I'm not ready to gain weight in my earlobes. I'm not ready to buy small things or replace all of my DVD'S with Pixar movies. I'm not ready to do the mommy and me thing, or try canned baby food to see if the chicken flavor really tastes like chicken. I'm not ready to change my voice to a different octave for 8hours out of my day for maximum baby communication and I'm certainly not ready to stop cussing like a sailor or having the beautiful ability to be a tad selfish. I'm also not ready to use the phrase, "I'd throw myself in front of a bus for you." and that's something I'd definitely say to my kids, when I have them. My Dad says it to me and it's highly affective on a scale of 1-10 of How Much Do You Love Me?

And P.S.
I'm still mad at you for coming that one time when I had to wear a white leotard on stage, so if you could be a bit more courteous with your arrival, it'd be appreciated.

Sincerely yours, truly and anxiously,

Chelsea Talks Smack

PROCRASTINATION: I'll do that after I.....peel an orange and watch LOST.

I pride myself on time management. No really, I can time things down to the SECOND...I'm annoyingly prompt and when people aren't, it can quickly insight RAGE. However, that's a whole separate blog- this is really about, how due to my time diligence- I am a MASTER procrastinator.

If there was some sort of belt, medal, level, doctorate in procrastinating, I would be wearing it proudly. Today I started thinking about it....WHY, WHY? do we (me) procrastinate? What part about procrastinating really gets me off?? HM, for one; if you weren't putting something off, what would you have to look forward to??
...Or in my case, if I weren't putting something off, would the playtime that I prefer to indulge in, (whatever "play" my selfish desires choose for the day; eating, spending too much time coloring and listening to old records) be one run-on sentence with no end? Would I ever, STOP. If I didn't have something that needed to be checked off the list, I worry that it'd actually make me lazy....when I know I have something that needs to be "taken care of" I try to cram in as much fucking around as possible before I have to "take care of it."

Then, sometimes I wonder; what would it be like to pay your bills the MOMENT the came in the mail?? Or, who are those people that get off at the next exit sign when the orange gas light flashes EMPTY?? I sure as hell don't, I wait til I'm livin' on a prayer with that sucker....."please God, if you do exist, I'd prefer to not breakdown in the middle of the highway- wearing boxer shorts and flip flops"

Is it that drama of waiting until the LAST second.....or is it that I love just skating in and looking so DAMN graceful doing it. Some sort of strange masochistic challenge I sic on myself. Will I make it???

DO I LIKE MAKING IT SEEMINGLY, "HARDER" ON MYSELF??

It's little things, like- the fact that for all of the years I've been wearing jewelry I haven't bothered to get a decent jewelry oganizer..you know the kinds with the compartments, that don't tangle your necklaces into a ball of sterling silver Hell. Instead, I prefer to try and UNKNOT, or dig for that missing earring, every. single. day. I mean, how much time have I actually WASTED doing that???

By waiting till the last second am I saving myself time, or am I wasting it by making the time spent so stressful??

What procrastination is doing is in the place of actually DOING, is creating some false sense of security while "planning" and overplanning, before the actual ACTION.
Is procrastion the ugly fear of falling short once the "thing" is started....what if you don't do it well? Or can't do it?...the fear of failure is easy to put off. Even though, really, it isn't helping any and neither is the "overplanning" in it's place. Instead it's created a false sense of "readiness" for when you finally decide to BEGIN whatever it is that's tucked away on some high shelf. Paying a bill, planning a trip, TAKING the trip, telling someone how you feel, quitting your job, taking a new class, cleaning out your closet, making a phone call, finishing a project....whatever it may be, the same tone is a part of all levels of procrastination; fear, uncertainty, resistance to progress? or change?, laziness....all of which are GRAY energies I could probably do a good old purging of for my own well being.


So instead of doing the things I could do to BENEFIT me, I'm testing myself...and blogging about it instead. On that note, I'm gonna go surf Twitter;


WHAT IS IT THAT YOU'RE PROCRASTINATING???

Someday IT WILL GROW ON TREES, I mean-it's MADE of trees...

I'm fiscally irresponsible.

There, I said it. ::cue Father patting himself on the back, yes Daddy-you did tell me so::

I mean, I don't go around with credit cards buying things that are unnecessary, in fact, I only have one credit card...which, I maxed out (every.last.cent.) so that I could do Europe like a rock star and not like a grungy hippie. Nothing against grungy hippies- but I'll be the first to say, I am travel snob. And a food snob, or some sort of snob that prefers to dining out in Paris rather than eating a baguette on the street corner for a week straight and coming up with creative ways to braid my hair with the copious amounts of grease its accumulated because of the lack of a functional shower. Just not my gig.

Here's the problem; I have expensive taste. LITERAL TASTE. My taste buds like expensive cheese. AND WINE. I don't have the patience for "When I have (enter number amount here) I'll finally..." I say, do it now. Remember how my motto was, "Fuck it?" Yeah- well, it's sticking like bad performance at the VMA'S.

No, my closet isn't full of designer clothing (not that I wouldn't mind it) but I tend to be a more vintage, thrifty chick as it is. I rarely get my nails done, or getting my car washed...or paying to get my teeth checked...etc....AND THAT, is where the problem comes in: I WOULD RATHER SPEND MY MONEY ON CHEESE AND A VACATION TO STAY AT A BUNGALOW IN BORA BORA than I would paying to check for gum disease.

And sure, wouldn't everybody? YES. But, the difference is "everybody" would usually check for gum disease before buying a trip to Chicago and planning a trip to Sonoma County, around tax season. (yes, Dad- I have been listening...I know tax season is coming up, I was just ignoring you.)

For the past four years I've paid a ridiculous sum in rent in both Los Angeles and New York, I never had a credit card and I didn't have many bills. SO, now though I am paying off my CC bill in gigantic portions...I have decided to avoid getting a PLACE OF RESIDENCE for a few months.....so that I can BE: FISCALLY IRRESPONSIBLE.

I'd like to blame my irresponsibility on The Secret. Thank you very much. Magical thinking returns magical living. (This is where most people shake their heads and call me a crazy Gypsy, that's cool...do whatcha do.)

Because though I often don't have any CLUE how I'm going to manage to get by for the next few months, I still. manage. BECAUSE I SAY SO. And when it comes down to winnin' time, I'm kicking ass in the final stretch.

No, my head isn't in the sand- It's simply that I really. want. and need. to go to Bora Bora....so, I will. And when Mr. Tax Man comes along, I won't fail him either...because, I'm scrappy like that. Even if it means being a Sugar Plum Fairy at a birthday party for $200 dollars. (YES. THIS. EXISTS. GOOGLE IT.)


So me and my Fiscal Irresponsibility are going to the 20SB Meetup in Chicago.

MY FISCAL IRRESPONSIBILITY is also responsible for:

1. Planning a wine tasting trip with Nicole to Sonoma County
2. Trip planning to Greece for Late '09
3. Buying expensive cheese blocks with fancy names.
4. Freemark Abbey- the BEST Cabernet
5. Movie dates, with myself. Treats included.
6. Taking up one new exercise class a week; hot yoga, rock climbing, belly dancing (yes that shit is aerobic as HELL.)
7. Date night to the best restaurants in Denver, at least once a week. Next up Mizuna, Centro and Twelve.
8. Road Trip in April to Cali
9. Two music tours in June and July
10.A trip to the Hot Springs with My Love.
11. Spending more time focusing on things that pay VERY LITTLE...but make me RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY and could someday pay more...i.e. music, singing, and ahem-writing. Freelancing doesn't always mean big bucks.


Sure fiscal irresponsibility may be frivolous, impulsive, fleeting....but shit- it's better than a date in dentist chair, or a night at home eating a can of peas. I've done that....


WHAT DOES YOUR FISCAL IRRESPONSIBILITY MAKE YOU DO???
please tell me I'm not alone.

Because blogging is all about TMI.....

You know when you have an incredibly embarrassing moment and you think, "well THANK GOD that's over- 'Most Embarrassing Moment' story to tell Glamour magazine (anonymously), check."

Oh you haven't had yours? Well you will, and let me tell you what....you better blog about it, because I'm giving you all a GEM.

Let's start by saying, deciding to sleep with someone is a major. decision. that should be thought through.....and no, I don't mean doing the dirty. I mean allowing yourself to fall into R.E.M. while another is present. I say this for a few reasons; you have to really trust this person- or they could. 1. Murder you. 2. Write on your face with Sharpie. 3. Physically abuse you for snoring too loud, 4. Read your diary 5. Find your cookie stash and eat them all... among other things.....

Making the choice to have sex with someone, is far less deep. That's right, call me a hussy but getting in your jammi's and hitting the lights is a MUCH bigger deal and this is why....

....when you're sleeping, you're completely unaware of the things you say, and do- specifically when it comes to bodily functions. And no, I stopped wetting the bed years ago.

THAT'S RIGHT. YOU GUESSED IT...... Aren't you a genius. I FARTED..... IN. MY. SLEEP. with My Love laying AWAKE right next to me.

Cue the laughing crowd and sympathy sighs. The worst part, the vibration woke me up....BUT, I was still mid-dream. So my response to the rumble, "YEP." AS IF SOMEONE HAD ASKED ME A QUESTION??? Namely, "Did you fart?" In which, I sleep-talking-shamelessly, would have replied, "YEP." YEP??? Not yes, yeah, sorry, oops? No, just YEP.

Like, "That's right bitches. I ain't scurrrred. FART? ME? YEP!" I couldn't even bother to be grammatically correct, or appologetically classy.


So, when My Love said calmy, "Aw baby....you just farted."
I was still so unaware of the reason why I had just awoken out of a dead sleep and answered YEP (?), that I was certain I didn't. I HAD. NO. CLUE. In fact, I argued with him. "UH, No. I didn't." After adamantly denying my gas pass, I fell back asleep....hoping in the morning I'd wake with just a slight recollection of an odd and uncomfortable dream.

BEFORE I CONTINUE, let me say- I'd really appreciate if someone would "myth bust" this "women don't fart or do gross things" tall tale, because WE DO. We poop, we fart, we even pick out noses and some of us enjoy it. It happens to every woman, even sexy Megan Fox or classy Sarah Jessica Parker (i.e. Sex and The City episode, even though I know Carrie Bradshaw isn't real....but aw, don't we wish she were?)...EVERY. WOMAN. Even your Mothers men...not just the old women on Beano commercials. If they'd cast a hot chick in one of those it'd be something for us women to celebrate, "HA.HA. It isn't only senior citizens with a penchant for broccoli that get gaseous!"

Just sayin'. On with my "crawl in a hole forever and die" moment.....

"Good morning baby, do you want me to make some breakfast.....?"

In which I replied, with my new KEY PHRASE, "YEP." And that is when I knew, dream? I think not my friend and instead of asking how I'd like my eggs, he just said- "Don't worry, it was cute."


REASON 5,987 that I am certain I am dating an alien. Farting=not cute. Boyfriends not flipping out= GOLD.



What's your most embarrassing moment???