Once upon a time, this blog was very controversial. I know, I know! Difficult to believe here in this desolate, post-apocalyptic landscape in which The Chronicles now reside. But yes, it has caused fights between friends, breakups, rageful accusations from strangers, and was even banned by the company where I work. In turn, it also brought me fawning adoration from readers, got me an in for my current job, and led me to meet my delicious man.
During this tumultuous journey, I got into the bad habit of omitting stories that ROCKED because I had too many readers who would have caused drama about me posting stuff that involved them. However, times have changed, and none of those hosers read my happy blog anymore. The time has come, dear munchkins, to behold…
The Lost Chronicles
Let us begin with The Invitation.
It all started with an e-mail. An e-mail from a friend who enjoyed writing as well. She sent it to me under the pretext that she wanted me to read a short story that she had co-authored with her boyfriend. It started out generic enough…a couple and their friend named Florentina having drinks and chatting, when suddenly and without warning, it turned into effing Showtime. It was The Most Graphic Three-Way-Bang Story of All Time. Like I’m talkin’ the phrases, “buried to the hilt” and “vagina” were used and everything! I was way surprised to get something so bawdy from her, but I just kind of laughed about it and uncomfortably dropped the subject.
A couple weeks later, my pals and I all went out to some swanky bar at which the lusty literary duo made and appearance. With their friend. FLORENTINA. I mean, come on! Like there’s that many Florentinas in the area!! That’s when I began to suspect what was going on. I mean, I always think everybody is in love with me, so you’d think I would have caught onto this sooner, but holy shat! These folks were totally trying to dew me!
I carefully avoided them until my birthday party, where I partied SO hard that I gave the stripper a lap dance. They waited until I was so loaded that I was hanging onto nearby furniture so as to not topple over to ambush me. They were all looming over me, frothing at the mouth and stroking my arm, saying, you don't believe that there isn't a G-spot? You can watch him give me one. Why don’t you let us take you home? And I was all AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! And in slow motion, I turned and fled, leaving overturned barstools in my wake. Really, I saw no other option but to hurl myself into the safety of a group of friends whilst giggling uncontrollably.
Ahh, I’m so hawt. Everyone wants to hit this! But I ain't promiscuous, and if you was suspicious...all that shit is fictitious!
Considerate Crapping
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The more I’m around people, the more I’m concerned that I’m antisocial. It’s either that, or I’m completely superior to those around me, which, after consulting my ass, is clearly the case. I just feel like I’m in constant battle with bitches everywhere I go over things that I consider to be common social courtesies.
For instance: the shitter. Evidently, it is not common knowledge that when someone is already in the can upon your arrival, that it is polite to forgo your favorite stall and instead choose the one farthest from the person who’s already marked their toilet territory. I’m just sayin’, nobody wants your weird nosy ass dropping trowel next to them if you have the choice to be an extra six feet away. It just makes you seem weird, like you sniff people’s butts or something. Gross.
Also inappropriate, is chatting while shatting. Cereal not cool, y’all. Or even chatting in the batroom for any length of time when someone else is in there trying to drop a deuce. Take it outside, for the love of christ! And dude, just in case you are this kind of dirty sac, never ever call someone out when they're in a stall. Swear to god, I was in the far away throne, laying some Tetris, when some chick like, peeked under a stall and shoe snooped, then actually said to the woman in there, “Stephanie! Is that you?!” While poor Stephanie is awkwardly trying to muffle the post piss farts. I would mutilate a bitch with a toilet paper tube if that happened to me.
I don’t think I’m being extreme here, unlike this chick the other day, who upon realizing that I too was headed for the bathroom, turned and looked at me in horror. HORROR, people. Like I had just spun my head around and a tentacle shot out of my bellybutton and was suckering her face. It was righteous! She got her little potty paper and sat there for a long time in silence trying to pee. Ultimately, she couldn’t do it, even though I bailed for the stall farthest from her, but at least I tried to be privy polite. I just want those around me to do the same.
For instance: the shitter. Evidently, it is not common knowledge that when someone is already in the can upon your arrival, that it is polite to forgo your favorite stall and instead choose the one farthest from the person who’s already marked their toilet territory. I’m just sayin’, nobody wants your weird nosy ass dropping trowel next to them if you have the choice to be an extra six feet away. It just makes you seem weird, like you sniff people’s butts or something. Gross.
Also inappropriate, is chatting while shatting. Cereal not cool, y’all. Or even chatting in the batroom for any length of time when someone else is in there trying to drop a deuce. Take it outside, for the love of christ! And dude, just in case you are this kind of dirty sac, never ever call someone out when they're in a stall. Swear to god, I was in the far away throne, laying some Tetris, when some chick like, peeked under a stall and shoe snooped, then actually said to the woman in there, “Stephanie! Is that you?!” While poor Stephanie is awkwardly trying to muffle the post piss farts. I would mutilate a bitch with a toilet paper tube if that happened to me.
I don’t think I’m being extreme here, unlike this chick the other day, who upon realizing that I too was headed for the bathroom, turned and looked at me in horror. HORROR, people. Like I had just spun my head around and a tentacle shot out of my bellybutton and was suckering her face. It was righteous! She got her little potty paper and sat there for a long time in silence trying to pee. Ultimately, she couldn’t do it, even though I bailed for the stall farthest from her, but at least I tried to be privy polite. I just want those around me to do the same.
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Get Out of My Tits!
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So maybe it’s me that has the bad gym etiquette, or maybe it’s everyone else. I’m thinking it’s everyone else, but you know, what the hell do I know? I began wondering about this the other day when I was standing in front of my locker, minding my own biznazz and exchanging my grodie stank workout clothes for a towel. This would seem to be a fairly private moment in a fairly public place, right? Like, one in which you wouldn’t bust in front of said disrobed person to fish around in your locker? Wouldn’t you pretend to get a fresh towel or something so that the nekked individual could have a minute to cover her flab?
Clearly, I am the only one who would, because as I was standing there, some fat ass, who always wears a fucking leotard to speed walk on the treadmill, reaches within three inches of my chest to open her locker and fiddle about. I was all, GET OUT OF MY TITS! But instead of shrieking this aloud like so much banshee, I settled for passive aggressively dropping stuff from my locker onto her meddling hands. Then I flapped my towel around like I was Big Bird on ice to make sure that she felt as uncomfortable in my personal space as I was with her in it. Skank!
It occurs to me in hindsight that I probably just gave her more of a show for which she was already stoked to be in attendance, but at least I doused her with a grotesque mixture of warm vanilla sugar lotion and filthy gym sock. My revenge may be small, but it is in frequency that I disperse my reign of terror. Mwa ha ha, bitches!
Clearly, I am the only one who would, because as I was standing there, some fat ass, who always wears a fucking leotard to speed walk on the treadmill, reaches within three inches of my chest to open her locker and fiddle about. I was all, GET OUT OF MY TITS! But instead of shrieking this aloud like so much banshee, I settled for passive aggressively dropping stuff from my locker onto her meddling hands. Then I flapped my towel around like I was Big Bird on ice to make sure that she felt as uncomfortable in my personal space as I was with her in it. Skank!
It occurs to me in hindsight that I probably just gave her more of a show for which she was already stoked to be in attendance, but at least I doused her with a grotesque mixture of warm vanilla sugar lotion and filthy gym sock. My revenge may be small, but it is in frequency that I disperse my reign of terror. Mwa ha ha, bitches!
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Nosey McHoser
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S&M is Much More Interesting than My Uterus
Second only to having a hand placed on my Taco Bell-generated gut and being asked when I’m due, is my resentment of being asked when I’m getting married. Not because I don’t genuinely look forward to getting married someday, but because I feel like if I haven’t volunteered that information to you, then it’s none of your effing business! Those are super private topics that don’t involve your nosy ass, so get a hobby and leave me alone!
Those that ask un-inseminated chicks about their uterine functions are of the same species of people that also ask unmarried chicks about their marital plans. It’s absolutely shocking to me that people actually wonder such things out loud. I would never inquire about either of the above because holy-sense-of-entitlement-to-personal-information, Batman! I don’t want to make people feel awkward! What a shocking revelation!
Now, if I have a ring on my finger, proceed. Ask me when the date is set and all about what my wedding will be like even though it’s gonna sound suspiciously like every other wedding you’ve ever been to. Go nuts! The ring is a symbol of the commitment, if not an advertisement of it. I think that makes it fair game…
But to a single girl, that is terribly uncomfortable! You have no idea what’s going on with me! What if we haven’t discussed it yet? What if he won’t marry me and it’s a hideous sore subject and we fight because you’ve just poured lemon juice in the wound and then we break up and I end up offing myself via a Salad Shooter? What if I just got dumped and am dead inside, and murder him and his entire family and prop up the bodies around the Thanksgiving table and weep as I spoon feed grandpa’s corpse creamed corn? What if I’m getting ready to dump him because I’m a cold, tasteless bitch? What if I have an alien in my guts that is going to pop out and eat your face for asking me such a rude question!? Jesus ass!
It’s like asking a woman when she’s going to have a baby, when she’s going to have her second, if she’s gonna try for a girl next time. DUDE. 1 in 3 pregnancies ends in miscarriage! Many people are infertile! BACK OFF! God. I mean, why don’t you just jam a hand into their crotchal regions and see what their labias look like and then run over their pets with your stupid SUV?
And yes, I know I’m worst case scenarioing what could happen if you pry into someone’s private life, but seriously, getting married is something to be discussed between the couple. Having children is a conversation reserved for the bearers of the child. If you need a voyeuristic view of weddings and pregnancies, watch Days of Our Lives. Someone gets knocked up like twice a week and they all get married three times a day. Not to mention that they all get amnesia, killed, posessed, and gangbanged in a guillotine sooner or later. That should satisfy your need to be omnipresent and fulfill your sadism, you reptilian, cold sore sucker!
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