Nice Guys Finish Last


This much I have learned. Children, do you know what this means? Free license to be a bitch!

May the days of the origonal Porkchop reign!

Quote Of The Day:


"You look like you're ready to have a kid."

--My Brother. Commenting on my hair, not my sweater.

Feeling Decadant And Delicious


This is the second evening I have stayed up late and the second morning in a row I'll be able to sleep in.

I will never take weekends for granted again. For as long as I live.

"they just dove headfirst into the shallow end of the pool called SUCKYNESS"

"they jumped feet first into the pit of quicksand called douchebaggery"

"they just bellyflopped into the shark invested waters of McFuckerville"

"and if we ever see them, HI-YAH!!!! FUCKSIAN!!! and we'll whip out our poisoned chopsticks"

In the past few days, my face has rapidly been taken over by small open weeping spots. It rather looks like I have chicken pox. Except there is no swelling or discoloration surrounding the spots. There are just random spots on my neck, ears and face that weep and ooze. They refuse to scab over and despite my best makeup skills, aren't concealed to well.

I found out that it's ipetigo which is caused because of staph (a strain of which is making its rounds at work). Its lovely to know these things, but it doesn't take away the fact I look like I've been attacked by a flock of gnats. Or that the itching is becoming so unbearable I'm about to cry.

I want to pin a sign on my forehead "These Aren't Zits. I Do Wash My Face. This Isn't My Fault."

But I can't. And they itch. And all this pain is starting to give me a headache. (Or is it the clenching of my teeth trying to ignore it?) They are starting to get a little deeper and chunks of my skin seem to be slowly eroding. I know in reality it isn't all that bad. But I'm not dealing with it to well.

How would you deal if you were suddenly given the skin of a fifteen year old boy?

Something I Do Not Love About The South


My sister isn't there. And she can't bring me tea to work.

Here she can.

I love my sister.

It’s official. I’m in love. I’m in love with the lazy accents, the lack of humidity, the water that leaves my hair bouncy and shiny. I love the fact that everyone lets you in traffic when you want. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been using it to my advantage. Just yesterday I jumped a curb, (another perk of driving a huge four wheel drive truck) cut a stoplight by flying through a car dealership and made a U-Turn in heavy evening traffic in front of a semi truck and cut some poor chap in a huge manuel transmission truck off. He looked slightly pissed, but after we rolled the window down and sweetly apologized, he was more than alright. Ah. Those sweet southern people.

However, be warned, the cops aren’t nice. (though I have not been stopped, two people I’m driving with, have been) Do not be fooled by their charming accents, no matter how leisurely! Even if they do sound and look suspiciously like better looking versions of ex boyfriends) They also have something here they call Speed Awareness Week, which, apparently, they take “very seriously“ and “do not give warnings“. Upon hearing this, like true northerners all we could muster up was a good “Wtf, mate?’

Overzealous cops aside, it has been the most lovely week ever. Even though I was plagued with much work, I seemed to sleep better and longer even on the nights I got three hours of sleep. The nights sweem to be longer and time seems to stretch a bit more. I am a bit worried about myself, I haven’t listened to anything but country music since I got here. Even though I’m on my way home, I have no intention of quitting.

There has been, of course, the handful of southern boys who cannot understand why I have to be so mean. According to them it is “very unbecoming to an otherwise talented and gorgeous woman”. Darlings. I have news for you. Being assholes is also very unbecoming to otherwise successful and good-looking men. Something I have definitely understood is most southern men don’t quite know what to do when a pickup line is rejected, regardless of the accent and the good manners accompanying the delivery. Sorry, boys. Though you might want to chalk it up to my genetics rather than my geography. No matter where I’ll go, this is the way it is. Because my Daddy raised me right. The line from a country song I’m listening to now applies beautifully “It’s better to be hated for who you are than loved for who your not.” Ah! A scrap of country music for every situation. I have a feeling my sister is going to quickly tire of this. She is already a little worried that a week down here has corrupted me. I think it has.

Damn the south! Now I know what I’ve been missing all along. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.

I go back to my little northern apartment with my northern sister and my evil northern ways. And I still live it. Because I have my family. And there is nothing in my life that matters more than that.

Another Reason I Love The South


You can spend fifteen minutes shredding a guy one hundred and eleven different ways. You can insult him. You can reduce him to a pile of quivering jelly.

You can do all these things and then have someone walk up to you and say

"I appreciate your voracity in that conversation. Can I buy you a drink?"

I {heart} The South


I've fastideously claimed my East Coast roots. I absolutely adore the mid-atlantic. We're close to so much. Historic towns, major cities, prestigeous universities. I'll argue long and hard about it being the best place to live.

Where I live is pretty indifferent on the whole blue versus grey issue. We have a few that think they are southern and a few that are die hard northern. But for the most part you have people who don't care. (After all, we were a mixed state during the civil war.) You can tell I am a yankee. I talk fast. I drive like a maniac. I eat sushi.

But this week, I'm staying down south on business. I must say, I absolutely love it. The southern influences of both my parents and a dedicated friend are slowly appearing. Much to the chagrin of my sister when I get home, I am not fighting it.

My rental car for the week is a truck. I've taken great delight in driving with the windows rolled down and the country music cranked up. I smile at people. I sit patiently in traffic. I talk to strangers. I eat boiled peanuts and drink beer.

Don't worry. I haven't given up all my wretched ways. Just last night, per my warning, a forward McFucker got an open handed smack across the face. (When I say "don't touch me again or I'll slap you" I mean it.) But, to balance things out, I stopped to help a guy push his smoking and spewing car out of five o'clock traffic.

Despair not. I have yet to say fixin'.

Lest you think I am an absolute sham (which my southern accent is entirely) my grandparents were from Mississippi and my Daddy is from Virginia. I do live only a few miles north of the Mason-Dixon line.

I suppose all this is meant to say, I guess we all suprise ourselves.

Quote From The Weekend


"You know, just once, just ONCE I'd like to see you cut loose and not be so serious. Just once. That's all I ask."-- A Coworker

I find this immensely amusing because I don't consider myself a serious person. Upon polling and pondering I did reach the conclusion there is no hidden side of me waiting to be unleashed with a bit too much vodka. There is much snark and a penechant for stupid dares, but no wild party girl waiting to come out.

Tonight I was just thinking about the days when I was fat and my parents put me on a maditory fruits and vegetables only diet. My sixes were occasoinally snug.

Now my eights are getting snug on occasion and I would kill to be the size I was then. I think I'll go ahead and put myself on a non-negotiable diet plan. Even though it isn't quite the same when you put YOURSELF on it. When your parents officially make you eat carrot sticks and apples, it's serious business. When you are voluntarily dieting, it's another whiny woman who has self-image problems.

Lets just say those image problems are seriously justified if not completly right. Here's to a hopefully healthy month ahead.

This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.


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