Still Drunk

And wondering why it is that so many people search the internet for narcissism.

Come on. There are much more intersting things to look up.

Like "Fellatia Poonany" which is my porn star name in case you were wondering. Isn't it fantastic?

So yeah.

I'm bored and drunk

Mmmm, wine.

Italian Gianni hasn't written me any email whatsoever. Chipper is off at the airport pic king up his parents. And I really need to piss. Like a racehorse.

Ummm, yeah. I've stopped seeing double which I think means I'm sobering up. So I'll have a fucking bitch of a headache soon. Unless I can by some miracle manage to fall asleep while typing with my boobs hanging out of the most fantastic Victoria's Secret dress over. I'd send you a link to a picture but I can't be bothered.

Is it wierd that I get an ever so sexy feeling wearing 4-inch stilletos in "gladiator" style?

I shall ponder the matter at great length whilst I fondle my virator and try to fall asleep.

Drunken Blogging

Good morning peoplenesses

I am very drunk right now. I've been qworking my way through a very large bottle of wine. M y friend was supposed to help me, but due to Japanese polietenesss she stopped after her thrid glass. So heere I am.

Anyway, life in Kateland for the last weekishness or so has involved lots of help on the domestic violence specetrum of things. My friend left me a voice mail last Saturday morniing saying something along hte lines of "I'm in danger, please help me". So that is what I have been doing. "help" has involved trip[s to the emergency room, filing police reports, and generally b eing paranoid about the paranoid schizophrenics in cars behind me.

I am drunk.

Please forgive the typos

Anyway, my friend was beaten and run over by her boyfriend. I would very much like to beat the snot out of him, but instead i am playing th role of compassionate friend and listening to how much she loves the asshole. It is driving me crazy. But I am holding it togehter with the help of lots of alcohol and cigarettes. Cigarettes are the most wonderful invention ever in the hostory of the world.

I would like to use the boyfriend's real name here, but I prefer not be run over by a car or kickedc repeatedly in the head, so I will use a psuedonym (not like I've never done that before) and call him Yucca, which seems appropriate given the circumstances and his actual first name. I can't believe I spelled psuedonym correctly. Seems a bit strange since I'm seeing everything a bit double vision at the moment...

Mmmmm, wine will help with that.

Anyway, Yucca is a shit-dick-fucker-bastard-piece-of-fuck-wwanking-cazzone-pig-fucking-(which seems a bit insulting to my firend)-asshole, qwho needs to be shot and put out of everyon's miserey. Instead he has checked himself into a metal hospital. Accoring to his mother anyway. We're not sure when he'll actually be arrested. But we have been trying since last SUnday.

The detective, who has really bad hair, saif they would arrest him last Tuesday, but now they're saying they'll arrest him onSunday. Which means they'[ll never arrest him and he'll probasbly co med to my house and murder us in our sleep.

That's what I get for trying to help peo[le.

Anyway, I would like to make a bit of a rant on detectives' hairstyles. They have perhaps the worst sense of style that I have ever seen. And I have lived in Italy.

I really thought the buffant had gone out of style several years ago, but it is apparently live and well among Denver police officials. Dude who interviewed us at the hospital had serious poof issue. And Dude who interviewed us at the central police building had some very very deep and pervasive issues with gel.

Aside fronm thqat Denver detectives are butts and I would like to smack all of them, although it was fun to park in the special parking lot.

Hopefully I will not die in the next couple of days at the hands of Yucca.

He likes to sell CD's illegally on the side of the road.

He also has 3 kids by a woman he claims is not his wife. She claims differently.

And he knows what car I drive and has my home phone number.

Also, just so everyone knows. I have size D boobs. They are currently hanging out of my dress and I spent most of the evening fliting with an Italian named Gianni. ZI thin he has a girlfriend, but I don't care.

So yeah, I'm going to die at the hands of Yucca or Gianni's girlfriend. We shall see.

Now I'm going to go pass out. It seems to be the best option. Or maybe I will have another cigarette.

I Wish I Could Say I Had Been Smoking Something

Unfortunately, this was a completely sober dream.

I remember making the decision to go back to Yemen to see Yusra for her wedding and abandoning all of my life here in the US. It was quite a lovely feeling, actually. The abandoning part. So, I got to Yemen and I was staying in Yusra's house which looked like it could have been part of Salisbury Cathedral. Except a bit more crumbly. Anyway, a con and young Jeezy were sitting in the mafraj trying to take it easy and making sure that everyone knew it wasn't a rap song, it was their life.

Then Yusra's mother came in and she wasn't very Yemeni. In fact, she was very British and looked a lot like a very aged Prof. McGonagal from the Harry Potter movies. She had a big foofy black hat on and generally looked like she was in mourning. She was also stroking a foul tempered long-haired white cat. She kept mumblig incoherently, and I was wondering why there had been such a problem with Yusra marrying a foreigner when her own mother was a foreigner.

I had been about to ask her about that very issue when I was grabbed from behind and squished in a crushing hug. I turned around to see Cowboy and immediately dragged him to another room for heavy petting. Our bliss was cut short and we were called back to the mafraj by Yusra's grumpy father. That was when I noticed Cowboy was wearing my favorite black velvet dress. We were supposed to be listening to whatever was being said in the room, but he kept hiking up his skirt and showing off his white cotton panties. It was very cute and I couldn't resist reaching over and snapping the waistband for some reason.

At some point Nurik had arrived and started giggling uncontrollably at the panty-snapping thing. He kept making the sign of a heart with his hands as he had done when he was first trying to cummunicate to me that Cowboy liked me.

Then we were flying over Kyrgyzstan and email from my parents kept popping out of the air. They couldn't reach me at the house in Aurora so they wanted to know where I was. I had completely forgotten to tell them I had left, and I was dreading having to do so, but I also really didn't care.

Anyway, as were flying we kept looking down at the ground, and it was half ground, half map and these strange spade-shaped castles kept popping out of the ground. They looking like they were made from pastillage and pulled sugar. We were about to go look at them when my alarm went off.

Ever since then I've been fighting the urge to go up to white people (yes I know, I'm also a white people) and ask if they'll shizzle my nizzle. I think it goes back to the Young Jeezy part of the dream (which was more involved thatn I wrote about, but I liked the velvet dress part better). And before anyone takes issue with my improper use of ebonics, I would like to point out that I am well aware that the shizzle nizzle* is not in any way a verb. It just sounds more fun when it is turned into one.

*It is instead a declaration of agreement between two members of the African American ethnic group

Doh!

I had to buy my lunch at school today (this is because I haven't gone grocery shopping since Januray 1st and I've run out of just about everything that doesn't involve sardines). Just standing in line was a lesson in why I am happy to no longer be 18 and/or a freshman. I had to listen to these two empty headed twits have an in-depth conversation about the perils of dating virgin boys. And how it can come back to bite you if you dump your highschool sweetheart on prom night*.

Then I had to pay $9 for a sandwich and a drink. The sandwich sounded good on paper. Turkey with havarti and cucumber. What they forgot to mention was the over toasted piece of bread stuck between the cucumber layer and the turkey and cheese layer. I understand that some people find the bread-in-the-middle-of-the-sandwich thing logical or even tasty**, but surely someone should have thought better of toasting that piece of bread into a hardended, carbonized torture device. Sadly, I now have juicy tendrils of mouth beef hanging down and tormenting my tongue because of some toaster's oversight.

After I stopped the bleeding, I thought perhaps the cookie would make life better. But no, someone had to go and make a mockery of a perfectly good oatmeal raisin cookie by adding toasted coconut. Who does that? And why? For the love of all things good and tasty, why?

To wash all of this misery down, I had gotten what was labeled as a "Vanilla Chai." Granted I should have read the label better, but it was still a nasty shock to discover, while swallowing, that my vanilla chai was full of soy. I'm still shuddering at the memory.

All in all I have to lunch was not a success. I think this means I need to go grocery shopping.

*It's all okay now though because this time she's really over him

**I am not one of those people