And Then I Said...Stop Flirting with Your "Best Friend"

Top 5 Things NOT to Do While in a Relationship

1. Talk about your ex all the time. 

 

If I hear another dumb sentence about how great your ex was then I'm going to shove something sharp down your throat. I don't care if she was Angelina freaking Jolie. I don't want to hear ANOTHER WORD.

2. Compare your girl/boyfriend to your ex.  Ever.

 

I am not your ex for a reason. That reason being because your ex is not me. Duh. There's nothing else to say about this.

3. Say dumb stuff like "Man, I'd hit that." While staring at someone else. Not your S.O.

 

If I go to a restaurant, a mall, a parking lot, a sidewalk, with you I expect you to pay attention to me. And even if you're not, I expect you to PRETEND goshdangit.  I'm not turned on by your weird attempts at making me jealous. Yes, I can see her Double D's flailing, I don't need you to rub it in. Jerk. Why am I with you again?

4. Spend inordinate amounts of time with your "best friend." Who is of the opposite gender.

 Unless your "best friend" is a dog I don't want to see you kissing her. Or him. Or whatever. Stop pretending you don't want to get with your "really really wonderful best friend" who you'd "never date because you're like siblings" and just get with them already. I'll go find my best friend--cake.

5. Post pictures on Facebook of you with your "best friend," with hearts and smiles in the comment section. 

 I do not want to see bullcrap pictures of you and your "best friend" hugging and rough-housing in adorable Instagram settings. Nope.  Those pictures are either with me-YOUR GIRLFRIEND AHEM--or no one.  

Any other dating faux pauxes?  Let me know!

Uno Dos Tres, Let's Kill Pitbull Already

Picture this.  A recording studio.  J-Lo or Jay-Z or somebody with a hyphen in their name decides to lay down a pop-ish track to create another top 40 piece of worthless crap song.  The beat drops.  And suddenly...DALE!!!
Pitbull has arrived to make his 11 millionth "feat. Pitbull" top hit. 
Seriously, does the man hide in recording studios?  Hiding in wait to jump in the middle of a song with a gallant "Mr. Worldwide!"? Or is his agent just an OCD perfectionist with a need for power?

Either way, with an infamous "uno dos tres" we're off, topping charts, surprising no one.  Except me.  What is this scary white bald dude who only sings in broken Spanglish, parading under a ton of crappy aliases like "Mr. 305," and "Mr. Worldwide" (What does that even mean??!?), doing in EVERY single top hit?  Maybe this is chicken or the egg, but does the song he features in become a top hit by itself and he just happens to be there, or does he feature in them, and THEN it becomes a top hit, BECAUSE he was in it??

If the latter is the case, I'm not sure I want to be a part of this society anymore.

I'm not sure if any song is safe from this crazy cuban anymore.  He started out chanting the everlasting words "Hotel Motel Holiday Inn" and progressed to featuring in everything wrong with the pop industry.  Out of 79 singles he's released, he's a featured artist in 48. 48 singles that have featured Pitbull. That's almost 49 which is almost 50 which is half of a hundred.  Basically Pitbull's featured in half of 100 singles.  Incredible.

Regardless, as we all know, Mr. 305 is conquering the radio one song at a time.  Soon he'll even be on the Indie channels and public talk radio stations, I'm sure. In my opinion, he's doing a great job at being the only rapper that our generation will recognize. He's basically the best rapper there ever was.  Most of his listeners don't understand Spanish but all enjoy yelling UNO DOS TRES every 20 seconds.  Thank you Pitbull for making me feel personally connected to the Latino culture. 

Retaliation

Dear Upstairs Neighbor,

If you're wondering why I was vacuuming at 6 am on a Saturday morning it is because I was/am mad at you for having LOUD sex while I was TRYING to sleep! 

Ok, I understand that you're a belly dancer and you've got to get it on or whatever.  Just, please, QUIT WITH THE OBNOXIOUS MOANING. And when your dog starts barking at you....DO SOMETHING. IT'S 2 IN THE MORNING AND I'M UNABLE TO THINK IN BETWEEN THOSE ANNOYING GROANS.

I'm not bitter that you're having sex. Really.  I don't care if you have sex with that huge, no-neck, tattooed beast of a man I saw you entering you entering your part of our tri-plex with at 1.  Nope, I really don't care if you have sex with him.  Even if it happens right above my room. What I DO care about is that YOU FREAKING SHUT UP.

So, if you woke up at 6 this  morning after a busy, ahem, night, and felt irritated that my vacuum was going and I was simultaneously singing "Call Me Maybe" at the top of my lungs, now you know why.  My roommates weren't even home so I wasn't disturbing anyone BUT YOU.

Hope you're wandering around as groggily as I am today.  Jerk.

Sincerely,
Me.

Writer's Block

Guys,
(Or girls, if you are a hardcore feminist)

I have writer's block. I really do. I don't know what to write about. I have several good rants that I can think of: hipsters, Pitbull, modern music, why I'm the only person who likes All-American-Rejects anymore, gas prices, college prices, my landlord....BUT I can't put them into words. Here. Have an image:

This image is exactly how I feel right now.  Right now my percentage of wins in Solitare is about...5%. Great.

Back to writer's block.
Those of you who don't write don't understand at all what we go through. We being the writing community. We being me pretending to be part of the writing community.  (And yes, I've written novels. They're just sitting on my computer un-published and un-read. It's fine.)  Writer's block is a sickness. It's like you have so many things to say. And you start to type and the clicking of the keys or the music in the background (which is right now, "It Ends Tonight." Stop judging) or all those thoughts swirling can't settle into something comprehensible, let alone readable. 

So we wait. Or at least I do.  Trying to write through writer's block is like trying to push through an invisible wall of cheese.  You think you're going somewhere and then you just end up smothered in cheesiness and you smell like Cheddar.  Weird analogy, but now I'm craving a grilled cheese.

Moving on. 

Thoughts swirling, right.  So those thoughts are all trying to sift through one another and you think, naively, "I'm going to write through it." WRONG. You can't.  All the words look and sound stupid. You feel amateur and illiterate.  You throw out words in your work like, "Supercilious," and "Exorbitantly," and all that does is convince you that you actually have no grasp of the English language.

So.  My small and probably non-existent group of readers--forgive my lack of attentiveness.  I need to get rid of this block and come back with a great post concerning Pitbull or How To Make the Best Grilled Cheese Ever.

Until then....

Why Nicki Minaj Should Get Out Of My Life

A conversation between Nicki and I:

N: "Starships were meant to fllyyyy, hands up and touch the skyyyy. Let's doo this one more tiiiime" *rap-like words ensue*

G: Thank you, Miss Minaj for that garbled crap.  Please, sit down.  You're done.
N: "Ok, I get it, let me think I guess it's my turn. I think it's time to put this p*ssy on your sideburn."

G: No...No. Nobody wants you to do that. Nobody wants Herpes either, so  keep your pants on.

N: "I beez in the trap, beez beez in the trap!"
G: ......That's the best rapping you can do Minaj? Really?  If I wanted to hear about you having sex I'd just have to...listen to anything else you feature in/sing in.  NOW SHUT UP OR DIE.

And that is how a conversation would go with her.  That is, if she decided she was going to be a human for the conversation and say intelligible--no--coherent--words, instead of simply yelling/grunting frightening sounds.

Here she is.  Before she was plastic (or, at least, before she was 95% plastic) when she first joined the rap group Young Money.  And here she is before/after surgery:

Does she ever pop/melt in heat?  Have her lips ever deflated after going from a cold place to a hot place or vice versa really quickly?
And also...how did this plastic slut get to be so big in our country?? And no, I'm not referring to the size of her balloon boobs or shelf-butt.  I'm talking about her popularity.   Half the time she doesn't know which character she wants to be. British, Rapper, Psycho...Half the other time she's repeating her name as though we don't already know it. That isn't music! That's not even rap!  What the heck is it?  Why is this thing famous in our society? Paris Hilton? Famous slut.  Pretty. Ok, I get it.  Brittney Spears? Pop "singer."  Lots of problems to dramatize in the media. I get it. Nicki? What the heck is going on? Why is that whore on my radio?!

And just for ONCE I would like to see her in a t-shirt,  (no Nicki a T SHIRT not a corset. They don't even sound the same) loose jeans, and minimum makeup.  (Minimum because I think after all that makeup there's probably a fine layer of chemicals that won't come off anymore.)  And heck, she'd probably be mildly attractive!  Except for that mouth.  She could stuff an entire cake in that mouth, geez.

But now I'm just being rude and shallow. 
It's just that I keep seeing this kind of image of her:

And this image: 

And I can't help feeilng concerned that she's either mentally insane, or we are. Either way, could she please sink back to anonymity? Thanks.

Dental Hatred

Where can I buy this book??

I hate the dentist. Not personally.  It's the "He's a great guy but I hate his profession" syndrome.  I never have cavities, but it's like every time I walk in  they conspire against me--whispering in undertones about ways to make me uncomfortable and/or nervous.  Everyone dislikes going to the dentist.  We don't want people in our mouths. We don't want weird sounds emananting from scary objects approaching our gums.  We don't want to be in the compromised and vulnerable position of laying on our backs with our mouths open!  It's a proven fact that redheads fear the dentist more than people with other hair colors. And it's also a proven fact that no matter how nice your dentist is, he's secretly an evil being. 


I went in today.  I had no cavities. I had little tarter. But of course, the hygienist uses that new invention--I call it Satan--the electric tartar scraper.  It makes a highpitched noise akin to nails on a chalkboard, and this is, consequently, enough to get my palms to sweat and my "fight or flight" syndrome awakened.  Needless to say I was already on edge. 

Then I hear that dreaded phrase from dentists, "Hmm what is that?..." That has got to be one of the worst feelings ever--invoking sinking dread while watching their face turn curious as they probe something in your mouth.  "That" turned out to be a salivary stone. Seriously, who gets these?  Me!  I didn't even know my salivary glands were under my tongue! Now I have a build-up of calcium in them?  What is this?!

Why are dentists such awful people?! It's like no matter how confident you feel going into the dentist office, you will feel exponentially more awful walking out.  Even if your teeth are beautiful, you might have a salivary gland stone now!! Or, if you're one of the lucky ones with absolutely nothing wrong, your gums are still sensitive from being attacked and you're stinging with fresh guilt from the "FLOSS MORE!" chastisement. 

I can't take it anymore. 

To Femininity And Beyond!

Top Ten Reasons Why Being a Girl is So Much Better

1) Periods. You get to shed your uterus every month, like a snake. Everyone loves snakes.  Everyone also loves mood swings. Shake it up, I always say. 

2) Hair! You get to shave or wax about 90% of your body hair, but get to keep the hair on your head long and luscious, lest you be labelled a dyke.  You get to spend lots of money on expensive conditioners to lather into your hair, giving you an excuse to wash your hair twice. (What could be better!)

3) Pregnancy.  If you want to fool around and be sexually promiscuous you get the thrill of knowing that at any moment you could mess up and then be committed to a long, laborious (pun intended) pregnancy, and then a life as either a single mother, or married to the partner you didn't quite remember the name of so you labelled him "Potential Father of My Bastard," in your phone.

4) Birth Rights.  You get allll the privileges of birthing a baby. Remember, if you choose to go natural, you will get to experience the most excruciating pain there is to experience, next to breaking your femur.  Who doesn't want to go through that?!  If you do choose to go with an epidural or c-section, you still get fun things like c-section scars (battle scars, really!) or a torn up vagina.  New experiences galore! Remember, there's a good chance you'll be fat, oozing with various bodily fluids, and stretched out after the birth, so you'll be really glad you have a crying baby at 4 in the morning to distract you from those little diddies.

5) You get to worry about everything incessantly!  Personal appearance, sex appeal, weight, and even the things you can't control--like height and nostril diameter.

6) Other girls.  Other girls are wonderfully dramatic creatures who will hate you and try to destroy you if you so much as casually mention that their boyfriend looks like a hungover Mick Jagger.

7)  Feminism.  Feminist?  More power to you, literally!  Join the lesbians and bitter, single, working women of the world in the pursuit of more power!  Or, if you're not a feminist, you get the treat of being labelled "traditional" and sneered at by women who are far superior to you.  Middle of the road? Don't feel left out--feminists and non-feminists alike will both despies and disdain you!

8) Bras.  Because everyone wants to strap part of their body into uncomfortable pushed up positions or be considered revolting and saggy. 

9) Poor Driving.  Whether the stereotype is true for you or not, you don't have to worry...it is assured for you that men will never, ever, EVER, trust your driving.  Whether you can read a map or not, whether you can parallel park or not, you will never have to do any of those things, so long as you have a man.  HE will know how to drive like a NASCAR racer and navigate with the skills of a pirate king himself.  It'll be like having a chaffeur--who either won't let you drive or will nag and grumble about your driving skills! And it's free!

10) Sexist Pigs.  No matter what, you will always encounter a sexist pig.  There is no need to worry if he is or isn't going to pop into your life and stare at your chest, grinning slightly, while you explain that the gas pump isn't accepting your credit card.  He will always leer at you when you feel least attractive. He will whistle at you if you crouch down to tie your shoe. He will  make rude comments to his friends audibly enough that you can hear them. Reliable, perverted, and undressing you mentally, he's as reliable as the sun rising in the east.

Retirement Community Crisis

Just imagine it. Bingo Night every Wednesday.  A swimming pool that nobody uses.  Free applesauce  on Sunday afternoons at the community center.  Peace and quiet 25 hours a day.  A funeral every other month.  Who doesn't want to live in a retirement community??

Me.

I hate applesauce without cinnamon.  I cry like a faucet at funerals--then get a headache.  I don't want to get yelled at every time I go to the pool without a full-body wet suit.  I suck at Bingo. 
In addition, I'd like to walk on the grass.  I'd like to smell like my Marc Jacobs perfume and live my life without an overwhelming scent of prunes and must.  I'd like to not have a neighbor named Old Mrs. Plum who tsks disdainfully at me when I come back at 8:30 pm, muttering about the state of my morals.

Seriously, so one of my friends/roommates is looking at apartments like a fiend.  She's unable to satisifed with anything but the best, or such is my creeping suspicion--this suspicion arising from the fact that everything she looks at is over a thousand dollars a month for rent.  Call me cheap, but I'm not going to pay that much. 

And then, lo and behold, our dream apartment drops in from heaven to grace us with its splendor.  950 a month, 3 bedrooms, 3 bath, a swimming pool, spacious, great neighborhood. (Previously, she'd turned her nose up at anything with less than the best neighborhood.)  So far, so good, right? 

"It's in a retirement community made up of 55 year old people and older...but living with old people will be great!" she added hastily.

....Are you kidding me?  Ok, I'm not "agist." I'm not against elderly people.  They're great, really.  In all their wrinkly, saggy, prune-smelling, splendor, I really love old people.  But I refuse, as a rational, level-headed, loud-music loving, college student to live in a retirement community.  I refuse to invite friends over, and ask that they turn down their cell phones to vibrate--maybe silent, if the neighbors are sleeping...at 6:30 pm.  I'm not going to live in a "condo" if that means I have rush to the microwave before it can ding loudly and startle Old Mrs. Plum.  No. I refuse.

I tried arguing rationally.  Wasn't there some sort of rule that would keep us out, seeing as we're about 30 years under the age limit? No.  Didn't they distrust us, fearing for their "Tranquility and Utter Silence" rule? No--the manager was a really super nice guy.  Didn't my friend want to live somewhere with younger people? No.  3 bathrooms, 3 bedrooms? Wouldn't that make things cramped?  No no, the rooms were very spacious. 

I've resorted to a simple "I don't like old people," motto.  (Again, that's not true at all. Please, don't attack me with your walkers, oversized handbags that weigh down the right side of your body, or walking canes.)   But we wouldn't fit in!  And they wouldn't like me for the simple fact that sometimes when I'm excited my voice goes above a whisper!

What college student can even throw a party in a retirement community?  And I'm not talking about a rager where you meet friends of your friends' older siblings' friends' friends and where there's beer so sticky on the floor you're reduced to standing in a weird awkward corner talking to a really hammered guy with a pedo mustache. No, I'm talking about having a few friends over and watching Disney movies in your pajamas with popcorn and those sour gummy watermelon candies.  I'm talking about a study group with your nerd-friends from Anatomy class who you depend on to get you a passing grade. I'm talking about a "get together." A "rendezvous."  A "hangout," if you will.
Lest I write an essay on my displeasure I will end with--I'm not living in a retirement community.   Stop frowning at me in all your disdainful wisdom Old Mrs. Plum.  Geez.

Oh Yeah? Well My Rubber Band Ball is Bigger Than Yours!

And they say reception is boring...

What I did today:

• Stamped mail.
• Rummaged in a drawer. Found the roll-on stamp-pad inker.
• Inked my date stamp. 
• Contributed to my rubberband ball.
• Made faces at people over the phone.
• Re-inked my date-stamper.
• Put Fingertip Moistener on my fingers and tried it out. (I could turn like a million pages)
• Tried out my date-stamper, again. Felt dissatisfied.
• Re-inked my date stamp.
• Read the "do not over-ink pad" on Ink Refiller.
• Got ink on my fingers.
• Added more rubberbands to my ball.
• Stamped "sensitive information" on a bunch of papers for no reason.
• Re-inked my date stamp, despite warnings. (seriously, that never gets old)
• Listened to Maroon 5's Songs About Jane on repeat.
• Examined my toenails critically.
• Spun around in my swivelly chair a few times.
• Gazed at my rubberband proudly, again.
• Gave the re-inker the eye...
• Closed up shop. 

 Productivity, personified.

Why Stuff is Gay

"Why Stuff is Gay" is not politically correct, now is it?  "Retard" is supposedly offensive.  So is saying "That's gay," or "Oprah's black," or "I was eating my lunch and some Indian came up and asked me for the time."  All of those were quiet politically incorrect. Even racist. Right?

I DON'T FRIGGIN GIVE A FLYING CRAP.

I am so done with calling receptionists or secretaries, "Administrative Assistants." Why would I spend that much time with that long and obnoxious alliteration? I'm a receptionist.  La dee frickin dah.

Oprah IS black. She wasn't born in Africa.  Most "African-American" people weren't. I'm sorry, but I don't go around correcting people about my German/Scottish/English heritage, now do I?  "Excuse me, people of the world, I'm caucasian.  Did you just call me white?  Did you just--oh my.  No, no, that's unacceptable. You're a terrible human being.  Get out.  Learn yourself some socially acceptable mannerisms and then come talk to me."  No, I've never said that. Mostly because I don't know when people would approach me abuot being white. However, it's possible.  Black people? Be. Black. You are not ACTUALLY black, but I'm not ACTUALLY white! I'm more of a mottled peach. Therefore, please address me as such.  In addition to this, I'm really curious--who's pushing the "African American" card? Black people, or white people? 

Now. When I say, "Well that was gay," I don't actually mean it's homosexual. I mean it was dumb, or I didn't like it. It is no reflection on homosexual people or anything at all.  If it was a reflection on a group of people I felt negatively towards, I would start saying, "Man, that was so political," Or "You're such a politician.  Stop being so politician-like.  Loser."

Next, Indians--are Indians. We've been calling them that for ever. I'm not about to adopt the words, "Native American." That takes wayyy too long to say.  Six syllables? Are you joking me?  I could have posted something awesome on Facebook or made a grilled cheese in the time it took me to say "Native American." Oh, look, a grilled cheese.

While I'm feeling irritated about stuck-up "open-minded" retards going around labelling everything I hold dear to my vocabulary, "Politically Incorrect," I'll just throw this out there, "Merry Christmas!"

I REFUSE upon threat of death to say "Happy Holidays."  Christmas Break is Christmas Break.  Winter Break is a result of friggin Christmas Break.  People get off work for CHRISTMAS.  Not because it's "Winter."  Freakin tards.  There is no such thing as holiday break. Holiday? Holiday for what? Kwanzaa?  Seriously what?  You know who started complaining about the whole, "Merry Christmas" thing, don't you? It wasn't the Jews. they have their Hanukkah and their Adam Sandler and they're fine.  It wasn't the Kwanzaa-ites.  I don't even know who celebrates Kwanzaa honestly. What the heck is it about anyway? The people that began to feel irritated and leftout were the freakin Atheists!

Now don't get me wrong, America is freedom of religion for everybody.  I consider Atheism a belief, and therefore sort of a religion. Whatever, it's getting complicated. Point is, some little kid got upset because his parents said that he couldn't have Christmas and he grew up hating Christmas and decided to fuss about it and now everyone has to sing "Holiday music" and wish each other a "Happy Holiday" when they're checking out with all their Christmas gifts at Wal-Mart.

Give me a freakin break.

So to all you politically correct high-society gay-tards, get off your Equestrian Mammal Friend With Feelings-it's a horse, and you sound like a prick calling it an Equestrian Mammal Friend With Feelings.

Life Goals

Aspirations as of Right This Minute

• Name a child (not necessarily mine) Smoove*
• Acquire a hot tub
• Own the Secret Garden
• Fall in and out of love in rapid succession with a Brazilian man with diamond earrings
• Get a tramp stamp and wear belly shirts for a week.
• Call myself by my name, always.
•  Answer the phone, "This is Ginger, you're welcome." Always. 
• Get over 100 "likes" on Facebook on a mundane post
• Meet Justin Bieber. In front of his fans confess to him that I feel neutrally about him and that I could care less if he can grow a mustache or not.
• Protest a protest, preferably something really controversial
• Be Charlize Theron
• Win a staring contest
• Punch someone in the nose over something quite trivial, claiming my honor was at stake
• Listen to a song not featuring Pitbull on the radio
• Pull off Halle Berry's Catwoman outfit for a day
• Tan

*Smoove is a character in the satirical newspaper, The Onion.  All rights or whatever go to them.

  

Babies, Babies, Babies...

Question:

Why do actors have so many babies???

I was surfing celeb news, because obviously that's much more important than that old-news, trite, over-dramatized, war in The Iraq or whatever, and what do I see?  "Twilight actor's gf has baby.  Reese is prego.  Thor's girl has baby. Blondie, from 50 first Dates has baby.  Hugh Dancy (got his last name because he's beautiful) will have first child and his woman might be present too.  Rumors of Charlie Sheen's alien pregnancy circulate..."

Seriously what??   Not that I'm anti-birth or anti-children or anti-happiness, but none of these people are married, nor will they stay married for very long, and they're all popping out babies like the end of the world is coming! (If someone murmurs the words twenty twelve spookily right now I swear...) I'm sorry, but if you're that wealthy--and unstable in everything besides finances--, use a freaking condom!  Ever heard the ol, "I don't wanna bring kids into this messed up world?" Apply it, for once!  You're the people who are the most messed up!

Honestly, Hollywood.  What is with the babies? Did I miss the memo?  Did  it go something like, "EVERYONE. IMPREGNATE THE CLOSEST ATTRACTIVE PERSON TO YOU. NOW. THANK YOU."??

You know who got the memo. You knew as soon as I asked my first question. You're absolutely right.   Angelina Jolie and Billy Rae Cyrus.

....Upon closer inspection I have decided that is not Mr. Cyrus and instead is actually Angelina's live-in nanny, by the name of "Brad Pitt." Never heard of him.  Apparently his mother is conservative...That's all I know. 

Also that Asian woman in the background looks like she wants her son back.  But, knowing Anglina's Mother-Lioness-like fighting skills, Miss Asian is wise to stay back.

Enough commentary.  I just want to get my hands on that illusive, but apparently very real, memo.  Here's to baby-making before the Apolocalypse. Cheers. 

Are You WIFE Enough?

Man Claims Breastfeeding Helps ED

Ok, honestly, this is one of the more disturbing articles I've read in a while.  And I read the news every other  month. 
So I had to share. I'm sorry if you're sensitive to such bizarre and creepy things, but...carry on.
I would also like to add that the title of this article is misleading, so to all of you 40+ year old guys who can't get it up, this is not the place for you to share your sob stories. Thanks.

Here's the story for those of you who hate clicking on links because you think I've got a virus prepared for you (oh, is that just me who thinks like that? )  This man, Jeff, thinks it's erotic to breastfeed from his wife Michelle.  He loves it, to a creepy degree.  He also loves impregnating her. According to her?  She loves it too.  (Of course she does, because he's probably standing behind the interviewer, wife-beater clad, giving her the eye as she answers questions.) If you do read the article, you will see some of the most disturbing quotes from this Jeff character, explaining what he loves about breastfeeding.

 Ex:"The first time I latched on and the milk started to flow, I had to stop, otherwise I would finish off right there." Seriously? Is this real life? The first time he, "latched on?" I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

 Ooh, here's another beauty: "I can't explain it, but when I breast-feed, it helps strengthen my erection." ......He gets a hard on when breastfeeding?  Oedipus? Is that you?

His explanation of such things is even weirder:   "My mother wasn't exactly modest and I allegedly walked in when I was 4 or 5 and she was soaking in the tub. I asked if I could suck on her boobies."
Ok, Oedipus, enough of this charade.  

And, "boobies?" Really, Oedipu--I mean, Jeff? Did you just say that to the journalist?  You have a bright future in politics with the way you eloquently spin your words.

Apparently though, there are a handful of guys who have accidentally experienced breastfeeding.  Those guys being the brave, stupid ones to come forward and admit it. 
Wait, am I saying that maybe men wouldn't want to admit that they've breastfed? Odd. Because that's every man's dream, going back to breast-feeding, the most heartwarming of acts...performed by a mother and baby.

To make things more officially creepy, sex therapist, Anderson, says she thinks it would be beneficial for the happy couple to go through psychotherapy.  Whether she thinks this because she, like me, is perturbed by Jeff and Michelle's kids' 6 MONTH AGE GAP (is that even possible??) or because she believes that Jeff just likes to dominate, is hard to tell.  Although, it does lend to the latter argument that Jeff has forbidden his wife the use of birth control, despite doctor's warnings of health risks. 

You know what, yeah, yeah. I think I get it.  I know I personally would want to be pregnant every nine months on the dot....BECAUSE IT WOULD GIVE ME RESPITE FROM SOME GUY LATCHING ON TO MY BOOBS JUST AFTER I'VE FINISHED NURSING 2 BABIES IN SUCCESSION! 2 BABIES!!!

Again, I apologize if anyone was offended.  I just couldn't gag alone.

Amateurity

Ok. So in an effort to be frank with all of you--I'm an amateur blogger. But I have the ego to be convinced that people need to read my stuff.  Forgive me for being arrogant.
Now, I have recently, as in probably an hour ago recently, changed the title of my blog from Tales of a Redhead to Rantings of a Cynical Ginger. It's longer but I thought Tales of a Redhead sounded so dumb.  I'm renovating.  Aaaaand that was the end of my renovations.
But if anyone has any suggestions for me to do something that would my blog better, more reader-friendly, more trafficked, PLEASE don't be hesitant to give me suggestions. If, however, I get comments like, "You should post nude pics," or "Show some skin," I will assume you are either a) trolling or b) serious and therefore a pervert probably picking his nose, watching porn, or collecting naval lint in a jar.  And I will ignore you.
If, however, you are not a pervert or a troll, pretty please give me any tips you guys have. :)  See, I even added one of those cliche smiley faces to make myself seem more welcoming to suggestions.

In return, I will add a short list of random facts about myself because that's absolutely a fair trade.

1) I fear grasshoppers more than death.
2) I used to bite my nails until one of my friends started yelling at me whenever my fingers went to my mouth.
3) I notice people's teeth first off.  I have nightmares about losing my own.
4) Pretty sure I can predict the future.
5) I write fiction and fantasy, but I'm unpublished. Some day. Some day.
6) Even though I'm a ginger I have light brown eyebrows and brown eyes. People say my eyes look like the color of my hair in the sun.
7) If I could live off of steamed clams and lemon-butter I would.
8) I hate the sight of my own feet.
9) I've been told I look like Emma Stone. (If only those who said it were right!!)
10) I'm convinced I should marry Hugh Jackman.  The Australia version of him.

Multi-task Failure

So there are studies that say we can't multi-task.  BRACE YOURSELF I'M ABOUT TO POST A LINK!!!!......
Here goes:Multi Task Link

I did it. You may hold your applause and read the article if you wish. I literally googled, "humans can't multi-task" and that was the first one that came up. I figured I needed some backing. Now that I've thrown in some facts about something, let's move forward. (Said like a true politician eh?)

I decided to post this for one reason. I was trying to sweep a huge volume of paper clips, which are more like Useless Metal That Children Unbend for Entertainment Purposes, into a little plastic bucket thing that holds all the paper clips.  And as I was doing so a phone call came in and next thing I know my feet are covered in paper clips.  I did all that in the name of science.

You'd think that we'd learn how to multi-task sometime in our lives. I mean, I can apply lipgloss, eat a burrito, talk on the phone, and drive a manual transmission by myself, but that's just dangerous. (I live life on the edge--the edge of getting pulled over anyway).  Also, don't ask why I would want to apply lipgloss and eat a burrito at the same time.

Here's another link: Second Multi Task Link Admire my creative link-naming abilities. Thanks.
This one says we don't multi-task, we simply do stuff in quick succession. Ok, this makes sense to me.

So...when we say men can't multi-task, we're simply saying that they can't do several things one right after the other. (We being Science:Third Link. Ever. ) This makes sense. Sorry men, but you can't task-switch. And if anyone hits me with some immature joke about  men being able to do many women in short succession........I will not be impressed because I already came up with it and I only approve of immature jokes, like "That's what she said," or "Your mom," for their originality and creativity.

Ok so now I'm going to go throw away the foil from my tuna fish sandwich and look at the time. Then I will put on some chapstick, scratch my arm where I got a sunburn last weekend, and suck at my teeth where some tunafish is still residing from lunch. Multi-tasking like a boss.

I Hate Titles

I hate titles. That is not the subject of this post, but I freakin hate them. For those of you who regularly check my blog (Mother) stop expecting great titles anymore. Most of the time they're lame anyway.

I swear if one more person sympathetically hands me a job to do at work I'm going to throw my water bottle at them and then attack them with the fury of one who has been dieting, poorly, for a week and is in desperate need of something fried and greasy. 

"Here, poor Ginger, you who are so bored at work, I know you don't have much to do, so please copy these 1000 papers of this super important document I created to give you something to do, staple it, pack it into envelopes along with this handout, and then you won't be so bored." *insert pitying smile* 

Alright, no, I don't have much to do at this very moment, except blog about how I don't have much to do, but no, I do not want to copy your stupid papers and stuff them in envelopes. Do it yourself!  You probably just got back from a seminar entitled, "How to Delegate the Meaningless Stuff to Those You Consider Inferior to Yourself."  Jerk.

I'm serious. The next time someone hands me five different stacks of paper, asks me to copy each paper individually, staple it together, and gives me the "oh I'm so happy I could ease the pain of your boredom" look, I'm going to staple the papers right to their self-righteous forehead and go back to blogging. 

Take that.

Ravings About Socks

It's been a while, has it not? (Be warned, this post is a little long to make up for my absence. I know everyone was really disappointed in my lack of posting.) I see that things are just as I left them, which is good. I hate change. Hence why I didn't vote for the not-so-smooth talking, quite smooth-headed, and thick-headed, politician who seems to think he's Mr. Universe and Mr. President all in one.
Now that you've had your first taste of sarcasm for the day, let's dive right on into a subject I feel most passionate about:

Socks. 

Ok, so now that I've blown your minds with a single syllable, I'll explain what on earth I mean by that. Socks, people, are so important.  First, they're the singlemost cause of irritation and confusion in this world.  Wet socks, firstly, cause great irritation.  Is it not the most annoying thing when your socks get wet?  It's like you can feel mushrooms sprouting up between your toes.  (You of the webbed-toe clan, please don't feel put out.  You could have mushrooms sprouting up ON your toes.) And they get wet so easily.  Spill a single drop of water on the ground when washing your hands? Don't worry, your socks will absorb it with sponge-like capabilities and then stay wet ALL DAY.  Then, if that's not irritating enough, mismatched socks. I swear, the washing machine has secret a secret fettish for my socks.  Even if I buy pure white socks--all of them homogenous--what happens? Somehow I am missing one and another one's been turned pink and I'm reduced to the embarrassment of mismatched socks once more.  It's an anomaly really.  Where do they go??  Is there some giant worm that eats just one of my socks each time I put them in the washing machine?  Do they melt? Honestly, what is happening?

And it's such a faux paux to be wearing mismatched socks.  It's almost like saying, "Hey, I can't take care of myself enough to pair up matching socks and wear them.  Don't date, talk to, or look at me because I probably won't be able to graduate college or get a job and I probably have credit debt." 

Speaking of faux pauxes that arise from sock problems--try wearing no socks with your close-toed shoes.  Social. Suicide.  You know it's true.  Try taking off your shoe after wearing no socks and what do you get?  People moaning like the apocalypse has come.  Or! Try wearing socks and sandals because you hate the look of your own toes?  Mockery like you wouldn't believe.  Well, from those that have eyesight or any sense of acceptable fashion sense. (This is not me fashion-policing. It's common sense.)  Unless you really like people like this giving you "the smoulder." :

Ok. I'm sorry.This man is probably really nice.  Also this is the most disgusting picture ever. 

So I found a different one...:

And yet I still want to a) feed him a protein shake and b) stab him in the foot for how much I hate his socks and sandals. Last try:

Ok.  She's kind of creepy looking but probably attractive to a vampire....And if you ignore the big bunch in the crotchal region you can look down to her...heels and socks.  I'm sorry. There's no winning to socks and open toed shoes. The end.

Hence, the social ettiquette of sock-wear is so friggin complicated.  You can't wear them with heels, but you better wear them with tennis shoes.  If you wear them with flip flops you might as well kiss good-bye a successful relationship with anybody besides the trashman.  (And he just thinks you're a fat tub because your garbage is 85% McDonald's wrappers.)

Aside from looking like a loser if you don't have social sock skills when removing your shoes when visiting a friend's or potential marital partner's house, something else is wrong with socks.

What is with this wearing-socks-past-your-knee-is-now-cool-and-not-something-nerds-do-because-their-pants-are-too-short thing?  I'll save my rant on hipsters another time--but really? I'm sorry, wearing socks up to my thigh is hot and I don't feel like sweating all my tanning lotion and other various lotions. 

So this is the part where I open it up for free discussion on socks.  You thought it was going to be another rant-like post on something mundane, didn't you? Didn't you?! Well. You were right.

Happy Independence Day

Ok.  It is Independence Day and I would be remiss, not to mention a failure of a US citizen, if I did not express patriotism and gratitude for our beautiful America. 

I  am a very cynical, sarcastic person, but I truly do love our nation.  I do not serve in the military, nor do I like taxes, nor do I approve of our president, nor do I approve of most political things--but America is not simply politics.  Politics, government, military, they're all part of America but America is so much more, right?  America is freedom.  I can get on this blog and, if I wanted to, badmouth our leaders, the way the country is run, and even the flag.  (I'll do plenty of badmouthing our leaders and the way the country is run, but NOT the flag.  What could be better than red, white, and blue?) Yes, yes, of course there are limitations and everyone's flipping out over the Patriot Act or whatever it was.  I don't keep up with what political problem is going down when, just so you all know.  I digress.

Frankly, the United States is the best country in the world. There, I said it. Go ahead, disagree--because you're allowed to!  That's the wonderful thing.  You CAN disagree.  You can be whatever religion, race, even gender, you want to be.  You can hate the government and burn flags, or you can run for office and try to change it.  You can have a say in your government's doings, or you can protest them.  And if you don't feel like you have any of those freedoms?  You can complain, organize followers, take it to court, whatever.  You can do all these things! 

I'm sick and tired of hearing Anti-America crap.  I get so irritated when people spew rubbish about those sacrificing women and men fighting for our rights.  I hate it when people put down something I love--The United States of America.  But you know what?  They're allowed to have those opinions, because America says so. 

So.  I love America. We've established that.  Nextly, I would just like to discuss fireworks.

I'm not a big fireworks junkie.  When I was younger I harbored a deathly fear of fire, and consequently, after my dad burnt up a small portion of our backyard with a firework gone wrong, fireworks joined the hate list.  However, one 4th of July, when I was much older, I sat outside with my family, watching an array of dazzling fireworks light up the valley we live in.  It was incredible. 

Now I'm aware that most people shoot off fireworks because they're pyromaniacs, or like to pretend so.  However, in that moment, watching as every household in the valley, or so it seemed, shoot off fireworks on our nation's birthday, I felt the most incredible sense of patriotism wash over me and I understood, to just a tiny degree, why people would fight and die for this country. 

So on our nation's birthday, I'd like to thank those men and women that do fight and die for this country. I want to thank the Founding Fathers and all the brave people throughout history who have given their all for our, for my, rights.  We truly are blessed to live in such a great country.  Happy Independence Day.

Heroics and Bugs

You know that moment when you're going along your day, minding your own business, unconcerned with what's currently flying in the air, a million miles a second at your unprotected head?  Yeah. I did know that moment.  Past tense: Did.

But now I'm a hero.  Want to know why?  No, no, save your praise, tears, and roses.  I'm just like you, fellow Internet-users.  But...better. Yes, better. More heroic. Why? Because. As I was sitting here, blogging fiendishly away (alright I was eating an apple, same difference.) doing my thing, I see this shadow, on the wall, to my right.  So, naturally, I turn around and what should be hurling towards me with exponentially growing speed, but this HUGE winged creature.  It was probably the size of a...of a...quarter. With wings.  So it wasn't that large.  *Shrug*

I, of course, being brave, stare at it in fear and alarm, but do not scream.  That sort of behavior would be cowardly, and call me what you will--fierce bug slayer is a popular one I hear chanted nowadays--but you can't call me a coward. 

There I was.  Sitting in my swivelly chair.  Ready to die with honor. 
(Ok, just kidding. I was petrified, making promises to live a more fulfilled life if only the bug would just not kill me.)
 Anyway, I followed it with my eyes, watching as it turned course away from my glowering gaze probably because it was so terrified.  My heart was pumping blood, and probably that ham and cheese sandwich that I had for lunch, to all my facilities.  So in short I was sweating.  Seriously, this thing was a monster. I'm going to find a picture of it and post it on here: 

Pretty sure this is it.

Or a cousin of it.

So what do I do?  I wasn't sure if it was a wasp, or a blackjacket, or a demon, so I waited for it to land on the top of the window, and begin to start washing itself.

Is there anything more repulsive than watching a huge insect rub its legs against each other??

I crept to the wasp spray, hoping it wouldn't spot me. By this time all bravado was gone.  The bug knew it too. He was just washing his legs, all gloaty.  I hated him.

Clutching the bug spray to my chest, I waited.  He was still bathing.  Grotesquely shiny legs rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. I took off my high heels one at a time.  (I forgot to mention I was wearing stilettos.)  I set them on the ground.  Are you picturing this?  I slowly climbed on top of this convenient chair, poised, ready to strike.

As you all know, you only get one shot with wasp spray. If you miss the wasp, it flies away, irritated, stinger at the ready...deadly.  I held up the can.  He was still washing, daring me to make a move.

So I did.  Psssssss! came the wasp spray, hitting the monster square in the wings.  Down, down, down he fell onto the table under the table, then disappeared.  Wasp spray covered everything.  That little picture that they show on the bottle with a direct stream to the wasp is a lie.  So is twenty feet spraying diameter.  It barely made it 4.   But! It did the job.  Minus the fact that the glossy black flying thing disappeared somewhere and I don't know where.  Probably the depths of HELL WHERE IT BELONGS.

And that, citizens, is why I'm a hero.  Hold your applause. 
Ok. Don't hold it.  Bring on the roses and trophies and muscular men bearing gifts of chocolate and fried things. 

Mundanity

IT'S ME! Well, kind of. She has red hair...like me.  So me. Whatever.  Moving on.

I may or may not have made up the word that I used as my title, "mundanity." (Hint, I did.)  I kind of like it. Anyway.
So you're probably all wondering what I do to bring home the bacon. Let me assure you, it's nothing grand.  I...Am...A receptionist.  (Hence, my picture)

Or to be politically correct--an administrative assistant.  However, the heck with politically correct. Receptionist sounds better anyway. In no way do I want to be somebody's assistant, I'd much rather recept people.  Definitely.

Now, there is nothing glorious in reception. I answer the phone. I laminate. I open mail, sort it, and I put it in slots.  I also date stamp the mail.  I also do everyone else's mundane jobs that they don't want to do themselves becuase they're oh so busy playing solitare and signing up for Weight Watchers. Yes, I pick up the slack.  I recept.  I greet the few passerby that come into the office and make them put on visitor badges and such. It's a thankless job but someone's got to do it.

In my "mundanity" as I've termed it, I've begun a social experiment.  The Greats would be proud. Mainly Einstein, Roosevelt, Ben Franklin, and Oprah.  Brace yourselves. 

Here's the experiment:  Each time I get a caller, I usually say "Such-and-such business, how may I help you?" But one time I said, "Such-and-such business, this is Ginger, how may I help you?" When presented with the first greeting people jumped into their schpeal about how they needed this, and could I tell them this about themselves and what was the time of day, weather temperature, atmospheric pressure in Finland, and did I think they looked fat? However, when presented with my name, 95% of people (approximately, that is) would say, "Hi Ginger, this is Andrewski," and pause and wait for me to say hi. Like we were old golf buddies.

I don't know what my findings will yield.  Probably riches. Or acclaim.

But seriously.  Once I mentioned my name, it made me real, someone relatable, someone who cared.  I do the same thing when I make a call and receive a name: state the other person's name, introduce yourself, and then carry on.  It's not like it really matters in the long run, but in that moment we all like to pretend like the person on the other side of the line cares. 

Bottom line: I'm making history.  One small step for reception, one large leap for mankind. 

The Adult World...Sucks.

Ok. So my mother is probably reading this saying to herself with passionate indignance, "Ginger! Sucks is a bad word and sounds trashy coming out of your mouth!"
Well Mother, and all those who side with her, the adult world sucks! There's no way to get around it. It is not time for eloquence. It's time to complain.

Want to know why it sucks? 

Reason One:
Dieting.
Dieting is a terrible, terrible thing.  I'm sitting here, drinking as much water as I possibly can before I have to rush to the toilet, snacking on dried up little raisins and warm yogurt. This. Sucks.
We all hate being hungry. It makes us irritable. And yet everyone's trying to diet to look good and feel good, when really you look sort of maniacal in your desperation to control your urge for a twinkie and you feel like crap, and desperate for a twinkie.

Sidenote:  That picture of rather crispy looking twinkies is there because I decided my blog needs some color. And some twinkie pictures. Sorry fellow dieters. 

Reason Two:
Work.
Work sucks.  It's summer. I don't want to go to an office!  Nobody does. Nobody wants to stare at a computer or hammer things or be outside in the heat or whatever it is.  Work is adulthood and it sucks.  I really don't have to go into much detail here, I feel, because I can just picture lots of people nodding along in sympathy, empathy, and self-pity.  I don't care for that dumb apothegm optimistic people shove in my face: "Find a job that fills you with passion and then you'll be happy in life." Or something along those lines. A job is a job is a job. Get over it, you pencil-pushing happy people. 

Ahem.  I love The Office.  It is the epitome of work, or lack thereof. 

Reason Three:
Taxes, Money, Budgets, Financial Crap
All of this is just misery in itself.  I know there will be people who like dealing with money tsk-tsking at me.  Not to be rude but...screw you.  Mother, if you're reading this, just edit it to be...darn...darn you. Darn you people. There we go. Money's great if you have it. If you don't, then you feel stressed to get it.  Once you have it even you feel stressed about how you're going to spend it, if you're going to spend it, who's going to spend it, and what it's being spent on.  Basically adulthood is controlled by everything financial. 

I included no picture for Taxes.  I will save any images for a good hearty rant on taxes which will surely come later.

All in all?  Adulthood. It sucks.

The Truth About Uniqueness

People of the Web,
I just realized how many Tales of a Redhead kind of blogs there are.  It's kind of embarrassing how unique I thought I was being. However, I promise not to make this about redheaded-ism at all.  I mean, yeah I might post about some redhead stuff, but not much.  I'm just a redhead so I thought that I would blog as one. Silly me, wanting to be special and not like everybody else.  What a very common want.  I guess I'll never be different from everyone.  Since I want to be unique, that makes me like everybody else.  Fantastic.  I feel kind of depressed now.

Which still makes me like everybody else. Grr. Ok. That's it. I shall embrace being, as the "hipsters" would say, "Mainstream" and just be who I am and say what I feel and reach for the stars and all that other inspirational crap. Head's up for you all (also I will never say ya'll. There's nothing wrong with saying it, if you're from the South. Or Texas. Or both.  I'm not, hence I will not partake in such things.)  I do not post much inspirational stuff. I'm not one of those persons that goes looking for things to inspire or motivate or whatever. If someone shoves something happy or motivation-worthy in my face and I feel like it inspires even me, then I shall post it. Other than that, fear not. I shall stick to making fun of humanity instead of finding heartwarmings things to say about it.

On a secondary thought, I hope no one is wary of my blog because I'm a redhead. Or because it's new. Or because nobody really cares about it, besides me.  Do not be afraid to think I'm hilarious or witty or entertaining.  One day my sister told me the only reason people laughed at my jokes is because I laugh at them and think I'm so funny.  Well, if such is the case people, I'm cracking up here at myself.  Ok, not really. Yet.

I'm getting off track. 

I tend to ramble and then you get confused and I get lost and it's no good and then I'm just like EVERY OTHER BLOG. 

Ok. Uniqueness gone. I'm just like everybody else. We're all alike somehow, if even for the mere fact that we all don't want to be alike. 

I'm done with this.

<Insert clever/unique signout line>

Annoyances

I have 2  things I would like to address in this post. They are highly sensitive and also highly interesting.  I am sure there will be a lot of dissenters from my views.  To those of you that get riled up, try to keep it chill.  Breathe.  Take a drink of water or whatever calms you down.

First: Adele. 
The reason I bring her up? Because I CAN'T GET HER OFF MY RADIO. 
Ok, seriously, Adele, we know you're a great singer and musician and whatever else you are. We know your heart was broken. WE FREAKING KNOW ALREADY.  Get. Off. MY RADIO. (I tend to use caps lock when I get passionate.  If it's too much for you to handle, please feel free to let me know and I will try to simmer down to not caps-lock.)
But really. Her music was so good when it first came out.  I got chills from "Someone Like You" and "Rolling in the Deep" was a breath of fresh air.  However, I can't stand it anymore. It's got to be stopped.  If I hear another "And now Adele with 'Someone Like You'" I might hurl. 

Second: Those crunchy granola bars that come in packs of two and whose only purpose is to crumble everwhere and make you look like a messy idiot. 
Seriously? I don't even like granola bars, but I got all excited when they said "peanut butter and crunchy." I was thinking "oh great, finally a granola bar that will keep me entertained as well as be delicious and satisfying." But nooo.  I got stuck with a lap full of these pebbly sand type grains and friends, colleagues, and family wondering if I knew how to stick a granola bar in my mouth!  Why?  I only wanted delicious peanut-buttery goodness.  Is that too much to ask? You tell me.

Now, how do these connect?
I'll tell you, reader, oh I will tell you.
I was simultaneously attempting to successfully eat a crunchy bar thing while Adele came on the radio at work. It was awful. It was just bad enough that I had to inform the internet world of it. I hope I didn't set anybody off. Adele fans? Shut up. You know what I say is true. She won't leave us alone. Crunchy bar fans? Get off your high crumbly horse and eat a chocolate bar or something.

Still need that signout line. Suggestions, anyone?

Introductions

Ladies and Gentleman, the moment you've all been waiting for!  It's the one...the only...Gingerrrrr.
(And the crowd goes wild. Put your hands together.  And all the other introductory cliches.  Add them yourself.  I don't have time for that kind of stuff.)
Me: Thank you Mr. Announcer.  You're so kind... And so handsome to boot! *Insert fakest smile I can muster*
Mr. Announcer:  Anything for you Ginge. *Insert equally dumb smile*
Me: Mr. Announcer, I would prefer you don't call me Ginge. My name is Ginger. It's really not that difficult.  I don't like Ginge.  And I don't feel any more affection to you for shortening my name.
Why is it that we, as a human race, feel that a nickname automatically makes us closer to someone?    It's foolish really. Teachers will ask their student, "What would you have me call you, Sebastian?  Seb maybe?"  Poor Sebastian.  Singled out both in the class and in my post for his long-ish name.  Why can't he just have all of Sebastian?  Same with Andrewski, if that's a name.  And poor Cornelius.  Four whole syllables! It took me an extra 2 microseconds to type it, even! 
So.  Let's get one thing started. I'm Ginger. Ginger. The entire thing please. I know it might stress your poor little selves out to add that extra r and syllable, but you. can. do. it. Challenge yourself.
It's clear, probably, to most of you that I have abandoned the announcer and my dialogue and have progressed straight into a full-fledged rant on nicknames.  NOT that there's anything wrong with them. If Andrewski wants to be called Drew or Ski, then fine by me! Live your life! But, when selecting a child's name, or being introduced to somebody, don't look for the easy way out. Personally I'm going to name my firstborn Serendipity-Victoriana and that does not include her middle name, Elizabetha Maria, and EVERYONE will be expected to say all of it.  Don't like it?  Want to poo-poo me?  Too freaking bad!
Moving on past pet peeves with names.
People? I'm Ginger. I was born with no hair so it's not like my parents knew I was going to be an actual "ginger" and then be named Ginger.  Yes, my father was a redhead, but I was balder than a peach, so they meant no harm in my first name. I have red hair.  Let's move on.
Oh. And I have a soul. If I get one more lame joke about gingers not having souls I'm going to light someone's head on fire and taunt them about not having a soul. Whether we have souls or not is besides the point.  I just would like a little originality in jokes, ok? Is that too much to ask?
I blog. Apparently.  I'm actually an amateur blogger. If that turns you off, get out. I'm not interested in having people critique my blogging style.
I...live? I eat.  I'm not Julia Roberts and I'm no Julia and Julia or whatever the heck that was about. I just like to eat. Mainly things that people make for me, or deliver to me, or stuff that just happens to end up in my hands.
I feel self conscious, honestly. I'm a fairly vain person, but this whole blogging about myself thing is uncomfortable.  Hopefully not all my blogs will be about myself, per se.  I'd like to rant about other things that catch my fancy.  So, feel free to comment about nicknames. If anyone has really long names, or really short ones for that matter, chime right in. I'll try to get some more stuff up about other things than myself.
I need a signout phrase.  That much is clear.

Preludium

Greetings, fellow internet-junkies. I guess I've joined the world of egotistical blogging and the thinking that everyone wants to read my ramblings...Although, I must say: I'm sure my blog will be so much better than everybody else's because a) my life is so much more interesting and b) I'm such a wonderful writer and c) all the above are incorrect. I'm just a normal redhead, sometimes called a ginger, going about my life, having decided that I should try writing about it.
I'm no one supremely special. I'm no hero. I won't blog about my quilting or cooking or geneology or whatever else people blog about. I merely heard that blogging is exciting and fulfilling. I've been a Facebook addictee for the longest time so I'm trying to branch out. (Step six of Facebookers Anonymous: let go of past addiction and move on to new one)
As I sit here typing all of this, I'm sure you're all wondering--along with me, mind you--what is my purpose of this blog? What is my mission?
I don't know.
Mayhaps it is to inform? To question? To learn?
No. To rant.
Rant about what exactly? I think I shall rant about humanity. About taxes. About government. About "hipsters." About trends. About music. About anything that I feel like exercising satirical speech on.
Now, I will warn all of you. Sometimes, I may get kind of...cynical. Sarcastic? Perhaps even, dare I say it, witty? Try not to get offended, because if you do feel righteous indignation at my words, you're probably at the wrong blog. Or you are thin-skinned. Either way, feel free to leave. Or send me hateful thoughts.
Enough of this useless chatter. I don't know exactly what I'll blog about, but probably meaningless things that no one cares about except me. At any rate, thanks for reading along. Hope I can bring some...some...some something to your life and whatnot. Here's to making fun of life.