What your favorite color says about you!

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 Blue: You’re the fun out-doorsy type who’s suppressing your homosexuality.

Pink: Time to grow up, princess. Grown women shouldn’t wear tutus. Especially when you’re premenopausal.

Yellow: You are the happiest of your friends. You ooze sunshine like freaking Mary Poppins and everyone hates you for it.

Orange: You have weird boobs. Everyone says so.

Black: Morticia Adams wore it well but you look more like Marilyn Manson without make-up. Yikes! Throw some color on and stop scaring young children.

White: You’re not fooling anyone, slut.

Chartreuse: You like to come off as quirky and unique, but really you just have bad taste.

Red: Way to be classy. Or a slut. It depends on how you wear it. (Your friends think you’re a slut.)

Purple: You’re either really young or really old. Either way you need help wiping.

Throwback Thursday

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I’m purging my house and finding lots of treasures. Maybe not lots, but a few. Okay one. I found one treasure.

Years ago (about 20) I was in a writing funk that wouldn’t lift. My bestie since I was 14 (what up, Ashlee??) put together a collection of my work to inspire me. A lot of the prose wouldn’t make sense to you guys because it centers around private jokes. But the writing that follows won’t make sense simply because it doesn’t make sense.  Please enjoy the following poems from my youth. xoxo

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SPACE PIGS

If I had a dollar,

I’d buy your mama,

And mail her to Egypt.

They make good

Wal-Marts there.

***

REFLECTIONS OF GREATH DEPTH

I like to think of my legs as land and the hairs on them simply as trees. Trees should not be cut down. It really feels good to help out the environment.

***

SPACE COWS

Three blind mice.

Where are their eyes?

Oh, here they are,

in my pocket.

***

I think this answers the question of whether or not I’ve always been a lyrical genius. Thanks for being my muse, Ashlee.

Things I don’t want for Christmas

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In case you’re wondering what to get me for Christmas, here are ten things I do NOT want in no particular order:

Another baby. After two, those things are just redundant.

A Pandora bracelet. I don’t want one, stop asking. I don’t have any interests worth commemorating with a charm I’ll wear on my wrist.

Those toe-spready barefoot shoes.

Shoes that are supposed to make your butt higher but really they’re just platform tennis shoes.

Perfume, because it’s Satan’s pee and gives me a headache.

Bread products. For a reason why see this post.

Patchwork anything.

Sports memorabilia. Not buying from any team will do.

Taylor Swift’s new album. Or any of her old albums.

Espadrilles (I feel like this list is a little shoe-heavy. Is it too shoe-heavy?) because they’re dumb and will most likely make me fall down.

I hope this list is helpful. If you’re stuck for something, go with a Trapper Keeper or something equally rad.

Greasy ass rant

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Ever since Kim Kardashian exposed her greased-up pooping-bits, her bare image has been all over the internet.

The good news is that now the media is leaving Rene Zellweger’s face alone. The bad news is that the media still cares about Kim Kardashian.

The other good news is that ANYONE can look just like Kim Kardashian with the right amount of photoshop. Which is also bad news, I guess. I’m not really sure anymore. I don’t know what’s going on with the world.

Everybody who knows me knows that I like to pretend I’m above it all. I’m too existential to stare at that bulbous ass. But I’m really not.

The American dream has spiraled down the toilet the past two decades. And what better to showcase this spiral than a big ass that became famous from a sex tape with a popstar’s brother? This is the society we have created for our children. Every time we watch reality TV, read a tabloid, or even watch entertainment “news”, we are giving Kim K.’s ass another dollar to wipe with.

It’s time to get it together, folks. It’s too late for us, of course, but we can’t have our children worshipping at the throne of overpaid dimwits who have made a job out of being famous for a sex tape.

That greasy ass summarizes all that is wrong with American society.

15 Things only 2014’s MSU Delta Gamma Delta’s Can Understand:

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  1. How much peach schnapps Kelsey S. can drink before she starts texting her psych professor.
  2. That Kelsey M.’s fruity milk booze punch can serve both as a beverage and a meal.
  3. Brittany K.’s urge to purge.
  4. Brianna T.’s kleptomania is merely a cry for help. But never leave your purse in her car. Am I right, girls?
  5. That doinking a Sigma Tau Omega is social suicide.
  6. Sisters share everything! So let me borrow that top, bitch.
  7. There’s nothing chocolate and new shoes can’t fix, except unwanted pregnancy.
  8. No sleep during Greek week! Seriously, falling asleep will result in someone shaving your head and peeing in your underwear drawer.
  9. That Brittany L. is not a slut. She’s just sexually liberated.
  10. Pretty girls don’t wear brown!
  11. You can only wear your hair in a ponytail on Mondays. That’s just common sense.
  12. Only lesbians enjoy poetry readings.
  13. Cotton underwear is only acceptable if you’re old, like over thirty.
  14. That Emily S. doesn’t have daddy issues, she just likes mature men.
  15. Where Kelsey Y.’s body is hidden.

Jury duty sucks.

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Both of my children are finally in school full-time. But before I could get used to my newfound freedom, I had to fulfill my civic duty on a jury. I was originally called to serve in June, but who would have watched the kids? So I had to postpone to the time I had been looking forward to for as many years as I’ve had children.

I reported on Monday morning. I felt like theme dressing that day, so I went with 90’s era, complete with Doc Martens, and a flannel over a baby doll dress. I just knew my outfit would highlight my irresponsibility and complete lack of competency for a jury. If I still don’t know how to dress like an adult, I shouldn’t be asked to do anything that requires sitting still and listening to people talk for hours.

I arrived early because I was afraid of being late. I’m late for almost everything, and I was certain that being late for jury duty would result in humiliation on a grand scale.

After we all reported to the giant jury waiting room, we were provided with coffee and pastries that arrived in individual plastic baggies. I’ve never had an easier time rejecting a pastry. The greasy puddles on the inside of the plastic made it look like the pastries were working out just before they were stuffed in those baggies and they hadn’t had time to dry off their sweat.

Forty of us (myself included) were called to report to a courtroom for the selection process. They only needed 14, so I was sure I would be home in time for The View. Long story short, I somehow got selected to serve on the jury for a child abuse trial. Couldn’t they tell by looking at me that I’m not even responsible enough to run the self-cleaning cycle on my oven with feeling self-congratulatory for two weeks? I shouldn’t be allowed to decide anyone’s fate. Plus, I have little kids. And that information came out during the questioning process. No one wants to hear details about child abuse, but especially a mama with two little ones.

But I begrudgingly accepted my role, mostly because I was interested in how this whole jury duty thing really works. And because hearing a lot of people say they couldn’t serve because they needed to work, etc. made me feel like a jerk for wanting to do the same.

We reported to a tiny room where there was enough room for about 8 people, even though there were 14 of us. There was sharing-size bag of Reese’s Pieces on the desk, along with a tub of Trader Joe’s ginger snaps. FYI: one way to know that your catering sucked is when such meager offerings aren’t gone after 3 days of 14 people sitting at a freaking table. There was also coffee (no milk in sight) and room-temperature water. I did eat quite a few Reese’s Pieces, and I’m pretty sure they will remind me of child abuse now instead igniting fond memories of E.T., so I wish I had left them alone.

The first day it was 28 degrees in the jury room. Days 2 and 3 were closer to 107. I think I preferred the teeth-chattering cold to sweating next to strangers in a room with no open windows. It felt like a psychological trick, like maybe someone was watching us to see how we interacted under extreme temperatures with no hope of escape.

If you are ever called to jury duty, be sure to eat constipating foods. You cannot poop during jury duty. We had to go to the bathroom in groups, lest any one of us accidentally spoke to someone involved in the case. The situation was slightly better during deliberations when we were allowed to use the toilet across the hall from the jury room. But if anyone left the room, the case couldn’t be discussed until that person returned so every absence and reentry was noticed by everyone. That’s not conducive to comfortable pooping.

The trial was extremely emotional and stressful for me, and deliberations were probably a little worse. When it was finally over, I sobbed uncontrollably in front of the other jurors. By then 2 had been cut as alternates, so only eleven strangers witnessed my meltdown. I didn’t want anyone to notice or offer me a hug. A few folks (all men) asked “Are you okay?” It was nice, but then I wondered why no one was trying to hug me even though I didn’t want them to. They didn’t know I didn’t want them to, after all. So I decided they were all assholes. But really they weren’t. Well, that’s not true of everyone in the room. There were a few assholes. But most of them were really nice.

Then my friend Sharon came over with ice cream that night and let me rant about the flawed judicial system, and everything was a little better.

I don’t know if I’ll ever shake it off completely, but it’s over and I did my stupid civic duty. Next time I want better snacks, milk for my coffee, and ice for my water. And maybe a case about a nice little liquor store robbery where no one was harmed.

Prepping for the last year of my 30’s

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My 39th birthday is coming very soon, friends. I’m preparing with a simple list of resolutions, and lots of drinking. It’s never to late to better/pickle yourself.

Here is my list of resolutions for my last year as a 30-something:

Stop trying to bait Lindsay Lohan with my blog posts. I need to accept that she probably won’t ever be my friend, no matter how much she needs me.

Stop getting angry when people use too many internet abbreviations.

Give up wine for a while. JK! LOL! ROFLMAO! FML!

Wash my bras more often.

Stop telling people about my hemorrhoid surgery. Apparently that’s not appropriate small talk.

Clean up my language. A woman my age should not be using words/phrases like buttload, crapload, shitload, shit-ton, turd* monkey, turd jerky, turd knocker, fart knocker, toot knocker, douche nozzle, douche monkey, sir toots-a-lot, sir farty car, professor fart face, monkey butt, monkey bottomus, poopie pants, butthead, butthole, butt puppet, butt nugget, turd nugget, turd waffle, or butt waffle. I call myself a writer for shit’s sake. I really need to rethink my vocabulary.

I think it’s obvious that I’m ready to take 39 by the gnards. Bring it!

*For those of you who are aware of my long-standing issue with the word turd not being spelled terd, you’ll be glad to know that I’m working past it.