tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63445390500936681562024-02-19T13:34:04.992-08:00"How nicely I burn. Go to it, demon!"This is cacophony. Embrace.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-13341237723651852842011-11-26T00:36:00.001-08:002011-11-26T01:19:53.766-08:00The DamThe respite of insanity<br />
<div>
compensates not</div>
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for the granules of reality</div>
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left in its wake</div>
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<br /></div>
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Flash formed pockets of idealism</div>
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can not harbor</div>
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the slog of drudgery</div>
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thick and unyielding</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hoist the dam! </div>
<div>
they lament</div>
<div>
but they can not comprehend</div>
<div>
the inevitable disaster</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For the dam is weak</div>
<div>
sated and uncertain</div>
<div>
Cracks spider</div>
<div>
with the slightest trepidation </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Below remains unscathed</div>
<div>
but the thirsty depth beckons</div>
<div>
to be slaked by destruction</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-14074246084210701362011-09-28T18:47:00.000-07:002011-09-28T18:58:34.649-07:00Eating my feelings...they taste like Doritos<div>Hi, my name is Jenn and I'm a (insert neurosis of the day here) addict. </div><div><br />
</div><div><b>FOOD.</b></div><div><br />
</div><div>That word basically controls my life. The absence of it, the over-abundance of it, the deliciousness of it and the 'hey, this tastes like insulation!' of it. I've been an overeater my entire life. My first guilty memory of eating was the first time I ate whipped cream out of the tub. I may have been a fetus at the time (or maybe not, but still I was very young). My mother, of course, yelled at me but I was unfazed because all I wanted was 5 pounds of creamy,sugary fat in my belly. My dad didn't help the situation, letting me eat birthday cake and ice cream for breakfast. But once I hit my teen years, I couldn't blame it on the parentals anymore. I just loved food, bad (delicious) food...A LOT. As a result, I weigh an astonishing 200+ lbs today at the age of 28. Speaking of first memories, my first recollection of going to the doctor was when my back fat at the age of 8ish troubled my parents. How fucking embarrassing! To have back fat when I should be skinning my knees on the monkey bars! (don't worry, I've skinned my back fat on the monkey bars since then). </div><div><br />
</div><div>You may be asking yourself, 'Jenn, you have always been the spitting image of the pie eating kid from <i>Stand By Me</i>, why are you so troubled now?' Well, beloved reader, after all these years of Quarter Pounders with Cheese, I have finally discovered that I'm actually addicted to food. I always have been, but denial is a powerful and lovely thing. My recent troubles (or 'rehab' as I call it) have been a harrowing experience. If I keep eating like this, I will be dead before the age of 40. I don't wanna die when I'm still old enough to rock! (insert Steven Tyler scream) So in my pursuit of getting my shit together, I've been reading about food addiction. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Addiction to deliciousness is like any other addiction. It's something that consumes you, both mentally and physically. People can literally be addicted to ANYTHING. Some people are addicted to exercise (side note: I hate those people). Many addictions can be explained biologically and physiologically (genetics, brain chemicals, etc.) and some are a result of environment (childhood, severe trauma, being the last kid on the block to own a Furbee). I'm pretty positive mine stems from both. But it doesn't matter because I can blame genes or daddy feeding me McDonald's all I want, it still doesn't make me stop eating. </div><div><br />
</div><div>This blog was inspired by a particular instance that happened not an hour ago. I was in the library, arms full of audio books like the humungo nerd I am, and I realized I had left my wallet at work. Frustrated and slightly panicked, I drove the 15 minutes back to hell (ahem, Wells Fargo) to find it thankfully hidden in a crack in my desk drawer. On the way, I was angry at myself and all I could think about was how to reward myself for the agonizing drive back to work. (Side note: For some reason I have to reward myself for stupid and mundane things I do) My mind was consumed with thoughts of a chicken ranch sandwich and fries drenched in honey mustard from my favorite pig out spot, Chili's. As visions of fried buffalo chicken danced in my head, I chewed my already stale gum so hard that TMJ is in my future. (I've figured out that chewing gum works as deterrent to stuffing my face.) I thought back to the book I'm reading on overeating and how I can learn to control my scrumptious thoughts. Within 5 minutes, the craving passed and I was actually happy with myself for surviving the urge. I came home without a takeout bag full of regret. </div><div><br />
</div><div>This won't be easy but controlling my food addiction is a must. I've always wanted/needed to lose weight but I can't even begin to think about that until my addiction is addressed. It will mean a loss of comfort from my favorites noshes but I won't have heart disease in two years either (but I sometimes may still eat whipped cream out of the tub...)</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3l0aTyJuM2tBkKOqN68IXOdJgv7Ht1ruNHhFw0D4hv8jC1UQyd4T_LLRwBWfc2TE9uFcmXQh0ZrJzYc23ltybYKwbaNhHSVU2x02M5rI4evndKQWmhL0N1G2r7rmi3RD6elVG6cXu6X1S/s1600/71098_121401811214531_4543200_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3l0aTyJuM2tBkKOqN68IXOdJgv7Ht1ruNHhFw0D4hv8jC1UQyd4T_LLRwBWfc2TE9uFcmXQh0ZrJzYc23ltybYKwbaNhHSVU2x02M5rI4evndKQWmhL0N1G2r7rmi3RD6elVG6cXu6X1S/s320/71098_121401811214531_4543200_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>"Don't cry for me, tub of Cool Whip. The truth is I never left you"</b></div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-76127153523598367122011-06-08T16:42:00.000-07:002011-06-08T16:51:46.106-07:00The world is a vampire (but not a wussy Twilight one)In addition to my parellel parking skillz (or lack therof), there remains one large part of my life that most people seem baffled by: my enduring and obsessive love of The Smashing Pumpkins. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0kWCyVz8SONdmGECx4kEG-c0AZIRSkkzaDjN1WLdivdLVAzePzYLI_5RRlRQ85K2xnEO1tjSgHUZOafaoHghA6dMK_gtUhGB544gf8_hBGuRssMXgIF6_PO6eAhwkOcb5iIWFEsUrPNn/s1600/SmashingPumpkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0kWCyVz8SONdmGECx4kEG-c0AZIRSkkzaDjN1WLdivdLVAzePzYLI_5RRlRQ85K2xnEO1tjSgHUZOafaoHghA6dMK_gtUhGB544gf8_hBGuRssMXgIF6_PO6eAhwkOcb5iIWFEsUrPNn/s320/SmashingPumpkins.jpg" t8="true" width="262px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>1995: The Smashing Pumpkins squander their proceeds on eyeliner and sparkly things.</strong><br />
<br />
</div>Now, when I say I love Lady Gaga, that love is but merely a fraction of devotion I have to the Pumpkins. Those of you who know my adoration of The Gaga are probably terrified right now knowing there is another music artist who I am even more crazy about...BUT let me explain.<br />
<br />
I discovered The Smashing Pumpkins in the summer of 1996, 15 years ago. I clearly recall babysitting my cousins in Oregon one day when the much lauded music video for "Tonight, Tonight" popped up on MTV (back when that station wasn't filled with guidos and games about being quiet in a library (but seriously MTV, WTF? A library)) Anyway, immediately I was in love with the song, the band and the chrome dome beauty that is lead singer, Billy Corgan. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHrj6GVD27S37jbylt1kF557KYmtF2M0eHLaOWAx3ce_iz2HMD8IzhJwzP6hzsGaE_fqryjiuE3QqlBnNGNXPf7LY4L-hWfsvU2aIWm06HzJ7j6Yl80xcA70d8e4QyQ9OM4JLuKGi43BjD/s1600/Billy_Corgan_87835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHrj6GVD27S37jbylt1kF557KYmtF2M0eHLaOWAx3ce_iz2HMD8IzhJwzP6hzsGaE_fqryjiuE3QqlBnNGNXPf7LY4L-hWfsvU2aIWm06HzJ7j6Yl80xcA70d8e4QyQ9OM4JLuKGi43BjD/s320/Billy_Corgan_87835.jpg" t8="true" width="320px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>"Hey baby, wanna see my silver pants?"</strong><br />
<br />
</div>This experience sparked a fire inside of me which led me to become an obsessive 13-year-old with a literal shrine to the band in my Dallas and eventual Boise bedroom. I spent all my "good grade" cheddar on The Aeroplane Flies High box set which was over $50. I wore that shit out. By then I had purchased every album the band put out, including rarities and crazy fans only merchandise. I remember being more thrilled than a Gaga in a shoe store when I discovered the band had been together since 1991 and thus, I had 4 years of music to engorge myself in.<br />
<br />
Since that fateful summer, I have spent over $500 on various pieces of the band (yes, I actually crunched the numbers). This includes a VIP concert ticket and meeting my hero and eternal love, Billy. <br />
<br />
"But wait, weirdo", you may be saying, "you haven't told us why this band means so much!" Slow your roll, readers! I'm getting to that. <br />
<br />
Something very tragic happened in December 1995; my father died. In a lot of ways, I believe the Pumpkins kept me alive during that time and years after. Billy's music and lyrics reflected my situation at the time; I was depressed, angry, sad and basically acted like a punk for years. Songs like "Today" and "Thirty Three" gave me hope. All those songs created a storyline in my head and helped push the bad stuff out. <br />
<br />
One song sticks out in particular. "Galapogos" from the Mellon Collie album ALWAYS makes me cry. No matter what. It's a gorgeous tale of being so in love that you can't bear to live on without the other. It sounds like there's some therapy needed, yes, but it's very Shakespearean in its idea. Also, the Pumpkins inspired me to pick up a guitar and write. The first song I ever learned to play was "Stand Inside Your Love" from the virtually flawless Machina album from 2000. <br />
<br />
Most importantly, when I listen to their music, I feel as if I am home. I have never been as calm and peaceful as when I listen to the Pumpkins. It reminds me of where I came from and also that I'm still here which in itself is sometimes a miracle. It reminds me of my dad and it reminds me that there's always something beautiful out there to look forward to. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">And that is why I love The Smashing Pumpkins. I hope you all love something as much.</div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-30763096380569733732011-06-07T14:48:00.000-07:002011-06-07T17:49:00.471-07:00"What the hell is a Lady Gaga?" - my grandfather (presumably)It's been two very long, very crazy months since my last blog post. Since then the world has endured tornadoes, a devastating earthquake and a new Britney Spears album. Oh, the horror! But seriously, it's like I don't know what to write about anymore. I work at Wells Fargo, I process flood determinations (don't ask, it's boring), I hang out with my friends, I enjoy recreational substances, I read everyday and I've been watching the Franco/Rogen delight, Pineapple Express, a lot recently. ("I can see through my leghole!") You're caught up. Thrilling, isn't it? <br />
<br />
But let's talk about the more pressing issue at hand: the new Lady Gaga album.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOuMNJblJWAWMeBML43BXqU5bjXLKr_tWcrcsXMvaRNMC_k8CNS7q08I5AieSmpo5sGRyRzRPWFMPacdLcpb5Mxg_RLrr735MOYIkG2YcX2OJcale64p5gYQdiI7rO-S9DN4qxZ_eBGCy/s1600/lady-gaga-born-this-way-video.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOuMNJblJWAWMeBML43BXqU5bjXLKr_tWcrcsXMvaRNMC_k8CNS7q08I5AieSmpo5sGRyRzRPWFMPacdLcpb5Mxg_RLrr735MOYIkG2YcX2OJcale64p5gYQdiI7rO-S9DN4qxZ_eBGCy/s1600/lady-gaga-born-this-way-video.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>"I see all with my fake chin eye!"</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div>I could write a New York Times series article on the cover alone but I'll spare you. But come on. It's her head crudely photoshopped onto a motorcycle with the words Born This Way emblazoned at the top like some battle cry. Yo, Gags, I didn't know you were born as a Harley! What a coincidence, I was born as a George Foreman grill! But my album is called Grill This Way (Knockin' Out the Fat).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOT9fssoFbc5uhCf4laYmd1RQjmMIcP9bpNtBeJp0sS5HuuPQipbxGSOXT6Toj_LXMcPl63ybZvjtRgXzVSDsQSoxPGV9Ruv0fklDj9iaixnFtNiQXGFFNPiOT1XaeGjx9AzTV8hsITC5m/s1600/sideImage_history.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOT9fssoFbc5uhCf4laYmd1RQjmMIcP9bpNtBeJp0sS5HuuPQipbxGSOXT6Toj_LXMcPl63ybZvjtRgXzVSDsQSoxPGV9Ruv0fklDj9iaixnFtNiQXGFFNPiOT1XaeGjx9AzTV8hsITC5m/s320/sideImage_history.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>"It doesn't matter if you love him or capital G-R-I-L-L"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b></div>Ok, enough about the cover, it's what's on the inside that counts. And what's inside is a mix of BDSM, techno, hardcore, rock and LOTS of Jesus. I don't know if the carpenter extraordinaire would like Gaga envisioning herself as Mary Magdalene, loving Judas over Him or calling Him a black runway model. I hope He's a forgiving person.<br />
<br />
My favorite track is 'Heavy Metal Lover' which contains no heavy metal whatsoever. Instead, it's yet another rebel yell for leather wearing Harley riders and their 'chicks' to get drunk, cause trouble and possibly encouraging orgies? I can't really tell, there's too much autotune involved. Second on the fave list is 'Sciebe' which is German for 'shit'. What it has to do with this song about dancing and freedom, I have no idea. But the beat is a slick as an albino in a rainstorm. Rounding out the top tres, is 'Bad Kids', a opus to the weirdos, brats and punks aka Little Monsters. It sounds like Paula Abdul had sex with Duran Duran and then birthed this song. <br />
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Not all the songs are gems, however. 'Americano' is a pseudo-lesbian tale of an Italian Gaga who meets an American girl in LA. It's as convoluted as it sounds. Essentially, it's just Gaga shouting 'Americano!' over and over. My car stereo literally rejects it. I made a copy of the album for my car and 'Americano' was the only song to immediately start skipping. My Oldsmobile is xenophobic apparently or just know a shitty song when she hears one. <br />
<br />
Overall, the album is pretty near perfect, bad Italian accents and saxophones aside. All it's missing is a guest appearance from an original stuffed crust pizza.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRA9LCYQ-Be82-_h744qFy8JepX45FHC98CMEuoQaMHKLfqv9SjMvKFUxQHUp5T_ruTyZWooJUc5DHd82xxqfl9jklOnbwnA5AZmS_Lm2OmuNN2n60iHNsql2JfIp8F8HEGQVgw7Ts_pf/s1600/Lady-Gaga-Born-This-Way-Album-MP3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRA9LCYQ-Be82-_h744qFy8JepX45FHC98CMEuoQaMHKLfqv9SjMvKFUxQHUp5T_ruTyZWooJUc5DHd82xxqfl9jklOnbwnA5AZmS_Lm2OmuNN2n60iHNsql2JfIp8F8HEGQVgw7Ts_pf/s320/Lady-Gaga-Born-This-Way-Album-MP3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>"Will someone scratch my nose for me? I would do it but I have WHEELS FOR HANDS"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b><br />
</b></div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-69104764900511300672011-03-31T01:53:00.000-07:002011-03-31T01:59:05.714-07:00The Apocalypse is coming in the form... of pizzaThere is one delicacy in the world that is more divine than any other foodstuff:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgisCcUdR9hGQSCsNiiz4uQ7qPMVhHvsLX4UCZFFlykNDOpT5zwA5oinEFvrAhEaHVhqFH0lng-rNr6jZIXY4DFvyw_zeGg0qOSCxjvUnDKQbibVSF9jRiM0bG75PbUE0SFo8txsHOH71/s1600/stuffed_crust_pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgisCcUdR9hGQSCsNiiz4uQ7qPMVhHvsLX4UCZFFlykNDOpT5zwA5oinEFvrAhEaHVhqFH0lng-rNr6jZIXY4DFvyw_zeGg0qOSCxjvUnDKQbibVSF9jRiM0bG75PbUE0SFo8txsHOH71/s320/stuffed_crust_pizza.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>BOOM! </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">STUFFED CRUST PIZZA.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">If I could eat this every day without worrying about a quadruple bypass, diabetes and constipation, I would. BUT the oracle that is Pizza Hut has given in to the fattys of the world and ruined their signature dish...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPr3sUzbojIkQOAAd0fGk5RRka3qL02PGCOoWivqMGtbvtWjHW7y2QRF5b9N1FdD6KOLYgFmNhqExs-_enDwSzgsHjVokSMCp0wQknSO8mZY4Sb9r9YA57TNpCAZuSymUMKPyPkYBn4uyh/s1600/ultimate_stuffed_FA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPr3sUzbojIkQOAAd0fGk5RRka3qL02PGCOoWivqMGtbvtWjHW7y2QRF5b9N1FdD6KOLYgFmNhqExs-_enDwSzgsHjVokSMCp0wQknSO8mZY4Sb9r9YA57TNpCAZuSymUMKPyPkYBn4uyh/s320/ultimate_stuffed_FA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>WTF? </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Listen up, (presumably) monocle wearing and cigar smoking fat cats at Pizza Hut, your new monstrosity of stuffed crust filled with cheese AND toppings is otherwise known as a CALZONE. Did you know that you also sell calzones? So now you're selling pizza topped with a calzone. This is almost as big of a disaster as KFC's Double Down. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB16uAKJvtlC4pOSO87lyk8tuqbuaxOvzN1FOv-P8cSZUxVNe3OITvV5KYRiqSOXSX59VUMHJenHSONkF9j4hObvYkHenbo-fBWKy-XdR9pYW-NrwujwMyRhmS-93WEALp8xmoHFyFpkHB/s1600/ES-KFC-Double-Down-High-Res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB16uAKJvtlC4pOSO87lyk8tuqbuaxOvzN1FOv-P8cSZUxVNe3OITvV5KYRiqSOXSX59VUMHJenHSONkF9j4hObvYkHenbo-fBWKy-XdR9pYW-NrwujwMyRhmS-93WEALp8xmoHFyFpkHB/s320/ES-KFC-Double-Down-High-Res.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>There's a reason this looks like a coffin...</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yet another victory for people rushing to that early grave. But most of all, Pizza Hut (or should I say Pathetic Hut? No, it's Pizza Hut) why are you trying to "improve" your finest creation? If I want a calzone, I WILL ORDER A GODDAMN CALZONE!!! *throws chair into wall*</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I will go on a hunger strike * until the Hut restores their original masterpiece. I will be Gandhi. Only instead of striving for India's independence from Britain, I will be striving for cheese baked into a golden crust aka the American Dream. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*this may or may not be true</span></div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-52826978125976624592011-03-19T00:04:00.000-07:002011-03-19T00:18:03.321-07:00Scama-lama-ding-dongSo I just found out that the interview I have on Monday is nothing more than door to door vacuum sales with no chance of earning a paycheck unless you sell a number of $2000 friggin' fancy ass POS vacuums.<br />
<br />
Charlie, what do you have to say about this?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgZ1zN8-2K0BmgFBcI-X4cXzwdY7ZvO1D409YYVho-ujFv5MVF52X1ewoR7raQVo_f999rDIPW3qgSIwhb_pH8LJdfqTa4rIe63Y1v3J4mslJ-8dJvG4K7p2JdGVmXPTU4-4wu_wCDhr4/s1600/Charlie-Sheen-on-The-Today-Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgZ1zN8-2K0BmgFBcI-X4cXzwdY7ZvO1D409YYVho-ujFv5MVF52X1ewoR7raQVo_f999rDIPW3qgSIwhb_pH8LJdfqTa4rIe63Y1v3J4mslJ-8dJvG4K7p2JdGVmXPTU4-4wu_wCDhr4/s320/Charlie-Sheen-on-The-Today-Show.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Wait, what?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmoozNqlhyphenhyphenNBE_eZ3bRv5s-bKV56D6LeIQw6LfTWq8P0WZDmqJx-TO6U8kcWl_C7EzsQDSij1dgWZD8xdGqFU2h_ioct9udkfFrO-mJqc-q0GsH91Jlurso-z4R77du4gpiwezpoOIdTKf/s1600/charlie-sheen-drunk-capri-anderson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmoozNqlhyphenhyphenNBE_eZ3bRv5s-bKV56D6LeIQw6LfTWq8P0WZDmqJx-TO6U8kcWl_C7EzsQDSij1dgWZD8xdGqFU2h_ioct9udkfFrO-mJqc-q0GsH91Jlurso-z4R77du4gpiwezpoOIdTKf/s320/charlie-sheen-drunk-capri-anderson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Huh?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSaa1b68XW3OTvksLO5eFXriZ5pe3TiJUHclMrAv4XMzrBIyaRAvLnOGhtk0m4QVlDxbEVsUglbp_Zk6-D50NZuu5HIkOlfJlxzFe2ue2APmTEkM8ZjzOmG6CJamSYf5WhNFXBftLsOBS/s1600/130051893979017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSaa1b68XW3OTvksLO5eFXriZ5pe3TiJUHclMrAv4XMzrBIyaRAvLnOGhtk0m4QVlDxbEVsUglbp_Zk6-D50NZuu5HIkOlfJlxzFe2ue2APmTEkM8ZjzOmG6CJamSYf5WhNFXBftLsOBS/s320/130051893979017.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You are no help.</div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-68152187167818278302011-03-18T02:11:00.000-07:002011-03-18T02:11:15.047-07:00Drunken InsightI am extremely drunk BUT tonight I realized I am willing to sacrifice everything for the people I care about. I will freeze in the Artic wilderness so my friends will survive. And I am proud of that. I wish everyone felt that way.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-45442363410020958572011-03-17T01:44:00.000-07:002011-03-17T01:52:10.929-07:00Time for a sexy break!It's 2 a.m. and I'm awake so....here's pictures of my favourite hotties!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPlUfwrBN9GDaG_olrevyxI_Ys2SjyXVB66jsVkWGd3CVrA5Cwy_5HYj2DBEZXba2YWXvu3zmm9D2mPcxVZqsZeuJ-LotY3VQYKyEbklQAr75R54YE8UJMy4SKtAHSW4TYH7wp_O96Bry/s1600/jennifer-aniston-rubbing-adrien-10353-0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoPlUfwrBN9GDaG_olrevyxI_Ys2SjyXVB66jsVkWGd3CVrA5Cwy_5HYj2DBEZXba2YWXvu3zmm9D2mPcxVZqsZeuJ-LotY3VQYKyEbklQAr75R54YE8UJMy4SKtAHSW4TYH7wp_O96Bry/s320/jennifer-aniston-rubbing-adrien-10353-0.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div> <b>Adrien "sexiest man ever, despite the nose" Brody</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiB4CQylf04LO7xT517C7lN17D3tB1PCb7yE8EI7UuTPYncqj2ZTTGOR0_dg1K6S_R52Nu328FxKgOFS7k4Y6JFmgaPZLYnTc81Vqh8Cg5FUP5KGTZ4Gy9VV5sz5H37gxw8ros4TXFRS_V/s1600/christian-bale6843e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiB4CQylf04LO7xT517C7lN17D3tB1PCb7yE8EI7UuTPYncqj2ZTTGOR0_dg1K6S_R52Nu328FxKgOFS7k4Y6JFmgaPZLYnTc81Vqh8Cg5FUP5KGTZ4Gy9VV5sz5H37gxw8ros4TXFRS_V/s320/christian-bale6843e.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b> Christian "failed anger management class " Bale</b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAW205XoeYmXfJbHzWSu5ChDpv_0jwJj4Bnffjo3PxkQccjk-XFhf752bYc0lxRjgNejckCHsLqfFep35D_LLgOxIqvcUvbcVi0wFUeDi9fJdvb4poijMaaKHpNqwDzqsrJSQtrE-9KpTc/s1600/ryan-reynolds-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAW205XoeYmXfJbHzWSu5ChDpv_0jwJj4Bnffjo3PxkQccjk-XFhf752bYc0lxRjgNejckCHsLqfFep35D_LLgOxIqvcUvbcVi0wFUeDi9fJdvb4poijMaaKHpNqwDzqsrJSQtrE-9KpTc/s320/ryan-reynolds-photo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> Ryan "so thrilled you divorced that skanky Scarlett" Reynolds</b></div><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7kxkpG67OvWcYDZWiiNDjHcA6iS5q3sQKFUDYWMWtMQL_VhcgWaW8lJAZBef84mpaJvNIi3EIGjgXhXIWvvJzh76hUOvql9niuESsfzMdQSXvJCDaU4hUhnvJQTwRAi8Kr0L6Vb77uxY/s1600/john_cusack_99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7kxkpG67OvWcYDZWiiNDjHcA6iS5q3sQKFUDYWMWtMQL_VhcgWaW8lJAZBef84mpaJvNIi3EIGjgXhXIWvvJzh76hUOvql9niuESsfzMdQSXvJCDaU4hUhnvJQTwRAi8Kr0L6Vb77uxY/s320/john_cusack_99.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b> John "starred in the best film ever, <i>Con Air</i>" Cusack </b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv3SYQLCDLsVv2kqbz80R0zYLcr_FZ8tMe0thygm40NsKDKv7V316LNgYt0TqeqypNmCsBFLb9dEFIf2VUJByq0bl8tFhWoq8zG_0Z1z-Ij65UzIe3WNNVEv5M49QhM5_7NqD1Sx128H5E/s1600/judelawlgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv3SYQLCDLsVv2kqbz80R0zYLcr_FZ8tMe0thygm40NsKDKv7V316LNgYt0TqeqypNmCsBFLb9dEFIf2VUJByq0bl8tFhWoq8zG_0Z1z-Ij65UzIe3WNNVEv5M49QhM5_7NqD1Sx128H5E/s320/judelawlgres.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><b> Jude "yes, I know it's a painting" Law</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq27j-O5PjO1nU3uyOj9eVr_lJk5R0CgXjFCpMbeP8q0E4IPO5u2IQFvynt_AuvJosv-A_yrwevyH2cXm0ORftl4y2YCRluV-m__qI6uT-dyMDadWe7IzYibnri54Dr6LucsQeyLlPysUe/s1600/joelmchale_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq27j-O5PjO1nU3uyOj9eVr_lJk5R0CgXjFCpMbeP8q0E4IPO5u2IQFvynt_AuvJosv-A_yrwevyH2cXm0ORftl4y2YCRluV-m__qI6uT-dyMDadWe7IzYibnri54Dr6LucsQeyLlPysUe/s320/joelmchale_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b> Joel "should have replaced Conan on <i>Late Night</i>" McHale</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpgBCrvHIPmF8_A7xf8QAtm4kX9oCZ9GLNTs7nGhko2pi7-Hh3y_-XU7cLPBlXM3aaUlqkU_uX8Txt35C5BQXctmXXJ9qgHNb2K4BLEhyphenhyphenEUbPzPKt8f7xLtIoX5PkOnvBtgA3GXKvrXiG/s1600/3774927135_b0a8d00f9f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLpgBCrvHIPmF8_A7xf8QAtm4kX9oCZ9GLNTs7nGhko2pi7-Hh3y_-XU7cLPBlXM3aaUlqkU_uX8Txt35C5BQXctmXXJ9qgHNb2K4BLEhyphenhyphenEUbPzPKt8f7xLtIoX5PkOnvBtgA3GXKvrXiG/s320/3774927135_b0a8d00f9f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b> Chris "why aren't you naked in <i>SVU</i> too?" Meloni</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNZy9H636bYrCUxfevbbteSKeKfAps0TJptSKcIQvFCTof1zWfFFrmN8nZ7vDB2Jdajpv3GzmH34j2UzJWWrnuyBOIeH3FFJH6xE3dcjoRUl8dntKu97St3rugT-1e7-5hUYlX2p_-o6k/s1600/edward-norton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNZy9H636bYrCUxfevbbteSKeKfAps0TJptSKcIQvFCTof1zWfFFrmN8nZ7vDB2Jdajpv3GzmH34j2UzJWWrnuyBOIeH3FFJH6xE3dcjoRUl8dntKu97St3rugT-1e7-5hUYlX2p_-o6k/s1600/edward-norton.jpg" /></a></div><b> Edward "I make random stops at Boise coffee shops" Norton</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRD_97fLwHQoz40VNO7xQsClc2r1lPhgRIS6jSXoU5AZIvsD5lNDDpKWYJeIM0GF-OVVn9_TXVcAQRnAv6PTUOf-_PInlt5LnhezqYKrfmIVtmqKLQrDPIPAmXR3os_Gu3FsxMTRME2bQO/s1600/71566_121027417956149_108905269168364_136600_75650_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRD_97fLwHQoz40VNO7xQsClc2r1lPhgRIS6jSXoU5AZIvsD5lNDDpKWYJeIM0GF-OVVn9_TXVcAQRnAv6PTUOf-_PInlt5LnhezqYKrfmIVtmqKLQrDPIPAmXR3os_Gu3FsxMTRME2bQO/s320/71566_121027417956149_108905269168364_136600_75650_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><b> Conan "sexier with the beard" O'Brien</b><br />
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<b>Oh and because I cannot get enough...</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjnHCn1-c00gO9xKmYb0-GOfjVaBkxiT2to8Y3TtgyV5yc-sHWXW5ST4500PH-xhHXfpWejHP5mcMH9l5vTWq83YKLmy47GeN0s7OwQLPfy_wlzghGDY8l2hNp8jgwiFw5xu4-u12YLvg/s1600/adrian+brodyPL2136V7nb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjnHCn1-c00gO9xKmYb0-GOfjVaBkxiT2to8Y3TtgyV5yc-sHWXW5ST4500PH-xhHXfpWejHP5mcMH9l5vTWq83YKLmy47GeN0s7OwQLPfy_wlzghGDY8l2hNp8jgwiFw5xu4-u12YLvg/s320/adrian+brodyPL2136V7nb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b> WINNING. Damn.</b><br />
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</b>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-90980684268877639962011-03-02T15:52:00.000-08:002011-03-02T17:12:05.236-08:00Sheen-gasms takes over the interwebs...and it's winningSo today I successfully avoided that humiliating drive to go pick up my things and last paycheck from the staffing agency. But I guess I will have to do it sometime so not so winning, huh?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQWcFEUZYR28x-pjmHxpn7MFF-QbtP_55UEM26Y90DUJ0FMDm9ZFfash8UT6K7KWXISOrAOcEpjA4uTcn9aw-4_1ut70_Qlvk_dcqxGNNxrBY7wYFDq4ACU_evROYRaE_mOaEPGH_UdHW/s1600/unemployment_sign3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQWcFEUZYR28x-pjmHxpn7MFF-QbtP_55UEM26Y90DUJ0FMDm9ZFfash8UT6K7KWXISOrAOcEpjA4uTcn9aw-4_1ut70_Qlvk_dcqxGNNxrBY7wYFDq4ACU_evROYRaE_mOaEPGH_UdHW/s200/unemployment_sign3.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQWcFEUZYR28x-pjmHxpn7MFF-QbtP_55UEM26Y90DUJ0FMDm9ZFfash8UT6K7KWXISOrAOcEpjA4uTcn9aw-4_1ut70_Qlvk_dcqxGNNxrBY7wYFDq4ACU_evROYRaE_mOaEPGH_UdHW/s1600/unemployment_sign3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><b> The vision that haunts my dreams...</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"> </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"> <b>Also, this...</b></div></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksbpjUYAgmouDgHYPYKlzC4RcQRObgNsOXc3Cg59Irvlql8eMwMGxh3TnMCegPVGjv3lNXlCscL2E9i34SMzi4ZYYi3bPFlb-crO9qzBLZ1Deaxzqh-_Ccthm6omOaTZ2ZGSY_muWI1c-/s1600/britney-spears-bald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksbpjUYAgmouDgHYPYKlzC4RcQRObgNsOXc3Cg59Irvlql8eMwMGxh3TnMCegPVGjv3lNXlCscL2E9i34SMzi4ZYYi3bPFlb-crO9qzBLZ1Deaxzqh-_Ccthm6omOaTZ2ZGSY_muWI1c-/s200/britney-spears-bald.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
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Anywhos, many have probably noticed I have been obsessed with this whole Charlie Sheen going apeshit thing. Hey, don't judge. I have no job, no real reason to be excited about anything so I am Team Sheen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpj0IMVxK5IbCzGthfQlRrIm56qfivKnd4CihZXsSLU21GjfQNJRGPtTgL1cZ_zhC4JoqXjm2NdEz77hX2KmcTM53byqGqzbBJ7IzkNhKQ3N9yoYPuTquSdiKuOi9iPNQWrKP8P0qxP_y/s1600/Emilio-Estevez-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpj0IMVxK5IbCzGthfQlRrIm56qfivKnd4CihZXsSLU21GjfQNJRGPtTgL1cZ_zhC4JoqXjm2NdEz77hX2KmcTM53byqGqzbBJ7IzkNhKQ3N9yoYPuTquSdiKuOi9iPNQWrKP8P0qxP_y/s320/Emilio-Estevez-2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<b>Oh shit, wrong Sheen</b><br />
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I finally watched the entire 20/20 interview he did. Wow. Total bi-winning. However, the best news of the CENTURY (yes, you read that right) is that now the nutcase/national hero has opened his own Twitter account. Praise the social media gods! And as you would expect, it's winning. His first post was rather mild, simply featuring a photo of himself and his whore (excuse me, I meant pornography actress) and their shared love of organic fruit drinks. However, being the winner that he is, Senor Sheen amped up the crazy by confirming what we all knew: That Babe Ruth was fueled by tiger blood.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6fkGBX8pwRxxgoYNwBKMOUAXDKYA9qxG5_jRprvgL99sOzRFoAzEBrjrVHJHbNdEMjZXE3eabOKiYlBo0XK3FPQ6qsSvwB2VC0Vx9lNDwsFYBn1tZTw8U0OBVA08fCLiDQSH3cKfy-0s/s1600/baberuth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6fkGBX8pwRxxgoYNwBKMOUAXDKYA9qxG5_jRprvgL99sOzRFoAzEBrjrVHJHbNdEMjZXE3eabOKiYlBo0XK3FPQ6qsSvwB2VC0Vx9lNDwsFYBn1tZTw8U0OBVA08fCLiDQSH3cKfy-0s/s200/baberuth.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>+</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSpjc98EHvu2Lr1xzMO7rvH6sGn49DzfesSvFooTD0wtNCpFHKQtlmAiinXtInv_Ys1jzVt7HNRD5XecG1pKTZFs74FK_YgLuAfPlTWPR2J6FsEy8yF1vHjZg3VkN5vZlv_Al8wCLJ8puw/s1600/tigerDM2805_468x320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSpjc98EHvu2Lr1xzMO7rvH6sGn49DzfesSvFooTD0wtNCpFHKQtlmAiinXtInv_Ys1jzVt7HNRD5XecG1pKTZFs74FK_YgLuAfPlTWPR2J6FsEy8yF1vHjZg3VkN5vZlv_Al8wCLJ8puw/s200/tigerDM2805_468x320.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>=</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzsWi2AtHQP8B3y4a11lMkwXFthdObZPjvltWyS9pv-8hAlnZxj_j77-cDSWhjJ0AC9RL8joxSU8FwvlihSMcFPiq0JweQL1e4MWy0PvrML49b5VuC6G4LmgIs6pJRXSVlcrDy6l2RBjP/s1600/wpid-0227-charlie-sheen-abc-00-480x307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzsWi2AtHQP8B3y4a11lMkwXFthdObZPjvltWyS9pv-8hAlnZxj_j77-cDSWhjJ0AC9RL8joxSU8FwvlihSMcFPiq0JweQL1e4MWy0PvrML49b5VuC6G4LmgIs6pJRXSVlcrDy6l2RBjP/s320/wpid-0227-charlie-sheen-abc-00-480x307.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Winning!</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><br />
</u></div>Well, of course he was, Charlie, duh! C-Sheen proceeds to invite legendary douche, P. Diddy (or Puff Daddy or Tinky Winky or whatever the hell he is called these days) over to his house for a party. Sean Combs and C-Sheen in one house? I think Armageddon is coming in the form of crazy rich a-holes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uSMemCkdYxekLKCs19OX42kp_mAhSy6Q3TF8_ujhPOO-eQv2m2VOtMRMgo3Zm6hMPi0VIhn12PP97Sri2l9JCUnAtTPeqGndOH7NXrBYnueUh5IfUVP2pyOBaO5KaNV4I01wZFttAFj_/s1600/4c1547db3212037bb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uSMemCkdYxekLKCs19OX42kp_mAhSy6Q3TF8_ujhPOO-eQv2m2VOtMRMgo3Zm6hMPi0VIhn12PP97Sri2l9JCUnAtTPeqGndOH7NXrBYnueUh5IfUVP2pyOBaO5KaNV4I01wZFttAFj_/s400/4c1547db3212037bb.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> <b>Joaquin 'Bye Good' Phoenix, C-Sheen, Douche Combs & </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Mel 'Sugar Tits' Gibson</b></div><b><br />
</b><br />
The best parts of Sheen's tweets are his pictures. Only C-Sheen can post a picture of himself imitating the game pong with the Direct TV logo without seeming crazy. Oh, wait... BUT in case you think I'm the only loser out there jumping on the Team Sheen bandwagon, you are mistaken, fools, because Wrigley Field has upped the ante. I give you the Charlie Sheen Dog with Tiger Blood...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEBKKuRJGKZsIwfUgJe2lmZGIHdPa2u9wGJR8BM29bFnecrdZ4GqEon_1K79KOtap3tvzSMCZBdt4NzcP8AdKjceS-x5vEBOv8FgyKWgh6OeGuJ7RWrgDxlcenC-7Hc6dwcLg2ITIHBPO/s1600/251027727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEBKKuRJGKZsIwfUgJe2lmZGIHdPa2u9wGJR8BM29bFnecrdZ4GqEon_1K79KOtap3tvzSMCZBdt4NzcP8AdKjceS-x5vEBOv8FgyKWgh6OeGuJ7RWrgDxlcenC-7Hc6dwcLg2ITIHBPO/s320/251027727.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Only the 'Daily Deal'? This should be America's dietary staple.</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Leave it to baseball to 'bring it'. What does the future have in store for Charlie Sheen and his mighty Twitter? Hopefully more Sheen inspired epicurean delights with the occasional dash of Emilio Estevez. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbVsPWH26gVrEuoklI6o8L8OdqRrowueGhDk67zwUIBrXNoR07YnP42H9edqQ_p3pOiC7LzrQYPykFAZeHSVg-1XXAKXrecjoSgcu3XfkVFqnBZwjapYVExaqod7XTAqyKH0vP4YoS0pf/s1600/The+Mighty+Ducks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbVsPWH26gVrEuoklI6o8L8OdqRrowueGhDk67zwUIBrXNoR07YnP42H9edqQ_p3pOiC7LzrQYPykFAZeHSVg-1XXAKXrecjoSgcu3XfkVFqnBZwjapYVExaqod7XTAqyKH0vP4YoS0pf/s320/The+Mighty+Ducks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Never forget...</b></div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-87424923397717595422011-03-01T20:28:00.000-08:002011-03-01T20:33:23.871-08:00"I got magic and I've got poetry in my fingertips, you know, most of the time, and this includes naps." - Our Lord and Saviour, Charlie SheenI took a slight breather from my intensive Charlie Sheen Google searching (that man is insane and therefore, amazing) to research some internship websites that my adventurous, Russian speaking best friend sent me.<br />
<br />
The common thread amongst (pinky up!) these interning abroad programs is the ungodly amount they want ME to pay them to basically work for nothing. I've done internships before and I never minded not being paid. BUT if I was unpaid PLUS had to pay upwards of $8,000 for a semester long program, I would pitch a 'Christian Bale on the set of T4' style bitchfit. I believe they called that indentured servitude back in the olden days. (Wait, is that what that term means? Note to self: learn things).<br />
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The best website she sent me is called Cool Works. This program gives you access to jobs in cool-as-shit places. Sadly, Nebraska and Kansas have no jobs posted. Thus, my exotic dreams of silos and cow dunged splattered pitchforks shall have to be put on hold. Again.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-20618945148252168522010-12-19T18:56:00.000-08:002010-12-19T19:33:56.478-08:00Daddy IssuesThis was a week filled with amazing times with my friends but also much sadness and of course, illness. Thanks to one of my best friends and now certified genius, Jackie Brafford, my on and off misery for the last 6 years of my life has been pinpointed. Let me start at the beginning...<br />
<br />
When I was 12 years old, my father committed suicide. It made me angry more than anything. Since that day, every male I have been close to in my life (whether on a friendship basis or other) has been the victim of my self-destruction. The closer I get to a man, the more psychotic I become. It started as a minor problem in junior high and high school and didn't become a full blow disaster until the Fall of 2004 when I met the indie music loving and floppy haired Jesse Strunk while on exchange in England. I was attracted to him but we were also friends which lasted long beyond England. We would speak every day and had a lot in common. Eventually, I stopped liking him and just thought of him as a friend but despite that I became easily jealous, obsessive and made myself crazy. I also made his life hell occasionally because of my need to fight and pout and demand attention. I ended up starting therapy again for the first time in years as a result. Sadly, along that same time, I met Kyle Miller who would be the bane of my existence for the next 5 years. Despite him being gay, I fell in love. We became best friends very quickly. Like with Jesse, I put unreasonable expectations on him, pouted, demanded attention, got angry and jealous over stupid things and basically became a basket case. This led to me trying to kill myself one night and on another, ending up in the hospital in fear of my own sanity. We didn't speak for two years after I moved to Boise but in 2009, we reconnected and became foolishly close again. Though I no longer had romantic feelings for him and my craziness never got to 2006 levels, I often repeated the same mistakes that caused me to lose him and myself in the process.<br />
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Fast forward to July 2010 when I started working for an attractive man who I quickly bonded with over frat boy talk and drunken nights. I again put unreasonable demands on him, got jealous, easily hurt and angry and thought more of our friendship than it was. I did all of this to a lesser extent to my two male coworkers, fighting with them on a weekly basis. What does this have to do with my father? On the surface, maybe nothing but think about this...I never get this way with my female friends, even the ones I am very close to. I don't get jealous, I don't get angry easily, I respect them and treat them well. The end result is: I cannot get close to a man, in any way. A lot of it has to do with unrequited romantic feelings but even when those aren't involved or long past, I still morph into this succubus on crack. I end up pushing them away before they have a chance to leave me...like my dad did. He left me and I am terrified for any man to do that to me again. So I become insane. It's not conscious; it's a literal gut reaction. I have lost a few very important people in my life that I cared about deeply as friends and it's my fault. Yes, I wasn't always treated right by them and I am glad in some ways that I don't have them in my life but losing them has always been my fault. I cannot trust a man. I have unreasonable expectations and demands. I want them to love me (as friends) as much as I love them. No man has ever loved me like my father has. I was the world to him, both my mother and I knew it. I guess I want to be the world to some other man whether I am a best friend or a significant other.<br />
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I have a lot of work to do. I want to end this. I want healthy relationships with men. I want to treat them like I do my family and my girlfriends, with respect and kindness. No set expectations going in, no jealousy, no demanding attention. My age of wrath has caused a lot of heartache and trouble for both me and those men. Some of them deserved it, yes I know, but I ask myself would any of this have happened if I didn't have this automatic tendency to treat every man as if he would leave me.<br />
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Why am I realizing this now? This week I said something unbearably awful to someone I love dearly. Flashback to two years ago and I said something equally awful to another man I cared about. I have never said anything of this caliber to any of my girlfriends or family, no matter how angry I have been. I of course didn't mean these terrible things but the fact that I even thought to say them fills me with great shame. My dear friend Jackie has helped me realize this pattern, one I have been either denying or avoiding for years.<br />
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The biggest fear I have is losing someone. Whether it is my death or apathy, it doesn't matter, the end result is the same. I have lost them forever. And it's always my fault.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-86753559691080038552010-12-19T16:32:00.000-08:002010-12-19T16:32:53.405-08:00Death to the golden ruleI have no voice.<br />
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Not in an inequality kind of a way but in a literal 'I cannot push sounds through my vocal chords to make words' kinda way. It's horrible and inconvenient yet somehow makes me appreciate the quiet moments in life. Right now I can hear the rain fall outside, the tick of my living room clock and my wheezing breath. Well, maybe the wheezing isn't so great but with silence comes a new way of thinking. I live alone so you may ask "What does it matter that you can't talk, you are by yourself?" Well, noble reader, it matters when I am used to talking to the food in my fridge in order to decide what to eat and it matters when I watch my favorite film, <i>Con Air</i>, and can't hoot and holla at the screen as a result of the awesomeness that is Nicolas Cage. But overall the silence won't kill me, it makes me more contemplative and peaceful. Laryngitis, however, is the enemy of singing in the car which is, as many know, my favourite thing to do in the world. Sadly, I still try to squeak out a verse or two but only end up looking like a fool when lyrics like "After all, you're my wonderwall" come out like "aaaaaaaaaa...(audible wheezing)" How the hell can I be fierce like my girl Rihanna without a voice? I should learn sign language and execute it with R&B style passion. Just wait 'til they all see my gangsta alphabet...Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-3939989185373515632010-11-26T17:19:00.000-08:002010-11-26T17:19:39.740-08:00Excessive flashpoints beyond all reachI have rapidly transformed back to my old 2007 self. John Lennon said "All you need is love" but he was wrong. I have a lot of love but I need something more tangible, rational and less expensive. I am a product of my generation and a product of my fucked up genetics. My entire life will be filled with memories because in the end, that's all we have anyway. I have put boards up against those mind screens in an effort to seclude myself from my <em>true</em> self. My true self is angry, violent, insane, melancholy and selfish yet overly empathetic. On the outside I am an ocean of calm and I am working to have my inside match my outward serenity. I love too much, I hate too much and there is no in between. I am trying to become that balance. At this point, there is no other choice. <br />
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I was born for a purpose that is so far unknown. But I have a feeling all of this pain over the years will help me figure it out.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-49154905813076189162010-11-24T16:19:00.000-08:002010-11-24T16:19:58.978-08:005:01 a.m. in the kitchen of 77 Barton Street (18 May 1980)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I enjoy lists. In fact, I literally cannot live my life without them. So I present to you the following:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Top 12 (nerdily specific) musical things I would like to be reincarnated as:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Noel Gallagher’s guitar solo in Oasis’ “Slide Away”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>The piano in Joy Division’s “The Eternal”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Liam Gallagher’s shriek during the intro of Oasis’ “Fade In-Out”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Ian Curtis’ voice in Joy Division’s “New Dawn Fades”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Seconds <time hour="14" minute="52" w:st="on">2:52 – 3:03</time> in Blur’s “Ambulance”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>The drums in “Lucky 13” by the Smashing Pumpkins</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>Second <time hour="16" minute="33" w:st="on">4:33</time> in “Arabatur” by Sigur Ros</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>The chorus of Sigur Ros’ “Hljomalind”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>The final 30 seconds of “Saeglopur” by Sigur Ros</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Second <time hour="15" minute="35" w:st="on">3:35</time> of “Stellar” by the Smashing Pumpkins</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">11)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guitar in John Mayer’s “Something’s Missing”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">12)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter Hook’s bass guitar</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I would honestly just be thrilled with the last one. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">All my musical passion resurgence began today at work where I craved Oasis with the pickle and peanut butter intensity of a pregnant woman. I had to have it. NOW. I don’t usually get that way anymore, sadly. I should <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always </i>feel that way. Listening to the Smashing Pumpkins still makes me feel like home and Blur reminds me of being at the Dover Cliffs in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">England</place></country-region>, playing that song on incessant loop as I scrambled over the landscape. Morrissey and The Smiths saved my life back in 2007 and Sigur Ros still makes me cry. But when’s the last time I felt like that 15 year old who held her breath when pushing play on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be Here Now </i>for the first time?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I miss music. I still listen to it pretty much daily but straining my vocals chords to “Firebomb” by Rihanna on the way to a Redbox just isn’t the same. Today I really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">felt</i> it again. That energy and numbness that floods in at the same time. Brain-pumping relaxation. I wish there was a way I could transform myself into musical waves, effortlessly floating from one song to another. Take #1 in my list above. I want to exist in the same space and time at the exact moment Noel Gallagher slid his gnarled fingers up and down that guitar neck to record the brilliant solo in “Slide Away”. I want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be </i>it. No physical body, just sound. I want to reverberate from Ian Curtis’ throat as he croaks out the words to “New Dawn Fades”, the desperation and passion in his voice slicing through Bernard Summer’s menacing guitar. I want to be the ferocity and sweat behind Jimmy Chamberlin’s pounding rhythm in “Lucky 13”. Living as second <time hour="16" minute="33" w:st="on">4:33</time> of “Arabatur” must be like sitting on God’s knee. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I don’t want to just listen, sing along to or write about music. I want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> music. I want to dissolve into music the way dandelion seeds scatter in the air. </div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-49614317552076106422010-11-17T17:06:00.001-08:002010-11-17T17:06:04.304-08:00Call me Jane, you primordial bastards<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">Me had dream. Me had weird dream.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A lil’ background before I delve in: I used to work at a foreclosure/real estate/insane company that for the purpose of this entry, I shall call Monkey Funds. Monkey Funds was a terrible company with literal monkeys running the place, at least at the Boise branch. My old boss was one of those monkeys, a VP monkey in fact, head monkey. So I was basically this monkey’s personal assistant or his ‘right hand banana’. This monkey and I got too close, friendship wise, and to not bore you with the details, but he used his charming monkey wiles to sexually harass me, take advantage of my position and basically use my attraction to his sexy yet short monkey self to his benefit. Monkey Douche. I worked with other sales monkeys who I actually enjoyed but Monkey Douche made my life a disturbing 19<sup>th</sup> century French prose poem. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I quit Monkey Funds a month ago. I literally said ‘I quit’ and walked out. One of the most scary yet ultimately best moments of my life. I mentally took a picture of my boss’ bewildered face as I told him and framed it on the polished marble fireplace mantle in my mind.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>To my dismay, last night Monkey Douche (MD) decided to crawl into my thoughts like a silverfish. <span> </span>In the dream, Sales Monkey A (SM A) asked me to come back to MF to do some part time work. For whatever stupid reason, I agreed. But Monkey Douche had other plans. Instead he picked up two random girls he met in an Arby’s parking lot to do my job (Arby’s bought ad space in my dream, apparently. Beef and Cheddars are my pillows). MD refused to look at me or speak to me, much as it is in real life. Sales Monkey A said MD called me a ‘nasty bitch’ to which I laughed and pretty much agreed. (This most likely also happened in real life.) However, SM A was not supposed to tell me this and when MD found out, he was furious. Somewhere along the line, Monkey Douche’s habitat was set ablaze and he blamed me. That’s when the fun began. Think of a Discovery Channel special about rabid monkeys trying to beat the hell out of each other for possession of a banana. <span> </span>My real life arguments with MD were legendary, frequent and oddly, therapeutic. In the dream, however, MD eventually wanted to hire me back but me being the ever ballsy and ‘nasty bitch’ I am, said no. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I miss Monkey Funds but most of the time I don’t. I don’t miss wearing high heels everyday in some vain attempt to feel sexy around all the sales monkeys. I also don’t miss drunken fights and naked pictures being flashed in front of my face.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I fantasize about slinking over to Monkey Douche in my high heels and low cut top…and stealing his car. I miss that Ford Escape.</div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-32656458662625303682010-11-17T17:05:00.000-08:002010-11-17T17:05:07.987-08:00Ted Nugent's Inspiration<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">I have yet another man in my life. He is fuzzy, wide eyed and enjoys hiding under my bed. His name is Henry is he is my best friend Alicia’s cat. I am entertaining him (or really, he is entertaining me) while she is on vacation in her native England (jolly good, G’vnor!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I treat Henry like a person. I talk to him, tell him “bless you” when he sneezes and yell at him when he somehow manages the seemingly impossible leap from the floor to my closet clothes rod. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, I was awoken to him crawling on my face. “Look at me! Love me!” he seemed to say. I tried to ignore his mews for another few minutes of precious sleep but he seemed content on remaining perched on my face. He stood on my sink and watched me do my hair and then leaped out at me from my shower curtain when I thought he was in the kitchen. He is also jealous of my laptop. Whenever I sprawl on the couch and type (my usual position) he likes to lie on my neck, blocking my vision and windpipes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Interestingly, yesterday, he found something I had mentally abandoned as devoured by the legendary dust bunnies. <span> </span>Somehow he had managed to dig out an old cat scratching pad that was lodged underneath my desk. Smart pussy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How did you find that?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He rolled over, exposing his little belly, as a reply. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love this little boy. He is the only true man for me. </div>Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-13937531068831523832010-11-16T22:24:00.000-08:002010-11-16T22:24:12.904-08:00Cheers, wench, I shall drink to that!I am seeing a man named David every week.<br />
<br />
David is my therapist. He is also a genius (a hella expensive one at that). He is teaching me to take all my anger, moodiness, craziness and irrationality and place them into neat and manageable piles to be one day filed away in the archive section of my brain. It's as if he's tapped into my brain and is analyzing my thoughts with some CIA super scope.<br />
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Today I learned that it's okay to grieve. ("Wow, Jenn, really? What a kernel of knowledge!") But seriously, I often like to block out my feelings instead of, well, feeling them. Sometimes they get too intense so I run the other direction. Today, David told me something I've always known but sometimes it takes another human being to really stick a thought into your craw. <b>Everything in life happens for a reason.</b> The good <i>and</i> the bad. And you know what? It really does. As much as I regret a lot of my past choices, who exactly would I be today without them? Sure, I could be a brain surgeon (not likely) or a traveling circus monkey (more likely) but the truth is there is no way to know.<br />
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I am going to now quote the 21st century scholar and bard Rihanna: Life is too short to be miserable. Well, now that's a little too optimistic for my taste but in general, she's right. Today I had a pretty ordinary day but it was good. I can say that I took joy in it. Over the weekend, I took a part of myself and threw it away (metaphorically, of course) Best decision ever? So far, yes. Because with it went 90% of my "insanity". I hate the cliche, "it's like I'm breathing again" but really...it is.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-55281295940600028902010-11-16T19:24:00.000-08:002010-11-16T21:10:58.931-08:00Bowling for MulesIt's 8 p.m. and my biggest goal of the night is trying to find a free download of Rihanna's new album, <i>Loud</i>. A lot of people don't know how much I love Rihanna but that bitch is fierce.<br />
<br />
...moving on...<br />
<br />
Today I visited the WIC clinic in Boise. I work "behind the scenes" I guess one would say so I don't get to experience the beloved crying children up close and personal. Today, however, I was shocked at how much of a great time I had. I sat in on three intakes (it's a lot like a doctor's visit, they even do height, weight and take blood) and every single one was filled with kind mothers and calm children. The first child, a 1-year-old named Franklin (side note: people need to start naming their kids this again because it's as cute as hell) loved my attention and when I held him, he wouldn't let go. I tried to give him back to his mother three times but he held onto me. Those are the times when I really love kids. Other times, I'm more just like "eh".<br />
<br />
The best part of the day was the WIC staff. You go and try to find me some nicer people on the planet and I guarantee you...you will not. With all the stress, angry/rude clients and screaming babies they face multiple times a day, these people deserve the CNN Heroes award. <i>All</i> of them.<br />
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If you are reading this, chances are you know me (or are a fan of the darkly comic poetry of Arthur Rimbaud). And since you know me, the following may not surprise you. So here I am, visiting this clinic with all these lovely people and what do I do? I break something. Not on purpose, of course, but I tend to break or trip on something no matter where I go. (See the number of glasses my mom has had to replace over the years as reference. Apparently, they make comfy cushions.) Here's the best part though. Also, as you probably know, I am germaphobic. So what do I break? A friggin Purell dispenser! As I was walking to another part of the office, I stopped and put my hand under the one on the wall. It responds with its usually stinky foam but alas! it did not stop. Instead, ribbons of alcoholic cleansing goo poured onto the clinic floor, much to the dismay of myself and the people in the office next to me. By the time I grab someone to come see, I find that some poor woman is holding a paper towel under the gush, begging for someone to get her a cup to contain the torrential downpour. Eventually housekeeping (is this a hotel?) is paged. She literally takes the thing apart and bangs it multiple times to get it to stop. Ah yes, a symphony of hells.<br />
<br />
So there was <i>my</i> day. Next time, I will just use soap and water.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bonus feature! <br />
<br />
Jam<i>z</i> of the Day:<br />
<i>G4L (Gangsta for Life)</i> by Rihanna (This song tells my life story...well, maybe not)<br />
<i>Santa Fe</i> (<i>Newsies </i>soundtrack) - Christian Bale (yes, he can do more with his voice than just yell at lighting dudes on movie sets)<br />
<br />
UPDATE: Rihanna album is, of course, incredible. I have found a new <i>G4L </i>with <i>Man Down</i> (with a Jamaican twist) That girl needs to stop murdering people, she's gonna get caught.Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6344539050093668156.post-39346300560698973702010-11-15T21:15:00.000-08:002010-11-15T21:15:06.872-08:00Life is the farce we all have to lead"I should have hell for my anger, my hell for pride, - and the hell of sloth; a symphony of hells." - Arthur Rimbaud, <i>A Season in Hell</i><br />
<br />
<br />
A symphony of hells...I never thought I would read such a conflicting yet oddly beautiful set of words. When we think of symphony, we think of music, of classical ambiance and the swell of stringed instruments. Yet when I read these words, I see Satan playing a towering brass organ in the 9th circle of Hell (courtesy of Dante, of course). <br />
<br />
Rimbaud was a French poet born in 1854 most famously know by beatniks and 1970s psychedelia as having smeared his, ahem, excrement over a Paris cafe at the age of 17. He committed such an oddball and unsanitary act to explain that "flat canvas and oils could not compete with the three-dimensional kaleidoscope of reality." It is no surprise that with such a spirit of youthful revolt, he lost his literary steam at age 25. Yet he continued his drunken escapades and promiscuous lifestyle which ultimately led to his death by cancer at age 37.<br />
<br />
My point is not to explore the life of Rimbaud (though a fascinating subject) but to reflect on his youthful wisdom and folly. Though I would never paint the town with my bowel movements, I would also never think to pair symphony with hell or in other words, such light and dark. Was he, in fact, insane? Perhaps but his creativity was the benefactor of his mind's delusions. <br />
<br />
<br />
All of us have composed our own symphony of hells and each one differs slightly from the last. And as much as we all try to disparage our blasphemous ways, how many of us have thought of embracing our due punishment? Rimbaud faced his demons with guilty rage. <br />
<br />
"Satan, you fraud, you would dissolve me with your charms. I demand my due. I demand it! a thrust of the pitchfork, a drop of fire"<br />
<br />
The question then begs; would you?Jenniferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07377467389839861247noreply@blogger.com0