In other news, I was unfollowed on Twitter by a coupon.

 A mother fucking COUPON!

Some how I am not surprised when I googled *Mother Fucking Coupon* who was the first person to show up…

I also may be jealous of The Bloggess because I think it’s my dream to be number one on google for something and knowing me it won’t be for  *mother fucking coupon* it would be for something like awkward girl slips and falls down in a pile of her own drool while trying to talk to people in public. Which I’m pretty sure NO ONE is going to google that.

I didn’t even know this COUPON was following me. You see I have been held captive under  3000 pounds of clothes. That is 2.5 tons I think.  What ever it’s a bitchload of clothes.

You know what else has happened. I’ve realized that people SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS!!! (read: things I never ever need to know)

“I need a jacket. A nice jacket. I need an extra large jacket to wear over my swollen esophagus. My esophagus that is made out of part of my stomach” 

No really, this is just one thing I was told this summer and I am not sure I want to relive any of the others because it’s been all too traumatic and I realize my traumas are fairly insignificant by comparison but the image of the swollen esophagus has completely ruined much of my summer memories.

“Where is the heavy set blonde manager”

There is NOTHING wrong with being heavy set at all. But if you happen to be sensitive and you hear some one describe you that way, well all motherfuckingbetsareoff!  What really happened was that I was at my computer diligently working away when I heard this description of my self and was floored because I realised I must have a body dysmorphia thing because to me? I’ve never been in better shape. AND… I may have squeaked out a cry that sounded something like Tinkerbell on speed saying “I’m heavyset?” 

Way back in the day when I used to post weekly I wrote a post about approaching this very cool tattoo artist and how it was really awkward and there was lots of drool and choking on my own saliva  and how I never got the tattoo from her…remember that? No….well go here then come back because just two weeks ago The Dish was getting more work done and she was back doing a guest stint at our Tattoo Shop and when I saw her book there  I looked at the guest artist, then over to The Dish…who looked at me with a glint in his eye  (that I poked out) to which I gave a firm resounding NO FUCKING WAY. I never want a tattoo from her.

So what do I do for the next week? I stalked her of course and sent a very involved email that probaly read like a creepy stalker who snorted a bit and of course left spittle on her screen in hopes that I could set up an appointment at a tattoo convention and you know what happened?

NOTHING.

See this is why I am not allowed to talk to people ever. It never works out. EVER. She couldn’t be bothered to even respond with an automated out of office reply.

Also, I have been fundraising. And not just for my shoe *fetish*.  Actually for a really great cause.  Yada, yada, yada. Judging from the amount of fundraising requests in my inbox I have  reallized that September must Fundraising Season so for once I am totally in the *IN* crowd. I have raised one thousand dollars so far, and much of that money has come from my twitter/internet friends and for that I am so grateful! The cause supports the Special Operations Warrior Foundation and CrossFit Kids. This year the funds have been dedicated to providing full college scholarships to all of the 31 children who lost a parent in the Chinook crash last month in Afghanistan. So here is the deal. You donate to my page here….and on Friday I will work my ass off for 17 minutes in this fundraiser called Fight Gone Bad 6. This is the sixth year the event is taking place and this is my first. Not only that I am the team captain, which I drunkenly agreed to do one night and then woke up the next morning in a totaly panic over it.

Me?!? A captian of something. I don’t even have a cape, this is never going to work out!

It would be great for a little push in the last leg of my fundraising. I  am hoping for video but it may be to ugly to post. But I don’t give a shit. If there is a video I will gladly post it.

Lastly it is my birthday this coming Sunday so in lieu of all the gifts of cake and diamonds you were going to send my way just send the dolla bills and think of the kids I just talked about.

P.S. This Post is brought to you by Dufmanno, her battle axe and a sharpie.

I hate running.  If you’ve been here for a while then you already know this based on this post…or this post. Running for me is like being a cat and having someone draw me a bubble bath. At first, I thought it was because I can taste blood when ever I run. It’s like I’m bleeding from my lungs. Then I considered the fact that I used to smoke as the reason why running for me is like the plague.  However, as we all know most things that shape our adult life can be traced back to early child hood trauma or as I call it Seventh Grade. 

Seventh Grade and my middle bully.

J. Quacking Bush the First.

As if this time in life isn’t rife with so many tortuous obstacles but the world has to give you a   J. Quacking Bush the First of your very own for all of seventh grade.

You try so hard to fit in at this time of life and every time you make a step forward into the “inner circle of cool” something makes you take about five giant steps backwards. It could be something as simple as what you bring for lunch. Or what you bring your lunch in. Why on earth would the kind of lunch bag matter for a child trying to fit in at lunch time?

Again, I ask why on earth would it matter? A brown bag is a brown bag right?
Of course a GIANT brown lunch bag would be better than the cute tiny lunch sized bags that all the other kids parents bought specifically for their cool kids to bring lunch to school in.  A GIANT brown lunch bag couldn’t cause any added anxiety to trying to blend into the cafeteria at lunch time unnoticed, could it?
It certainly wouldn’t cause a life long aversion to paper grocery sized bags that lingers on well into adult hood.
Why would it?
It’s just a GIANT. BROWN. BAG.
WE WERE ALREADY RECYCLING… IN THE EARLY EIGHTIES.
For crying out loud, my parents were just really progressive.

Lunch itself would be enough to send me spiraling off to the nurse where I would feverishly suck on the thermometer and then rub it in my hands to get the mercury to rise because trying to find a nice empty table to eat my lunch out of my GIANT paper bag was not the worst of the situation. Every lunch was accompanied by J. Quacking Bush the First staring me down and taking her wing and making a slicing motion just under her waddle. A gesture meant to get my adrenaline going, I am sure for recess, directly after lunch.

If I managed to eat my lunch I would scarf it down as quickly as possible then dispose of the evidence, evidence being the brown bag that was large enough to fit  J. Quacking Bush the First in, a thought that I wish had occurred to me back in the Seventh Grade.

*sigh* Hind sight is 20/20.

Invariably I would end up finding my way out side to the playground hearing what I thought was my heart pounding inside my head in preparation for play time. Much to my dismay it was the slow pounding of the gigantic flippers of  J. Quacking Bush the First bearing down on me. And with a quick look behind me, I was off for the better part of an hour running my fucking ass off until the bell rang.

Down hills.

Up hills.

By teachers.

Through dodge ball games.

I probably could have set myself on fire and no one would have noticed the game I was playing with  J. Quacking Bush the First. The game I like to call “Run, Run For Your Little Life Because When  J. Quacking Bush the First Catches You It’s All OVER”.

It all makes perfect sense to me now.

 Running feels like dying a slow fiery death by bully.