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.

Again.

I know.

IRRESISTBLE.

You see even though I haven’t written here in like a month or so, if you want to call that last piece of shit that actually took me longer than four hours to compose, writing? Not much has changed.

I am still a drooly, spittly mess of a non-social creature. Yet I constantly put my self into situations that require me to be (big fucking finger quotes here)

“SOCIAL”

Who could really blame me any way for being so socially shy when one of the two things I can remember from this past summer was hearing about a woman who lost her esophagus and needed part of her tummy turned into her BRAND NEW ESOPHAGUS…albeit swollen esophagus that was now in desperate need of an extra large jacket to  fit over her enlarged esophagus. 

 Holy hell…how do you lose your esophagus you  filthy slut…?

Just kidding.

Seriously though all I could think was ” Were you in Deep Throat? Because you don’t look anything like that nice lady from that movie!“ but it was like 800 years ago so if it was you and what with all that hard work you put in…you deserve a new throat! Or at least a really fucking rad coat for that shiny new esophagus…which is exactly why I am so good at what I do.

I make swollen whore throats all the rage.

P.S. I am doing a fundraiser.
I have totally been obnoxious about it and I am okay with that.
It’s to benefit the 31 Children who lost a parent in the Chinook Helicopter crash last month in Afghanistan.
The fundraiser is called Fight Gone Bad 6 (it’s the 6th year it’s been happening, my first)  and they are dedicating this years money raised to providing every one of those children with a college scholarship and
whoa…look at me, some how I became the team captain.
My link, should you feel up to donating, is right here.
A Vapid Blonde Does Good.

If you require more info please, please, please, email me at avapidblonde (@) gmail (dot) com and I will answer all your questions.

You can donate to me/my team up until Friday at 6:00 pm (PDT)

It’s a great cause and if you want to see more and not email me…go here.

XOXO

(this is a little of what I have been up to lately.)

Sometimes though when you make fun of your self  it  back fires on you. Like for instance way back in October I mentioned that I may have a fang boob because who on earth would be growing teeth, much less fangs in a boob. 

*Sigh*

I should know better, what with my history with fangs and shit. *
(*not literal shit)

See I had to have a follow up mamogram six months after the Fang Boob incident and when it was over they made me wait to talk to an actual radiologist who informed me that they were following some calcifications, which sounded an awful lot like teeth,  in my FANG BOOB apparently.  And then I had to wait a whole week with these fangs before they pulled them out.
Like teeth.
In a boob.

A Fang Boob that is.

I might add that going to the dentist and having a  second root canal on top of a root canal may have been more fun. Especially since I at least took a xanax for the double root canal procedure.

They were all trying to be nice but honestly in these situations ones dignity is usually compromised severely while they are playing stretch armstrong with you and your fang boob, who by the way, decided not to bite back.

 Have I mentioned I’m claustrophobic?
Not elevator claustrophobic but like if you rolled me in a yellow blanket to make me look like a bananna and wouldn’t let me out I would totally panic kind of claustrophobic.
(true story)

So when I was laying face down with my fang boob stretched as far out the door as it could be while being squeezed flat like a chicken cutlet being yelled at to stop moving…I started crying. And then I saw that my mascara leaked all over their nice pillow case and I started crying more and when they decided it was the wrong angle and flipped me over and repositioned me two more times until they finally, two hours, later figured out how they were going to pull my fangs out I was done. But not before they put a titanium marker clip in my now fangless boob leaving me only slightly bruised with a Bionic Boob. Because wasn’t the Bionic Man full of titanium…or is it Wolverine that’s full of that stuff.

But what they found in those fangs was even better.

Nothing.

Nothing in those fangs were bad. Those fangs were tip top shape and who knows why they showed up probably just another genetic mutation on my part.

Days went by and soon Bionic Boob gave way to being FrankenBoob © what with how green and purple it eventually became and some how when they removed the fangs they may have taken out my writing mojo as evidenced by my lack of posting in well over a month.

Possibly going on two months but who’s counting?

Well, me that’s who.

And since its “Chicken With It’s Head Cut Mostly Off Season” I suspect that things will be a little desolate around here.

But I’m still here, poking around the back end.

Of my blog you perv!

*Panting wildly at all that exertion*
*makes note to do more cardio*

*Feels around in the dark for vacuum hose to fend off Monster Dust Bunny that’s come to kill us all*

*Holds breath, turns on vacuum, sucks that fucker up*

*Flops down on the floor, waiting for another axe to fall*

It doesn’t come.
Nothing.
Just silence.

And then a realization.

Someone hit the mute button, put in earplugs and is wearing TWO eye patches.
See nothing, say nothing, hear nothing.

After I was probed by aliens in the first week of May leaving me with  *FrankenBoob © , all I could muster was that lame ass post about how the Internet, God Bless it’s tiny little heart of stone, was trying to coerce me into becoming a vampire slut hooker.
And that’s when I locked my self in the basement in a time of nothingness.
Grey.
Rain.
Rain.
Grey Rain.
And went insane.
Slowly.
And surely.

Lost all of my marbles…Once a-fucking-gain but only for a moment.
Because I had sights to see.
Horses to lose my shirt on.
Plagues to contract.
Days that needed me to do nothing but roll around on the couch in a foggy agony of cold meds that do nothing but make me slightly more stupid.
And then another realization that my floor was/is getting furry/furrier by the minute and soon, like that liquid metal guy from that terminator movie the fur will, with out a shadow of a doubt, turn into another Monster Dust Bunny.
Right now as I type this I can see out of my tiny little hole I made in one eye patch, the fur? Is gathering strength. It is rolling across the floor carried on the balmy waves of air wafting through, around, over and under me, the couch the table and chairs. Scooping up the bloody carcasses of the Malignant Mosquito’s From Outer Space that I shot with the Sig 9 mm, with my very own hands, right out of the Mother Fucking Air!
These fur balls are going to be one bad ass MOFO to contend with.
Just as soon as I get me (or my) shit together.
Just as soon as I take a nap.

Just as soon as I figure out what the hell that  Fiery Blazing Ball of What Can Only Be Pure Evil is, in the sky.
Making my eyeballs burn if I take off the pirate patches.
Making my skin turn pink if I stand out in it longer than the time it takes to load the shot gun.
Making my toes thaw out from the blocks of ice, that I have grown so fond of.
This  fiery blazing ball of evil in the sky has made these blocks of ice melt away like the Wicked Witch of The East.
Or something.

And now…

In the quiet I can smell the farenheit. I can hear the mercury rise

It is now The Hot Season.

And I am in Hell.

Exactly where I love to be.

(pretty sure I have all of my fingers and thumbs and hands. Yet I find this picture of my left hand to be totally creepy.)

It’s hot.

AND…

So. Am. I.
(**)

P.S. *More on the FrankenBoob © later. But lets just say everything is fine and  nothing is wrong.

P.P.S. ** I realize that saying  ”So. Am. I.”, in reference to the hot temps,  might make me sound like I am tooting my own horn, but really I have been sweating my balls off today (much to The Dishes approval) which is something I haven’t done since August  2010.

Let’s stroll through some of the suggestions The Internet believes I am looking for, like a  lost puppy needing a home, all alone on the world wide web…shall we?

EBAY???
(said with complete exasperation)

*dramatic head roll while rolling eyes way back in head*

Oh EBay, I thought we were going to keep this our little secret…you know I can’t have the world know about this side of me? Some people out there already think I’m a tranny, now you want them to think I’m a tranny hooker…a tranny stripper maybe?
Not nice EBay, not nice at all.

Um…I know I talk a little bit about strippers and such but I’m not sure how these would go over at work, you know the place that isn’t named Shotgun Willies where I go on a daily basis to make money in the form of a paycheck and not dollar bills stuffed into my g string.
 For fucks sake you can’t even see my g string at work.

Usually. 

Amazon, you really need to stop plying me with high school slut dolls, even if they are vampires or zombies.  Amazon, you know  if I wasn’t so against dolls this might be a doll I would buy but I have to tell you that this one is kind of a slap in the face because I am A Vapid Blonde, not A Vampire Blonde and I am not in high school and I was never a slut.
Not for quite sometime now, Amazon.
So if you don’t mind could you get your facts straight?

Not to mention am I crazy or does she look like a stripper too?

I have been contemplating a career change, but  how does the Internet know this?

Oh Zappos, we used to be so close. We used to have such wonderful one night stands but this…this abomination is something I can not get past. Why in the hell would you think these are what I’ve been needing all my life?

Since when did I turn into Alfonso Ribeiro, Zappos?
You’ve seen my closet…you’ve provided me with hours of entertainment and I’m not talking a little soft shoe over here I’m talking some good old hard core shoe porn.

For shame Zappos, even EBAY knows me better.
You’re way more likely to find those tranny heels up there in my closet than these…uh, I don’t even think I can call them shoes they are so fucking awful. 

Oh wait, hold on Zappos I’ll be ready in a moment I just need to put on my Tic Tac Toe’s and my Members Only jacket and I am ready for my big night out at the roller rink where I will “moonlight” skate ALONE!!!

Thanks Zappos, not only have you doomed me to a life stuck in 1982, you’ve cursed me into being a middle aged man going through a mid life crisis, driving a metallic burgundy convertible Sebring wearing my tic tac toes, members only jacket and a pink popped collar polo shirt.

But wait Zappos, there is one piece of this puzzle that is missing.

Don’t you see it?

It’s glaringly absent from my new image.

So much so that there is no way I can pull off my new swarthy slick image with out this piece.

There is no middle aged, tic tac toe, members only wearing, Sebring driving, crisis having man with out one.

The comb over.

It suits me, no?

Now I have to go to my stylist and convince her that cutting my hair into a comb over is a most excellent idea because that will complete the entire ensemble.

I am so excited by this make over that you have given me.

But really, Zappos, you shouldn’t have.

 How can I ever repay you?

“Ferme la puerto”

When there were no doors open and quite possibly doesn’t even mean any thing in any language

“Cue delle luci”

Which caused the couple to look at me oddly because they probably thought I was a swinger or something but really I’m just awkward and no amount of wine will ever help that.
Trust me.
I tried.
I tried real hard last night.

And this morning I woke up with my left arm asleep and my pinky all tingly which I then said to The Dish that it all probably means I am dying and he very supportively told me that it was more likely that I was already dead and should probably take an advil.

So I did.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

I’m thinking my parents had no idea that I left the house in a pair of shoes that have been sexy since 1980. Or that my pants were that tight. Or that the reason I put these things on was in a valiant effort to lower my self esteem another notch to gain THE BOY’S attention only to be completely ignored.
Not even the cover girl ocean blue eyeliner I smuggled out of the house and put on in the girls room would make him look my way.

Back on the bus on a field trip to somewhere as horrifying, no doubt, as the bus ride itself, a rousing  game of truth or dare broke out and that’s when I sunk down as low as possible  in my seat so as not to be noticed. Come to think of it I may have tried to sit under the seat. I certainly was SHORT enough to do that.  I am convinced when you are trying not to be noticed it’s like all the lights get turned down and the spotlight comes on and finds you underneath a bus seat and people are daring THE BOY to french kiss you which was making me want to throw up because, like I said, the only thing I had kissed was my parents, and maybe Davey Jones on the TV screen while watching  The Monkees.

Oh and that poster of Erik Estrada.

Yes.

I kissed a poster of Erik Estrada.

More than once.

Shut up.

 He’s still got it.

Fourteen year olds are horrible  relentless things I must say because, soon I found my self with my lips pursed, my tongue ever so slightly sticking out of my mouth with THE BOY ferociously licking my entire face so much that I think he was trying to lick my skin off.

French Kissing was definitely not for me.
Ever again.
Even more so because he then told everyone that when we kissed, I spit in his mouth.

*Blink*
*Blink*
*Blink*

Uh, how is that even possible?

Apparently he eventually decided that he really enjoyed short girls who spit in his mouth.
(Kinky at 17 who knew anything like that even existed.)
Because years and years later, three to be exact, I actually started “going out” with THE BOY.
Which consisted of driving to parks and sitting on picnic benches while he desperately tried to lick the skin off  of my face all the time.

 I guess my spitting llama technique  must have haunted him in his dreams for all those years.

He was very passionate and I was very, um how do you say it…completely nonsexual.

Also extremely fond of the skin on my face so I ended up “breaking up’ with him.

At the time I was working a very high profile job in the fashion industry where I spent my days avoiding dusting shelves and folding sweaters in a mall store called Chaps.

CHAPS???

What the hell was going on in the 80′s, it was all like sex and drugs or something and I was like a 17 year old little girl who played with tiny fake mice (because I hated dolls)  who lived in a giant unfinished doll house all day long alone in  my bedroom. 

I was a late bloomer.

Well THE BOY would stand vigil directly outside of Chaps staring at my every move. Every shift. Every damn day until I had avoided doing so much fashion work that I got fired.

And I am pretty sure that was the end of him.

Or that I completely made this all up because I’ve scoured three years of high school year books and I find no evidence that he even existed.

Or maybe I just can’t remember his name.

I’ve lost my mind.

I kind of feel like a chicken running around with its head mostly cut off.

So yes I have lost my mind and I blame my squatting gym.

I’ve pretty much reduced  The Dish to wearing ear plugs because there is nothing else I can talk about other than the major amount of squatting I’ve been doing while pulling up my yoga pants around my arm pits, over my boobs, because really?

How HOT is that?
*licks finger*
*sticks it on ass*
*makes sizzle noise*

(I do realize I used that in my post for Studio 30 last week but c’mon I am all that and a bag of chips! That, or I’m just a one trick pony.)

I now possess a perfect POWER SNATCH!!!??? 

Haa haa haaa haaa haaa haa.

Now that I know I have a POWER SNATCH I am not really sure what to do with it…because, you know having one…and knowing what to DO with one are two completely different things. 

So do I just walk around all day displaying my POWER SNATCH to anyone who wants to see.
Or do I only bust it out on certain occasions.
Like after a dinner party when the usual splits have gotten old.
Or do I charge for POWER SNATCH demo’s.

Yo’ Twenty large for  POWER SNATCH show.

Yes I am at the mercy of my POWER SNATCH.

Now that I have one and have fine tuned it I have no fucking idea what to do with it.

P.S. It occured to me that you might want to see what a POWER SNATCH is so here you go.

From: A Vapid Blonde

To: Every Single Special Person In My Contacts Even If I Have No Idea Who The Hell You Are

Hey!!!!!!! I was thinking about you and thought I’d drop you an email. Hope all is well. Oh and by the way…
THIS IS HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU NOW SEND THIS FUCKER ON TO EVERY HUMAN WHO YOU THINK IS SUPER FUCKING FANTASTIC…

THIS IS FOR REAL. PASS THIS ON TO ALL THE SPECIAL HUMANS IN YOUR LIFE TO SHOW THEM HOW MUCH YOU CARE, INCLUDING ME MOTHERFUCKER. AND DON’T BREAK THE CHAIN OR YOUR LEFT EYEBALL WILL POP OUT IN FOUR DAYS. IT WORKS. TRUST ME.

From: A Vapid Blonde

To: Every Single Special Person In My Contacts Even If I Have No Idea Who The Hell You Are (and by special I now mean self centered bitches who ignore the love I am sending you through email)

THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT.

DO.

NOT.

DELETE.

IF YOU DO ALL THE UNICORNS IN THE WORLD WILL START POOPING ACTUAL SHIT AND IT WILL BE ALL YOUR FAULT.

IF YOU ARE RECEIVING THIS IT IS BECAUSE YOU CHOSE TO IGNORE MY LAST  EMAIL OF LOVE AND LIGHT BUT BECAUSE I AM BETTER THAN YOU I WILL FORGIVE YOU AND WILL SEND YOU MY HEART. 

 NOW PASS THIS ON TO EVERY HUMAN YOU CARE ABOUT OR YOU WILL MAKE THIS CREEPY LITTLE ANIMATED NO EYED GIRL RIP HER DEAD AND BROKEN HEART OUT. DON’T FOR GET TO SEND IT BACK TO ME OR I WILL SEND YOU HER DEAD AND BROKEN HEART THROUGH THE U.S. MAIL.

XOXO
VAPID

From: A Vapid Blonde

To: Every Single Special Person In My Contacts Even If I Have No Idea Who The Hell You Are (and by special I now mean cold heartless catty people who ignore my EXTREMELY heart felt emails that I take minutes out of my day to compose and send to you.)

DON’T WORRY. LIFE IS WONDERFUL. RAINBOWS STILL EXIST. SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED TO OPEN YOUR EYES TO SEE THE BEAUTY AROUND YOU.

So if you send me a chain email let this serve as fair warning that you may just get one back from me with a lot less love and a whole hell of a lot more kitten blood.