I am so awesome at my job, it hurts.

Have you ever received a document at work and looked at it and are like, WTF? Did Paris Hilton and LiLo write this together or something? What the hell is this shwords?* So, you take it to your boss, not your supervisor that you're chummy with, but you know, the VP of your department, and relay your concern about the clarity if not veracity of said document. And then your kind boss looks at you with her wise eyes and drops the bomb that she was in fact the author. FUCKSTICKS! Sweet Lincoln's mullet, I am a fucktard. I mumbled something about my public school education failing me in terms of reading comprehension and backed my butt out of her office. Now what?

*For the love of all things fashion, watch the fucking videos already. I would like to make jokes about this stuff for the rest of my life or at least through the next couple of weeks.

Attempt at humor FAIL!

Surely, you have been all over FAIL blog, surely. It's a good time, trust me. In an effort to prevent my premature death from extreme ultimate boredom disease, I went on the hunt for a FAIL in my own flickr account, which was hard because I only have like three pictures and one of them is of a chinchilla I would name Bobby Flay. I captioned, clicked and submitted! What do we think? Not doing it for you?



I took this photo when I was subbing for an AP/remedial English class at Noble High School when I first returned to the OK. For realz.

Hate this! Thursday

I would rather be forced to attend a Nickleback concert, while wearing Crocs and drinking a Diet Pepsi than endure car trouble. After two attempts at jumping, one resulting in a small fire, the dolphin gray, old lady mobile sits in a garage awaiting a new alternator. Not cheap! When you are on a budget of $0, this sucks. Let me tell you.

It's Veterans Day!

And you know what that means. Actually, you don't. Because today is the 2X anniversary of the exbf's expulsion from his momsters uterus. He's managed to wish me a happy birthday via text or email over the last two years, so I've determined it's time to take it up a notch, now that my heart has gone from robot to slightly less robot status. Here's what I'm thinking:

Fine. I will just send an email.

a-hem

I have a big announcement to make. This is embarrassing, but is required as part of, you guessed it, a 12 step program for AA*. Here goes.

I DO NOT HAVE AN iPHONE.

*Apple Anonymous, obvs.

The one where no one cares about my blog.

Man, if only I'd kept the genius coming instead of succumbing to the man.

This could've been me!

Hey Clinton, blogbuddy of ZFS, did that ramen come from Chinatown? Zing! Oh, no? Not a zing!? Ok.

Or this!

Lost Ogles, I met you at the NMF and you snubbed me. Then no mention in your 15 minutes of Oklahoma metro fame (which is equal to -25.8 seconds of national fame)? Ok, fair enough.

But, instead, it's just this:

Reason number 4,612πrˆ2 that I have to move out, like yesterday.

Yeah, I might still live at home a little bit. Let me tell you a story. There once was a beautiful little girl. Me.

I was a driven child, mostly due to fear of terrible retribution which might or might not have included grounding me from my Pocket Rocker™

or old school NES if I brought home anything less than an A to my school teaching parents. I grew up to repeatedly take the SAT, have nightmares about the ACT science section and busy myself with every AP class imaginable at my high school, all the while supplementing my CV with activities like Teen Volunteers, Mu Alpha Theta and National Forensics League. I did everything I was supposed to do, including dropping $1000million on application fees and even a couple of college visits. And then, the culmination of all of that hard work and unreasonable expectations was upon me. It was time to choose a college. It was then, after 18 years of grooming me for this expected achievement, that my parents let me in on a little secret. They were simply unprepared to pay for me to go to a college that cost $800,000 plus shipping and handling or any college really. The nerve. Therefore, as I attended this little school

(be sure to calculate this year's tuition, it is, most likely, more than your salary, ok, fine, just mine) I racked up more student loans than the GNP of most central African nations.

What is the moral of this tale? Because my student loan lenders (including the US Department of Education) fuck me in the ass daily, and not in the way I like, I still live with my 'rents while I save up. I would also like to blame George Bush, either of them really, the state of the US economy, the unreasonableness of private college tuition and my unwavering inability to accept employment that nudges me above the poverty level (I have a big heart boobs).

I was about to tell you the moral of this amazing story. So, tonight, I arrive home after a grueling day of potentially hiring and firing employees at random because I don't quite understand our new HR software, to a totally unappealing smell in the kitchen. It appears that my mother, in all of her culinary wisdom, had prepared a dinner of frozen chicken breasts stewed in a crockpot, covered with Prego pasta sauce. She was preparing boil in bag Minute rice as an accompaniament as well as canned peas. I would have included a picture, but it actually looked like tantalizing Indian food. But it was not. Not at all.

+ + + + =

I looked for, but couldn't find an image of Gremlin puke.

Let me know if you have any leads on places where poor ex-students can live safely or boxes or extra cash.

In which this blog is not unlike the Sooners: A post in three or some number of parts.

Act I: The season started out so promising. We had a little bit of trouble with a little bit of Colorado. But then, good news! Everyone started sucking balls! Now, including us. WTF, man. Sam! Halzle! Jesus Christ on a stick. Or whatever. I can't even talk about it. Really, I can't. Except, WTF are we paying you for, Stoops? To lose to effing Texas Tech? I don't think so. Kansas, ok, maybe because, ostensibly, they are as good as we are. Tech?!?@$*(@ You might have led us to a championship, but you've also presided over some of our worst losses. Nut up, dude. De-red shirt someone. Ask someone from the crowd to be the quarterback - like the guy who throws it through the target to win $1000 from Jason White's dealership. I can't wait to lose to OSU this week. If you don't hear from me by Wednesday of next week... A malaise fell over Norman Saturday night that not even $2.50 Shiners could and L's dad's Grateful Dead (The Jamminators!) cover band could cure. Oh, how the mighty will fall. Like this blog. One minute I'm nominted for an Oklahoma Blogger award™, the next, Sitemeter reveals that only five people read. And by people I mean Google searches for "Zach Braff's tight pants."

Part II: I can't believe I forgot to mention this! Last weekend, I left my neighborhood at about 7 to grab coffee at Starfucks before Shain and I headed of to judge a high school debate tourney (suck it). I should mention, it was exceptionally foggy this morning. Like, can't see anything. I approach the intersection where I need to make a right. I have a green light. As I'm gently nudging the gas, suddenly, this bike flies across through the intersection causing me to slam on my brakes (I wasn't going that fast, but still) and I come eye to eye with - guess! Wait for it, the exbf's mom! I almost ran her over! Ha! I mean, oops.

C) I have a habit of singing in the bathroom at work because, well, the acoustics are fucking fantastic in there. The lighting makes me look like old school Courtney Love, but the tiles make me sound like Kelly Clarkson. I wasn't really aware that my voice carried beyond the bathroom till I walked out and was greeted by a coworker who suggested, humorously, I choose to believe, that I save it for karaoke night. I'll show you karaoke.

4: Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday! - This is my latest commute mix.

Oh My God - Mark Ronson and Lily Allen: Oh my God I can't believe I like this song.
A Baby For Pree - Neutral Milk Hotel: What does it even mean?
The Anglo-Saxons - The Mountain Goats: Remember that cartoon show about history? I can't remember the name, but it was pretty much awesome.
I'd Love You - Sonya Kitchell: I would.
Superstar - Lupe Fiasco: I am.
Scattered Leaves - The Be Good Tanyas: This chick sounds like Shakira. But I like it anyway.
Mornington Crescent - Belle & Sebastian: This one's for you, Shain. Thanks for abandoning me. No, really.
The Temptation of Adam - Josh Ritter: Seriously! Why am I just getting into this guy now?
Blue Eleanor - Old Canes: I dunno. Just like it.
Needles in My Eyes - Beta Band: Puts me in a happy trance.
Oh Lately It's So Quiet - Ok Go: These guys are more than just a treadmill dance troupe.
Arcade Precinct - 1990s: What? Yeah, it's kind of awful.
Mansard Root - Vampire Weekend: Surprise! I'm in love with this! And they're coming to Norman!
Hold On - KT Tunstall: Yes. This has been or will be used in a comical montage featuring McDreamy, George, Izzie, and/or Addison. Blow me.

Section 5.1.3: The WGA and corporate TV America have got us by the balls. And we are letting them. Did you know that The Office is probably over for the season? The last new episode aired last week. Scrubs might not finish the series (Will JD and Elliot end up together? Will we ever meet Kelso's Edith? I just have to know!). And so on and so on with shows from Comedy Central to the CW. And we are letting them. So, I propose a strike against TV in general. Fuck them! We can read! Knit! Ride bikes! Smoke weed and look at fish tanks! Poetry readings! Concerts! Shows! Blogs! TV? We don't need no stinkin' TV. I'm totally serious. Until The Real Housewives of Orange Cunty are on. I love that show.

Act VI: Happy Birthday Mom! You said you don't read, but I know you do. I'm glad you were born so you could bear me.

It's not me, it's me.

I've got a secret to reveal. You might be shocked to know that I've been in a relationship for some time now. It started off really sweetly - you know, just hanging out, laughing, liking ALL the same things, blah blah blah - it was amazing, I was in love. But recently, I dunno, I'm just not feeling it. Things are kind of getting a little stale. For example, the other night, we went to bed at 9.38pm and we were happy about it. Last night, we hung out and did laundry while drafting a spreadsheet of our fall TV viewing schedule and balancing the books to see if we can afford the 80 hour TiVo. (Seriously, how am I supposed to watch all of this? Contenders are: Lost, Pushing Daisies, Dirty Sexy Money, Weeds, Dexter, Tell Me You Love Me, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, The Office, 30 Rock, How I Met Your Mother, Cash Cab, Tim Gunn's Style Guide, South Park, Everything on the Food Network, The Sarah Silverman Program and of course, According to Jim.). Right, anyway, I'm bored. Restless. We never go out anymore. I mean, we go out, but it's just not the same because you always have to be home early because you have a "job" now or something. And we're constantly disagreeing over my drinking limit. We never do anything fun anymore, unless you count internet research about which kind of multi-vitamin I should be taking or silently reading back issues of Newsweek at Panera Bread over a bowl of French onion soup on a rainy Thursday night. Basically, this isn't working for me anymore - and I hate to do this in public, but, self, we're breaking up. I think we need some time to remember what brought us together in the first place. I'm pretty sure it was excess booze, loose morals, cream sauces and TMZ.com. Let's take this time apart to remember why we were together, ok? It's really important to me that we stay friends. I really care about you. Ok, good talk.

Do you ever just have one of those days

where you get the worst haircut of your life? That just happened to me. I mean, it's not the five year old mullet or anything. I mean, it's not that good.

More later.

XOXO,
B

Later: [Hey, watch out, TMI city here.] So, I wore a thong today because I had to get all gussied up (read I am in a dress!) for a work event and didn't want any VPL action in front of the VIPs and now I have thong burn or something. Whatever it is, my crack kind of hurts a little. Suffer for fashion.

UPDATED! Cringesday!

UPDATE: Annie wins the prize for actual participation (the prize is, of course, nothing). This will catch on. It will. Just wait for next week.

It's more embarrassing for my sister (she's the one wiht the tragic hair on the bottom), but it was definitely my idea to pose like this. I was always convincing her to put on pointless "shows" that ended with her on the floor and me looking easy-breezy-beautiful on top of the world. That's definietly cringe-y.

***********************************************************************************

Due to the most recent event in the life of LiLo that actually makes Katie Holmes glad she's a drugged, Scientologist mother of an alien, I am discontinuing Goulet Wednesday News Round Up. I'm no longer challenged. Between LaLohan's antics, Britney's downward spiral into the mere footnotes of Shar Jackson's biography, Nicole's babybulemic, and Paris' post prison extension emergency, quite frankly, I'm disgusted. With Perez Hilton.

So, instead, because I like the idea of blog features because I don't like the idea of actually writing anything because I'm pretty horrible at it, I've come up with Cringesday. What is Cringesday you ask and how do you stand being so beautiful and deal with all of those marriage proposals? Well, Cringesday is where I post a horrifying story, picture, piece of writing, or other memento from my youth and expect you to do the same (fine - I just made that other part up). It's like free therapy but without the credentials, drugs and results (but hopefully with the shame, tears and copays - for me). Come on! You might like it. (For serious, I'm almost 100% sure that no one will take me up on this, but seriously, send me a pic/story/scan something mortifying and I'll throw it up here. It'll be fun fun fun! We're all friends. Except you, Shain. Lacey, I know for a fact you have something to share.)

Cringenesday #1: The Five Year Old Mullet.

Yup, that's me, circa 1986ish. Let me tell you about kindergarten. I failed skipping in P.E. Fucking failed it like LiLo's field sobriety test. The best part about having a mullet when you're 5 or 6 or whatever, is that it can't get worse, right? Oh, yes it can and it's called a perm + mall bangs. Stay tuned.

Your turn! So, who's with me? This is my Jerry Maguire moment except even Renee Zellweger's squinty eyes aren't even following me out of the building.