Holy Shit.

The Best Day Ever.

The next morning...

Don't Make Eye Contact.

You sit on the toilet, enjoying yourself.
You can feel your cat staring at you.
Waiting...

You know you shouldn't, but you make eye contact anyway.

She takes this as an invitation to come and sit on you.

And you know what's about to happen.
But there is nothing you can do to stop this.

"Hey, Mom!"

And she will always miss...

You Just Ruined My Whole Day.

Every guy that tries to hit on me always asks me what kind of music I like.

I'll be having a wonderful time when they approach.


I can see the thought quivering through their brain as they approach me.
I know the question is coming.

"Huhhh...I'm going to ask you about music because I have nothing going for me..."

I despise this question, because I honestly don't have a favorite, and I listen to such a wide variety of music.

So, they usually just tell me what kind of music they like.
And it's always horrible music.
It makes them so mad because I don't like their shitty music.


For example, I hate what "alternative rock" has become.
It's like 500 bands with the same members playing under different names.

I don't like death metal either.
I imagine that they are really tender hearted on the inside.

And it just makes them seem whiny.

Now, I will admit that I do like some rap music.
But only a very small variety of rap.

What I really hate, is when gangstas leave their running vehicles unattended with rap music blaring.
And the bass is so high that it sounds like their car is taking a really intense dump.

Now, one band that I really, really hate is Metallica.

They were wrong for complaining about not making money because of the whole Napster ordeal.
No one was buying their music in the first place.

See, I hate them so much I didn't even feel like actually drawing a picture of them.

Another band I do not like is The Grateful Dead.

I love psychedelic music. I love most music from that era.
But no one wants to listen to twenty minutes of hippies trippin' balls and poking around at their instruments.

The Plastics Factory.

I recently started working in a plastics factory.
The kind that makes highly disturbing medical equipment.
Like blood sucking devices and bins to hold body parts.

Most of the people I work with are nice.

(Note: The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Here, we have Moby. My work BFF.
And here we have, Carlo Castillano.
My lovely boss, Rita Hayworth.
And this man, Lyle. He loves Jesus.

But some of the people I work with are quite scary and sometimes weird.

For example: Here we have Pumba. He babbles on constantly and no one can understand a word he says.
Everyone just looks to each other hoping someone caught what he said.
And here we have, Shannon. He likes to talk about Metallica and hatin' blacks.

I spend most of my days at work cowering in complete terror.


The machines we use are like giant, scary, metal monsters.
Absolutely horrifying.
It reminds me of being trapped in a Saw movie.
And those movies are terrible to begin with.


They beep constantly in hunger.
Saying "Feed me plastic!"...."AND MORE GLUE!!"



We also have this tape machine, that I like to call 'Little David'.
Little David spends most of his time kicking me in the knees.
Once, he actually bit me on the hand.



And this is pretty much an actual representation of what I look like after a day of work at the plastics factory.

Some Good Shit.

One handsome evening, my friend Javier called up to tell me that he was bringing us "some great shit".


After waking up Max to tell her the good news, we waited for Javier's arrival.
He showed up some while later with the goods....


Which turned out to be a plastic bag and a can of air duster.

He then proceeded to inhale the air duster out of the plastic bag that he sprayed it in...


After sucking all of the substance into his lungs, he looks up at us slowly...
Laughing maniacally.
And drooling all over my carpet...


After this, we promptly showed him out the door.
Completely terrified and deeply disappointed that we didn't get any real "good shit".

Cryptic Messages.

Sometimes, I leave myself little notes.
To remind myself of humorous things or something I wanted to write about.

When I go back to read these little bits of information, I generally have no idea what I was talking about.

So, I've decided to compile some of these cryptic messages and illustrate them with what I can only assume that they meant.




"Riding a motorbike...Cats having sex..."

(Side note: My boyfriend claims that my motorbike looks like an angry horned sparrow with an under-developed wing, that just got back from a frat party and is throwing up an additional arm...)

"Photography, cow eyes, Playboy magazines."

"CAT SHIT!!!"

"I have to reconstruct her breasts from scratch with Bisquick."

"Looking in the doctor's bag... Unsatisfactory!"

"Dr. Quinne Medicine Bitch"