Was President Lincoln OK?

I like kitties! Yay!

Furthermore... I turned 25 yesterday. Hooray me for not dying in a toxic hair dying accident or ending up on the street performing fellatio for crack rocks. That makes me a winner.

Also, I'm trying to get back at it, you know, keeping up with this "blogging" thing you crazy kids keep talking about. I know full well I've sucked ass at blagging in recent months, and I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I've been skimping on my "twatting," as Kathy Griffin calls it, and drawing fantastic Sharpie portraits too. But Ima do better now, I swear.

Kate In a Box

Check me out on Polyvore. I'm Obsesssssssssssed.

Kate In A Box by cigarettekate featuring GAP

Sin Nombre

Yeah yeah. I know. It's been a month. A few days over a month. I've been way busy, alright? Lay off me.

OK, you know as well as I that I have not been way busy. I just...I dunno. It's not really that I don't have anything to say, I just don't feel much like saying it. I'd rather play mahjong. Or Facebook stalk. Or stare absent-mindedly at my computer screen in a way that would suggest that I'm deep in thought about some work related issue, when really I've just allowed my eyes to go out of focus and it feels so good, and why blink if I don't have to?

I can't promise I'm back blagging regularly again, but I do swear to put in much more of an effort than I have been. That being said, here's some quickie updates as to my life at the moment:

1. I dyed my hair black. It wasn't really intended to be emo black, but it sorta looks that way. It's almost inspiring me to cut bangs so that I can master The Swoosh by Halloween. Then all I'd need was some dollar store thick framed glasses, my black converse, and some wrist bandages. Cheapest costume EVER.

2. I'm reading Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys and it's wonderful. It's prepared me dualy for Bubba's return from the big city to this small one, and also my future as an unmarried fag hag/CCL.

3. I've started referring to my roommate and her horrible, balding, mustache adorned, abusive boyfriend as "Spiedi." I'm sure you can infer the rest.

4. I fucking love Glee. Watch it.

Other than that, things are pretty much the same. I'm still fat and sassy and a functioning alcoholic. I also need a Diet Pepsi like now, so I'm outta here. Catch ya on the flip side.

Not Feelin this NYC Shit

And I Said What About Breakfast at Tiffany's

I am in love. With the color wheel. And my new free Adobe design suites. And Kuler. Hasta never. I'll prolly never leave the Kuler website.

WWTD?

I sent my brother the link for the movie adaptation of Tucker Maxx's book I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell and this is what ensued:

Charlemagne: Looks good

Kate: I'm so pumped. Did you read the book?

Charlemagne: What kind of question is that?

Kate: Oh right. You can't read. What was I thinking?

Charlemagne: If you'll pardon me for just a moment, you are in fact a turd sandwich.



I am so counting the days until September 25th. Word.

Make It Work

Getting super stoked on the Project Runway premier tonight. Stalking Jay McCarroll to get myself in the right mind frame. LOVE his sunglass line. Gimme these:

Vee Eye Effing Pee

Good news, ya'll. You can now follow me on twitter. Cuz everyone needs to know what I'm doing at all times. Word.

In other news, I'm refusing to sleep with the most recent QB until he accepts my Facebook friend request. I don't think this is too much to ask.

Mi Caballito Pequeno

We haven't had some good witty banter in a while. Here's a treat of a convo Charlemagne and I had this afternoon.

It starts off with Charlemagne sending me a link with this as the caption: POBRE ANIMAL SUFRIO BRUTAL EMBESTIDA MIENTRAS CRUZABA LA CALZADA EL CABALLO MURIO EN EL ACTO Y EL PILOTO SALIO ILESO DEL PERCANSE ..COMENTA PUNTUA Y SUSCRIBE AUTO CARRO ATROPELLO ON THE HORSE DEATH

Kate: Did you just send me a video about dead ponies?

Charlemagne: Is a horse a pony?

Kate: No. But a pony is a small horse.

Charlemagne: Then yes. It's about dead ponies.

Kate: I do not want to watch that one bit.

Charlemagne: He doesn't die in the video.

Kate: but you said...

Charlemagne: They put it down after. But not in the video.

Kate: Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Charlemagne: Glue factory.

Kate: Why don't you just send me pictures of dead kittens while you're at it? Omg I'm going to cry.

Charlemagne: But I didn't send you any pictures of dead kittens.

Kate: I know but now I'm thinking about dead kittens.

Charlemagne: :(

Trottinette

I would like to marry these:
That is all.

Yes Yes Ya'll

www.shopstyle.com Love it. You can stalk your favorite designers from the comfort of just one website. Hooray.

Also, perhaps I can curb the boot crisis early this year by purchasing these:


It's like sweaters on your feet!

Don't Sniff the Foul Lines, Daryl

According to Urban Outfitters, "Kate by Kate Moss is a true life portrait of the fashion legend, capturing her wild essence, her natural sexiness and her unending freedom of spirit. Kate's fragrance tempts and thrills - it seduces and mystifies. It is a call to all women to unveil their authenticity, sensuality and spontaneous beauty. Layered notes of vetiver, orange blossom absolute, magnolia, heliotrope, patchouli, peony, rose, musk, pink peppercorns, forget me not, lily of the valley and sandalwood."

I think it smells like cocaine and anorexia.

You Crazy You

Despite the fact that I've been driving around with not one, but two of his CDs in my 6 disk changer for probably close to a year now, I just remembered just how much I fucking love Ryan Montbleau. Like, let's run away to Vegas and get hitched Elvis style love. Tattoo his name in a heart with an arrow on my left ass cheek love. Sure, I'll blow you while you watch football and then go make you a sandwich love. Yeah. It's that serious.

I know it's legit too, because he is a short person, and usually they make me uncomfortable. And also, I bummed a cigarette to his drummer, and later on in the night said drummer wrestled my friend Katie on the lawn in front of the bar.

Until We Meet Again...

Someday, my friend, Someday.

"Tinsley" by Sam Edelman.

I tried on one of my old three inch pumps yesterday and it hurt so bad, I thought I might actually die. I kinda don't think I'll be wearing four and a half inch wedges anytime soon. FML.

I Like Turtles

Bloggers are too fucking weird. Check out pizzapower for proof. Although, to be fair, I did get inspiration for my next manicure.

I Die.

Droooooooling.

Cartier's Libre collection.

And I don't even wear watches.

All Your Dreams Are Dead

This might actually be a sign of the apocalypse.

Locusts, boils, and Croc-Ugg crossover boots.

Unacceptable.

Dead Man's Chungs

Maaaaaaaaad weirdo props if you can guess the title quote. I know Tank could.

So anyvay, at first I'm all, who the balls is this British bitch interviewing my imaginary celebrity friends? And then I'm like, no seriously- who are you? and what are you smoking?

Then I'm like, you're kinda awkwardly funny. I think I like you. Can I get some of what you're smoking?

Then I'm like, did you just ask Emile Hirsch what not to microwave?

And finally, I'm like, Dear Alexa: please be my best friend. We would have a stellar time mocking reality TV stars and smoking what you Brits call "fags." Call me! XOXO- Kate.

Love You. Mean It.

Back from vacation. How was it, you ask? Well... it went a little something like this:

Sunshine. Sunburn. Swollen ankle. Rain rain. Monopoly. Sharpie tattoos. Dreadlocks. Hot tub jumping. Sore throat. Fever. Swine flu? Eastbound and Down. Cough drops. Art show. Wine Tour. Downpour. Private party. Underbutt. Hangover.

So now I'm back at work, and the weather is the nicest it's been for the entire week I had off. To show my disdain for my return to the grind, I will be reading My Cardboard Life for the rest of the day. Damn the man. Save the empire.

If You Jump On the Bed You Will Go to Hell

Started reading YU+ME: dream, a surreal lesbian webcomic yesterday because I was bored and too hungover to work. I'm continuing reading it today, because it is AWESOME and the protagonist's conscience speaks in ebonics.

Thanks, Facebook!

Oh those Facebook quizzes. The latest told me that if I were a character on It's Always Sunny in Philedelphia, I'd be Sweet Dee because "[I] make lots of big plans but [I] lack ambition and talent. [I'm] highly sensitive about [my] shortcomings but [I'm] aggressively outspoken and often prone to violence when angered."

Too true. Too true. I didn't need a Facebook quiz to tell me that I am the living, breathing Dee Reynolds, but the synopsis at the end was worth the three minutes I spent stealing from company time. Who needs therapy when there's the internet?

WTF, Mate?

I'm sorry, where was this when I had to wear an ace bandage every day?

And... slit your wrist bracelets? Extra joint rings? Weird. The garden party aid? Brilliant.

Things Were Good When We Were Young

This is now my new desktop background. I may spend the majority of the day with all documents minimized just sighing happily.

Fun fact: when googling Daniel Sunjata, the first thing that popped up was "Daniel Sunjata Girlfriend." Seems like there are other Miss Lonelys out there who think that they've got a shot with celebrities they've never met as long as said celebrity is not dating Mandy Moore.

I will never forgive her for stealing Zach Braff from me.

Kick-Ass Red Lip Stick

Alright, so I heard about Gwenyth Paltrow's GOOP newsletter a while back (yeah, I rolled my eyes too) but never actually took the time to check it out. The excerpt I read via another source included this quote: "If your bowel movements get sluggish, you can accelerate things by drinking half a cup of castor oil or using a mild herbal laxative. Bowel elimination is paramount for correct detoxification." Sluggish bowel movements? Ugh. Thanks, Gwyneth, I've read enough.

When the whole GOOP subject popped up again recently, I decided I had to check it out and read good ole Gwyn's words-o-wisdom for myself. I prepared to snicker and scoff at her high brow, new age-y self-righteousness and be utterly disgusted by her suggestions. The homepage didn't help its case any by reading, "GOOP: Nourish the Inner Aspect." Oh I'll nourish it, G. You bet I will.

So I continued perusing, and what I found was, well, it was... not terrible. Kinda interesting, actually. The detox articles intrigued me, minus the whole castor oil for bowel elimination thing. In another newsletter, she lists her favorite restaurants and hotels in New York. In another, she lists the favorite movies of several famous directors. Her short 75 or so words of narration at the beginning of each section didn't even annoy me, even if it did always end with an electronic signature reading "Gwyneth" in what looks like Mistral in italic. It wasn't snarky. It wasn't bubbly. In fact, it was rather mellow and calm. I could almost hear Ms. Paltrow saying it to me in her kinda spacey, kinda profound voice.

I think I liked it. And at first I was really ashamed with myself for liking it, but then I stopped and wondered why. Gwyneth Paltrow has always come off as pretty smart and well spoken. She didn't ever flash her cooter to the paparazzi or do a reality series. She's won academy awards. Why wouldn't she have insightful opinions? Then I remembered why I had assumed it would be complete and utter garbage from the get go: she named her child Apple. Apple. It's not even a nice sounding word. It doesn't mean anything especially interesting. Actually, I've just repeated it so many times in my head that it doesn't mean anything at all.

Apple is not a name, Gwyneth, it's a type of pie. But of course, she wouldn't know from pie; she's too busy with her liquid detox diets and make ya shit pills. All in all, I think I'll call this one a draw.

The Future's Not Ours to See

My brand new Betsy Johnson glasses.

If I could make out with eyewear, I'd want seven minutes in a closet with these babies.

Your Aura is Purple

Whoa, man. That's really out there.

That's What She Said

Because I'm nice (and self absorbed) I'm providing ya'll with a Kate-to-English Dictionary for those of you who can't figure out what the fuck I'm talking about.

FML: Fuck My Life. Not my coinage, of course, but so effective in so many situations.

GBF: Gay Best Friend. The counterpart to the Fag Hag.

Ginger: A person of the redheaded persuasion. Although they have no souls, I find myself secretly attracted to them.

HS BF: High School Boyfriend.

QB: Quasi-Boyfriend. Fuck Buddy. Friend with Benefits. Slampiece.

SML: StepMom Lady.

Tater: A female of the chunky persuasion. Usually one with a pretty face, who just needs to lose a few. Dudes usually put them in the friend zone and torture the shit of them.

The cast of characters:

Bubba: My delightfully witty and energetic GBF. He's cute as a button.

Charlemagne: My too smart for his own good younger brother. We frequently have enlightening conversations during the work day about such subjects as taters, gingers, and n00bs who can't move gud.

Lucifer: My mother. Also referred to as "Rosette."

Katelyn Durden: My best friend and soulmate who ran away to join the circus.

Paws: My father. He is an animal behavior specialist.

PB: My dangerbike riding, story telling friend. He's also a master at crushing my self esteem.

Roommate: Some chick that I live with. Her name is Kate too.

SML: My step-mother. She's a cheating whore.

Tank: My littlest brother. Not sure if I've shared any of the gems from his life yet, but I will. He's one in a million, and when he grows up, he wants to be a bunny.

Why Couldn't the Pirate Get Into the Movie?

Because it was rated ARRR.


Totally coveting these Mui Mui baroque wedges. They look like pirate ships, and that is awesome.

Kittens for Obama

I fucking love these.

And sadly, pretty much everything else on this site, because as it turns out, I am secretly still a 14 year old emo girl. Get me to the mall.

In other news, I'm due to get a new phone, yet am so sad to part with my Krazr. That bitch has withstood many a drunken tumble, spilled beer, and tobacco filled purse. You've got large shoes to fill, new phone.

Also, why are there consistently single sneakers in the middle of the road? Always sneakers, and always just one. Where are these shoes coming from? How is it that people are losing their footwear midtraffic? I don't understand these things.

And finally, I'm looking for a birthday card that says "Sorry I didn't get you a better present, dad. I spent all my money on cigarettes and emergency contraceptive." If you happen upon one, let me know.

Seriously, Seriously.

PB's Let's-Crush-Kate's-Ego quote came early this week.

PB: You look like Grey. From Grey's Anatomy.

Kate: I've heard. Is it cuz I'm always whining and disheveled looking?

PB: Yup. I think that's a good conclusion.

Awesome. I get by with a little help from my friends.

Erase Yourself and You'll Be Free

Top Ten Things I'm so not totally all about right now:

1. 3 hour long high school graduation ceremonies. Twenty minutes into the guest speaker's address (and an hour an a half into the program) I shouldn't have to turn to the guy next to me and say, "What the fuck is this asshole talking about?".

2. My home computer shitting the bed. So what if I got you for my own high graduation and have done nothing at all to maintain you and am constantly downloading garbage and visiting insecure sites? You should love me unconditionally. Upload my pictures, dammit!

3. That bitch, Danielle on the real housewives of New Jersey. Wea wea wea. Get some more Botox.

4. The rest of those bitches on the real housewives of New Jersey. If I hear the words "bubbies" or "the book" one more time, I'm going to slit my wrists.

5. The gray-ass fucking sky right now. I want to go play outside and it's threatening to rain on my parade, literally. Get some Zoloft, Mother Nature. I've got some Kan Jamming to do.

6. Lovely isn't it?

7. The City School District laying off 200 teachers. Fuck you, you fucking fuckers.

8. Noserings that cause that perpetual booger feeling. I suppose I could just take it out, but it's sooooo pretty.

9. The Facebook status updates about Michael Jackson. None of you knew him personally. I hate child molesters, that song from Free Willy and all of you.

10. Tyra Banks. Always and forever.

Make a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul

Top Ten Things I am so totally all about right now:

1. My new pseudo-nephew, T-dogg. Happy day one, baby boy!

2. Urban Fairies. This needs to happen in my home, office, and perhaps even car.

3. Wristcutters: A Love Story. The lighter side of suicide.

4. Green Porno. "I am the praying mantis..."

5. SUNDANCE Channel On Demand. Can ya tell from numbers 3 and 4?

6. Buying presents for the newly graduated. Each congratulatory card will be accompanied by an application to McDonald's.

7. Tube socks from Sugar and Bruno. They look so nice under my moonboot. Lacey Mae's skeleton feet are so delightfully ironic.

8. Conor Oberst. I thought I got over that whole Bright Eyes phase in High School, but alas, I've been rocking out to "I Don't Wanna Die (In the Hospital)" all week in my sweet sweet Ford Escort.

9. PB's dangerbike. Because one broken ankle a summer just isn't enough.

10. The sparkle couch that has found a home on my front porch. It's tragically floral, and soon to be covered in cigarette burns.

Sabrina. You Was Dancing at the Bar

A few things are on my mind today, not the least of which is this eloquent post to the craigslist missed connections section:

"Sabrina. you was dancing at the bar

Hi
I think you name is Sabrina you are Blonde wearing a bikini black & white i guess.not sure enougth about you name
you was dancing last Friday night at the bar I think you have 18 or 19 year old great body & A.... you know where you was dancing
i really love talk to you
I hear thinks about you..I would love to experiment with you"

Boy, would I want to be the lucky lady who that is intended for. I wonder what kind of experiments Sabrina(?) has in store.

Also, E-dogg and her hopefully sucessful delivery of T-dogg.

And Alice Qin's blag, Through the Looking Glass. Fuck It Manifesto. Brilliant.

N00bs Who Can't Move Gud

Sent at 2:36 PM on Tuesday:

Charlemagne: I have had too much to drink for 2:30

Sent at 2:38 PM on Tuesday

Charlemagne: RESPOND!

Kate: Jesus. Relax. I was down the hall.

Charlemagne: This much drunk is a bad idea when I have an early plane to catch.

Kate: Stop lying about being in Ireland. None of us believe you.

Charlemagne: Where the fuck do you think I am? Didn't you see the pictures?

Kate: They're all of the inside of your hotel room.

Charlemagne: AND the construction work outside my hotel room.

Kate: You're prolly in like, upstate NY

Charlemagne: Fuck you! I'm in Dublin!

Kate: Yeah? What time is it there?

Charlemagne: LAL IDK I'm too wAsTeD!!!!1

Kate: I'm going to blag that you just typed that. Embarassing.

Charlemagne: Don't give a FUCK! Ya know how they have those signs for hotel room doors? Like "Do Not Disturb" and "Please Service"?

Kate: Yep.

Charlemagne: There's one here that says "Fire"

Kate: What the fuck? Like you put it out if the room is on fire? Or set the room on fire and put it out before you leave?

Charlemagne: I don't know. I'm tempted to put it on the neighbor's door and see what happens.

Kate: DO IT! Immediately. And report back.

Charlemagne: Oh there's directions on the back!

Kate: And?

Charlemagne: It's for n00bs who can't move gud and get stuck in the room when there's a fire and need help.

Kate: I can't believe you just typed that.

Charlemagne: So if you can't move gud, you put it on the door all the time.

Kate: I'm blagging you typed that too.

The Silver Saxophones Say I Should Refuse You

But Honey, I want you.


I want you.


I want you so bad.

CCL

Can't. Stop. Reading. Cute with Chris.

Might have to submit some pictures of my cat complete with an anecdotal analysis of his emotional problems. Might also have to describe in detail a few of my varied "Kate Desperately Struggles to Rescue Kittens" dreams to further demonstrate my deep rooted CCLishness.

Comic from XKCD, obvi.

Stares Into Space Like a Dead China Doll

Oh. Em. Gee.

















J. David McKenney

The site comes off as a little bubblegum but the blag is fabuloso. And there's effing paper dolls. Me gustaria.

There's a Little Hippie in All of Us

Gimme this.

Summer, as always has set free the sundress wearing, bead adorned, flower child that I've been smothering with scarves and hoodies all winter. Although this year the scarves are still lingering, thanks to Roommate's growing collection of summer scarves that she insists on wearing with her penguin pajama shorts, while going for a run, probably to bed and maybe even shower. She's got a problem. Seriously.

I personally want to cover myself with copper (seen here from Vagabond Jewelry. mmm. so inspired.) and peacock feathers. I want to weave them into my hair and the collars of all my shirts. OK. Maybe I have a problem too.

Alright, we both do. We've been spending so much time on the porch lately secretly watching our cute, artsy, elderly neighbors that we convinced ourselves that they totally wanted to adopt us. Roommate actually forced an invite into their house last night to look at the wife's art while I chatted up the husband about locally made guitars and mandolins. We learned that they already have two successful artist daughters, so I'm guessing they don't want any more, but Roommate is persistent, so I wouldn't be surprised if she got us invited back for homemade dandelion wine and stories of their days following Dylan and protesting Nam. And I'm totally OK with that.

This Song Explains Why I'm Leaving Home to Become a Stewardess

Well formulated, coherent thoughts escape me lately. It's like the metal in my leg is fucking with my brain frequencies like it does with the reception on my neighbor's TV. But I would like it to be known that I don't understand Chloe Sevigny. I like her, I think. I just don't have the hard on for her that every twenty-something fashionista blogger whose site I frequent seem to have. I mean, sure she can act, but she's horsey looking, and most of the time she dresses like a complete wackadoo. And i don't know how to pronounce her last name. Sigh. That is all.

I now return to my search for swimwear that is well accessorized by the knee high velcro moonboot my doctor is insistent on me wearing. FML.

Quote of the Day

"Kate, I am rarely ever careful, but I happen to be lucky, so I will never die."

Fair enough, PB. Fair enough.

Smoke Free's the Way to Be

The hard cast is off and I've gotten a good look at both incisions. Analysis: gross. Also, I haven't had a cigarette in almost two weeks, and it sucks ass.

You'd think with all the couch time I'm putting in (I am as of yet not allowed to return to work) I'd be doing a lot of bliggety blagging. Not so, apparently. I have instead: read Cosmo cover to cover (and also two editions of Martha Stewart Living because it was within arms' reach), clicked through the entire back story of Questionable Content, taken approximately 50 percocets (percocet? percoci?), and started half-assedly watching General Hospital again, among other things. This morning I finally watched all the Kirsten Lepore animations that I've watched sound free at work WITH SOUND as intended. Love it. Love her. Certainly my new imaginary BFF.

I'll try from now on to keep any and all appraised of my exciting view from the couch. Be warned: it may only include rants about various daytime television shows and my insights into each episode of E! News' Daily Ten.

C'est Moi

But add a couple more screws.

Four Twenty-Three

The break room smells like pot.

Kindred

Somehow I missed the memo that Basement Clothes and Your Hollow Face is back. Sometime in late December I stopped checking the site because I started to feel a little stalkeresque. Turns out she's been back blagging since January. I've missed so much! It's like thinking an acquaintance moved away only to discover she's been back for a few months and is living around the corner from you, and while you frequent the same coffee shop, you keep missing each other because one time you stopped to tie your shoe and another time you grabbed your Jamaican Me Crazy and headed out the side door as she came in the front.

Anyvay, she's back and I dig it. I think we should be besties, even if she does like these shoes and I think they're uggers.

Another Conversation

My brother often sends me links during the workday with no explanation. This morning I received this and here is the conversation that followed:

Kate: Oh wow. Attack of the clones.

Charlemagne: Pod people.

Kate: Mad pod people.

Charlemagne: They should clone like a million of me.

Kate: They certainly should not.

Charlemagne: Two million.

Kate: Oh my god! They're creating human/cow creatures? Is that like centaurs? This is going to lead to the downfall of society.

Charlemagne: Moooooooo.

Kate: Wasn't there a movie about this? I think it was called "Don't Clone Your Dead Children" and Dakota Fanning went on a killing spree.

Charlemagne: Watch this!

Kate: Yikes.

Charlemagne: The Shocker!

Whatever. I Do What I Want.

Bzzzzzzz.

Shark's in the Salsa

Alright, I think someone slipped some LSD into my coffee this morning, because I am quite literally seeing an enormous inflatable bounce castle outside my office window. Seriously. It has a slide. I'm not entirely sure what to do with this information.

On a completely unrelated topic, I think I'm O.K. with the mid nineties revival that seems to be creeping into fashion these days. I'm seeing the Winona Rider frumpy floral dress everywhere, and then of course there are the Cher Horowitz knee socks. I'm pumped to get me a big sloppy flannel and some Doc Martens. Snoochie boochies.

Stella!

This is the coolest fucking thing ever. Apparently I'm hella inspired by ponies lately, no? I can't even imagine the cost in Swarovskis...


Stella McCartney's "Lucky Spot"

A Rant

I'm aware that it's been a blog free week thus far. I blame this on the fact that I suffered through the Sex in the City movie on Sunday afternoon and have been formulating my thoughts ever since. I'll admit to watching the show on occasion while it was still on the TVbox. I certainly didn't take those online quizzes to figure out if I'm a Carrie or a Samantha (I'm obviously a Miranda minus the ginger hair and androgyny), but I did witness the Carrie wears nothing but brightly colored bras with backless dresses phase. I was indeed illuminated by the glow of my friend Wackalyn's big screen in a basement crowded with girls for the unsatisfying finale. I then assumed that the show would rest in peace in syndication. It is the natural course for TV programing, otherwise we end up with a Clooney free ER and the catastrophe that is Grey's Anatomy. I mourned the death of Six Feet Under with no hope of big screen revival. Albeit, it was difficult time for me, but on the bright side, we now have True Blood and Dexter.

But alas, those S.I.T.C. skanks just refused to die. They had to re-emerge with a zombiefied three hour long episode of what was ultimately a mindless show, and charge ten bucks to the jackass women who flocked to watch it. I only succumbed to the madness because I was trapped at my apartment by several loads of laundry and it was on HBO On Demand. I had a hangover to fight, and I figured I could doze through it.

I did drift off here and there, but I caught the gist, and I must say that while I did not like it, it did perplex me. I've been struggling to reach some sort of conclusion ever since the credits started rolling. I've gone over it in my head and tried to pinpoint just why I hated it, and also why the fuck it was created in the first place. The end result I reached was of course, "Damn, I wish those bitches woulda stayed dead," and I am justifying it thusly:

1. It was too fucking long. I'm not entirely sure what needed to be trimmed from the plot to knock off an hour or so, but it needed to be done. The finale five years ago was certainly unsatisfying, so I suppose the vaginas of this world needed some more adequate closure. A nationwide email sent to every woman in America reading: "Carrie and Big made it. Miranda and Steve are fine. Samantha obviously dumped that Ken doll, and Charlotte got knocked up," would have sufficed.

2. I hate your clever one-liners, Samantha Jones, and yours, Narrator Carrie. They are completely obnoxious. There's only so many penis size jokes I can handle in a week, let alone a three hour period. And Carrie, you sound like David Caruso on CSI Miami. Stop it.

3. Where the fuck are Carrie Bradshaw's parents? Does she even have parents or did she just grow like a fungus when a toxic Cosmopolitan spilled on a pair of Manolos? Whether or not mother of Bradshaw showed up in the movie to knock some sense into her shallow, soulless daughter wouldn't have made me like it better, I was just curious.

4. Charlotte shits her pants. I like a good poop joke as much as the next guy, but chicks shitting their pants is never funny, it's tragic. I've been known to discuss all sorts of bowel movements with various of my close friends, but an actual fecal accident is still taboo. Gross.

5. Sorry, John Cusack, but I hate romantic comedies. I wish they would stop being made. Nora Ephron*, that means you.

Ah. So there you have it. I'd like to see Carrie Bradshaw get hit by that bus with her picture on it. Wow. That was unnecessarily harsh. Sorry, folks, I forgot to put on my claddagh ring this morning. It's screwing up my equilibrium and making me all off kilter. An uncomfortable Kate is a hostile Kate.

*imdb has just informed me that Nora Ephron has written a screenplay for and directed the movie adaptation of Julie & Julia. Kickass. If you fuck it up, Ephron, I will hunt you down.

To the Batcave!

I'm sorry, why the mother fuck did I not think to do this?



















It's gonna be a long ass day of sitting at this desk itching to break into my childhood stash of My Little Ponies and the Sculpy clay. I'm kind of not sure how I existed in this world until now without this being my #1 hobby. Time to google the temperature at which My Little Ponies melt...

Douchelight: An Update

Monday morning I received a phone call on my work phone from Bubba, the GBF. The conversation went something like this:

Bubba: Hey ugly.

Kate: You need to stop starting our conversations like that.

Bubba: You keep saying that.

Kate: Because its true. What's up?

Bubba: I'm pretty sure I want to be a vampire.

Kate: Holy fuck, Bubba, don't tell me you read that bullshit excuse for a novel too.

Bubba: Nope.

Kate: Thank Christ.

Bubba: I saw the movie. And you're going to too.

Kate: Please don't make me do that.

Bubba: Sorry, lady. It's Monday night, and you are committed to hang out with me. And I want to watch Twilight again.

Kate: I refuse.

Bubba: Oh, shut up. You can blog about it, and I'll feed you lots of wine.

Kate: Fine.

Thus, I spent Monday evening with Bubba at our friend Messica's studio apartment watching Twilight with her semi-retarded cat, Jack Bauer. Now, I have previously made my feelings about the Twilight phenomenon quite clear. Those books are complete and utter garbage and may contribute to the downfall of society. Stephanie Meyer should be embarrassed and little girls who have read that trash should be forced to read The Bell Jar and Catcher in the Rye until all traces of it have been erased from their memories.

That being said, I must admit that the movie was not terrible. That is not to say that it was good, but it did not make me want to stick red hot pokers in my eyes. The film came across darker than the book, which was certainly an improvement as, hello, it's about vampires. I did not loathe the heroine like I did in the book, but this is primarily because I like Kristen Stewart. She always looks disheveled and miserable. It's great. And part of me is surprised that they didn't go after Jenna Malone for the role. God, she's awful. Absolutely terrible. Ugh. I can't stand to even look at her. I feel like this role would have fit perfectly with her long resume of playing the same character over and over and over and over...

What was I talking about? Oh. Twilight. Yeah, book sucks, movie was tolerable. Damn, now I can't stop thinking about my hatred for Jenna Malone. It's gonna be a long day.

El Balon Rojo

Pop Rocks and Pop

This:















looks like this:











And Brooke Shields is wearing Ryan McGinness for Jones New York?














Mmk.

Barack-O-Rama

Oh. My. God. I. Love. It.

badpaintingsofbarackobama.com

Lord, Beer Me Strength

Perhaps you caught the post in which tights ruined my knitwear indulged serenity. If so, you're sure to remember these:
Are you kidding me, Hilton? You have proved you have enough money to buy your way into fame, therefore you certainly have enough to buy an entire pair of tights instead of just half of one. Seriously, Leggs sells em for like two bucks.

A Haiku

I'm caught up on work
playing internet games and
wishing it was five

I don't even know.

Update: The Location of my Underpants

Now, I work at the same fabulous establishment as Stepmom-lady (and Dad-guy as well), and since I no longer reside with them, they often use the workday as a means of familial contact. This morning I called Stepmom-lady on completely work related business, and this is a close reconstruction of the conversation that ensued:

Kate: Hey. How are you this morning?

SML: Great! I have presents for you.

Kate: Ooh. I like presents. Whatcha got?

SML: Your Cosmo that came to the house and some underpants.

(Yes, she said "underpants")

Kate: Underpants?

SML: Yes. They're clean.

Kate: Uh... You brought me clean underpants?

SML: Well, they're yours.

Kate: You brought me my own clean underpants?

SML: Yes. Paws was quite concerned that they belonged to some friend of your brother, but I assured him that they were yours.

Kate: How do you know?

SML: I bought them for you for Christmas.

Kate: Oh. (pause) Why do you have my underpants?

SML: I found them in the dryer after you did your laundry here last weekend.

Kate: Oh. That makes sense.

SML: So they're here for you whenever you stop over.


So during my lunch break, I trekked over and grabbed from my Stepmother's desk the most recent edition of Cosmopolitan, one sock (she neglected to mention this), and some clean underpants.

Professionalism at its best.

Tonight is the Night of Nights

Well, friends and lovers, it is my second favorite holiday of the year (topped only by the eloquently named "Weaster") yet I am not, in fact, enjoying 5 cent beers at a local watering hole decked out in my all time favorite color from head to toe and betting my brother shots of Jameson that I can spot more gingers than he can. Nope. I am here. At work. And pretty much no one else is. And I'm sure you can guess how excited I am.

It's also fairly gorgeous outside and I am not out in the sunshine enjoying it because I ducked out early yesterday to enjoy it and probably can't fake needing to pick up a friend from the airport two days in a row. I also can't go from work directly to happy hour, because I will be heading straight from my romanticized cubicle to the belly dancing class that Roommate and I started last week. Let me tell you, I am not great at belly dancing. Nor do I take it as seriously as some of the others in the class. There are a large handful of "those girls" in the class. You know which ones I mean.

Not to be confused with "those girls"- the Ugg boot and Victoria's Secret Pink sweatpants wearing, kissy face, Comic Sans, Facebook whores we all went to High School with. These girls are the ones that were self declared Wiccan and drew pentagrams on their notebooks and wore hippie skirts but didn't smoke pot and were secretly into Anime. Those are the ones. They still wear those skirts. And they looooooooove belly dance.

Sigh.

Words of Wisdom a la Katelyn, Part I

"Answering the Phone Call of an Unbalanced Maternal Parent: A Survival Guide

1. SCREEN YOUR CALLS. However, if you must answer the migraine inflicting, anxiety stimulating, vomit inducing phone call, follow the suggestions below to ease your agony.

2. Pull out that five liter box of Franzia that you keep on hand for such occasions. If the conversation turns out to be unusually heinous, upgrade to hard liquor. Jack Daniels or Jim Beam work nicely. (Warning: Do not use nice wine glasses, as they may be propelled with high velocity against a wall while you regrettably recall the conversation post-phone call)

3. If you are expecting a call from your Unbalanced Maternal Parent (UMP), make sure you pick up an extra pack of cigarettes. However, be sure to purchase a pack of the light variety, as the amount of smoking that will ensue will surely knock 34 years off your life. (Note: If you are currently not a smoker, you do not have an UMP.)

4. A well fueled lighter should be on hand for the dreaded phone call. As your anxiety may not be eased by the consumption of cheap wine and chain-smoking, the constant flicking of the lighter may help. A well fueled lighter is also valuable in destroying insect life and burning the fringe off the holes in your jeans.

5. Be sure to surround yourself with friends who have UMPs of equal or greater insanity than your own (although the latter may seem impossible at this point). They too will have that tell tale sign, so you will surely feel less self-conscious about that constant twitch in your right eye.

6. Following a phone call, it is crucial to your sanity that an art therapy session immediately take place. Be it Pollack style paint slinging or Kahl influenced sharpie portraits, art therapy will bring your anxiety level down a notch. Art supplies of any and all varieties may be used (Voo Doo doll construction materials are a plus).

7. Indulge yourself in Taco Bell smothered in Cheez Wiz, McDonald's Happy Meals, vast amounts of icecream, or any other such fattening food. The extreme caloric intake will allow you to feel less guilty about resenting your mother and will direct your guilt to your fat ass.

8. A phone call from a UMP is guaranteed to decrease your maturity by years, so embrace your sudden youthful self. Position yourself in front of a mirror and allow yourself to mock the bitch. (Caution: seeing the uncanny resemblance plus the earlier binge session may cause vomiting).

9. Bucket and moutwash (See #8)

10. Although not recommended, you may attempt to seek comfort in a confidant who does not have a UMP. If you must take this route, keep a generous supply of lye in a safe place. If your "friend" tries to convince you to see things from your mother's perspective, use the lye to destroy the remains.

11. Pamper yourself. Give yourself a full blown makeover and get empowered. Feel like the most beautiful you inside and out. Imagine yourself as an inspiring author, life-changing artist, world's most fabulous supermodel, or whatever you can dream up. However, remember that this is make believe. As your UMP has reminded you again and again, you will never amount to anything, just like you will certainly never lose that baby fat.

12. It is a well known fact that a UMP chooses one of her children from an early age to direct her rage at. Put a reminder in a visible place to get the dirt on your siblings. Next time your UMP calls, quickly spill the beans on your brother or sister. If all goes well, your UMP will hastily end the conversation and contact said sibling. However, this is not recommended for those with UMPs of extreme imbalance, as they will proceed to list the sibling's respectable traits and how you will never measure up.

13. A common side effect of a phone call from a UMP is the hasty and often desperate post-phone call attempt to find acceptance and love. This leads most commonly to one night stands and phone calls to ex-boyfriends. Remember, before jumping in the sack that Unbalanced Maternal Parenting has been linked to heredity. On that note, I'll leave you with this final thought: Don't Procreate... Masturbate."


Thank you, Katelyn, for sharing your experiences with the world. Stay posted for the upcoming installments in our Words of Wisdom essay series: "Disney Movie Drinking Games for Agoraphobic Alcoholics with a Neverland Complex", "How to Complete your Last Semester of College with $.37 and a Dream", and of course, "The 'Fun' in Dysfunctional: The Katelyn Durden Story."

"Sarcasm"

The Blog of Unnecessary Quotation Marks

Usually people's horrible grammatical choices make me a little homicidal, but in this case, I've found it's just the opposite. If it was a blog listing unnecessary possessive apostrophes in plural situations, that would be another story entirely.

Herself

I.

Because
I'm so cold and cruel
I don't sing along
I'm less of a daughter
just ask my mother

I'm just cold
I said
with my head in the oven
and a pencil in my hand

I bit my lip once
so hard it bled
but its all in my head
just ask my dad

But what would I ask
Shakespeare' sister
when I don't listen too well
anyway

I'm just like my brothers
I put dents in my cans
and as much like the others
as you say I am

But can I stay out all night
if I'm wearing white
after Labor Day?

And they say that I'm a dreamer...
but you didn't leave my window in vain
I was just expecting rain
and what would they say
if I choked on my wedding ring?

I'm full of rejections
the ring in my nose said so
until the girl next to me
in Contemporary American Lit
got one too

But what would they say to know
that I'm most comfortable
in a bachelor pad?
and I'm not much for dancing on bars
but sometimes
my guts hurt
because they're so empty

II.

And in the bathroom stall
of a strobe lit bar
we did shotguns
because we were no good at beer pong

And these are the girls...

The girls you want to take home
even though
you know
you'll never make them come

But if you really want the key
our celibacy
is hidden in notebooks
with silk pages
like the ones you passed around the freshman dorms
at 4 AM
you knew
that the girls who weren't afrain to drink
really wanted to open their thighs
like those pages
and your vulnerability

My sisters and I
we are no Ophelia
like you are no Prophet Prince
you don't know the end
any more than I do

Gimme Gimme

Hello Dahl


Love love love that Alison Kelly hasn't let that whole booted from Project Runway for creating a giant beige paper mache Minnie Mouse thing get her down. She was my fav. I wanna be her friend.

A Conversation

Sent to Charlemagne at 12:57 PM

Kate: Holy shit! I just got an email from our 4th grade Challenge teacher.

Charlemagne: The one that looked like that cartoon from that game?

Kate: The very same.

Charlemagne: About that game?

Kate: No, I don't think she knows about that game.

Charlemagne: About Challenge?

Kate: No. She's on a listserve I'm on for work.

Charlemagne: She's gotta be old now.

Kate: She was old then. And a close talker.

Charlemagne: That's true. She was on prozac.

Kate: Yeah...Wait. How do you know that?

Charlemagne: I made it up. But right?

Kate: I guess...

Charlemagne: Challenge sucked.

Boyfriend for Adoption

Spelling and grammar errors aside, this made my morning. I found it, of course, on Craigslist.


"The dog must go, I have a Boyfriend for adoption OR FOR RENT TO OWN, currently don't have the time, patcience or money to support and take care of any longer. About 6 ft, hazel eyes, has a little extra fluff but not bad at all, just from the extra feedings and cooking. With regular walks he could be in tip top shape in no time.

PROS:
1. Not bad in the sack but foreplay and all that lovey dovey stuff is not a must, more of a wam bam thank you mam
2. Will cook sometimes as long as it isn't complicated
3. Will vaccum, but thats about it
4. Likes pets for the most part until they need something like food, or vaccinations and what not
5. Easy to feed, will eat just about anything, even if its been sitting in the fridge for a bit
6. Potty trained for the most part, most of the time he sits down to pee, so there is usually no toilet seat to put down
7. and of course easily amused

CONS:

1. Does not hold a job very well- though will be going back to work very soon for the summer, and then collecting unemployment for the winter
2. Is not for the hole cuddling thing that often
3. there is absolutely no licking, biting/nibbling, or any foreplay unless it has to do with him, they will take a bj in a split second
4 Must have a sack of weed at all times- either that or he becomes aggressive and lashes out
5. Can sometimes drink alot, but has more or so smoking the green lately instead
6. Thinks hes the brightest crayon in the box
7. not a very good liar
8. Doesn't pick up after him self for the most part
9. Does not clean up after his dog, when it messes in the house, usually just leaves it there
10. Needs to shower more often
11. leaves sculptures in toilet, and completly forgets to flush
12. some times pees in the bathroom sink, occasionally the kitchen sink

I would love (not to keep it) but I found a new one, who keeps a job, completly gorgous, rocken body, and the best dick a girl could ever want!
If any one would like anymore information, please email
There is a small adoption fee of $100 though this is , not even close to what I put into him/ it/ this dwelling butt monkey of a turd and a hard place
I have another option in which you could rent them for A$25 bucks a week until hes paid off.
Am open to trades, suppose, dog toys or cat toys would do"


I did not reply to the offer, as I can find my own butt monkey of turds without advertisement. I am considering taking out my own Craigslist ad for a certain missing neo-Coloradian who might secretly be stalking me via this blog. Katelyn- (that's right, I only associate with other Kates) call me ASAP or I'm putting your face on a milk carton.

I am Ophelia

I'm with Geri. Julia Fuller-Batten is kick ass and angsty. And we all know I love me a little angst.

Cat Lady

Meow. Because I support kitties and lovely living spaces.

Your Mom

That's what she said.

Shout out to my mentor, A.M. Cool C. You keep gaming on the company dime, lady, and spreading your evil ways to the world. Asalamalikum.

The Earth is my Body. My Head is in the Stars.

A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They're just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L. Give me an I. Give me a V. Give me an E. L-I-V-E. LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room.

Tater Tater Tater

A coworker sent this link circulating this morning. Everyone's response (except for me) was, "Eww." One person even said, "Barfalicious." My response was, "Damn, I could go for a McNuggetini and a Garbage Plate for lunch today. I wish they delivered." I then proceeded to google "What should I have for lunch today?" which sadly, has been searched before. There's even a quiz. It recommended I have sushi. Instead I'm sitting here disappointed in my soup again, and wishing it was made out of pureed Big Macs and fries.

And don't go googling Big Mac soup. It doesn't exist. I already looked.

Gracias, Dr. Casa

Religion is not the opiate of the masses, it's the placebo of the masses.

Dare to Care

Thanks again, Craigslist, for warming this cold heart.

The ad was for the couch, not the Care Bears. They were just added for effect.

Flip Your Hair. Shake Your Feet.

I wanna be better than oxygen
So you can breathe when you're drowning and weak in the knees
I wanna speak louder than Ritalin
For all the children who think that they've got a disease
I wanna be cooler than t.v.
For all the kids that are wondering what they are going to be
We can be stronger than bombs
If you're singing along and you know that you really believe
We can be richer than industry
As long as we know that there's things that we don't really need
We can speak louder than ignorance
Cause we speak in silence every time our eyes meet.

On and on, and on, and on it goes
The world it just keeps spinning
Until i'm dizzy, time to breathe
So close my eyes and start again anew.

I wanna see through all the lies of society
To the reality, happiness is at stake
I wanna hold up my head with dignity
Proud of a life where to give means more than to take
I wan't to live beyond the modern mentality
Where paper is all that you're really taught to create
Do you remember the forgotten America?
Justice, equality, freedom to every race?
Just need to get past all the lies and hypocrisy
Make up and hair to the truth behind every face
That look around to all the people you see,
How many of them are happy and free?
I know it sounds like a dream
But it's the only thing that can get me to sleep at night
I know it's hard to believe
But it's easy to see that something here isn't right
I know the future looks dark
But it's there that the kids of today must carry the light.

On and on, and on, and on it goes
The world it just keeps spinning
Until i'm dizzy, time to breathe
So close my eyes and start again anew.

If i'm afraid to catch a dream
I weave your baskets and I'll float them down the river stream
Each one i weave with words i speak to carry love to your relief.

The Siren Song That Is Your Madness

Lying is the most fun a girl can have with her clothes on.

And There is Only the Dance

An update on my fabulous life:

I am 99.987% moved into my chic new abode, but still waiting for cable, which makes it feel less like home, and more like a torture chamber. I've watched a whole lotta TV on DVD this last week to try to pretend I'm watching my regularly scheduled programming, but alas, even with an entire season of My So Called Life, a little It's Always Sunny, and some Freaks and Geeks, my inner channel surfer knows that I'm not. I'm about to start etching tally marks into the walls, prison cell style, to count out the days until those punks from the cable company show up. This is sure to displease my roommate more than me showing up on moving day with a life size Hannah Montana cut out and a six foot tall pink sparkly Christmas tree.

I've been having dreams about the current QB blowing me off for other girls, leading me to believe that I'm much more attached than I'm willing to admit, hence it's time to move on. Maybe it's just the threat of Valentine's Day looming in the future, but I plan to take a step back and indulgemyself in my imagined relationships with various celebrities and fictional characters. As for Valentine's Day itself, I think I'll lock myself in my room with a bottle of wine and spend the day writing ex-boyfriends hate mail.

I had my three month evaluation at work yesterday, which I pretended was like Hollywood week on American Idol. The decision not to fire my ass was like my ticket to Hollywood. Word is, after the three month probation period is up, it's nearly impossible for the higher ups to can me unless I set the building on fire or show up to work dressed like an enormous hot dog. I think it's time to pull out the bigger nose rings and dye my hair pink.

So, things are certainly not fast lane living, but they're not tumultuous either, which I suppose I support. However, I give myself about another two weeks before I get bored of being a grown up and go get a My Little Pony tattoo or sleep with someone inappropriate.

I've also decided that it's uncited quote week, hump day to hump day. So here, as John Stewart puts it, is your moment of zen:

Tear out those puny windows, rip down those narrow walls! This is just the beginning. I want a balcony, so I can wave down at the adoring crowds, but high enough that they can't see the disdain on my face.

Insert Creative Title Here

Monday night I pulled on my very best celebrity judging uniform (sweatpants and some quasi-boyfriend's stolen hoodie, accessorized with my favorite delightfully witty and energetic homosexual) and settled in to watch the Grammys. As expected, I was provided with a whole slew of new things to ponder, and a new secret crush on Jason Mraz, even though I always found him obnoxiously popish and questioned his sexuality in a just-come-out-already-and-start-dating-Rufus-Wainwright kinda way. Maybe that's why Tristan Prettyman dumped him via email. I digress.

I was prepared to indulge my ponderings in a post, but FGY beat me to it and put 85% of what had kept me up the last two nights into words (and pictures) this morning.

The other 15%? Well, as always 14% of my brain is devoted to Disney Channel stars. The forced smiles thinly veiling the tension between Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift during their duet hurt my heart a little, and Nick Jonas fucking up the words while playing with Stevie Wonder mended it. The other 1% belonged entirely to Kanye's jerry curl.

Twice Baked

For lunch today I brought a leftover baked potato that I ended up being very disappointed in. It was a far cry from the delights that come from the drive-thru at Wendy's. I begrudgingly caved to my stomach and dragged my ass to the cabaret to get some more chow. I decided on a cup of soup, and was waiting in line to pay when I realized that the soup I was about to go eat in my office was "stuffed baked potato." I had subconsciously tried to remedy the earlier baked potato situation with another baked potato situation. I found this both amusing and sad at the same time.

Shakespeare Hates your Emo Poetry

Things that need to be brought to my attention prior to five minutes before it's too late:

Free Denny's Grand Slams

Thanks to my brother, Charlemagne, for sending me the text, "free grand slams at Dennys for seven more minutes." Had this been posted under the Free section of Craigslist, I would be a much happier camper right now.

Instead, I am experimenting with the best way to eat chips without getting my fingers all greasy. So far it's a toss up between a spoon and drinking them out of a cup. Man, do I look AWESOME.

Headlines Don't Sell Papes, Newsies Sell Papes

I love me some craigslist. It's sad, almost, the hours of amusement that I can find in others' far too serious ads and inquiries. Missed Connections is my favorite, because I can often times fool myself into thinking that each is secretly for me. Sure, I tell myself, my hair could be considered long and blond, if you're squinting while driving past me on the thruway at 70 miles per hour. Or, shit, was I at Tim Horton's last night at 3 AM? No, I think that was last week at 8 in the morning. Maybe this guy has just got his timing a little confused.

I could also get totally lost in the Free section. I stumbled upon this choice ad today:


"Free Denim Hippie Skirt

This is an awesome homemade hippie skirt! It's made from a pair of Old
Navy Jeans and is covered with different pieces of flannel in the front. It's size 31.

I want this skirt to go to the right home. So, tell me what makes you
a hippie or who is your favorite local band?"



Ahhh, yes. I, too, remember that fateful issue of Seventeen that taught us all how to transform our old jeans into skirts. Of course, Seventeen intended these to be mini skirts, but the mid 90s neo-hippie community commandeered it for a while.

So this chick either has her skirt leftover from 1996, or she has continued to produce this fashion icon for the last ten plus years. I wonder what it is that has finally made her decide to part with her little piece of couture. Certainly this skirt means very much to her, as she has included an interview process with her ad for free shit.

Who Knows Where Thoughts Come From?

They just appear. Mmhmm.

Topher Grace's character on That 70s Show and Omar Epps' character on House are both named Eric Foreman, and this bothers me.

The unfortunate way my brother's girlfriend does her eyeliner also bothers me. I want to tackle her, hold her down, and mom-wash her face with a loogey.

Dakota Fanning is not aging as poorly as I had hoped. In fact, she's not aging poorly at all. She looks an awful lot like my friend Sick Dicko's ex-girlfriend, actually. And nope, "Sick Dicko" is not a nickname. That's what it says on his birth certificate, like Ponyboy. Just kidding.

Do not ask me what I thought about "the game" last night. The game, to me, is Project Runway. I don't even know who was playing. I was too busy watching Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.

Also, I'm worried that my new apartment might be haunted, or that the previous tenant was a witch. Prolly both. Although seeing a ghost would most definitely make me defecate in my pants, I would welcome the opportunity to host the boys from TAPS. I've been planning to seduce Steve Gonsalves for years.

Kate is a Crazy Person Dot Com

At least once a day I am reminded that I am without a doubt completely insane. There are the small things- panic attacks that result from walking past the crystal kiosk at the mall, or the full conversations that I have with myself, my cat, and sometimes inanimate objects, as if I will get some reply.

There are those special occasions, however, that my natural instincts are so bizarre that I seriously consider hiring a life coach. Yesterday evening, for example, I had a knee jerk reaction that even I can't play off as normal.

I was leaving work for the day, packing up my things, and trading in the pumps for boots. When I put on the boots that morning, I had coupled them with a pair of thick Penn State slipper socks that I had stolen from my father that could possibly pass for boots themselves. That evening, in my haste to leave the office, I decided the nix the socks, and pulled on the boots without. I zipped up my coat and got to steppin.

Halfway down the stairs to the parking lot, I realized that there was something sorta lumpy, kinda squishy invading my right boot. My immediate thought was oh shit, my little fucker of a cat killed a mouse and left it in my shoe as a surprise. Normal? Nope. A thought that a normal person might maybe have and then easily dismiss? Sure. Me? Completely convinced there was a rotting animal carcass under my right foot.

The one minute walk across the parking lot to my car was an eternity. I'm sure in my attempt not to step fully down on my right foot, while trying desperately not to slip on snow, and choke down the vomit that kept rising as the thought that I was crushing animal guts between my toes made me look a little like Gary Busey after a meth and Red Bull cocktail. This, coupled with the fact that my boots were actually hot pink galoshes that I pretended could pass for snow boots, just completed the picture.

I lunged myself into my car, tore the boot from my foot completely terrified of what I'd find. I anticipated just using the soiled boot as a barf bag and leaving it in the parking lot, as finding a squashed dead mouse in my shoe would most likely make me yak, and I sure as hell wasn't gonna make any effort to salvage the boot by cleaning it out of there.

I hesitantly looked inside. There, crumpled heavily in the toe of my pink rubber boot, was a Chewy granola bar wrapper. S'mores flavored. I probably missed my trash can during the day and it floated innocently into my shoe, which was sitting under my desk right beside it.

My relief was immediate, yet temporary. The panic quickly subsided, replaced with the thought that a sane person doesn't jump to the conclusion that a lump in her shoe is animal entrails. Huh. There's another year on the couch.

Awful. Take a Lap.

I think this speaks for itself.

They Traded You to Humble Pie for 50 Bucks and a Case of Beer

Who would have thought that there would be a day that I would wake up and regret the very emotionally stable big girl decision I made the night before? Well, kids, today is that day.

Ya'll might not wanna come in close proximity to me unless you come baring mass quantities of alcohol or a time machine.

Snappish

I am troubled.

I had a perfectly lovely morning perusing Urban Outfitters and daydreaming about all the the knitware that I've got a fashion hard on for. There's this Aretha inauguration-esque beret that I sorta want to wear indoors:

and there's this slouchy hobo bag that I might forgo my new apartment for and move into:













and last but certainly not least is what I've immediately come to the conclusion was knitting's gift to me specifically:


Yep. It's a scarf. With a hood. And pockets. I want one in every color, and to possibly continue wearing a different color a day all the way through the summer with my sundresses and sandals.





I was pleased and a little glossy-eyed, and even considering wearing them all together in a riot of knitware and even though that's a total fashion no-no, and then I stumbled upon this:
I was immediately intrigued, as I am one pale mother fucker, and those are certainly some very pale and sheer looking tights. Well played, Urban Outfitters, I'm thinking... until:
Really? A backseam on perhaps the most perfectly realistic looking tights I've ever seen? Why? Why would you do this? I was even singing the praises of the toe situation and then you purposely go and make it look like the wearer is baring the scars of some full-leg bionic transplant? I mean, that might be kinda cool... but you don't really wanna walk around with a sign on the back of your calves advertising it, right? Am I right?



My confusion and despair only continued:











I give up.