Dead? You should be so lucky.

Well, hi there!

Apparently, it’s been over five months since I’ve been on here. So much for that writeablogaday idea. I was honestly thinking of just deleting this whole blog, since I’ve failed so miserably, but after reading through the previous posts, and being seriously amused (Me: easily amused, especially by my own witticisms) I’ve decided to let it proceed. So, you, me, everyone: Get over it. Here are some of the high points of the past few months:

High Point 1: My old, cobbled-together desktop computer died a sudden, explosive death (seriously. It was probably just the grace of the Guardian Angel of Silly Drunks that kept my house, cats and meager possessions from experiencing similar explosive deaths). Thence, I bought a laptop. A super sweeeeet laptop. It’s the love of my life. Except for this goddamned touchpad. Its motherfucking schizophrenic antics make me want to cut a bitch. Here I am, typing away, minding my own self-involved business, when all of a sudden, mid-word, the cursor jumps three lines up and continues typing in the middle of something I’ve already painstakingly typed out. Aaaargh! What the fuck?! Am I to take this to mean that my lower thumb knuckles are so undisciplined that they can’t be bothered to not even fucking touch the middle of the platform that my wrists are resting on? Of course. It’s me. Not a ridiculous fucking design flaw. All me. My bad! A thousand apologies for my duck-footed hands.

High Point 2: I got a raise! Wheee! Which also means that I’ve now got more responsibility. And more frayed fucking nerves. The things I could bitch about right now, hooo boy! If ever a girl needed a blissfully anonymous forum to spew spiteful bile all over, this is it, and I am her.

High Point 3: My romantic relationship is in the crapper. It’s not even hanging on by a thread; no longer is it exhaustedly treading sour water, there is no hope for redemption; the horse is dead and beaten down into a pulpy mire of mud and blood and miniscule crackles of bone. Yeah, that’s all well and good, glad I’ve finally managed to admit that, but how the fuck do I get out of it? This relationship has been my first experience in the wild world of cohabitation, and I’ll be goddamned if I know how to end it. There are many ridiculous reasons for this dilemna, but the only one I feel like sharing is this: I tell my significant other (henceforth known as S.O.) I want a “divorce”, I’m moving out, so long, goodbye, thanks for all the fucking giggles, then what? I don’t have any where else to go. I’ve got friends who would let me spend some time cruising their couches and cable television, but what about my cats? S.O. isn’t a known abuser, certainly not of animals, but he has proven to be ruthlessly mean and spiteful in the past, so how could I trust him with my four-legged kids during a between-homes interlude? Plus, there may be a custody battle over them, as silly as that sounds. Jesus H. Christ-on-a-motherfucking-crutch, just typing that out makes me realize how stupid and spineless I’m being. Whatever his honorable qualities, I need to get the hell out of this horseshit. Blah blah blah, love sucks, move the fuck on.

High Point 4: I am wearing my oh-so-cozy pajamas, a well-worn-and-broken-in hoodie, and a straw cowboy hat. Why? Because I fucking felt like it.

High Point 5: I’ve stopped smoking pot. Kind of. For the time being. Many angles converged into this decision (various aspects of High Point 3 were major factors, along with financial considerations, et cetera), but rest assured, I shall return. Every relationship I have, romantic or otherwise, might crumble and fester into putrid obsolescence, but I will always love my sweet Mary.

High Point Epiphany!: I ventured into the touchpad properties on my sweeeeeeeet new laptop, and lo! What’s this?! “Tap off when typing”?? I will just be goddamned. Life has just gotten eons better.

Drunk: Trying.
Hearing: Stayin’ Alive, the BeeGees. Hah!Hah!Hah!Hah!
Drinking: The ol’ Peeber with a heavy assist from Jose.
Smoking: Camels.

They’re doing amazing things…

Simply amazing, inspirational things…

…with body paint these days.

(This picture stolen from Hollywood Tuna.)

Give that big booty a slap.

No, no, that’s not what I say to potential suitors. It’s a line from the most aggravating song known to man (ie: me).

See, the radio station situation in this town has recently taken a nosedive. I’m more of a classic rock, anti-emo, super-anti-pop, really-fucking-anti-playing-the-same-five-christing-songs-over-and-over-and-over kind of girl. And there used to be two stations in my close vicinity devoted entirely to the Jimi-Zep, and one that was for rock of all eras. Well, in the last month, one station shut down, another changed to *twitch* Top 40, and the third won’t come in on the radio at work. So, in lieu of total silence, I turn on some random shit just for noise. Invariably, a song will break through my drudgery haze and actually ring the bell at the Eardrum Desk. Not just any song either, oh no, it’s the same fucking song every time, almost every hour, every frigging day. So I quickly change to another shitty station, only to find, within the hour, that lo! There’s that fucking song again!

Why do I hate it so much? Well, first of all, it sucks. I enjoy hip hop, and anything conducive to ass-shakin’ is good to keep the blood pumping during the midday doldrums. But contrary to what the teenyboppers on the message boards I read whilst trying to find out who is responsible for this horseshit, it is not, like, totally awesome, nor is it good to dance to. It’s bad. And repetitive. And grating. And completely fucking insipid!

The second reason comes down to this: I hate it because I hate douchebags. Seriously. In my line of work, which I will not elaborate for fear of being found out, I encounter and have in-depth interaction with a wide variety of people every day, some decent human beings, others lower than the manure crammed between the toes of a goat’s cloven hoof, and others that land somewhere in between. One young man in particular, was the bane of my existence on every possible level. I would looove to go into detail, but I won’t. (Okay, I can’t resist. One little detail I am privy to that I’m sure would completely wreck the guy’s uber-cool, wanna-G machismo: Shemale porn. As in proclivities for. Wooohaahahaa!) Let’s just say, the final nail in his proverbial bag of douche was when I overheard him singing along with the radio as this sonic shit stain polluted the air of my office.

Moral of the story: If I wanted good music in life, I should have been born twenty years earlier.

And also, if you must know, the song is called “Low” by Flo Rida.

Aaaaaaaaaaand also, you may notice that my writing today is considerably lacking in the colorful analogies and reckless drug references that you’ve all come to know and love. That is because I am at work right this very moment. Not working, of course, because the boss is gone, and I find it hard to find motivation when he is not standing over me with the rubber band gun.

Drunk: No. Whhhyyy, Jesus?!?!
Hearing: System of a Down. Which is playing on the radio right now just to disprove my point about this station playing nothing but shit over and over and over.
Drinking: Coffee.
Smoking: Nothing. Almost time for a smoke break.

Note to Self

Dear Self,

It is at times beneficial, when seeking to leave a comment on another’s Web Log, to use the link toward the bottom of the page, helpfully marked “Post a comment.” Furthermore, it is also somewhat convenient at times, when hoping to track one’s steps back to the original point of discovery, to take a wee gander at one’s history file. O Huzzah, Technology! Huzzah!

Dude, wait. What day is it?

Okay, okay, okay. I know that I swore upon the precious life of my firstborn child (or something) to write a blog a day, for some indeterminate period of time, and now, here it is, Monday, and the last post was on Tuesday, blahblahblah. Why are you such a nag? Quit hounding me, for chrissakes!

And anyway, like my pickled reproductive bits will ever spit out a little screamer.

So here I am, almost a week late. And I have nothing of consequence to write about, unless you want to hear some funny stories about what my cats did over the weekend. Ha ha, so there was this….. *ahem* Nothing inspirational from me today, so here’s a little something from somebody else:

This is the funniest fucking thing I’ve read all day.

I don’t know where I happened to come by this. I’m sure I could find out, but, meh. I’m also sure it would have been much easier just to leave a comment expressing my fawning fucking hilarity, but I’ll be damned if I could figure out how to do so. And without this little tidbit, this little speck of dust in the yawning gawp of the internet’s partly cloudy sky, how would I, a mere puff of nor’easterly wind, proceed to then spin around this tiny particle a delicate and wholly unique web of ice, a snowflake in the shape of a blog, lost in a microcosmic universe of similarly delicate and unique snowflakes? This is it, my friends, the entire purpose behind my every breath up to this point. I am the Turtle, and this blog is my mighty Wad of Phlegm. I am the Creator, the Destroyer, the unyielding bosom of – dude, I’m out of beer.

[transmission unceremoniously dumped]

Drunk: I’m afraid my Irish blood makes me a tough drunk to crack, so, no.
Hearing: Cats clawing at the furniture.
Drinking: Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!!
Smoking: Skunks and Camels.

Suck my nuts, why? Reason #1

Consider this both my inaugural celebritaunting, and the basis of my desire for cultural revolution, summed up in five easy words and a helpful visual aid:

Avril Lavigne is a douchebag.

Just a little something to gum up the works

Just bare moments ago, I, not because of my presumed level of intoxication, but rather the sheer fucking force of my…my fucking force! as the supreme master of disaster and reigning queen over all that is aggravating and teeth-grindingly stupid, sent a’tumble with my errant elbow a fishbowlesque wine glass containing a pinot noir of questionable vintage that thence went sloshing across and atwixt the delicate plastic plateaus of my keyboard. Lucky for us all, a spare keyboard spewed forth from the dread Closet of Mystery, for here we all are, while the fallen solder lies draining upon yesterday’s bathtowel.

A prayer for our comrade: may he shake off the drops of devil squeezins that might dally, and those that cling, may they dry to harmless beads of not sticky shit, and those that must remain sticky, may they be sticky in inconsequential areas, and if they must gum up the works, may they be banished to the blackest pits of Hades in Jesus’ name amen.

Drunk: Quite toastily so.
Hearing: Led Zeppelin.
Drinking: A pinot noir of questionable vintage.
Smoking: The usual.

Failure.

Just three days into my self-appointed sentence of writingablogaday and I have already failed. O woe! O disappointment!

Anyway, tough shit. I am nothing if not spottily reliable.

Drunk: Working on it.
Hearing:  Traffic. On the street, not the band.
Drinking:  1800 and good old Mr. Water.
Smoking:  Camels and the demon reefer.

An introductory offer

Welcome, friends! I am Malfunctioning Martha, the malfunctioningest murderbot ever to maraud the merry men of Mastodonia. My mission, should I seek to suffer its slavering, soul sucking silliness, is to iterate the itinerate idiocy of ill-informed instigants, and point my long lady fingers and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Ooor, maybe I’m just some loopy chick with a stressful job, a taste for the Vices and hopeless tendencies toward the snarky and alliterative. Oh, and run-on sentences, I really enjoy those. And ellipses…and parenthetical tangents. Also, in the spirit of full disclosure, I feel compelled to tell you that I am a comma addict. And I’m okay with that. I accept the fact that it’s just part of who I am. CommaCommaComma, Comma Chameleon!

In any case, there are three things you should know about this blog’s author (er, yeah, that’s me) before we go any further down this filthalicious road:

1. I believe, from the lowest cockles of my a’beat-beat-beatin’ heart, that smartassery is the finest form of human expression.

2. I further believe that smartassery is best rendered in literary form, and thus profess from this day onward that my goal shall be to writeablogaday, just to get the ol’ gears going, blow the dust out, kickstart the old bitch, wind ‘er up, et cetera and so forth.

3. While writing every post you read here, I was probably drunk.

Cheers!

Drunk: Not quite.
Hearing: Some weird shit on Pandora.com.
Drinking: Blue Boar, interspersed with smatterings of 1800 and lemon.
Smoking: Camel Lights and my favorite leafy lady.