Greetings, Poop Army! After duping a few other blog owners into liking me, I have learned something about myself: I blog wrong.
Some blogs are used to keep friends and fans abreast (yes, I picked that word just so you could chuckle at 'breast'--you're welcome) to the writer's achievements, while also providing insight and commentary on the inner workings of their craft; some portray everyday life in a colorful and entertaining light; others share advice and tips on how to live life to the fullest (sorry, none of those uppity assheads can be bothered to befriend me). Regardless of the blog’s purpose, all of these have two things in common—the reader feels like they’re a part of the writer’s life, and they are actually updated on a regular basis.
But here… well, I just bitch about random things while sprinkling in synonyms for fecal matter for flavor. And post intervals are about as regular as an octogenarian whose sole sustenance is red meat and cheese. All you really know about me is that I’m a bipolar techtard that hates Tim Allen, John Mayer, and hair feathers, yet has a weird obsession with alliterative poop puns. Okay so actually you know quite a bit. But still, 90% of my Facebook following thought because of my love for bathroom humor I was a guy. (Although to be fair, they may have stumbled across some topless pics of me—from neck to waist I could easily be confused for a 13-year-old boy on the ever popular Doritos diet)
So without further ado-do, here are some fun facts about your Purveyor of Poop:
-I made a suicide pact with my geriatric cat, Jebus—I told him if euthanasia time comes for him, it will be my time as well. However I stormed out of the vet’s office when they were preparing my death juice and estimated my weight 10 lbs higher than it really is. Dicks. (Don’t worry, Jebus is still with us—he turned out to only be having an allergic reaction to bullshit and they make shots for that.)
-My best friend is a drop dead gorgeous pin-up model, which was a complete shithead move on my part. All of us average looking girls know they should surround themselves with the ugliest people they can find, for that one beautiful chance of being referred to as “the cute one.” Luckily she’s an epileptic high school dropout, so despite my multitude of mental disorders and passion for all things poop, I’m the one with the GOOD brain. Ha!
-In my youth I effectively transitioned from grunge, to goth, to neo-hippie. Now that I’m older and dropped the flannel, black vinyl, and tie dye I’m simply referred to as a lazy, apathetic pothead.
-I have no rhythm, but can do the Thriller dance in its entirety. Being stiff-hipped and awkward is beneficial when trying to represent a dancing corpse in full rigor mortis.
-I’m an attention whore who suffers from social anxiety and borderline agoraphobia. In the old days (i.e. 1997) this would have been a problem, but social networking was built for whack jobs like me. I have a grand old time drinking and dicking around with my 4000 Facebook friends from behind the safety barrier of my computer screen—just don’t send me an event invite. Ever. Not only will I not show up, I’ll probably spend two hours in the fetal position whimpering that you would dare ask me to go out in public. I’m hoping to become insanely internet-famous so that I can finally achieve my lifelong dream of being a socialite shut in.
-I’m on the first year of my second marriage. My St. Patty’s Day wedding was the stuff fairy tales are made of. I walked down the shamrock-littered aisle to the hopelessly romantic ballad Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns n Roses, and the ceremony was followed by a pub crawl full of epic drunken debauchery. Did I say fairy tales? I meant 80’s music videos. Same diff.
-I have a 4-year-old daughter who is the LIGHT of my LIFE. <I hope you read that like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, because that’s how it was intended. Otherwise it seems all sappy and that shit is NOT my style.>
-I was voted “Class Slacker” in high school and have effectively lived up to that high expectation set for me in adulthood.
-I work a day job that forbids me from talking about it on the internet, which makes it sound a shit ton cooler than it actually is.
So there, now you know all the pertinent poop about your bullshit bistro. Does this mean I’m going to start blogging “correctly” now? Doubt it. Posting on this blog is like shitting a watermelon; after each dropping there's a lot of confusion, some crying, and one extremely sore asshole. There's a healing process before I can safely poop profanity like this again.
Honestly, I'm not clever enough to make my daily life seem even remotely interesting to anyone. Even the voices in my head get bored with my antics. As far as career updates, well, watch the water swirl next time you flush the toilet and that about sums it up for now. And if you actually want advice from the self-proclaimed Queen Shit of Turd Mountain, perhaps you should stick your head in that flushing toilet because there’s something seriously fucking wrong with you. Have you ever read this blog before? I’m a hot mess, and by that I mean a steaming pile of freshly shat excrement. The best advice I can give you is to step around it.