Unplayable BRAND NEW DVD's!!

I only buy brand new DVDs of things I've already seen and know that I love and will want to watch again and again. BUT NOT RIGHT AWAY!

The problem is then I only find out MONTHS after purchasing them that they are defective. Happened to us with Firefly that we got them brand new and at least one of the discs is totally fucked (the one where Kaylee gets her pink froofroo dress!!) with a huge rub-out scratch area.

Then it happened to me AGAIN!! Only the third tv show dvd pack I bought, and on the FINAL EPISODE of Twin Peaks, there is some kind of defect where there are no scratches or visible flaws on the disc, but it keeps skipping, getting green chunks of pixels, and crapping out entirely so you lose your place. Seriously, TWO OUT OF THREE dvd television show collections with defects?

Blarrrrrr! I'm angry!!! It sucks so hard to be watching shows that are like SACRED RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCES/RITUALS and have them RUINED like this!!

To Paint a Fucking Toenail, First . . .

I don't know what the fuck is wrong with women who love painting their fucking toenails themselves. It's a BORING FUCKING TORTURE JOB that's impossible to get right.

First of all, do you realize you need to vacuum every square inch of your house first? Because if you don't, you'll get a fluff of pet fur or one stray hair or god knows what stuck in your polish unless you have someone to wait on you hand and foot for the hours it takes for the sticky shit to FULLY dry.

I'm also guessing bitches who love doing it aren't actually whores like I am who plan to take pictures of the painted toenails or have people actually suck them so maybe perfection isn't vital to them.

But perfection is vital TO ME, and I cannot fucking paint them perfectly myself. AGONIZING, bending over with my fat fucking belly in the way and trying to see. On top of that I have extremely tiny little toes and nails so the brush splayed out is way bigger than all but the nails on my big toes so it's really hard to stay on just the nail.

And you're just fucking dumb if you think you only need one layer of polish. NO. You need basecoat, two layers of color AND a topcoat if you want that shit to look yummy.

And of course you need to actually pamper your feet in between polishings so they are soft and moist without nasty peeling white flaky gross cracks and flakes and bubbles of skin. You need to scrub and saw at the soles of your feet with abrasive stones, brushes, sponges and more. And you have to clip and file and shape the nails and push back and trim your cuticles like you're a motherfucking sculptor of dead tissue and do a good job so they all look uniform. And shave your legs and tan and be perfect in every other way because what's the point of having beautiful feet if your hair is a greasy blob of dirty blonde?

My point is, decorating yourself in a "feminine" way is a shitload of work connected to OTHER work, all stacked up on top of each other and consuming more fucking time and requiring more patience and skill than is popularly acknowledged. You get the impression from societal attitudes and pop culture that painting your toenails is the same as lying around eating bon bons but LET ME TELL YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!! IT IS NOT!!!!!!

******NOTE: I have really really bad PMS right now and seem incapable of getting anything done because NOTHING IS EASY!!! Even the shit you're led to believe is "fun" and "simple" . . . even a stupid GIRL can do it!! That shit is a fucking lie that degrades the beautiful art of self-decoration that so many women practice and master all for the reward of being dismissed as superficial. I feel like stomping on people's heads right now.

Mini Water Heater

We have this stupid mini water heater; it's not even half the size of a regular one. It fits under the kitchen counter.

I'm not big on personal cleanliness like most overzealous Americans, but I *do* like to take a hot shower after spending hours housecleaning. This is, however, impossible since all of the hot water has been used up on cleaning.

Tonight, because I have PMS, this makes me feel like crying. I *hate* when my body smells like I'm a fucking maid. I hate my hands being all destroyed from hot water and bleach and stuff (and I can't WORK with gloves on my little hands . . . I need to feel what I'm doing in order to do it right).

After I clean up dirty stuff I want to get it all off of me, especially before I go to sleep at night.

PMS

I had almost zero desire to blog here while I was on the pill (hormonal birth control).

Now that I'm taking a break from it? BOOM!! I can't stop thinking about stuff to bitch about. I feel just incredibly irritable, paranoid, cranky and unable to cope.

Cleaning GARBAGE

Okay, I pretty much hate housecleaning in general, but the absolute worst kind of housework is cleaning GARBAGE. You know, like prepping the recyclables by washing tin cans, plastic containers, etc.

There is no worse use of my time than WASHING something before I THROW IT AWAY. Fucking HELL!!!!!!

Of course, what I really hate I suppose is how much disposable shit is in our lives and the accompanying guilt. It's a weird and horrible conflict, the desire for convenience and supposedly less work (or less of the boring, soul-sucking HOUSEwork) versus the desire for, you know, a beautiful world. I wonder at the end of the day whether or not any of the conveniences DO result in less work at all. Sometimes I feel like I'm just drowning in garbage-shit.

In a way I wish I'd have grown up learning/being forced to cook, can, garden, etc. so that those things were second-nature to me as an adult. My grandma did can and stuff but I never LEARNED any of it and I'm not someone who figured out how to cook just by watching women do it. Still, I really don't think that's what I was put on the earth to do (cook, clean, and just try to sustain myself).

Mostly when I feel this way my outlook is bleak; the only alternative seems to consume next-to-nothing otherwise I don't know how to lead a sustainable life without losing every morsel of freedom to do the things I find most pleasurable and creative. No, I could never be fulfilled leaving behind a legacy of "had an okay garden some years, eventually mastered salsa-making and cooked soups reasonably well once she hit her sixties".

Wet Shirt Sleeves

I need to get some fucking wristbands, you know, the kind that collect SWEAT for when I'm washing my face or basically doing anything at a sink that involves putting my hands in running water and taking them out again.

Washing my face: you know that wonderful feeling of putting a hot, damp rag on your tired eyes? Bliss! UNTIL DROPLETS OF WATER STARTS RUNNING DOWN YOUR HANDS, WRISTS, AND TRICKLING DOWN YOUR FOREARM eventually being absorbed into your pajama sleeves, the ones you choose for warmth and comfort but are now going to be soggy, cold yuckiness around your wrists.

And now I don't even know how this happened, that when I washed my hands and put in my contacts my left sleeve got soaked. I fucking LOATHE that sensation. Sitting at the computer with a damp SLEEVE softly bouncing on and off my wrist.

And don't EVEN get me started about wet socks. . . . oh jesus CHRIST!

Disappearing License Keys

You know how when you spend your money on software they issue you a registration or license key?

Yeah, well I have one of those for a piece of software, and it entitles me to a year of free upgrades. So what happens when I try to install the upgrade? It *uninstalls* the old version ALONG WITH THE LICENSE KEY, and then the NEW version wants me to key it in, but of course, I don't know off the top of my fucking head where it's at.

So now I get to waste a shitload of fucking time trying to unearth the code. God I fucking hate this crap. What a goddamned waste of my time.

And don't even say that I should have that shit organized; I fucking *do*! I'm sure I have three versions of it saved safely away, but they are eluding me, probably because the emails don't say the NAME of the software, but some mysterious and completely unguessable company name so search, and scanning my "important reference" and "receipts" folders yields fucking nothing. I want to fucking SCREAM.

More Gravel Raking?

What the fuck is that sound on a pleasant windows-open September weekend? Someone raking gravel again? Someone stroking a very long tube of cardboard with very dry, calloused hands? Someone brushing metal with sandpaper in three foot long strokes? Oh, it's someone sweeping their driveway.

Schhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiit! Schhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiit! Schhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiit!

I would like to stick that broom handle straight up that motherfucker's ass.

Oh god. Now someone is striking up a conversation. Two BOOMING men's voices. HIIIIII. Blah blah fucking blah. I hate the sound of people. When I'm at home, I don't want to be reminded you exist within earshot of me. Go inside and watch some football or something.

Browser Updates, Java, Flash, Windows, WP -- FUCK!!

I am so motherfucking sick of every fucking time I turn on a computer or try to open a browser, having to wait for another fucking firefox or windows or WHATEVER THE FUCK update to take place. Or having our computers and webcams go down in the middle of the night in order for such automated bullshit to take place.

I understand the necessity of it, I'm just sick of it being such an obvious and continuous part of my life. When you have seven or eight machines and need all of them to PERFORM NOW, it feels so repetitive and never-ending. Which I should just accept, because IT IS. It FEELS that way because it IS that way. I just hate it. HATE IT. Sick of the tech treadmill.

Maybe I'm particularly irritated by it because we just got home from spending an AMAZINGLY FABULOUS three nights in a cabin without running water or electricity or cell phone coverage. And now we're back home to all of this intrusive SHIT. The sound of neighbors' car doors slamming, the hum of these fucking computers, the constant bullshit of software telling me it needs to update now! It just updated! Oh wait, needs to update again! Oh, hahaha -- you thought you'd have a break from that but EVERY FUCKING DAY ON ONE COMPUTER OR ANOTHER, there's something that needs to be updated! Let me just snatch a few moments of your time to make you sit here and wait for some bullshit or make you restart everything . . .

I could cry right now, I want to be back in the woods so fucking bad.

YES I want you to bag my fucking groceries!

The hippy-ass food coop. There are so many things I love and HATE about shopping there. The limited hours. The narrow aisles filled with snot-nosed kids and stoned, oblivious slowpokes standing in the middle of everything you want to get at.

I especially hate it when the cashiers don't even move a muscle to bag your groceries. Happened to me today on my horrifying second trip there (one trip a week is too much, two trips in one day? NIGHTMARE) to get the cilantro and coffee I forgot. At the end of our little exchange, the cashier looked at me and feebly ASKED, "do you want me to bag your groceries for you?"

YES. YES I FUCKING WANT YOU TO BAG MY FUCKING GROCERIES. I wouldn't be standing here if I didn't. I want you to bag my groceries just like I want a farmer to grow my vegetables and a butcher to kill the cows I eat. The only way I would want to bag my groceries myself is if THE GROCERIES WERE FREE. But as long as I'm paying for them and you're a cashier and ostensibly have some experience at packing shit properly into those floppy fucking reusable bags, then I fucking want you to finish your fucking job.

I know I'm being crazy about this. I know that it would make just as much sense to me to be the kind of person who realizes customers who pack their own groceries are just helping the line be more efficient and not treating the hired help like slaves. I guess. I mean, I think it's great that some people are into packing their own groceries. Good for them! That's so nice and maybe preferable to them than just standing around while someone else does the work. NOT FOR ME THOUGH.

I *did* my work when I tortured myself SELECTING all of the groceries and PAYING for them. I guess what really pisses me off is getting the message that I'm somehow being unreasonable or lazy or something for thinking that self-bagging should be the exception, not the rule. If I didn't run over to the end of the counter to pack my fucking groceries then clearly you should DEFAULT to what SHOULD be the STANDARD OPERATING PROCEDURE of bagging my motherfucking groceries! Don't ask me just to make me feel bad. Don't ask me if I *want* you to do it *for me* like you're doing me a fucking favor. You're not. That's part of your fucking job. Yes, I know the word "co-op" is part of the store's name, but you are still getting paid. It's not a fucking volunteer position.

Granola cunt in line behind me got all agitated and grim upon witnessing my lazy-ass refusing to bag my own shit. She shoved past me like I was holding her up so she could grab a paper bag and show me how it's done. Listen, bitch; I brought a REUSABLE bag instead of using PAPER so stick your little lesson straight up your ass. My reusable bag trumps your pushy helping hands.

Fuh-huh-HUCKING hate that shit!!

Dryer Sheets

It's bad enough having to walk down the PERFUME aisle (laundry detergents, fabric softeners, etc.) at the grocery store -- a fucking migraine waiting to happen, but at least you can kind of avoid that aisle with a little planning.

What you CAN'T avoid are the people in your neighborhood who use those products, especially scented dryer sheets, and are equipped with blowholes in the sides of their houses to disseminate the cloying aroma of their laundry drying so it can be smelled as far away as three blocks.

Woe is me with my office window facing our idiot neighbor's garage where her washer and dryer are located. I can't open my window to get REAL fresh air; I have trademarked APRIL fresh air foisted upon me like a toxic gas.

That shit should be against the law. It's a fucking health hazard for a lot of people with allergies, migraines, asthma, chemical sensitivities, etc.

I don't mind when I can smell the smoke from their marijuana, just please don't make me smell that ghastly laundry perfume, mkay? NASTY.

UNsubscribe!

Somewhere along the line I got signed up to a healthy-eating newsletter. I mean, I definitely signed myself up for it, I think because they had good recipes. No complaints there, I just got tired of my inbox having five emails from them (that I never felt like reading) every week and decided to get off the list.

When I finally found the teeny-tiny link to unsubscribe and clicked on it, it took me to a long-ass list of a billion newsletters, each with their own radio buttons to either subscribe or unsubscribe. I had to SEARCH to find the one newsletter I was subscribed to so I could unsubscribe.

Of course, it could've been worse, but still -- really shitty/not-simple, and this annoys me because it's always us pornographers who get the bad rap with this shit, yet mainstream/non-adult gets away with it constantly. Fucking people, wasting their time, high-pressure bullshit.

Deaf Fuckers & Their Dogs

After an agonizingly long, snowy (for Western Washington) winter, we had our second day of spring today. Yes, this is only the second beautiful, sunny day we have had. Tonight it's lovely and the frogs are croaking. I'd love to hear them and enjoy the silence. Maybe open a window for some fresh air.

EXCEPT EVEN WITH THE WINDOWS CLOSED, SOME FUCKER'S BARKING DOG IS INTRUDING ON THE PLEASANTNESS OF THE EVENING. For a fucking hour or so. What the fuck is wrong with these shitholes who let their dogs yap ceaselessly? I'm seriously about ready to get in my car and find the source, pull up to their house and lay on the horn until someone comes out. And just keep laying on it, staring at them, and BARKING madly at them out my window.

Get the picture you inconsiderate festering fuckheads?

DVD Cases

How the film industry makes up for money they lose to piracy: by making their discs impossible to extract from their cases and super-breakable. I know! Let's get people to buy their favorite movies and television shows at least TWICE! How? By impaling each one on little plastic rosebuds with kung-fu grip strength. When they enthusiastically try to remove them, they bend, crack and/or break! AWESOME!

Fuckers.

Ding Dongs & Better Desserts

My birthday was on Tuesday so I've allowed myself a few disgusting treats, namely chocolate susans (those white cookies from Safeway with turd-swirls of chocolate frosting on top) and a box of Hostess ding dongs. Oh, and some Russian Caravan tea sweetened with sugar (I normally try to steer clear of caffeine and, lately, simple sugars).

Aside from the normal guilt (and discomfort up-to/including migraines) I get from eating total crap, I feel horrid about buying SHITTY desserts. I mean, if I'm going to splurge I really would prefer to get really high-quality desserts. There are a number of good bakeries in town, two of which SOMETIMES have Pain au chocolat. The problem is they only have it in the morning, are closed before dinnertime, AND MY WILLPOWER IS AT ITS LOWEST WHILE MY DESIRE IS AT ITS PEAK AT NIGHT.

Pastries and warm bread and chocolate aren't things I want to schedule in advance into the loathsome morning (not that I don't enjoy eating those things in the morning, I just don't *crave* them then / am thoroughly capable of resisting them at a time of day when swallowing food sometimes makes me want to vomit). I want doughy, gooey, sweet, melty and chewy deliciousness AT NIGHT. When I'm in bed with my girlfriend watching overwrought BBC dramas. When it's dark out with no light to distract me from the flavors in my mouth. When I'm setting the stage for my favorite part of the day: the time when I SLEEP.

Sigh. Food is the *only* thing that makes me wish we lived in Manhattan. Seriously.

Hairy Socks

Screech!

Nothing sucks harder than discovering AFTER you've donned socks AND shoes that there's a long hair inside your sock. And it's wrapping around your toes like a tight strand of twine, or simply wedged in your toe cleavage and sharply cutting into your tender flesh each time you take a motherfucking STEP.

Pain and irritation (and anything I have to BEND OVER to remedy) are things I bitch about often.

Motherfucking Phone Books

I get so fucking sick of seeing those yellow pieces of shit and those extraneous other weird off-brand bullshit phone books, assloads of new ones every year, stacking up in the fucking house, wrapped in plastic laying in your yard, blah blah blah. I want to stick those fuckers right up some advertiligious buttfuckers ass. We should be able to opt out of getting those things or press littering charges against them or SOMETHING. They should have a kiosk or something for people to pick them up IF THEY WANT THEM. If, you know, they're living in a world without the internet.

I'm ready to go crazy and find all the stupid phone books lurking in our house, taking up space, gathering dust, wasting paper and just go shrieking out of the house throwing them around, ripping them up, freaking the fuck out.

I'm so sick of being a garbage receptacle/processor in my home. SICK of it. Waste of my time, waste of my space, calling card to robbers that we're not home when you toss them onto our porch . . . I don't want your yellow fucking pages foisted upon me.

I should wipe my ass with a page of telephone book every day and mail it to the fucking shitholes. Oh! You didn't ASK me to RSVP my feces to you? TOO FUCKING BAD. When you quit, so will I.

Fucking Tampon Wrappers!

Natracare organics: do you sit around and laugh at how fucking impossible it is to get the plastic wrapper off your fucking organic cotton tampons? Or are you so totally fucking stoned like most hippies that you think you're doing us all a favor, giving us a puzzle to contemplate while blood drips down our thighs? Around and around and around you spin the tampon, attempting to determine where the wrapper begins . . . or is it where the wrapper ends? Wow, that's deep!

Seriously fuckers -- your natural pussy pellets need a more practical wrapping, not this endless line of yellow with no way to figure out where to try to unpeel the little fuckers. I stood in my bathroom scratching my nail against the plastic trying to find the place to start ripping it off until I fucking screamed. If I could have brained myself into oblivion with your stupidly-packaged product, I would have.

Absolute crock of shit.

PMS

Having an EXTREMELY difficult time with PMS today. I don't want to look at anyone or hear anyone or be bothered by anyone or anything.

MY COMPUTERS ARE MOVING SO SLOWLY. I want to throw things, rip my hair out, and just freak out. Total tantrum welling up in me and just hugely irritable energy.

Everything my body needs to do is driving me nuts/feels like a major interruption. Oh, you need to PEE again? Fucking stupid body, interrupting me. Hungry now, are we? I'll shove some food down your throat, asshole body. Label itching my side needs to be scratched makes me want to shred my skin and rip the shirt to bits.

I've been working on one thing for three days now and I am so fucking sick of it and want to SCREAM. But I want it to be better, not totally half-assed. I know it won't be perfect, but yeah. And every. little. PROCESS involved is taking so much time.

When I forget something and need to go into another room to get it so I can do whatever I'm trying to do, I want to scream and throw things.

So yeah -- PMS means wanting to scream and throw things a lot.

Silencio, Por Favor

I've been up for an hour.

The feeling I have right now of not wanting to talk or interact or look at anyone or listen to their sounds is absolutely painful. I can feel it in my crotch, like screaming tension.

Jesus, send me some fucking medication. I wish I didn't feel this way. But even more than that I naturally, intuitively wish I could cushion and hide myself from the stimuli when it's driving me fucking insane.

I know if I went for a brisk walk/got some exercise I'd feel better BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANT TO DO RIGHT NOW. I just want still, quiet peace.

Since I went off the pill a year ago I've gradually gotten to a state where I feel like I have pms ALL THE TIME. I suspect I have a hormone problem that involves too much testosterone and too little estrogen. God I want my estrogen back. Pleeeeeeeeeease.