Oh, China. You’re gonna catch up to Japan in the category of fucked-up-edness any day now. First, the Face-kini, documented by Dogs on Drugs a few months ago. Now, hairy stockings for the girls.
I know I want to rub them…
I guess the idea here is to keep girls safe from creeps when they go out. Sadly, I can’t see this working as an anti-pervert device. It might scare away normal guys, but the real pervs are now going to be sneaking up and dry-humping little Chinese girls cycling to school.
Kinda like this, but totally different:
Has the creator of the hairy leg stockings never heard of a fur fetish? You do not want to tangle with those freaks. Why not create a mask of pus-filled facial lesions if you’re really concerned about deterring the boys? I’ve never heard of that particular fetish. Hair leg? Yes.Hair lip? No.
Better yet, get a taser.
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It’s goddamn scary how many videos are out there of girls intentionally getting humped by a dog. The fuck, people? Get a hobby, a date, a dildo, something other than your dog. Never mind that I watched them all…
I recently read “The 4-Hour Work Week” by Tim Ferriss. If you’re not familiar with it, the basic idea presented in the book is how to cut meaningless crap out of your life to free up time to do things that actually matter.
One of my favourite things Ferriss advises is to outsource as much as possible. Essentially, make some other idiot do boring or annoying shit just because you don’t feel like it. This is not unlike being a weasel in your workplace, but you have to pay the virtual/personal assistant who’s petting your dog on your behalf.
You probably heard this story awhile back about the dude who outsourced his job but still showed up to surf the internet every day. He’s kind of my hero, and it sucks that he was fired.
Aside from work, there are a lot of things I would outsource:
Mandatory social events: You know the ones I mean – shit you actually can’t get out of. I see no reason my personal assistant couldn’t deliver a eulogy on my behalf. “Miss Reanna remembers fondly the time she and the deceased did that really fun thing. The deceased will be sorely missed at this year’s other really fun thing.” I wonder if I would have to pay extra to have my assistant sob uncontrollably on my behalf.
Farmville: I’d like to have a nice farm in Farmville, but that shit takes time – more time than even I’m willing to waste on Facebook. I’m pretty sure I could hire an entire team of people to make sure my crops are harvested and I get all the coolest animals. Maybe I could even find someone to hack the game so my animals could fuck and make babies instead of me having to buy them.
Always fucking hungry… and always staring at each other’s asses.
Compliments: Much like I don’t give a shit about anyone’s haircut, I rarely want to compliment people on other random things just because it’s the socially appropriate thing to do. My new virtual assistant will be happy to do that on a bi-weekly basis. “Good afternoon. Miss Reanna wants you to know that you have a nice shirt and are less annoying than some other people.”
There are a LOT of things I can see getting an outsourced assistant to do. Answering texts from ex-husband comes to mind…
I have to admit that this book made me fall a little bit in love with Tim Ferriss, and I subsequently picked up his second book, “The 4-Hour Body.” I’m planning to outsource all Kettlebell exercises though, because that shit looks fucking stupid.
Jumping onto the Moonshine Grid again this weekend with all the fabulous writers at Yeah Write.
Mostly I don’t think or talk about my ex-husband, because who cares about that piece of moldy dickhole pus anyway?
The other day, I had no choice, as he texted me wanting to talk. I texted back, asking what was up, and he indicated he was in a “bad place” and just needed someone to talk to. Now, if he had wanted to talk about paying me the large sum of money he owes me, or presented a good plan to compost his own body, I probably would have dialed the number and been an encouraging support person.
Considering I was less than a week clean of nicotine, however, and that I truly don’t give a shit what kind of place he’s in, I may not have been kind in my subsequent texts. I did, in a moment of helpfulness, suggest he get in touch with someone who does give a shit (an actual person we both know). Apparently that person doesn’t care either because he’s not responding to the ex-husband’s texts. Huh, could be a sign…
In the end, ex-husband texted, “Don’t bother then. I guess we’re exs (sic) for a good reason. Sorry to bother you.”
And he’s right. We are exes for a good reason… he came through a door with a fucking axe, threatening to kill me. And even though he finally dropped the axe, I gotta say that getting beaten by pieces of a broken door is no picnic either. No matter how he wants to paint it in his own little mind, that is why I grabbed my cats and drove away. We didn’t split up because I wasn’t “appropriately supportive” of his needs.
It’s been a couple years, so I sometimes forget what that night was like. I forget that I’m “lucky” he hit me with a 4 foot length of 2×4 instead of the axe. I’m “lucky” that having trouble walking and breathing for the next week wasn’t because my leg had been severed from my body or a piece of iron had been lodged in my chest. I’m so very “lucky” that I was able to escape from my marriage, my home, my dogs, and my beautiful promising future, and start again from nothing. I’m a lucky girl.
What’s nice is that I was able to come back to Vancouver and move into a new women’s shelter. It’s called Tempura House – for lightly battered women.
Yeah, pretty awful joke… but we battered wives are entitled to bad jokes at the very least.
~ Reanna
I am exceptionally fortunate that I have great people in my life who gave me every bit of support I needed when I left my husband, and who continue to enrich my life every day. I love you all. Thanks for giving me keys to your house so I never did have to go to a shelter.
I would not have posted this if Karen at Fat Girl in Boxing Gloves wasn’t busy inspiring me with her incredible courage. Please take the time to read her thoughts.
One of the great things about being smoke free for the first time in ages is experiencing some remarkable and almost immediate healing. Truly, the human body is pretty forgiving of the shit we put it through. I’m on a remarkable sustained oxygen high, and I no longer feel winded after masturbating. Quitting smoking is good.
Something people often say when they quit smoking is that everything smells better. They are fools. Everything just smells more. So my coffee smells amazing, and I’ve spent a lot of time with my nose buried in my very yummy herbal tea today. However, Dervish’s ass smells like it’s actually rotting, and the bus has the spicy tang of Cancun’s airport on a 10-day lock-down An acute sense of smell is not always a good thing.
You know exactly how nice it smells in there.
Given the chest-pain concerns that have been running through my head the past few months, my favourite part of the healing process is my lungs getting their shit together and not heaving like beached whales when I lug a bunch of groceries up the hill to get home. I’m sneezing a bit this week and enjoying the idea of cleaning all the crap out of my lungs. I haven’t been hacking goo yet, but it’s early days.
The best lung-cleansing experience I’ve ever had came a few years ago. I had quit smoking for a month or so, and was called for jury duty.
Total aside: If you ever have the opportunity, absolutely do jury duty (as long as it’s a short and non-freaky trial). I am more law-abiding now than I ever was before being on a jury because I am scared shitless of that bunch of fucktards deciding my fate. Seriously, my peers (and yours) are a terrifying bunch of nutjobs. Jury duty is a great study in human stupidity and a poignant reminder to pay your taxes, signal when you turn left, and hide the bodies really well.
Yup, this is one of the dudes deciding your fate.
Throughout the trial (MVA in which idiot dude was clearly not hurt, but trying to soak the other party for a ridiculous amount of cash), I had a bit of a cleansing hack going on, but nothing horrible. In the jury room, I tended to let loose – often because coughing until I gagged was more pleasant than listening to Soccer Mom “reason” out the case.
Soccer Mom: I agree that he’s lying and not at all hurt, but shouldn’t we award him something because he’s put so much work into getting to trial?
Welfare Bum: Did you see his watch? He totally doesn’t need any more money whether he was legit hurt or not.
Soccer Mom: But he seems so sad because he’s losing.
In the courtroom, I ate Fishermans Friends and kept the coughing to a minimum. Which is probably what led to the sneeze, me plugging my nose in an attempt to minimize the damage, and the most heinous gob of lung cheese landing in the palm of my hand. In the Land of Mucus, that thing was Queen. She had veins, limbs, and the beginnings of a cerebral cortex. She actually pulsed menacingly (or maybe just jiggled) when I opened my palm to risk a look.
That was 9am and I had no tissue. The pants wipe was impossible. The Queen of the Muci would have just dug her little claws in, caused a scene, and made the judge charge me with some kind of inappropriate conduct. So I held her tenderly in my palm until the lunch break. Yes, I coddled a giant gob of deep lung snot for three fucking hours.
As we filed back into the jury room, I stepped aside to let Soccer Mom go first, and then took her by the arm. “Want to sit together at lunch?” I asked, helping Queen Mucus find a new home in Cardigan World.
I sat down on the bus the other day next to a teen-ish looking girl with one of those giant and inexplicably fashionable blingy purses. What the fuck are those about? You could carry a full midget circus with room to spare for Tom Cruise’s insanity in one of those things. *
Whatever. I’m not judgmental… I sat down and pulled a book out of my bag. Beside me, a dog’s head popped out of the giant Midget Cruise purse. A purse dog. Yeah, a fucking purse dog.
Let me pause for a moment to tell you I grew up with dogs who were half Husky/Shepherd and half wolf. Actual wolf from the wild. My image of a dog is a giant, lovingly scary beast who is eternally loyal to the pack and rips the throat out of anything else.
Put that in your purse, bitch.
Purse dogs are stupider than Bieber Customs monkeys. But it’s not their fault, so I admired the puppy cuteness and considered snatching it for Dervish’s afternoon snack.
And then I noticed the earrings.
Yes, earrings. This was not glued-on bling (which is bad enough), but actual pierced fucking dog ears. Yeah, people do this shit. I remember reading a story years ago about a woman selling “Goth” kittens on ebay, but for some reason I assumed that was some weird one-off. Newsflash: People are still stupid assholes who abuse animals for their own entertainment. Who jabs a needle through their pet for no valid reason? Assholes craving to be relieved of consciousness via a studded bat, that’s who.
For the record, I’m only slightly less disturbed by people who pierce their babies. Really, people? That says nothing about the kid, but speaks volumes about the parent… like, “I have so little self esteem that I’m hoping for some reflected glory from my cute baby… and I’m willing to stab her in the head to attain it.”
Where’s my deserted island, already?
~ Reanna
* I’m not much of a purse girl, but I’d consider carrying this one around:
Perfect fit…
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Smoking: Doing okay-ish. Dumped my cigs after work today, and have managed the evening with the e-cig and pumpkin seeds. Tomorrow will be my first full day of sanctioned dickhole-ness since last weekend. I’m looking forward to it.
I’ve been invited to go skydiving. On some level, this seems like a lot of fun. On another level, it seems like a great way to shower my breakfast down onto people below – from one orifice or another.
The result of “fun.”
I can think of a lot of situations where shitting or puking on specific people would be great… but shitting or puking on myself seems far less entertaining.
In the land of smoking, I’m already having those crazy Champix dreams Ken alluded to, which is pretty fun. I wasn’t perfect today, but pretty damn close. I’m going to keep limiting myself all week and set Saturday as my official quit day.
And now I’m going to bed so I don’t punch the computer.
I realized sometime this afternoon that my home phone has been unplugged since last Wednesday and that I haven’t looked at my cell since Friday morning. Thanks, family, for checking to make sure Dervish hadn’t eaten my face.
Anyway, if you saw my Facebook page, you know I failed with the not smoking thing today. I bought a pack of smokes right around the time I realized my family doesn’t give a shit if I’m lying paralyzed in a pool of my own urine after being hit by an indoor asteroid. Again, thanks family.
After whining on Facebook for awhile and chain-smoking in my backyard, I went to the drugstore to see if my old refill for Champix was still active. Strangely, they keep that shit on file for a year. Since I no longer have the instructions of how to ease into Champix with the initial low dose, and the pharmacist didn’t see any problem aside from the fact that I only have 2 weeks of it left, I can start full bore on the therapeutic dose. No idea why I have such a headache.
I do absolutely love this pharmacist though. He’s the dude who tried to talk me out of buying this crazy-ass piece of equipment a few months ago, but I can’t resist stupid, unnecessary shit. A haircut or new clothes, I avoid for months, but ridiculous medical supplies are awesome.
Not quite the worst infomercial ever…
I also started looking into hypnosis this evening. Youtube has tons of great hypnosis videos. And it also has this stupid bitch:
I hate quitting smoking. My head is exploding from too much oxygen. Thanks, everyone, for awesome support (and continued offers to smack me upside the head if I smoke).
In lieu of words, I give you a video that was actually painful to watch:
I’ve written about (not) quitting smoking before, but it’s getting a bit ridiculous. Every few weeks, I quit for a day or two because my chest hurts. And then I start again because I know the chest pain is actually about my fucked-up neck. Massage and meds make it all feel better, so there’s no reason to quit smoking.
It would be nice if my chest just hurt all the time or I had trouble breathing.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My family dies of sudden heart-related things, never cancer. So every time my chest starts hurting and I decide I have lung cancer, logic kicks in. No, I don’t have cancer. I may be having a stroke or a heart attack, but my lungs are working just fine. Why not have a smoke to ponder this whole thing? Oh look, I’m still alive – must just be the neck thing screwing with me again. No reason to quit smoking.
That’s some fucked up thinking right there.
So I’m quitting now. Really. This is my Oooh Rah moment, or whatever the fuck those military types say. I rationed my smokes to take me through UFC 160 today. The event is done, the smokes are gone, and here I am with neither of those addictions to get me through the night. Yikes!
Every orifice deserves some nicotine.
I’m a full-on nicotine addict and clearly not all that bright, so I could use your help. I generally resolve to put up a blog post once a week, but for this thing, I’m going to post every day about vanquishing nicotine until that fucker is dead. Every hour, if that’s what it takes. I’ll be posting here rather than smoking if I get crazed in the next few days. Apologies in advance.
That said, I’m hoping you’ll hold me accountable. Everyone who regularly comments here is someone I like and respect, so I’d appreciate your genuine comments, opinions, and/or sarcasm and disdain.. I don’t love this idea, but I’m trying to get leverage on myself and this stupid fucking addiction.
Please help me. Comment about what a fucking loser I am for wanting support from strangers to quit smoking. Or, don’t be a dick, and tell me your quitting story. Family and friends who read my blog but don’t comment, send me a supportive email or some sarcasm (actually, just send the sarcasm and some inappropriate jokes. Touchy-feely shit doesn’t really work with us, does it?).
I’m not your lover. Making some socially appropriate comment about an inch or two of dead cells sheared off your head isn’t going to get me laid (or paid, for that matter). So, whether I noticed or not, I’m probably not going to comment unless a haircut turned you into a fucking super-hero. A super-hero who’s doing something really awesome for me like turning all those ridiculous Mercedes SUVs into really delicious imported beer.
Or if you got a really bad haircut and bucktooth implants:
Shitty hair, bad skin, and buck teeth – destined to be either a billionaire software developer or a serial gopher rapist.
For the record, people get their hair cut ALL THE FUCKING TIME! There are actual places filled with actual people who do nothing but cut hair all day, because it’s just that common. It’s not like you had a cock and balls surgically attached to your forehead. Now that is something I’d notice and comment upon… maybe even give a little flick to see if the nerve grafting worked.
Otherwise, I may as well note that you’re wearing a blue shirt or grew a nasty pimple since the last time I saw you. “Hey, you’re standing upright. That’s awesome! What made you decide to do that today?”
You want a genuine comment from me? Get your leg amputated like the nutjobs who have Xenomelia, better known as bat-shit crazy pirate wannabes. That’s some real conviction.
You: Doc, I don’t think this perfectly healthy leg belongs to me. Can you cut it off?
Doc: Why not try these psychotropic drugs instead?
You: I’ve been on drugs for years. It’s not helping. The only things that will make me feel better are a bone saw and a prosthetic limb.
Doc: I see. Do you have insurance?
You: Yes. They’re even paying to train a parrot to sit on my shoulder. Hey, would you gouge my eye out too if they pay for a cool eye patch?
I would absolutely engage you in discussion about your absent limb, choice of pegleg, and all the crazy surrounding it. You hair? Not so much. That shit grows back.
~ Reanna
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Of course, I’d really rather talk about your cat, peg legs or not.
