So now that I’ve got my 500th entry off my ass, I’m feeling pretty good about the diary. You might have noticed that I had been slowing down a bit, inching toward that big number, and that was why. While on the phone with Chauffi one night, I said “Do you realize that my last five entries span 14 days?” and he said “Nooooooooo!” because it just seemed impossible, but so it was. I’m a lazy punk ass bitch.
That’s my favorite song of the moment, if you must know. “Punk Ass Bitch” by Wheatus. Not only is the term “punk ass bitch” a fabulous phrase, they also use the term “shitass”, which is simply too precious for words. Shitass. Implying that not only is someone an ass, but also an ass which is covered in shit. It’s so simple. So perfect. The shitass does not need a prop.
I probably swear too much. And to think that in third grade (when I was a wee little parochial school girl who could not wear jeans to school and even now at age 31 when I wear jeans I feel as though I’m going to get busted for being a delinquent or something) I would not swear for any reason and felt that I was sinning for even HEARING someone else swear, because it put a little black spot on my soul. Hearing three incidences of swearing was as bad as swearing yourself. I wouldn’t even say “hell” during our bible recitations. “He descended into hmmmm the third day He rose again.” That’s probably why I swear like a shitass now.
Mofo right.
My Sims are loving their new warehouse suburban loft. It looks like it belongs in Soho or something and it’s not a loft. Well, it’s as lofty as a Sim can get. I haven’t put in the pool yet either, but they did their volleyball court a little too much. I think Javert fancies himself to be the next Gabriella Reese. He’s poofy that way. Eponine has spurned his advances and now he’s quite smitten with Enjolras now, who I think might have lecherous intentions towards little Gavroche. That’s not good. I’m hoping they will have some kind of Simintervention if he takes it too far. And someone needs to sit Gavroche down and explain the difference between good and bad touching. I’m afraid to take them on vacation, too. Wild things happen on vacation. People get tattoos and come back with heads full of expensive braids and crotches full of VD. My Sims seem to be a big morality play and going on vacation might turn into a dramatization of the 1950’s military public service film “Shore Leave”. I’m afraid to get a damn hamster because I think Enjolras will try to mount it or go all Richard Gere and that just leads to lots of prying questions. I haven’t installed Darth and his Trailer O’Evil yet. Perhaps I should. Damn punk ass Sim bitches.
Carissa, Penny and I are planning to go shopping on Friday afternoon, pre-Bad Bar. Carissa, who only qualifies as a “plus-size” girl through semantics, and I are going to drag Penny into all of the cute clothes stores, because Penny falls into the “skinny girl” category. Our goal: show Carissa how much better it is to get expensive bras and panties. We will convert her. Oh yes. (Insert supportive friendship joke here) I stopped over at her desk and had probably the best part of my day, giggling about shopping and drinking and about how I had the Green Panty crisis last week and thus had to wear my acid green turtleneck/black hooded vest ensemble, complete with matching lingerie. And of course I had to show both my panties and my bra to Penny and Carissa.
This is how girls bond. Right there. Guys tune up each others cars, we go to the bathroom together and ooh over each others panties. Guys would never be caught dead going up to their friends “Hey, Chuck, check out these Fruit of the Looms. See how the blue stripe on the elastic matches my jeans and the yellow matches my shirt? And plus! No skids!” Just wouldn’t happen.
And I feel bad for sharing that with y’all. Like some day some perfectly competent woman will be making a bid for the White House and someone will say “What are you going to say to Tony Blair? Hey, look at my panties?” and they’ll have proof because they read it on Weetabix. My Gloria Steinem inner brain voice disapproves.
And my inner Margaret Atwood says “Do you think Jincy Willett would be writing about how her panties match? No, she’d be writing sentences like At the center of her disbelief lie a cold hard stone–the type that could be found in the brook nearby– and she desperately wanted to know that Arthur was lying to her, but she could see in his dullness, the way his eyes merely glanced at her, that he was not and things had ceased to ever again be easy. Because while I can generally stand up to my inner Gloria Steinem and my inner Abby Hoffman brain voices, that Margaret Atwood is a clever heartless bitch who cuts me off at the knees. And she’s also telling me right now that I didn’t even come close to imitating Jincy’s incredible fluid compact prose and I couldn’t even glimpse her greatness if I tried.
So much for my 501st entry. Yeah… haven’t really gotten any better with experience. Well, maybe I’ll have this thing figured out by my 600th. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write about forging my soul on fate’s bitter anvil or something instead. Inner brain voices are a bunch of shitasses.
