Phone Slut

"I'M GONNA WAIT OUTSIDE YOUR JOB AND BASH YOUR FUCKING HEAD IN WITH A FUCKING HAMMER!  THERE'S GONNA BE PUERTO RICAN/CUBAN BLOOD ALLLLL OVER THE MOTHERFUCKING STREET!  YOU GOT THAT?  FUCK YOU!!!"

*click*

That was George.  Now, when most people are told something like this, they break out in a nervous sweat, invest in a gun, or most likely call the cops.  You know what I did?  I called that douchelord back...

Rinnnnnng...  Rinnnnnng... (he never lets it get past three ri-)

"Hello?"

"Listen you gimpy ass, blind fuck!  Take your fruity ass walking stick and SHOVE IT UP YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS!!!!"

*click*

I don't know what sin I committed the day that I met George, but God really handed it to me.  Most people were extra kind to him.  They went out of their way to be nice, and in a city like New York, that was the equivalent to finding a leprechaun dancing in your bathroom.  Physically, George looked like a mess.  I met him at the dungeon though, so all that I saw was money.

George stood six feet and one inch tall and had a google eye, accompanied by a set of fucked up teeth.  A few years prior to meeting him, he weighed about 400 pounds, which he lost by "starving" himself.  (That's really what he told me.)  Apparently, he used to be a driver, made a boatload of money and ended up going into a diabetic shock, leaving him legally blind.  Most people felt bad for him, and since he couldn't indulge in sweets anymore, he ate up their sympathy like an overzealous five year old.  I didn't coddle George one bit.  He was my slave.

To this very day, in my wallet, I have George's ID.  He was at my job one day and to prove that he was my slave, I demanded it from him.  Sometimes I still get the urge to prank call him at his mother's house at three in the morning.  George used to drive me up the wall with his antics.  Because I refused to give him my private phone number, he bought me a second phone which was his "personal line".  At first the phone was fun to have because nobody else knew the number, so I would text message threats to unassuming people.  For about a month, my brother received these random text messages:

*Hey fuckface.  You look stupid today.  That outfit makes you look gay.

(And he would write back 'who is this?'  So then I would say...)

*I can't wait until you get back to your apartment.  You know those trash cans outside your building?  Well, I'm gonna bash one right over your skull.  Eat shit.

(wait a couple of minutes)

*Shithead.

(So, then my brother started looking at me funny like he thought that it was me who was sending the text messages.  So I sent this...)

*Hey, homosexual du jour.  Where's that retard looking sister of yours?  Haven't seen her ugly ass in a bit.  You should cage her up in a kennel.  Oh, by the way:  Say goodbye to those legs of yours.  I'm going to break them in fucking half, dickwad.

(And I would laugh.  He was so easy to get one over on.  Plus, he gets angry really quick, so that was always hysterical to watch.  But anyways...)

So George bought the phone and called me nonstop to the point where I had to keep the phone off sometimes.  It was never a surprise that when I would turn the phone back on, to have around 22 voicemails.  And guess who they were all from?  Yeah, exactly...  Each message was laced with his authentic Italian-Brooklyn accent.  (It drove me nuts)

MESSAGE ONE:

Hey Sophie.  (My Mistress name was Sophia, but he INSISTED on calling me Sophie.)  Hey.  It's uhh 12:34 and uhh...  Hey Sophie.  It's George.  I'm just calling to say Hi.  It's 12:34 and uhh... Hey Sophie.  So, uhh call me back.

MESSAGE TWO:

Hey Sophie.  It's me, George.  I'm calling you and it's 12:37.  You know, I don't know why you aren't picking up your phone.  Hellllloooo?

(Then I swiftly go through each message and promptly erase each one that starts off with his voice.)

MESSAGE EIGHTEEN:

Hey Sophie.  It's George.  Call me back.

And by MESSAGE TWENTY, he'd be crying:

(Crying) I don't know why you aren't picking up your phone.  Hey Sophie.  It's George.  Hey Sophie.  Hey Sophie.  It's George.  Hey Sophie.  (Then he let's out a meek sound of defeat)  uuuugh (and hangs up.)

I think that the most hilarious voicemail that I got from George was him crying and in the background, you could hear the jingle of an ice cream truck.  I must have played that message over a hundred times and pissed at least four pairs of pants.

George was the ultimate phone slut.  It's like he got off just on pressing the buttons on the phone's keypad.  *Boop Boop Boop- That's all it took.  He got an electrifying thrill to merely picking up a phone, dialling a number and hearing the ringing on the other end.  I never understood it.  And he wasn't ...legally handicapped, but I watched him call someone one time and this is how it played out...

Because he was blind(ish), he would get his flip phone out and hold it like it were the Hope Diamond.  Then, with it less than five inches from his face, he would slowly open it.  Once it flipped open, he would let out an almost inaudible sigh.  Trust me on this one.  When I first experienced this, my primal reflexes took over, so my eyes subconsciously lowered into little slits, and my head cocked to the side like a curious dog.

Still less than five inches from his face, he would bring the phone even closer to his good eye and press each button of the telephone number with such grace that you would think he were constructing fragile ships in glass jars.  Once the telephone number was in place, he would press dial, and since his eyes were a really light shade of blue, you could watch them dilate as the phone rang.  The whole scene was twisted, really.

Everyone (sans the chicks that I used to work with) used to hear about George and think that I was the world's largest dickhead for treating George like I did.  I didn't and still don't feel bad about it.  George was a tyrant.  He was insane and he was the worst behaved slave that I ever had.  As a matter of fact, I think that I'm going to prank him right now...

(Oh, and in case you are wondering, the dialogue above was the last conversation that we had.  I told him that he needed to see another Mistress at the dungeon because he pissed me off too much.  And why was I even thinking about him?  Because I was cleaning out my wallet and came across his ID.) 

Don't believe me?

Call The Cops. I Piss In The Shower

I piss in the shower.  Get over it.  Riddle me this:  Why is it that a guy can piss on the side of the street like a goddamn ferrel animal, not even wash his hands and then go share a plate of wings with his friends, but I can't even piss in the shower?  It's natural to do... 

I have peed in the shower for countless years.  And you know what?  I'm not going to stop anytime soon.  Think of that when I'm an overnight guest at your house.  You've been forewarned.  Even if I go to the bathroom before I step into the shower, I still for some miraculous reason have some piss on reserve.  Where it is stored in my body, I haven't the faintest clue.  All that I know, is that it's there...  And it's ready for shower-time.

At first, I would just get in and pee.  No big deal.  Now though, I realize that it might be becoming ...unnatural?  Case in point: The other day I'm in the shower and I pissed.  And YES, it runs down my legs and feet, but I end up cleaning it when I soap up my body.  Anyhow, I'm pissing and thinking to myself "Jesus Christ- this is a cold ass shower cause my piss is practically scalding my body".  So, I guess that when you use your own pee as a temperature gauge, maybe things have gone on too long and gotten too comfortable.  Maybe...

What really rocked my jollies though was how when my lover found out that I peed in the shower, he acted like I told him that I had stuffed a kitten in a sack of marbles and put it on a trampoline while I did flips and shit with my friends.  Seriously.  I thought that that EVERYONE pissed in the shower.  Honestly!  I mean, none of us popped out of our mom's crotches and used the toilets on our own, so why the hell doesn't everyone piss in the shower? 

SSL (sex-slave-loverboy) was in the bathroom (primping his pubes for all I know) when I was singing along in my head a song that I was penning.  I guess that it was the refrain in which I started to hum and sing out loud "mmm hmm hmm... peeing in the shower; I'm peeing in the shower..."  SSL goes "Ewwww!  No you aren't".  Bemused, I stopped my song, and frankly said "yeah I am".  And like a predator who has come to kill me, with one swoop of his arm, SSL swooshed open the shower curtain as piss was streaming down my leg and making a nice yellow (I was a bit dehydrated) puddle.  I looked up at him the same way my father's cats look at someone when they are pissing or shitting in their litter box.  They give you this insolent look like 'And?'  His face then scrunched up in disgust as I proceeded to swipe my feet back a couple of times just like a cat does to it's litter when it's finished peeing.

As long as I do this when I first get in the shower, then what is the big deal?  After I pee, I soak for a bit, sing a few songs, and then I soap up and wash off.  The world is still in motion, nothing dangerous has happened, and we press on.  Not a big deal at all.  It's just piss.

So, since I fucked up his brain and changed the way he thought of me, you know what I did next?  He left the bathroom while I was still in the shower and to fuck with him, I yelled out: "Guess what I'm doing now, babe!  I'm taking a shit and pushing it down the drain!"

And guess who ran back in the bathroom to save his defiled shower...

The plight of being Pregnant

This isn't the hormones that are being continuously pumped into my system from this alien inside of me.  I don't know how other females go through pregnancies all piss and grinning like it's the best thing that could ever happen to them.  I'll be frankly honest.  Being pregnant is shit.  It's fucking up my weekends, killing my racquetball game and really screwing with my body.  And I don't know why (uhh... this didn't originate in my mind, so don't hold me accountable), but I keep having thoughts of the Charles Manson murders.  Day and night.  Ugh.  I don't know what to think anymore.

    

The real issue here though, is the discrimination.  I might as well have a fucking scarlet A tattooed to my bosom.  First of all, since I'm Hispanic, people see me and give me that 'Oh, Jesus; having another one, are we?' look.  It's clearly my first trial offspring (and I say that because if this kid doesn't work, then I'm sending it to China).  If it wasn't my first, then wouldn't they figure that I would have my other 8 children with me?  Secondly, and I guess that I can blame this on my amazing genes, but they think that I look younger than I am, so I'm given that 'sllllllllllut' look.  I'd get less of a reaction if I walked down the street with an enormous dildo hanging out of my pocket.

The only people who are over the moon about this impending doom include people who already have had their lives ruined by children and want to see the rest of the world suffer like them, homosexual males (I have no fucking clue why)...

and my lesbo friend who keeps telling me that this is going to be our love child.  It's insane.  Never have I even thought of doing her (cause I don't eat carpet), but she has professed over and over how she loves me.  What can I say?  I'm an international sensation.

I went for an interview the other day and everything was going great.  Want to know why?  Because I put on a pair of slacks that cut my stomach in half, creating the question of 'is she fat, losing weight, or did she just have a HUGE dinner?'  And to help out with my ever expanding stomach, I did my best to suck it in the entire interview.  Things were going so great that when it was over, I relaxed a bit and my stomach made a surprise guest appearance, MUCH to the dismay of the employer.  She was smiling as she said her thank yous and that is when her eyes panned down to the lump, her smile turned into a frown and she said 'goodbye'. 

I'm OBVIOUSLY willing to work if I'm going on interviews.  What makes these dickheads think that once I reclaim my stomach, that I won't want to work anymore?  I already told the father (SSL) that he has to stay at home with the kid until it either walks or talks.  And who wouldn't want to do that?  At first he was adamant about being the workaholic of the family.  But that was until he saw how stir crazy I get and how I'm able to ruin an entire (once happy) home fuelled purely on my bouts of cabin fever.  So now instead of fighting me into being happy homemaker, he lets me do almost whatever I want.  (He still hasn't got me my male prostitute from Cuba yet.)  And so...  I want to work.  I miss working.  It's not even because I have this inner need to contribute to society.  Please.  I do it because I love money.  If I could sell my shit (which I have done in the past) for a living, then I'd do nothing but that.

But like I said, this kid is fucking my game up.  And what I find to be most insulting is that people automatically think that it's a baby.  What if it were a tumor?  Does anyone watch 20/20 anymore?  Or what if I were a surrogate?  ....Yeah, I think that people would believe the whole tumor thing before they EVER swallowed the surrogate thing.  I'm pretty much screwed.  ...Well, getting screwed is what got me here in the first place, so I guess that I'm pretty much...  Uhhhhhh...  (What would be wretchedly horrible, yet could still convey how I feel?)  ...Ok.  Got it.  I'm pretty much ...pregnant.

What's Between YOUR Legs?

"What's NOT to underfuckinstand?!  A male on a motorcycle automatically gets bumped up one point.  Get over it."

*Why on earth was I looked at like I was one of the greeters at Auschwitz when I was explaining this?  It's simple.  Pay attention so that I don't have to say this twice.  (Well, technically this would make for the second time)  PAY ATTENTION SO I DON'T HAVE TO SAY THIS THREE TIMES!

"But why?"

"Because it's a nice extension of their dicks.  For instance.  Take one of these chicks around here.  Look at how cute they are.  I mean, fuck, they look like broads that you would bang, right?"

"Uhh...  Well..."

"Of course they do.  Let me tell you something though.  Over 99% of these bitches wake up in the morning looking like someone else.  If it weren't for their fake hair, fake nails, maybe plastic surgery, cute clothing and makeup, MOST of these bitches would be 5's and under.  Imagine how they would look Au natural."

"Christ almighty.  It makes my dick want to crawl up inside me and hide."

"Exactly.  So here is my thought on the whole thing.  Females have an unfair advantage to guys.  They have all this extra shit that they can do to create a facade, if you will.  They can wake up as a 3 and transform into a 6 within an hour.  What the hell can a guy do though?  It's not like if he is ugly in the face, he can walk around in a pair of chaps so he can show off his monstrous sized ding-a-ling and sculpted ass from years at the gym doing squats.  A guy can only work with what he has by so much and then he's pretty much fucked."

"Yeah, so what the hell does that have to do with a motorcycle?"

"The motorcycle is the guy's go-to accessory.  Like a chick with a huge rack, a guy with a crotch rocket gets more play.  Even if he is ugly by American standards, he's a point cuter in my book.  He OBVIOUSLY likes to have fun and he has larger balls than guys without bikes.  And what's better?  A guy picking me up for a date in an automatic Audi or revving his bike outside of my window to let me know that he's ready to pick me up and take me to the bar for a couple of drinks and then go play with his arsenal of handguns in a vacant lot?"

"Jason Statham drives an Audi."

"Yeah, but he'd rather fuck an amputeed whore in the ear before he drove one that was automatic."

"That's disgusting."

"You mean classy, I think."

"Alexis, you make me sick sometimes."

"But, I still think that you are cute, so don't worry."

"Yeah, but I don't have a motorcycle."

"Which is why I'm checking that guy out right now on his Hayabusa.  Fuck me sideways- I think I'm in love."

Don't Kick Cookies

So I was helping my friend pick up a bunch of Girl scout cookies.  She did the crazy/smart form of birth control method and took on the responsibility of leading a troop of future acid tripping, lines of coke snorted off of their asses, crumbled up dollar bill tipped, clear stiletto wearing, 'my daddy didn't love me' proclaiming hookers.  Her troop is full of these sugared up 6 and 7 year olds that move around the room quicker than cockroaches on speed.  I wanted to punch myself in the face when I was helping her out with this fete.  Had I been given the insight she received, I too would have lead a troop of these broads just to insure that I would never have a kid of my own.  Her form of birth control is genius.  And I... am fucked.  Hindsight really raped me with this one.

Anyhow, we were picking up like a trillion boxes of cookies for her troop to peddle.  Each box of cookies contained 12 single boxes and in total, they filled up TWO Silverado beds.  I was recruited to help her with the cookies since I had access to the truck.  ...And because I'm a sucker.  It took a crew to load the cookies in the bed of the truck, but once we got to her house, we had to unload them ourselves. 

So there I was, jumping around the back of the truck like a monkey, trying to make order of the different flavor of cookies.  Things were going smooth and we had an unloading process that was pretty efficient.  I'm SO inpatient though that after about three and a half minutes of unloading, I started (ever so slightly) using my feet to sort of 'help' the cookies move faster.  That worked like a charm, so I got a bit eager and my feet started to get more aggressive.  At this point, my friend noticed that I was kicking the Girl Scout cookies clear across the bed of the truck.  "Hey Alexis, uhh, we don't offer refunds for broken cookies".  That's what she said to me and I'm all like:  "It's fucking 20 degrees out here.  If my imaginary nutsack were real today, I'd be choking on it".  That's how cold I was and that's how far my balls would retract in my body.  But she was my friend, so I was there helping her out.  And since I'm like a crackhead when it comes to Thin Mints....

I bought like 12 boxes of cookies from my friend's troop and it must be karma because each one has an excess of broken cookies, or if you will, ..."crumbs".  Seriously, let's just hope that I got the worst of the bunch, otherwise troop #(I don't fucking know) is going to have LOTS of angry customers.  The lesson that I leaned through it all?  Don't act like an asshole and kick someone elses cookies.  And if there is NO POSSIBLE WAY that you can talk yourself out of doing so, don't be such a fucking retard that you purchase 12 boxes of them afterwards...  Otherwise, like me, you'll end up getting your fix any way that you can even if that means snorting crumbs of Thin Mints off of your kitchen floor.  Don't you DARE judge me!

My FASHION Blog... Cause EVERYONE Has One

I woke up this morning wearing a long sleeved shirt brandishing the 80's iconic band, The Misfits. On my bra-less chest, their well known skull logo stares at the world- one eye socket more prominent and lower than the other because my tits are lopsided. (Think of it as having a variety...) Moving on. My genetic curiosity is ruining the rebellious nature of the shirt. Instead of making a two year old want to shit it's pants, thanks to titty1 and titty2, my shirt has become an optical illusion.

I think the coolest thing about this shirt (which I have in my possession only because I stole it from a family member when I was looking for lost treasure in their closet) are the sleeves. The sleeves have fake bones painted on them in white. Just in case I forget, I can look at my shirt and see right through to my humerus, radius, and ulna. Who thinks of this shit?
Do I even listen to this band? No. I have in the past, but the only Manny to rock my world is good old Barry Manilo; the same one that I named my pet turtle (who was later ripped to shreds by a hawk in California) after. Give me a moment...

What's even more peculiar than what I covered my chest with last night is what I covered my ass with. I woke up in roleplay panties that I purchased from an S and M shop in Manha... Mancrappen. The panties are black tight full bottoms with white frillies in the back. I sometimes used to use them for my maid outfit at work. Now? They lay at the bottom of my my box of work clothing, forgotten like orphans. Since I don't utilize underwear in the average American fashion, they find themselves in my 'useless as shit' clothing pile.

If I had a normal pair of underwear, i wouldn't have had to chose between rhinestone bedazzled g-strings, retro 1940's style bloomers and last nite's little number. And MAYBE if I put my laundry in the dryer instead of being zombified to the telly, I would have worn a "normal" outfit to bed; my Face-rapers inc. t-shirt and my 'monkeys throwing snowballs at each other' boxers.

A Letter To The City Of San Diego

*I have been asking my... fellow kin to contribute to my ever expanding blog.  Uhhh... he didn't send any pictures (which WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECT, but the reading is as always, splendid.  Enjoy!)

02/15/11

Dear Sir,

     I would like to take issue with your recent characterization of Downtown San Diego as, “nothing more than a sprawling hobo camp set at the base of luxury hotels.” This description is neither fair nor accurate.

While I can appreciate the emotional basis for the sentiment, coming as it does from someone more familiar with the East Coast, I regard it as premature, and feel it necessary to clarify a few key issues.

     San Diego is a city of opportunity. Be it enjoying the works of Classical composers in our Symphony Hall (a world-renowned institution that just celebrated its centennial anniversary), participating in the urban aesthetic of an up-and-coming generation, or just getting in some great shopping, our city has something for every taste.

Our climate, considered by many to be almost perfect, is regularly sunny and warm. Visitors can count on pleasant ocean breezes and low humidity throughout the year. Many people are surprised when, leaving the depths of their winters back home, they arrive in our fair city only to find bicycle tours and walking groups crisscrossing the streets!

 In addition to our art-house cinemas, spoken-word cafes, modern art galleries and many museums, we here in San Diego are proud to call ourselves home to Balboa Park, the West Coast’s answer to New York’s Central Park, and perhaps some of the cleanest, most scenic and most biologically diverse acres of municipal land anywhere in California.

Thanks to a thriving technological sector and a vibrant Convention Center, Downtown San Diego attracts some of our nation’s best and brightest. The whole world comes here for the commercial and leisure opportunities that we offer. Simply walk down Fifth Avenue, the heart of the Historic Gaslamp Neighborhood, and you will find restaurants, bars, clubs and, yes, luxury hotels, all making for an unparalleled social experience.

Like any major metropolitan area, we are no strangers to the phenomena of homelessness and vagrancy. Yet I ask that you rid yourself of any preconceived notions and try to understand that, far from being a largely unsavory underclass, the street people of our city can in no small way contribute to your overall cultural experience.

Where else in America can you be serenaded by the bittersweet sounds of a broken harmonica first thing in the morning? What other city provides you the constant opportunity to be rid of all that pesky spare change jingling in your pocket, or all those extra cigarettes you wouldn’t normally have smoked?

When I stand on the corner of Broadway and Fifth Avenue and see groups of people standing idly about, I don’t see a mob of lewd, filthy, belligerently drunk and possibly schizophrenic degenerates.

I see lively discussions and animated debates.

I see the civic discourse that is the hallmark of our great nation. This is a city where a man, though he has no home and no pressing social engagements, let alone the sufficient fare, can feel himself the equal to any bus driver, and not be afraid to board that bus and explain his grievances. Never mind the raised voices and the profanity, the jostling of shopping carts and the spilling of empty aluminum cans; intellectual debate is never a tidy affair.

When I go for a stroll in this fine city, I don’t see an obstacle course of reeking flesh that I am loathe to have to cross. I see committed social activism.

At the height of the business day men in wheelchairs will push themselves backwards and hold signs in their laps on which they’ve recorded their socially-conscious and politically incisive thoughts, thoughts they will share with you as you pass. Morbidly obese women with faces made up like rodeo clowns will pause their scooters before shop windows and stare inside, blocking off all pedestrian traffic and making the dual point of our government’s inability to provide affordable healthcare to its citizens and our culture’s shallow preoccupation with physical appearance.

When I walk down the street at night and see row upon row of tent shelters from which emanate a dozen different radio stations, I can’t help but feel a swelling of pride in my chest. Inevitably I am reminded of the student sit-ins and the numerous campaigns of civil disobedience that have provided so much freedom to so many, and always at the expense of the brave few.

     In keeping with our state’s noble heritage of frontier-survival and personal grit, our homeless population is of a hardy, resilient stock. When an entire life is fit into only a shopping cart and a couple of duffel bags, it is a subtle reminder against extravagant lifestyles and an eloquent censure of materialistic tendencies. When trash cans are scavenged and the excess of our gluttonous appetites is shown to be perfectly sufficient for more frugal souls, it promotes sustainable consumption patterns.

Is it any coincidence, I wonder, that these same sentiments have been voiced by no less than such eminent thinkers as Henry David Thoreau and Benjamin Franklin?

     When we talk of art, we allow for the concept of discomfort. Groundbreaking art shocks, it awakens normally jaded sensibilities. Therefore the constant reek of urine that emanates from doorways and chain-link fences, the fecal matter that is streaked across pavement squares and sometimes even down the legs of jeans, the hysterical crying on the trolleys and the tirades aimed at the government, the White Man and the mind-control experiments of the CIA are all part and parcel of the same city-wide exhibition of art in its most modern incarnation.

San Diego is a city where you come to learn something new about the world, and, in the process, yourself. It is precisely for this reason that, far from wishing animosity between us, I would elect to extend the olive branch, and with it a renewed invitation to come and visit our fine city.

Just, please, this time bring an open mind.

Sincerely Yours,

One-Legged Pete

Chairman, The City of San Diego Board of Tourism,

455 7^th Avenue, behind the 7-11

(it’s the green dumpster, not the blue one)

Valentine's Day Sex ..it's the best day of the year

Sex. Drugs. Hookers. Food. Booze. Midgets. Rope... When I think of word associations with "Valentine's Day", these are a few words that come to mind. I know what you're saying, and I feel the same way; I'd be unstoppable on Family Feud...

I have never been a huge proponent of American holidays. Halloween, YES. Christmas, NO. Holidays have a way of digging their treacherous little claws under my skin and going straight for my aorta. I don't like to recieve gifts and unless it's unexpected, I don't like to doll out gifts either. So with yesterday being Valentine's Day, I really didn't feel compelled to do shit. ...Except fight.

Since he felt like knocking me up (and if you ask him, he might still say that I raped him)... (I didn't) but anyhow, since that happened, we decided to live together. Technically, I thought that it would be a genius idea because it would mean that I wouldn't have to Booty Call him anymore. Living with a sex slave who can also cook for me?! Duhhhhhh...

Valentine's Day was our first day with this trial basis and it went a little something like this...

We love to wrestle. Well, I love to wrestle. And all I wanted to do was to have some fun, so I pushed some of Sex-Slave-Loverboy's buttons. Finally, he came lunging at me...

I just love a good battle so I got ready to kick him in his knees. But before I could do that, he spun me around and put me in a nelson, which drives me shithouse. So I wiggled my way out of it and he caught me again. And that is when the play fight went up a notch...

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

With him still behind me holding me captive, I squatted just enough to fire up my beastly thighs. As I propelled backwards with him still attached, my objective was to slam him into something so I could stomp on his B-List actor looking face. But, I uhh, didn't realize what was about to happen... In one moment of idiocy (which for me is ...rare), I took all of my weight and slammed it on top of him as I slammed him onto his bed. But, when we reached the bed, for some reason, we kept falling. I got up and that is when I saw the damage...



It didn't look like much, so I knelt down for further inspection...

The bitch didn't just come off the hinge. The entire side frame split in half and gouged it's way through the leather like a compound fracture. All that I could say was...

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck"

At that moment, I relived an instance in my life that to this day makes me shiver. I was in my father's garage and my older brother had his CBRparked in there. It was cute and I really couldn't keep my hands off of it, so I sat on the bike to see if I could handle the weight of it. Then, my little brother got on the back. And then... (This is embarrassing so after you read this, erase it from your mental rolodex) ...I dumped the bike. I wasn't even riding the motherfucker, and I DUMPED it. And that is when I looked up from the concrete slab that I was crushed on to see my older brother's reaction...

Anyhow, the point is that when I broke Sex-Slave-Loverboy's bed, I looked up at him and he had the same reaction as my older brother did on the 'bike dumping' day. And for the first time since SSL and I started messing around, I was slightly afraid of him. I apologized and he VERY calmly said "it's ok...". Now, I know that with myself, I'm only that calm because I'm about to fucking kill the person when something like that happens. Either SSL has the zen of Ghandi or he's planning on a sneak attack slicing of my throat. Since he's a revenge addicted Scorpio... I'm guessing that I only have 48 more hours left to live before I go missing in a concrete casket.

Did I get sex for Valentine's Day? ...No. But my lover and I did break a bed.

I Sold Out For ...Dick

Everyone has a fetish.  Mine used to be picking my boogers and eating them.  When that compulsion susbsided to just picking them and discarding them in a tissue, I moved on.  My following preoccupation became my toenails.  Even if it meant pinching major arteries to do so, I would contort myself in such positions, possibly cutting off the blood supply to my brain just to bite off my toenails.  Forget using a nail clipper like normal human beings.  Apparently, in my 12 year old mind, that invention was as useless as an electric cigarette.  And since I brought that shit-brain invention up, What the hell are those things about?  They have got to be some of the lamest inventions.  ANYHOW, fetishes...

Once I discovered ciggs, I left my toenails alone and fixated my mouth around my new and improved lifeline.  Newport 100's.  Wellllll, I initially began with Black and Mild's, which led to Newport shorts, which led to Virginia Slims when people started to bum ciggys off of me.  Since nobody younger than 65 smokes Viginia Slims, I soon realized that eventhough nobody bummed cigs off of me, I didn't even want to bum a cig off of myself.  So, I went back to Newports, but then switched to cigars and then to Djarums because I wanted to quardinate my ensamble with their sleek, all black body.  Once I started to wheeze and cough up blood on my way to high school, sometimes ensuing a vomit episode, I went back to Newports. 

It wasn't until one day when I was hanging out with my best friend and some lesbo broad (who later raped my best friend's lesbian virginity from on top of a washer and dryer unit), that the les said to me "Alexis Alexis Alexis.  Sexy lexy.  You don't mind if I call you that, do you?  (And as I open my mouth to object...)  Didn't think so.  Listen, sweety.  Why the hell are you smoking shorts when you get your money's worth from longs?"  At that moment, this manchick (she dressed like a boy) dropped a bitchslap of insight in my life.  This entire time...  I've been smoking shorts when I could have gotten more for my money?!  I wanted to excuse myself from her leering eyes, go to the safety of my father's God fearing house and write to the company, demanding retribution.  Instead of the sidebar of useless comentary stating that smoking while pregnant can harm the kid, the company should write something more useful.  They should fire their entire design team.  I think that the rest of the world would find it a TAD BIT more useful to know that purchasing 100's instead of regulars costs the same amount of money and gives them at least 3 extra puffs!  I mean lets be honest.  That type of information is a fuckload more appreciated than telling me about someone's unborn kid.  Fuck the babies.  I want to save money!

SADLY though...  I had to give up that fetish as well.  Unfortunately, my current ball and chain has made the request DEMAND that I stop smoking because his baby lungs can't handle it's pungent aroma.  What a fucking wimp.  While his palate is so enormous that if it wasn't for some type of "regulations", he'd be 400 pounds (sexy), I just don't understand why he can't aquire a taste to ciggys.  He even told me once after I smoked "When I kissed you, I wanted to throw up", to which I laughed incessantly.  Let me be frank.  I NEVER gave up cigarettes for anyone before.  I once liked a guy before and he told me that if I gave up smoking, then he would date me.  You know what I told him?  "Go fuck your mother". 

That's how disgusted I was with him.  Give up smoking?  Sure; and while I'm at it, why don't you give up living and BREATHING!  The sheer idea was absurd.  That was until...

They say that pussy controls the world, which is true by all means.  I understand the power of it and why shit is all fucked up in the world becase females in my generation don't realize what type of power they have.  While I realize the power of my crotch, I'm also human and I'm totally lazy at training guys (lovers, if you will).  And that is why I put my ciggys on the backburner for- NOT FOREVER, but ...for now???  I did it for dick.  Slap me in the face, throw some ice cold water at me, pinch me for crying out loud.  Dick?!?  ...Yeah.  Sadly enough, I was in the middle of a celebacy act that I brought upon myself.  I just got into a phase where I didn't want to have sex.  (Don't look at me funny!)  When that phase was over, I had a one night stand with a friend that included a butt plug (on him) and throwing up (also from him) which left me wondering what the fuck I was doing with my life (and morals).  I gave up sex for so long just to have that circus-like sex act?  Jesus.  So I went back to giving up sex again...

                                          Then I met him.

I met the jackass who wanted to vomit when he kissed me.  Over cigarettes.  If he didn't TRICK me, then I wouldn't be in this funk right now.  We were dating for a few months before he laid it on me.  Not his crotch, but his altimatum.  One day out of the blue he said to me: "Blah blah blah...  No cigarettes... blah blah blah... stop or no more dick... blah blah blah... (Honestly, I started to fade out of the conversation when he mentioned a ban on cigarettes and only came back to earth when he mixed dick into his speech.)  At the time, I had been smoking a pack of ciggypoos a day for eleven years.  Most people with that type of addiction need serious intervention to kick the habit.  I'm a chick who is so fucking stubborn though that all I need is my willpower.  I'm a sicko when it comes to proving someone wrong.  I'd walk over glass just to have the glory of being right.  I knew that eventhough he thought that I would chose the cigs over him, I could do the opposite... if I felt like it.  But, I wasn't sure until...

This asshole had me come over his house one day.  He knew what he was doing and stupid me was so caught up with something else that was going on in my life that I was not even paying attention to his trickery.  I was at his house minding my own business and the next thing I know, it's been three hours later and we were still having sex.  This complete JERK used sex AGAINST me!  I didn't have to even train him over and over again.  I told him what I liked and what I didn't like only ONCE and from that point on, he was like one of those show dogs.  He had good form, amazing technique, and perfect execution.  I was quite amused with this conundrum.  I knew that it was either my cigs or this blush-worthy sex.  He put it down soooooo well, that it put me to sleep right away.  And I'd like to say that my slumber was just as amazing as the sex, but I ended up waking up in tears.  I sat up in bed, wiped my eyes and relived my dream once more...

...I was laughing and running in a field all the while holding hands with a lifesized cigarette who was running next to me.  We were having so much fun.  Then the scene in my dream changed and we were sitting under a tree eating ice cream together and that is when my dream became a nightmare.  My long time friend turnned to me and said: "I'm having so much fun with you, Alexis.  But, you know what?  It's almost time to say goodbye.  The cigarette prices in new york are at an all time high of 12 dollars and his dick is free.  I can't let you do this to yourself anymore".  And that is when I cried out: "NOOOOO, Ciggy!  I won't let you go!  I'd move to Bejing just to smoke you at a cheaper price.  Don't leave me!  Let's work this out.  I'll be better.  I CAN BE BETTER FOR YOU!"  But, the cigarette just shook it's head, got up and walked away.  And it seemed like hours later I was still laying under that tree, kicking my feet and pounding my fists as the tears cascaded down my face.  Life was unfair...

...My lover woke me up; I knew what I had to do, so I gathered my belongings, left his house and bought a pack of Newports.  Just kidding.  I gave into his AKC certified ding-a-ling and said "so long" to my best partner in the world.  You know, most people say that when they sneak their secret vices behind their lover's backs, that they feel like they are cheating on their lover.  Well, I'll be honest.  Being with this amazing dick makes me feel like I'm cheating on my cigarettes.  Each day of my cigarette free life, I have to look in the mirror and question if this is all worth it.  Am I the ultimate sellout?

Ugh!  So that's my love story.  I was supposed to write about how my new fetish became sitting uncomfortably close to VERY fat men on the subway because I like how comfy and warm they feel, but I guess that THAT got placed on the backburner...   You all know my crackheaded secret now.  Now let me go cry my eyes out for the rest of the day...

Get Rich Without Working ...OR paying taxes

My 'Alexis needs a heart transplant so empty your pockets' Donation Jars are coming along.  They should be ready by the end of today.  Surprisingly, I could probably go toe to toe with Martha Stewart by the way these little guys came out.  If only I could put the same amount of energy into my professional life as I did with these jars... 

My best female friend has been recruited to travel around town and place these jars in different locations.  I'm thinking that we shouldn't be overly ambitious (or obvious for that matter) and focus mainly on mom and pop locations.  If everyone takes sympathy to my childhood picture that was taken in 1989 and believes that I really need a heart transplant, then I will be rolling in the change.  For such a situation, I have constructed an Alexis Wish List.  On it are things that I want, but would never purchase with my own money.

MY WISH LIST

Moonshoes

Xbox

Maserati

A pet capuchin monkey

A male prostitute

A lifetime supply of fake blood

Newports

My favorite singer stuck in an enormous dog kennel and kept in my bedroom

Rolex watch

...and maybe a pretty dress to wear out to a massively expensive steak dinner

I'm overly giddy with this project.  It's hard to contain my excitement.  When my friend inspected my masterpieces last night, she said that once she picked one up, she felt this surge of negative energy shoot through her body.  For fuck's sake, it's not like I'm holding a gun to her head and forcing her to go along with this plan of mine.  ...I will though, Ichelle...

My Favorite Game IN THIS SOLAR SYSTEM

It started just like 34% of my other ideas.  I was laying in bed pondering the height that it would take to successfully embed my flesh into the pavement below my bedroom window.  Things were pretty rough though seeing as though I was situated on the first floor.  I couldn't even "practice".  My brain started to leak out of my ear and run away from the boredom when all of a sudden, it came to me.  Truth or Dare.  Truth or Dare has been a staple part of my formidable years.  It has always been my go-to game at sleepovers and such.  Since it doesn't come in a box with the age range printed on the side and pamphlet with the rules printed on it, I have decided to reinvent it.  ...While I stayed in bed, of course.  (It was chilly outside.)

Immediately I got on my celly and texted invites.  And surprise surprise, only the ballsy (and fun) people in my life responded with a "YES!"  My favorite player out of the bunch?  My youngest sister.  She is good for a dare in case you were wondering.  And just in case you wanted to start a pick-up game with your own friends, here are the rules:

Dare...  A childhood game reinvented by Yours Truly

Players Needed 2+  (unless you are REALLY lonely and want to play by yourself...)

*Only one player out of the group gets a dare at a time.

*Each dare completed has to be verified by photo, audio, in person or by a credible source (and I mean Jesus and not anyone else)

*Once the dare has been completed, the Daree becomes the Darer and can pick the new Daree.

*Dares must be completed within 72 hours or unless given specific directions. 

*Dares cannot be anything that will directly land the Daree in jail, in a coffin, or in a rehab facility.  If the Daree ends up in any which facility LATER ON, it does not mean that the Darer lost the game.

*Dares cannot be duplicated or altered by the players.

*Dares cannot directly harm a non-player

*Each player can opt out of only ONE dare per game.  In that case, they get a "double dare".  If the player opts out of the double dare, then they lose.

And that's that.  You might be asking yourself: "Well, what the hell am I going to win in the end, Alexis?"

The answer?  You get to keep your balls.

I've been playing the Dare game off and on now for several months and sometimes I question to myself "What the hell am I doing walking around in the dead of summer with these bulky winter gloves on?"  It is then when I realize that I am taking a break from the uptight and pretentious "American Dream".  I am taking a break from my current quarter-life crisis.  I am taking a break from living like all the other shmucks that are worried about what people think of them.  I am taking a break from responsibility and I'm having fun.

 Some of the dares that we have done so far:

* Deface a movie ad in the subway (child's play... Yawn...)

* Take a shit in each bathroom of the house and let it marinate until someone else finds it.

*In my sister's house (which had 7 people living in it) my sister hid all of the silverware except for ONE place setting and kept it like that for three days.  Everyone was ripshit.

*Wear a shirt inside out for the entire day (too easy for school)

*My friend was working at the Capitol in D.C. at the time and I dared him to take off his shoes and dress socks and have a photo shoot in his cubicle during office hours.  He did.

*Some hoity toity actors were having a sit-down on the deck of a lavish apartment building next to my job, so I dared my friend to throw tomatoes at them.  Successful.

And the list goes on.  And on...

A Personal PSA

Ur gonna eat my a

This is the sext that my brother's boyfriend was sending

him when he drove into an elementary school.

SEXTING AND DRIVING... IT CAN WAIT

a message brought to you by BIML