My Cankles

I never told anyone this before today, but I'm pretty much over the moon in knowing that I don't have inverted nipples.  I was never a fan of those.  I'm also glad that my belly button is an inny.  (Is that how you spell it?)  When I was younger and had a pot belly from overeating, I had an outty, but I did that old wives thing and taped a quarter over my belly button until it hid away inside my cave, which is now my inny.  And even though I was told as a young child that I had "Flinstone Feet", I now realize that it's because I have esthetically pleasing, modelesque toes that fall in line with each other.  Unlike the person who told me how fucked up my feet looked, I didn't have the long second toe that they were conflicted with.  (I've read that a longer second toe was a sign of a dominating personality, but now I'm just guessing that "dominating" means "shitbag".  And since the person is now ridden with smoker wrinkles that ages them by at least 15 years, I guess that my interpretation is more likely accurate than the general one.)

My troubled body part, you ask?  Initially, I would say that it's my lopsided boobs or my dinner plate aereolas that could feed an entire village.  It's not though.  It's my cankles.  Not until I was in my late teens did I realize that I had rather large ankles.  I thought that it was just a bunch of muscle from running all the time.  Not thinking that I was on the verge of a serious case of edema, I brushed it off.  I don't recall the exact moment when I came face to face with my stumpy legs, but I remember the first time someone else did.  Just like it happened five minutes ago...

I was in Los Angeles with my older sister and we were eating a late nite meal with her friends.  I was on my best behavior, acted very nice and was minding my own business.  Well, her friend had made a comment about my feet looking really cute and reached under the table to grab them.  In doing so, he reached for my ankle to get a better look at my little pups and his face contorted into ...hmmm...  I wouldn't say that it was disgust.  I wouldn't even say that it was a peculiar curiosity.  His face just looked... in shock.  At that life changing moment he said "DAMN GIRL!  You've got some cankles!"

And that was the moment.  Everyone stopped eating, froze in place and waited for my response.  And out of my mouth fell "...yeah.  I do..."  That's all.  No need to hide the truth.  If that person could only see my feet now...  Thanks to this preggo bullshit, I have elephant stumps.  No matter how much I workout in the gym, these guys swell up and hurt like the dickens.  (Bad play on words.  Not what I meant to say.)  I told SSL that I'm going to put sweatbands on my ankles, promoting water loss.  He told me that I was overreacting, but when a person like him (who LOVES fat broads) looks down at my feet and his eyes widen the same way they did when we were at the Coney Island side show, I really have to wonder.  I knew something was terribly wrong when I couldn't fit into my chucks anymore... 

Renting To A Monster

I have a monster living in my house.  I know that he only signed a 9 month lease, but this banging on the walls in the middle of the night has got to stop.  I told him a couple of rules when he first moved in:

*Don't fuck up my house and cause me to get a bunch of repairs

*No girls allowed

*No drugs or alcohol

(oh wait.  my oatmeal just finished.  hold on.)

I'm back.  Where was I?  My rules....  Oh!  And so the last rule that I gave him was No other occupants besides him.  I'm not a mean landlord, just a strict one.  So far, this monster has been a pretty good tenant.  Sure he gets rowdy and maybe his anger gets the best of him because he moves around his room like he is pacing nonstop.  And I don't know if he is taking some extra gym classes, but he better not be kicking the shit out of my sheet rock like I imagine he's doing.  I'll send his ass right to court- I swear to God.

I only see him about once a month just to make sure that things are going well, but I still for some reason know his schedule.  It's get up at any hour his unemployed ass wants to, eat some food, maybe watch some smut television, exercise a bit with his damn workout videos, sleep, wake up and pace, sleep, (and I'm thinking that he's a drinker because he has the hiccups at times).  When this cretin has the hiccups it's like my whole house is shaking.  I must be boarding an alcoholic.

Sometimes his antics drive me nuts and I turn up my music, put my speakers right up to his wall and try to shut him up.  Does it work?  Well, apparently Bobby Brown, Prince and Chacka Khan are his favorites because he starts dancing, which I try not to advocate.  During the night though, when I want to sleep, I play John Coltrane or my favorite Duke Ellington song: In A Sentimental Mood.  For some reason, that shuts him up.  Either he goes to his bed or he just falls out in the middle of the floor from a drunken stupor.  I'm not sure because I still haven't seen the way he's decorated, let alone the damage that he's doing to my apartment.

All in all I guess that having a monster live with you as your tenant is ...satisfactory.  I don't go out and party anymore because I'm afraid that in my absence, he will ruin my home.  I've even stopped smoking because I don't want him to pick up the habit or "develop" asthma and charge me for it later on down the line.  I guess that you could say that my life has become (for lack of better words) fucking boring.  The lease is almost up though, so I guess that I won't have to deal with this monster living in my house anymore.  Am I happy?  Hmmmmm....  Can I get back to you on that?  This little jerk must have just woke up from a nap.  He's making a fuss again...



*No midnight parties

IMPORTANT TO READERS

Still in jail.  Can't blog until release date.  Will explain later...

Swim Home And Stop Fucking Up My Life

Call me a racist.  I really don't give a flying fart on the moon.  (My father, who doesn't swear says that.  A fart on the moon though?  Really?  Who the hell made up that saying?)  Anyhow, here's the issue.  Well, here's the issueSSSSS.

1.  Hispanic people in NYC.  One word can sum up 98% of them.  Retarded.  And I really don't give a shit if I get a Molotov Cocktail bursting through my window later on tonite.  Try me...   So, apparently they (racist comment) navigated surprisingly well enough to find America, so why the hell are they so fucking horrible when it comes to simple geography?  I tell this bitch today that I was born in (blankety blank).  So this bitch (who works for the state and is putting my information into the computer) says:  "And where in New York is that?"  She thought that the STATE that I was born in (which is NOT New York) was a part OF New York.  What a dimwit. 

The true problem lies in her attitude with me the entire time that she was supposed to be helping me out.  Mind you, she's brainless, so why the fuck does she act so superior?  At one point of our conversation she asked for my id, so I tossed it on the desk.  So you know  what she says? 

Retarded Spanish Broad: "Don't you throw your papers on the floor here!"

Alexis' Mind: "My papers?  One:  I was born here and don't require "papers".  Two:  I'm not a fucking dog that has a file at the vet's office.  Three:  That's called a D-E-S-K.  ...in English at least..."

Ugh!  The story goes on and I can easily fill an entire page with the shit that drove me nuts, but the main gist of the story went like this:

*Alexis got angry.  Guadalupa took her fat ass to lunch and left Alexis alone in her cubicle.  Alexis took her paperwork, ripped it up, poured the rest of her water bottle on the beotch's keyboard and then spat on her chair.  Then, Alexis got up and left the building.  Why?  Cause I'm a decent American!

Fast forward to the train ride home...

Alexis is still pretty angry until a hot Hispanic guy sits in front on her on the train.  All of a sudden the day started to get better.  She even figured that the hottie made up for Chiquita Banana's douchelord face.  And then...

He spoke.  Ugggggggggh.  Why must most all Hispanic guys act like fucking Special Olympic triathletes?  And you know what?  They all have prepubescent voices.  I can count on one hand how many Hispanic men that I have come across who have had sexy voices.  One of which, lives in my old building- but I think that he goes to jail half of the year, so that would mean that he gets dick more than I do, which makes him exempt from this example.  And on second note?  Most of their dick sizes don't even match a fraction of their egos.  But, do I care?  No.  If I wanted to sleep with a lame ass Latin guy, I'd simply fuck my own fingers.  Give me a moment...  Good God- it's not like any of them would read this shit anyway...

So I finally get home.  To a text.  From SSL.  What did it say???  And I quote!
"You will never know what it's like to be a black man in America".

I guess that I forgot.  This is apparently the 1960's and life is soooooo hard.  How about this, SSL.  Try being a car driver in America.  Or maybe a college educated person that's unemployed.  Not enough?  Why not try being someone without health insurance in America.  Better yet.  Try being AMERICAN in 2011!