i am the smartest man alive

oh fuznut. i can post from my phone??? i really am a technological retard. ...if only my sausage fingers werent so large...

I Have Become A 'Cat Lady'

Charlie, my cat that I found off the streets is on drugs.  No other explanation could make sense...

Yesterday in the 96 degree heat, I found myself searching store after store for some kitten chow.  Apparently I was the one who caused her to be so sickly with the adult cat food that I was feeding her.  Who knew that kittens off the street needed extra care?  I guess that I looked at her like a crack baby; happy that they had any loving at all.  That doesn't mean that I kicked her around and locked her up in an attic.  I just didn't baby her like I should have.  So yesterday I risked getting heat stroke, walked to the end of the earth and back, to find only adult cat food.  What the fuck?

With no other option (besides slitting my wrists and having her suckle off of them), I get the food.  And how does this broad repay me?  She comes home later that day looking stoned out of her mind!  What the hell type of clique did she find?  Here I am contemplating whether her palate would prefer a salmon or chicken aftertaste and meanwhile she is busy getting jumped into some degenerate cat gang.  I feel like such a punk.  My own cat manipulated me into moving her into a normal home and endlessly supplying her with food.  I was nothing more than a mark for her.  She is eating me out of my cupboards and then sleeping all day.  Her active time?  Late at nite when I'm sleeping, she goes outside and "hangs out with friends".  What's next?  I'm going to find her stealing money out of my wallet?  The goddman TV is going to end up missing?



Belly Or Backshots?

*Just so you know, this is the second time writing this shit.  Blogger decided to erase the first one...

...So um, like I was saying, some shit shouldn't be said.  It just shouldn't.

 Ie:  "When you were on top of me (during intercourse) it felt like I was getting stomped out."  -SSL

Not the nicest thing to say to someone who is 38 weeks pregnant, seeing as though most broads stop having sex when they are in their first and second trimesters.  But, maybe he is taking on the feminine role and being cautious of le bebe.  Quick question.  What the hell did he think was going to happen?  First of all, I gained 40 pounds, all of which are in my belly.  Secondly, the fucking kid is the size of a mini linebacker and just waiting to emerge from the abyss.  And thirdly, it's called BACKSHOTS, dickhead.  But...  I can see where that would pose a problem if you are just not into the person anymore.  In THAT case, just man up and say it and stop wasting my time.  No feelings lost, you know?

This shit is conjured up in my head and the next thing I know, I'm pacing the apartment thinking "crushing your stomach?...  Felt like I was stomping you out?...  What the fuck???  Since when did I gain THAT much weight?"  Then, I realized that my new kitty, Charlie needed the fan on her because she was overheating.  So I bent down, braced myself on the fan to unplug and move it, and the fucking thing collapsed under me while I fell on top of it.  ...All 170 pounds of me.

Jesus Came To My Vaginal Exam

*I'm sweating balls right now.  (And that has nothing to do with my post.  It's just hotter than a witches cizzunt today.  "It's so damn hot.  Milk was a bad choice...") 

Today at the doctor's office I had to have a vaginal exam.  I don't know how people do it, but the last thing that I want to have happen is someone besides my lover fishing around in my vagina.  It's fucking disgusting and although it's a must at the doctor's office when you are 39 weeks pregnant, I'm vehemently against it.  Women always say that after all of the fiddling around in your crotch by tons of doctors when you are pregnant, that you just get "used to it" and it doesn't bother you after a while.  My opinion about these females?  Besides them being HEIFERS, I think that no matter how many doctors examine my vagina, I will NEVER get used to someone that I don't know in my motherfucking crotch.  Who the fuck are these broads anyhow and what back alley block did they grow up on?  It bugs me that guys don't have to go through the same type of invasive body manhandling that I do. 

I'm not a lesbo, so having a female gynecologist is out of the question for me.  I just can't have a female touch ANY part of my crotch.  ...Or boobs.  Because of that, my doctors are always males.  It's just more natural.  Except for today.  Today was (...shudder).

So I go to the doctor.  My pulse is normal, my weight is 172- which is now the new norm apparently, and my temp is great.  Then, I go to the bathroom to piss in a cup, steal a bunch of those alcohol wipes (my insurance pays for it) and bring my urine back to the nurse.  From there I am escorted to the exam room and she then instructs me to disrobe from the waist down.  And that is when I started to freak out.  I can't stand any of this shit that they do for prenatal care.  If it isn't getting pints and pints of blood sucked out of your veins, leaving you drowsy, it's having them probe your belly and vag.  It's disgusting and I freak out EVERY TIME.  And how do they do the vag exam to see if a lady like myself is dilated?  With a finger!  Disgusting.  So the nurse is in the corner, the doctor inserts his finger and I automatically go into "oh shit" mode and tense up.  My hands fly up and then seize in a bent-in-half type of T-Rex style as my body swishes from every possible angle to escape the discomfort.  Then, while his finger is still checking my cervix, my legs (which are extremely strong) squeeze together in hopes that they break his arm off.  Maybe it was my face that was distorted for a normally calm and uneventful occasion, or maybe it was the utter bedlam that triggered the nurse to laugh.  As his arm was trapped in my leg-vice, my doctor yelled: 

"ALEXIS!  STOP SQUEEZING MY FINGER!"

And I wanted to yell at him back, but what came out was this prehistoric "EWWWAHHH!!!!"

So finally, he reclaimed his arm/finger and finished the sonogram.  As I was getting dressed, I looked at my sonogram screen and had to take a picture.  I'm perplexed.  Is that Jesus in a sports coat, rocking a mullet or a Paul Mccartney from The Beetles? 

Charlie

Right about now I hate this stupid girl on tv.  She has a cat.  She's happy.  The world is revolving; never missing a beat.  Besides that, the movie sucks.  ...just like my life.

My cat Charlie is dying and I can't do anything to help her out.  She pukes, poops and cries.  I don't know what I did wrong, but my little critter is on the brink of death and all that I can do is watch and wait.  She's just a baby.  My little baby kitty...

I don't ever want another pet.

I'm A Sucker For Puss

My heart has been torn into two pieces.  I'm still not sure what to do.  Keep it or kick it to the curb?  Seeing as though it's 4am and I'm cleaning up it's shit off of just washed clothing, I'm inclined to actually skin it, but (oh God...) sometimes assholes don't have the heart to be douchebags.  The dilema of being me...  Believe it or not, this little critter has dug it's claws into my heart, but I know that once SSL finds out that this cat shat all over his clothing, he might cry.  Even his Bruce Lee shirt got a nice spray of fecal matter on it...

Maybe this is a sign.  I just looked out my bedroom window and the cat (which I named Charlie) is at the front door waiting to come inside her newly acquired home.  I was the shithead who said "hi" to her in passing and she was the jerk who followed me all the way home.  What was I supposed to do?!  It was raining outside.  After three cans of tuna fish, I went to the corner store and bought her normal cat food.  Since then, she hasn't shat once.  That is until 4am.  I almost added to the mess by throwing up on top of the shit.  Makes me wonder how I am ever going to change my own kid's diaper.

I can't stand cats.  I REALLY realllllllly don't like them, but what the hell.  All of a sudden I have become (ugh) the surrogate mother for this ...feline.  Because I don't do litter boxes, I find myself digging through bushes at all hours of the nite, calling her name out of my bedroom window and walking the streets making cat noises just to bring her back home.  She's nocturnal and my largest fear is that since she likes to go outside and play in the middle of the nite, she's going to get involved with the wrong crowd and ...who knows... become addicted to catnip and get pregnant?  Oh my God.  I have to go and find her RIGHT NOW!

The Saddest Story Ever Told

I debated waiting until SSL fell asleep last nite to watch as he calmly breathed in and out, off somewhere in slumber land.  I was going to lay next to him propped up with my head in my hand and a peaceful smile on my face.  My little cherubic angel...  Then, I would slowly get up and tower over him on the bed, bring back my foot oh so slightly and KICK HIM IN HIS GODDAMN BUBBLEHEAD!

Have you ever come back from the barber with the worst haircut in the world and each time you catch your reflection you just want nothing more than to reach up to the heavens and scream bloody murder?  At 9 o'clock last nite I was falling to the floor, scraping my knees and reaching up with gnarled fingers for mystic lightning bolts that I would sever SSL's head with.  Oh, and FYI, I was also naked when this occurred.  I was sooooo angry that my eyeballs were on the verge of popping out of their sockets and veins were pulsating around my face and neck...

It all began last week when I went to my Obstetrician to check on ze bebe.  Each time I go to the doctor, some dumb shit happens that makes me say in my head "I'm never coming back to this crack shack again.  Never."  Over time though I have developed a twinge of Stockholm syndrome, so rationalizing why I stay on track with my prenatal appointments gets easier and easier.  -So I'm in the room waiting for my doctor.  To calm myself (I'm a hypochondriac) I am listening to AC/DC on my ipod.  After ten light years, in walks this pudgy, middle aged Asian guy with a full head of hair.  My doctor.  We go through the usual bullshit including me thinking that I'm going to get test results back saying that I have eight minutes left to live or that even though nothing looks strange, (surprise) my arm is going to fall off.  After a bunch of crazy facial expressions and reassurances, my doctor fucks up my life by saying:

"Ok, Alexis.  I need to do a vaginal exam.  There's a drape for you.  I'll be right back."

"Wait- What?!  Vag exam?!  But Dr. Blah blah blaaaaaahhhhh...  I can't.  I haven't shaved in over a month!  Oh my God.  I'm not ready for this!"

Then to make my misery understood by all angles, I whimpered like a pathetic fool.  It worked.  The doctor stopped right in his tracks, pivoted on his right foot and said:

"You think that I'm happy about this, Alexis?!" -and he walked out...

FAST FORWARD TO LAST NITE-

The trip to my doctor left me with night sweats and flashbacks that I'm attributing this new facial twitch to.  I had an episode worse than the tantrum of a three year old.  Having enough, I told SSL last nite to shave me.  Only I can shape my crotch up with perfection, so in lieu of presenting him with an impossible fete, I just said "take it all off".
                                       5 hours later...

My little lady down there looked like a patchwork of random wisps of hair.  How the fuck did he not see all of this extra hair?  Seriously.  As I looked in the mirror, my face melted in sheer horror.  In front of my was the worst fucking haircut that I have ever received on my head or my crotch.  I had to hold back all of my anger, which might have been the reason why I was so tuckered out and went to bed early.  Before that though I had to "blind shave" the rest of my crotch, almost cutting my fingers right off.  Just typing about this makes me angry all over again.  When I finally emerged from washing the remnants of his shit show off I took my naked ass over to him, got my nightly lotioning (he does that for me) and stared down at him with so much fury in my eyes that they started to tear up to stop burning.  So now?

SSL hates when I do things nude.  He is more modest than I am.  I don't give a rat's ass at this point though.  I have resigned myself to my original stance on the nudity subject.  Sure, I'll wear a t-shirt to cover up my tits.  But he can kiss me wearing pants or underwear goodfuckingbye.  Since the haircut, I have been making him mentally vomit by walking around bottomless.  On the couch, at the fridge, reading in bed, lunging at his throat with a knife...  He's lucky this shit is illegal in public, otherwise I'd be outside showing everyone what the hell type of chop job he did.  Like my motherfucking crotch was some kind of goddamn joke for him to fuck up royally.  That sonofamotherfucker!  He better fucking hope that I never get the chance to go near his balls with some clippers.  I'll do those fuckers a solid and really show him how it feels to look like a damn sideshow attraction.

Taking One For The Team

Well...  SSL got what he wanted.  If you ask, you shall receive.  Isn't that how the saying goes?  The sonofabitch should have been a little bit more specific.

As of two days ago I rang in at 170 pounds... 

Being 5'1, 170 pounds is borderline TLC or Discovery Chanel material.  Just kidding.  Seriously though, I have never in my entire life weighed this much.  Thanks to this ugh... child, I have put on all of the weight that SSL at one time craved.  Deep down in his heart he is a chubby chaser and so am I, so we share each other's fetish and have an understanding when it comes to all you can eat buffets, plus size sections in clothing stores and the junk food isle in the grocery store.

Never though had he imagined that this weight was going to be due to a baby in the belly.  My doctor said that my equilibrium would be off and I'd be falling all over the place like a drunken sailor.  Not so, Dr, Doesn't-Know-Jack-Shit.  In fact, I still take all of my aerobics classes and we even still have sex.  Too much information?  Well, this might save some one's relationship or even their life...

Sex with a fat broad is quite different.  While the easiest thing to do would be to toss her on all fours, "tossing" doesn't fair too well with a beached whale.  Rolling, yes.  But, then there is the baby belly to worry about and if I had to explain to my doctor why and how the baby got squished, I'd leave town humiliated.

Then, there's the On Top position which is nice for me because then I can breathe again without my lungs being squished.  For him though, it's like everything that he thought he wanted jumbled up to one very fucked up reality.  I heave myself on top of him and all of a sudden he breathes heavier, his diaphragm is on the brink of failure and he can't move his legs.  All he sees is a huge belly and some over sized tits that randomly slap him in the face with each movement.  I feel so bad at first and then I think to myself "Alexis, if he were me and I were him, he'd do the same thing.  Just grab his hand in a loving motion and when he is not paying attention, monitor his pulse so he doesn't die of asphyxiation".  

There are a bunch of other positions that we still try (how the fuck do you think that the baby got here), but when furniture has a weight limit, it takes the fun out of things.  I would bet all of the eyelashes on my right eye that SSL never in his mind thought that sex with a whale would be like this.  He wanted me to gain weight sooooo bad when I was 125 pounds and now he's got it.  He also has bruises on his pelvis to prove it.

So the next time that you look off into the distance and ask the universe for something, be diamond-cut particular about what you want.  Let this be a lesson to ALL.  While in theory, doing a voluptuous 170 pound chick may sound nice (especially for Oedipus complexed people who crave that maternal canoodling), the luster is lost when she turns to the side and her belly sticks out farther than her ass, her tits are lactating in your eyeballs and your johnson is constantly bumping up against something, which can only be the baby's head...  (insert sad face) 

Donell Jones Lied To Me (no pics please)

Donell Jones used to be the gold pot at the end of my rainbow.  His voice could serenade the pants off of the queen of England and her prudish ass.  But, like I said, "used to".

R and B singers write ballads about a concept that doesn't exist between two human beings.  Love is a running joke that came about since the beginning of time.  It gave people hope and let them get lost in their own meaning of the four letter word.  But just like all of the other famous four letter words, love is synonymous with shit.  Shit, being the more easier of the two words to pronounce.  Shit, being the more fun one of the words to say.  Shit.  That's "love".

I think that there are people who are better off in relationships and then there are people who the 'people in relationships' run to when they are crying over their mate.  I'd like to think that I would be the person in the relationship, but that just isn't the case.  I prefer to be alone.  Solitude gives me an edge in life that doesn't come with relationships.  While they are nice for a certain time frame, they all seem to run their course and I start to daydream about being by myself all over again.  Why is this?  Because Donell Jones was my introduction into what it was supposed to be like when you are in "love".

I am currently looking for a good lawyer to sue the pants off of this Chicago crooner.  Since I was in high school I would listen to his music and as the perfect painting developed in each of his songs, I would say to myself "Well, fuck me sideways, THIS is what a guy should feel like when he is in love with me".  I thought that his songs were the epitome of "love feelings".  I even went as far as researching how much it would cost to have him come to my home and sing for me just one song.  And FYI: it's impossible to find that information using google.

As of late I no longer listen to Donell Jones the same way.  His perception of love is fake and he sells false dreams to anyone who has never experienced it firsthand.  People these days are too in love with themselves and worried about what other people think to truly give relationships a chance.  This generation is fixated on perfection, their view in their mirror and lies.  Most of all, this generation is immature beyond belief.  Instead of waiting around for what people finally realize when they are old and pruned, I chose to live a life of solitude.  I have my shitty friends to hang out with, my cigarettes that never treat me like a BFI dumpster denizen and my Captain Morgan's that keep my focus nice and foggy.

I'd rather let everyone around me go through the "love" roller coaster ride and end up in therapy or forever searching for the impossible.  I have other mindless things that I like to do with my life that don't include someone berating me for enjoying them.  Maybe in 50 years my generation will realize what I'm talking about.  Or maybe I'm wrong and I'm the one who is missing out on something that I'm blind to see.

As far as Donell Jones?  I'm tossing his albums in the trash... 

XOXOXO

Worst Travel Companion EVER

My brother is the WORST travel companion known to humans and aliens alike.  He reads and sleeps.  Oh wow.  I could have done that on my own, thank you very much.  The travels start well enough with about five minutes of conversation.  And then?

He resumes his geriatric ways and develops a slight case of narcolepsy...

My entertainment is worse than reruns of Nite Court.  (I hated that show.)  I wonder how much a "travel companion" would cost to employ.  I've looked on the Internet and most people who have travel companions are old men looking for whores.  Not a bad idea at all.  My question is this though.  If I were to pay a whore to entertain me, but we didn't have sex, then could I get a discount?  Times like these, I wish that God had a direct line on his cell phone because this question is bound to keep me up all night.  And you know what that means?  Reruns of Nite Court...

And I'M The Jerk???

So ummmm... I found out why SSL doesn't like to take me out in public.  Apparently I have what is called "a stank attitude".  I did not know that I live in Oz and leave the house on a yellow brick road.  Nor do I give a shit.

...take that back.  I do care.  And I'd like to compose a letter to SSL.

Dear SSL,

Being a Scorpio, I thought that you would understand my Cancerian ways.  You call me "stank", which I am guilty of being.  Why am I this way?  Because people are so full of shit, they make me sick.  You know that I have a list of pet peeves and small talk is one of the front runners on that list.  I think that 99.5% of people really don't give a fuck about other people that they are interacting with.  Why would I rather chose to be tipsy (by which I really mean one sip away from being drunk) when I go to social functions?  Because my drunk face masks my true feelings.  If I were not under the influence, my face would mirror my thoughts and I'd be shunned into the 'bad kid' corner.  Being under the influence, I tend to think of personal jokes that nobody else would understand and keep a smile on the entire night.  Then, people think I'm nice.  And that scares me.  Why?  Because how fucking gullible are adults in this day and age?
I'd rather keep it real and be me no matter what.  I'll be honest.  Even though I'd give the shirt off of my back for a complete stranger (that's not a joke), I really don't give a fuck about the general public.  If someone is funny, intelligent or can keep my mind occupied, then by all means, send them my way.  But for the most part, just know that I now have an understanding of your jerkish ways in keeping me away.  You told me that you thought that my dickheadedness was just a phase.  Well how fucking long did it take for you to realize that it wasn't?  I mean, holy crap, SSL.  I was a jerk the very day that I met you.  Didn't that mean anything?! Hey, look at the bright side of things.  At least I'm not a sociopath.  (Side note: Chris Bosh is so ugly.  Like an alien sort of.)
So instead of entertaining questions at functions about where I live, what kind of car I don't drive and what I do for a living, I guess that I'd rather keep things the way they are.  Am I hurt by your revelation?  Of course I am, silly.  I do have a heart.  But, am I also aware of your point of view?  Sober me does, but drunk me is pissing on your front lawn and giggling.  Just face it.  We aren't the perfect couple.  I'm not that Christian broad with a cross around her neck and a smile in her heart.  I'm the dickheaded broad that everyone looks at and wonders "What the hell is a nice guy like him doing with her?  She's such an asshole."  And if you really care about what people think about me, then you are just as bad as everyone else out there.  I'd like to hope that that isn't the case...

See you later in bed and DON'T expect any nookie, buster.
-Alexis

                                                             (Happy)

A Nailjob Without The Happy Ending

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Horrible Actors

*I've got to get some shit off of my mind.  Seriously, I'm about to blow a fucking gasket.  The first thing is a little trivia quiz...

Riddle me this:

-What famous actor is my 15th least favorite person to watch on the telly?  Here are some clues for this brain buster.

1.  He was in love with a tranny in a highly acclaimed 1980's flick
2.  He can take a fantastic script and really fucking do it wonders when it comes to shortening my attention span and making me dry heave.
3.  He's the only handicapped person that I know who has been in over a dozen films, playing "normal" characters.

Answer: Forest fuckface Whitaker.  He drives me fucking bonkers.  Seriously, even if the movie is a blockbuster that I realllllly wanted to see, EVEN if he did a cameo in it, I refuse to watch the movie in the theatres.  I might...  MIGHT watch it at home and that's only because my bathroom is so close to the livingroom and if I threw up on myself, I wouldn't feel so bad- like I would had I been in a public venue.  For the record, I loathe Forest Whitaker.  I guess that the biggest question of all is this: Who the fuck's dick did he suck to get all of these roles?  He must LIVE on the casting couch!

GRRRRRRRRRRR

Tiger Paws and the Weedman

My lesbo friend who has a boyfriend right now called me with some rather disturbing news.  It turns out that she put a knife up to her lover's throat the other day and raped him.  Hahahaha.  I'm not even joking.  She said it so candidly that I just burst out in laughter.  I am fully aware that if she and I were males and this same situation occurred, there might be some jail time involved.  I'm not trying to make light of this sit- oh fuck it.  The bastard deserved it...

Just yesterday...

*ring...  ring... ring...

"Hello?"

"Alexis, he won't fuck me."

"Who?"

"Justin."

"The inmate?"  (She was seeing two guys at the time and I never really adopted their real names into my brain.)

"No.  That's Joey.  Justin.  The WEEDMAN."

"Ohhhh.  Ok.  Why?"

"I don't know.  I give him head like five times a day and he still won't fuck me.  It's depressing."

"Well, stop giving him head!"

"I can't.  I like to be in control.  And I love giving head."

Let's look at this for a moment.  My friend, (who goes by the self given alias: Tiger Paws) is not an ugly chick.  I know that if her lesbian ass reads that statement, she'll cream her pants, but the truth of the matter is that she isn't ugly.  And by the way she puts it, her head game is phenomenal.  AND since she thought that her vagina was falling off last month and wouldn't take "no" as an answer when she asked to send me a picture of it, I can also vouch for her crotch to be pretty normal as well.  The problem isn't with her, but it's with her lover.

I think that he is gay.  Why else would he not want to have sex with her, but not break up with her.  Ok, so it's obvious that he cares about her enough to stay in the relationship, but maybe there is something that he is trying to get over about her- like the fact that she doesn't have a dick...

I feel bad that Tiger Paws had to rape the Weedman the other day.  When offering up my advice, I told her to just ruffie him, but she took out her anger in a less sly and more maniacal way.  A knife to the throat...  How does one's dick get hard with a knife up to his throat?  Well, I guess that if it's between life and death...

Alexis The Hunchback

I truly believe that SSL is embarrassed to bring me out in public.  What fucking else is new...  I still have not been able to put my finger on what exactly it is about me that he is embarrassed about. 

Maybe it's because I act "too white" for a Hispanic chick.

Maybe it's because I hate to wear makeup and he thinks that I'll look bad compared to other girls that are out in public.

Maybe it's because I just don't give a fuck about other people and do random things that will make him look like an amature babysitter.

Maybe he has another chick that he takes out instead and I'm the one that stays at home like a dickhead.

I'm sure that there are tons of things that he could use as reasons why he doesn't want me to be around him in certain settings.

1. My old profession as a Dominatrix
2. He doesn't want to bring sand to the beach
3. He has NEVER seen me dress up before and thinks that I don't know how to
4. I don't act "feminine" enough
5. And I don't fucking know... I can't handle my alcohol???



Here is how I see this little issue.  I could play the same stupid game and keep my personal life a secret, which would be very easy to do.  I chose not to because once someone is in my life, I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks about them.  Sorry, but I'm not like the rest of superficial 'America' who needs each and every little thing around them to look amazing so that in turn, they look the same.  This shit makes me hate relationships and males in general.  If it were not for males, then females would not feel the pressure of looking as close to perfection as they can.  They wouldn't walk around injected with silicon, buy their hair, eyes and nails, tan, spend their savings on bullshit clothing and act like morons so that a guy feels like he is superior.

So what is the proper course of action here?  I refuse to dress like a trophy piece so that's out of the question...

                             (Obviously I was drunk...  When I got dressed.)

My sister, who is really into fashion thinks that I'm a travesty and should be shot in the head because I walk around wearing workout clothing most of the time.  Whaaaat?!?!  How else am I going to remember to go to the gym?  I think that I am going to keep the status quo and just keep tabs.  Why?  Because revenge is a dish, best served cold.  When I finally get out of this slump and actually start wearing "normal" female clothing and actually do my hair in the morning, he is going to look at me and kick himself.  Why?  Because by then, it will be too late...

Bros Before Hoes

*Normally I wouldn't say this because I hand pick them myself.  But, I guess that mama fucked up...  Here goes nothing.

What's that stats on Alexis' male friends?  They are faggoty ass motherfuckers.  Most of them are.  I would never have said this, but fuck it.  (My famous words) "It's life".  Just today I got a phone call that I'm a little bit used to by now.  Mind you, I'm not attracted sexually to ANY of my male friends.  I've got one friend who has the nicest ass that I have ever seen in my life, but I worry more about him getting caught with that jewel in jail than effing him.  He's not my type, plain and simple.  His ass?  Oh, I'd date that, but I think that I would end up just using it as a pillow in the long run.

Anyhow.  Here is how the conversation went with my now ex-friend:

"Hi Alexis.  I have to tell you that because I'm a pussy whipped married man now, my overweight wife (who is yelling at him and prompting him what to say) doesn't think that we should speak anymore- even if our friendship is platonic.  She has become so self conscious of herself that me being anywhere near you will make her fat ass feel bad.  She thinks that we are fucking on the low.  But you know that I'm not into your mosquito bitten titties or mini build.  I like whales, duh!  Anyways, even though we have been friends for over ten years and you have done SO many favors for me and have treated me like family, I can't talk to you ever again.  EVER AGAIN.  Gotta go feed Shamu my cock before she dies of hunger.  Nice knowing you.  Bye."

And that is the story of my life.  He is not the only friend who has done this to me.  I've got a list of douchebags.  Here it is:

*It started in high school with my friend Tom, who is no longer a douche.  I'd like to attribute his actions for his age.  At the time, he was dating some broad named...  Fallon (I think).  All that I can remember is that she didn't want him to be my friend, so I called her Phallus from that point forward.

*Then there was Vinny.  He and I are still friends, but EVERY SINGLE GIRL that he dates hates when he hangs out with me.  And it's crazy because Vinny fucks different chicks weekly, but for some reason, not of the dickholes like me.

*My friend with the perfect rump?  I never had a problem with his girlfriends... because the dickhead never introduced me to any of them.  He wouldn't let me meet them.  To this day I hate that about him.  What a sly douche.  It's not like I would make fun of them...

*And Dan threw out all of my (not even close to being provocative) pictures when his psycho Russian mate came across them...

*Oh! and then there is #2.  #2 has this broad that NEVER liked me.  She hates me so much that he's not even allowed to talk to me or mention my name in their home.  And what's sad is that the bitch is what my lesbo friend likes to call "a bootleg version" of myself. 

*And Kenneth.  His girlfriend texted me and told me never to talk to him again (which would have been hard to do because we worked together).  I knew that she still had his phone in her possession so I text him this little tidbit of advice:

If you can't train them properly, then keep your bitches on a tighter leash.  And tell them to keep their paws off of your phone.

*And don't forget Andrew and his manly sounding girlfriend...

...Just to name a few...

But seriously.  What is this shit all about?  I really don't get it at all.  Either my guy friends are products of castration or they have the most jealous and insecure girlfriends in the world.  All I know is this:  "Alexis" is too much of a risk to be in any of their lives.  So fuck them all.  Sorry that your girlfriends are boring and you like hanging out with me better so much that it gets you in trouble.  I hope that all of your lady partners are with you for the rest of your lives because when they are out of the picture, don't expect me to be back in it. 

Well, I lost my motherfucking train of thought because some people can't not talk to me when I'm typing...  Fuck my motherfucking life!

Breast Milk

This isn't a joke.  It's not even a hoax.  I wasn't starving.  I wasn't even hungry.  I was bored and curious... 

My tits have been leaking lately and I'm guessing that it's normal.  They still aren't at the rate of saturating my bras- thank God, but they are leaking nonetheless.  Before all of this shit happened I was excited about the breast milk because I planned on squirting it in SSL's face when he was sleeping.  But it doesn't even squirt.  It just...  comes out? 

So when this shit first started with my boobs I thought that it was because (oh boy, he's going to freak out... hahaha) SSL is constantly sucking on them.  I told him that I was afraid that our kid would think that he is busy stealing all of the milk and would come out early.  Since then, the sucking has continued, but I guess that the kid got used to sharing.  (Obviously MY genes...)

Anyhow, this whole time I'm thinking to myself "what the fuck does that shit taste like?  What is my monster going to be tasting?"  So I squirted some out of my boob and into my hand.  Then...  I tried it.  For the rest of the day I was puking and shitting alternately.  It's like I poisoned myself.  At one point I was sitting on the can and I was holding a trash bin in front of me puking and shitting.  When death did not come I knew that I had no other choice but to finish this dramatic episode.  My day ended with me curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor. 

As I stared at the ceiling and wondered how much a skylight would cost to install, should I end up living in the bathroom for the rest of my life, another thought came to mind.  How the hell is this kid going to love me if it thinks that I'm poisoning it with my own breast milk?  Should I puree a steak and milkshake for the monster in lieu of this disgusting tit acid?  What would I want if I could chose?  A rum and coke.  In a bottle of course...

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!   

Pillow Buddies

I found my mojo the other day for a whopping five minutes.  At first I thought that I was peeing my pants.  Upon inspection, I started to revel in the joy that only someone stranded in the Mojave would express should they fall upon a pool of water.  I was overjoyed and ready to bump some uglies.  So I go up to SSL and tell him to do me.  And what does he say?  It doesn't really matter.  His face said a thousand words.

So what did I do?

On my way to the gym to let out all of that extra sexual energy, I sat my naked fat ass right on his pillow.  You don't want to have sex?  Fine.  Have fun inhaling my ASS!  Sweet dreams.  SSL would make the worst hooker.  I've told him this over and over.  What's a relationship without sex?  I'll tell you.  It's pretty much living with your friend.  ...Your prudish, stingy with their junk, crotch-tease, incapable of being ruffied, friend.

Only in Delaware...

                                          "What the Fuck?" 

That's what I said when my two friends and I recently went to a diner.  Was it the lackluster food?  No.  Was it the repulsive bathroom?  No.  Was it the side of the highway location?  Nope.  All of those things are the reasons why I actually enjoy diners.  So why did I do a double take and spew out the obscenities?

Because this dipshit of a waiter (our "host") sat us at our table, walked away and came back carrying this...

As he sat this monstrosity in front of our table, he said "these are our specials" and walked away...

And that brought me down the path of mindbogglement.  When I came to the end, I reiterated what was in my head and out came

"What the Fuck?"