It's Too Late To Apologize

My life is so boring right now that I have absolutely nothing to write about. So no new drama, no new funny. Sorry.

We're Blessed and Hung Low Like Bernie Mac

Rest in Peace Bernie Mac.





Also, I know I'm going to hell for using a quote from a Christina Aguilera song as my title. Or if not hell, at the very least I'll be reincarnated as a red headed lesbian named Twizzler. And if that happens, I'll know that I earned it.

Hot Shit of the Month August 2008

Today I was thinking how long it has been since I've posted some of my favorite things, and that's a damn shame. i wouldn't want to deprive people of the things that I personally love. But since I haven't actually bought anything cool in quite some time, I'll just post a list of songs that I think personally you'll love. Think of it as a "Celebrity Playlist" on Itunes, only by me not a celebrity.

Josh Hoge_Stay Away

I don't know who this guy is, but this song is amazing. He has this guttural kind of falsetto that I would kill for. Just Play it once, and see if you can stop yourself from playing it nineteen hundred times in a row.

Lady GaGa_Just Dance

I discovered this song a few months ago, but it's just now picking up airplay. It is soon to be the song that I loved like "I Kissed A Girl" by Katy Perry before everyone started playing it, and talking about it nonstop. This is just as catchy as that one though, except with fewer lesbian references. Usually fewer lesbian references is a bad thing, but in this case I don't mind so much.

The Pipettes_Pull Shapes

I've got to be completely honest I have no fucking clue what this song is about, but I don't care. The Pipettes have this awesome retro feel to them. Whenever I listen to it, all I can imagine is a 1960's pool party, with awkward boy/girl dances around the pool and someones father grilling hot dogs on the barbecue. It's a good feeling.

The Saturdays_What Am I Gonna Do?

This is some random girl group from the U.K. I don't' really know much about them except for this song is oddly catchy to me. Check it out, and see for yourself.

Regina Spektor_Samson

I think I've probably put this song on one of my lists before but I just recently rediscovered it. It is so achingly beautiful, and soft. It makes me hurt in ways I can't explain. Gives me the same feelings that I get whenever I read "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "Looking for Alaska"

Gym Class Heroes_Cookie Jar

The best song about getting caught cheating since "It Wasn't Me" by Shaggy back in the nineties. I love hearing about people fucking around and getting caught.

Solange_I Decided

This song is by Beyonce's sister, who I believe held the title of assistant manager at Burger King before her sister pulled some strings and got her a record deal. Nonetheless, she comes off even more cocky and self assured than her older pussy slinging sister. I pretty much love it.

I will add links to download all of these as I find them.

what the fuck is up with blogger?

V is for Vallerie and Virginity

Earlier this evening I was watching "Entertainment Tonight" which for the most part is not so much about entertainment as it is about Vallerie Bertenelli gaining, and losing, and then gaining weight over and over again. Or about the day to day tribulations of Carnie Wilson. Let me digress for a moment and see if I can get a show of hands of anyone who actually gives a shit about Carnie Wilson? That's exactly what I thought.

Though tonight in between Carnie and Valleie was a heartwarming puff piece detailing Hannah Montana star Miley Cyrus singing a "Pledge of Purity" promising to remain a virgin until marriage. She then detailed how important she thought it was as a role model to young girls, to remain a virgin until marriage. Let me just take a moment to say...what? Since when is that what we've ever wanted from our Pop Stars? Am I completely mistaken in saying that we as Americans want them to pretend to be virgins but in reality be complete whores? We want them to be on the cover of Seventeen, and then a week later flash their peesh to the world. (Well maybe that's not the case for Miley seeing as how that would be considered kiddie porn.) But for the most part, that's what we've always wanted isn't it? Maybe it's just me. Forget I even said anything on the matter.

Family Interaction

Scene One
She lays on her bed, sheets wrapped in her lilac comforter. Her face is hidden though a few stands of dark brown hair peek out from the top. I hear her whimper softly, as I enter her room. She's refusing to go, she says in a muffled whisper. She refuses to do the things that they want of her. She refuses to see the people that she has tried so far to distance herself from. She doesn't care if she's doing it for someone else even if that someone else is her mother. It doesn't matter because she is too strong willed and defiant to be talked into anything that she doesn't want. She is steady, and strong but she's slowly cracking I can tell. I sit down on the bed beside her and pull the sheets back. She tells me that they lied to her, they said she'd never have to see them if that's what she wanted. They lied to her, and she can't forgive it. She can't see those people who said all of those things, ever again. She's too proud, she's too stubborn, and I know all of this. But I also know that she's just like her big brother, and she's about to break. Because we can only stay strong for a small amount of time. Eventually we're going to give in, and go out and face the things that we don't want to come within a hundred yards of. Not because we want to, not because anyone forces our hands, but because deep down we're good people. And as good people, we know it's the right thing to do. I tell her to just get up, and go get dressed so we can get it over with. She stalls for a few more minutes and eventually agrees. And as she's getting up to close the door behind me so that she can get dressed she looks me right in the eye and says "I hope you know, I'm going to be a total bitch for the rest of the day." But she didn't have to tell me, I already knew.

Scene Two
We walk into their small two story town house, a house that has seen it's fair share of shoddy repair work, and a total of sixty three ceramic statuettes in just the bottom floor alone. She moves to hug us, and we look to the floor for answers, as our hands move to our pockets. We've come because it's the right thing to do, but we're not bowing down. That's not how we do things. It never has been, we can't help ourselves. She looks awkwardly at us, and we stumble into the living room, and quickly take a seat on the sofa. He looks different than the last time we saw him four or five years ago. His face paler, his formerly large framed body, has turned frail looking. We are all seated, the TV is blaring in the foreground. Apparently Chevy Chase is trying to take his family on a vacation, and hilarity is ensuing. I can't take it all in. The ceramic angels, and the his pale face, and most of all Chevy Chase. I can't deal with it all at once, I could probably handle it all separately but not at the same time. It is too much, and yet it is so little. He is sick, and that's the only reason we came, and that makes me sad even though I know the reasoning behind it. She's sick too, but in a completely different way. A manipulative, and self serving kind of way. The kind of way that you never expect a grandmother to be. But that's the hand we were dealt. It's not without it's flaws, but they live their lives and we live ours. We go along our own separate ways every single day of our lives. And we only stop by when someone is dying. And he is dying, much like the fragile relationship between us died a few years ago. It suddenly strikes me between the awkward conversation, how little I care. I really don't care if he's sick. And it makes me a bad person, I know. But I really don't, it means so little to me that I am surprised. I am surprised that I could ever turn my back on someone, but I have, and I did. And, maybe I'm sick too.

Scene Three
We're a different kind of family now, the kind that we choose to be around. The kind that let me play with their two year old daughter, and their Pitt Bull puppy. And insist that I take home some movies to watch. The kind that tell me about the time they walked into our aunt's house and saw not only her snatch but also her vibrator. The kind of family who doesn't judge me for falling off my chair from laughing when they told me that last part. The kind of family that asks me for a cigarette and just sits outside with me while we smoke. The kind who talks about nothing, and everything at the same time. Between filing for bankruptcy and how all of us are guilty of watching Hannah Montana. And it's good to know that not all family members are basically just strangers that you happen to be related. Some family members are the kind of people that you'd probably want to be friends with anyway if they were just a bunch of randoms. And that's comforting. I think I'll go watch those movies now.

Frivolous

I've been trying to blog for the past few days and can't think of anything to say at all. So instead I'm going to fill this post with meaningless vamping words to fill time and to distract you from my unfunny. Knick-Knack! Lampshade! HullaBalloo! Soft Shell Crab! Flim Flam! Sophia Petrillo! Dooh Dah Parade!

I Love Gifts

My dad bought me a new digital camera today because mine broke the other way on my way to the Lafayette Zoo. Also, just in case you were ever planning on visiting the Lafayette Zoo, save your eight dollars and don't. They have exactly half of a giraffe and a mosquito. And, I'm pretty sure that mosquito gave me the west nile virus, so all in all not worth it. Anyways about the digital camera, it's red and shiny which are two of my favorite attributes of new electronics. My dad said he bought it because it was on sale but I like to think he's trying to make up for the time in the tenth grade when he called me a fatass. Either way, I'd let him call me fat again if I could score a new laptop.

Fancy May Have Been Her Name

I think I met my soul mate today. Well I didn't so much meet her as I did happen to stop at a red light right next to her. I could tell that we were meant to be together because she was smoking a cigarette, and singing along with the radio. The radio was playing "Fancy" by Reba Mcentire which clearly means that we were MADE FOR EACH OTHER. And all of this time, I thought I was the only person who did that.

Barry Manilow Lyrics Go Here

By some weird twist of reality I had my hair cut not once, but twice today. As you probably know I have a lot of hair issues as stated previously here, here, oh and also here. Most people would be satisfied with just getting it done once, oh but not me. I have to go balls out at all times apparently. Let me start you off with the story then, shall I?

I have been getting my hair cut at the exact same place since I was five years old. Apparently when I was that age the only person who could get me to sit still long enough to cut my hair was a particular woman at this particular establishment. I say woman, because I'm not exactly sure of the proper term for someone who cuts hair for a living. I could say 'hair cutter' since that is essentially their job but that doesn't seem nearly regal enough. And I can't stand the word 'cosmetician' because for some reason it conjures up images of a fussy old lady helping a drag queen getting ready for her big show. You know, hands filled with q tips, and glitter eye shadow, and duct tape to help him tuck it in. And that really doesn't do it for me, at all. I also don't like the word beautician because I have never, nor will I ever 'get my hair done' it's just a cut let's not glorify it. No one comes out of the salon looking more beautiful. They just come out looking worse for wear, and usually covered in their own hair. Let's not turn it into something that it's not okay? But anyways I digress.

I veered from the normal plan of going to my normal place because I'm adventurous as long as there's no possibility of any risk of loss of blood, vision, or any Phil Collins playing inside of the establishment. I think those are reasonable rules to have. So I go to the mall today, and decide to get a trim. I don't have an appointment, but they say they can take me anyways. As I detail to the woman exactly what I want because I am very particular she nods like she's heard it all before. Her own hair has been dyed so many times the ends are frayed. What's evens hocking is that her eyebrows are dyed the exact shade as her highlights. Not a shade darker, nor lighter but the exact same color. I swear it looks as if they have streaks in them too. It's very distracting. So I sit in the chair, and she informs me that her name is Mandy. I don't know why she even bothers, I highly doubt I'll be needing her name throughout the course of the procedure. Although for some reason, I trusted Mandy. If she did that much experimenting on her own hair I was surely in good hands. She was experienced I could tell. Who knows, me and Mandy might have even become great friends after this meeting. I could just tell that my follicles were in such good care, that we would clearly have a lot to talk about afterwards at Starbucks over lattes and cigarettes.

She begins to pantomime cutting my hair behind my head. Very rarely do I actually feel scissors making any contact with any of my actual hair. After about five minutes of this very precise miming she takes off my apron, puts away her scissors and informs me that she has an appointment and that my total is twenty five dollars. At this point my glasses are off and I can't see anything. I reach into my wallet and pull out the appropriate amount of currency. I pay her, and leave in a hurry. I walk to my car, and look in the mirror and find myself looking back the exact way I was before my trip to the mall. It looked as if my hair hadn't even been touched. At this point my love affair with Mandy was over. I trusted you Mandy, and you did this to me? How dare you, after all I had invested in our relationship? It was very disheartening, especially since I tipped the bitch ten dollars. This is what I get for being adventurous, and nice. I get fucked almost every time. So after attempting to do something new, I ended up going back to that old gallery of hair cutting and pay a cheap ten dollars to get what was promised to me in the first place.

So the moral of our story is never try anything new, you will eventually end up to regret it. Also, never trust anyone by the name of Mandy.

The World Is Not So Magical Afterall

So I'm back from vacation. I know the entirety of the Internet is rejoicing and throwing 'welcome back' parties as we speak. Please stop, I don't deserve all of that. And at the very least if you're going to throw them, please invite me and also make sure to serve chicken wings I've been jonesin' for some real badlike. I have alot of things to tell you of course. For some reason when I have days, and days to write and easy access to a computer I can't think of anything to say at all. And then as soon as I leave that convenience I can't turn around without coming up with something else. I guess inspiration is funny like that. Posts are coming, please be patient.

Magical World

I just wanted to tell you that I am leaving for vacation starting tomorrow for Disney World. I probably won't have a very great time, so be expecting lots of drama and bullshit when I get back.

Exaggeration

I had a horrible morning in case you were wondering. It started off with absolutely no sleep, and by the end of it I was covered in sweat, grape juice and dirty rain water. Also, I have a bladder infection and my kidneys have stopped functioning. I have carpal tunnel syndrome, and my wife is leaving me. I owe nine thousand dollars in back taxes and child support. My landlord is kicking me out for not paying my rent for the last six months, and I don't know where my next meal is coming from. I don't know how much of that is actually true, but I believe it. So, I guess that's all that matters right?

On Summer

I love Summer, and not for the cliche reasons that most everyone does. I don't like the beach, and I hate wearing bathing suits, and shorts. I don't want to tan, or play volleyball in the sand. But I love Summer for a million different reasons. The way it makes me feel is completely different than how I feel for the other three seasons of the year. I am my favorite self during the summer. Full of hope, and enthusiasm for the unexpected, for the tiny amazing moments that happen unexpectedly on a hot summer night in Louisiana. Those conversations between two friends that go beyond boundaries that have never been crossed before. Those moments, when you don't care about what tomorrow might bring, because we're living in the here and now of this moment, in this night, of this summer. I get restless in the summer, my excitement for the world bubbling right underneath the surface of my skin. I'm reckless in the summer doing things I know that I shouldn't, but it doesn't matter. It's Summer, so I have that excuse to back me up.

Back It Up

I was in a small wreck a few weeks ago after backing out of my friend's driveway. I was in reverse and as I got into the middle of the road about to put it in drive I hear the sounds of screeching brakes. My heart froze because firstly my insurance rates just went down from the first wreck I was in. Secondly because I was going to have to call my father and explain to him why I was backing out of this particular friend's driveway in the first place as he doesn't want me to have any sort of contact with him at all.

But then suddenly the noise stopped and his car barely nudged the back of mine. I barely even felt it, there certainly wasn't any noise. I calmly pull back into the driveway, and open my door to see if everyone is okay. But before I can even try to assess the damages, the other driver stops in the middle of the road, flings himself out of his truck and slams the door behind him. All of a sudden there is an explosion of redneck swearing. A fiftyish man in overalls and a buck ass white t-shirt, with the filthiest mouth I've ever encountered is all up in my face in a hot minute. As I fling apologies out of my mouth, he counters everyone with a concise "motherfucker".

And as the never ending parade of dirty words come from his mouth I think to myself when did it become okay for complete strangers to cuss each other out? I cuss on a secondly basis, I have one of the dirtiest mouths I've ever encountered, and yet I would never cuss in front of someone I wasn't familiar with. I don't cuss in front of children, or adults that I'm not familiar with only my peers. So why is okay for him to do it? Is it an effort in intimidation? Is it because I'm younger and infinitely better dressed than he is? (Did I mention the overalls, because they were very denim like and overallish in their appearance) What is it? I mean, neither of our cars were damaged, it was a silly little mistake that could happen to anyone. And I'm just anyone, and so is he so why is he making such a big deal out of a little thing?

And before I can take a second breath, he's out of my face, and back in his car. And shaking, trying to light a much needed stress relieving cigarette Id rive off and I wonder if it even happened. So in case he, or any of his relatives, ever come across this blog and remember the incident I want you to have something I think you would enjoy...herpes.

I'll Try

Have you ever had so many ideas that you couldn't possibly express them all at once? That's pretty much what is going on right now. Sorry for the lack 'o' updates, bitches.

Say Your Lines But Do You Feel Them?

Yesterday I was thinking about how big life is, and how small it is at the same time. You go around every day imagining that you're the most important person in the world. That you, and the people around you, and the people you interact with, and love everyday are the only people in the world who matter. And hundreds and thousands of other people just pass you by living their own lives that pale in significance compared to your own. When in reality those people feel the same way when you happen to pass through their lives. No one is more important than anyone else. No one has a better life, or a bigger existence. We are all players in some giant production of some lost Shakespearean tragedy. The beauty of it is that we all get to write it ourselves. Just a few words every day. Babies are born, and people die and it is all typed down in some cosmic word processor. So even the biggest upsets, the biggest tragedies, the best laughs you've had all week don't really matter all that much in the greater scheme of things. We just have to try to play our parts to the best of our abilities. And when we break character is when the shit hits the fans. So we go about reading from the script that we're making up in our heads, and try not to get fired and recast. It really is a tragedy.

Kind of

I'm the kind of person who would rather read something hilarious (see Chelsea Handler's memoir "Hello Vodka, It's Me Chelsea" than see something hilarious on youtube.

I'm the kind of person who will more than likely lie awake tonight thinking about how Barrack Obama might very well end up being the ruler of the free world.

I'm the kind of person who is going to feel sad about the fact that I may not be able to use the phrase "I'm hot for Hillary" in reference to myself any longer after this week.

I'm the kind of person who will more thank likely lie awake tomorrow night wondering what joys the next day of my birthday will bring me.

I'm the kind of person who builds things up in his head, only to be disappointed for the most part.

I'm the kind of person who writes stupid lists like this.

I'm the kind of person that you want to meet.

A Little Ugly

Don't you hate the new header? Yeah, me too. I was at first trying to go for something SUPER COOL, to celebrate the birth of our saviour Jordan M. Gribble. But instead I got lazy and then just pushed out that piece of shit. You're welcome. No, really.

Are You Walking That Dog, Is That Dog Walking You?

Although all the dreams I had in my youth point to the contrary, I don't think that I could ever be a celebrity. Sure, I could deal with the constant day to day activities. The fans, the flashing lights, the screaming crowds. All of that I think that I would kind of like. The thing that I almost know that I couldn't deal with is the questions. I hate being asked questions about myself. The words fall from your lips, and I start to squirm. My brain starts to itch, an itch that I can't scratch and even when I try it feels like my mind is falling out of my ears and onto the floor beneath us.

I hate being asked anything that has to do with my personal life. I am a private person for the most part. I think that even if you're not a celebrity people can really be too interested in what your life is like. And I'm not about that. I can be completely open with some people, the people I let far enough into my inner circle. I went through some things a few years ago that made me completely wary of who I tell things to. So though I used to be completely open with my secrets, and my personal issues, I now keep them to myself for the most part. Oh, and sometimes I post them on here, but no one I really KNOW in real life reads this shit anyways. And it makes me sad that I can't always trust people the way that I used to be able to. So now I tell people half of the truth, and leave the rest open for discussion. So anyways, where was I? Oh yes, I don't like personal questions. So, don't ever ask me any okay? Okay.

I'm trying to take the surprise out of it.

My birthday is only two and a half weeks away and already people are asking me what it is that I want for the glorious occasion. I have compiled a list in case you're stumped. the items on it range from the mundane and ordinary to my greatest fantasies. You pick which you think would make me the happiest.

1.) For someone to buy me the domain for Postarita for an entire year.

2.) For someone to teach me how to make an amazing website after they buy me that domain, because I have no idea.

3.)This Barnum & Bailey vintage circus art print

4.) For someone to rent out a classy bar in my honor. It would be a theme party of course (as are all great parties) the glamorous forties. We would all sip on Manhattans and eat canapes. Then someone would hire an Elton John impersonator (or the real Elton John if you're really good) to sing me "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" and "Philadelphia Freedom"

5. If you can't find or afford an Elton John impersonator then you could always swing for midget Britney Spears one.

6.) For someone to paint my room this color for me which you can purchase here.

7.) For everyone who comes into contact with me on the blessed day, to sing me happy birthday. Did I ever tell you the story of my eighteenth birthday where I had a perfectly wonderful day. And as I was on my way home driving over the bridge I realized at midnight that no one had sung me happy birthday all day long. So I sang it to myself for ten miles, over ,and over, and over, again. No I never told you that story? Well I totally should sometime.

8.) For someone to make me a kickass mix cd full of songs that I love, and songs that I don't know yet but will love eventually.

9.) For Katy Perry to come to my birthday party. I think she'd be a good time.

10.) For someone to take me back to Graceland.

11.) This RCA Small Wonder Video Camera.

12.) An Andy Warhol inspired art print of myself.

Build Your Wall With Just One Brick at a Time

I have had some crazy kind of writers inspiration lately paired with some crazy writers block. So right now I have about fifteen half written posts (all of which are amazing if I say so myself), and I don't know how to finish any of them.

So I guess that's something to look forward to.

Wanted

I need more guy friends. Sometimes I feel like my entire friendship scape is filled with girls and gay guys. Which is fine, because I love them all. But sometimes there's just certain things that you can't talk about to either one of those species. So I'm holding a casting call for a new guy friend. What's that? You might know someone who would be interested? Let me give you the qualifications he would need.

Must be fatter than me, in order to make me look like a sex god in comparison.
Must have a neck tattoo of the name Charlotte.
Must be named something worse than Jordan, like Melvin or Theodore.
Must be willing to let me call him "Bitch Tits" if and when I please.
Must have a rocking set of bitch tits.
Must be willing to ride bitch when he rides with me, because we all know that Kelly Clarkson always sits up front. (Oh you didn't know about me and Kelly Clarkson, did you? I'll fill you in soon, I promise.)
Must be completely single, I am not competing for his time with some buck girlfriend of his.
Must be able to handle his liquor well, lest I get drunk and need a ride home.
Must never call or text me when he knows I'm with someone more awesome.
Must be willing to read the books, and see the movies of my choice that I'm too lazy/busy to read/watch myself and tell me all the important plot points so that I don't feel out of the loop when Bryant tries to bring them up.

So yeah, I think thats it. If you or someone you know is interested please send a headshot and resume along with a taped monologue via youtube link to postarita@gmail.com. K, thanks.

Stupid or Not?

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Jordan Gribble: A History Ages One Through Five

I had a frightening thought the other day, that in less than a months time I will be turning twenty two years old. I know it's not a milestone number to most, but for me it's particularly daunting. Twenty one has almost already flashed by without nearly enough gambling or drunken stumbling. Eighteen feels like a lifetime ago, days when I was just newly legal and coming to terms with who I was. I no longer have the fresh throes of youth to cling to. High school is now a distant memory, and bigger things like mortgages and school zones for my future children loom in the horizon.

I am now to old to ever be a kid star, or a child prodigy, or even star in kiddie porn; not that I had even considered the last one, but it would be nice to still have the option I guess. I am now five years away from being too old to try out for American Idol. But I also only have thirteen years to go until I am eligible to run for President of the United States of America. So I guess, some good things could come from it, maybe. I can no longer possibly pass for someone who's underage at this point, which in itself is sad making. Although to be fair, I'll still probably be id'ed every time I buy cigarettes, but I digress. It's sad to think that my next milestone birthday is eight years away at thirty. God, if I'm this upset at turning twenty two, imagine how I'll be at thirty? I don't even want to think about it right now.

But all of this is besides the point, since I only have a month left of being in my mind a juvenile, I would like to take a few posts to look back on the last twenty one years of AMAZING. To see how far I've come, or maybe just to try to figure out where it all went wrong. So I present to you; "Jordan Gribble: A History"



Here I am at the age of one, in someones discolored recliner. I don't know who's great idea it was to dress me in overalls, nonetheless overalls with a tugboat on them, but I'd like to tell them what an awful idea it was. I think that possibly in this picture that I am either visualizing my future and laughing because it's so bad. Or possibly I'm taking a big shit, and laughing because it's only going to discolor that horrible chair even further.






Here I am at three I think. I like how curiously big pimping I am on this tricycle. I would hazard a guess to say that I was one hundred percent a bigger pimp at three than I will more than likely ever be for the rest of my adult life. I would even hazard a guess to say that now Jay Z has retired from the pimping game, and married Beyonce that I should clearly take his place. I'm sure my parents have saved those awful sunglasses (along with millions of other relics from my youth that I would rather forget) I'm sure I could dust them off, and start slinging drugs, and land me some hot Beyonce-like pussy. Or possibly not, actually definitely not. But whatever, it sounded pretty good didn't it?



This is like my favorite fucking picture of me in the entire world. I'm almost positive that I am doing a really amazing Reba Mcentire impersonation as I did very often at this age. Actually it's something I still do with more frequency than I'd probably like to admit to myself and the Internet. I also love how in the general progression of these photographs that you can tell that I have had the exact same haircut for nearly twenty years of my life. That's two entire decades if you need me to spell it out for you slow ones.




When I got my first pair of glasses in kindergarten my parents completely ignored the "LESS IS MORE" credo, and decided instead to get me the largest, pair of mother fucking glasses in the state of Louisiana. And to top it all off, they bought them in red. Did my parents try to sign me up for future humiliation or something? I swear to Jesus sometimes I must have been adopted. Surely no one who actually loved their own flesh and blood would put them in something as hideous as all of that mess. I have one good memory about those awful glasses however. I remember putting them on for the first time, and for the first time seeing leaves on trees. Never once before seeing anything but a large green and brown blur. Now I saw the distinction, and I would never be blind again from that moment. And it felt good to know that. It still feels good.
Oh and I also just noticed the paisley shirt, I would talk about it but then I would just end up wasting another paragraph of your time. But I mean what could I possibly say about paisley that hasn't already been said by Joan Rivers or those Queer Eye for the Straight Guys? Exactly, it's all been done before.



Stay tuned next week for ages six through ten, where I inevitably have even bigger glasses and my head becomes of an even more abnormal shape than before. Also some horrible wardrobe choices from my parents. Giddy with excitement? Yeah, me too.

A Weekend of Dramatic Tension

Scene One
I was sent to Wal-Mart today to obtain five gallons of industrial strength bleach, I don't know why and I don't ask. Sometimes it's better not to know the smaller details. He also wanted antifreeze, maybe he's secretly making me buy the ingredients so that he can poison me? So really it will look like I bought the items that brought along my own death? Probably not, but I have an overactive imagination I always have and I always will. The store is crowded, filled with the kind of people that I would never want to converse with in real life. Wide eyed, and sweaty, grubbing, and greedy looking for the very best price on their Little Debbie snack cakes. Children are screaming, and mothers are screaming, and fathers are wondering how it is that they were dragged off the couch and brought to this hell. I move my buggy up and down these crowded aisles, non stop, full speed not slowing down for anyone. I was on a mission and I'm not here to move out of the way so that you can grab for that last loaf of whole grain wheat bread. I don't care if it's better for you, I don't care if your doctor says that you need the fiber for your digestion. I just don't care. I want to get my five gallons of bleach and go sit my ass at home.

And when I finally do procure those five gallons of bleach, and that antifreeze I make my way to the checkout lines. Only to discover the worst sight I could have possibly imagined. It's bedlam, like the day after Thanksgiving has hit in the beginning of May. The screaming of children has only intensified as they start grabbing candy bars and tabloid magazines with their filthy hands off the news racks. At this exact moment I swear I can feel my sperm shrivel up and die, never wanting to make such a mistake. (I do apologize that I said the word sperm, but it's just the way I felt about the situation. Women talk loudly on their cell phones about how dreadfully long the lines were and how much they have to do before they can get dinner on the table tonight. I finally decide on what seems to be the shortest line available, and not seconds after I align myself into position do ten other customers line up behind me. They're all talking, and they're all sighing loudly, and they're all too close to me. The woman behind me has inched her buggy ever so close that it is finally digging into the soft flesh of my ankles (truth be told, I have cankles but whatever.) I can't take it, I can't breathe, I can't even think. The children, and the mothers, and the fathers, and all the people. I can't breathe, and the world starts to break away from me, and the floor start spinning. And I take a small step backwards into the woman's buggy. As I wince with the pain of it, in the loudest stage whisper I can muster I say "Fuck it! I'm going to Target!" And I turn around and leave my buggy in the line with my five gallons of bleach, and my antifreeze. And I regret it because I know that Target will only offer more of the same, but I also am thankful to gain back my sanity with a few well smoked cigarettes in my car on my way back to civilization.

Scene Two
The party is in less than two hours. He's standing there with his sixty four ounce big gulp filled to the brim with crown, and coke. He takes a sip, and steps closer to me. I'm huddled in the small space between the stove and the refrigerator a small one foot square that my body is being forced into like a circus contortionist just to get away from him. Large pots of sauce are simmering, and noodles are boiling, and steam is rising, and he's still sipping, and talking. With every four words out of his mouth comes another sip, no a gulp like the name of the cup implies. I wonder just how long it would take him to drink the entire glass, perhaps a few mere minutes? He's definitely not in the camp of taking one beer at the beginning of the party and taking small sips from it all night so people think that you're boozing it up. Maybe that's a camp that I'm the only member of.

He sips, and licks his lips, still getting closer. and he's talking, talking, and swearing, gesticulating wildly with his hands. I try to stop listening and just attempt to figure out what he's saying just by looking at his hands. From here it looks like he's talking about the violent rape of a particularly large bird. I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. And if I was wrong, I couldn't' be blamed. The heat is getting to me, and the boiling water sizzles and burps, and pops. The steam is in my eyes. There are a million voices all around me, surrounding my every thought. I am loosing a sense of who I am right now. I am only "Jordan! Don't over cook the pasta!" or "Jordan! Come help me drape this sixty yards of white tulle that I have purchased!" or "Jordan! Isn't it time you go take a shower, so you don't look like total shit when your parents get here?" But I can barely hear any of that, because he's still talking. In fact he's getting louder, I don't know how I'd even be able to tell the subtle nuances of his volume with the racket that is going on around me, but I can tell. His mouth is opening wider, his neck is stretching tighter. The wrinkles in his forehead are becoming tighter as to they almost disappear. He looks stressed, he looks terrified. He looks like I'd imagine that I did if I happened to have a mirror on me at the current time, but I don't. All I have is noodles, and tulle, and sauces, and screaming relatives. And all I want is for the voices to stop. And the steam to stop its getting so hot in here. It's unbearable. I can't take it. I just can't. But I have to , it's all for them. Those two people who I love. Begrudgingly, sometimes surely but still love. And I would do anything for them. Even put up with this heat, and the voices all of them. Even his, no matter how drunk he is.

Fuck a Party

Never, ever plan a top secret anniversary party for you parents. It hwill have you waking up in the middle of the night in a panic. Mind racing, stomach churning, having to call the Grandparents that you can't stand, so that they'll shut they're big mouths and not ruin the surprise. Trust me, it's not all that it's cracked up to be.

Busy Part Deux

Remember how I made a post earlier this week to say that I was too busy to post? Yeah, well that still stands. All I have to say is that I'm throwing my parents a twenty fifth anniversary party this weekend. And let me tell you now that if in anytime in the next five years they decide to get divorced they owe me twenty dollars for every single person who shows up to this party that I have to feed.

So anyways, back to being busy I guess.

Busy

I'm sorry that posts have been so scarce lately. I'm a bad person, I get it. Really, I do. But I've just been terribly busy attempting to complete some very important operations that are essential to my happiness. Operations, are as follows.

Operation: buy new Ipod (This one has been a roaring success. Or at least it had been until my male cousin came over and decided that what would be appropriate is to fill up that Ipod with free Internet porn. And some wonder why I don't generally associate with my family)

Operation: clean out my motherfucking car, has not been such a success. I have tried on several attempts, but with no victory. It's getting to the point in my backseat if you roll down the windows discarded McDonald's bags topple out of them. I'm sure the Louisiana Department of Litter thanks me, as does Al Gore.

Operation: Become Her Friend, is making steady progress. What you don't know about "Operation: Become Her Friend?" Well, you wouldn't would you? Because I haven't told anyone but Bryant, and he lives in fucking Guam, so he's not telling anyone.

Operation: Mentionitis is a side project of Operation: Become her friend. It is making small advances, but has recently come to a stand still. Must focus to make this one happen.

Operation: Find a Way to Turn My Hair Color Back To Brown, this one has been plaguing me for two weeks. Must find a solution, and soon.

Operations: Finish Reading "Stop Dressing Your Six Year Old Like A Skank!" by Celia Riverbark. Which is a hilarious book of short essays. You should pick it up, I got mine at Books a Million for under five dollars. What you don't have five dollars? Then I suggest you go to the sea wall, and start giving two dollar hand jobs to passerby. At that rate, you'll only have to do two and a half of them to afford it. And trust me it would be worth it.

Paint Me Black

I forgot to tell you that I dyed my hair this week. It was an impulse kind of thing I guess, I get like that sometimes. When I do things before I think them through. But, I like having black hair, it makes me feel mysterious, and deeper somehow. I have the cover of a lie if I want it, I can be a whole new person. but, I'll probably just stick with what I know, and that's same old Jordan. Anyways heres a picture for you to FEAST your eyes on.

I know what you're thinking..pretty sexy right? Yeah, well keep it in your pants this is a family place bitch.

Talk Dirty to Me

I was talking to my cousin earlier this week, and as I was rambling off on some tirade, she suddenly stopped me. "What the fuck are you talking about?" She asked suddenly, I was confused because I thought I had been clear, and then I thought back on what I had just said and realized how many slang terms that I had used. Slang terms that only a select group of people I know actually use on a daily basis. I never realized how much vernacular I actually use. And though I don't actually use a lot of it on here, I am going to define each and everyone of them for you here in case they ever come up in conversation.

Buck
-adjective
1. Ugly, or otherwise disfigured.
2. To act retarded, or otherwise unrefined.

As used in a sentence:
Your face looks buck today.
or
I don't know what's wrong with him, he's being awfully buck.

Dyke cicle
-noun
1. An angry lesbian.

As used in a sentence:
Jordan, your new haircut makes you look like a dyke cicle.

Trade
-verb, adjective
1. The act of having sex with someone; trading bodily fluids with another.
2. Used to describes someones anatomical attributes.

As used in a sentence:
I had the best trade last night, it was amazing.
or
Dude, check out the trade on her!

Begonia May
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a bitch, southern belle type.

As used in a sentence:
I hate that bitch, she's such a Begonia May.

Dyke Mike
-Proper Noun
1. A male who after dating a girl finds out that she soon after turned into a lesbian.

As used in a real life situation:
I once dated a girl we will refer to as Hennifer Fobbs, and soon after she became a lesbian. Therefore I am a Dyke Mike.

True Story
-A turn of phrase
1. Another way of asking, are you for real, or are you fucking me?

As used in a sentence:
That really happened, true story?

Debbie
-Proper Noun
1. Describing a girl with no personality of her own, acts like a leech and steals the personalities of those who she hangs out with.
2. A hanger on girl, who copies everything you say, think, or do.

As used in a sentence:
Allison, is so bland, she's such a fucking Debbie.
or
She likes everything I like, what a Debbie!

Barney
-Proper Noun
1. The male form of the proper noun Debbie.
2. A generic, hick, unattractive male.

As used in a setence
He won't leave me alone, he's such a Barney.
or
Why is she having sex with that Barney?

Well I hope that this list can be useful in deciphering me in the future.

Believe You Me

It's April first, and once again I'm the fool.

The Other Side of Me

Do you ever have a moment when you say or do something so stupendously stupid, that you have an out of body experience? A brief moment where you seem to float out of your body and can see from a different perspective the awful blunder that you just made? I have those about once or twice an hour it feels like. Those moments where you just wish you weren't yourself. Sometimes I wish that I were someone else, anyone else really. It wouldn't matter who. I'd like to be a socialite living in the Upper East side of New York. With a life filled with things such as Sunday brunches, and society parties, glitz and glamor. I think I would really like that. Or I could be a quirky character on a sitcom. Where every other line out of my line is something witty, and my hair would always be perfect and so would my wardrobe. My life wouldn't be perfect but they're would be plenty of punchlines, so I think I could deal with it. Or maybe I could be a contestant on American Idol, hoping that the general public would like me and keep me on the airwaves. Singing bad seventies cover songs, and forgetting the words with much frequency.

If only it were that easy to just pick another personality completely, and run with it. If only you got to decide things like that before birth. Things like how big your nose is, and what color your hair is, and what kind of person you would be. Not that I don't like myself, because I do. I really do. Sometimes. I like the way I can make people laugh by saying the most inane things. I like the way people ask me for advice as if I have any motherfucking clue as to what I'm talking about. I like my blue eyes, and I like my hair long. I like being tall, and articulate. I like my singing voice, not so much my speaking tone.

Maybe it's not that I don't like being me. Maybe I just wish that I could be a different me. Someone who's not afraid to be completely one hundred percent myself. Someone who never leaves anything reserved or quiet. Someone that no longer just wants to be a period. Someone who wants to be JORDAN! instead of Jordan. If that makes sense at all. And if you don't get it, then I guess you never really did get me at all did you? I've said it before but I just want so much more than what life has offered me so far. I want bright lights, and a fast paced life. I want earthquakes instead of thunderstorms. I want so much more, and I just don't know how to get it. I guess I'm just waiting for my next great idea.

F.U.S.S.

Man, did I ever tell you about that person in Helfin, LA that like really hates me? That one who's always commenting about how much of a fucking loser I am, and how I'm apparently ugly? No, I haven't? Well I totally should sometime.

f.u.s.s.

Welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth

I know this has nothing to do with anything but when I was trying to design a header for this month all I could think of was vintage circus posters, so I attempted to make one. Here it is.

The Post Where I Talk About Britney Spears

If you have ever bought a tabloid just to read what about what Britney Spears is doing, you need to watch this. If you've ever laughed when she shows something, or shaves something, or shows something shaved, then you need to watch this episode of South Park. It is truly one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen.

http://www.southparkzone.com/episodes/1202/Britneys-New-Look.html

I've said it before but...

Beware the Ides of March, that bitch be vicious.

Dear Old Navy,

I would like to say that I have been a patron of your stores for years. I love your khaki pants, and your sweaters, there was once a time where I even loved your graphic tees. Sometimes I can look through old photographs of myself and pick out every article of my clothing from you're past catalogues. And although my tastes in clothing has changed as of recently to more mature and sophisticated wares than what you're fine store offers I still visit once in a while.

In fact I did very recently with my sister. I bought a pair of khaki pants, that I'm still quite fond of. I even purchased this shirt in "Dark Sea Blue Stripe" and plan on coming back for the white one. So if I grace your store with my presence so often, why am I writing you, one might ask? Well the other day when I was in your store, I suddenly had an urge to urinate. Not on one of your graphic tees, but in the restroom. Be it to my surprise when I walked into the men's room and took at a look at the urinal to relieve myself I noticed something odd.

Why is it that there are shit stains in the urinal? Is this some Old Navy secret that I am not privy to? Is it like an unspoken code that all employees must shit in the urinals so as not to tie up the toilets? I just don't get it. It's not like it's a normal thing for a guy to pull down his pants and sit down backwards over the urinal and lay a big dump. I just don't understand is it something in the air at Old Navy that causes guys to as they are shopping for that perfect pair of carpenter jeans to suddenly have a weakening in their bowels? Does it make it so that the only thing they can do is to rush headfirst into the Men's room and shit on the nearest porcelain object they come across? Well whatever it is you need to change it and fast.

I can simply not shop under these conditions. I cannot pick up a pair of boxers and wonder if they're are shit stains in the urinal. I just cannot, especially when your boxers cost eight fifty a piece. Eight dollars and fifty cents is simply too much to pay when there are shit stains in the urinals. I can't look the check out girl in the eye, when I know that they're are shit stains in the urinals. Because she knows that I know, and I know that she knows, and we all know that no one is doing anything about the shit stains in the urinals. How can I even be expected to finish this letter when I know that if I went to Old Navy right now there would more than likely be shit stains in the urinals? How can any of us live in this world knowing that there are shit stains in the urinals at any Old Navy in this world? I hope you can clear this problem up, or at least post banners around the store to let us know why it's happening, that would be greatly appreciated.

P.S. Could you possibly try to make more flip flops in a size thirteen? That would be of much help for me. Thanks.

Your Friend, Jordan

Dear Palmer Candy Company,

I think there's something we should discuss. I know you're thinking what could I possibly need to say to a candy company? Besides the fact that I think it's pretty obvious if you look at any of photographs of my chin that I consume to many confections. But there is at least one that I will never taste. And that is one of your chocolate covered conglomerations you've designed for Easter and I am of course talking of the chocolate cross.

Look, I'm not a religious guy, I'm all about skipping church and only praying when I need something. I get it I'm a bad person. But that does not mean that I want to walk into Wal-Mart and see that you have decided that what kids today need in their Easter baskets is a cocoa covered crucifix. This is not okay. I mean, is nothing sacred to you people? What's next? We might as well make a chocolate topographic figure of Da Vinci's "Last Supper" or better yet what about a peanut butter filled, white chocolate representation of Jesus and his crown of thorns! You could even do the drops of blood in clotted strawberry cream! Or is that just too precious? I don't know, it's really your call guys. I mean if we have a chocolate cross in the world, where do we stop? Really? Can you tell me exactly what is going to be considered too much? Should I expect a marshmallow nativity scene in my stocking next Christmas? (On that note, if I do see any marshmallow nativity scenes in stores next Yuletide season I will find the CEO of your corporation, and cut him.)

But seriously, I'm okay with the Easter bunnies. I'm okay with the bubble gum eggs. I can even stand the hollow milk chocolate eggs with miniature chocolate bunnies inside! Which correct me if I'm wrong but aren't we just confusing children on the biology of rabbits here? Last time I checked rabbits don't lay eggs. Because I'm sure if they did we as people would try to find some way to make an omelets out of them. I'm almost positive. But I digress, stick to your guns people. Don't you dare step out of the well designated boundaries that society has marked out for you. We do want as many chocolate creations as you can produce, but do us a favor and leave Jesus Christ out of it.

P.S. I just stumbled upon your candy bar entitled "The Big Mo" now I might be wrong but isn't the abbreviation 'mo' usually used to describe a homosexual? So explain to me why your candy bar has a photo of a middle aged man on the wrapper above the words "CREAMY CARAMEL" Explain this one for me, because it's perplexing.

Your friend, Jordan

The Post Where I Use the Word "Fuck" Three Times

I hate the term "constructive criticism" because there is absolutely nothing 'constructive' about it. It doesn't help me in the slightest when you pick out all of my insecurities and lay them out in front of me. It doesn't change things for me, it just makes things worse. If you know me at all, you probably understand that I have large self esteem issues that I cover up with false increased self worth. I pretend that I'm the hottest being to ever walk the planet because I know I'm not. I act like the smartest individual in the room because deep down I know I'm probably the stupidest. I fake being the most talented, and the most creative, and funniest, because I know I'm not. There will always be someone funnier, or better looking, or smarter than I am. I will always be in last place, and I get that. I'm not trying to win any races, but you pointing all of these things out for me doesn't help. I'm really not trying to be down on myself, these are just things that I've come to accept. But you should have enough tact to not bring them up. you should have enough tact to remember that every time you make a fat joke at my expense I drown my sorrows in a hostess cupcake.

You know I typed that about an hour ago, and now I'm totally over it. Now I'm just being impatient that my illegal copy of the High School Musical 2 Soundtrack is taking so fucking long to download. Don't the people at Azureus realize that I lead a busy life? I bought a copy of "101 Dalmatians" today that is begging to be viewed.

So I guess what I'm saying is that if you don't like the way I am, you can fuck the fuck off, mother fucker.

Don't Be Fooled By The Locks That I Got

As I mentioned briefly in an earlier post today I cut my hair. I know that doesn't exactly sound monumental to most of you, and more like basic routine, but to me it was a tragic act. I woke up this morning after spending a week on the couch (more on that in a later post I'd expect) with a broken spirit and only one thought in my mind. This thought was that I would clearly look amazing if I were bald. Clearly this was true. Although I didn't end up going bald (thank God) the end results are just as horrifying, sadly. Unfortunately I look like I did when I was sixteen, which is much like this (and yes this is actually the picture that remains on my license to this day, if I had saved any other of my pictures from this era I would have them instead) if you didn't know me then. And because of this tragic event, I have made a list to remind myself why I should never ever cut my hair again. Ever as long as I live. And the list goes like this:

1. Because when my hair is short everyone I see becomes knowledgeable of the exact contours of my oddly shaped head.
2. Because I look like a sixteen year old virgin, instead of a twenty one year old one.
3.Because it makes my chins look even bigger.
4. Because I look like an angry lesbian. Not that I don't like lesbians, I do. I just don't want to look like one. Especially not an angry one, them bitches be vicious.
5.Because with the streak of blonde hair that I have had since birth, and a flat forehead I look like Frankenstein with a bad dye job.
6. Because now when I leave a room in a huff I can't make a dramatic exit with a whip of my head. Not that I have ever done this because I think it's a tad emasculating, it would be nice to still have the option.
7. Because do I really need to bring this up again? Looking like I'm sixteen with bad skin issues, and a double chin? Isn't that just a bit too much to handle?

Set Me Off

At the place where I have been getting my hair cut since I was five years old there is one of those large, yellow DHL drop off boxes right outside the door. As I was outside waiting for my father and smoking a cigarette after realizing that I look like an angry lesbian with my new shorn haircut (but more on that later) I was looking at the DHL drop off point. On the box (Which looked much like this one only bright yellow and with a signifigant increase in cigarette burns) it had a large label on the top that states "DHL DOES NOT ACCEPT DANGEROUS MATERIALS INCLUDING ANYTHING FLAMMABLE, CORROSIVE, OR EXPLOSIVE"

Well that is good news for safety I guess, but what does this mean for those thrifty terrorists who are just trying to watch their pennies? Would this mean that likely bomb senders would have to switch to the boys in brown at UPS? And would that even mean a savings or an increase in shipping charges? Well you no longer have to ponder the question because thankfully I did some research on the subject. With a little help from Google I found out that the average bomb weighs in at 6.5lbs. Now say someone was going to send a bomb (or any other package that weights roughly 6.5lbs) who would be the cheaper carrier? If you were going to send a package of that weight to anywhere in the world that wasn't thousands of mile but certainly not within walking distance who would be the more economical choice?

I chose Little Rock, Arkansas as my destination because first of all it's the title of a Reba Mcentire song, which sounded like a good enough reason for me, secondly it's in Arkansas and the only time I ever went there was some of the more boring parts of my life. So I figure if you're going to figure out the charges for an imaginary bomb it might as well go to Arkansas. So anyways if you were going to ship a package that weighs six point five pounds (which if you'll remember is the average weight of a bomb, not sure how this was assumed but it's the only figure I could find without throwing up some terrorists signals to the government. I'm willing to research but I'm not willing to be put on a list of possible suspects, bitches) to a distance from Lake Charles, LA to Little Rock, AK it would cost $43.86 for overnight shipping for DHL and nearly twice that much at $75.31 for UPS. So basically all I'm saying is that DHL is doing terrorists all over the world a disservice by not allowing them to ship their explosives via DHL. I mean are you really helping our economy if you can't even pass on the savings to possible mass murderers? I don't think so.


Editor's Note: I do not condone the bombing of Arkansas, or bombs, or violence at all actually.
Also just so you know, I am definitely not a terrorist so thank you and good night.

Stop it, right now please

If one more fucking person finds this site by searching for "Beyonce Pussy" I swear to God, I'm going to cut someone. And I know that this post only will increase the incidences of this happening, still that shit needs to be put out there.

On Being Okay

Today I realized that I might actually have a real relationship with my father. Not one of those typical Louisianian father/son relationships where we scratch ourselves and shoot wild animals. But maybe one where two people can talk about things, real things. Maybe something more like friendship I think he might even actually trust me with his secrets. And it feels okay. It makes me realize that maybe you're friends aren't the ones you pick for yourself, but maybe just maybe can be the ones you were born with. And in my unstable life where I never really know who I am, or who my friends are from day to day I know that maybe I have someone to count on anyways. And that's okay.

NEW HEADER NEW HEADER NEW HEADER

DON'T YOU JUST LOVE MY NEW HEADER? BECAUSE I AM IN LOVE WITH MY NEW HEADER! WHAT? YOU DON'T LIKE MY NEW HEADER? THEN FUCK OFF.

Extra! Extra!

I haven't written much this week, I guess there's just not that much to say. But I am writing right now to tell you that very soon something pretty cool, that I'm excited about will be happening here. So stay tuned for that.


Did i really just make a post plugging my own site? That is so self promoting of me, can you even handle it?

Fuck a Valentine

Originally I was going to post a list of the "Hot Shit of the Month" for February including a list of things to get your Valentine's holiday going. But instead I'm going to bitch and moan for a while, if you don't mind. And if you do mind, get the fuck off of my site.

So anyways, I was just watching the local news and as a special Valentine's report they were talking about love and such. They were stating some inane facts and during they said "it has been scientifically proven that those in a loving relationship, have better heart health and tend to live longer lives"

This is such fucking bullshit. You know as if there wasn't enough fucking pressure in this world for people to mate for life, now they're telling us that if we don't settle down our arteries will clog, and we'll die and finally end our loveless exsistences? Well, I won't stand for all of this propoganda. You know I used to think it was just middle aged women who felt all of this pressure to settle down and get married. But now I realize, it's everywhere, and everyone is affected by it. Biological clock, or not its as if the world is telling us that if we don't get hitched soon we might as well count ourselves out because single people DON'T MATTER.

Is it really true that you're nobody untill somebody loves you? And if that is true, what if no one ever does? What if we go our entire lives without finding true love like my aunt Peggy, and just live by ourselves and live horrible, lonely lives? Is that so bad? I mean, I'm not sure it's what I want. But really, are we really incomplete if we don't fit into this standard that the world is telling us is right? I am so enraged (sadly, not engaged) right now. It makes me sick. It really does.

And if you can't relate to any of this because you are in a relationship, well then you can suck it.

REBAPALOOZA 2008

As some of you might already know last week I attended the Bossier City date of the "Two Worlds, Two Voices Tour" featuring Reba Mcentire and Kelly Clarkson. This was my fourth time seeing Reba, and my first for Kelly. It was an amazing show, Reba always puts on a great show though, so it's to be expected.

The first time I saw her was when I was six months old, and although I don't remember it my love for her was fostered then I believe. I saw her again when I was about seven or eight when my parents surprised me with tickets on the day of the concert. I last saw her in Houston with my sister (who is now a bigger fan than I am.) It was good, but we were super far away, and Reba was wearing some bad pink pants. I hated those pants, and I'm pretty sure the general concensous after the concert was "She has an amazing voice, but what the fuck was up with those pants?" Or at least thats how it seemed to me. But this time we were pretty close, and it was just simply amazing. I'm still a little speechless. Reba has always been such a huge icon to me. I've always looked up to her. She's just a normal woman, who did amazing things. No drama, no ordeals, just a lot of talent and drive. Thats a big deal for me. But enough with my memories and inane musings. Let's get down to the dirty. Here are a lot of pictures I'm not labeling them, no further information for you. Just the pictures.

Thank you and good night.

Correspondence

To: you know who you are,

If you ever needed a friend who was there too much, I should be your first pick. If you ever needed a friend who is going to support your choices no matter how asinine they may be you should give me a call. If you ever need a friend to go along with your crazy schemes you should put me in your daily planner. If you ever needed someone to be a spring board for all your crazy dreams, and wishes you can jump on me.

But if you ever needed a door mat, I'm there for that too I guess. If you ever needed someone to stand by your side through whatever only to betray me ten years later then I guess I'm the kind of person you could do that to also. If material possessions are more important to you then loyalty and friendship, then keep me in mind. Because apparently I'm your man. I'm the one you can walk for miles with and wax poetically about your horrible lot in life with. I would listen and I think you know that. But apparently these things are not enough for you. Well, I hope it's all worth it in the end.

I hope you don't find yourself all alone. I really don't. Because even though I know you didn't make the choice for yourself, you didn't do anything to stop it either. You didn't do anything to stand up for your friend of ten years. You just sat there and took it. You just let them deny you people who are only there to support your choices, and your happiness. But you let them take that away from you. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry that you can't think for yourself apparently. I'm sorry that you don't have it in you to stand up and fight for who you believe in. I'm sorry, and I really hope that those four walls are worth all the trouble. I hope that kitchen counter listens to you in the middle of the night when you think things just can't get any worse. And I hope that bookshelf says comforting things to you about your past. I hope it does. Because I guess you know that I never will again.

Yours,
Signed Jordan

Learning Curve

Tonight I learned that it's okay to sometimes be blunt, maybe some times even too honest. I learned that it's okay to try to protect the ones you love from ever getting hurt. Sometimes its even okay to be shielded from the darker things. Especially if someone you love understands this too.

Tonight

Tonight, I'm giving uup the ghost.

No further information needed.

No fucking way.

So we got this new computer a few weeks ago right? Well my dad decided that he was going to fucking put parental controls on my fucking screen name. I can't even see my own fucking website. What the fuck?

Stop the fucking madness.

I will find a way out of this.

Did You Know?

Did you know that you can blog from Microsoft Office Vista? I didn't! Fuck right.

Beyonce Is Still Slinging That Pussy For Money

I would just like to say to whomever it was that searched on google for "Beyonce Fried Chicken" and found my site, that I think we need to discuss.

Also, I just recently found out that my site is the first thing that comes up when one searches for "Beyonce Fried Chicken" on Google. I think my work here is done.

The People I See

She comes in every other day or so to buy cigarettes. She has thick curly auburn hair, that is slowly graying at the ends. She wears tattered and neglected clothing, and large spectacles that she wears around her neck on a golden chain. She always gets the same thing, and she always says the same thing. She always sighs loudly as soon as she puts her bag down on the counter and accepts the cigarettes. She looks sad, I ask how she's doing. She always says that her husband and son died recently only a week apart. She says she's finding it to be hard to thing to cope with. I always say I'm sorry to hear that, and she always pats my hand where it's laying on the counter, and says "thank you, baby" and then she leaves. And I don't see her for a few days, and the script is the same. It's always the same. I find myself wondering what it is that she does in between buying cigarettes at my store. Does she sit at home, lighting up, inhaling and thinking of the past? Does she watch the television, and with every face she sees recognizes the features from her departed family? Does she wake up in the morning wondering how she's going to make it through one more day? I don't know any of these things. All I know is that she smokes Misty Ultra Light 100's and as many as she can get. I just hope they make her feel better.

He's shorter with darker skin, and a shuffling gait about him. He comes in every single day, sometimes more than once. Sometimes more than twice. He smells strongly of booze and stale smoke (or so I've heard, I really would have no idea). He sexually harasses every single woman who passes him by. He talks long windedly about his son, and his business. Neither of which I care very much about. But he always says these things, and I always feign interest. He somehow always manage to bring up God. I smile weakly, and hope that he'll leave soon. He always calls me Bub. I'm not sure why. He once picked a discarded pair of thong underwear that someone for some reason discarded in the parking lot. He held them to close to my face, asking me to do something with them. Not wanting to touch them, I held up the trash can underneath them and let him drop them into the waste. He says "Thanks Bub, I didn't know what I was going to do with those" and then leaves. I don't know why he felt that the needed to anything about the discarded pair. Provably the same reason he feels the need to talk about his children with me. I for one will probably never know.

I find it so weird that people like this can walk in and out of your lives ddaily. No backstory, no subtle foreshadowing, no futher information. All I know about their lives is what happens inside the walls of the establishment. I will never know how well she sleeps, or how much booze he downs. I will never know, mabye I don't even care to know. But oddly enough, I think I do care for them. Even if only slightly. I always kind of feel that we care too much about ourselves, and our friends, and our family. Never enough about strangers. About those people who walk in and out of our lives so quickly. I know I care, because I've always thought about them. I've always tried to see things in their perspectives. I've always wondered what it would be like to be one of them. i have always wondered, but I guess I'll never know. Because I'm myself, and no one else. There is no mystery in myself. I know everything already. And that is a shame.

Then and Now

Last Week
Number of cigarettes smoked: 1,000,000 (feels like)
Number of bottles of Alchool purchased for someone else: 2
Number of dollars spent at "Books and Things": $28
Number of dollars almost spent at "Books and Things": $48 (I didn't look at any prices)
Number of times accidentally stumbled upon Hannah Montana songs on the radio: 30,000
Number of times actually found myself kind of liking Hannah Montana songs accidentally found on the radio: at least four
Number of hours spent at police station: 1 and a 1/2
Number of times gone to Sulphur: twice
Number of minutes spent fantasizing about Reba McEntire and Kelly Clarkson concert this weekend: TOO FUCKING MANY
Number of times meant to buy batteries for camera: 12
Number of Batteries actually purchased: 0

This Week;
I will try to cut back on the smoking, really. My lungs will thank me I'm sure.
Try to write more.
Finish reading the books I bought before I got and buy some more. I'm bad about that. Never finishing what I started.
Try to not like Hannah Montana, at least a little bit.
Will more than likely cry tears of joy when Reba McEntire sings "You Lie", or "Whoevers in New England"
Try not to make fat jokes about Kelly Clarkson at the concert.

Fuck Food Seriously

Sometimes I cook, you may be surprised to learn. You know easy things like pastas and roasted chickens and such. Sometimes I bake cookies, and cakes and such. It's fun. It's invigorating, I even once made a turtle cheesecake. It was delicious. So today when my father was all "I really want to try to make a chocolate souffle" I was all "Hey! I'll do it, I can totally do it!" So I looked up this recipe from the Food Network's website. This didn't look hard. Sure it said you had to be an 'intermediate' cook to fulfill the task but hey I'm twenty one years old! I can make more than a paltry ramen noodle cup! I can totally do this! Well let me just tell you; I can totally NOT do this. It is so unfunny how much I can't do this that you can't even begin to relate. So fuck you FoodNetwork for labeling your recipes "intermediate" when they should be labeled "DON'T FUCKING TRY THIS IF YOU ACTUALLY WANT THAT SHIT TO BE EDIBLE" Because trust me, it was NOT edible. So yes food network fuck you. Fuck you Rachel Ray, and Emeril Lagasse, Fuck you too Paula Deen. But not you Giada Delaurentous (or however you spell her god damned name) there is a special place in my heart for you Giada.

Also, I would have updated Daily Photos tonight, but my batteries for my camera are buck. I was going to detail a sordid sexual scandal (ALLITERATION!) on the secret lives of chocolate flavored Teddy Grams but it just wasn't in the cards I guess.

Also, has anyone noticed how my blog has had like nine food mentions in the past week? This must mean I'm getting fat again. God damn it.

Hot Shit Right Hurr

Just as a quick update, and not a full on out and out explanation of the hottest shit of the month I would like to tell you about two amazing things.

First of all, go buy or download, or steal, "Futurama: Bender's Big Score". It's amazing, and I'm not really one for cartoons, or movies. But it's the only cartoon I've ever seen that can make me laugh hysterically and then make me want to cry the next. It's some emotional shit y'all.


Also download the track "I'll Still Be Loving You" by Reba Mcentire. It's a cover of a song by a band I can't remember the name of but it's an amazing rendition. Or you can buy the EP entitled "Love Revival" at Hallmark I think.

Enjoy this shit y'all.

Delicious

I know you all are so used to fancy headers done in photoshop but as I have a new computer and no access to photoshop as of right now I resorted to making the newest header in Paint. I know, how ghetto this is I fully realize that. But, I was fucking tired of that old one. So, this is what you get bitches.

Also as a sidenote in the past twenty four hours I have eaten an entire pound of cherry flavored pull and peel Twizzlers. Someone stop me.

Hot Shit of the Month Janurary 2008

It's that time of the month again bitches, time for me to list my favorite things and for all of you to clamor for them like Britney for her children...and pharmaceutical medications. I was asked to list some of my favorite movies and such by a friend so I'll start off with that.

First of all the must see show as of right now for me is deffinitely Ugly Betty.



At first I thought that this show like so many others was the same old story of "let's take a beautiful girl in real life (in this case America Ferrara) and make her appear to be ugly, and then place her in a fish out of water scenario and watch the hilarity ensue!" But it's actually so much more than that, I mean sure it is that, but there's more beneath the surface. It's sweet, and funny, and an over the top soap opera. It includes a in depth look into the world of fashion, and even a transsexual. So, you know it's good. You should either buy it at your local DVD retailler, or you should just watch it here for free at Online TV Dramas. I'm not saying that I'm advocating this blatant visual theft of the show...or the WGA but still it's worth it. Trust me on this one, it's a winner.







Also, a show I wasn't expecting to like but actually have come to almost enjoy is the CW's "Gossip Girl". I know that it's a pretty gay thing to admit, but I was curious. I had a read a few of the books that my sister had left lying around the house (as I am likely to read almost anything with pages that lies around the house for any amount of time), and I was pleasently surprised with the books as well as the show. This show is the basic rehash of a whole lot of really attractive young people at the same school, having sex, and lying about it to eachother. But also there's some pretty good drama and comedy in the midst too. All around a pretty decent way to waste a Thursday night.

As far as movies go I just recently saw "Juno" (Which I had originally posted the movie poster of, but it's fucked up the formating) with abformentioned friend and although I wasn't terribly disapointed, I wasn't enthralled either. I would say that if you're into quiry comedies about real life situations then this movie might be for you. It actually had a bit too much Jennifer Garner for my tastes, but then again even movies without Jennifer Garner in them have a bit too much Jennifer Garner for my tastes. Now I wouldn't say that the movie felt like the performers were acting on a "high wire" like the movie poster states but whatever. Allison Janey is in this as the dog loving step mother, and she is amazing so it's worth seeing just for her.



As for a list of movies I just love as of recently old ones included this list would go as such:

"Saved" starring Mandy Moore
"The First Wives Club" starring a lot of amazing people
"Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix" okay, I have to admit this movie is actually really boring, but it's Harry Potter so it's a good value.

As far as music goes, I have recently gotten a new computer and although this is amazing I have lost all of my music. Seriously, all of it. So my music is pretty limited to what I hear on the radio as of right now. Although for a few classics you should try out:

"Queen Killer" by Queen
"Do Right Woman - Do Right Man" Aretha Franklin
"Would it be Nice?" - The Beach Boys



And for a sweet song from a guy I've never listened to before try "With You" by Chris Brown. And although it shares it's title with a Jessica Simpson song, don't hate on it yet it's actually a good value.


Well, okay bitches thats it for this month. Watch, listen, and enjoy.

The Missing Piece

I lived my childhood like every hairbrush, and remote control was a microphone. Like every flat surface was a stage hoping that one day I too would be under the bright lights and heavy stares.

I lived my teenage years like energy was going out of style. I was always the loudest, and the most excited. Like every day was a new possibility and hoping that one day that someone would see me for who I really was and not just their preconcieved notions of me.

Now, I live my life like I'm afraid of something, like I'm afraid of everything. Like any minute life as I know it will change again. Like any minute now something horrible is going to befall me, and I won't know how to handle it. I don't have the dreams I once had, and I don't have the energy I once possessed. Sometimes I feel like I'm only half of my former self. LIke I'm the circle in "The Missing Piece" (by Shel Silverstein) Like I'm rolling around life without a purpose or a meaning, just searching for that part of my life that I'm not sure how I lost, or if I'll ever find again, just hoping that someday I will.

FUCK SHIT GODDAMN

I would just also like to add that in case none of you were aware "Postarita" is actually considered an "offensive" site under Windows Vista Parental Conrtols. I'm assuming that the words "bitch" and "fuck" are not child friendly according to Microsoft?

On why I love the night

You might notice that this post is coming awfully late. Sometimes I lie awake in bed at night wondering why I waste so much time sleeping. Why, any of us waste so much sleeping actually. Sure it's good to let our mind, and body rest but what about all that we are missing in the process. I used to think that night had not much to offer to me. The day is so bright and full of people and possibilites. But eventually I came to appreciate the quietness of the night. It's the one time of day when I'm not trying to make up, or suck up, or catch up. It's the one time of day when I can step outside and really hear the silence. I used to fear that silence as I think most do. When you're alone all you worry about is not having someone to be there with you at night. That used to be my biggest fear, growing up and having no one to spend my nights with. Now I think I've come to terms with the fact that if this is what happens, I might just be alright with it. The night doesn't judge me like the harsh light of the day. No one is awake to see your flaws in the dark of night, are they? And if they are, they surely aren't near enough to see mine. I'm just fine with the night, I'm fine with the way the leaves rustle so loudly in the wind with no one to hear them. I'm fine with the way the clouds drift slowly over the moon. And mostly, I'm fine with the moon. Letting me know that even in the blackest time of the night there is still someone out there shining on me. Letting me see clearly through the dark haze. And tonight the moon was brighter than I've ever seen it.

Off Hiatus

Remember how much you loved seeing that post about me being on hiatus? Remember reading it and thinking, "Wow, I can't wait till we get another post saying that he's no longer on hiatus!" Well, this is that post. Rejoice ye merry gentlemen and shit.

Also, I just got a wonderful new computer, and am hoping to surprise all you four bitches that read this with a wonderful new layout, and maybe something else.

Stay tuned.

Hiatus

Since I have no operable computer at the moment Postarita is regrettably on small hiatus.