Cameron Diaz is Doing What?

There’s a new movie called The Counselor with  and  and as soon as I found out their #1 selling point was that Cameron has sex with a car… well… I felt a blog post coming on. Because who hasn’t been in this situation, right?

The Counselor Poster

Is it even possible to have sex with an inanimate object? That’s the question of the hour. I consider it masturbation, but that’s just my logical mind coming into play. Unless that car is named Christine and has a will of its own, I don’t really see how “sexual intercourse” can happen. I don’t think there’s a person alive who wasn’t waiting for the kid to have sex with his car in that movie.

So, Cameron is going to make sweet, sweet love to this vehicle? Call me a nay-sayer, but I believe Hollywood is getting desperate to sell movies and make money. Think about it… people actually paid good money to go see Snakes on a Plane. I didn’t. The previews told the story just fine in a minute and a half. Snakes? Check. Plane? Check. Samuel L. Jackson cursing? Check and check. What more could possibly happen? I admit, I still haven’t seen the movie, but who allows thousands of snakes transport on a passenger jet? Get the fuck out… Samuel was saying the same line over and over in the trailer and that wasn’t enough to irritate the piss out of everyone? Okay.

I’m not saying it isn’t a sweet “ride” or anything, but I’m taken aback by the excessive advertisements about Cameron’s auto-lovin’. Have we gotten that perverted? Humanity is that bored? I understand the jaded populous wants more and more all the time. A lot of people have financial struggles that prevent them from travelling and taking real life adventures, but really? Car sex?

Look at him, just sitting there...

Look at him, just sitting there…

Can you imagine watching some crazy chick rubbing her muffin all over the windshield of your rad-ass sports car? That’s a rhetorical question. I can already see men everywhere shrugging and nodding in approval, but I don’t know many women that are willing to crawl on the hood of a car and slide their va-jay-jay around on the glass. If you’re willing, fine, but not on my car you don’t. That’s liable to piss off a car enthusiast lickity-split. I, sure as hell, am not willing to whip out the Windex because you wiped your filthy butt all over it in sexual ecstasy. Stop being dumb.

Movies are going too far. It’s bad enough that television is better than cinema these days. We’re now being lured to the theater with the promise of watching Cameron-fucking-Diaz pleasure herself with a car?




My Opinion on Your Opinion About Self-Publishing

I’m sitting here waiting for my computer to do a long overdue backup and I remembered I have a blog. Yes, that’s how it happens. I could sit here and talk to you about my memory loss for hours, but I’ll save that nibble of goodness for another time.

Today, I think I want to talk about this battle and controversy on self-publishing, independent publishing, and traditional whateverthefuck. I’ve been reading all these endless blog posts about it for months and I don’t see any reason why an uneducated nincompoop like me can’t get in on the topic. So, watch now as I proceed to discuss this for a while without even researching it. Sounds like fun, no?

First, I just want to admit that the only reason I want in on this is because all these blog authors seem to have a oversize opinion on the matter and I’m well-known for having an opinion on things too… so I want to talk about everyone else’s opinion and have an opinion on their opinions. Yes?

The other day, a bunch of my author friends were practically livid over this blog post titled “Why Indie Authors Still Suck,” so I’m going to use it as a jumping off point. Took me a few minutes to find the link and I discovered the blog didn’t exist anymore. Shocker. Someone else re-posted it, but unfortunately you can’t read it. I tried. That’s okay, though, because if you search “Indie Authors Suck Ass” or any other combination of the like, you’ll find all kinds of uninspired blogs to read by authors as uneducated as I am on the topic. ::maniacal laughter::

I Googled (I’m good at it) and I’m going to pick a blog out from the top and take a dump on it. Why not?

“But Coey, that’s rude and you don’t even know that person.”

Who cares. Let’s do this. Our first victim of my opinion is going to be someone I’ve never heard of before named Chuck Wendig. Maybe you’ve heard of him, hell if I know who you know, but he’s not on my radar. Even if he was, it wouldn’t stop me from proceeding. I’m very self centered and reclusive, so if you’re reading this and your name is Chuck Wendig, well… five more people on the planet just heard about you for the first time and you can send your thank you letter to my mom’s house. She likes getting mail.

I looked this dude up on Amazon and I see he’s authored a shit-ton of books, which already makes him more experienced at sitting on his ass, making shit up about stuff, than I am. Good for him. It says on his Amazon author profile, “Emmy-nominated digital narrative COLLAPSUS.” Outside of this blog post of his, I don’t have the faintest idea what he writes, but the book covers are neat-o. I should be too intimidated to even attempt to talk smack on his blog, but… I don’t have a conscience to advise me against it.

His blog post is titled, “Why Your Self-Published Book May Suck A Bag of Dicks.” (See? I didn’t make it up. I couldn’t if I tried.)

Right away, he opens with this charming-ness that makes me want to get to know him better:

Dear Self-Published Word Badgers,

I’d like to take a little time out to commend you for your intrepid publishing spirit! And by “commend you,” I mean, “slap you about the head and neck with your own bludgeoning shame.”

He’s so mad he’s ready to deliver a flurry of slaps and he just got started. Not that I self-published. I’m an indie and I take none of this personally, but some authors do. In 99% of these types of posts, the author always states clearly that they aren’t referring to 100% of everyone who self-publishes or chooses an alternative publishing method, but everyone needs some kind of disclaimer. Am I right, or am I right?  His disclaimer comes right after the flurry of slaps, which states that he’s not talking to everyone. (By “not everyone” he means, “Well, I’m talking to all of you, but there were about two self-published books I thought weren’t entirely slap-worthy.”)

Don’t believe all the nonsense you read in people’s blog posts, because I guarantee you that they’re happy to tell you to go suck a dick if you disagree with them.

Think about it, this is my world and I get to say whatever I want to in it. If I’m having a bad day, I get to come here and vent because that’s my God-given blogging right. I only started a blog so I could bitch in the first place and I’m positive I didn’t invent the concept.

Back to this being opinionated thing… Okay, so, here we have one out of a bazillion examples of an author hating on authors for taking matters into their own hands and publishing their shit work. I fail to understand what the big damn deal is, frankly. More than once, I’ve been helped by a cashier who couldn’t do simplistic math well enough to give me change for a ten dollar bill. I didn’t run and get their manager or write a fucking blog post about it. (Well, technically, I mentioned it, but that’s not the point here.) I’m just saying, everything comes back to this “Everyone is Special” problem.

Let me explain… Self-publishing is a rather new-ish ability that came about around the time schools and programs started handing out participation trophies. You know, for participating. When I was growing up, there were winners and losers. If you didn’t win, you fucking lost and the other team would shake your hand and thank you for losing and that’s all you got. You hung your head in shame while the winning team laughed at you and then you kicked their ass behind the school for being cocky. You didn’t go home and kill yourself like they do these days. So, a bunch of people back then got all butthurt from losing, time went on and suicides were committed, and all of a sudden everyone gets a goddamn trophy for standing in the back field with a finger lodged in their nostril. Congratulations, ‘Merica.

In case you don’t see the problem here, when I was growing up, people didn’t kill themselves because some insecure taint gobbler called them a crab-riddled slut on the internet. It just didn’t happen. If any one of my sports programs tried to give me a trophy I didn’t earn, my father would have knocked it out of my hand and given the proprietors a four hour lecture on the retardation of giving people things they didn’t earn. Are you with me so far?

This is a generation of entitled, “special people” who feel deserving of stuff and praise because society, as a whole, fucked up and decided we can’t handle the emotions associated with being a failure. There’s no “we’ll get ‘em next time.” Individuals are killing themselves because someone called them a bad name. Back in the day, people committed suicide for real reasons, like, they had never done a single thing right in forty years and now the bank was taking everything they own and selling their children to the circus to be raped by clowns or some shit… real reasons. These days, a girl can’t fart in front of her boyfriend without killing herself over it, so what the fuck did you expect was going to happen?

In case you weren’t aware of this, taste is subjective. Books fall into the entertainment category, which is the most subjective of them all. Some people get a kick out of watching football. I get a kick out of shooting guns and smoking a lot of cigarettes. You dig where I’m going with this? It’s not everybody’s cup of tea and not everyone takes theirs with vodka like I do. To each their own.

This may be a little off-topic, but I read a few books from a famous author *cough.V.C. Andrews.cough* who had a thing for incest. When I say “I read a few books,” I mean, I’d read about five before I was old enough to realize what was happening and that this woman was incapable of writing a book without incest in it (and decided she must have serious psychological issues). Not to be an ass, but what’s that say about traditional publishing? There ya go. (Notice I didn’t kill myself over it?)

I didn’t invent the concept of giving out participation trophies and these writers simply want to see something “special” with their name on it before they die. I have nothing against traditional publishing, and I imagine they pay a hell of a lot more, but I can’t say I trust their opinion on terrific literature, either. I’ve seen some real stinkers become mega famous and popular for no good reason whatsoever. *cough50ShadesofGreycough*

Here’s what it all comes down to… telling a group of dyslexic pigeons with eating disorders to “suck a bag of dicks” is inappropriate and ridiculous. And that’s how I feel about a person saying, “Some of you should be really quite floored by the quality — or, rather, the sucking maw of quality, a veritable black hole of hope and promise that leeches the dreams from the minds of little girls sleeping and replaces those dreams with nightmares where unicorns are stabbed repeatedly by interlopers on icy sidewalks and left to whimper and bleat until the police come and finally end their misery with a single round from a service revolver bang – that your work puts out into the world.”

Because if that was a book, it actually sounds 10 times more interesting to me than contemplating a person’s drive to hate on a fellow author(s) for self-publishing a crappy book. Here’s an idea: Don’t buy it or read it. They’ve made their book an option, it’s not been added to the required reading list at your child’s school. Why are folks getting their panties twisted over it? Know what I mean?

“Everyone is equal and special and important” believers are the ones who created opportunity and possibilities, so things like self-publishing come about. People will exercise their options and who gives a shit what other people do as long as they’re not affecting you personally (or killing themselves, I guess. Although, I remain strictly under the “If you want to kill yourself, that’s not my business,” belief.). They’re the ones who are funding the whole thing and if they want to spend their time and money to publish a crappy book, who are you to tell them they suck a bag of dicks? I’m an asshole from hell, truth be told, and I still can’t promote jealous, emo-nonsense such as this.

I think it’s mighty arrogant to believe good ideas are only possible through big traditional publishing companies. People are so caught up with editing and format they have failed to listen to the message as it’s coming across. I’ve intentionally kept from bothering myself to edit this blog post. Ideas and stories have nothing to do with proper period placement or dangling participles. It doesn’t matter if your three-year-old drew the picture on the front. If you can’t get past the silly things, I don’t know what to tell you. As authors, I thought it was a given that we had imaginations. I thought we understood what it was like to dream better than anyone. Yes, I have a profound respect for grammar, but if you think that’s what it’s all about, kindly go suck a bag of dicks.

But please don’t kill yourself… because I really don’t want to see the day they create an award show like the Emmy’s where they pass out an Oscar to toddlers for succeeding at being potty trained. (Or at least for trying.)


The Disappearance of Coey Cain: Explained

As far as I’m concerned, every experience makes for a good story if you tell it right. At this moment, I’m going to attempt to tell the story of why I, Coey Cain, have been missing for a week and a half without so much as a “see ya later, folks.” This is unlikely to be a short blog post, and that’s okay, because I’m highly amusing.

Names will be changed and possibly omitted because I’m anti-lawsuit… if you know what I mean. However, I still own the story.

Let me start by saying, for the past year and a half, I’ve been a “good girl”… ish. I stay at home 99.99999% of the time, only leaving the house one-point-five times a month for supplies and to get a quick social kick. It doesn’t make me unhappy to be a recluse, I rather enjoy it because I have the gift of “I’m Not Interested In You.”

My adventure started on a Friday night, roughly a week and a half ago…

I have a tendency to break the rules from time to time. And if I was totally honest, I would admit that I have a tendency to break the rules, like, usually. People are always hounding me that I shouldn’t do this and I shouldn’t do that, but it’s always fun shit they’re trying to stop me from doing. “Coey, you can’t take vodka through airport security!” or “Coey! Don’t do that with super glue!”

Two years ago on the Fourth of July, me and some friends decided to get together and make a day of it. Some time in the early afternoon, we walked into a bar and had a drink in a small southern town in the midwest. Make mine a double. Know what I mean? It’s a holiday and I like to get-down. Drinks drank, we were on our way, on foot, in the moist, blistering heat of midday in order to meet the second group of friends. We stopped at a little store to buy bottled water before we got to the car. Our intention was to leave the small town and seek out festivities elsewhere, in a more eventful location where you couldn’t hear banjos playing ominously in the background. While my friends went inside to purchase water to quench our thirst on the journey, I remained outside as I had a fresh buzz tickling my senses and I’m a die-hard smoker. Cigarette in hand, I sat down on the concrete edging of a cute little flower bed and pulled out my phone to text more people. Let’s get this party started. You with me so far? Right… so, by the time my friends purchased four bottles of water and other goodies, I was being guided into the back of a patrol car with my hands cuffed behind my back. That’s right, you guessed it… Public Intox.

I know what you’re thinking… there’s a huge chunk of this story that’s missing. No, I’m afraid not. As I sat in my tattooed glory, legs crossed, minding my own business and texting on my phone, a cop car came to a screeching halt right in front of me. Both officers got out of the car and addressed me strictly with, “Ma’am, you cannot sleep here!”

(Please take a pause and realize the complete absurdity of this.)

I laughed. “I’m not sleeping. I’m sitting here smoking a cigarette and texting on my phone, which is perfectly acceptable, even in this backwards town.”

“Have you been drinking?!” Demanded officer number one.

“As a matter of fact, I just had a drink with my friends.” And at that moment, I had the right to remain silent. I was under arrest.

And put some money on my books!

And put some money on my books!

I told you that story in order to tell you this story…
I have a very short memory. I mean, it’s embarrassing. I’m not a good listener and I tend to forget, if I even heard you to begin with. It should come as no surprise that in order to get out of jail for this bullshit charge, I had agreed to their ridiculous, uncalled-for, extremely aggressive terms which included, but was not limited to, some drug and alcohol program. Even as I told the judge I would do it, I already knew in a week’s time I would be out of this Podunk state, nestled safely in my liberal home of Reno, Nevada, where shit makes sense and you can have a drink and smoke a cigarette anywhere you damn-well please. (And pick up a prostitute while you’re at it.) So, as I nodded my head at the judge saying, “Sure, sure. I’ll skip to my lou while I comply,” I’m laughing on the inside and thinking, You’re gonna have to catch me first.

Well, two years later, I’m back in this Podunk state and I simply forgot about my prior transgressions. Honest mistake, I forget shit all the time. I’m at the end of the first social outing I’ve been on in several months, with a person I just met-no less, and police are standing there telling me I’ve got a warrant. Shit just got real. The fuck you mean I got a warrant? As they explain, my memory is coming back very slowly…

Now, I’m not stressed. I’ve been to jail a few times and, sure, it sucks. No one wants to go there. It’s like being locked in a third-world country the size of a walk-in closet where you can’t smoke cigarettes or… leave. But it ain’t my first rodeo and I already know I’ll be out of there in a few hours, a day tops, fiending for a cigarette and a cup of coffee. All in all, I’m in good spirits about the whole deal. Once, I was in and out of jail in an hour and a half, ya dig? The cops cuff me in front, so I already know I’m going to have an easy go of it. No brutality here. Awesome. Hell, I didn’t even get the pat-down. They didn’t read me my rights, we just got in the car together and drove off singing Kumbaya. No big deal.

I’m standing at the booking desk ready to do this “Like A Boss” without a care in the world. The guy behind the desk asks me what I do for a living and I toss out “I’m an author” like a flock of doves, head held high. Roll out the red carpet, boys! You caught yourselves a quasi-celebrity! You can’t get me down, I’ll be out of here by tomorrow with a new story to tell!

It was at that moment they hit me with the news. “You have no bail.” No… Bail…

All of a sudden I feel like Kat Williams. “The fuck you mean I have no bail?”

They had to explain it to me three times that I wouldn’t be released no way, not any kind of way. Gears are turning in my head, creaking like a rusted-out hamster wheel. No bail? None at’all? I’m not panicking just yet. It’s a Sunday which means I’ll see a judge come morning and we’ll get this all straightened out.


In Podunk Ass-Jack country, they play by different rules than the rest of the civilized world and they do things a little different. Court is in session only sometimes, when the ass-pillaging monkeys aren’t busy dueling banjos. In other words, my ass was in there for 3 fuckin’ days before I got to attend video-court in my striped onesie jammies for criminals. I sat in a tiny room inside the jail with three other bitches in front of a big tv screen with a grumpy-ass judge in it. It was similar to Skype and I could see myself in the little box in the corner of the screen, so while he was dealing with the first two hillbillies, I was checking my hair and shit. Right before it was my turn, he starts bitching about the “noise” in the background. Walkie-Talkies are going off, there’s a mini-riot taking place in another room as we haven’t left the jail and this judge is straight No-Nonsense, right? I’m candidly rolling my eyes at his show of dominance and the guard inside the little room is looking around as if to say, “It’s JAIL, judge. The fuck you think it’s like in here?”

So now that the judge is thoroughly irritated, it’s my turn to go. He’s asking me if I understand all these papers I signed. I can only assume it’s because the majority of the inmates I’d encountered thus far should be required, by law, to wear a safety helmet and a sign that reads “I don’t know how to count money.” Not to show my ass here, but I’m aggravated that I’ve been in jail since Sunday, it’s now Wednesday, and I couldn’t give a hot damn if I pissed the dude off even more–as a matter of fact, it was my goal. I’ve already been in for 3 or 4 days, which is equal to a month, and I know he’s going to let me go on “Time Served” so I’m cool. Just to be a smartass, I said, “I understand it, but I don’t get it.” He gives me a dirty look and says, “What don’t you get?” and it was at that point that I realized smarting off to the judge was a terrible idea and he had the ability to sentence me to life in prison, should he choose to do so. I switched gears and got wise real quick. If there was ever a time to eat shit and grin, this was it. I reeled in my sarcasm and proceeded like the educated turd I am. I still got sentenced to 10 fuckin’ days. Doesn’t sound like much to some people–and all those people were in my jail block.

Up until this point, I’d made a point of sleeping off whatever exhaustion I felt from the outside world. Going to jail is like a vacation without all the fun or pleasurable shit that makes it a vacation to begin with. They feed you three terrible meals a day and you’re free to sleep as much as you want as long as the constant yelling, screaming, shit-talk, banging, metal-door-slamming bullshit doesn’t bother you. I can sleep through almost anything, and for those first several days-did. However, now I’ve seen the judge and I’m all rested up, but I ain’t going nowhere fast. Fuck me.

Now I actually have to socialize with these back-hills lunatics with which I’m being forced to coexist. I find out immediately that they’re all druggies, thieves, and brawlers… and being an All-Female cast, their menstrual cycles have synced up together and guess what time of the month it is… I felt like making up a story about killing a man so I wouldn’t be viewed as the fresh-faced weakling whose only crime was not attending classes like a truant teenager.

You should know that everyone in jail is innocent. At least, that’s what they’d have you believe. Everyone you encounter will tell you what their charge is and proceed to explain why it’s bullshit and they didn’t do it. “I wasn’t even there!” Every time I’ve stepped foot in a jail, I’ve heard the same shit ad nauseum. Wrong place, wrong time. It wasn’t me, it was the person I was with. Guilt by association. The list goes on and on, excuses for everything… I feel you, I feel you. If you hadn’t been doing crack right then, you wouldn’t be here. Then again, you’re a crack whore–so, what do you do? Such is life…

One of the first women I encountered was a loud, very loud, and tempestuous heroin addict that I came to know as the toothless troll living under the television which guarded the remote control as though it was her royal sceptre. Thou shalt not pass! Or watch anything on television without my permission–is more like it. Not to be a naysayer, but she had her very own name tattooed on her wrist. I can only imagine it was so she could remember and/or identify herself while she was in a drugged-up-on-heroin stupor. Her mouth was running twenty-three hours a day, which is a whole lot of talking for someone who had nothing to say. Repeatedly, proudly, and enthusiastically, she told the story of how she threatened to never give her husband another blow-job if he didn’t bail her out. (Pardon me while I vomit.) To describe her to my best ability, she’s the reason why pools are chlorinated. I’m sure her lack of bail money had everything to do with her verbal diarrhea and altogether grossness. Her husband is probably sitting at home right now, tickled to death that it’s quiet and he can watch whatever he wants on television. No blow-job in the world is worth putting up with that hot-mess, even if it’s an ass-fingering combo. God Help Us, Everyone.

Next comes the troll’s faithful liege, whose voice filled in every gap of silence when the almighty Troll Empress of the Television was drawing breath into her lungs so she could spew another fifteen solid minutes of verbal noise pollution at a time. This is the one who came up to me at one point and said, “I can tell you’re really smart by the way you talk. You just sound smart.” I had no idea how to respond to that statement. I assume because my vocabulary extends beyond profanities, she can only gather with her feeble mind that I may know a thing or two. I don’t think anything I said was fathomed by any of them, as they had an overall look of confusion plastered on their faces anytime I opened my mouth, but by their overall perplexion had decided my words must mean something, they just didn’t know what, and therefore I was smart. (My brain hurts from telling you about it.) I have to admire their ability to communicate in utter gibberish, frankly.

I hate to end my descriptions here, but I’m sure I’m being put on the Meth-Head Crack-Whore Heroin-Junkie Shit-List as we speak and I’m next in line to be shanked or someshit.

As soon as I walked in, they immediately wanted to know what my drug of choice was. Now, I admit freely, to God and everybody, I’ve never done drugs a day in my life. I’ve never tried crack, crank, cocaine, heroin or meth… or any of it. Nothing. I’ve never so much as been around it. Call me naive, but I had no idea the drug problem in this world had gotten so bad that it’s automatically assumed you do them. I’m a self-confessed wild-child, but I simply never had an interest. I can pull off insane stunts as sober as a priest, thank-you-very-much.

As I tried to mind my own business and keep to myself, all their periods were finished syncing up and I discovered I was locked in a big concrete room with six menstruating women with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Profanities are flying at the speed of light as though the curse words, in and of themselves, were a new and special language and there was no sanctuary from it. Their little criminal egos were in full swing as they told one story after another (and often the same story over and over) of how badass they were in the outside world. “Laying bitches out and droppin’ triflin’ hoes,” and whatnot. Each one refused to be outdone by the other and this parade of retardation and subnormality continued every day as though they were taunting me to completely lose my shit and catch a real charge. I kept reminding myself that if I held it together, I would be out of there and free to smoke my cigarettes and watch whatever I wanted to… quietly… in peace… at home… where no one was pounding “Fuck You, Whore” in Morse Code on the walls to communicate their disdain of a person in another jail block… or “Toilet Talking”… Real quick, I’m going to explain Toilet Talking, for anyone who is unaware, as it’s rather fascinating in its crudeness. The toilets are metal which echoes well and the pipes lead directly up to the men’s cells. With the help of an empty toilet paper roll, they could amplify their voices and it resembled the mentally handicapped version of talking through cans on a string. (I fondly refer to it as a Pottie-Talkie, as it’s similar to a Walkie-Talkie. ::snort:: Get it?) And bitches be takin’ their Toilet Talkin’ serious. I’m not sure if they acquire boyfriends this way, but when I think of something steamy in the toilet, I never imagined in a million years it could be something other than a turd… but I digress.

If I could just keep my temper in check, I would no longer have to eat savorless food that was laced with something called “Soft Peter” which, apparently, is put into everyone’s food and prevents the male inmates from getting erections. (facepalm)

You can’t make this shit up…

That being said, believe it or not, these half-wits were Offence Sentence Guru’s. By that I mean, from the moment you stepped into the block, they immediately wanted to know what you were in for and produced an astonishingly accurate prediction of what you would be sentenced with by the judge. And I mean, ridiculously and amazingly accurate. These drugged-out ghetto whores know their shit! They’re the fortune tellers for criminal offences and you can find them in any jail cell anywhere. You simply had to tell them what your charges were, which judge you’d be seeing and, lickity-split, these hookers would break it down for you. The moment I walked in, they predicted I’d get 10 days and, by God, I sure fuckin’ did! It was a pleasure to watch them work.

There’s a whole ‘nother system taking place inside jail cells. It’s a whole new world. It’s a place where you can communicate by banging on walls like a primate and talking through toilets! Notes are passed through the laundry like the Pony Express and you can use batteries to light a coffee cigarette! Macgyver, eat your heart out!

Challenge Accepted.

Challenge Accepted.

Anyway, to sum it all up, now I have some court fines to pay… so buy my book so I don’t have to go back to this shithole. :)

Come Sit By Me.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, that’s right… come sit by me.

I don’t know what I’m going to blog about, but I’ll come up with something.

Recently, I watched Julie and Julia, and that chick wrote a daily blog about following a recipe book. I don’t have that kind of dedication.

Some people write blogs about their interests and hobbies. Isn’t that cute…

I’ve discovered the trick to blogging isn’t about what you write – it’s about setting it up – and it’s not easy to do. I’ll have you know, I’m not happy with any of the themes I’ve looked at and this one won’t be sticking around very long – that I guarantee. So, now I have to learn CSS? Whatever happened to plug-and-play? …That’s cool. It’s not like I have anything else to do but blog.

Frankly, I just like to think of it as my own personal ranting platform. It’s not as though I want everyone out there to see me as a woman who complains nonstop, I just can’t afford therapy, that’s all. Buy my books and maybe I could… ::snort::

Let’s see what’s on the agenda today, shall we? Oh yeah. I’m on doggie-doody-duty. Dogs are pretty cool, but they’re a pain in the ass. Did you know that? It would be pretty badass if just one of them was trained to kill on demand, though. (Don’t go getting your britches in a bunch, this is my ranting platform – go find your own.)

I spent the morning screwing with the settings on this damn blog again – installing plugins and nonsense. The things I had to “install” should just come with the damn thing, are you serious? Things like, share buttons and email subscriptions. ALL PEOPLE WHO START A BLOG WANT FOLLOWERS. For Christ’s sake, this isn’t a foreign concept. Not that I expect to have a thousand people following this retardation I call a blog. It’s going to be more like a journal of things that piss me off. HA!
(Kinda kidding – not really, though.)

It’s not going to be a real journal. It’s going to be more like a food journal. You’re only getting half the facts.

If It Kills Me.

Sometimes you just can’t win.

I had a blog prior to this one that I just couldn’t deal with. Customizing was a bitch and it never really wanted to do anything I asked. I don’t ask much, so that’s totally unacceptable.

I started my day with coffee and cigarettes, as always, but this damned blog was heavy on my mind. Why? Well, I gave up on it around 2am this morning when I couldn’t figure out why it was bridge-returning in the middle of the fucking writing window. And no, I don’t know how to make you understand what a bridge return is – look that up on your own. God knows I’ve done my fair share of Googling this morning. NOTE: I have taken it upon myself to look up “bridge return” because too many people had no idea WTF I was talking about, and here’s why. Fuck, whatever. Maybe that’s not what it was called. When I say bridge return, I’m talking about when you get to the end of a line in a document and it automatically jumps to the next goddamn line – all on it’s own. Get it? Back in my day, when we invented the wheel, it was called a fuckin’ bridge return. Moving on…

Just so you know, it stopped doing that all on it’s own after I’ve invested hours researching the problem. Go figure. Technology hates me. Whatever.

It’s shit like this, all the time, that makes me feel productive if I can see through my glasses.

Next order of business, (or should I say, at-the-same-time order of business) I’m trying to catch up on Facebook notifications. I’ll get to you, don’t worry. First, I just want to change the font on this blog theme. Oh, I can’t? ::head desk::

RSS feeds? Forget it. I’m about two seconds from losing my shit already.

This calls for a professional. So, while I’m over here rocking back and forth whimpering, someone else can come in here and wrestle for a while. I’m tapping out for the time being.