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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, homeslice.
Through These Windows 10-September-2005 5:03 p.m.
I wish I could draw well. Often I will get the urge to sit down and draw something glorious, but what I see in my head and what ends up on the page never make it to the same party dressed like each other. The good news is that whatever I draw, I mean it with all my heart. My little works of "art" show up like that lady up there, the one with the enormous right hand and the lopsided boobs. But you know, she's pretty fucking spectacular in spite of it all. And I would totally invite her to one of my fabulous, non-existent dinner parties.
I watched my neighbour water his lawn earlier. What takes place on the other side of these big windows tends to be pure enjoyment on a daily basis. If it's not some skittish person's dog crapping on my lawn while I knock like a lunatic on the window, causing the skittish person (who is sans plastic bag for cleanup purposes) to motion with their hands and shoulders and surprised eyes "I'm going home right this minute to fetch a plastic bag—I had no idea my dog needed to move his bowels today," then it's the Daily Drunk trying to make his way down the strip of sidewalk without falling over, because somebody holy knows there's no way he's getting back up until the alcohol burns its way out of his body. So, I watched my neighbour water his lawn. Where's the enjoyment in that? Right here:
Dig the French-cut underwear peeking ever so preciously out of those sassy black shorts. I could hardly tear my eyes away from such a feast. The very first person I saw sporting this look was Gwyneth Paltrow. The camera was in the studio, so I scrambled for it like a giddy prom queen. Had to use the old Sony Mavica with one eye of the binoculars pressed against the lens, because Mr. French-Cut lives down the street. The quality was compromised using my little homemade spy gadget, but it had to be done, otherwise he would have looked like a speck. And a speck in French-cut underwear is not the same as a poor-quality close-up of something you most certainly needed to witness for yourself, just to say your life was now somewhat joyfully complete. Oh, before I forget, I added the sexy cowboy hat because I felt it was the right thing to do. Please count on me for things of this nature.
Speaking of nature, I have the most glorious photograph of a bright green grasshopper, but am currently unable to share it because just after snapping that photo with my pretty new Canon Powershot A95 camera, the batteries croaked. It was the first time the rechargeable batteries needed a new charge, so this would have made it the second time I would be opening the battery cover, if indeed the bloody battery cover actually opened a second time. See, my beautiful new camera was apparently good for one battery cover opening only. Just one. Sure, I thought there'd be several openings and closings during our long relationship, but sometimes things just don't work out the way you imagined. And sometimes a certain online retailer will tell you that since you are six days past the 30 day time limit to return or exchange a screwy item, they can't help you. They told me, rather politely, to stick it. So I did. And now I need help getting it out. I wonder if "online retailer" has any suggestions for that. I am probably past the sticking it dilemma time limit as well. I understand, though. If they make exceptions for one person, where do they stop making exceptions? (Update [and possible solution] on the battery cover situation is here, for anyone who found this site by looking up the same problem.)
So, apparently some holy rollers have decided that the hurricane disaster in New Orleans was brought on by the city's "Southern Decadence" celebration, where thousands of homosexuals gather each year to delight in their gayness. The annual celebration was scheduled to begin on August 31st and, you know, since the hurricane hit just a few days before the start of the festivities, that must mean that God decided it was high time to destroy the city.
I have the best idea: let's start blaming gays for everything. That way there'd be an explanation for any event deemed non-enjoyable. Down with mystery and nature, because mystery and nature are messy and scary and unpredictable. Also, we'll never again have to take responsibility for a single thing. Won't that rock in the heartiest fashion? If your car breaks down, it's because some gay guy designed it, or the mechanic who last serviced it was a total Mary. If you don't get the job you so desperately wanted, it must be due to the fact that the senior executive is an unholy, man-hating dyke. After all, her hair is short, she wasn't displaying any cleavage, and she didn't seem giddy when you flashed your Crest White Strips smile at her. When the next big earthquake hits and screws up your knickknack collection, you can blame it on that rather quiet gay couple living down the street, because surely it'll be God's attempt at weeding them out. And then you can hire a homophobic lawyer to help you sue them for being gay in your neighbourhood and causing unnecessary devastation to your Hummel collection, because apparently God's aim is rather broad.
I'm waiting for all those holy rollers to once and for all put aside the memorized Bible verses they incessantly interpret for their own agenda and just resort to loudly declaring, "God loves me more!" in excited little frenzies, complete with flying spittle. Because that's pretty much what they're trying to say whenever they open their mouths to speak.
Guess what time it is, darling perverts? It's time to have some fun with stuff that brought people to this site. And for this special occasion I am wearing my favourite wig, the ever-stylish Party Cindy. Here we go.
origin of the word boob My great-great Grandmother Boob had gargantuan knockers that had to be carried on either side of her in wooden carts pushed by four village boys in the old country. I have documentation.
sexy women cause accident You know, they sometimes do. Remember that perfectly egregious country song "Baby's Got Her Blue Jeans On"? Holy mother of prunes, I can't believe I just admitted to knowing that tune. You know how when you love someone you'll listen to their shitass music? That's what happened there. Anyway, in the song, Baby is walking around town wearing her apparently famous blue jeans that all the townsfolk go nuts over, and by golly, she's causing traffic jams. So, if Baby can start such a scene, I am certain other sexy women could be unintentionally responsible for one or more accidents, whether they are wearing blue jeans or bloomers.
music "anything other than myself" I feel this way sometimes when the songwriting isn't flowing. Writer's block can be such a bitch. It can drive me to want to listen to Brit Spears in the wee hours of the night. Or old Tiffany recordings.
piano notes for there's a hole in my bucket I don't think notes are going to patch that hole, toots. Try plumber's tape—that shit'll hold anything.
why does my loo smell Because you've stopped pooping in the garden?
model humping I would imagine this would wrinkle the magazine considerably, wouldn't it?
tai chi lint Even trickier to master than the tai chi sword technique, because you have to aim for either your opponent's eyes or their underwear (certainly I can't be the only person who fears lint in their underwear).
I don't want people staring in disbelief at my spleen?
popping out sexy I do this at parties—always.
rash thighs rubbing together Nothing like a couple of hasty thighs rubbing it up.
sexy aunt of the world I get so many hits for sexy aunt that I have begun to lose faith in humanity. But this one stood out from the rest, clearly because this is the mother of all sexy aunts.
rocking chair fucker I totally don't want to sit in this person's chair.
bible verses saying you are going to hell Just about every other verse.
insecure or conceited Same thing.
satanic literary agent And?
cat poop skid trail floor I know the feeling—trust me.
sexy pig women Hey, I'm cute in pink.
I don't have time to dilly-dally with a fork Why not celebrate your busyness with a spoon?
anne murray spanked me Anne's grown children are still holding grudges, it seems. I wouldn't mind an Anne spanking, as long as she was singing "You Needed Me" at the same time.
I'M 62 I STILL MASTURBATE Well, the cut-off age is 63, so get to some of that good lovin' while you still can.
a male hairdresser washed and cut my hair and now I think I'm gay.
BIC BOOBS They're making much more than pens now.
Quote From My World
"I wish you were staying home all day so I could bite your head off."
Well, I'm off to dissect a Republican (in the name of science). Thanks for reading.
Linda
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