My elbow has calmed down and my sore throat turned out to be allergies. Last night, I decided to take Benadryl to treat my symptoms and I had a dream that it was the 1800’s and ChrisDeVoss showed up at my house to exchange goods (no, not those kinds of goods).
I traded my mint leaves for his Uncrustable (no, not those mint leaves or that Uncrustable) and a video tape with this music video that he thought I would like:
I do like it, thanks dream Chris. We watched it and jammed the eff out. When it was over, I turned to him and very seriously commented, “When they invent the internet, I am so going to use ‘sexy soufflé’ in one of my posts.” See? Now I have.
As you can see, Vodka and I are back together again after our rough breakup. I lasted 1 week. I didn’t want to be in the photos, but Vodka (and Sangria) insisted. Yikes.
Today I got my 500th “like.” Thank you, people of the internets–much love. Here is one reason I began blogging in the first place:
Over the past 8 months, 4 different people, all strangers, have told me I look like Fergie. I don’t look like Fergie. I don’t think she’s looking so hot these days (though her body stays vicious, indeed–fair enough, Fergie Ferg).
In 1989, I remember dancing my tiny 5-year-old ass off while watching her perform The Locomotion on Kids Incorporated and thinking I wanted to be her (she’s the one in the middle):
Side note, look how cute little Jennifer Love Hewitt is on the right. Who knew she would grow those boobs or get vajazzled? Not I.
These days, if someone comments, “You look like Fergie,” is it a compliment? No. Why? Because I think Fergie and Carrot Top look like plastic face twins. So…
If Fergie
=
Carrot Top
then Fergie and/or Carrot Top
=
Me
And seriously, fuck Carrot Top. He reminds me of a nightmare I once had about the circus. Just thinking about him raises my blood pressure. I guess none of this really matters because I don’t look like Fergie and Carrot Top, so there’s no problem here and there was no reason to rant about this in the first place. Right? Right. Whatever those 4 people saw shall remain unknown and will haunt me for the rest of my days. Unless, of course, one of you sees the resemblance. If so, please come forth. Choose your words wisely.
Last year at this time I was running around like a crazy person because I was moving, buying a house, celebrating my birthday, meeting my boyfriend and basically drinking every single night of the week at Frazier’s with my pal Dee Dee. One evening, when I finally had a few minutes to relax before going out, my brother showed me a clip from Burt Sugarman’s Midnight Special:
I enjoyed it, had a good laugh at pretty much everything happening in the video and moved on. My subconscious, however, had different plans–that tart.
That night, while I slept, my subconscious awoke, got all skanked up and took me on over to the house of Wolfman Jack for perhaps the most disgusting sex dream experience that I’ve ever had in my life. It was awful. Thinking about it now sends shivers down my spine, and no, I don’t mean the good kind. Why would my subconscious betray me in this way? I thought we were friends, but no, not that night. That night my subconscious whore had sex with Wolfman Jack while You Sexy Thing played in the background on my subconscious stereo. Gross.
This is the look he had on his face the whole time:
How appalled are you right now? Then, to make matters worse, Wolfman Jack kicked me out of his house after he was done. That ass! I didn’t have time to pick up my clothes so I walked home naked. My subconscious even went through the trouble of making the mascara run down my face as I cried. I was just so hurt that Wolfman Jack used me like that.
So what the hell? What did it all mean? Was that some sort of warning? Did Wolfman Jack’s ghost channel me through the cheap vodka I drank that night? How did my subconscious know his address? The world may never know.
Dog lover. Storyteller. Urbanite-Suburbanite. Poet. Music addict. Editor. Explorer. Wine enthusiast (Malbec, please). Anglophile. People watcher. My dream job? Writer, or a Tom Jones back up singer. Well, not Tom Jones now, but Tom Jones in the early '70s...so let's go with the writing thing.
tales of a charm city chick 