Thursday, March 27, 2008

This is what happens when you push us to the edge..

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Emails From My Friends

Names, Dates, Places and DNA samples have been changed to protect the innocent.


From: ME
Date: Jun 26, 2007
8:57 AM

Attached is a picture of the girl you tried to hook up with in the club….the one in the middle...seriously JBoy…I TOLD YOU to look at her face…I told you she was not cute but you were drunk and refused to listen to me…

From: JBOY
To: ME
Date: Jun 26, 2007
9:06 AM


…SHE’S NASTY!....wait from the club last weekend?

No way Kim, no way..


From: Friend1
To: Me blahblahblah&
Jan 19 2008
1:05 PM

Dude, I can't stand school any more. I just can't….tell me a funny story about hooking up with a boy immediately…must get my mind off of school.

From: Me blahblahblah&
To: Friend1
Jan 19 2008
1:18 PM

I cannot believe you had an exam yesterday...that is horse-shit!

so went out to Smishsmorshion with my girls after work....well about three or four (or six) margaritas later and I decide it would be a GREAT idea to call I call him and he answers and he starts telling about how he is SO sorry he hasn't called in the past weeks and how he misses me and how I am his “universe” , and he “loves” me and blah blah blah …so I say, " Jorge! Stop talking! Sweet Jesus stop talking! I'm drunk! Get your ass over here!" (I have a way with the men-folk) sure enough ten minutes later Jorge arrives. My friends find some guys with bow-ties and decide it’s time to hit the road, which is normally what I think when I see Bow-Ties as well…This leaves the two of us sitting at the bar alone...he gets up to go to the bathroom and I decide to check my phone...This is when I notice The Male Ballerina has text'd me ten times asking where I I text him back I am at Shmishmorshion…he texts back "Ok, coming..on my way." ...this is when I almost vomit on the bar...I frantically text him back , "No! Don’t come! I am not there anymore, I left! I don’t even go to Shmishmorshion!"...(nice save Kimmie) he texts back "Well where are you going?" which I don’t respond....Jorge and I stay there until 1am....I notice The Male Ballerina texting me, but again I do not respond ....At 1am I decide to go home leaving Jorge at the bar ..alone… (Heaven, here I come!)...walking home I text The Male Ballerina and he meets me halfway and comes back to my place.

...and that is how you rule the world.


From: ME

Date:Feb 2, 2008

10:04 AM

Thanks for trying to set me up with your buddy Rick for the 7th time..

From: JBOY

To: ME
Date: Feb 2, 2008

11:16 AM

Well you were gonna get lazy-eyed Joe, but now Rick it is!! He's definitely single and ready to mingle!


Everything I need to know about men I have learned from my Nephew:

Playing street hockey in my brother’s basement with my nephew, I reached my stick out to swat at the puck in front of him. “Penalty Box!” He cried out, pointing at me.

“Penalty Box?! “ I said back, throwing my stick up in the air. “Why a penalty?! What penalty? I didn’t cause a penalty!”

“Auntie Kim...” He said slowly...” We are playing pretend…” And looked at me like the idiot I am.

An hour later, we were involved in a serious game of playdough when he asked me for the purple dough. “But I am using the purple for my grapes cause I can't use pink!” I said.

“Auntie Kim?”


“You don’t play pretend very well.”

And the truth was, he was right. I don’t play pretend very well. And as my nephew was teaching me…the key to pleasing a man is always to play pretend.

Pretending you are interested in sports when you may not be… pretending you want to share food even when you don’t… pretending to be in love with someone whom you pray daily gets hit by a moving vehicle.

Funny thing is I used to play pretend so well, I could fake anything, in fact I pretended so well I actually pretended my way through two whole relationships. There should be a category for things like that at the Emmys.

“Sure I love SportsCenter.. I love it so much in fact I bet I could actually fall asleep listening to it.”

“No I don’t mind that you go to Scores on Saturdays. I think it’s great that you donate so much of your money to the local stripping women of the community who are clearly just trying to pay their way through college.”

“The waitress at your local bar has big boobs? Really? Hmm, funny I never noticed.”

In the middle of our second playdough date I reached over and grabbed one of his dough-oranges. “Mmmm this is some good fruit salad!” I said, air-munching the orange.

“Auntie Kim?"


“That is just a pretend orange.”

Damnit, I knew that.”

“Auntie...we are not allowed to swear.”


Sunday, March 23, 2008

Pink Punch And The Tale of A Night Less Remembered

Now to start this story off correctly, I feel I must first explain the outfit to you. The night started off in my bedroom, alone, getting ready. Now I had this bright green tube top I had bought from a small boutique on the Lower East Side for less then 20 bucks. It was ribbed and long and almost covered the entire length of my white denim skirt. I thought I looked great.

2005 called ...and it wants its top back

This outfit alone we shall refer to as, Mistake Number One.

Now let’s proceed to Mistake Number Two.


Yeah, fucking punch man.

Fruity, pink colored, tasty, delicious, fucking punch.

I don’t know why, but it tricks me like a good looking man every time.

Oh yum, what is this pink, fruity , delicious…BA-BAM! What’s my..whochose mah schmamaneahhh whereshess mah pursh?

At the time I was at a party on the Upper East Side. The girls I was with decided to head out and over to a bar downtown. As they were leaving the party I saw them out of the corner of my one-blurred-eye and instinctively followed behind. I knocked out two sorority chicks into a glass coffee table trying to make it to the door, I was in a fucking white denim mini skirt and I was taking no prisoners. As soon as I made it out the front door I was so wobbly in my heels I lost my balance and fell down one flight of steps.

Well, at least I was at the bottom now.

This is where the story starts to become unclear. We will now come upon moments of blackness.

And these moments I will cleverly refer to in the story as, “moments of blackness”.

I remember getting in the cab. And then there is about ten minutes of blackness.

The next thing I know I look around and I am standing in McFadden’s Bar and Grill on 42nd Street.

This will be known as: Mistake Number Three.

Now I remember someone handing me a cranberry and vodka. And I remember turning around to flirt with some dark haired boy. Followed by a moment of blackness.

For whatever reason the next thing I knew when I looked up I was making out with this boy, in a booth in the restaurant-dining-section of McFaddens, where other patrons where sitting eating broccoli and cheddar soup.

Mistake Number Four.

In midst of the seventh-grade make-out session in the bottom of the vinyl booth, I paused to look up around me. Strange Boy leaned in to kiss me again, I hesitated feeling the distinctive rumble in my stomach and burning in my throat. I looked at him and quickly got up from the booth, turned around and said , “Excuse me... I have to go vomit now.”

And walked away.

Just like that.

Unfortunately for me, there were three wooden steps I had to go down to make it over to the bathroom area. Holding into random strangers for support I finally hit the third stair, when I lost my balance and fell backwards into a group of guys.

Whoa whoa whoa, watch chourself!” I yelled at the boys. “Jush betcher watch jushelf!” I said again, clearly pointing at the dudes who caught me falling.

“Kim?” I heard one of the guys say.

This part I refer to as, Mistake Number Five.

I whipped around, which in my drunken stupor was more like two times around, and squinted my eyes, staring into his face. I was now about two inches from the tip of his nose.

Suddenly it hit me.

Me- “The g-chym! The chym, jush a trainer at the chym?”

Trainer- “Yeah I’m a trainer at your gym, I see you there a lot, my name is Doug.”

Me- “Ryan?”

Trainer-“No, no…uh…my name is Doug.”

Me- “Brian! It is so ghood to see chu Brian!”

Trainer-“It’s Doug.”

Me-“Oh, sorry Ryan…where’s mah friends Ryan, whereas my friends, I chant find them?”

Trainer-”I don’t know what they look like Kim... I don’t know your friends.”

Me- “Molly? Chu don't know her? I jush need chu to find them fhor me. Can chu finhd them??”

Trainer (please make note he said this completely deadpan) “Well... do you have a picture of them on you?”

Now I actually stopped and thought about this for a moment. In fact maybe more then a moment, maybe more like a good 10 or 15 seconds. It did seem logical.

Me-“Actually… I don’t.”

He laughed a little. Then all I remember is turning around and someone handing me another cranberry and vodka.

There is now a moment of blackness.

I do not remember leaving McFaddens. I do not remember getting in the cab. I do not even remember the actual cab ride. (another note- the only good thing about being this drunk is you dont spend shit money-wise, everyone pays for everything for you...mostly because you don't even know how to unbuckle your wallet at this point.)

I do remember the cab stopping however and I looked up, my face hanging outside the windshield. Apparently I had been riding the entire cab ride like that... face out the window in the wind, like a Golden Retriever.

My friends opened the door on the right and I opened the door on the left. As I went to stand and walk out of the cab, it hit me. I couldn’t stand at all. I lost my balance and fell right into the bush outside my building.

I just laid there.

In the distance I could hear my friends talking.

But I couldn’t move.

Friend 1- “Wait…where did Kim go? She got out of the cab right?”

Friend 2- “Yeah, I mean I saw her open her door and get out, I know she got out.”

Friend 1 “Where the hell did she go…KIM?! Kim?!”

I wanted to yell back that I was here. I was OK and I was here. But I couldn’t speak. So I just kept laying in the bush.

Finally, Friend 2 spotted me.

Friend 2- “Oh My God! She is in the bush! Kim, Kim, come get out of that bush, come upstairs, come get out of the bush!”

Me- “No, jush leave me here for a bit…jush nicea out herea…let meh sleep in the bush for a minutea.”

Friend 2 “No no Kim, you can't sleep in the bush... Let’s get you inside..”

There is then about the next hour or so of blackness.

And then vomit.

Lots and lots of vomit.

Extreme increasing clarity. Followed by an absurd about of vomit. Vomit coming out of my nose, stinging my eyes. Everywhere.

Followed by even worse,weeks worth of calling some NYSC personal trainer “Ryan” only to find out a month later when the manager finally had to come over and inform me that his name was actually Doug…and that "Doug" would prefer if I did not follow him around in the gym anymore.

Fuckin punch man.

Only $55 Dollars A Month To Embarrass Yourself

Tuesday, March 18, 2008 - The TJ Maxx of Dating

Now if you come to me and tell me you have never tried online dating before (even checking craigslist personals counts) then I only have two words for you, You Are A Liar.

We have all done it. We have all been there. Sitting bored at work, scrolling through JohhnyFierce90210, on some dating sight looking to see if he added more pictures or a possibly an education level, *note to self when left blank, assume elementary school.

The problem with most dating sites, Match included, is you have to sort through all the shit just to find one decent player among the group. This is why is like shopping at TJMaxx. Do they have some good deals? Yes. But you have to sort through racks of Will Smith track suits just to find your BCBG dress.

Now when you do stumble into the BCBG dress marked half down that trampled down three women in spandex pants for, is it great? Absolutely. But what about those days when you walk in and all you can see is broken handle bags and only left-foot shoes scattered on the floor? This is the majority of the people on Match...broken, left-shoes and Will Smith track suits.

In fact most of the people on there make me thank Sweet Mary Magdalene that I am not attached to any of those losers. But could you find a diamond in the ruff? Of course. Just make sure to not get to discouraged by the studded belts along the way.


Little kids

I have a serious problem with little kids, the problem being, we can’t arrest them.

How come if a little kid throws bread in a supermarket no one arrests him? Why is no one arresting kids? They are disrupting society. I walked onto the subway yesterday and some kid was screaming bloody murder. I bet he would warrant at least two tickets one for public disturbance and the other for some sort of high-pitched noise violation. I bet if you handed him a ticket for 50 bucks and told him Santa wouldn’t visit until the ticket was paid in full he might learn to shut it.

I saw some bitch the other day blocking my view of the magazines in Barnes and Noble. I am guessing she was around five or six. Who did she think she was? She was causing a public disturbance though and someone needed to handcuff her and take her away. I bet if we started throwing some of these toddlers in jail they would learn real quick not to act out. I bet jail food and some hard mopping time would do these four year olds some good!






Sunday, March 16, 2008

My Music: My Life: My Love

2004 was the first time I had ever lost a music player. I remember changing near the edge of the 76th Street New York Sports club bench. Leaning over pulling my street shoes on, trying to avoid the massive amount of bush that was passing inches from my face. And in my head all I could think about was getting home in time to catch American Dreams.

I was about two blocks down Second Avenue when I remembered I had left my CD walkman sitting on the bench. I ran all the way back , booked it into the women's locker room and sure enough.. it was gone. Never to be seen again. It was a hot CD Walkman too, a red Sony one.

You never forget your first love...

Now it wasn’t so much the walkman that I was upset about, but more the embarrassment of the CD within it. It wasn’t just any old CD, it was a mixed CD. And the mixed CD has a nice spandex arrangement of Britney Spears, ‘Lucky’, and Backstreet Boys 'All Because Of You'.

Now I know what you’re thinking, and frankly, I don’t friggin care.

Let us now reverse in time back to 1994 when I was queen of the Mix Tape. I dubbed so many tapes I had an entire system down. Now most of my mixed tapes consisted of half-songs and ends of songs as I would hear them playing on the radio and run upstairs to my bedroom to hit the two-button record. I figured it was my form of ‘DJ’ing’.

I had the double tape mixer, so I could make word for that...HOT

I had more mixed tapes then Wal-Mart had high-waisted underwear. And to be fair, I considered my mixes to be ‘eccentric’…ranging from Billy Joel’s, We Didn’t Start The Fire, to Elton’s John’s, ‘The Circle of Life’.

Regardless, that was some good shit. And occasionally I would add my own little voice overs to the mix tapes, where I apparently felt the need to say things like, “Hey, this is Kimmy, and I get this party ROLLIN on the AM DIAL…..” (I don’t know, I had heard it someone once and it sounded cool).

Sometimes life doesn't get any sweeter than this...

Now let us flashfoward to 2008, when standing on the subway train I noticed some little 13 year old boy, carrying, yes, a CD Walkman. Now upon first glance I didn’t even know what the contraption was, I assumed IPod had made it’s newest model even larger then before… Zack-Morris style Ipod-ing perhaps. But alas, it was an actually CD Walkman, complete with hand-running grip on the side.

I felt so fucking bad for this kid, not because I assumed he was poor, because I didn’t, but more because I assumed he had the kind of parents, like mine, who don’t give two shits about what is in style. The kind of parents we shared would say things like , “What’s wrong? You got something that plays music don’t ya?! Quit complaining and go help your mom set the table for dinner!”

If I was 13 in this day and age, man I would have suffered. My parents don’t know and don’t care about having the coolest music player on the block. Staring at that kid I knew that his parents too did not care how many kids probably made fun of his Walkman...which may I add was complete with large CD carrying case stuffed in his backpack ...they did not care that he would have to listen to actual ENTIRE CDS, which nowadays is considered torture in at least 9 countries alone. My parents would never have bought me one of those (and I quote them) “New age things…what do those things do anyway? Play music? Well I gotta cassette player that does just as good of a job and the rewind button is pretty fast too!”

I remember when I packed for college and my dad wouldn’t buy me a new hairdryer because he insisted on giving me the ‘fold away travel one’ instead. (insert me collapsing onto our oriental rug into a ball of tears here).

Instead I would have been that kid, hanging out on the subway with my huge Walkman, listening to Elton’s John’s Greatest Hits.

And frankly, I still miss that red Sony and all I can say, is somewhere, someone on 77th street, has a pretty great Britney Spears mix CD, complements of DJ Kim.


Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Tall Girls Get Outta Mah Way Bitches!...I Can't See The Bar

I have a problem. A problem that follows me everywhere I go. To subways and malls, bars and movie theaters. It’s called, ‘Tall Girl’. Now I am not sure how she does it exactly, like some sort of friggin David Copperfield in heels, but Tall Girl always knows my whereabouts. She insists on standing next to me everywhere, I look over my shoulder at the bars and of course there is Tall Girl... I turn to my left on the Subway and there she is again... Damnit Tall Girl, stay away from me! You’re friggin makin me look bad!

I would be able wear some flats and revel in shoes that don’t cause me to walk around looking like a drunk rabbit if it wasn’t for Tall Girl. For the love of SWEET JESUS Tall Girl, why do you make me feel so incomplete? Why do you insist on standing next to me making me look like a 12 year old who just figured out how to button her training bra? Or worse yet when you wear your heels why do I get to look like a midget about to be rejected from the Duck Tales Roller Coaster Ride at Six Flags?

Can’t you all migrate somewhere else? Can’t they just put you all on some Tall Girl island where the banana trees hang higher or something? Somewhere I wont have to try and fight you off of me when I am ordering a drink, or push past your limbs just so I can see if I am in the right line for the bathroom. I dream of a world where I don’t have to hem five feet of material off the bottom of my jeans, or can run up the subway stairs without getting pummeled in the face by a Tall Girl’s gym bag.

But we all have dreams.

To dream the impossible dream.

So here is the story of how I was almost hit by a bus. It’s a pretty exciting story if I must say so myself.

The story begins, I was leaving a bar one night. I walked into the middle of the street.

And a bus almost hit me.

No joke, it skimmed the side of my face. And almost hit me.

Now the best part about this entire story is how often my friends like to retell it.

It always starts off the same:

Some Asshole Friend- “Hey, do you guys remember when Kim almost got hit by a bus?”

Me- “Umm, can we not tell this story again?”

And there is always at least one douche in the group who hasn’t heard the story yet and insists on hearing it. And conversation will always inevitably start and end in the Exact. Same. Fashion.

“Wait, what happened?!”

“She walked out in the street…and a bus almost hit her.”

“Oh . Wow. (long pause) So ..should we get lunch at the falafel place or the place with the smelly olives?”

mmmm, smelly balls

Because I have become convinced over time that Jon LaJoie and I should get married and I believe we should start a ‘NYCPonderings Chick + Jon LaJoie = Marriage' petition. …although I don’t think I enjoy his last name so much and I would not want to take it over if/when married. However, maybe we could also petition him to change it to something cooler like ‘Balboa’…or ‘Schwarzenegger’ or … maybe just '"ShmaShmortzenegger".

Jon LaJoie "Sunday Afternoon"

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Free Water and Dating Advice from The Dev

mmmm, now this looks satisfying

When did the restaurant business decide to give me the option of clean water? Now in every restaurant across the 11 continents clean water is available everywhere! You can now order bottled, purified water to drink. I don’t want to drink clean water, in fact I don’t even want the option of clean water. Where is the tap water? That’s what I want. I want the tap water, maybe some water from an outside puddle? Maybe even a collection of water growing in a nearby mud pond?

The waitress always looks so smug when she asks you, “Would you like BOTTLED water..?”
and I normally reply , “No, actually I would like the outside rain water if you can go collect some for me. Is that the water that is free? I like free water. It tastes so much better. So if the only free water you have is from the toilet seat or bathroom faucet they rowdy it on up and bring it out here! Mmm toilet water, is it free? If it’s free it tastes good to me!”

I asked Hose Jose who works at a Mexican restaurant on 4th Street what the deal was about serving bottled water, he replied, "Me no speako enlisho.” Which just proves, if
you question the conspiracy no one will give you a straight answer.

Damn Hose can you please not do that when your trying to give an interview?

Why do people complain about getting served fresh water? We used to be apes scratching
the dirt to eat bugs and hunting down dinosaurs, or at least that’s what my grandma
tells me. Either way we consumed prehistoric bird poop covered in mucus and called that
bottled water. Ok, well maybe we didn’t call it bottled water, maybe we didn’t have words
then, maybe we just made a load moan that sounded some like the word water, but either
way, we were fine now right. We survived. And look at us now. Asking for bottled water in a
restaurant! Who do we think we are?! Brad Pitt?! No, Brad Pitt we are not, and I bet
you even Brad Pitt drinks the occasional tap water in a restaurant, I mean his tap water
is probably laced in gold and came from diamond cooler in the back of a Ferrari, but
hey, that’s just Brad.

So the next time the waiter says,” Bottled water. or tap water” ask for the dirty free water please, cause if there is one thing you have an appendix for, to clean out the water in your system for you.


So in googling 'Dating' the other day (and by 'googling dating' I do mean 'googling porn')..I came across a very lovely man by the name of Devin. Now to start I assume most guys named 'Devin' wear yellow Lacoste , have blond hair and beat up kids who didn't own the right 'denim jackets' in movies like Mystic Pizza circa '82...but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Well as it turns out Devin is a senior at San Diego State University, so in essence the past four years he has probably seen more ass then most prison mates. Devin gives advice below on not hooking up with someone you want to see more then once...umm yeah Devin, that's why you have to steal his wallet and keep it at your he HAS to return back again for a second date...

DATING WITH DEVIN: A few steps to remember

Devin Kunysz, Editorial Adviser

Issue date: 3/10/08 Section: Dating & Romance

It's strange, but dating is one of the few games that are less satisfying after you win. A victory in dating is the moment you know someone's hooked. It's the night you realize that you could show up for your next date drunk in your boxers and she'd happily pull you inside and cook you dinner.

Don't give it up
Sex is one of the few activities that you're less excited about once you finish. No one finishes building a fence and decides they're tired of the fence. People don't win a hand of poker and decide they don't want to see that deck of cards for at least a week. But in the one game that we spend the most effort playing, victory is boring. The best part of any hookup is the prelude, the mental anguish of "will this be the night?" Once the answer is yes, guys start to worry about losing their grazing rights. I have one friend who could teach courses on how to be a player. There hasn't been a night we've hung out that he hasn't left the bar with a phone number - or, more typically, a woman. The one girl he's hooked up with who I've seen again is the one who wouldn't let him get more than a kiss. The simple rule is this: If you want a second date, don't let me round second.

And it only gets better at:

Friday, March 7, 2008 Why Can't I Get A Date

SHEKNOWS.COM answer mysteries to life's most important questions:

Why can't I get a date?

By Shanie Matthews:
You are fun, likeable, interesting, attractive, and uniquely you. So why is it hard to find a date?

Shanie, I would like to personally answer this one.

Dear- Whomever is lonely enough to write in to …

Why is it so hard to find a date? I know what is running through your head and yes, the obvious choice does seem to be, answer #1- (small child raises hand) "Because Miss Ponderings ...I am not whoring myself out enough?"

Now I am sure you assume that to be the most obvious choice sweet child, however we all know children, 'assuming' only makes an Ass out of You and Me (class of children burst out laughing at the hil-ar-ious joke I make and smile at their incredibly attractive and all-knowing teacher) Now children, Miss Ponderings will tell you it is MOST LIKELY the answer you haven't thought of...answer #C- (small girl raises hand again) "ummmm... because I am annoying as shit?"


In fact I am sure all the above qualities are quite true about yourself and even more, you probably do charity work and appeal to the goodness of God and all things holy and maybe even deer and small animals run up to you on the street to sing some sort of melody with you…but when the rest of us look at you, or worse HEAR you talking to your friend on the subway, at say 7am when all I am trying to do is listen to my morning Ace Base I Saw the Sign to get pumped up for work, but instead all I can hear is your voice I do not wonder for two moments why you are single....and as I notice my earlobes starting to bleed from your high pitched tone, I want to rip those Prada sunglasses right off your face and scream, “Damnit woman! You don’t need sunglasses indoors. YOU. JUST. DON’T.”

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

My New Apartment and Why Women Are Not Funny (so says vanity fair)

My friends have been nice enough to scour Craigslist personals to find me a new apartment …and am I ever grateful…

100 female roomate wanted cheap rent
Reply to:$100%20female%20roomate%20wanted%20cheap%20rent%20

Date: 2008-03-04, 3:27PM
I'm a 25 year old medical school student. I spend most of my time in the library or in class. I love my school work however I spend alot of time in the school and unfortunately don't have the time that I would like to socialize or meet new people. My life is also a little boring and I have recently been looking for ways to spice it up/ I recently inherited a massive two bedroom apartment from my family at 65th and 3rd Ave and haven't had anyone to share it with for a few months now. What I am proposing might appear odd to some and I understand that but I would appreciate it if yo keep an open mind. As I own the place, I have no real need for any rent and so I am willing to rent out the second spacious bedroom for only $100 a month. I am looking for a young female roommate from 23 - 29 who would be willing to move in; the only requirement that I have is she wouldn't mind occasionally walking in her underwear around the apartment while doing mundane things such as cooking, laundry etc. I do not want nor expect any sexual favours, nor will i ask for any nudity or videotaping of any kind. As I said my life and job can be slightly boring and I would like to spice things up somewhat. If you are interested please e-mail me along with a picture, again the picture does not have to be pornographic in anyway just want an idea. I have also attached a picture of myself below for anyone who is interested. I'm on the right

Now for starters all I can say is…how could I possibly resist this kind of offer? I mean, let’s be real, I walk around naked in my apartment as is.. just waiting , hoping, praying some boy is watching through the windows afar…until of course I realize the only view from my windows is a fake outdoor patio that houses many pigeons…but I really think the pigeons are into it and I know some of the male pigeons over there would be more then willing to give me cheap housing for naked carousing.

I am also glad he specified that he was the one, "On the Right"...otherwise I NEVER would have responded to the ad.

My friends would like me to respond that I am a 300 lb girl from Queens who wears nothing but G Strings and a smile...although I have to disagree and say I would prefer to be 310 lbs and from Staten Island and wear nothing but undies made out of Hemp...but hey, that's just me.


No I will say that APPARENTLY this article was written in 2007 and not in 2008 as I originally thought...but this article would make much more sense if it was written in 1907...and I don't even know if people knew how to write in 1907 or even if they knew what the word 'writing' was ..,.or even if there was the English language by then or if people just walked around making sounds like a monkey they presumed to be language...but I do know one thing....this article really FROSTED MY COOKIES:

Why Women Aren't Funny

What makes the female so much deadlier than the male? With assists from Fran Lebowitz, Nora Ephron, and a recent Stanford-medical-school study, the author investigates the reasons for the humor gap.
by Christopher Hitchens January 2007

From the John Springer Collection/Corbis.
Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: "He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he's so funny … " (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, "Funny? He wouldn't know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce bĂ©arnaise.") However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: "She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh."
Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about.
All right—try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid). Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women? Well, for one thing, they had damn well better be. The chief task in life that a man has to perform is that of impressing the opposite sex, and Mother Nature (as we laughingly call her) is not so kind to men. In fact, she equips many fellows with very little armament for the struggle. An average man has just one, outside chance: he had better be able to make the lady laugh. Making them laugh has been one of the crucial preoccupations of my life. If you can stimulate her to laughter—I am talking about that real, out-loud, head-back, mouth-open-to-expose-the-full-horseshoe-of-lovely-teeth, involuntary, full, and deep-throated mirth; the kind that is accompanied by a shocked surprise and a slight (no, make that a loud) peal of delight—well, then, you have at least caused her to loosen up and to change her expression. I shall not elaborate further.
Women have no corresponding need to appeal to men in this way. They already appeal to men, if you catch my drift. Indeed, we now have all the joy of a scientific study, which illuminates the difference. At the Stanford University School of Medicine (a place, as it happens, where I once underwent an absolutely hilarious procedure with a sigmoidoscope), the grim-faced researchers showed 10 men and 10 women a sample of 70 black-and-white cartoons and got them to rate the gags on a "funniness scale." To annex for a moment the fall-about language of the report as it was summarized in Biotech Week:
This is not to say that women are humorless, or cannot make great wits and comedians. And if they did not operate on the humor wavelength, there would be scant point in half killing oneself in the attempt to make them writhe and scream (uproariously). Wit, after all, is the unfailing symptom of intelligence. Men will laugh at almost anything...
And, oh yes, the article only gets worse...

Monday, March 3, 2008

Numbers Are Liars

Look at these liars right here, all bullshitters disguised as long division

For as long as I can remember I have had a problem with numbers. The problem of course being that they are too “exact”. I don’t like to live in a world of exactness; I like to live in a world of grayness. I like to think some things look like they have semi- a lot of calories, or might possibly be too expensive, or are somewhat over budget. I don’t like to live in the world where 80 cents under at Bank of America is known to me as a 35 dollar charge. That world is bullshit.

Some of the scariest numbers of all being; my bank account statement… the scale… and of course the cost of living. (*cough* the amount of people you’ve slept with *cough*)

For starters, I don’t believe what numbers tell me. I choose to believe instead that the numbers are lying and in fact have gotten themselves mixed up along the way. I don’t think I have ever jumped on my scale before without weighing something else first just to PROVE that my scale is wrong. I will stare at it, take a Vogue magazine and throw it on top... 3lbs it read! Now I know Vogue has been looking a little hefty these days, but 3lbs, that is horseshit! So then, I deem my scale to be an outright liar and move the calibration at the bottom so it is about 20lbs under the 0lb mark...that way I figure it may actually give an accurate reading. See how I am tricking the numbers to actually do their job correctly? You want to know how much I weigh? Somewhere between 100lbs and 200lbs. You want to know how many people I’ve slept with? Somewhere between 3 and 300 people. Is that exact enough for you? Because that is the world I live in sista sally and it is a vast sprawling land of GRAY.

This goes the same for my bank statement. You know how some people get real jittery and have to throw up before they go out on stage? Well that’s exactly what happens to me right before I read my bank statement. And even then, I normally assume it to be lying to me. Every time I check my account balance I go in with the knowledge that it is probably wrong and someone, somewhere along the lines has way overcharged me for something! I will sit and scrutinize every charge, every cent, every time my card was swiped for 85 cent Trident winterfresh. And damnit if they charged me for two Tridents I will find out!

Much in the way most women consider all men to be liars, I consider all numbers to be liars. In fact, if it was up to me, I would do away with all numbers all together. Let’s start putting price tags on things that say, “Way Over Your Budget”, or “Not Unless You Marry Rich”…THEN I would be able to understand the costs much better. Or when I hop on the scale I don’t want a digital reading, what I want is for my scale to shout out, “YOU ARE A HANDFUL OF M&M'S AND ONE MORE LAZY DAY AWAY FROM THE GYM, FROM BEING A FAT ASS!” Then, I would finally understand my scale.

Even regarding time I do not enjoy numbers. I hate saying I will be there RIGHT at 9:00pm, because let’s be honest, who arrives at places right at 9:00pm? Well, except for maybe my dad and a few Navy Seals? Instead I like to say, “around this time”, or “close to this time”, or “if you’re lucky you will see me before the night is over and I am being wheel-barrowed down the street drunk in a turban” kinda time.

I don’t like giving out a number figure, too exact, too much pressure. And according to whose watch? And what clock? Which brings me all the back to the entire, Numbers Are Liars, theory which I have been promoting for YEARS.

Me and numbers, we are breaking up. It’s been coming for a long time now, and I think I am finally ready. I am just done with his games, his excuses, his “exactness”. It’s too much for me, I need something new. And I know it’s going to be hard, but numbers will survive without me, I think numbers even deserves better then me! It’s not numbers.. it’s me! But if that lying sac of divisions ever comes back again, I am going to tell his little numeric ass which Pythagorean theorem to shove it in.