Friday, February 25, 2011

Thanks, Mom.

When you're young, you will believe pretty much anything your parents tell you.  Which is totally cool, unless your mom is my mom.

My mom has a pretty healthy sense of humor, and therefore saw no problem with messing with her child's impressionable mind.  I've already explained how she added to my phobia of sharks

Today I had lunch with my mom and I remembered some of the ridiculous things she did or told me that probably made me look like a kid that rode the special bus.

"If you put salt on a bird's tail, it won't be able to fly anymore."

False.  If you put salt on a bird's tail, the bird is slow, and deserves to have salt on its tail.  It will not stop it from flying.

However, this had me running around like an idiot for years.  All I wanted in life was to hold a damn bird.  As a child I had pretty much every type of animal known to man....except a bird.  That was one my mom would never allow.  So she would sit back and laugh as I ran around with my arms outstretched and a packet of opened salt prepped and ready.

I never ended up catching one.  8:(

"Salad tongs will chase away the monsters."

Yes.  If you clang together metal salad tongs, all your problems will be solved.  The monsters will retreat back into the closet/under your bed/etc.  So when I got scared at night, my mom had me sleep with salad tongs under my pillow to ward off the monsters.  And I layed in bed clanging them together like no one's business.

And what do you know, it worked.  I never saw one.

"Open Sesame."

This is what my mom told me was necessary to say - out loud - in order to get an automatic door to a store open.  And I believed it.  So I stood in front of the sensor and commanded the door to open, and it always did.  It was like I had Jedi mind powers.  I could do anything...

Ok, this lie was pretty sweet the more I think about it.

However, the more I grew up, the more I wised up to her nonsense.

Aside from the little stories and old wives tales she would convince me of, she would also try to get my brother and I on board with trips, games, crazy ideas, etc. 

One thing that I will never forget it when she came to us ecstatic about the idea of a family vacation...

...where you walk llamas.



That's right.  You go to the mountains, walk llamas, sleep, repeat.  This was my mom's idea of family bonding.

To make matters worse (or better?) this place was called "Como Se Llama."  You each get a llama, and the llama holds your things.  You walk the llama.  You don't get to ride the llama, you walk the llama. 

As a teenager, this was the opposite of a cool vacation.

I might have been on board if you could ride the llama.

My mom also buys the weirdest things - ever.  She is the reason they have the Carnival of Products at the Orange County Fair.  She is the reason people make catalogs of random crap and send it out to "Current Resident."  She is the reason stores put their random crap on clearance to make sure someone buys it no matter how weird it is.


Here is what my mom bought herself last fall:


The game is called Mind Flex - you can see the box in the background.  This game cost her $80.  And yes, she thinks she is controlling that ball with her mind.  What she is failing to admit to herself is the fan on that white platform that is....moving the ball.

When I came over she was so excited to show me this game.  She told me to try it, but I refused to put that ridiculous headgear on because I totally thought I was getting Punk'd and the point of the game was to make you look like a complete idiot.  She was pretty upset that no one would play with her...even though it's clearly a 1 person game.  <--- (?) 

So that's my mom for you.  Many of you have met her, and probably have more funny stories to add to this. 

If you haven't, it can be arranged.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Top 5 Types of Shitty Friends

Let's face it:  Not all friends are good friends. 

The older I get I realize that there are only a handful of people that I am really close to.  I know some people prefer to be a psuedo-friend to a large number of people, but that's just not for me.  I would rather give all of myself to a small group and in return have a smaller number of really great friends.  Sure there are a lot of others along the way, and they all serve their purpose,  but then there are a lot of those people who just...

...suck.

So here is my list of the Top 5 Types of Shitty Friends...in my experience of course.

5. The Faux Friend

This is the friend that you will never get close to.  It's impossible.  Perhaps they are incapable of forming a relationship that's deeper than the surface.  The kind of person that you can almost see the words that you are speaking go in one ear and out the.  They are the red party cup of the friendship world:  Their presence means it's time to party.  And that's pretty much where it ends.

My Take:  You can try to make this relationship meaningful, but it will be to no avail.  Cut your losses, or just enjoy them for the facade they are.  Cause it's party time.


4. The Shit-Talker

This one's pretty obvious.  This is the friend that is super cool to your face, but then talks mad shit as soon as you turn your back.  You can even call them out on it or catch them doing it, but they have a way of turning it around to prove their "innocence."  Or maybe just one day they decide you're not friends anymore and start treating you badly, unbeknownst to you.  Regardless, it's lame.  And they're not real friends.

My Take:  Make up your mind. 

Either be a good friend, or be a bad friend.  Because honestly, I don't have time for your bullshit.  And I have people in my life who are more deserving and capable of a reciprocal friendship.

3. The Complaining Friend

This is the friend that never has anything positive to say.  Ever.  Their life is always in turmoil and they are always about to throw themselves off a cliff.  You can talk them down, but you know tomorrow they'll be right back in Dramaland.  Friends are there for a reason.  And as a female, sometimes bitching and moaning to your female friends is very necessary.  BUT, there is a time and a place.  Oh...and this friend probably only talks about himself/herself. 

My Take:   You will drain the life force from your friends if you are this person all of the time.  Avoid (consistently) becoming this friend at all cost! 

2. The Loch Ness Friend

This is the friend that surfaces only when they are single.  It's like a Loch Ness Monster sighting...very rare.  Also predictable.  When they are happily in a relationship, you will pretty much never hear from them.  Ever.  You might try to hang out with them every once in a while, but it will almost always fail.  And if you do finally track them down for long enough to go get coffee, they will probably be texting their significant other the whole time.

My Take:  Relationships happen!  Naturally, you grow closer to your significant other and spend less time with your friends.  Totally normal.  What's not normal is disappearing for stretches of time (conveniently the times when you're dating someone) and then popping back up when you're single.

It is very easy to avoid becoming this type of shitty friend.  If you are in a relationship, all you have to do is keep in contact with your friends!  A phone call, a text even.  Try to make it a point to see your friends sometimes.  Because your friends know that when your relationship comes crashing down, they will be the ones picking up the pieces.  And if you've been completely MIA for the past year, that's totally lame.

1. The Flaky Friend

There is nothing I hate more than someone who constantly flakes.  Pretty much all of my friends know this about me already and if they have to flake, it's usually attached to an, "I'm sorry to flake!"  And I know, life happens, and sometimes you just need to flake.  But if flaking is a habit, then you're probably not someone I want in my life. 

My Take:  Well really, my take is don't flake.  If you say you're going to be somewhere, be there.  However, life happens.  I am aware of this.  So if you flake, at least acknowledge/apologize that you are flaking and make sure you don't flake for the rescheduling of said plans.

In Conclusion:

I swear I'm not a bitch, I'm just being honest.  I will admit I'm not completely innocent of all of these, but I'm usually pretty aware when I am doing one of these things and I try (and will continue to try) my best to remedy that immediately.

I am happy to say I am extremely blessed to have the people in my life that I do.  I've got some really great friends with really great hearts, and I wouldn't change that for the world. 

<-----"Let's be friends!"

Monday, February 14, 2011

I Love Cheese

I do love cheese, more than cheese will ever know.  But this is not about that delicious food that will make me stop whatever I am doing and salivate.  Although, to be perfectly honest, that might be a future entry.

...That will probably be a future entry.  Because I love cheese that much.

No, no.  Today is about a different kind of cheese.  I've decided that I officially love the cheesiness associated with romance.  Love it. 

Which means:  I officially love Valentine's Day. 

I'm sure there was a time when I bashed on Valentine's Day, but the only reason I would be bitter towards this holiday would be if I didn't have someone to share it with.  And that has nothing to do with the day, or the world's decision to acknowledge it, or the traditions it's associated with.  It has to do with me wanting someone to celebrate it with.  And that's the honest truth.  Because what's not to love about flowers and chocolates and presents and free dinners? 

Nothing.  That's what. 

I know that people that are single (I have been guilty of this myself) complain that it is either just a day to make single feel people crappy that they aren't with someone, or that it's just a commercialized holiday to get people's money.  But come on.  It's fun and you know it.

Don't you remember in grade school when the whole class passed out Valentines to each other, and you consequently ended up with like, 30 Valentines???  Well I do.  And everyone was stoked.  Because it feels nice to get stuff.  And give stuff for that matter.

And back then no one was too cool for Valentine's Day.  I don't remember anyone in my class saying:

"You know what?  I reject your Snorks Valentine.  Because this holiday is stupid.  And I am going to openly verbalize my skeptical opinion about it.  To the point where I am going to make you feel stupid for liking it."

Or

"Why do you need a certain day to celebrate our relationship?  You should do that everyday.  (Also, I'll trade you my ham sandwich for your PB&J.)"

Or

"I would love to accept this card, but I find the phrase "Be Mine" incredibly cliche and corny, and therefore I do not accept.  Please put this card into someone else's construction paper heart envelope, not mine." 

No.  Everyone was freaking stoked.  Because getting stuff is awesome.  Even if it's just a stupid card or a piece of candy. 

So to all you Valentine's Day naysayers: I call bullshit.  Because deep down if you really hate this holiday that much it's only because you care enough about it to feel some sort of strong emotion about it.  And hate is only unfulfilled love.  Which means you secretly love it, but do not feel it loves you back so the love turned to hatred.  So HA!  Lawyered.

Furthermore:  after accepting this about myself I realize that on top of Valentine's Day, I love everything that is considered corny/cheesy/cliche, especially when it comes to dating.

If you want to date me, here are things you should know:
  • On Halloween, we will be carving pumpkins.  Why?  Because it's awesome.  And fun.  And cute.  And then we can bake the pumpkin seeds together and eat way too many.  And we will dance 'til the sun rises.  And then our children will form a family band.  And we will tour the countryside.
  • On Christmas, I will want to go drive around and look at Christmas lights while drinking hot chocolate.  Fun.  Cute.  Romantic.  Tradition.  Love it.
  • On Valentine's Day I will want to go out to dinner...bonus points if I get a little gift or flowers.  I think I have explained this one enough, but if I'm your girlfriend you should be stoked to take me out on this day and show me off like a frickin' prize.  I'm just sayin.
  • On my birthday, plan something fun/cute for us to do.  Because it's my birthday.  And you think I'm awesome.  Which is why you're dating me.

I LOVE cheesiness.  And romance.  I can't get enough.  Bring me flowers.  Leave notes on my car.  Call me sweetheart.  I want it all.  All the time.  I am not too cool to enjoy these things and I question the honesty of girls who say they don't.  I can live without it, but deep down I will always want to be spoiled.  So boys, bring on the cheese.

And Happy Valentine's Day. 


***UPDATE***

I also love surprises.  Surprise coffee and purple flowers at work from my Valentine.  Swoon.


Friday, February 11, 2011

The Cone of Shame

I did it.

I had Special Cat spayed. 

No more privates. 

I feel terrible even though I know it was necessary.  This has for sure been the saddest 24 hours of her life.

On the way to the vet she was overly affectionate; purring louder than normal and unwilling to leave my lap for a second.  I would say that this was because she knew something was going on and was sucking up, but let's be honest, she's not that bright.  Which means she was just being affectionate. 

This made dropping her off even more difficult...especially once her tiny meows started accusing me of abandonment.

The drive from the vet back home after the deed was done was awful.  I didn't want to take her out of the box if I couldn't watch her, so she just stayed in her tiny little Cosmic Pet Shuttle - which is a box that apparently is supposed to make animals think they are going into space and not to the vet according to the pictures on the outside of it (this thing is hilarious, btw) - and struggled and meowed.  She eventually gave up and was quiet and still.

When we got home I took her out of the box set her on the ground.  She just sat there.  She was so sad.  Her sad little cone head and her tiny neon green cast on her arm from the IV tugged at my heartstrings.

I felt so terrible that I decided to remove her cone and see how she did without it.  It wasn't good.

Well, first, she fell over.  Which I guess was expected.  Also, sad.  She got her little cast off in a matter of seconds and there was no way that thing was going back on.  I accepted that.

I walked into the other room to go get her a little bed to sleep on. 

As I walked back into my living room, I was completely shocked by what I saw:

Special Cat had somehow put the cone back on her head.

That's right.  The cone that she had been battling for the past hour was now around her head again, and she was stuck.  The thing wasn't even tied on.  She was also carrying her cast around in her mouth like a trophy.

I probably should have rushed to her side to help her get it off again because it was pretty pathetic, but instead I ran back into my bedroom to retrieve my camera and proceeded to take pictures and laugh. 


<------ Cone of Shame

Don't judge, it was really, really funny.  You would have too.

The rest of the evening resulted in me feeling terrible every time she attempted to eat/drink/walk/play.  She is very confused.  She knocks over the bowl when she tries to eat or drink because of the lack of understanding of the cone and her new depth perception.  She freaks out when Large Cat comes up to play because it seems like she is sneaking up on her.  She got poop on the cone because using the litter box is apparently now very difficult.  It's so sad.  But since I work I have to leave to cone on for at least the day. 

The Cone of Shame. 

I was at first concerned she might resent me after everything is done, but last night when her little cone head didn't leave my side for a minute, I knew I was probably wrong.  She loves me even though I just had her privates removed.

I'm sorry Special Cat it was for your own good!  You'll be back to normal (???) in no time!



Thursday, February 10, 2011

Teenage Mutant Ninja Mosquitoes

In 2005 I lived in Florence, Italy for a summer abroad. 

This was partially an attempt to deal with rough break up, partially an excuse to travel, and partially due to me not wanting to go to back to school.

I had taken a break from college, (which ended up being three semesters long) and was working two jobs.  In all honesty, this was a way for me to go to Europe under the premise that I was making my way back into school.  Of course, I eventually did, and I graduated in 2008.  (Yay!)

I chose Florence as my destination, having always been drawn to the romance the city promised; the art, the sights, the food, it all seemed dreamy.  And it was.

Well, most of it.

In Florence, we went to school five days a week, had nights off and had the weekends to travel.  I went to Switzerland, England, and pretty much every Italian city you can think of during the 8 weeks I spent there.

This is the story of the one weekend in Europe that slipped away...or more specifically was forcefully taken from me.  The one weekend that I will always look back and be really pissed off about.  The one weekend that I will never get back.

It has been over 5 years now since my little European adventure.  Time has almost washed away all the bad memories and I am left with mostly fond ones and photographs....almost.

What I have subconsciously erased from my memory is the extreme physical misery I endured during my trip.  I stayed there for about 2 months...

...In the middle of summer..

...A record breaking hot summer...

It was awful.  If you don't already know, Italy doesn't really believe in air conditioning.  Really, Europe doesn't believe in air conditioning - or ice for that matter, but whatever.  Also, the apartment I was living in was right off the Arno River and the Ponte Vecchio (look it up).

While on one hand, I will never forget waking up to the surreal sound of beautifully vintage church bells as I opened my Italian shutters to the cobblestone streets below, I will never forget the mosquitoes.  The evil, evil mosquitoes. 

The little, tiny, carriers of death - and ruiners of my weekend.

I'm a big fan of camping.  Big fan.  I'm somewhat used to getting bitten.  It's extremely uncomfortable and irritating - I don't think anyone would argue otherwise.

Never.  In.  My.  Life.  Have I experienced anything like Italy.  Ever.

My roommate and I occupied the room closest to the river.  Due to no air conditioning, we had to keep the windows open or face certain death. 

:::Enter Mosquitoes (for days):::

I'm pretty sure someone was coming into our room late at night and misting us with invisible blood.  Or maybe we were just that sexy. 

It was probably cause we're sexy.

No one else in our apartment (there were 3 other rooms, 6 other girls) had more than 1 or 2 bites. 

On us, they were everywhere.  Everywhere.  On the bottom of our feet, hands, inner thighs, etc.  Every inch of skin that was not covered by clothing was covered with bites; and really the clothing didn't even seem to stop them.  My roommate even had a bite on her eyelid. 

At one point, I remember actually counting how many bites I had:  I stopped counting at 65.

65.  Bites.

And these weren't just your average mosquito bites.  We were devoured by the Teenage Mutant Ninja Mosquitoes.  These things were huge.  The size of the bites were ridiculous, and they looked like extra nipples all over our bodies (yes, I have photos, to be added later). 

With the combination of the itchiness and the sweltering heat, I have never in my life been more miserable.  We were literally in tears on multiple occasions, and I know my family will always remember the phone calls home.

FINALLY we decided to attempt to put an end to our misery....

...by finding an Italian Pharmacist. 

We hobbled in, our faces red from hot tears and delirium.  No one spoke English, but fear not, we anticipated this and had learned the Italian word for mosquito for the occasion.

"Zanzara!  Zanzara!!!"  We cried, pointing to the bites covering us.

The pharmacist appeared to understand and disappeared behind the counter.  He reemeged with a few different remedies. 

We felt hopeful.

In broken English, he explained that he was giving us a cream to put on the bites that would in theory help the itching, and then he gave us the pill that was supposedly some sort of antihistamine...supposedly. 

We rushed home, hellbent on some sort of relief.  We applied the cream generously to our pathetically bumpy bodies, and we greedily each swallowed a pill.

This was Friday evening.

...we woke up Sunday night.

Pretty sure they were Italian Roofies.  I still have one floating around somewhere...of course I never dared to try another.  ...Maybe I should have titled this entry "Italian Roofies."

Anyway an entire weekend had passed.  All we can remember is getting up and passing each other's beds on the way to the bathroom, and then falling back into our respective comatose states.

An entire weekend in Europe....gone.  Stolen right out from under me.  Murdered in the heat of the night.  Kidnapped from a street corner with promises of candy and puppies. 

Damn you Italian Mosquitoes.  You may have won the battle, but I will win the war.  Because I will return someday with some sort of Mosquito-Heat-Seeking-Laser-Beam-Gun and kill every single one of you assholes.



(You can't see the bites from here)

Friday, February 4, 2011

Awesomeness For Hire

I am now entering the phase in my life where I feel like I need to begin to develop some sort of a career path.  Working in property management, or customer service in general for that matter, is officially not for me. 

Usually when I tell people this, they say, "Well, what do you want to do???"

My reply to this is a depressing, "I have no idea."

That's usually followed by a, "Well, what are you good at?  What do you like to do?"

To which, sadly, my reply is also, "I really don't know.  I'm kind of going through a thing."

"Well, you went to college right?  What is your degree in?"

"English Literature."

"Do you want to teach?  Write?"

"Not particularly."

This is where most people give up- and I don't blame them. I'm tempted to give up as well.

I really don't know what I want to do with my life.  I don't have some great passion for a certain occupation or field, and I don't have some sort of calling that pulls me in any particular direction, which makes where I'm at in life difficult.  I know I'll eventually figure it out, so I'm not worried.  But everytime this conversation occurs, it's a crappy and constant reminder that I suck at figuring my life out.

I try to think of things that I like and think about what career path that would lead me down.

Unfortunately for me, it's not that simple.

What am I good at?  A lot of really, awesome things.  Things I never really considered making a career out of...

...until now.

I have developed a list of jobs I would be/am really good at.  If anyone is interested, please contact me immediately.  I assure you I will exceed every expectation in any of these jobs.  I am very reliable, have my own car, and take things very, very seriously.

Professional Money Spender


Qualifications:  I am really, really good at spending money.  Like, superhero good.  I have been spending money for as long as I can remember and am extremely experienced.  I am very passionate about spending money, and therefore have dedicated a lot of time to learning how to spend it.  (I'm the person that goes Christmas shopping and ends up spending hundreds on stuff for me...guilty.)  I will spend the crap out of anything you give me.  And I can do this very quickly and efficiently so you can go about the rest of your day, enjoy your meetings and rest assured that your money is being well spent.  On really cool things.

Salary Requirements:  All you have to do is give me a sum of money, and I will spend it.  I don't even have to be shopping for myself, though that is much preferred. 

Overly Sensitive Food Critic


Qualifications:  I love food.  So, so much.  And I have an overly sensitive palette which makes me do weird things like recognize that there is a hint of nutmeg in the mashed potatoes or notice that a restaurant is using a different grade of meat than the previous night.  I should probably be a food critic.  Except I won't try anything weird.  And I don't like seafood. 

Salary Requirements:  Lots of money for me to spend.  Lots of free food.

Witty/Sarcastic Quip Girl



Qualifications:  You can always count on me to make an inappropriate comment.  I am also good at being witty at times.  If you pay me, I will follow you around and insert jokes, both appropriate and inappropriate, when I feel they are necessary.  This will probably happen more than you are comfortable with.

Salary Requirements:  This I'll do for free.  Because I crack myself up.  Donations are appreciated.  But mostly, they're required.


Cute Kitten Picker-Outter


Qualifications:  I love kitties.  They are really cute.  But I am not allowed to get anymore because that would make me a crazy cat lady at 26.  I am really good at picking out cute ones though.  I can find them anywhere.  So if you need a new kitty, I will find you a really cute one.  You will then have to pry it from my hands.

Salary Requirements:  1 kitt--dang it :(  I guess I'll settle for a lot of money and free food.

Professional Disneyland Attendee


Qualifications:  I go to Disneyland a lot.  Like, a lot a lot.  That being said, I think Disney should hire me to professionally attend their theme park.  I could promote the park by wearing black clothing, because Mickey's ears are also black.  I would also complain about long lines, because people standing beside me might realize, "Hey, life's not that bad."  And then look, I changed some people's lives.  In conclusion, I think I would be a really good addition to the Disneyland team.

Salary Requirements:  Obviously, I would require a free annual pass.  And obviously free corn dogs for life.

Professional Awesome Dancer



I know what you're all thinking.  "Morgan, why did you not put this first?  This is so obviously your calling in life."  You're probably right, and I'm probably cheating myself by not being a professional dancer.

Qualifications:  Ok.  If you have ever been to Glowfest, ElecTRONica, Vegas, or any type of club/dance floor with me, you know that I am seriously, seriously awesome.  To the point where everyone pretty much stops dancing and stares at me with jealousy because of my awesomeness.  So yes.  I am very, very qualified to be an extremely professional, awesome dancer.

Salary Requirements:  Alcohol.  Lots of alcohol.  Typically some type of high heels, and  also lots of money.

I think it goes without saying that I should probably be an artist as well .  Because I'm really good at drawing.  But I'll leave that up to you.  

So there you have it.  I would need to give my current job a two week notice, so please give me the appropriate amount of notice when you want to hire me. 

P.S.  I can probably do more than one of these things at a time, so keep that in mind.

P.P.S.  I will also need an expense account that works for online shopping.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

We Don't Need An Eleven

Prelude and Sidenote:  ***I don't actually think I'm fat, please don't send hate mail***


So, my doctor thinks I'm fat.

I will candidly disclose that I weigh about 120/125 most of the time.  (This comes in handy later.)  The most my weight ranges is from about 115 to 130, depending on time of the month, thyroid stuff (I do have a thyroid disorder, but it's been under control for the past 5 years, so nothing serious, don't worry), etc. 

Since I am 5 feet 6 inches tall, this makes me a fairly slim person.  I've always been comfortable with my weight and have thur far been blessed to be able to eat pretty much whatever I want and remain reasonably slim. 

Or at least I thought I was slim...

My complex began about a year ago when I made my bi-annual visit to my endocrinologist.  Thyroid disorders are known to mess with your weight.  If you are hyperactive (which I was), you are supposed to lose weight because everything in your body is working overtime.  If you are hypoactive (which I am now), you are supposed to gain weight because everything is slower.

I've been pretty lucky with that as well.  Until I weighed in at about 124 last summer which was apparently more than the previous visit.

"Is that because of the thyroid/medicine/whatever?"  I innocently and hopefully asked.

"No....that's because of diet and exercise..."  My doctor replied. 

Oops.  (Because I do literally none.  Of either.)

Him:  "Are you doing something different?"

Me:  "Umm...I drink beer now."

Him:  "You probably want to watch that."

Me:  "Ok."  :(

So that was no big deal.  Until my most recent visit late last month.

....I weighed in at 126.

126.

My doctor looked over my numbers and said, "Hmmm...so you're 126...which is a few pounds more than last time.  How tall are you?  5'6"?  Yeah....you really want to keep it in the low 120's."

Me:  "Ok."  8:(

Obviously, as a woman I interpret that as, "My doctor thinks I'm fat."

All of this was just kind of stewing in the back of my mind until yesterday when I went into Diesel to do some shopping.  Let's just say this was the straw that mentally broke the camel's back.

First of all.  Let's discuss the fact that they actually sell size, "XXS."

This is not ok.  This should never be ok.  Even as a small girl, this immediately makes me feel fat.

Diesel, here is what your sizes are really saying to women.

Implied Truths Behind Sizes:

S:  I'm a size small, be stoked you can fit into me!  Woot!

XS:  I'm for the fairly skinny people who need something just a bit smaller than size small.  Also, you probably need small boobs to fit into this, and this might even be the reason you need this size.  (<----due to that last phrase, I will admit that this sometimes applies to me...sometimes.)

XXS:  I was invented to make women feel like shit about themselves.  No one can fit into me except really tiny Asian women.  And midgets.  And you'll never amount to anything.  You will probably never find love or happiness.  Don't even think about trying me on you liar.  You disgust me.

Maybe that last one was a tad bit dramatic, but you get my point.

It's like the Spinal Tap of women's clothing.  We don't need an eleven. 

Why don't we just adjust these sizes accordingly?  There is no need for an XXS.  If you can't fit into an XS, you go get that shit altered you skinny, skinny bitch.

That's my rant for the day.  And I have every intention of continuing to drink beer...for now at least.  Also, I should probably avoid Diesel.