Creeper McCreeperson: Intro.

I am an avid user of Facebook. I've been on numerous social network pages, but none seem to compare to the glorious Facebook. It connects me to people who I would otherwise never be connected to. It reconnects me with old friends. A good friend of mine throughout high school was talking to me on Facebook Chat. She was venting to me about the idiocy of her ex-boyfriend. This friend has dated some real numbers, but then again, so have I.

This is an introduction to the weirdest guys I've even gone on a date with/ been creeped on by. This will be a multiple posting blog. Ladies, be prepared. If you have any better stories, feel free to comment, I'd love to hear them. And fella's, take note. Don't ever act like these guys!

Are you ready? Here we go...

Remove Child Labor Laws! (not really...)

I like to think of myself as a Carefree Girl. It has been used to describe me, but only by people who don't know me very well. All of those who really do know me, know that it's really the opposite. I have many cares. More importantly, I have many worries. I mean, if you knew me, I'm an over weight, average looking girl of average intelligence. I'm not saying I'm bad or ugly. I'm just nothing truly special. I'm no model who could rock the catwalk during Paris' Fashion Week nor am I some genius who has the potential to cure the common cold. I'm a girl who has a nice smile, bright eyes, can sometimes photograph well, and who has thousands of questions flowing through her head, with the inspiration to learn all she can about psychology. Nothing show-stopping or award-winning. Just me.

I actually wish that someone would have told me at a young age that I wasn't going to be anything special. That I would be an average American. That if I worked hard, then I can get the things I want, but nothing in life would be handed to me. I think that as a child I excepted that. In fact, as a young child, everything was. I wanted that Barbie Jeep, I got it. I wanted a seventh birthday party with 15 screaming girls, I got it. That dress, that puppy, dance lessons, baseball, whatever. I got it. I didn't have to work for anything. Just flash a smile, and if that didn't work: I cried. Oh, how far that gets a girl.*

But, if I was taught to work hard, then maybe I would be different now. I would be someone who isn't procrastinating that essay. I could be someone who has conquered the world and been more kick ass then Sally Field! I could have been some quad-lingo, world class painter/gymnast who's running out of room for all of her Gold Medals! Who the fuck am I kidding? I could never be a gymnast, I'm too tall and my double D's would get in the way!

So, who wants to make a contract with me? Let's all agree that from an early age we won't instill in our children that they can do or be anything they want. Let's agree that we won't give them toys unless the work for them. And yes, this includes those youngsters! Habits form early! Let's agree that our children will need to have jobs to get rewarded! Just like in the olden days! (Those factory working kids know the value of a dollar!)  Let's get down to business, to defeat, not the Hun, the ignorance!

*Okay, so I still do this, but not often! It still gets you far!

I Should Have A Show On HGTV

I am currently redoing my room. It's hell in four walls. I first had to fill in the holes in my walls, from push pins and such. There were more than 300 holes, (I hung a lot of stuff up.) Whatever. I did it. Then, I had to empty out my room. NBD! (That's "no big deal" in teenage girl talk.) I am getting rid of my dresser and bringing in some old stuff that my aunt has. So, my brother and I were taking it out of my room, and we're about to take it down a single flight of stairs. Then, my arm cramped up and the dresser went sliding down the stairs and broke in half. You know what sucks more than having to take a dresser to the Salvation Army? Trying to throw out a broken fucking dresser! Whatever. I got rid of it.
After this it was time to bring in the vintage furniture. We are starting to bring it up, and Butterfinger Magee drops this one, too!! Luckily we were only a few steps up, but I went stumbling back, hit the wall, the dresser hit me, full on. I had the wind knocked out of me. I couldn't breathe and now it hurts to walk. Finally we get the dresser up and the mirror, although the foot on it is broke and it lopsided.  My paint tipped over on the carpet. My beautiful silver carpet now has a giant dark purple spot, smack in the middle of it. The curtains are currently not wide enough, and look foolish. Basically, my room is a fucking mess.*


*None of this actually happened. I haven't even begun to paint yet. I just have nothing else to blog about.

The Fucket

In my Intro to Philosophy course, we watched a comedian's* sketch. It's short and funny. You should watch it, other wise you will have no idea what I am talking about. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4u2ZsoYWwJA**

We watched it because the daughter asks the philosophical question of "Why?" Well, something he said in this clip he repeatedly said, "Fuck it!" Well, I have recently taken this on, but it's now a noun. It's The Fucket. The Fucket is this entity that solves all of your problems. Forgot to study for your test. Fucket. Problem solved. Late for work. Fucket. Car break down. Fucket. Political debate. Fucket.  Dying. Fucket. PROBLEM SOLVED! The Fucket solves everything. 

*The dude's name is Louis C.K. He's freaking hilarious, despite the fact that he is a balding ginger. But, he will come back.

**"Eric you fucking asshole... Joe, eat a bag of shit, cunt-face!"