Crusty White Bread and English

Ways my first name has been misspelled:

Intresting to note: according to, none of the above are real first names.

Ways my last name has been misspelled:

I find all of this ironic as I personally feel I have the most crusty white bread, English name possible. I guess it’s just too easy of a name for people to actually spell it properly. Even worse, is that most of those misspellings were on packages from various- and supposedly reputable- online merchants wherein I actually typed out my name over their secure online form so that they didn’t have to botch it in the first place. (Ahem, Bed Bath & Beyond…… Barnes & Nobel… I’m looking accusingly in your direction)

Why Alcohol Is Enough

It was probably the most disgusting thing I have ever done. It was just like a story a friend told me about why she didn’t take drugs any longer. She had tried speed once in high school and all she could do was sit on her bedroom floor and pick up dust particles that she had never noticed before. Every time she thought she had picked up the last miniscule dust particle, she looked around her room and realized that there were more she had missed. She wasn’t sure how long she sat on her bedroom floor picking up dust, but she was pretty sure it had been a number of hours- she stopped about the time she sobered up from the speed.

So there I sat, scraping away with my right thumb and forefinger. I scraped and I scraped and I scraped. I think it was about an hour of constant scraping until I realized that not only the neighbors might a hear vague yet constant scratching sound through their bathroom wall/kitchen floor, but that I was also ruining my fingernails. But as soon as I thought about ruining my fingernails, I scornfully countered with, “Screw the fingernails! It’s not like I get them done and actually care about them! Hahahahahaha!” Consequently, I kept scrapping.

I don’t know how much alcohol I had had since most of it was an attempt to rid our pantry of mixers purchased three years ago for Tyler’s legendary 21st birthday party (probably the best party in the history of our cluster of friends, thank you). The rest was consumed after I was drunk and had decided I needed more rum/whiskey/dry white wine in order to keep myself at the happy drunken stage I was already at. It worked, as I think I listened to and bounced around to Danse Macabre and Danse Macabre Remixed ten times each. (See, this is why I plan on becoming a “great drinker”– I don’t know when to stop.) Hopefully, it was loud enough to piss off JamesandSarah.

Anyway, all I can say is that I’m still drunk, yet I must have sobered up enough to realize just how disgusting it is to use your fingernails to scrape four months of collected foot scum and dog scum off the sides of your bathtub. Gah. How am I going to live this one down? It has to be the worst drunken moment of my life. Thank <insert god of choice here> I was the only one around to witness it.

Perhaps The Copy Editor Should Be Fired

“Perhaps”? “Perhaps”?!? Perhaps what? Perhaps I’m a fucking retard who can’t write? No, perhaps that damn Christian fundamentalist of a copy-editor is at it again.

Not only did they bastardize a decent title (which they always do), but the UW’s illustrious student newspaper also managed to bastardize all 66 of the interesting words I wrote at the top of my article. Which, by the way, could someone explain to me how the hell you completely ruin a small paragraph of 66 words? It doesn’t seem like there’s enough to ruin in the first place.

Will someone at a reputable newspaper in Seattle please hire me right now before The Daily ruins what last strangling hope I still have for writing? You can see what articles I have written here. Personally, I think I would be an asset to your fine newspaper.

P.S The 66 words they ruined are as follows: “Many spent last New Year’s Eve crammed between random and disjointed elbows in a bar that ran out of fries, nachos, and decent beer. Others are not yet 21 and can’t even begin to fathom the intense talent it takes to reach one’s drink through a sea of misplaced limbs. But in a city like Seattle, bars aren’t the only option for a New Year’s celebration.”

P.P.S. Yes, the rants should be ending as soon as Finals end (tomorrow). Just be greatful I didn’t post a rant about JamesandSarah this weekend. It would have been painful to read- trust me on this one.

According to the Canadians, “anger is a healthy and valid emotion”

Sure, and the day I post this— the day I fucking write this post— this asshole comes along and hotlinks one of my photos in question. In fact, he actually had the nerve to hotlink a photo I renamed “fuckyounohotlinking.jpg”! But the worst part about it is that he hotlinks it in a comment on someone else’s shitty ass MySpace site so I can’t very well replace the image with something fitting of my deep rooted, hate festering anger.

Has he no soul? Has he no decency? What are the chances? What are the chances?

Don’t mind me; I’m just stressed and depressed. I’ll get over it once Spring comes along and I actually graduate fucking college. Perhaps I’ll even get over it sooner- assuming I find some time to pick up some jasmine-lemon bubble tea.

Though, most likely, I merely need to scream “fuck” at the top of my voice over and over again until the anal-retentive neighbor upstairs who likes to exercise at 12 fucking O’clock at night comes down to bitch me out for screaming so much. ‘Cause god knows, I’ll feel better when I yell “fuck you, asshole neighbor who is fucking louder than I ever will be” to his weasel ass. I mean really, only anal-retentive pricks name their wireless network “JamesandSarah” so I know their fucking names and can slander them on the internet. Only asshole anal-retentive pricks who think it’s funny to move their fucking furniture above my bedroom at 2 in the fucking morning so they can vacuum their carpet at 2:30 in the fucking morning are put on this planet so I can cuss them out and feel better about my life.

I dare you to come down here and yell at me “JamesandSarah”, you anal-retentive bitch of a man-slut. Oh, I dare you.

P.S. This time I’m not drunk, just angry.