Goddammit, Here We Go Again...

Sigh. So, I called out for being a slacker. Again. Because, you know, I'm a big fucking slacker. Seriously, I don't know why anyone expects anything less of me. I run on stoner time, I don't clean my apartment, everyone I know is lucky I draw the line at becoming a dirty hippie and actually shower and wear deodorant.

Why am I such a slacker when it comes to blogging, you ask? Well, mostly because my life is pretty boring. I know, I know, it's a shocker. But seriously, I don't do a whole lot. I work, I vegetate, I listen to music really loudly, I fondle the new Mac and then I sleep. Somewhere in there I eat weird vegetarian food and play with my deaf cat (it's a charming deformity, really). That is my life. I recently took the plunge and got cable (sweet, sweet siren song of brain rot) and now I will be doing even less with my time.

I've realized that there are few things in my life that I get really excited about...and that most of those things involve being a raging consumer and buying lots of shit. So, let's talk about my cool shit, shall we?

List of Amber's Cool Shit
#1--My new muthafucking iMac. Its name is Holmes, like Sherlock Holmes (and my iPod is Watson because I'm a literary gangsta, yo). It is totally smarter than me and I don't even care. Usually, I care about things like that. Right now I don't. Probably because it'd figure out a way to school my ass if I resented it for being insanely and amazingly beautiful and intelligent. There's nobody like you, baby *pet, pet, pet*.
#2--My crazy and yet totally awesome, yet totally insane kitty. His name is Bartleby. He is kick ass. If he were a human child, he'd have to wear a helmet to school. And ride the short bus. He walks around my house and talks to himself. I've seen him jump headfirst into a wall, repeatedly, for no apparent reason. I believe his awesomeness speaks for itself.
#3--The new album Return to the Sea by Islands. Now, I realize that anyone can own this awesome album so it's not technically Amber specific cool shit. And since all ya'll can be a part of it, I strongly suggest that you pick it up. It's kind of the best thing ever. Seriously. You don't want to be that dumb kid that everyone makes fun of, do you? Eh? Eh? Because I'm totally that bitch that'll make fun of you for being dumb. Consider yourselves duly warned.
#4--The prettiest dress in the world is mine. ALLL MIIIINE. All mine. HaHA! 'Nuff said.

Aaaand, that's all I can think of right now. But, there's totally more because I'm kind of a big deal.

Now back to our regularly scheduled squatting.


6 Different Ways Go Deep Inside

I am it. Yes, it. In fact, I believe that I am it twice, seeing as I was tagged by both shirley and ctina. But don't think that you'll be getting more than 6 things about me. Oh no. And also, I'm not tagging anyone, since I am a hermit in the blogosphere. Yes, I said blogosphere, what of it?

So, here's the list.

6 Abooisms None but the Aboo know
#1 When talking to my mother on the phone, we both start speaking some sort of odd hybrid language that includes high squealing and words that do not exist in common English. It's annoying, I know, I just can't stop. Like crack.
#2 I have 2 stuffed animals (Kitty and Snoopy, respectively) that I cannot live without. I slept with Kitty until I was 18 years old. She still lives on my bed, we just don't cuddle anymore. She used to be white. She is now grey with age and dirt.
#3 When I was 16, I tried my damnedest to be a leftie because I thought it would make me more creative. It didn't. It just made me dumber and write like a 6 year old. I quit after a week.
#4 I once stripped completely naked and swam in the fountain at my college. In Utah.
#5 I have had a total of 3 different last names (one of them 2 different times) in my life. I have never been married, nor have I been divorced. And no, none of them are aliases.
#6 I am freaked out by helicopters. It's not because they could fall on me (though, you must admit, that one propeller thing is mighty freaky). It's because they make me think of Hanoi or Saigon or Beirut or some other war-torn country. And because they make me think of conspiracy theorists and their black helicopters. Creeeeeepy.


Okay, so I'm single. I know, I know, total shocker. Being single and female in NYC is strange, it really is. And because I'm a bit of a drunk, it's even stranger. So, this weekend, with shirley girl and little miss hussy (you know who she is if you've read shirley's blog, if not, you should, she's hot), I got blindingly drunk (you also know about this if you read shirley's blog, basically, everything comes back to her in the end). Blindingly, blindingly drunk. Blindingly drunk. During this drunken haze, we met this dude (referred to as "rockstar", though I don't know if that's technically true if you're just a drummer in a band I've never heard of, but whatevs). I proceeded to talk to dude, give dude my phone number, sleep over (but not with! Get your minds out of the gutter) and leave on Sunday morning, happy as a hungover clam. Now "the dude" is fairly common in this world of mine. He is sometimes referred to as "a good time charlie" (if you're over 60). He doesn't call. You don't care because, really, you don't want him to call because you honestly can't remember a damn thing about him. It works out, everyone is happy, we float along without ever running into each other again.

Yeah, not so much. He's called me. A couple of times. In the middle of the work day. Wanting to hang out...in the middle of the work day. I even got a text message that read (and I quote, oh God, do I quote) "your so fucking hot". Now, that's not a typo on my part, he wrote "your", like "your house" or "your ass". Nothing irks me more than the lack of basic puncuation skills. Seriously, yo, it's simple. You memorize it. You know it in the core of your being. Personally, I blame the public education system. And being a dumbass. So, now I've got a man who can't spell and seems to not have a job (hence the mid-afternoon hangout request) all up in my grill. Woo! Woo? Yeah, I don't know either. At least I'm almost positive he doesn't have lice. That shit DON'T fly with me.


Formed a band, we formed a band! Look at us! We formed a band!

Since I've decided that I will, at least for today, post things on this bloggy whatchamacallit today whilst I am bored, I am posting something because I am bored. Scintillating logic, isn't it?

And, because when you're bored then you're boring, I will recount a little story that everyone I know has already heard. And since the number of people I already know who read this blog is precisely one (looky shirley, I'm name checking you! Looky!), it's new to you. And not quite as boring as I am right now. Because I'm always cooler on Tuesdays after a few drinks...but I digress.

Last Tuesday evening (seeing a pattern with the Tuesday? Yeah, that's called foreshadowing), I went to see this awesome band. From England. With accents. And almost zero fashion sense. Sounds fucking insane, right? What is the name of this fucking insane band from the UK, you ask? Art Brut, my friend, Art Brut. Listen to them. Know them. Love them. I'll reiterate, fucking insane. Anyway, so there I am, rocking out to the soothing sounds of snotty British post-punk punk rock, with my ridiculously good looking female companions (because that's how I roll), when this fairly diminutive guy with a camera comes up to me. And proceeds to take a shitload of pictures of me and a friend of mine. Normally, this would be a situation to be avoided, but this photographer was from Spin magazine. Now, I'll go on record and say that I don't really care for Spin magazine anymore. Not really. I used to, then they fired all the good writers and started running articles about My Fucking Chemical Fucking Romance and I just don't care about them. It's not because I'm old and crabby (because I'm not old and "crabbiness" is just plain bitchiness when you're my age), it's because they suck. And so therefore, by association, Spin magazine is no longer my favorite. Yet, I still have a subscription because when I was 15 I mentioned something about it to a random family member and it is now my default Christmas present. God only knows what would have happened had I mentioned a penchant for herbal tea or pygmy monkeys.

ANYWAY, none of this is the point. The point is, I was fairly intoxicated (thank you substantial amounts of vodka and no dinner!) and harassed the photographer into taking as many pictures of me and my lovely friend as I saw fit because, as I loudly exclaimed during an abrupt silence in the sea of awesome rocking (insert the sound that silent hipsters make here), "I have the sort of beauty that moves". This basically means that I have absolutely no idea what I look like and insist on contorting my face into horrible positions that closely resemble the peak action of a sneeze. And that I drink a lot and think that harassing a photographer is a good waste of my time. I also think that he yielded to my demands because my friend was holding his GIANT beer hostage (no shit, GIANT beer, we have those in Brooklyn, you should see them with your own two eyes) and she was drunker than I was (only at this point, I soon outshined her, don't worry, my pets).

The gist of all of this rambling is two-fold:

Point #1: I am pictorially represented on the internet. And not in a bad way. In the kind of way that I can tell my mother and she can tell all of her friends and they can all make nice comments about how I look pretty and it's not like they stumbled upon a sex tape and have to pretend that they didn't see it but act awkward and totally give away the face that not only did they see it, they most likely enjoyed it. Go me!

Point #2: Not only am I pictorially represented on the internet, I'm DECENTLY PHOTOGRAPHED! Oh my God, now I can die happy. Seriously, it's a big deal. Now, honestly, it's not the best picture ever taken, or the most flattering, but I don't look as though I'm either about to vomit or cry, which is a step in the right direction. Especially if this shit is going to be on the internet (oh yeah, and in the mag, but who the hell cares about real media these days?). So, go me, yet again!

Fuck yes! I am so awesome! Or something.

Fuck with aboo? Fuck with YOU!

Apparently, it is fuck with aboo day. And, even more apparently, from reading my comments, I have been a. served, b. farted upon (or near, I'm not quite sure), c. subjected to shirley's bad breath, d. violated, e. cheated on with my (non-existent) sister, f. had my ass praised, g. had my ass dissed and so on and so forth. So on and so forth, I say!!

That's all you've got shirleythegreat readers? That's it?! Bring it, bitches!

Wait? Will that mean that I actually have to start writing a blog now? Because I'm not good at doing stuff I'm supposed to. Like brushing my teeth. That's just an example. Not like I ever forget to brush my teeth. Stop looking at me like that. Seriously.


Okay, so I always said I'd never have a blog. And anyone who knows me knows that that's about as good as saying that I'm quitting smoking or cleaning my apartment. Basically, if I say I'm doing something, just assume I'll be doing the opposite. So, this is no different. Let's see how this goes, shall we?