Mental Diarrhea

I can't seem to keep myself to writing carefully constructed posts, so you get random thoughts today:

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It's hard to be immature and work in my industry. Just one example of many double entendre'd phrases: jackshaft.

(mm, jackshaft)

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I have a confession to make: I bought the Beatles' White Album solely because a guy I had a crush on said it was his favorite (this was a long time ago, but i'll admit to still having a bit of a crush). I still like Abbey Road the best. (although, oh jeez, i always forget about sergeant pepper's lonely hearts club band! did you know that was supposed to be dr. peppers, but pepsico threatened to sue?)

On a related note, my favorite song with a hammond organ in it is "I Want You (She's So Heavy)."

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Among my random recollections of the week, wearing a thong to work on Tuesday reminded me of my best friend in middle school sharing her first experience wearing a thong.

I was, as mentioned before, a repressed (or at least very sheltered, but i did start masturbating --not knowing what it was-- when I was 9) young Catholic, and I thought thongs were sandals. (heh)

She commented, "You'd think they'd be uncomfortable sitting in your asscrack like they do, but normal panties just ride right up in there anyway."

I stopped being friends with her in 10th grade, after she told a boy that I'd just broken up with that I'd done so because I liked someone else. In hindsight, I would have probably learned some good things (like practical joking and the art of comeback... get your head out of the gutter) if we'd stayed friends. Then again, I might have also ended up dropping out of high school like she did.

* * *

I showed my hot sexy bitch friend Kehla my shiny new website and said that you had to go to christymonster.com/blog to get to my blog. She asked what was on my main page, and I said a picture of myself. She sounded interested when she said, "Oh, like a splashpage?"

Uh, yeah.... JUST like a splashpage.

(also, i have a new picture, but my ftp place is wonked out, so i can't post it just yet)

My statement on my entry page is this: "Fuck you, HTML!" In all honesty, I could code something that at least looks presentable, but I'm just too damn lazy.

* * *

There's a woman at work who's kind of sucking my will to live right now. It'll be better when I'm done with the project I have with her, and it's almost done. I have a very hard time comprehending how someone can work in a position for 5 years and still not know the answer to the most basic of questions. And it's terrifying to realize how much she expects me to know. I wanna be all, "Whaaaugh! It's only my second week!"

The best part about my job is that I can listen to SO MUCH music while I work. Yesterday, I was hating 8am, but then I put on my CD player, and Isaac Hayes started singing to me, and it was all better.

The second-best part of work is the nerds. Nerdy guys are so cute, I just want to squish them! I totally caught a couple of them laughing at an SQL joke or some shit, all rocking back and forth and nose-crinkly! They're not actually attractive, but SO CUTE!

The guy that I knew way back in the day (we had intro to ME together) was in Vegas today and yesterday, and he's back tomorrow. It's a good thing he left for a bit, though, there were rumours starting over how I ask him all my questions (these rumours will probably follow me to whatever job i have ever again ever. i'm too much of a flirt for my own good). Pout, I'm just shy! Yes, I do realize that "shy flirt" is an oxymoron. I care not.

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If my hair was just 2 inches longer, I think it might be perfect.

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I totally have the hots for She Wants Revenge's song "I Want to Tear You Apart." I don't care if they are commercial radio, or a cheap imitation of Interpol. Dark love songs, they rule.

I want to hold you close
Skin pressed against me tight
Lie still, and close your eyes girl
So lovely, it feels so right I want to hold you close
Soft breasts, beating heart
As I whisper in your ear
I want to fucking tear you apart

* * *

I had a magnificent fantasy yesterday about living with Ally and doing something to upset him and having him come home with a crop. Yummy!

* * *

I should really be flattered when guys with a lot of attractive female friends want to be my friend, but it wigs me out a bit. Boys are scary!

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My goal for this blog is for at least one reader to say, "Oh, no, you di'nt!" to the screen at something I've said. Darlings, it's all true.

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I realized today why my sore quadriceps have been so excruciatingly painful. It's because I have so much fat in my thighs that it jiggles my muscles way more than is necessary or comfortable. So gross.

When I was 14, my boyfriend could circle my waste (hahahahahaha, i'm leaving that awesome freudian typo) with two hands easily. Stupid woman-making hormones. (confid to my woman-making hormones: thanks for the tits.)

* * *

I don't love you to death
But I'd die if you left

(Beulah's "Night is the Day Turned Inside Out." Nobody knows which exit is yours.)

Softball

My recollections from playing softball for four years when I was little (I quit when I was 12) are as follows:

1) Getting a bloody nose trying to catch a fly ball during practice (I learned how to wash blood out of cotton that day). That was the last time I had no fear of the ball.

2) Praying for hits (hey, I used to be really Catholic. Also, it always worked, which made me feel like Moses at the time and now makes me worry for my eternal soul)

3) My teammates getting pissed at my dad, first base coach, when he complimented the first base-woman (on the opposing team) on the play that she'd made.

4) Missing a throw-in, or having the girl in center field miss it (this was a LONG time ago), and us throwing it back and forth because neither one wanted to take responsibility for that terrible play.

5) Playing catcher my first season, having a player score on me and holding the ball instead of throwing it to 2nd, as there were still runners. My coach came out and he was so frustrated. He said something like, "Christy, you were supposed to... Oh, never mind."

I was as surprised as anyone, given my experiences (and the fact that i begged and begged my parents to let me quit softball), that I agreed to play on a team when asked. I kinda pulled a Dad (my dad is notorious for signing up for a billion things because participation just isn't what it used to be) and fell for the "we need more women for the team!"

I had butterflies in my stomach all day over the game tonight. It didn't help that my muscles were already sore just from the two hour practice the day before. I was worried I wouldn't even make it through a game!

I had my first at-bat during the second inning. I wasn't sure about this stuff, especially after cringing over home plate through two innings (people swing bats fast! right over my head!!!). But, I swung at my first pitch and sent a beauty of a line drive out. I promised myself earlier that I wouldn't stare at any hits I made, but I totally stared at it (i can't believe i just hit a line drive!) and watched as it went right into the second baseman's glove.

I also got an out, fielding a grounder. It was funny, he was right about where I was when I grabbed the ball, so I didn't bother to throw the forced out; I tagged him. The leader of my team gave me a thumbs-up.

The most surprising part of it was that, somewhere during the hour that we were on the field, I discovered I was having fun. I enjoyed playing as part of a team again. Maybe this is part of growing up: you start liking softball.

(for those keeping track: we got spanked. i believe the final score was something like 17-6. i think i was the only one there who wasn't bothered a bit. i'm not really a team player, i just play one at work)

Cheap slut

"What kind of cheap slut do you think I am?"

After taking a poll of my friend Ellie, we have determined the proper response to this question to be, "A sexy one?" For the record, I went a different direction (when in doubt, make it seem like the other person is offending YOU, not the other way around: "Oh, yeah? Then what kind of cheap slut do you think *I* am?!?!").

Other activities this weekend:



We actually played that on the radio.



This was the 10 seconds of brainstorming that turned into our final product. Erin was clever enough to record most of our time on the mic, so there is now a pretty good recording of me laughing at the station. The laughter at the end of that second track is not mine, unfortunately. Gayle also said a moment later, "Are you on crack?" If I were a sound collage type of person, I could have some FUN with those recordings.

I also burped into the mouth of the boy I was kissing (classy!). Even though you wouldn't think so, it was more embarrassing than the time that I farted during sex. Matt threatened to blog all about it to embarrass me, so I'm beating him to the punch. That makes me... well, me.

I also joined a softball team that a woman at work is a part of. Apparently they have trouble having enough women play. I'll probably contribute as much from the sidelines as if I were standing in the outfield, though. Those softballs are scary! And, I'm very out of shape. This should be fun. Our first game is tomorrow.

Hello World

I always felt a little sorry for latecomers to the art of blog. I don't know why it even matters, except for cred, but I would read new blogs and think, "You don't even know!" because I'd been through the ditches, you know? I fought in a war... The war for the internet!!

And now I am a newbie, too. I'm a latecomer to the art of blog. For better than four years, I hid under the umbrella of diaryland.com. But just as the butterfly must emerge from its cocoon sooner or later, so have I moved on from my safe haven with silly girly graphics. I'd link it, but it's too embarrassing.

Okay, enough with the bizarre metaphors. Hi. I'm Christy. Some of you are from diaryland, some of you are from elsewhere (and everywhere!) and some of you are just chancing upon my site. Either way, welcome. You can direct angry emails and/or love letters here, or just click the comments link below.

This has been your conscience speaking,