Nov 25, 2012

I have too much time on my hands...

Thought of the day: Pizza Hut has unleashed its new boxed heart attack, hot dog stuffed crusts. Ew. I'm so fucking ordering this then denying it until I'm on my death bed. I thank the God for hot dogs each morning. 

Since I drank booze for dinner 4 out of the 7 nights this week, I'm having a hard time getting the creative juices flowing. So I randomly googled "stuff to write about", right after I tried to find naked photos of Justin Bieber on Google images. No dice. If you're noticing a theme, I can't seem to catch a break in this pitiful little life I lead.

Anyway, this is what I came across tonight....writing for Grade 1 students. Seems fitting. I'm right on par with their maturity, so I thought I'd just give my own insight on these topics. 

What makes you scared? Aside from being found dead in my bachelor apartment wearing a cat sweater, covered in Moonshine and Smarties, there are many things that scare me: Sharks and bears (we've been over this) being pushed into the subway track by a train pusher, shitting my pants in public, that I'm legitimately growing a beard, that the world will run out of hotdogs and that i'll accidentally eat peas. Those are just a few front runners at the moment.  

What if toys could talk? I will willingly wait in a hotel lobby for my friends and family and the Intervention camera crew because if a fucking doll starts talking to me, that has gotta be my rock bottom. That's just messed up. 

How do plants grow? I have no fucking idea. Don't care. But I can tell you my brother grew "plants" in his bedroom when he was 17 and it got him kicked out of the house. And to think, he was en route to being the best botanist in town. God, my parents ruin everything. 

Tell me about a picnic. What is this...The Bachelor? My skin crawls when I see people sitting on the ground eating sandwiches out of a basket, and you can guarantee someone on that ant-infested blanket is talking about their feelings. Picnics do that to people. Maybe it's the fresh air? Or the nitrates in their ham sandwich that make them emotional? Awkward. I'm out. Oh and also, 10 out of 10 times if I'm found on the ground, I don't mean to be there. Call an ambulance. 

Friendly places: Truck stops, back seat of a car, women's washroom at a bar, my mouth. 

A funny thing my pet has done: Die on my 10th birthday. Since my mom never wanted her hardwood floors scratched, and she whole heartedly believes cats are furry demonic assholes, we were never allowed pets. That is until she gave the green light on getting gold fishes. Fun! The most boring, useless little fucks on the planet! Thanks Mom!  Needless to say 2 weeks after getting Flipper, I found him bloated and dead at the top of my bowl..at my 10th birthday party when I went to feed him. Flipper ate every time I ate. Death by food. Flipper, we had more in common than you knew little buddy. 

Something I've done that no one else has done: Eaten 300 meatballs in one weekend then masturbated to The Notebook. Hmmm I couldn't think of anything. I'm not really that original. 

Tell me about the parade: Um, I haven't been to a parade in like 20 years. I never really did 'kid things'...I was more or less a 36 year old trapped in a 10 year olds body...I came out of my mother's cha cha with a glass of scotch and my hair did. Personally, I preferred watching All My Children and Dallas with my Mom, while wearing her fur coat and smoking fake cigarettes in front of the t.v. Remember the Popeye Cigarettes? Man, I loved those things. But I will say, as far as parades go, I can guarantee you that most of my family thinks I secretly march in the Gay Pride parade since I've arrived at every function sans lover for the past 80 years.

Can you do any magic tricks? Hells ya. I'm a master at making money in my bank account disappear 2 days after i get paid and I can also make bottles of wine disappear on a moments notice. Oh and whenever I have an adult sleepover, I'm also pretty amazing about disappearing the next morning. Some call it fleeing the scene, I call it smart and magical. No need to hang out and make shit awkward. We both know that we don't care if we have siblings, what our careers are and how we take our coffee. Once you've entered me, It's my cue to exit. Just how I roll. (Speaking of rolls I could really go for a fresh bun right now.) 

Tell me about a helpful person you've met: I would say the random stranger that pointed out that I was limping the other day was pretty helpful. I didn't realize I was dragging my nifty metal encrusted broken foot down the Goddamn street. "Oh you're limping there!" "Oh my goodness, I didn't notice. Thank Christ you pointed that out." I day dream about punching people square in the throat about as often as Kim Kardashian's vag has been penetrated by a d-list celeb. That's a lot. 

What's the first thing you do in the morning? I typically wake up in shock that my double chin didn't block my airway in my sleep, followed by sitting on the edge of my bed and letting a long "fuuucccckkkk" proceeded by power pissing and praying I don't go tits up in the shower. Then I hop on the subway, which is always a little slice of paradise since the general public is filled with assholes. 


Well, I'm inherently lazy and I'd rather be using my fingers for other things. Get your mind out of the gutter. 

Over 'n Out
Nanners

Nov 18, 2012

Dear Santa...

Thought of the day: All of my friends have very calm, chill, beautiful children. This concerns me because everyone knows of someone who has a little asshole child that everyone complains about, and this just in... they also complain about your asshole parenting skills. Five bucks says I'm the one who gives birth to a sociopath. Ever seen the movie 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' with Tilda Swinton? Aside from the fact that her skin tone is that of a corpse, that was one disturbing movie. Jesus. I've spent the last 2 hours having flashes of me in 10 years with my future child in some abandoned barn,  just waiting for some priest to give him/her their first exorcism. Truthfully, this shit keeps me awake at night. *I was told this weekend, that my kid is gonna be the most anxious kid alive. Pfft. Just because I think I'm dying and I think everyone around me is dying and I'm gonna be attacked by a whale or shark while sitting in my apartment, won't make me a bad mother. 

Since Christmas is coming and I have this much money in my bank account: -$890900.03, and I will be handing out high fives and smiles for Christmas, I thought I'd turn the attention on me and see what I can get out of the big guy this Christmas. Here is what my letter looks like so far: 

Dear Santa, 

What's up babe? Why you gotta be so cold? I know I probably shouldn't have written you letters while on my period in 2009 begging for brass knuckles, a switchblade and a Playgirl subscription, but cut me some slack. You try bleeding out of your penis and randomly crying at a paper towel commercial every month. Anyway, don't fuck me over again. Here's my list, make it happen. 

Wine glasses: I've broken 9 wine glasses from frantically wheeling around my apartment in my wheelchair this summer trying to find my Percocet. And my ass has gotten so big, it literally knocks shit off tables.  

Magic Mike DVD: If I have to explain why I want this, then you're a fucking idiot. 

5 Litres of Pinot Grigio: This should get me through Christmas Day just fine. 

A lifetime supply of saran wrap: I watch enough Dexter to know that you can never have enough saran wrap and I plan on catching the killer that sleeps under my bed any day now so please hurry. 

A box of condoms: You'll be shocked to hear that my unused box of condoms has expired. I plan on making 2013 'The Year Of The Slut'. Nothing says "I've got a new lease on life" like having casual, reckless sex with strangers. 

Bacon: If I wake up and there is bacon in my stocking, I'll know that God exists and I can reach for my dreams everyday. I wish I could wrap everything in bacon and not die. 

A box of diet pills: (preferably ephedrine) *Please see my fat ass reference under 'Wine glasses'. 

A subscription to Cosmo: Pffft, who doesn't want to read "35 Of The Best Sex Tips EVER" and "How to Have Sex for 16 Hours Straight Without Peeing" Some of their tips are laughable, but they may come in handy when I go balls to the wall being all Heidi Fleiss-ish in 2013. 

Gold hoop earrings: I think the gold will complement the white in my straight jacket. 

String: I don't care what kind of string, even make it a ball of yarn but I'm wearing my tv's remote control around my neck from now on. When I'm not swamped with being trapped in an elevator, lying on the floor or complaining about my life, I'm looking for that motherfucking remote control. 

An eliptical machine: I'm running out of closet space and I need something else to hang my clothes on. 

Life-size Justin Bieber doll: You don't need to know that I'm gonna make sweet sweet love to the doll what I'm gonna do with this.  But I will say, a lady never kisses and tells. 

Anyway Santa, this year has kicked my ass and I believe material things do bring happiness to people, particularly me. Let's do this right. 

You are the meatball in my spaghetti, I love you. 

Nanners Out. 
















  




Nov 11, 2012

Your Worst Nightmare....Nanners as Prime Minister

Thought of the day: I guess I'm slowly realizing the importance of having that special someone in my life. As I lay here hungover on this very miserable day, celebrating #spinstersundays in my own very special way of overloading on carbs, self loathing and Percocet, I find myself day dreaming about having a hot piece of ass to turn to and share, "Hey babe, remember that time I ate that family size box of meatballs all to myself and didn't get sick?" Yeah, those moments, the amazing ones. Reliving that by yourself somehow looses its coolness and may cause some anxiety.

Anyway, in case you're an idiot and you didn't know the presidential elections just happened, they did. I'm choosing to keep my political opinions to myself (mainly because my Twitter is down and I only believe what Beyonce believes and I can't access her account.) But talking politics can make things messy and I want to keep this light. But I will say, "Obama: I'd tap that." *Cue Marvin Gaye. 

It's a good thing you can't tell what I just did right now. Anyway, I'm back.

So this whole election has got me thinking, What would I do if I were elected Prime Minister? I propose the following: I get a whole bunch of male escorts and blow, move to a secluded Island with Jay Z, Beyonce and Justin Bieber to work on my hip hop and swagger, and survive solely on cookie dough until I die resting on the hairless chest of the king himself, the great Justin Bieber while he sings his entire Believe album... acoustically. 

Ban whistling: Ever watch Criminal Minds? Well, if you do, you'll know that any quality serial killer whistles right before he chops your head off and sticks it in a box to send to your family. So fuck that, Canadians are done with whistling, it creeps the shit out of me.

All elevators are made of windows: Since I spent 50% of 2012 trapped in an elevator, people need to see me giving the middle finger while I plunge to my death. Or at least to see me mouthing the words "FUCK THIS" on my way down....That's what she said.

"That's what she said" can be said anytime, anywhere and to whoever you want and it's always acceptable. I think this has to be one of the greatest phrases ever used and it never gets old. Slipping it into a conversation under my breathe actually gives me a rush of orgasmic-like endorphins.

Mandatory intense psychological testing for anyone who posts an online dating profile:
Like I'm talking C.I.A type questioning in a dark room tied to a chair type of shit. Ever see the show Homeland? Yup, like that. The fact that all you need is a computer and fetish to get an account, makes me shudder. Reading my online dating messages is forcing me into a state of clinical depression.

Implement Haiku Saturdays: Just kidding, Are you fucking nuts? Useless poetry is also banned.

Ban dick-ish behaviour:  If you're rude to a disabled person, are a racist, bully children or you don't give up your seat to the elderly on the subway, you're shipped to Australia, saran wrapped Dexter-styles and dropped in shark infested waters. Douchbagery is on the rise in this city and is becoming quite the epidemic. Join with me in the fight to #saveadouche.

Punch your neighbour: Tired of your neighbour Bob's dog shitting on your lawn? Does Linda and Bills little asshole children play music at all hours of the night?  No worries, Once a year every December, you're allowed to punch your neighbour square in the throat and not go to jail for it. I choose December since people seem to be obnoxiously happy around the holidays, and frankly, I'm not digging really happy people right now. Or ever.

Pantless Monday's. Nothing is more liberating than being pantless. So whether you're at the office, in your house or at church, get out of your pants and into your life. Feeling a breeze on your cooter is life changing.

Taxes shmaxes: Can't pay them? Let's hug it out. Taxes are gone, just like my dignity.

Dear Canada, you're welcome.

Over'N Out.
Nanners








Nov 3, 2012

Fuck...

My use of the word "fuck" has grown exponentially since 1981. Gradually, the volume and tone which I say it in has also increased. For example, (or as my spanish friends say "Por ejemplo") at Starbucks this morning, the barista was handing me back my change and I dropped some down beside the register, only to let out a casual "Holy fuck, sorry" without even blinking. Better yet, this summer I was in the backseat of a cab having a pity party for one,(just thinking how I'm 10 cats and a shopping cat away from insanity) and out of nowhere I let out an exaggerated  "FUUUCCKKK." I didn't realize it until I startled the cab driver, which prompted him to ask me if I was okay.

Btw- I feel like I heavily overuse comma's but I was told when I was kid that, "You put a comma in any sentence when you think you'd take a breath." Well that's just useless since I think I'm 3 cigarettes away from a fatal lung problem. So please bear with the horrific use of punctuation in my blog. 

Despite having the mouth of a gang member straight off the streets of Compton, I'm a somewhat productive member of society and have surprisingly managed to maintain a good job. (Hmmm, is that sentence online dating profile material?) For the record, if I got to choose, I'd be a Blood, not a Crip since I look fab in red. Oh, or maybe a Latin King since gold goes well with my hair.

Anyway, as I was walking back to my office after my Starbucks episode, I got to thinking, "Why do I fucking swear SO much?" Then I remembered the following:

1981-Parents discover I have a life threatening allergy to penicillin after basically bathing me in it for having the sniffles. Nearly die. Fuck.
1982- Mother drops me off the change table while reaching for her beer (just kidding, it was meth. Totally joking, she doesn't like this joke of mine. But I did fall off the change table. Survived. Fuck.
1984- My little bro is born. FUCK THAT. I'm not sharing the attention. I was so angry that I told my kindergarten teacher that he died during birth...Then she called my house to give my Mom her condolences...Ooops. Hide in washroom for an exhausting 2 hours. Fuck.
1986- While staring in the mirror at the tender age of 5, I become enraged that my name is not Cynthia and I wanted it to be. So in the spirit of being a little asshole, I wrote my parents hate mail for 6 months petitioning for them to take me to court for a legal name change. That obviously never happened. Fuck.
1987- Gr.1 teacher brings to my parent's attention that I keep writing stories about murdering my brother. Fuck.
1988- Caught the tail end of the news one night and heard they found a body in the ravine by my parents house. Stay awake until summer of '97 thinking I'm going to get abducted and meet my demise in dumpster. Obsession with Dateline begins. Fuck.
1989- On a class trip to the Zoo discover there is a Gorilla named Amanda (my name). Endure ridiculing and disappear for 3 hours to scream cry. Found by the goats at dusk, eating ice cream. Lifetime of emotional eating ensues. Fuck.
1990- Break my arm roller skating for the first time, Whichever parent thought it was okay to stick me on wheels was obviously high. Fuck.
1991- Get pulled into the hallway by my teacher...again. Only this time it's not for writing short stories like I was asked. Apparently writing love letters to Donnie Whalberg from New Kids on the Block does not qualify as a short story. Fuck that, it's a love story. Begin identifying with Bridget Fonda in Single White Female. Told it must stop. Oh well, back to writing stories about killing my brother. Fuck.
1993- Day before my dance recital, dislocate my ankle while playing basketball, pretending I was in the WNBA. This was all hoop dreams. game over. Fuck.
1995- Night before first day of Gr.9, I break my arm...again... while looking for a hair brush in my parent's garage of all places. Fuck.
1996- Get hit in the head by a line drive while in the stands at the Toronto Blue Jays game and fracture my skull. Headline the 6 o'clock news. Fuck.
2000-2004- In University, convince myself I have every STD imaginable and think I am "with child" every Sunday night. The search for used condoms in bedroom becomes exhausting. Fuck.
2002Found scream crying outside on the lawn of a Frat house after being dumped by a smoking hot guy. Develop a love affair with pizza. Fuck.
2005-2009- Get first "real job" and move into the city, party like Paris Hilton for 4 years and rack up a considerable amount of debt. Only problem is, I'm the heiress to the "Nada, Zilch and Nothing" empire. Go into personal recession. Fuck.
2009- Develop severe redness of the face, start looking like a burn victim, self diagnosed rosacea sufferer, only to visit my dermatologist who tells me it's facial dandruff and prescribes me medication for a yeast infection. What? Fuck.
2010Move home to my parents place for 8 very long long months, slip into depression, eat my feelings and take up masturbating. Fuck.
2010- Finally get own place, drink lots of wine and get banned from Pizza Pizza for habitually drunk dialing them and falling asleep... and NOT waking up to collect my party size pizza. Fuck.
2011- Go on first date in a very long time, only to discover he has a TLC Network type obsession with shoes. I dig it for the first week and quickly end it once an absorbent amount of shoe photos are requested by him. (I should really get on Christian Mingle.com. They'll love me. Fuck.
2012- Break my ankle and all my toes into 4 thousand pieces while leaving a singles event wearing high heels. In bed for 4 months. Get trapped in an elevator twice, convince myself I'm plunging to my death. Survived. Fuck.

Thursday, November 1st 2012- Get trapped in elevator while trying to deliver my 9 million dollar rent cheque to my landlord, forced to walk up six flights of stairs with 6 pins and plates in my foot. Discover I the mobility of a 90 year old. Results in extreme swelling and it ends up looking like this:
....FUCK.

I guess in summation a few lessons I've learned over the years are; I have the bone density of a rotting corpse, I can endure mental and physical anguish, and I'm one incident away of turning into a true life Breaking Bad episode.

And yes, this is all true.

Peace,
Nanners