Blog Wars!!!

Whoever said "imitation is the most sincere form of flattery" was probably the asshole in the room that everyone secretly wants to pee on. Imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery because I thought of that idea first and I deserve the credit. I don't care how amazing/funny/perfect you think I am. I understand that I am all of these things, which is why I don't want any competition. Just ruins the flava.

So what provoked this tirade? Well some chick went all single white female on me and stole the name of my blog. What the what?! Except genius pants called hers "Making It Awkard." Well guess what Making It Awkward? I'm a verb and you're a noun and verbs are action words, so my blog can make yours cry.

Me Blog Slapping "Making It Awkward." True story.

Why Does My Apartment Smell Like A Baby Diaper?

Joseph Whearty, I dedicate this post to you. But, you shouldn't feel so special because I also dedicate posts to Fran Drescher and vaginas.

Mr. Whearty recently informed me that Febreeze has a new scent called Moroccan Bazaar. Generally, scented sprays are not that interesting and definitely should not be written about in this prime piece of blog ass, but think about that name a bit. When I think of Morocco, I generally think of pashminas (fancy name for a goddamn scarf) and food that would make me wish I was in a country that had porcelain toilet bowls. But I also think of spices and other crap that could possibly smell good. Now, when I think of a Moroccan bazaar, well, why don't you close your eyes and tell me what your imagination sees...

Oh, yeah. This looks like it smells delicious. Yep.

Since mine is the only opinion that counts (take that mass media) when someone tells me that my room will smell like a Moroccan Bazaar, I don't ride on a unicorn across a shiny rainbow to vanilla scented (the only good scent) lala land. No. Because nothing happy or pleasant can come out of a scent that is supposed to smell like a third world shopping center.  Febreeze is just using an exotic country to make something sound like it will smell good. For example: Parisian Subway Breeze. Subways smell a port-o-potty, but you put Parisian in front of it and OILA. Suckers.

You know that a real Moroccan Bazaar smells like all those times you go to a party. Some asshole always eats too much quiche and ends up taking a party crap. Party craps consist of them pooping during the party but doing everything possible to cover the smell, such as spraying too much of the goddamn glade airfreshener that the dumbass host left on the toilet lid. NEWSFLASH: the air freshener doesn't cover the smell of your poop, but it does let me know that you took a massive crap and decided to singe my nosehairs even more so with the smell of poop bathing in cheap perfume.

You lose Febreeze. You lose.

Brighty Whitey

Google says this is Mother Nature. I say this is some stoned sister of the Jolly Green Giant.

 Seeing as that I have to complain about everything. HELLO! We all know that I am Jewish by now. I feel the need to stick it to mother nature today. Within the past month we have had torrential downpours and 30 degree weather in San Diego. I know you dirty east coasters don't understand that 30 degree weather in So-Cal means "I'm so cold my nipples just froze off my body and now look like cement freckles," but it does and you should sympatize (spelled the way hottie with the body Rev. Al Sharpton would say it).

But today was one asshole of a day. No, not in a bad way. As in, it was so hot I literally felt like I was stuck in someone's asshole. I am such a lady. It was such a nice change from the norm. Unfortunately, my skin, once compared to a vampires white, has been in hibernation. I literally could be a persons flashlight because I am so white. I am so white that they should have a box under Caucasian that says "Bright White." That bad.

So here's my little tiff with MN. That slut gave me a sunburn! Technically, it was her little bitch we like to call the "sun" that did it. I still blame MN. Suck it weather whore.

How To Be Famous. No Really.

After spending hours reading gossip columns and watching E! True Hollywood Story, I have learned the secret to being famous. No, it's not giving out BJ's like it's Halloween candy or getting breast implants. Mmmm, I want chicken. Sorry, the term breast implants makes me think of chicken and then I get hungry. But I digress. So, the secret to being famous:

1. You sang in front of the mirror.

But, Lauren, this is far too simple? Sit down Kanye and I will explain. Whenever a celebrity is asked "How did you know you wanted to be a singer/actor/dildo?" the celebrity answers with "I knew because I danced and sang in front of my mirror." Really? That's amazing because I knew I wanted to be a lawyer when I started filing pretend motions in front of the mirror. Weird. Sorry to crush your dreams Taylor Swift but every child sings to a mirror audience. It's like a childhood requirement, along with peeing your pants and eating your boogers.

2. You were a nerd.

Ever notice how celebrities were NOT cool until they became famous??? "Did you have a lot of friends in high school? No, the kids used to pick on me. " Newsflash, they didn't pick on you because you were a nerd they picked on you because you were a total whore nipple. So, why don't you go cry in your pretty corner Scarlett Johanson, while the real nerds continue dressing like cracked out Carebears and setting curves.

3. You were ugly.

ALL celebrities were ugly before they were famous. They were so hideous they belonged on Rock of Love instead of in movies. Then, one day, Jake Gyllenhaal, Brad Pitt, and Jessica Biel bumped into Jesus and asked him to fix their faces. ALAKAZAM! And then they were pretty. Yep, that's exactly how it happened...in their drug induced dreams. Celebrities are always trying to relate to real people by saying they used to be ugly. You know what I have to say to that? What the effing shit? It makes me really happy to know that in order to relate you have to be ugly like the rest of us. Go ingest some more botox, dicks.

4. You lived in your car.

Oooooh, look at me! I was sooooo poor that I had to live in my car. Now I have miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillions of dollars that I spend on Evian baths, gold-flaked ice cream, and diamond encrusted toilets because everyone should take sparkly poops.

5. You have mommy/daddy issues.

My dad wasn't around, my mom is Sarah Palin, wah wah wah. Sad. Good thing you have a money to spend on legit psychotherapy from Dr. Drew or Phil.

If you find that you fulfill the above, you are pretty much guaranteed stardom and free sex from hookers. Jus sayin, Charlie Sheen.

Wait. I Have to be an Adult? What the Shit.

Today is the first day of my last semester. Cue the Titanic quartet (honestly, was I the only one rooting for the quartet to survive? Jack and Rose were sooooooo annoying. "Oh Jack, I love you. Paint my boobies." BORING.) Basically, I have been a total dildo for the past 25 years of my life and wasted my time learning stuff. After 4 years of college and 3 years of law school the only skills I have been left with are:

1.  Mediocre grammar
2. The ability to name all 9 Supreme Court Justices and the inability to name all of Santa's reindeer
3. The true meaning of the Wizard of Oz. That ho bag's shoes are supposed to be silver.
4. The discovery that mixing orange soda and bacardi is NOT like a mimosa and WILL make you a classy bitch because you will learn to NEVER mix orange soda and bacardi again. 

Soooooooo...ummmmmmm...now what? Like, do I have to go out and practice law and shit? I like learning. It puts me in my little anti-social food bubble. I love that bubble. Mmmmm, peanut-butter, nutella and marshmallow sandwich while sitting in a corner watching reruns of Hannah Montana on my laptop bubble. I would make-out with that bubble like it was a 1997 poster of Taylor Hanson. But noooooooooooooooooo. I have to go get a real job and make real money and forget about the Taylor Hanson posters I got from the latest issue of Teen Bop. Also, now I will  be judged by a whole new group of people who ask me about my ziploc addiction and rolley backpack obsession. I will probably want these people to like me too, so I will have to act normal and not look like a mentally challenged space cadet:

Exhibit A: Sometimes I exude Tina Fey cool and sometimes this happens. Okay, usually this happens. 

Yeah. I actually had that look on my face today when I had to announce the last book I read to my class. "The last book I read was Twilight." Good thing I am used to being judged for most decisions I make in life. Dear Maturity, I will find you soon.

The Reason I Want Stick Jalapenos in Your Nose is...

...you fart in the gym. I really want to know, and I mean REALLY REALLY WANT TO KNOW, why people think that it is socially acceptable to fart in public places. Excuse me Mr. "It's a natural occurrence and everybody does it!" Unless your butt is farting vanilla scented air, I really do not want to be trapped on the treadmill next to you while you toot so many "Silent but Deadlies" that the army is trying to recruit you.

It is one thing to be walking outside, in the open, with fresh air surrounding you, and let one loose. See, the difference here is that you are polluting FRESH air, which will eventually give your stale butt-air a big hug and then eat it for dinner. Thus, leaving my nostrils as happy as a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet. It is a whole different ballgame when you decide to release your toxic fumes in an enclosed area. Let me explain. When you fart inside, you are adding stale air to stale air.

Stale air + stale air = a butt load (or a butt empty) of stale air

This leaves my face looking like a pug because it is all scrunched up from the noxious fume (yes, noxious, because you are depleting the ozone layer one fart at a time) surrounding me. I can try to escape by switching treadmills. Oh. But wait. There's the raw egg in a baby diaper smell again. It has spread faster than the mustache trend.

So, PLEASE REMEMBER, it is NOT a natural occurrence and everybody does NOT do it.

Finals Makes Me Wanna Throw Bologna

Guess what?! It's about that time, again. WHAT TIME IS IT? It's time for me to lose my mind and start talking crazy. Not straying from the norm too much, but I am a wee bit more off center than usual. Right this moment, I am sitting in a cubicle in the back corner of the library, or as I like to call it, the building of tears. I have these nifty little earplugs that mold to the shape of my ear. THEY. ARE. AWESOME. These bad boys make me want to jump in a pool to see if water can break them down. I will take a bath later and let y'all know how it goes.

Next, I have consumed two mugs of coffee, a whole grapefruit, and 2 Fiber fruit bars. Obviously, I did not think this through when I was packing my lunch. Now I am the crazy girl, who is slouched over because of the intense stomach pains. It feels like Rocky Balboa is practicing for his next match. You'll get the Russian, Rocky...just leave me be.

Last, my hair smells like coconut and my body smells like vanilla. I am supposed to be memorizing the Code of Ethics that I am to live by once I'm a blah-yer, but all I can think of is how bad I want a macaroon. DAMN YOU FAT MAN SOUL. Damn you.

STOP BLINKING AT ME!

I cannot drive. Fact. I know it is absurd. I am so perfect in every single way. How is it possible that I cannot drive? Well, it’s possible. My car has the bruises to prove it. Sorry parked bus that I sideswiped. Sorry dormant cement poll that got to third base with my car. In all honesty, neither should have been in my way. *cue Luda ‘Get Out Da Way’*

Even though my driving should be confined to the Power Wheels my butt wishes it would fit in, I still feel the need to kvetch about other drivers on the road. Just because I cannot do, doesn’t mean I cannot complain. Jew genes strike again. SO, on that note, whattup with blinker happy drivers? I absolutely despise people who leave their blinker on. Hate it. Like, have the paparazzi follow it, take a bunch of embarrassing pictures of it and sell them to the Enquirer hate. Why? Well, for completely irrational reasons, of course. But, honestly, when have you ever known me to be logical. Let’s get serious people.

Reason #1: It makes me think the car is schizophrenic. Who doesn’t feel bad for a schizo? Not I. Mel Gibson put down your hand. We all know you hate schizo’s, along with Jews, black people, gay people, fat people, and leprechauns. When a person leaves their blinker on, I literally think the car is having a blinking seizure. PEOPLE! The highway is not a rave, no need to be leaving your blinkers on all willy nilly.

Reason #2: The beat of the blinker NEVER matches the beat of the Gavin Degraw CD stuck in my CD player, which I am stuck listening to (Gavin, you totally owe me a lap dance if I ever meet you. Actually, you kind of owe my car a lap dance since, technically, my car is the one you are emotionally scarring. Wait until you see what’s under my hood. Bow chicka bow wow). When the beat of my music does not match the continuous blinking in front of me, it throws my white girl dance moves off-balance (tapping my steering wheel), which throws my driving skills even more off-balance. Do you really want to take that risk, BLINKER SLUT? DO YOU? That’s what I thought.

Why You Gotta Be Sittin In Front of Me, Yo?

Last night was date night. Since I lack a boyfriend and my imaginary one is the worst conversationist ever (always playing the silent card...whattup wit dat?), it meant Rachel and I do something that she finds only mildly annoying. Thus, we ventured to the AMC to see Get Him to the Greek. Russell Brand's bendy chicken legs in tight pants. Yes, please?

First, we headed to the AMC in Fashion Valley. Rachel prefers this theater to the one in Mission Valley. Oh. In case you are confused. Rachel is my BFF/Roommate. She pretty much hates everything. Babies, young adults, animals, people in general, crowds, the sun, flowers, etc. She does like cheese. Maybe that's why we get along so well? Who knows. Shrug. Anywho, we went to the FV AMC because Rachel was already sacrificing part of her sanity by sitting in a crowded theater, so it might as well be one she kinda likes. We arrive 30 minutes early. Lo and behold, SOLD OUT. "Ugggggggghhhhhhh, of course." Oh. Also, Rachel doesn't express emotions in a yell. It is usually monotone. So, "I love you" may sound like "I want to rub a dirty diaper all over your face."

We hop back in Lurch (formerly Lil Weezy) and head to Mission Valley. Theater is empty. SCORE. We pick the best seats in the house and Rachel looks only mildly annoyed. +1 for life. People begin to filter in, but in no way, shape or form is the theater even near crowded, nor will it become crowded. Then. There they were. The typical San Diego couple. Little 105lb blonde girl with glowing orange skin from her spray tan addiction. Like an Oompa Loompa, but cuter. And her Boyfriend. Wearing his sexy Ed Hardy shirt that makes me want to pinch his nipples and then kick him.

They start assessing their seating options. Look right in my direction. Bam. They decide to sit in the two seats RIGHT IN FRONT of me and Rachel. Ummm. Excuse me Douchey McDoucherson and your Glowstick girlfriend. Why do you find it necessary to sit in the seat that is the foot rest for my Hobbit feet? Was there really no other seat in this EMPTY theater that appealed to you? I know my feet emit some hella-amazing pheramones BUT honestly! Furthermore, when they sat down, it was with such gusto. Like, they had to slam their bodies into the chair so gold would come flying out of their butthole. Rude.

Most annoyting part: THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS!!! People need to get some theater etiquette. Maybe instead of playing those lame commercials that make the Army look like a trip to Disneyland, the can teach the theater morons to not sit directly in front of someone in an empty theater. Word.

Catastrophe

What is the deal with cats? I don't get it. It's like all of a sudden the world is OBSESSED with cats doing dumb things. "Ohhhhhhh, look! A cat falling in a toilet! How cute." No. This is not cute. Nothing about this cat doing ridiculous things is cute, Danielle, Jon, and Dom. Cats attack you and sit on your face. They pur too. Purring is so creepy. It's like they have a pearl stuck in their throat or they are that creepy cigarette lady who smokes through her neck hole. Cats are neck holes.

Nonetheless, I will respect your cats Danielle because they are family. Just remember. They are forced family.

Ed Hardylicious

I hate stereotypes. I really do. But sometimes we have stereotypes for a reason and that reason is to help me decipher when a man is going to be a tool. Men that wear Ed Hardy fit perfectly into that mold. They are a walking Urban Dictionary definition: Ed Hardy - One who wears shirts with sequined tigers on it and thinks he is God's gift to sexy.

It might seem like I am complaining about Ed Hardy. Like I blaming him for all that is wrong with men. I am not. I would like to dedicate this blog to all that is Ed Hardy and THANK him for his gracious service to women all over the world. We are now able to skip the BS and we will no longer sit and wonder "Is he a nice guy?" or "Is he a douchebag?". Now, we can just look at the studded shirt and KNOW the answer to the questions that plague women during the dating phase.

So, here's to Ed Hardy. Thank you for making my life that much easier.