January Is A Karma Test. Don't Screw Up.

It's a new year. Time to resolve all those pesky problems that plagued you last year: weight, alcohol intake (wine counts. Your teeth should not look like you made out with Grimace... everyday), and the weird nail on your pinky toe that you should probably have a doctor look at. All of these "issues" can magically float away into the mystical universe because a new calendar means your slate is CLEAN.

However, karma is a naughty minx and will creep up on you like a dirty old man on the bus. That's not a hand groping your butt, it's karma. I strongly believe that the month of January is a test and if you fail that test, God will cut you. Theoretically. Are you truly grasping my point? Let's use my life as an example, per the usual:

Yesterday was a beautiful day; it looked like a Lisa Frank sticker. Everything was going swell. Got to spend the day in the sun and then spend my evening with Rachel. As I was leaving to meet Rachel, my mom asked me to help her fix the vaccuum cleaner (because I am 12 and I live with my mom. Turns out this whole lawyer business is not as lucrative as we thought it would be. #liesmyjewishmothertoldme). However, I was in a hurry, so I told Mindel "later."

Fast forward to 7:30p.m. meeting Rachel at restaurant and being in aw of her brand new Lexus: 

Me: No. Bullshit. You told me you were getting a Kia you butthead. (I now exit my vehicle, purse in hand, drooling at the sight of her car.)
Rachel: You have to see how I unlock it. LOOK.
Me: I'm happy for you, but I think I equally hate you too.
Rachel: Oh, Lauren, you are the funniest person I know. (She may or may not have said this.)
Me: Okay. Let's eat. Your car is making me nauseous. Your car is still on...or does the devil car also turn itself off?
Rachel: My car is not on.
Me: Oh. That's my car. With the keys in the ignition. Locked.

Karma just cut a bitch.

Like my professional image of Karma cutting me? I have mastered Microsoft Paint...and the 90's. Obvi.

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.

Technology Sometimes You Rock That Germ Filled Bubble I Live In

Usually, technology sends me through a hellish torpedo of stupidity and insulting images of Sarah Chalke (she just really pisses me off), but there are moments when I turn into a seventh grader going through puberty and wanna scam on technology like it was Taylor Hanson serenading me with Mmm-Bop. What? That's a solid fantasy, yo.

The divine recognition of my bordering on creepy appreciation for all that is associated with the future came from something I would fall in love with if I were that person who loves inanimate objects (tried to find the psychological term but I couldn't, so now I am the girl who has "people who fall in love with inanimate object" in my search bank): my recognition came from a Red Box. Red Box is technology at its best i.e. it serves cheap lazy people like me.

How the Red Box humping goes down: It's a bright and beautiful day in sunny San Diego. Perfect day for a walk in the park or swim in the ocean. F-that punks. Skin cancer and shark bites are for broke ass hoes, I stay in bed to  watch my 10 inch TV  and collect cookie crumbs in my cleavage like a real woman. No honestly, if I were murdered in my bed during the weekend (knock on wood) the po po's wouldn't need tape because my body would be outlined by food crumbs. Back off my nuts Jake Gyllenhaal, I know you want my sexay bodday. I digress. As soon as I get tired of watching the 11 channels available, I decide to turn to a movie.

Due to my psychopathic need to have a five foot no entry circle around me and remain in the same food stained clothing (and I use that term lightly), Blockbuster is just out of the question. Dun da dun dun! RED BOX i.e. the reason unicorns fart rainbows. All I have to do is go to one of the 65 Seven-Eleven's in my neighborhood and pay $1(!) for a beautiful machine to poop a movie. Also, then I can go into Seven and buy a gargantuan coke, WHICH, by the way, comes with a free sausage biscuit. Don't eat it. There is a chance you might prematurely lose an internal organ.

Wow. I can't believe I wrote this much about Red Box. I need to get my life together.

Karma Is An Ear Bleeding Bitch

My mom and I like to scare people. Yes, there is something wrong with us but that should be left for a different blog post. We love to hide behind doors, in closets, make fake seances, and throw stuff at people just to get the tiniest scream out of them. It's a problem. After years of torturing friends and each other, it was bound to bite us in the ass. Something bad had to come from one of these disgustingly pleasing scare tactics. BAM!

I was home for the weekend and had just suffered bad highlights. I mean sobbing in the corner with a pint of Ben & Jerry's while looking up at the ceiling screaming "WHY" bad highlights. My hair looked like it should be wearing an Ed Hardy shirt. ANYWAY. I hopped into the shower to wash the tears away. When I got out I performed my usual Q-tip routine while I walked to my room to get some PJ's.

BOO!

All I can say is there was a scream, a Q-tip jammed into my ear, and then some blood.

Lesson: Don't walk around MY house with a Q-tip in ear because someone is bound to scare you and you might end up in the emergency room.

Tramp Your Stamp

I have learned quite a few lessons today:

1. It's probably best not to take advantage of the 3-hour open bar at you LAW prom. There will be professors, you will make a fool of yourself, and you will yell out "Professor Glen Smith, where are you?! I love you."

2. If a guy, you are not interested in, tries to make out with you and starts shoving his tongue all over your face, it is better to push him off of you, rather than just stand there in shock, grimace on face, mouth closed and tight lipped. My poor make-up. I mean...um...that poor girl's make-up.

3. Don't fall asleep on your wrist. You might wake up with a black butterfly on your cheek, cry and start cursing yourself for not remembering why you got a tattoo on your cheek. Then realize that it's the stamp on your wrist that you got for your law prom's open bar. Sorry for that panicked morning phone call, Mom.

4. NEVER, and I mean NEVER, drink anything named after a suicide pilot. Nothing pleasant can come from it. Screw you Kamikaze.

5. Last, I would be the worst bulimic chick ever. It might have been the questionable 3 course meal or lesson #4, but I felt absolutely horrendous this morning. I have not vomited since 2006 (screw you Taco Bell). I spent one hour trying to induce vomiting. NO CIGAR. I called mom, asked the internet, and nothing worked. Hence, I have come to the conclusion that the best way to kill me is by orally poisoning me because I will not be able to regurgitate it fast enough. Good story, huh?

Good Booby To You!

Today was a day for a professional outfit. Class presentations deserve at least sooooooome effort. I decided on my button-up collared shirt and some black straight-leg slacks. Very Audrey Hepburn instead of the usual homeless person meets Punky Brewster.

I packed my bag and began my walk to school. There are a couple churches and rehabs in my neighborhood, so I often run into homeless people and the elderly. La dee da dee da (that's the sound of me walking. Precious, I know). An old man walked past me and said "Good day young lady." Totally brightened my day. Old people are so cute. Then a homeless man sitting on the curb said "You have some change." Notice the lack of question mark. Keep that in mind. Once I reached the rehab, some tatted-up Jesse James look-a-like said "You have a good day. I know I will."

Okay, that's it. What the heck is going on? I never get this much attention. An Audrey Hepburn outfit is just an outfit, I still have my face. I look down at myself. Oh, oh. OHHHHHHHH. My shirt was half unbuttoned and my chest was freer than Willy. I looked a little further down. Oh. My fly was also open.

Lesson of the Day: Look in the mirror before you leave home. So much for my attempt at class. I am forever sticking with my homeless person meets Punky look.

Dear Alcohol, Why You Gotta Do Me That Way?

At what point in my life did one shot of tequila turn into feeling like some dirty groper slipped me a roofie? Three drinks last night. Three drinks. Three drinks and I wake-up looking like Snookie after a bar fight and, well, just looking like Snookie in any shape or form is enough for you to send me a care package and a hug. 

College. Those were the days. The days when I could drink Popov Vodka mixed with Franzia boxed class and still have enough dignity to be one K-Fed away from a full-on Britney. I would wake up in a lawn chair, go on a jog to the dining hall, eat something that was probably meat but was supposed to be cereal and then do it all over again. My young liver deserved a box of chocolates and a bag of Funions. That's how I say thank you.

Present. These are the days God punishes me for all the white lies I told in my youth. Yes, Mom. I was the one who peed on the dining room floor because I could not make it to the bathroom in time...not the dog. What?!!! I was 4 and still learning bladder control. Gosh. The hangovers are just so bad. Absolutely awful. One drink or 15 drinks, it doesn't matter. It all leaves me with the same question and feeling the next morning: How the shit does that Betty Ford drop-out Lindsay do it??? Worst part is that I don't vomit. I love that word. It's like the adult version of puke. Probably how people know that I am not a minor...because I use adult words like vomit and vagina. Where was I? I got sidetracked. Oh yeah. I don't vomit, so all that alchy is just festering in my stomach with 5 microwaved quesadillas I somehow managed to eat.

Ugh, this computer screen is making me dizzy. I need cures. I wish the Golden Girls was on TV.

When I Grow Up

Remember when adults used to ask "What do you want to be when you grow-up?" and you used to say something so awesome like astronaut or archaeologist or Heidi Fleiss. Don't judge. Homegurl had an E! True Hollywood Story. Then, all of a sudden you're in your junior year of high school with sexy acne and ridiculous insecurities and the only thing you care about is your prominent buttcrack hanging out them slutty low-rise jeans. Baby got more back than a wall at a high school dance.

 

               

Now that you've figured out that becoming an astronaut requires good grades and a lack of make-out sessions with your BF, you decide to go all Robert Frost on the parentals and take the road less traveled. "Mom, I don't want to go to college. I want to be an ARTIST." Yeah. You might as well tell your parents you're preggers with Roman Polanski's baby.

Don't you worry your little touchas off. I have developed a pretty decent argument for not going to college: "Snooki went to college."

U Kan Go To Kawledge Just Lyk Me

BRB. Gotta Go Get Gay Married.

Fine, fine. I am not gay, but my mom has asked me if I am gay enough times to make me an honorary:

First time:

Me: I don’t want to wear heels.

Mom: Are you a lesbian?

Second Time:

Me: I love hockey.

Mom: You know…you can tell me if you’re gay.

Third Time:

Mom: (looking at a picture of my then boyfriend) So, you’re gay?

No, but for serious. I am completely perplexed as to how a member of the Ku Klux Klan has the right to express hate under our constitution, yet a gay person in the military cannot utilize those constitutional rights they are fighting to protect. Maybe it is that very legitimate fear that if you hang out with gay people, you will catch the gay bug and become gay too. Again. A completely legitimate fear. Kind of like, if you hang out with black people, you will probably become black. Right? Oh. Is that silly? Weird.

Thank God, U.S. District Courts are shedding their negative Nancy persona and making some intelligent decisions regarding equality. So far, Proposition 8 and the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” crapicy (Crap + Policy…Webster better not try to jock my style) have been found unconstitutional. Word to yo mutha! Of course, these judgments will be appealed, all the way to the mystical court of the supreme…the one with Scalia, not Diana Ross. Hopefully, the court will hear the cases. Also, let’s cross our fingers and hope that butthole Scalia doesn’t compare homosexuality to murder this time.

Hot Damn!

Hot damn! This song makes me want to go all Striptease up in this heezy. Where's a dirty stripper pole when you need one? I love songs that make you want to do a little dip and make that scrunchy/kissy sex face. Thank you bald Annie Lennox.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLykoLuljWM

Gavin De-LOVE

I have been obsessed with Gavin Degraw since my junior year of college. My obsession really started when the hairriest man in the universe - my ex-boyfriend of course - would sing Gavin songs to me. It was so romantic. His drinking 37 beers in one day...not so much. POINT IS, if Gavin could make my relationship with a hairy drunk hobbit last 7 months too long, then Gavin deserves a medal, a big gulp, and a blog post.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgh9T1easaU

You're obsessed now too. Aren't you? Well, BACK THE HECK UP. He's mine.

Recommendations. Yes, I Have Some Insight!

I tend to love when friends recommend a new product or thing to do. So, every now and then, when I think of something nifty to do or use something that makes me yell jimminy cricket (that means it's good), I will dedicate a little blog post to it. I am that cool.

New Lash Blast Fusion Mascara - By Covergirl

No. I am not one of Tyra's new Top Model minions, released into the world with a script to promote CG products. This is mainly because I am 30 inches too short, and 40 face blows too ugly. BUT, I am a miniature/average looking human being here to tell you that this new mascara is wonderful.

I am not a fan of any other CG mascara or any other of the stupid lash blasts. Mainly because "Lash Blast" sounds like your eyelashes will have explosive diarrhea if you use it. Oh, don't deny it! But, also because the mascara would never dry on my lashes, nor make them as voluminous as it said it would. Tear. This new mascara is made to not only volumize but also lengthen your lashes. IT ACTUALLY DOES IT!

So, my awesome lady readers, male too (whatever floats your boat), go out and spend the $8.59 on Lash Blast Fusion. Totally worth it.