The latest incident of camera malfunction happened this past weekend at my aunt’s wedding.  Um, how do I say this delicately?  It was… um… an abortion.  The wedding, not the camera.  Well, the camera a little bit, but nothing compared to the wedding.

First off, it was a Greek Orthodox ceremony.  In Greek.  Which I do not understand.  And which no one else in the wedding, including the groom, speaks.  It was pretty awkward.  Also?  My aunt decided to make the 4 year old flower girl stand at the top of the aisle with me.  Totally cute, right?  Except the ceremony is 10,000 hours long, and this little girl had a .000001 second attention span.  This meant that every 45 seconds or so, she turned to me and said loudly, “Is this the end?”  “Is this the very end?”  “Is it the end yet?”  “Is it over?”  “Is it over now?”

Finally I told her that she had to be quiet because she was making Jesus angry.  I’m kind of awesome with kids.  Except it backfired when she the said, even more loudly than before, “Is Jesus a ghost?” “Is that man (points to random painting) Jesus?”  “Is that man (another random painting) Jesus?”  “Does God live here?”  “The old lady said you can’t go outside alone because there are drugs outside.”

About half way through her stream of consciousness diatribe on religion and drug use, I decided we were soul mates.  And I should probably kidnap her and make her say cute and unintentionally hilarious things all day.  Luckily for her, I remembered how much I value my sleep and decided to let her continue living with her parents.

After the ceremony, my aunt’s new husband told Ev to call him dad.  Evan’s face looked a little like this:

Then it was time for the reception.  Oh, the reception!  I can’t do it justice with mere words, but I’ll try.  Where to start?  Um, my father was a gigantic ass, as was expected.  The real treat came when my aunt’s new husband came up to me during dinner, and said, “That’s a big piece of meat for such a little girl.  Can you handle it?”  Seriously.  He said that to me.  At his own wedding.  To my aunt.  It was pretty much the classiest thing I’ve ever seen and/or experienced.  But this was nothing compared to the center ring event, when the groom and one of the guests got into a screaming match.  I believe the word “douchebag” was used pretty liberally.  As was the phrase, “don’t fuck with me.”  Then there were tears.  Honest to God tears.  This, my friends, is why you don’t do 4 shots of Ouzo before your own wedding.  And also, why you don’t take another 27,804 additional shots at your wedding reception.  It doesn’t end well.  Little bit of wisdom from me to you.

And now back to my original point, which was that I am in desperate need of a new camera.  Any suggestions?  Nothing too complicated, I’m barely smart enough to draw stick figures, so keep that in mind when making a recommendation.

In closing, here are some awesome pictures taken with my awesome camera at the awesome wedding:

Here’s the deal, I am a crazy person.  Being crazy is often rather amusing (or scary, depending on your perspective).  But there are times when being crazy is just fucking exhausting.  This has been one of those exhausting times.  As I’ve mentioned before, I am a clinically intense person on a good day.  My body’s response to relaxation probably looks an awful lot like your body’s response to being chased and subsequently eaten by a large bear.  I feel a constant buzzing, my muscles are always tense, I fidget, my thoughts race.  That’s just how I feel all the time.  Even with meds and therapy.  I’ve come to accept this.  Embrace it even.  See, there are some totally awesome benefits to being really intense.  Like, my house is always clean!  And I never run out of hand sanitizer!  And while you’re sleeping, I’m using that valuable time to come up with disaster recovery plans so that I’ll be prepared in case of an earthquake in New Hampshire!

Now that we’ve covered the upsides of my particular brand of mental illness, let me clue you in to some of the less desirable side effects of insanity.  There are times when its like my body literally can’t handle being so keyed up anymore.  And my body?  It has no fucking idea how to RELAX.  Relax is not a word my body understands.  Whereas a normal person might say, “Hey Body, I am totally exhausted from all this stress we’ve been under.  How about we spend a weekend lounging on the couch and doing nothing?  That will totally help us recoup.”  And then the normal person’s body would be all, “Dude, sure!  That’s exactly what we need!”  My body is more like this:

Jill: Body, we totally need to relax.  Lets watch some tv and just take it easy.

Body: DOES NOT COMPUTE

Jill: I’m just saying, lets take a long hot bath and relax.

Body: ERROR!  ERROR!  DOES NOT COMPUTE!

Jill: BITCH, FUCKING RELAX!

Body: Commencing flu sequence.  In 3, 2, 1.  Virus initiated.

And then I get sick.  Because that is the only way to get my body to slow down.  You know the expression “worried sick?”  Dude, I’m living it.  And its fucking annoying.  The whole mind/body connection thing?  Kicking my ass.

When I start to feel like this, the come down, I tend to become very withdrawn.  To be honest, I’m a pretty internal person in general.  While I am not shy and I think most people would probably describe me as outgoing, I have always I liked to spend a lot of time by myself.  Its how I recharge.  I enjoy my own company, which is a good thing since Ben’s job has him travelling 4 days a week.  What I’m getting at here is that it is not totally strange for me to not pick up any of my phone calls for a couple of days, but the way I’ve been feeling lately?  I know its not healthy.  And its a slippery slope.

If you’re been following me for a while, you’ve probably heard me describe myself as a mental health nut.  The same way someone obsessed with their physique would notice a weight gain of a few ounces, I notice even a slight change in my emotional barometer.  I have to because I know what happens when I don’t stay on top of it, and I can’t go through something like that again.  So when I notice that I’m a little depressed, or more anxious than usual I try to be proactive.  I try to talk about it, I make sure that I continue to eat and sleep regularly, I get outside, get some fresh air, get some exercise, listen to Brahms, write EXCITING CONTENT for my Internet friends.

My point is, I am okay for me.  I’m on a bit of an emotional downswing at the moment, but I recognize it and I’m addressing it.  I will be back to 100% soon, and until then here is a picture of Jesus to tide you over:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As LiLu always says…

Alright, folks, you know the rules.  Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

__________

Hi y’all. I’m Maxie and I write at this complete shit show of a blog called i hate so much. Many of my blog posts make people vomit, and this one is probably no
exception. You have been warned.

A few weeks ago i was at a friend’s house and the urge hit me.

you know… THE URGE. The urge that will not wait and makes your bowels feel like a bunch of midgets (excuse me, “little people”) are doing that michael flatley dance thing…Lord of the Flying Feet? Lord of the Flying Poo? Lord of the Something. You know what I mean.

Well it just so happens that when I got this urge my friends and I were getting ready to walk out the door to go out, so I knew that I had to make this thing happen RIGHT NOW and make it happen fast or I’d be stuck with a drunken poo in a bar stall that probably wouldn’t close and could be seen from the hallway or something. This is what goes through my mind when I plan my bathroom trips. I like to be prepared.

I run to the bathroom and let it out with no problem, thank the baby jesus, wipe, and flush. I think you can see where this is going. IT
DID NOT FLUSH.

I’m not one to be ashamed of my poos. I’m very proud of them and sometimes I’ve been known to photograph them and send them to my
friend cavy if they’re really good. But when you get caught at someone else’s house with people you barely know it’s a little more awkward.

I looked ALL around the bathroom for a plunger or a toilet brush to break up “the package” and there was NADA. I blew on the water to move
the paper out of the way so I could tell whether it was just a paper cloggage or a legitimate over sized load.

Turns out this one was like pre-fab home trying to go down a skinny, one-way city street.

It had been a few minutes and I knew everyone was

1) waiting to go and

2) very concsious of how long I had been in the bathroom so I did the
only thing I could think of.

I stuck my hand in the toilet and broke up my little friend by hand.

That’s all it took, and off it was to poo heaven.

I washed my hand VERY well and I went back out to meet my friends without any of them knowing the better.

I’m sure anyone who knows me in real life is wondering if they were there that night, and if I later caressed their back with my freshly tainted arm and to that I say…

I’ll never tell.

Ben’s job has him traveling four days out of the week, so I’ve kind of got a lot of time on my hands.  Also?  I have a crazy anxiety disorder that wakes me up every night without fail.  Leaving me with a dilemma, what to do between the hours between 1:00am and 3:00am…

When Ben is home, and I wake up in the middle of the night, I wake him up too.  And then I tell him long and rambling stories about whatever dream I was having before I woke up.  For example last night I woke up, and shared this gem:

Oh man, I was having this totally weird dream where I was in this car.  But then is wasn’t a car because it was made out of wood.  And my aunt was cheating on Bob with this guy that looked *exactly* like Bob.  And I found out because my car told me.  So then I was so angry that I threw this brand new dress I had just bought on the pavement.  Ben, are you listening?  Ben?  Oh good, I thought you fell asleep.  So, then I had to go to a wedding, but my dress was ruined.  Oh, and Evan was in the hospital, but she was okay.  She had like a parasite or something, but in my dream it wasn’t a big deal.  And then I woke up.

Don’t you wish you were married to me?  That Ben is one lucky man.

So, all those nights that Ben is “traveling for work” (or stalking hookers, no one knows for sure) I have to find other ways to quell the voices in my head.  This brings me to my confession.  Guys, I have an addiction.  To Xanax.  But also, to the My Heritage Celebrity Look-alike feature.  Its unhealthy.  In addition to running millions my own pictures through the search, I also like to run my friend’s photos.  Then I send my friends long, and probably scary, emails detailing which celebrity My Heritage thinks they look like, and whether or not I agree.  Strangely enough, no one ever responds to these emails.  Huh.

Occasionally in these emails I’ll share ideas of ways to improve the My Heritage Celebrity Look-alike search.  Like, wouldn’t it be awesome if there was one of the options was to upload pictures of your tits and you could find out who your celebrity breast twin is?  GENIUS!  I think mine would be Frankie Muniz.  Get it?  Because I have petite breasts.  OR what it you could upload pictures of your boyfriend/husband/mailman and find out which Ninja Turtle he has the most in common with?   My life is sad, huh?

Anywho, here are the results of some of my more recent searches.  Now please get thee to My Heritage and tell me what celebrity you look like (leave a comment, send me an email, post it on your blog, whatever.  We’ll be united in our celebrity-obsessed-self-absorption.  Validate me?).

Narcissism, more fun than you might think! <- My slogan for narcissism.

Sanding.  Aw, working with my hands is fun!

Still sanding.  Hmm, maybe this manual labor thing isn’t all its cracked up to be.

Still fucking sanding this fucking chair.  Cursing the existence of all chairs and sandpaper.

And this is my way of telling you that regularly scheduled posting will be on hold through the weekend, as I am in the process of moving/murdering people/possibly getting arrested due to the murdering which is a direct result of the moving.  In closing, please get your bail money ready.

Have you ever seen that show The Pickup Artist?  It is fucking awful.  Its like the single worst thing humans have ever created.  The basic premise, is that this totally weird guy (named Mystery.  seriously.) will teach all of these other totally weird guys how to pickup women.  He imparts such wisdom as, “You can’t be too nice to a woman.  You have to compliment her and then be a total asshole, and then its blow job city!”  Or, “All women are like little girls.  Blah blah blah, something offensive.”  Are you understanding what a giant douche bag this guy is?  Because here’s the thing, if I saw him on the street, I would punch him in the face and gladly spend the night in prison.  I hate this man.  I hate the gigantic fuzzy hats he wears.  I hate the goggles he wears over said fuzzy hat.  I would like to make this man eat his fuzzy hat, while I punch him in the face, while he confesses that he’s a virgin, and also he’s crying.  It looks a little like this:

The point?  My guilty pleasure is not bad tv.  My guilty pleasure is uncontrollable indignant rage.  I had this epiphany today while watching Megan Wants A Millionaire.  And frankly?  I’m a little scared of myself.  I’m also afraid for our television which came dangerously close to getting broken today.   There was an incident.  A shoe throwing incident.  Luckily that shoe was a slipper, so all was safe. 

So, I think I learned something new about myself today.  You know how some women need to just cry it out now and again?  And the catharsis is just like the most awesome anti-depressant ever?  I release all of that pent up lady emotion, by yelling the following at the tv, “Bitch, so help me Jesus if I ever see you on the street I am going to make you eat that fucking ridiculous hat.  Ben?  Get the bail money ready.  I am going to call into work next week so I can stalk this guy and unleash violence all over him.”  Then I feel better.  I mean, its a better outlet than killing homeless folk, right?  I mean, who knows what I might do if I didn’t have reality tv to direct all of my anger towards?  So, in closing, thank you reality tv for keeping me from murdering real live humans.

Let me explain something to you.  You know how yesterday I posted that really embarrassing vlog?  This story is so much worse.   So.Much.Worse.  The upside?  Its not about me!  Score!

Background information:  I went to the nerdiest and most awkward college in the history of education.  It was like 99.87% male, and the guys were awesome and sweet and smart, but also?  Most of them?  Not super experienced with the ladies. 

Okay, so its 2002 and I am friendly with a certain fraternity member, we’ll call him Jack (because that’s his name because that is an awesome alias).  I’m 20 billion percent sure that Jack had never seen a real live naked lady.  This much was very obvious.  Evidence?  He called breasts “boobies” like in a totally serious, trying to be sexy way.  Like, “Oh man, I’d love to touch her boobies!”  Did you just throw up a little?  I know.  But man up, because its only going to get worse.  Jack has clearly never had sex, but he talks about “all the chicks he banged back home” basically non-stop.  Apparently, Jack thinks his right hand is several chicks.  Sad.

Around this time I also had a very trampy friend named Heidi (total alias or is it).  Jack thought Heidi was very doable (by the by, men?  doable is not a compliment.  just wanted to pass that info on.) and he told her so at a particularly drunken party.  Heidi was suitably impressed and now felt like removing her panties.  And it was on.  Magical?  I thought so too.

Cut to Jack’s room at the frat.  Heidi’s naked, Jack is naked, intercourse is imminent.  Jack refers to Heidi’s breasts as boobies.  Heidi is a little concerned, but figures he was just trying to be funny.  Or something.  Foreplay continues.  It gets a little oral.  Then Jack bites Heidi’s vagina.  Let me repeat for you, he.bit.her.vagina.  Not like super hard or anything, but apparently it wasn’t pleasant.  So Heidi is all, “Um, what are you doing?”  And he’s like, “Oh, my old girlfriend used to like that.”  Red flag number two.  Which Heidi ignored.  And the hooking up continued.  Heidi is such a trooper!

Fast forward to an indeterminate time later.  Intercourse commenced.  Heidi suggests switching positions.  She tells him she would like to do it doggie-style.  Jack seems hesitant.  He’s like, “Oh, I don’t know…”  But Heidi isn’t taking no for an answer.  So, she gets on all fours and then… he inserts his penis in her ass.  Because that’s what he thinks doggie-style is.  Heidi is not happy.  Things end poorly.  She is yelling at him.  He is insisting that, “that’s what doggie-style is!!”  Then Heidi left and told everyone that Jack was a virgin who didn’t know the difference between anal and doggie-style.

And that, my friends, is way more awkward than a tranny hooker vlog.