Awkward Sex and the City

Penises

2012-02-10T09:00:00.000-05:00

Penises have always, always confused me. And when I say confuse, I kind of really mean that I have always been jealous of any person with a penis. You people with your penises; you live a charmed life.

But alas, no matter how long I chased after this “fairy tale” life. I was never able to capture this wanting. No, this need, to pee standing up.

It happened when I was seven. I accidently walked in on my brother in the bathroom, and there he was. Peeing and standing! It made absolutely no sense. How was the pee making it into the toilet? How did I not know I could do this?

I closed the door, allowing my brother to finish his “important” business and impatiently waited. And waited.

“Come on, Nathan! You’re like a girl in the bathroom!”

He opened the door, with the putrid smell of ass wafting in the bathroom.

“Enjoy.”

But I didn’t care. This was going to be my moment. Adrenaline rushing, I flew into the bathroom –forgetting to close the door –unbutton my pants and wait for the sound of tinkling. But it didn’t happen.

“Natalie Paige Wall!” screamed my horrified mother as she caught me hovering over the toilet and staring down at my pee-drenched underwear.

“What are you doing?!”

“Peeing.”

She grabbed my hand, shoved me into new clothes (which was a dress that I absolutely hated and threw a fit about) and dragged me outside to my father.

“It’s time for the talk.” She said airily to my dad.

“Really?”

“Talk to your daughter!”

Twenty minutes later and a lot of awkward phrases from my father, I was pissed off. All of a sudden god seemed like a dirty little bastard to me. Life was so unfair. Never would I get to write my name in the snow with my own pee. Never would I be able pee wherever I wanted. It was so wrong, so unjust. But God couldn’t have thought of everything. There must be a loophole.

“Wait, so why don’t I have a penis again?”

“Cause, you are a girl.”

“Wait, can I grow one?”

“No.”

“Can I make one?”

“No.”

“So you are telling me that I can never pee standing up.”

“Yes.”

“What if I arch my back?

“No.”

My father was lying! This was bullshit. I know I can pee standing up. I can just feel it. So, whatever, I don’t have a penis. Saying I can’t pee standing up just cause I’m a girl, well, that’s just racist, dad. I just need practice, that’s all.

And oh, did I practice. I practiced in my bathroom, I practiced in my parent’s bathroom, I even practiced in public bathrooms at the mall, but my mom always seemed to catch me.

“Natalie, why are your feet facing the toilet?”

“I don’t know.”

“God dammit, Natalie!”

But it never happened. No matter how hard I tried and no matter how far I arched my back. I never heard that tinkling sound of success.

To this day, I still sigh a breath of jealously any time I see a guy pee standing up. It was never a hygiene thing for me or some OCD thing. It was pure laziness. You men get everything, and you don’t even appreciate it.

Words that gross me out...and kind of piss me off...

2012-02-07T09:00:00.001-05:00

1. Smear

…Nothing good can come from “smearing” anything onto anything. Well nothing that isn’t food related. So yes, Ray Liotta…you may smear chocolate all over my body, but only if you insist.

2. Vagina

…Vaginas are icky, which is why I like to stick to my very scientific vernacular of “lady who-hahs.” Trust me…I’m a lab assistant at Mt. Sinai, and yes they all think I’m hilarious. Well all the black sassy nurses think I’m hilarious…

3. Clitoris

….Ew.

4. Tinkle

…What are you four? Any adult that uses this word in a serious manner, should be force fed lard. Immediately.

5. Moist

…This word is ONLY okay when you are talking about red velvet cake…and German chocolate cake…and Twinkies…

6. Bowel Movement

…Basically, if you this phrase in a serious matter, I would also life to force-feed you lard, because I’m assuming you use the word “tinkle” too. Don’t you?! You sadist piece of shit, you!

7. Puss

…Probably because I always accidently say “pussy” when I try to say “puss”, and then I get super embarrassed when people call me out for saying “pussy” instead of “puss.” Whatever…fuck you all! It’s still fucking gross.

8. Family

…Ew.

9. Secretion

…Things shouldn’t “secrete.” They should be “injected” with Bavarian crème…chocolate crème…. artificially enhanced lemon goo crème…

10. Babies

…This is just the most unnecessary blight on society ever created.

11. Thick

…Unless you are talking about a burger, this word has no meaning to me.

12. Prenatal

…Stop shoving your prenatal hullabaloo in our faces, assholes. (See #10) Just eat your fucking vitamins and shut the fuck up. Unless you want me (and the rest of the rational society) to ralph onto your “prenatal” stomach. Believe, I would be honored.

Uh, lets be nice, America.

2012-02-03T09:00:00.002-05:00

It never ceases to amaze me how appalling the normal human being can be when goods and/or services are involved.

Being a dick to the person behind the register is not going to get you what you want. Being a dick to the customer service lady is not going to get you what you want.

ACTUALLY, pretending like you care about the customer service lady’s teacup poodle, while they look to see if they can order your iPhone three weeks before your original upgrade date is the best way to get what you want.

I know, America. I know. We’ve been told that to get stuff done men need to be assholes and women need to be stone cold bitches. But this is just a lie that assholes and bitches have repeatedly told us all to feel less crappy about their own personal crappy actions upon society.

You want to get something? Be nice. Be overly enthused by the person’s mere existence on Earth. Shoot. Tell them they piss intelligence and oooooooooooooze sex appeal. Lavish them with compliments. And maybe buy them some chocolate? I don’t know, chocolate always makes me nicer, so I’m assuming that tactic will work on everyone.

This is not rocket science, people. We’ve all been in this situation before. Whether you were the person being crapped on, or if you were the crapper-oner.

I just recently had my phone go to the crapper three weeks before the original upgrade date and after repeatedly being told that I would have to wait at least two more weeks to replace my phone, I bit the bullet and finally called the main customer service line.

After being on hold for Christ’s knows how long, frustrated and a little bloated, I was furious. I wanted to lash out at whoever was going to be on the other line. But I didn’t. I’ve been on the other side of this situation, and I knew if I had one hint of attitude in my voice, I wasn’t going to get squat.

So I bit my tongue, pretended like I was a southern belle, and allowed the compliments to roll off the tip of my tongue.

“Oh my goodness gracious! You have a poodle? Well do tell!”

Maybe this is just a unique situation for myself, but I have this weird ability to get strangers to talk about anything. Either that, or I just know when to be nice to get what I want.

Next thing I know she says the magical words,

“Well let me just check something.”

Three days later, I had my brand new iPhone. All because I was nice to the stranger with the power, well that and my killer southern accent.

Birth control, why are you trying to kill me?

2012-02-01T09:00:00.001-05:00

Birth control scares the shit out of me and I mean really scares the shit out of me. I pretty much think it’s going to trick me into thinking I’m not pregnant and then 10 months later I’m watching the premiere episode of my belligerently-sassy self, on “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.” Well, either that, or it’s just going to kill me.

We’ve all seen the commercials:

“Have you taken Yaz?”

“Yes…”

“Did you die, yet?”

“No…wait…what the?!”

Now, I’ve never used the pill and I never will, because yes, I think it’s going to kill me. So instead, I use condoms, but those are only 99.99% effective. So, um fuck.

Of course any time I have protected sex, I think I’m pregnant, and my period is so fucked up to begin with, it’s impossible to track.

So instead of being smart and calming the fuck down, I just get on WebMD and cry myself to sleep because WebMD says I’m either pregnant or rabies or that I have a brain tumor that about to explode out of my left earlobe, and at this point of my hysteria, I’ll take the brain tumor.

And for the record, just to make myself sound a little more sane for being freaked out be WedMD's diagnosis for pregnancy, the symptoms they give are basically the same things that happen right before your period. So according to WebMD, you're either about to get your period...or your about to be given the unwanted gift of life.

Sidenote: WebMD is seriously pissing me the fuck off lately!

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m pro-life, well technically, I’m pro-my life, and a baby would just really mess that shit up right now.

My friends have even offered to take care of my potential “love mistakes” in the past and probably only because they knew I was crazy and that I was not actually pregnant.

So what needs to be done? Well there are a plethora of things that should be done. Like fixing global warming and finding Waldo. But until then I think I'll just drink.

WebMD needs to go to hell.

2012-01-30T09:00:00.001-05:00

I am so sick of getting a sore throat, perusing WebMD for a good two hours, only to self-diagnose myself with rabies. Now I’m stuck with the task of trying to talk myself out of this obviously rational thought.

Have you ever been inside my head, WebMD? It’s not fun is it? And yeah… I haven’t figured out why it’s so sticky yet either.

So stop telling me I’m going to die, WebMD! Or that I’m pregnant, which is basically telling me I’m dead, you asshole.

Sadly, this is a true story. I actually thought I had rabies two weeks ago. I woke up after a night of drinking with a weird scratch on my wrist that looked like an animal bit me and it didn’t help when people confirmed this fear.

“That looks like an animal bit you...hard.”

So of course at 2 AM and quite possibly buzzed, I found it completely necessary to Google the symptoms of rabies, which inevitably led me to magical land called WebMD.

Now, was it just a coincidence that I had an ill-fated bite mark on my left wrist? And that I had a terrible sore throat that day, which inevitably got worse as I coughed up my beer at the sight of the symptoms of rabies? AND come on, who isn’t scared shitless by water?!

MY. THOUGHTS. EXACTLY.

Obviously, I didn’t sleep that night. And obviously, now my poor roommate was bestowed with the gift of having to talk me out of the absolutely real rabies diagnoses.

“Matt, tell me I don’t have rabies.”

“You don’t have rabies.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“So I have rabies?”

“You have rabies.”

“…God damnit.”

I wish all of this wasn’t true. I wish I wasn’t fucking crazy, but sadly this is what happens when crazy ladies are given access to Google.

I can honestly tell you I’ve been freaking out about this rabies “situation” for the past two weeks AND I can tell you that if I suddenly stop posting... it’s because I’ve died from rabies.

In lieu of flowers, please send pizza and cases of Michelob Ultra to St. William of York. She was a sassy bloke and will surely be missed… by her dog, Stella.

So let’s eat and drink until we all vomit, it’s what Natalie would have wanted.

So, I have to know...

2012-01-27T09:00:00.001-05:00

Who would you choose to narrate your sex life?

Mind-boggling isn’t it? Isn’t it.

Can you tell I got distracted by "30 Rock" last night? Whatever, fuck off, that shit is like porn to me... (well it's nothing like porn to me, but Liz Lemon makes me more like a normal part of society.)

Any who, I chose…if you were wondering…Will Arnett, e-trade baby or Norbert from "The Angry Beavers."

The best answer may win some shit...maybe.

Now answer, bitch(es).

Crazy people LOVE this (points to herself)...

2012-01-25T09:00:00.001-05:00

It never fails, I seriously attract the craziest motherfuckers out there. Granted, living in NYC isn't exactly helping the situation, but COME ON.

Case in point, let's just look at a snippet of a convo I had with a lovely old-lady customer at urban outfitters the other day. Now read carefully, because she starts all sweet and old-lady like, but it does not end that way.

Crazy Old Lady: I love your shirt!

Me: Why thank you!

Crazy Old Lady: Such a beautiful shirt for a beautiful girl.

Me: Why thank you!

Crazy Old Lady: So what do you do?

Me: Uh...this.

Crazy Old Lady: Did you go to college?

Me: I did.

Crazy Old Lady: And this is the best you can do?

Me: Well...I'm also a nanny...

Crazy Old Lady: Back in my day, ladies didn't go to college to get a job like this.

Me: I see.

Crazy Old Lady: Yep. You'd graduate high school, get a sales job, then marry a boy.

Me: In a perfect world.

Crazy Old Lady: You girls now. You're all stupid. You know you have the ultimate power right?

Me: I do?

Crazy Old Lady: It's right here. (Motions to her lady parts.)

Me: Oh that. I was aware of that.

Crazy Old Lady: Boys think you all are all soooooo easy...and desperate.

Me: Wait? We aren't?

Crazy Old Lady: You'll never get married if you put out.

Me: Wait? I won't?!?

Crazy Old Lady: Have you heard of a "hump and dump?"

Me: I have not. ( I have by the way...who the fuck hasn't.)

Crazy Old Lady: It's when the boy takes you out, humps you, then dumps you.

Me: Oh.

Crazy Old Lady: Do not "hump and dump."

Me: I'll make a note of that.

Crazy Old Lady: Seriously, don't. You want to get married right?

Me: Meh, we'll see what happens.

Crazy Old Lady: You girls need to get your priorities in check.

Me: Probably.

Crazy Old Lady: Well if all else fails do some Zumba.

Me: I will!

Crazy Old Lady: Really?

Me: No.

Crazy Old Lady: Hah! You're a funny girl. (Looks me up and down.) But you really should look into Zumba. Goodnight!

Uh...yeah...cause that's a normal conversation to have with a complete stranger.

This is why I was fat when I was younger...

2012-01-23T10:36:00.000-05:00

1. Dunkaroos.

....i used to just hoard all the vanilla icing cups and finger to the mouth with that shit.

2. That gooey pure sugar shit that came in tubes.

....oh don't even pretend like this wasn't crack for 4-year olds...I used to sell this shit in the back alley of my private school in 2nd grade...I kind of wish that was a lie.

3. Reading.

...this probably didn't help...but god damn those Captain Underpants comics were fucking epic.

4. Corndogs.

....it's a gateway drug, really.

5. Ramen noodles (cooked or uncooked).

...god damn I could eat that shit any way/shape/form...and that is why I am proud to be an AMERICAN...and white.

6. Cake

...fat kids love cake...or so I've been told in numerous rap songs.

7. This guy.

...god damn you cookie monster...you brilliant genius you.

8. Ellio's Pizza.

...it's a gateway drug, really.

9. Eating spoonfuls of sugar...multiple times a day...

...no seriously I used to sit on my kitchen counter and eat pure sugar...then one day the sugar container was "misplaced" by my parents...only to have my parents find me hiding in the living room shoving spoons full of sugar into my mouth hours later.

10. Being fat probably made me fatter.

...well...it did.

Retail...what total horse shit.

2012-01-20T10:30:00.000-05:00

Retail…how the hell has no one written about this horseshit yet?

…let’s get one thing straight. I hate everyone…with the exception of whoever invented youporn.com/mayo/zingers….and you…dur.

However, retail has definitely destroyed my hope in humanity…well honestly, I never really had any to begin with…but now I just like to fart (silently) when a customer is bitching for no real reason.

…and the moment my scent hits their nostrils…priceless.

Everyone in retail hates people. We all know it. We all except and respect that fact…but for the few out there who like to pretend this is a fallacy…

Riddle me this:

Has an associate at any retail store said, “I’m sorry,” to you?

…exactly.

In the mere months I’ve been working in retail, I’ve quickly learned that “I’m sorry,” translates to, “I really don’t give a shit.”

…”You forgot your coupons? I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, I don’t give a shit.

…”You’re mad that you have to wait in this big awful line on Christmas eve because you procrastinated…I’m so sorry.”

I really don’t give a shit…bitch.

…”Oh no, now because you procrastinated we are all out of boxes and now you’ll have to scour this town for the only Dollar Tree open that may be open, but will inevitably be sold out as well…and will probably smell like a constant fart cloud is slowly sprinkling into your mouth…I’m so sorry.”

I’m…I’m not.

“You’re trying to return the shirt that you are wearing…without any tags…or proof of purchase…I doubt that’s going to happen…I’m so sorry.”

What the fucking fuck???! You’re trying to return the shirt you are wearing? The shirt that is on your body at this very exact moment as I openly mock you?!

Hmmm…how do I put this politely?

Yeah…I don’t give a shit.

I'm a nanny...

2012-01-18T10:22:00.001-05:00

Shocking, I know.

Well, yesterday the two boys wanted to play pretend restaurant and they made the menu specifically for me...

...did I just win the "best nanny ever" award? Why yes. Yes. I. Did.

Do you really think women can be funny though, nat?

2012-01-16T09:00:00.001-05:00

My grandma asked me yesterday if I really thought women could be funny. It immediately made sense why I haven’t seen her in five years, let alone go out of my way to call her in the past two.

But it does make me wonder. Do dudes actually find ladies funny? Or is it just an elaborate ruse to get down our pants?

It’s working…. By the way.

And, I’m not naïve about this subject. I am well aware that not every dude finds my mayo/Michelob ultra/blind hatred for Dora the Explorer antics hilarious. (Even though they totally fucking should.)

Years ago, I even had a dude I was hooking up with (and worked with…I’m classy I know,) say in front of me and others, “Natalie just thinks she’s funny, but she’s really not.”

Hold up.

I was screwing this dude and he couldn’t even fucking lie and just say he thought I was funny, to get more ass.

Side note: If you want to get down my pants, just say I’m funny. Say I’m fucking hilarious! God damnit, it’s not fucking rocket science.

Any who…obviously the said hooking up ended very quickly after that incident. And I had my revenge by concocting a brilliant nickname mocking this formal mistake, that EVERYONE both dudes and ladies thought was hilarious, thank you very much.

Well actually I had my ultimate revenge when he became the perfect example of how daily binge drinking can take a ridiculously hot dude and make him fat.

Who’s the funny one now bitch?!? Yeah, that’s right. It’s still me.

He still attempts to sext me on occasion to this day. He must really miss my sense of humor. That or my tits.

I then also read an article recently about the dude who books comedians on “The Letterman Show” where he said that female comedians are trying to hard to please an audience by acting like a man.

I’m not trying to act like a dude. If I could be girly, by golly I so fucking would. But I’m not. I rarely put pants on in the privacy of my own home. I peruse youporn.com wayyyyy to frequently. I’ve partaken in “who can shove the most meat into their mouths” competitions on more than one occasion.

This is not an act. This is just me giving up any chance of being a normal part of society.

And some find it funny….I think. Right? RIGHT?!?!

Subconscious Natalie...let's chat.

2012-01-12T10:51:00.000-05:00

My sex dreams are usually pretty shameful. I usually wake up drenched in a sin-sweat questioning out loud…

“Was I drunk in my dream?”

“Is my asleep Natalie more of a whore than awake Natalie?”

“Did I eat a whole package of bologna slathered in mayo before bed, again?”

And I must admit, this makes me really worry about subconscious…well to be frank…it’s not like I wasn’t concerned before…it’s just the past 13 sex dreams I’ve had have been kind of a red flag. A huge fucking red flag.

Sex dreams are not supposed to be embarrassing.

It’s like my inner psyche has even lower standards than my only reality…and that’s really low…

…dreams are the one place that Catholics can hide their sinful thoughts from Jesus/ Black Santa/the assistant manager at Taco Bell…

Whatever don’t act like he isn’t a god. Did Jesus give you 89-cent taco Sundays? Um, no he didn’t…all he did was die for you sins…big whoop.

…and I just proved my point.

Anyways, I’m convinced that my local pizza delivery boy has pulled an Inception shenanigans on my dreams because I wake up way too many mornings crazy deep dish pizza and sex.

…That or I watch way too much amateur porn.

…or I eat more than the average consumption of bologna…I also just had to sing the Oscar Meyer Wiener song out loud to correctly spell bologna.

God damn you, original speller of bologna…god damn you.

So is this what my life has come too? A plethora of meat/mayo/porn/shameful sweating… sprinkled with a few SNL marathons every Tuesday and Thursday?

And yet boys still want to boink me with their man junk?

It’s the riddle of the sphinx…I swear to god.

I'm sorry to report....

2012-01-10T11:17:00.000-05:00

So I’m sorry to report but I actually will not be writing about my NYE. My mom reads my blog religiously and honestly, I just don’t feel like getting “that” phone call this week…

“Really, Natalie? Really?!?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds. I swear.”

“Sure it wasn’t. By the way…what does ‘jungle fever’ mean again?”

“Oh, no going through a tunnel, going to lose y---“

Love you, mom. Seriously I do. I’ll call you after work today. The bleach worked amazingly, by the way!

So to make it up to you guys, I have compiled yet another brilliant list of why men should never be attracted to me/what getting high for two years straight does to your brain and/or Oh. Dear. God. I hope she’s lying (…I’m not).

1. One time I tried to steam a shirt I was currently wearing…I had a burn mark on my stomach for two months.

2. Tried to get one of my friends high but accidentally burnt half of her right eyebrow off…and didn’t tell her….don’t worry she figured it out.

3. I’ve been trying to write this post for the past three days.

4. I screamed, “We’ll double team it!” in my feature writing class senior year of college…the professor didn’t laugh…nor did the uber-religious Christian chick in that class.

5. You know what’s awesome? Spraying vanilla icing on a mini-donut.

6. You know what’s even more awesome? Spraying vanilla icing directly into your mouth.

7. I straightened my hair for three weeks because I was too lazy to walk down to Duane Reade and buy hairspray.

8. If I don’t have to leave the apartment that day…I won’t put on pants.

9. If I know I have to leave the apartment at a certain time…I won’t put pants on until five minutes before said time.

10. If Matt’s not home…pants will not be on.

11. I was a closeted Barney fan until sixth grade.

12. I have run into a screen and/or glass door five times in my life.

13. My mom has tricked me into eating a dog treat…well she tricked me twice.

14. One time I got so high, I started hallucinating and walked into my empty apartment only to hear, “THIS IS THE DEVIL!” My roommates found me sitting on the kitchen counter dipping Tostitos into a can of vanilla icing.

15. I have dropped sweet and sour sauce all over my legs twice in my life…one time I was super plastered and my roommates found me covered in sweet and sour sauce, screaming, “I’m going to kill myself!” after they had gone to work-out. SIDE NOTE: It was the same roommates from 14.

16. I’m currently not wearing a shirt...but I have a superman bra on…that I’ve had since I was twelve…

17. I usually watch “Intervention” with at least one 40 in my hand…prefereably a Hurricane.

18. I woke up with chocolate all over my bed the other day…I did not go to sleep with chocolate in the bed….

19. All siblings were banned from attending field trips from my brothers school, for something I did when I was four years old.

20. Champagne/Tequila and/or wine turns me into a Grade A whore.

....Turned on? That's what I thought.

I should be surprised, but I'm not...I'm really not.

2012-01-06T09:00:00.005-05:00

But seriously, they have some pretty legit deals on some sexy sex toys! ow! ow! Get on with yo' bad selves, sexy orthodox jews.

Check them out! Kosher Sex Toys

I hope I never change. Ever.

2012-01-04T09:00:00.002-05:00

My New Years was pretty epic and while yes I will write more about the actual night in the next few days seeing as its riddled with shit-showness and alcohol abuse, I have to take a second just to state how mother-god-damn-fucking happy I am right now.

And while yes I know that this moment is inevitably fleeting… there seriously is nothing quite as satisfying as the validation one can be given about their “less than stellar” life choices through pure monumental bliss.

I’m not saying I have finally gotten my shit together, because actually it’s quite the opposite. I’m a shit-show, sober and/or drunk. But I have finally accepted that that is who I am…a shit-show. A pretty hilarious shit-show if I do say so myself.

I’ve made some stupid choices in my life. Said some stupid comments. Done some stupid things. (I accidently shot hair spray in my eyes yesterday. I don’t think that really needs any explanation.) But they’ve all lead me to this moment of clarity, and for that I will be forever grateful.

And that’s why my new years resolution is to never forget this feeling. Even after I’m plastered, bawling in the corner of my bathroom because he broke my heart (that was years ago…but who am I kidding… it will happen again). Or when my “perfectly timed black joke” fails on stage. Or… when I accidently spray hairspray directly into my eyes in front of multiple people, only to fall on my ass because I’m laughing so hard at my own stupidity.

I’ve never wanted to be weirder more in my life, than this moment right now. You never remember the normal people in your life, but always the weird ones. And that fact alone will keep me happy for years….well that and industrial sized vats of mayo.

SCHAZAM!

And now to hold you all over until my next post, I have taken the time to jot down some of the epic things said between my friends and I on that lovely night we like to call New Years Eve. I will let you decide which ones I said:

“That dudes hot.”

“Yeah, I like his chucks. And by chucks I mean his penis.”

“Our priest’s name is father “who touches little boys.”

“I specifically remember thinking if I go to sleep tonight… I will die.”

“He got tipped over 50 dollars and received a slew a highly sexually comments directed at his penis… so yes… he had a good night.”

“BBBBBBBGGGGGGGGGIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFF!” (Black. Guy. I’d. Fuck….a term I created that urbandictionary.com still won’t recognize….assholes.)

“I remember thinking…if Kerry left she would have grabbed her coat…but it was still there.”

“And I thought… I’ll grab my coat after I find Natalie.”

“Our drunken logic is magical.”

“She’s a NYC girl she’ll find her way home…I want McDonalds.”

“She's dead let's just move on its what Natalie would have wanted.”

Texts I received that night after I was able to recharge my phone that :

“Oh hey. Where the fuck are you?”

“Natalie…where the heck are you…Kerry came home with us cause she lost you…if you need a way home call us an we will get you home…please call us.”

…yeah….it’s a good fucking story.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, FUCKERS.

Things only a lady-douche would hate...

2011-12-30T10:33:00.000-05:00

1. When people say shit like, “No regrets!” “Never live with regrets ya’ll!” “I’ll never regret any decision I’ve ever made….ever!” Really? You don’t have a single regret? Ummm….yeah…I’m calling bullshit on that one….

…because I’m pretty sure you regret whatever you did last night or I wouldn’t have awkwardly run into you at the local CVS pharamacy picking up your weekly prescription of plan B now would I?

“You know it’s only one pill now.”
“Oh is it?”
“Yeah…no regrets…”

2. Those god damn mother-fucking “CO-EXIST” stickers that I see on every god damn liberal hippie douches Datsun. That’s not even an eco-friendly car. Jesus Christ. I swear to god, it just has the fucking word “sun” in it, so now you think it’s all pro-environment. Who isn’t pro-environment?! Oh wait…I’m not.

…I swear to God there must be requirements to buy this fucking sticker.

“Do you have dreadlocks?”

“Yes.”

“Do you shave your legs?”

“Only in the summer.”

“Close enough…you are now the proud owner of the douchiest, of the douchiest bumper stickers.”

“Will some pale peusdo-ginger whose awkwardly cute come and kick the back of my car now?”

“Oh absolutely.”

…and I will (and have), too.

3. Nature.

….not a fan.

4. People who buy PBR because and I quote, “I like the taste.”

….douche.

5. People who like, no…looooooooooooove nature.

…douche(s).

6. People who don’t understand that there is an imaginary line separating your seat from there seat on the MEGABUS.

…there is an imaginary line separating your seat from my seat on the Megabus! So get your fat ass off the god damn imaginary line!

7. Running.

…I’m pretty sure running is the root of all evil.

8. Orange juice.

…stop being such a sour bitch, orange juice. No seriously, if you weren’t so fucking sour I’d probably like you.

9. People who have never tasted a Zero Bar before.

…Go straight to hell, I say! STRAIGHT. TO. HELL.

10. This whole, “no pants, no service” policy.

…look, sometimes I don’t want to put pants on…and sometimes I want to buy a couple of forties sans pants. And let’s be honest here…don’t the two go hand-in-hand really? I really hope your nodding your head because you agree and not because you are trying to distract me from the fact that you are calling the police. I applaud your effort, but I really want that fucking forty now, cashier lady-man!

My family knows me well...

2011-12-28T09:00:00.004-05:00

Why don't they make mayo flavored candles?!?!

...by the way, the candle smelled like Type 2 diabetes, so yes...I was pleased.

Oh wait? What is that? Mayo? In a bag?!?! It's all the rage in London.

That's dog shit! Well not really, it's just chocolate...I hope...because I definitely still ate it.

Actually, I lied...it's a glob of melted meth in a christmas bag. It. Was. Awesome.

You little fucker, Monte. You're cute as hell but you're basically a demon spawn, that I love. Monte is a dog, btw.

I will say this Monte, I am impressed by your ability to shit into a bag...few possess such talent. You have a gift my friend, don't hide it under a bushel basket!

Oh Hellmann, you do bring out the best...the best in ME!

Why yes...that is Dora the Explorer. And why yes...I did proclaim, "What the fuck?!" When I saw Dora's whorish eyes staring back at me when I opened the gift.

Oh wait, what's that Dora? You say you brought me gifts? Now what could a little whore like yourself give a drunk? Check your backpack? Well fuck a duck. I did want two 24 ounce Michelob Ultra cans! I really did!!!

Side note: I was plastered by 2 p.m. and spilling beer on myself by 8 p.m. pretty sure my dad said something along the lines of "Well Nat's been throwing back the beers since twelve...I couldn't be prouder."

So yes...Christmas was awesome.

How to deal with racism...

2011-12-22T09:16:00.002-05:00

It’s so hard to know what’s kosher to say with this generation, what with the P.C. police acting like the S.S. nowadays.

And I think the world would be a better place if we would just admit that we all are a little racist.

Every time a W.A.S.P. whispers, “I don’t see color” an angel dies.

Seriously, it’s true. Just like when it thunders angels are bowling and when there is a sun shower the devil is beating his wife. This is how science works.

Can we just all agree that we all giggle at a good black joke? Or that it warms our hearts when we see the old Asian lady back her car into a ditch? Or that Dave Chappelle’s impression of a white guy is fucking spot on?!

I’m sorry, but you politically correct people can get off your fucking high horse and kiss my fucking ass.

And I don’t care if you think I’m a racist, as long as you think I’m hot.

But the best part of this whole politically correct era is the people that are truly offended are the “Caucasians”…and first off, what the fuck are Caucasians? Seriously, what are they? Where is this elusive Caucasia? I heard it’s next to GAP, but that might just be a rumor.

Placing me within a certain group of people just because I have no pigment in my skin, well….that’s just racist. And I won’t fucking stand for it.

I like to believe that politically correct people lack acceptable personalities, have mediocre sex at best and smell like self defeat and L.L. Bean….

It’s really the only way I can really feel better about my offensive self, but fuck it, I’m not changing shit.

I bet you wont either. And if you laugh at this video….you shouldn’t change a thing.

This is why I was fat when I was younger...

2011-12-19T08:48:00.000-05:00

1. Dunkaroos.

....i used to just hoard all the vanilla icing cups and finger to the mouth with that shit.

2. That gooey pure sugar shit that came in tubes.

....oh don't even pretend like this wasn't crack for 4-year olds...I used to sell this shit in the back alley of my private school in 2nd grade...I kind of wish that was a lie.

3. Reading.

...this probably didn't help...but god damn those Captain Underpants comics were fucking epic.

4. Corndogs.

....it's a gateway drug, really.

5. Ramen noodles (cooked or uncooked).

...god damn I could eat that shit any way/shape/form...and that is why I am proud to be an AMERICAN...and white.

6. Cake

...fat kids love cake...or so I've been told in numerous rap songs.

7. This guy.

...god damn you cookie monster...you brilliant genius you.

8. Ellio's Pizza.

...it's a gateway drug, really.

9. Eating spoonfuls of sugar...multiple times a day...

10. Being fat probably made me fatter.

...well...it did.

This ain't no disneyland wedding...

2011-12-15T11:07:00.002-05:00

What I’m about to write is completely true. I have told friends, family, hobos and drag queens about my dream wedding, all of them waiting in intense anticipation for their frilly beige invitation.

I have even reenacted various moments for a select few of the ceremony, which have left me groaning in pain as I flip backwards in a fake drunken swagger. Yes…swagger.

My parents have already said that if I even attempt to make this dream wedding come to forwishen they will not pay…let alone attend. They said they’d be “disgraced.” Bitch please; I’m the epitome of class.

But that’s cool I can rent a dad to walk me down the aisle… a black one.

Here are the basics: I want to be obliterated, stumbling down the aisle, with a bouquet of Keystone Light cans. Not that I like Keystone Light, I just think it’s a well-known staple in any white-trash life-style.

I plan on ripping about 10-27 shots of Malibu (bitch drink, I know) with the bridal party moments before the ceremony begins.

“Low rider” will be blaring in the Catholic Church, preferable with George Lopez jumping on a trampoline in the faint distance. Kegs spray-painted like tires will line the aisles. Each keg will have a ten-foot pole. (Don’t worry it will make sense in a second.)

My bridesmaids will be forced to dance on top of every pole they pass; while each groomsmen throws monopoly money or condoms at them. But not me, I’m too classy for that.

I will be staggering two steps behind my friends screaming obscenities such as, “I’m not a virgin!” or “I had sex with that guy (pointing to the groom)…and that guy (pointing to the best man)…” or my ultimate favorite (pointing to my who-hah), “Why does it burn down there?!”

At one point I hope to fall flat on my face, and pretend to be unconscious. But I probably won’t be “pretending” since I just ripped 27 shots. I will stay on the ground for 3 minutes, then jump up miraculously and scream, “I just got hammered with Jesus!”

Now, at this point in the ceremony, I’m assuming the priest will try to attempt to stop my fairytale moment for some ungodly reason like sobriety, or some stupid shit like that. But I will have already bribed him with male hookers; sodomy saves the day once again!

By this time I will have vomited on my off-white (who am I fooling) Juicy Couture pantsuit, strictly for the elastic waistband. (I’m assuming I will have gained an exponential amount of weight by the time I get married).

The look of love on my soon to be husband’s face, will again procure vomit from my black hole of a mouth.

We shall say our “I-do’s” and my husband will be forced to kiss my vomit-drenched mouth. And when you see me I’ll be laughing at the world…slipping on my own vomit, but laughing nonetheless.

Glorious.

Random facts about myself that I'm proud of...but shouldn't be

2011-12-12T09:50:00.001-05:00

I'm basically about to ruin any chance with any dude that ever found me remotely cute.

Enjoy!

1. I buy mayo in economized sized vats as big as a horses head.
2. I used to like Vienna sausages.
3. I've had sex with a dude named Mordecai.
4. I still like Vienna sausages.
5. I've eaten a whole birthday cake in one sitting.
6. I am almost always half-naked while eating....it's really the only way to thoroughly enjoy food.
7. Web MD has brought me to tears because it made me think I was pregnant...on multiple occasions.
8. Almost threw up in class because of taking Plan B the day prior.
9. I've found Cheetos residue in my bra...on multiple occasions.
10. One time I got super duper high and dipped tortilla chips in vanilla icing. It. Was. Amazing.
11. I'm obsessed with the song "Electric Avenue."
12. The Cosby Show is probably my favorite sitcom.
13. I like Kesha...she's a lyrical genius, god damnit.
14. Cheez Whiz? Yes, please!
15. I don't believe in science....well I "believe" in it, I just don't respect it.
16. I used to have a rock collection.
17. I have a very distinct look, it's a little bit white trash...a little bit, "Does she have a roofie in her hands?"And a smidge..."Meh, she's doable."
18. I just had to Google "roofie" so I could spell it correctly.
19. When I place my cell phone on my stomach, I can't feel it vibrate.
20. I really have a gift at making friends with older black ladies in random places...I think it has something to do with my sassitude.
21. Hate sex is my favorite type of sex.
22. My first reaction to a dude staring at me will always be to check if there is food on my face...and there usually is.
23. A couple of weeks ago I killed a shit ton of nature with a stroller. It was the best day of my life.
24. I have sexually fantasized about my 11th grade AP english teacher...and I know I'm not the only one (ladies...and gentlemen).
25. I have febreezed my jeans...on mulitple occasions.

I was sooooooo cool when I was younger.

2011-12-09T09:34:00.000-05:00

“Mom, am I fat?”

“No…its just baby fat.”

It wasn’t.

I was fat. Not kind of fat. Not chunky. Not big-boned. And definitely not baby fat. Baby fat is allowed till the age of what? Five? I was at least 10 when I asked my mom this infamous question. And the truth is, I was fat. Like ate spoonfuls of sugar at one time, fat. Stole candy bars from the grocery stores, fat. Fat fat. Scurrying barefoot on the kitchen counter tops looking for the elusive sugar that my parents “conveniently misplaced” two weeks after I was discovered in a corner eating spoonfuls of sugar, fat.

Those bastards.

Walking into the grocery store on that autumn afternoon just seemed like the right moment to ask. I probably was going to steal a Snickers bar anyways, and that should have been proof enough but I wanted to hear it verbally. I wanted the words to ring in my ears; I wanted them to sear the fat right off of my love handles.

However, my plan backfired:

“No…its just baby fat.”

Wait…what? My mom just lied. Straight to my face. Wasn’t my mom, if anyone, supposed to tell her child that while yes, they had a stellar personality and yes, they were super funny, that sadly they were fat and kind of going through an, um I don’t know, ugly…I mean, awkward stage? How could she? How could she just lie like that?!

I stood there, shocked, in the middle of the crosswalk in my bright orange leggings with the elastic band since I couldn’t technically fit into jeans until I was 14, over sized black sweater splattered with bright orange pumpkins and candy corn (to divert ones eye from the fat, of course), and bright orange pumpkin bow placed strategically in the middle of my disproportionate head. Yeah, I was that kid.

My mouth opened, but there was no food to shove into the black hole.

“Nuh uh!”

But wasn’t that what I wanted to hear? Didn’t I want to hear that yes, I wasn’t fat? That yes, it was okay to steal candy? Yes, Cheese Whiz was a valid form of calcium. And yes in actuality, it’s vegetables that clog your arteries and fuck you up.

It was in this moment that I learned a valuable lesson: Mothers lie. A shit ton. Years later (and pounds skinner) I confronted my mom about this pivotal question in my chubby childhood:

“Oh god, you were huge!”

“I knew it. You lied!”

“Technically yes, but you were skinnier than your brother.”

I'm sorry.

2011-12-07T09:26:00.002-05:00

In all honesty…I feel like I owe you guys an apology. I haven’t quite exactly been bringing my A game this blog, so to speak.

I’ve sucked…if you catch my drift. And yes, I know you laugh…but is it out of love? Or out of obligation?

…cause if you don’t laugh…I’ll cut you. …I’ll cut you with the same knife I cut my mayo-drenched sandwiches with…now laugh bitches…laugh.

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I do all the same rituals…currently I’m half-naked, partially distracted by my boobs (they look sad from this angle….) just consumed a half gallon of mayo (on a sandwich…not by itself…freaks…okay maybe some of it was by itself…whatever, it’s not that weird.), there is a beer in my mouth (Michelob Ultra, mother fuckers) and yet, the magic is just not happening…

And it’s just not fair to you guys. You come back week after week…and for what? Some cheap mayo jokes…some light tom foolery?

Nay, I say! Nay!

You deserve more…you’re better than that. Even, my own mother said the last post sucked…talk about a reality check.

So it’s time for me to get serious…and no, that does not mean I’m getting rid of the mayo jokes…those bitches are staying forever… deal with it...mother.

It’s time to get into blind focus mode (which I must also point out, at this very moment my beer bottle is resting perfectly in between my boobies as I type this… now that’s pure talent right there).

But in all seriousness…I really am serious.

No more of this fucking around, my attention is all yours…I’ve deleted numbers out of my phone…believe me I can spend hours just randomly texting people who feel obligated to respond…it’s a beautiful system really.

…I’ve deactivating my facebook…okay…I’ve sorta deactivated my facebook…they just make it too fucking easy to get back on…god damn you Zuckerberg…god damn you.

I want to focus on you…more specifically I want to focus on you laughing at my embarrassing/awkward/sexually weird antics.

NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER!

…that being said…my A game is officially broughtededed…now laugh bitches…laugh.

Quite possibly the most accurate representation of myself via video...

2011-12-06T09:00:00.001-05:00

So let me set up the scene first before you clickity click click.

Basically I was about to record a vlog, but got distracted when Matt and I started talking about food (specifically chips and dip) and how much we would like to be having said food items at that very moment. He then says something along the lines about how he "almost" grabbed some earlier but got lazy.

...Now watch my reaction closely...because I'm pretty subtle about my feelings on this heart-breaking revelation.

Also, the second time I laugh I have no clue what the fuck Matt said, but it obviously shocked me into laughter. I do not like being shocked into laughter, Matthew.

And seriously, this is basically who I am in a 43 second nutshell. I curse. I eat. And I'm a little bloated.

This has not been a good week for the apartment...

2011-12-02T09:00:00.001-05:00

1. Matt's apartment key broke in half...while in the lock.
...not my key. Not my problem.

2. The fridge stopped working.
...right after I fucking bought groceries too! The only things salvagable were the fudge, cookies, reeces' cups, pecan pie and the apple pie...because we are jack asses and like our desserts refrigerated.

We are getting a new fridge today so that's cool. However, yesterday when I opened the fridge to cry at the lack of food inside...it was cold again. We just aren't going to tell the super about that one...

3. I had to kill this fucking prehistoric bug...

....and yes I cried while doing it....pure terror tears.

And let me clear up a couple of things...1. The bug was fucking huge... like three inches and it could fucking fly...so yes I crapped my pants when I first saw it. 2. Yes...that is a mouse trap...stuck to a Keurig...it wasn't the best plan...but it was the only thing I could think of at the time being...seeing as Matt said I couldn't use any of his shit to kill it... 3. Yes...it was a real bitch getting the mouse trap off of the Keurig...especially since that fucker was still alive...that was awkward. "Hey, little fella...I'm going to kill you soon...now that your wings are stuck to a Keurig coffee maker."

4. The fucking heater started leaking.
...which is conveinently located in my room...for christ's sake!

Now someone order me a pizza, god damnit.

I'm pathetic.

2011-11-30T09:00:00.000-05:00

There’s nothing more pathetic than the moment you catch yourself hiding in the bathroom from the two kids under the age of nine just so you can check the phone that you thought vibrated in your back jean pocket which only turned out to be your fat ass...hitting the other part of your fat ass.

Okay well there is something more pathetic….and that would be this…right now…me taking the time to write down the previous statement on a napkin….because this whore (me) is too lazy to remember to bring her god damn notebook with her even though she knows something brilliant is going to hit her….but oh no no no…this whore thinks she’s smart enough to remember everything.

….she isn’t.

Whatever…I’m about to rock this shit…J.K. Rowling style.

Boom, bitches.

But don’t expect any literary geniusness or some shit like that….but you can safely assume this post will be sprinkled with mild porn jokes and herpes…I don’t know. I don’t know.

Also…every guy I’ve ever boned that just accidentally clicked the link to my blog on facebook is freaking the fuck out right about now.

“I knew she had something, god damnit.”

Herpes was just a metaphor… for you had sex with a girl with herpes. HEYO!

Okay seriously I don’t. I like to wrap before I tap, thank you very much….well except that one time I didn’t…but I don’t.

And if you haven’t noticed…I’ve taken this post that did at one point have a sincere message, probably something about my fear of settling or my thoughts on the true meaning of life…something profound and genuine and have so subtly turned it into a joke about herpes and me somehow being a whore in some sort of a situation…

…I hope you’re laughing cause this is a gift my friends.

And now we are all just lost…

“What is this bitch talking about?”

What is this bitch talking about….I have no fucking clue….and I’m sober.

But maybe this is just what life is. Just stopping for a second and not thinking. Not a thought in the world but more of a moment, where you catch yourself in a setting that is void of words, because it’s the present.

You’ve had no time to think. There’s no need to think.

Sometimes I feel like I’m so caught up in my own thoughts/fears/online porn collection that I’m missing my own life.

For one moment in time I want to stop freaking out about the future…stop planning my every move and just chill…

Not trying to get all Ferris Bueller on your asses…but I’ve never really admitted this to myself…and I know if I don’t take the time to validate this fear it will engulf me.

And that’s what I want my life to be…just not thinking in the present of me not thinking.

Just don’t think.

….think about it.

The holidays always remind me of one thing…

2011-11-28T09:00:00.001-05:00

MRSA.

Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.

It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.

This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to Google image “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.

“Stop being a pussy, it’s just a spider bite… “

…It wasn’t.

I think I went about two days dragging my thigh along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”

When I showed my parents “it”... “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.

"…this is not good.”

“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”

So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite” but of course not before he could say…

“You have 24 hours to live if these antibiotics don’t work.”

…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.

My parents thought I was 5 and that ice cream would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.

…it did.

“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, okay?”

“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”

Now here’s the thing…my mother didn’t understand the difference between hot…and scalding…or she did but she wan hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.

…they didn’t.

Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…

“Shit! Damn! Fuck! Holy fucking Jesus.”

“Natalie…stop being a pussy.”

After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…not having my leg amputated…

“Hey Nat, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”

“Really, cause I’m worried about you dying…good night.”

…I cried all night.

Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case if you were wondering…

Bitches be crazy.

2011-11-22T09:00:00.001-05:00

I fucking love living with a dude (I’m not sleeping with). It fucking rocks.

I’ve lived with plenty of ladies, and let’s get real for one hot sec. Bitches be crazy. Like seriously…I’ve lived with many crazy ladies…and that shit is not fun.

Like…I don’t know what the fuck is going on up in their heads…but I am not a fan.

“YOU HATE ME DON’T YOU, NATALIE! DON’T YOU?!?!

“Well…yeah….”

Side note: I’m going to a shit ton of texts from former roommates saying,

“That post was really funny….WAS I THE CRAZY ROOMMATE?!?!?!?!?!?!”

“Well…yeah….”

But with a dude there is no crazy bullshit. No weird girly passive aggressiveness. There is no awkward

“I ain’t fucking doing the dishes, cause I did them last week” standoff that lasts for three weeks. Which leads to the crazy one to putting all her clean utensils in her underwear drawer… leaving you with only a spatula to eat your yogurt.

And I think that’s why girls get a bad rep…majority of you are crazy. I’m only weird. Weird can somehow be camouflaged as charming. How? I still haven’t figured that one out yet. But I know it’s a possibility.

Crazy though? You can’t really hide that fact for more than a week, tops. And my favorite part about crazies is they never fucking know that they are in fact crazy. They never understand why the shit they are doing is deemed crazy. They think you are crazy and a heartless bitch for not understanding the severity of their mindless crazy gibberish.

“I see absolutely nothing wrong with legitimately crying from pure rage jealousy when my boyfriend said he liked your car. ”

“Oh yeah. That’s not crazy at all. Oh no, especially after I said, “Thanks” to your boyfriend who was obviously just making small talk you ran into the apartment and locked yourself in your room for two hours, leaving me to awkwardly sit in silence with your boyfriend whom I had just recently met twenty minutes earlier… Only to have you read me a letter you wrote to me (which you managed to read while simultaneously crying…bravo!) regarding how you felt about the situation at hand. No. No. No. None of that is fucking crazy.”

Come on! Can you just get out of your fucking deluded sense of reality? If your roommates not doing the dishes is the worst part of your day…you’re doing good…also you are most definitely from the Caucasian persuasion.

Moral of the story: …crazy bitches piss Natalie the fuck off!

Boom.

My phone hates me.

2011-11-18T09:15:00.002-05:00

Basically my phone is a piece of shit...and it hates me. At this point I'm pretty sure it's jealous of my wit and just likes to make me sound slightly learning disabled via text. Which to be quite honest, I don't really need help in that deptartment.

And since my phone is being such a cunt the only productive thing I can do until it dies (or I replace it) is talk behind it's ugly black back (it's not racist because it's true).

That's right you piece of shit, let me just list the reasons why you are such a fucking a whore!

1. I can't text numbers.

...I have to write them out...which looks really weird when you are trying to tell someone to meet you at "twelve-thirty p.m."

2. I cannot use the letter "M" without texts automatically sending.

....80% of the time if I attempt to use a word with the letter "m" the text will just fucking send. So lately, I've been doing one of two things....1. Just giving up on the conversation and throwing my phone across the room...or...2. replacing the letter "M" with the letter "N" which gets a little awkward when I need to use the word migger.

3. My phone has conveinently stopped vibrating.

...which whatever does seem like a big deal but I have had my phone set to vibrate for over a year now. I use it for everything from receiving texts to my alarm clock, since I'm such a deep sleeper normal alarm sounds won't wake my fat ass up. Now I keep hearing weird noises coming from my back pocket...and it's freaking me the fuck out.

4. I can no longer use the delete button.

...if I fuck up a text that hasn't already automatically send. I have to trash it and start all over...my life is very hard.

5. I can no longer check recent missed calls.

...what the fucking fuck?!

6. Sometimes when I go to check my voicemail...the automated voicemail lady voice will tell me, "Your voicemail is currently unavailable, bitch."

...I will find you automated voicemail lady-bitch...and I will shove lard down your throat.

7. My phone will randomly delete texts (that I have sent and received).

...whatever...I didn't want to read those texts anyways...even if it was from the dude I'm basically in love with...you just don't want me to be happy, WHORE! And to think I almost set you up with that Blackberry.

8. The bitch will randomly turn off.

...fuck off.

9. The bitch will randomly turn on.

...fuck on.

10. The fucking phone will just randomly send my number to people via text.

...the best part about this little trick, my whore of a phone likes to perform, is that no one ever realizes it's my number. They always say "Thanks for the number...whose is it?" It's mine assholes...which means you don't love me...and now I'm going to cry into a vat of Hellman's mayo.

Me and my friend, Food.

2011-11-17T10:00:00.002-05:00

The fact that I am not morbidly obese yet baffles me.

I eat. Like a lot. Like I’ve finished whole pizzas on my own. Consumed full course dinners while still having room for a 12-inch sweet onion teriyaki chicken sub (with extra mayo) from Subway that was literally consumed in under ten minutes (and if you don’t believe me, I have people to attest to that to that glorious fact).

Condiments (with one in particular) hold a special place in my heart. I love you Hellman…always and forever.

There will be two cakes at my wedding. One for me and one for my guests…the one for myself will be bigger.

I have put chocolate syrup on bacon. On more than one occasion.

If that doesn’t scream “type two diabetes” I have no clue what the fuck does.

And it’s not like I’m fat…I mean I could be skinnier (said the white girl)…but I wear size six jeans. All the jackets that are currently in my closest rotation are size small. I’m what some would call a “little petite white bitch.”

Artery clogging amounts of s’mores, Oreo balls, cookies, etc. have been shoved into my mouth on multiple occasions. And I looked good doing it too…well I looked like I was about to vomit…whatever…tomato tomato. Hmmm…that saying doesn’t seem to work as well on paper. Whatever, fuck it. You know what I’m trying to say.

Even my roommate is baffled by my eating habits:

Matt: “I feel like you’re the monster in the village that I have to feed constantly or you’ll kill everyone.”

Matt: “I feel like in every scene you should be eating.”

Matt: “When you get famous can I be your personal assistant?

Me: “Oh god, I don’t even know what I would do with a personal assistant.”

Matt: “Are you kidding? Buy you food. Make you food. Feed you food. Go buy you more food.”

Even random people are baffled by this shit:

Waitress: “He got the single burger…she got the double (laughs). You think it be the other way around.”

…I did not leave her a tip.

And I’m not really complaining about this situation. I love to eat. And I’m lucky enough to not gain (that much) weight with my daily binges. However, I know this moment is fleeting.

Cause when this shit catches up to me…it ain’t going to be pretty.

My face has a certain "look"...

2011-11-14T10:46:00.000-05:00

I’ve been told that I have a look that says, “I like black guys.” So does my best friend…and don’t get me wrong... we do…we really do.

But it’s a weird thing to hear from random passersby, “You like black guys don’t you?”

Granted, it probably doesn’t help that I’m usually screaming, “Yeah…uh huh… you want it!” to these random passersby as I grab my love junk, which is either my boobs/ass/belly or a combination of the three, depending on my level of intoxication.

And for the record, I’m usually joking when I say that…usually.

Now the real question is: what is the “look?” What exactly is it about me that says “I am a lover of dark chocolate/fried chicken/majority of the Waynes brothers?”

Can strangers just tell that I’ve been watching “In Living Color” since I was seven? Or that my panties get all in a twist when someone buys me a 40? (Preferably a Hurricane.) Or the fact that I have a preference when it comes to 40’s, which means one could safely assume that I’ve consumed more than type of malt liquor on multiple occasions? Preferable when I’m watching “Intervention.”

… I’m sorry but there is no other way to watch “Intervention” than a 40 in one hand, and a crack pipe in the other… it’s better than porn…ha, who am I kidding there is nothing better than porn…nothing.

And why is it that I cannot see the “look” within myself, yet I can see the “look” in others? However, I can see the black guy in me… actually that’s a lie… it’s usually too dark for me to tell.

My best friend and I have deduced that it is more of an essence than a look. An essence of sass one could say. It cannot be seen, only felt… and it feels oh so good.

There are three types of men that like obnoxiously sassy girls: 1. The hobo on uppers down the street, 2. Gay guys, and 3. Black men. And um, I’m a little obnoxious (if you haven’t already noticed) so why wouldn’t I love all three? They are FABULOUS!

White guys like obnoxiously sassy girls too, it’s just the majority of white dudes don't know how to handle them. Probably because we are wild and free, like the unicorns running rampant in your minds.

Hence, the “I look like I like black guys” look.

This better become a real fucking show.

2011-11-10T12:20:00.001-05:00

I've never laughed so hard in my life.

I'm digusting...but you should be too, asshole.

2011-11-08T09:00:00.000-05:00

My parents think I’m disgusting. I don’t know why though.

However, I will say this: if it was socially acceptable to not brush my teeth on a regular basis…I so wouldn’t.

Gah. It’s just so fucking annoying, and you have to do it like what? Four days a week? Jesus Christ, it’s like a fucking full-time job.

Next thing you’ll tell me, I’m supposed to lather, rinse and REPEAT. Um, fuck that noise.

And don’t even get me started on deodorant. Am I right McConaughey? Am I right? It’s a biological fact that we all have a specific scent, and we are thus attracted to other people’s specific scents.

By covering our body with unnatural scents like cologne/ perfume/ febreeze we have unintentionally continued the vicious cycle of divorce/failure/Jenny Craig.

You can fake happiness all you want, but in god’s name, you better not fake your own goddamn scent.

Doesn’t the percentage of marriages that end in divorce make so much more sense now? Lying about our scents has forced us to lie to our significant others about monogamy/your late night trip to Quiznos /your penis size, until we wake up one morning to the musty smell of lies and flatulence.

“I think we need a divorce.”

“What? Why?”

“You smell like dick.”

All weather is lie-related. Don’t you get it? Denial causes lightning; masking a scent causes humidity. Just look at the world you’ve creating by just applying deodorant once a day. Can you live with yourself? I sure hell hope you can’t.

Don’t act like you’re so surprised, you knew what you were doing every time you sprayed your cologne/perfume you fascist bastard. Complaining about this heat wave? Oh wait; it’s your fucking fault.

I just blew your mind didn’t I?

Good.

I'm not that much of a heartless bitch...

2011-11-04T10:00:00.002-04:00

I got a lot of flak from friends (mainly my mother) in my previous post about the stage five clinger.

“So you’re telling me that you never want to be happy with a man? You’re just going to push everyone away aren’t you?”

No mother (and other friends), obviously if I found a dude who found my wise ass cracks undeniably charming I’d lock that shit down real quick.

HOWEVER…that has not happened yet. So yes. I am going to ignore the stage five clinger that leaves me six text messages and two voicemails in a one-hour period…I wish that was an exaggeration.

And yes, I’m going to be a complete lady douche (the act of, not the product) to majority of men I meet…in hopes to ward off stage five clingers that leave me six text messages and two voicemails in a one-hour period.

Seriously, I’m cool and decently cute (in the right lighting) but I’m not, leave me six text messages and two voicemails in a one-hour period, cool.

It’s not that I don’t want to find my significant other, because eventually sure, my high metabolism will catch up to me and I’ll need to lock down a dude before these love handles get out of control…. Well that, and I know I’ll be way to fucking lazy to take care of 15 cats when I’m older… or myself, for that matter.

I’m just not “Sarahjessicaparking” it all over the city, yah know?

Side note: Sarahjessicaparking is a term I coined to mean, “Ladies who run around NYC drunk and half-starved, trying to find their soul mates, who then in turn write about it in their shitty blogs while laughing at the shitty puns and terms they just made up… and they are probably drinking some sort of cheap liquor, too.”

So technically, yes, at this moment in time I am Sarahjessicaparking the shit out my blog right now. Fuck off.

Any who, I just don’t care about this whole soul-mate searching shindig. I’ve found Hellman’s mayo, Saturday Night Live, Michelob Ultra and youporn.com; I’ll be content for years.

Call me selfish, but have you ever mixed Hellman’s mayo with Heinz ketchup? It’s life changing.

But if someone conveniently drops my soul mate into my lap while making my fancy sauce…then…you know…I’m down.

So until that happens, I’ll probably keep on pushing away all the “acceptable men” in my life… and my mother will keep yelling at me over the phone “He was Jewish and a lawyer?!? God damnit, Natalie. Marry him.”

Obsessed with this dude...

2011-11-03T10:35:00.000-04:00

Sexually that is.

It's going to happen, I swear...

2011-11-01T12:45:00.001-04:00

I can’t wait until religious channels sell their souls and start producing reality TV…let’s be honest it’s only a matter a months before you’re flipping through your TV guide when this gem of a show pops up….

Check it.

“Pregnant Sister with No Mister.”

The show opens with a balding British man staring ominously into camera, “Is this nun bearing Jesus Christ? Or is she just a whore in a habit…tune in next week to find out if Sister Mary Lisa is in fact the next mother of God….or if she is just another statistic.”

Oh god…I just peed a little.

Or what about… “Joseph and His 12 Under-Aged Wives Idol”?

It would be the Mormon polygamist version of American Idol. The 12 girls have to compete with each other to be the number one wife (out of the 12)….and our votes decide the winner.

Ryan Seacrest or as I like to call him…El Diablo… saunters onto the stage only to giggle and announce the next contestant.

“He married 12 girls and you, America, decides these poor unwilling contestants fate.…Up next, Mary Sue, 16, whose going to sing a little diddie by a girl named Taylor Swift.”

Only for you to roll your eyes and turn to your best friend/mom/cellmate and exclaim…

“I can’t believe that bitch thinks she can sing….Jesus Christ… I’m voting for Eunice.”

WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!

What about….”What Would Jesus Do…on drugs?”

Except Jesus isn’t really Jesus but… some illegal immigrant named Jesus (pronounced Hey-Suce)…and someone just follows him with a camera while he does drugs/stupid things/eats pickles….kind of the male version of Snooki.

And for the Jews!

Temptation Synagogue.

Ten Jewish Bachelorettes fight to the death for the love and prestige of marrying their local…and exceptionally hot Rabbi.

“Oi…I like my men jewie, circumcised and slightly smaller than average…those bitches better watch out or I’ll go all Fran Drescher on their asses…fucking whores.”

Oh god…I need a life.

Yes, I know... something is wrong with me...

2011-10-27T11:02:00.000-04:00

I sometimes have to wonder whether or not if I actually do have a stage-5 clinger on my hands…or is this just some nightmare I’ve concocted in my head to avoid any level of commitment (with the opposite sex) yet again.

I have said it once….and I’ll sure as hell say it again…commitment makes me want to vomit. I just can’t jump on that commitment boat… it ‘s just to icky…

But I have to admit, my “love” life follows a very specific pattern:

Girl meets Boy. Boy is enchanted by the amount of racial slurs Girl is able to spew out in one hour. Girl is equally impressed by Boy constantly buying her drinks. Boy and Girl hook up. Girl says she only wants something casual. Boy agrees. Boy then says he can see this turning into a relationship. Girl excuses herself from the room. Boy reaches out constantly to Girl via text/phone calls/emoticons. Girl blatantly ignores texts/phone calls/emoticons. Boy is forced to give up. Girl is happy, once again.

There is something wrong with me and I wholeheartedly admit that. As soon as guys start saying shit like, “You’re so pretty”… “You’re so beautiful”… “I’m kind of kinky.” I bounce the fuck out of that situation. And I bounce the fuck out real quick.

It’s not that I see relationships as a bad thing…well actually that’s total horse shit…I definitely see them as a bad thing, for myself that is.

And don’t give me that, “You have to love yourself, before you can allow yourself to be loved” bullshit. Because believe me…I love myself… a lot. I think I’m awesome. And cute as a mother fucking button and quite honestly I don’t need a dude constantly telling me that.

…and seeing as I have the maturity level of a 5 year-old…a boy constantly telling you that you’re pretty is my definition of a “mature relationship.”

Will I ever grow up? Will I ever want to be “loved?” Did writing “loved” make me vomit?

Who knows…except for the last question…which was a resounding “yes.”

Don't Call Me Nice...

2011-10-25T11:34:00.000-04:00

It never ceases to amaze me how little men actually listen. I’m sorry (straight) guys but it’s true. You don’t.

I get it. You are trying to get laid. It’s a dog eat dog world and we all are trying to make some meaning out of our lives (and potentially get laid).

But… OH. DEAR. GOD.

Don’t call me nice. Or sweet. Or fucking zany, for Christ’s sake.

Nice is not an adjective that is ever used to describe me. Ever. I’m a jackass. I do not hide this fact. My “jackassiness” is actually what usually gets me laid. No one likes nice girls anymore. They’re so fucking boring.

Listen to what I’m actually saying to you, gentlemen, before you just start throwing out such outlandish (and quite honestly, hurtful) adjectives.

Perfect example. Met a dude this weekend. Got to talking. Here’s just a snippet of the charming things I spewed out casually over a few Bud Lights:

“You smoke menthol lights? What, are you black?”

“Well maybe if Jews believed in Jesus you wouldn’t be in that mess, but you guys do get a shit ton more holidays than us so I guess it all evens out.”

“That whore sounds like a crazy ass bitch.”

“Catholics drink. Joke about abortions. And go to church twice a year. It’s awesome.”

“When did hand jobs become considered legal tender?”

…this guy called me nice…so yes, we can all safely assume that somebody wasn’t listening to a word I said…he was just starting at my boobs…which in his defense, are awesome.

Granted, that doesn’t mean this dude isn’t completely smitten with the thought of me…because he is…and now I’m dealing with a stage five clinger at the moment (more about that later).

But still, the point is…FUCKING LISTEN, gentlemen. Listen. And be a dick, I respond very well to dicks… probably cause I am one. Oh, and buy me a lot of beer…I respond very well to beer. And then you’ll probably get laid (by me at least).

My biggest fear...

2011-10-19T10:26:00.000-04:00

My biggest fear if I ever become a successful stand-up comedian with my own television special (now this wouldn’t be for a long time seeing as I still need to do the whole “stand-up” part) is the inevitable fact that some guy I’ve screwed is going to be flipping through the channels, recognize my face/shrill voice/cankles, turn to the first person next to him, whether it a roommate/stranger/cellmate and say:

“Dude…fucked her.”

And now, it’s not really the guy I screwed I’m worried about because yeah, whatever, I made my bed now I have to lie in it. It’s the roommate’s/stranger’s/cellmate’s reaction I’m worried about.

“Gross….” Or “Nice…”

Look, cellmate 17389 you don’t know me. Maybe I chugged a few too many wine coolers that night, and Joey called me fat, okay? And I loved Joey and he didn’t love me back, and I was feeling chunky that night. And maybe, just maybe, your buddy, cellmate 71377 or as I like to call him, Jorge, told me I was a fine slice of white-heaven as he held my hair back while I vomited on his shoes.

Would you say no to that, cellmate 17389? Would you?!

Or maybe the guy I boned was way out of my league. It doesn’t matter that it’s taking him way tooooooooo long to figure out that simple math in his head, stranger who is at a loss for words. And maybe, just maybe, he likes high-fiving more than the average male. Whatever, he’s hot, dumb and was filled with the adequate amount of ruffies at the time. Sorry if I saw this golden opportunity and jumped on it… literally.

I’m an opportunist, not a thismightbewrongist.

Jeez….

The elephant in the room.

2011-10-17T10:32:00.000-04:00

I want to talk about the blog-o-sphere for one hot sec. Can we just all truthfully admit for one fucking second what we are really doing on the Google-nets?

It cracks me up when people pretend like they aren’t trying to make a name for themselves with their blog….

You have a fucking blog. You’re either…

A. Pregnant…and want to force all of society to be happy for your “blessing from God”…(we’re not, by the way).

B. Just recently watched “Julie and Julia” and thought, “Who doesn’t want another recipe blog…that could potentially land me a book deal? “

Or C. You are trying to get fucking famous…with your thought provoking, fucking thoughts (which aren’t, by the way).

Side note: I’m fucking drunk as I write this…so I apologize for all the typos/grammar mistakes/racial slurs.

Any who…I ’m not even going to pretend like I don’t fall into the latter. Of course, I’m trying to get fucking famous.

I want to write for a living…who doesn’t?! You make your own hours…you can drink constantly (on the job)…and people are forced to take your opinion “seriously” because your opinions obviously must have some merit since you are paid a salary to write about them.

And let’s not forget about the narcissism. If you have a blog…you are one narcissistic son of a bitch. Don’t even pretend like you’re not.

My ego is fucking huge…and all this blog does (especially recently) is perpetuate that situation.

I think I’m hilarious. No scratch that…I know I am hilarious. Why? Because I have a fucking blog.

It’s just like taking a creative writing class in college…you know you are a good writer…you just want to force 20+ people to be jealous of your “written gift.”

However, the blog-o-sphere leaves you in a very weird existence…seeing as there are a 1,000,000,000+ blogs on the internets as I type this sentence.

What makes you special? What makes me special? Nothing… unless you are me. Then you are fucking awesome.

And welcome to the never-ending narcissistic cycle of being a blog writer. Not like you didn’t already know this truth…just thought I’d make you (and myself) feel a little worse.

Happy blogging.

so um...hypothetical question...

2011-10-14T11:18:00.000-04:00

But not really.

In all seriousness...if I were to write a book. What would you guys...the "readers" want to read? Obviously the options are vast....Hellman's mayo...Michelob Ultra...sex...food...eating...eating while having sex...possible white trash cookbook...

Maybe my fat/gross/sexually awkward childhood? Or just the words cankles/queefs/smear?

You catch my drift. But I really want your guys input...cause if I do this... I'm doing it for you!

I'll be waiting.

...and possibly constipated.

Life lessons from Natalia...

2011-10-13T09:21:00.002-04:00

· Athletic shorts should only be worn while consuming fried Oreos/watching seasons 1-4 of Lost consecutively/picking up your prescription of Plan B at your local CVS.

· Jeggings are a way of life and not a life choice.

· Gilda Radner has been and will always be God.

· If you can’t sexually harass them via text…it’s not worth it.

· If a ridiculously hot guy is staring at you two seconds to long, it’s probably because you have food on your face…so seriously you do…you should probably go wipe that off now.

· Work with kids…you’ll never want to have unprotected sex…ever.

· Sometimes getting drunk is the only solution.

· Judge no one…criticize everything…unless those bitches deserved to be judged…yeah that’s right whore…I’m talking about you.

· People who hate on Hellman’s Mayo are not your friends.

· Catholic guilt is a very powerful/scary/sexually crazed being.

· Speaking of Catholic guilt…exorcisms are scary as shit.

· Take Dayquil at night… trust me.

· When your friend is being annoyingly drunk…just put a shot of Nyquil in their drink when they aren’t looking…they’ll be out for hours…or days.

· Any time you accidently get too high and start seeing auras around the people you are hanging out with…trust the auras. Your inner psyche never lies.

· Getting crapped on by a bird is not good luck.

· Short shorts and strong legs will always be hot on a dude.

· Nothing says, “I’ve got a big penis” like a 1980’s Tom Selleck ‘stache.

· Emoticons via text/AIM/email is an automatic deal breaker.

· Also…him being a total needy bitch is an automatic deal breaker.

· Christ on a cracker…nutrionally delicious and blasphemous.

· We are all the same…except some people are cooler… and hotter…and better at sex….

· Remember that dude you had a crush on in high school? Yeah he still doesn’t know you exist…even if you are the first one to wish him happy birthday on facebook every year….LOVE ME GOD DAMNIT.

· Exercising is horseshit.

· Bitches that hate on Fleetwood Mac are not your friends.

· Overly religious douche bags that defriend you on facebook are not your friends…no seriously…that’s what defriending means.

· Dudes who say “Free Bird” should be the new national anthem… will be a dude you have sex with and immediately regret it the next day.

· Always invest in a shirt with a wolf on it.

· Baby mallards are beyond cute.

· Mother Nature can suck it…being it all arrogant and shit…stop blowing dust in my eyes, whore!

· David Cross is doable…based on his beard alone.

...no seriously I'm going to be a crack whore.

2011-10-11T09:55:00.000-04:00

Seeing as Halloween is a just around the corner and the whores are in search of their next big costumes without getting arrested for pulling tricks. I thought I’d save you all the hassle and give you my top picks for this year’s whore-ostumes.

1. Debbie Downer.

“Did you know that 95% of all Halloween candy is filled with rat poison and previously used hypodermic needles?”

2. Theresa from The Housewives of New Jersey.

I think a gorilla suit will suffice for this one... she's just so goddamn hairy...

3. Kitty Sanchez from Arrested Development.

“Have we done hair up glasses off yet?”

4. Suze Orman.

I had a guy ask me to dress up like her for a sexual fantasy of his… I wish that wasn't true.

5. Snooki.

This one’s for the boys, actually.

6. Judy from The Laurence Welk Show.

You’ll have to fend off the men with your baby hands.

7. Dora the Explorer.

I think we all knew she was a crack whore at heart...with those god damn orange shorts...go work at Hooter's already, for Christ's sake.

8. Octo-mom.

I think this one would be best if you staged the birth on the beer pong table.

9. Boobs.

Honestly, I don’t know how the fuck you’d come as a pair of boobs, but how fucking epic would that shit be?! Talk about cutting the middleman out, ladies.

10. (Insert drug of choice here) whore.

Cause let's be honest...every one loves a well timed crack joke....well a well timed crack joke...and boobs.

Chivalry is dead.

2011-10-07T09:59:00.000-04:00

Do you get that? It’s fucking dead. Like it does not exist in our generation. Its definition on urbandictionary.com is an “Asian sexually transmitted disease”. People the age of 17-28 can’t even pronounce chivalry correctly…they get stuck on the second syllable…

“Shhe-viiiii…aw fuck it, I’m going to tell her to eat a dick and then she’ll totally want to bone.”

Side note: This is the real urbandictionary definition….” An idea developed first by Queen Eleanor of England. Basically, it encouraged gentlemanly behavior between knights, and proposed a system of courting ladies to gain their hearts instead of dragging them home by their hair (sarcasm)”

….Like I said…dead.

Side note, side note: If you tell her to eat a dick…she will probably want to bone.

This epiphany occurred to me just recently, when I randomly met a dude that was genuinely polite to me.

That was it. He was polite…which equaled me wanting to bone him…immediately…and let me be straight with you…I ooze ‘I’m probably going to be a dick to you’ …so being polite to me really takes some willpower…which makes you seem even hotter….so…um, hello! You are going to get laid, if you are polite to me.

… now I’ll totally pretend like ‘I’m way too independent to give a shit that you knowingly opened a door for me…on purpose’ but in my head…I’m just picturing all the terrible terrible (terrible in a good way) things I’m going to do to you when we bone…based solely on the fact that you opened a door for me…on fucking purpose!

And yes, I know, I totally just said to be a dick in my previous post. But here’s the thing…being a dick is a short-term solution to a long-term problem. We (ladies) aren’t stupid, and if we are “laughing” at your dicky remarks…it’s probably because we can tell you’re easy and you are the closest guy to us at the moment…so…you’ll do.

Chivalry is like walking around a park with a huge ass puppy…I ain’t frontin’…bitches will be fightin’ to touch your poodle (man junk). And isn’t that all you want? A bunch of ladies…fighting…in a sexual manner…for poodles (man junk)?

Exactly.

I think I’ve sufficiently made my point. Now go open a door, dick.

Top ten things that piss me off in the city....so far.

2011-10-04T10:07:00.000-04:00

1. People who say, "Whole Foods changed my life."

...did it now? Well your life must have really sucked then...also...I may or may not have said this...I don't want to talk about it.

2. Assholes who write in Moleskin notebooks.

...you do realize that just because your "thoughts" are being put into a $30 dollar notebook does not make them any more interesting...so why don't you just go ahead and buy a 40 cents composition book (like myself) and stop being a little prissy ass bitch.

3. Models

....fuck off.

4. Ladies (of all ages) that run in only sport bras and jeggings.

...your fupa is showing...and so is your camel toe...just saying.

5. People who stare at me angrily when I blast Kesha "We are who we are" on my ipod...fuck off...she is a lyrical wordsmith, GOD DAMNIT!

6. Couples that hold each others pinkies.

...fuck off.

7. Hot guys that are obviously gay.

...I'm really starting to not like the male options for straight ladies over huuuurrrrr....this might become an issue...not like it wasn't an issue already...whatever...fuck off.

8. Rich high school girls.

...is it bad that I kind of wish that you all have STDs? ...Karma is going to get me for that later.

9. Hot dog/pretzel/ice cream stands.

...haha who the fuck am I kidding...I fucking love those diabetes food carts...now if they only would start selling wedding cake, too...

10. Hipster douches.

...mostly because I'm slowly turning into one... now should I get white girl bangs...or an ironic tattoo...or both?!

arrested development is coming back.

2011-10-03T11:51:00.000-04:00

This is all I care about right now.

I was sooooooo cool when I was younger.

2011-09-29T09:40:00.000-04:00

“Mom, am I fat?”

“No…its just baby fat.”

It wasn’t.

I was fat. Not kind of fat. Not chunky. Not big-boned. And definitely not baby fat. Baby fat is allowed till the age of what? Five? I was at least 10 when I asked my mom this infamous question. And the truth is, I was fat. Like ate spoonfuls of sugar at one time, fat. Stole candy bars from the grocery store, fat. Fat fat. Scurrying barefoot on the kitchen countertops looking for the elusive sugar that my parents “continently misplaced” two weeks after I was discovered in a corner eating spoonfuls of sugar, fat. (Those bastards.)

However, my plan backfired:

“No…its just baby fat.”

Wait…what? My mom just lied! Straight to my face. Wasn’t my mom, if anyone, supposed to tell her child that while yes, they had a stellar personality and yes, they were super funny, that sadly they were fat and kind of going through an, um I don’t know, ugly…I mean, awkward stage? How could she? How could she just lie like that?!

I stood there, shocked, in the middle of the crosswalk in my bright orange leggings with the elastic band, (I couldn’t technically fit into jeans until I was 14), oversized black sweater splattered with bright orange pumpkins and candy corn (to divert ones eye from the fat, of course), and bright orange pumpkin bow placed strategically in the middle of my disproportionate head. Yeah, I was that kid.

My mouth opened, but there was no food to shove into the black hole. How do I argue that?

“Nuh uh!”

But wasn’t that what I wanted to hear? Didn’t I want to hear that yes, I wasn’t fat? That yes, it was okay to steal candy? Yes, Cheese Whiz was a valid form of calcium? And yes in actuality, it’s vegetables that fuck you up?

It was in this moment that I learned a valuable lesson: Moms lie. They really do. Years later (and pounds skinner) I confronted my mom about this pivotal question in my chubby childhood:

“Oh god, you were soooooo fat!”

“I knew it. You lied to me!”

“Technically, but you were always skinnier than your brother.”

Denial is a beautiful existence...

2011-09-27T11:03:00.001-04:00

My roommate has vaguely mentioned that he thinks I may have a wee bit of a drinking problem…

“I just don’t see the need to constantly drink every night….”

Side note: I’ve had six beers while writing this post.

…He might be right.

I like to drink. Who doesn’t? (Uber self-righteous, right-winged religious folk that’s who…those fascist bastards…go drink a god damn beer, Jesus turned water into wine for Christ’s sakes!)

Any who.

It may have to do with the environment I was raised in, and not in a bad way at all.

I’m catholic, my family is catholic…that is definition of “we like our Jesus with a huge ass splash of Kahlua.”

I don’t find anything wrong with relaxing with a tall refreshing Budweiser after a long day of work. Especially when you work with kids.

It’s your American right to drink whenever the fuck you want. Remember prohibition? Exactly.

And if that means slamming back several strongly liquored mixed drinks at a fancy restaurant, then so be it. And the drinks were free that’s why I ordered so god damn many… I said to the three guys (one being my roommate) calling me an alcoholic.

Free. COME ON! When shit is free…you get that shit in triple. (The Jew inside of me was so proud that night.)

But in all honesty, I’ve never thought I had an issue with drinking…actually I’m quite good at it. So what if I buy cases in bulk? That’s just sensible shopping…old lady glaring at me in the grocery line.

And hey you don’t me…maybe I’m throwing a huge ass party.

I’m not.

Ah yes, denial is a beautiful existence.

alright...alright...alright...

2011-09-18T12:30:00.000-04:00

Well kiddies, I've been getting a lot of requests for a new vlog so seeing as my last one was an epic failure... we are going to try a different route this time.

I'm letting YOU the reader of this epically awesome blog, ask me questions that I will then answer via the blog. You can ask me ANYTHING. You can ask me about my fat days (ermmm i mean years) weirdest experience in life...etc... and I have to answer truthfully. I may even have my roommate, Matt help with the answers in the vlog as well.

Now I can't guarantee that I can answer every question (if I even get any questions)...but I will try my gosh darnedest hardest!

And if you all keep asking questions...I'll keep answering them in my blog...so start asking...I'm going to make a sandwich now...I expect to see 267 questions when I get back from my mayo comma...

which looks like this...

our neighbors hate us...

2011-09-15T10:24:00.000-04:00

No, like seriously…they do. I would hate us. I do hate us.

It’s not that we are bad neighbors…we recycle and shit…we are just weird.

So, for those of you that don’t know (or just skim my blog) I’m living in NYC with my best friend Matt. We live in a pre-war building…so we are fucking on top of our neighbors.

The guy right next to us owns five cats…outside his door smells like cat piss…well cat piss and pot…so yeah… we’re that close.

So I think I can safely assume that if I can smell our neighbor’s cat (I pray to god that it’s cat)
piss…then the whole fucking building can hear our “fake” fighting.

Yeah, don’t ask. We legitimately fake fight, for no apparent reason at all.

“YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE!”

“WELL IF SHE WASN’T WHORE…I WOULDN’T BE HERE!”

“I’M NOT SURE IF THAT’S SUCH A GOOD THING!”

…and then we laugh…but I don’t think our neighbors hear the laughing...

At this point I don’t even know what to do. All our neighbors are probably assuming that we are in a freakish abusive relationship.

And it’s not like I wanted to be friends with these people…I just don’t want the po po randomly showing up because of an anonymous domestic violence call.

…and I don’t want any random death threat notes left under our door telling us to stop watching so much fucking “Lost”….we (I) watch a lot of “Lost”… whatever, neighbors with terrible taste in television….you keep watching your early morning “Charmed” episodes, with the remnants of cat piss scattered throughout your apartment. You keep doing your thing…and we’ll keep doing ours.

Cause let’s be honest…this is New York, bitches. Things could be much worse.

God Bless America...

2011-09-13T10:02:00.001-04:00

and mexi-mullets.

This gem of a photo was taken at the Walmart next to the college I graduated from... and for obvious reasons I couldn't be more proud.

skinny bitches and hoes man...skinny bitches and hoes...

2011-09-07T10:31:00.000-04:00

I hate it when I’m feeling really skinny and then I catch my thighs jiggling in the mirror, even though technically I wasn’t moving. At all.

I’m white, okay. White as one can be. A cracker. Caucasian some might say. I come from the land of Caucasia, where my fellow tribal members frolic to the barbaric beats of Michael Buble' and watch Gilmore Girls.

So of course I’m obsessed with my weight. I blame the cast of Friends; all those whores were skinny as fuck and still had man problems. Even Chandler had an eating disorder. Nothing says white quite like a grown man who vomits after he eats.

I wish I were black. Seriously, you guys embrace that shit. Fat ass? Aw helllllll no, that shit is juicy. Or more accurately, Jell-O. Watch that shit jiggle!

Remember back in the good ol’ days/Dark Ages/last night at McDonalds parking lot, when being obese was the cool thing to do?

It meant you had a shit ton of money and thus were allowed to shove food into your face until you’ve reached sexual repulsion…. I was born in the wrong century…

Now all obesity means is you probably like Dunkaroos way more than the average person… which, um who the fuck doesn’t?

Goddamn, Dunkaroos are awesome. Especially the chocolate ones. Hot damn it’s like sex in my mouth, that I can actually enjoy.

I think this world would be a better place if we all ate lard. I’m serious. Don’t you agree?

It would be just like this whole “I don’t see color” charade, except more realistic. We would only be able to see one shape. Huge.

We’d all win. We’d get to eat whatever we wanted, the naturally skinny bitches that we all hated in high school would probably be accidently eaten when the food supply runs out and sex would inevitably get better because we’d all be forced to actually try.

I think we all know why its called the Dark Ages, cause no bitch wanted to turn the lights on during sex. And honestly, my fat ass will be happy to make that sacrifice.

Do I look like a prostitute?!?

2011-09-05T10:16:00.000-04:00

Do I look like a prostitute?

No seriously, do I?! Because I got asked to give some dude a blow job while walking through central park…in broad fucking daylight.

My favorite part of this whole situation was I had just come from an interview… I was in a fucking pencil skirt, for Christ’s sake!

His asking price, you ask? Ninety-one dollars.

….you couldn’t scrounge up nine more dollars to make it an even hundred, eh big spender?

And lets not forget that I this occurred in broad daylight…so dude, what exactly was your plan here?
Hide behind some random bush? Unless this begins with dinner and a movie…I don’t really see this going anywhere.

Side note: I’m about to get a frantic call from my mother after she reads this post in in five…four…three…two…

Oh hey mom. Oh yeah? You read my latest post? Don’t worry…it’s New York…weirder shit has happened…remember when I told you about that dude who threw up next to me on the subway before an interview? Shit, I didn’t tell you about that? Well this dude threw up next to me on the subway before an interview. I swear to God something similar happened to Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City…or maybe it was Charlotte…mkay…love you too, mom.

Any who, I totally saw this dude check me out too, before this exchanging of words occurred, and I was all like “Score Natalie…You are looking good today”….in my head.

And then I cussed him out. Homie don’t play that game.

Don’t fuck with this bitch when she is wearing a pencil skirt.

“Maybe it was your hair,” said one of my good friends, Caitlin. “You have really big hair.”

I do have really big hair.

“Or maybe it’s cause you wear eye-liner on your bottom lids…. I read this article that said only prostitues wear eye liner on their bottom lids.”

Duly noted.

“But I had my ray-bans on…”

“Must have been your hair then.”

God damn you, hair, with your luscious curls straight out of an 80’s music video…stop clogging up the fucking bathtub.

I stormed into my apartment repeatedly screaming… “Do I look like a fucking prostitute!?” My roommate, Matt, then proceeds to hug me and in his best Kermit the Frog voice, joke, “Whose my little prostitute?”

And then, Matt, my voice of reason goes, “Oh come on…you know this shit is gold for your blog.”

And so it was, Matthew…so it was.

“Just don’t tell your mom, I said you should have taken the offer to help pay for rent….she’ll hate me forever.”

Duly noted.

Whatever...fuck you...this shit is awesome.

2011-09-01T10:54:00.000-04:00

I’m a slut for ice cream. Jesus Christ, am I ever.

Well… more accurately, I’m a prostitute for ice cream.

Seriously, if someone tried to barter sex with ice cream…I’d hesitate. There would be no “what the fuck” exclamation or some immediate look of disgust and/or constipation. More of a “this guy gets me”/ “did I just meet my soul mate” look.

It’s sad really. I’d have sex in exchange for some Tasti-D Lite. To be quite honest, Tasti-Delight is legal tender in my fantasy world, as it should be in everyone’s fantasy world.

And if you don’t know what Tasti-D Lite is, get the fuck out of my face, get on Google maps, find the nearest one, buy a pint, come back to my face, spoon feed me the whole pint, and then we’ll have sex.

I may be a little gassy though…. Dairy products always seem to make me gassy…

Like I’ve said before (and if you haven’t already noticed) my life is pathetic/sick/mildly entertaining for anyone how is not me.

My top favorite places in NYC are Tasti-D Lite, Yogurtland, Serendipity, (terrible movie, fucking awesome ice-cream) and McDonalds. I don’t care if there are McDonalds everywhere in the fucking world; their ice cream is like fucking crack. And for that I will always be indebted to Ronald McDonald, you brilliant, brilliant clown you.

I have an addiction. Seriously. I have to eat it everyday or I go ape-shit.

Ever see the movie Requiem for a Dream? That’s my life in a nutshell. And by Requiem for a Dream I mean Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. And by Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles I mean, The Apple Dumpling Gang. But I think you get the similarities.

But I may have/probably/most definitely woken up half-naked in a pool of my own vomit before…and by before I mean yesterday.

I wish we could do more things with ice cream really. I wish we could snort it, inject it into our veins, use it as shampoo/body wash/lotion.

I’m pretty sure ice cream is the elixir of life. I’m also pretty sure a pint of Ben and Jerry’s would end the war on terror.

What if bullets were made out of ice cream?! Dear god, why hasn’t anyone thought of this before.

And, I think I just figured out how I’m going to get rich, bitches.

I hate when people know me better than I know myself...

2011-08-29T09:38:00.002-04:00

Well actually…that’s not true. People don’t know me at all.

Sadly, I know myself very well…a little too well. Which is probably why I haven’t been in a relationship since I was 14…I know people don’t want to deal with all the crazy shit going up in huuuurrrrrrrr. (Points simultaneously to head and who-hah.)

Side note: Who-hah means vagina.

Any who.

I don’t hide anything. I wear all my crazy/weird/socially unacceptable shit on my sleeve.

Well wait. That’s a lie, too. I actually do (attempt to) hide all my crazy/weird/ socially unacceptable from the world/society/white dude who I thought was hitting on me but was actually talking to the hotter chick next to me.

Which means, I am a shit ton crazier than you have already assumed… and I just blew your mind….and just blew my chance with ninja mike. God damnit.

“Wait…what type of crazier/more disgusting/socially unacceptable things do you hide from us, pretty lady who is just a literary savant when given a pen an pad, but sounds slightly LD in person?”

Hmmm. Well that is a great question, person who just accidently found this blog by a porno typo via Google. That is a great question.

Number 1. Porn…while yes I have confessed that I do like porn. I have never said which type….and I never will. You are now thinking of the most grotesque porn clip you ever seen. “Does she like that?!” Maybe I do…maybe I do. Or not. You sick fuck. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Number 2. Sexual Fantasies. Even I’m a little appalled out by this tidbit of my life….and you are probably still lingering on the previous porn clip…god damn you are disgusting…now do you see why I hide this shit?

Number 3. Common Sense. I have none. Just ask my roommate. He’s about to kill me. “Wait Matt…how does a light-switch work again?”

Number 4. Secret musical pleasures. Have you ever heard the easy vibrations of the Bee Gees? Or KC and the Sunshine band? Fuck. Neither have I…hahahaha…I’m just kidding…whatever. Fuck you. Just don’t look at my Top 25 most played, and no one gets hurt, bitch.

Number 5. What orifice have I not stuck a finger into? That is a good question….

Number 6. How much time I actually spend on facebook….

Number 7. How much time I actually spend eating….

Number 8. Every time I see a person. I ask myself… A. Have they had sex yet? B. Would they have sex with me? C. What position would we do? It only takes a couple of seconds... but if I have met you in person before, I have thought this.

Number 9. My unprecedented sexual love for Jim Gaffigan…if he would just fucking leave his wife already. BIPPITY BOPPITY BACON!

Number 10. No pants Tuesday type of day is actually…no pants “whenever my roommate is not home” type of day.

my first vlog...

2011-08-23T16:20:00.001-04:00

mother fuckers!

Day one in nyc...

2011-08-22T10:59:00.000-04:00

1. Found a mouse in my kitchen…he’s brown…I named him Fernando and shall feed him cheese and mayo…and tiny bottle caps filled with Patron…and once he gets big enough I shall enter him into the underground “apartment-mouse fighting championship”…and he will win…and then… I will eat him.

2. Woke up before Matt (my roommate) so I could stink up the bathroom before him.

3. Forgot to put on deodorant.

4. Counted the white people outside my apartment.

5. Tried to set up the DVD player to watch “Mean Girls”

6. Yelled at Matt (my roommate) to help me set up the DVD player… “I have a vagina…I can’t do this shit!”

7. Ate Chinese food while Matt (my roommate) attempted to set up the DVD player.

8. Laughed at Matt (my roommate) when he couldn’t figure out how to set up the DVD player.

9. Watched “Mean Girls”.

10. Watched Matt (my roommate) scream like a prepubescent child as he saw the mouse run behind his bed.

11. Tried to figure out why my room smells like weed.

12. Put my rosaries next to my pack of condoms…I dunno, just felt right.

13. Found my old stash of weed packed next to my holy water…I dunno, just felt right.

14. Watched “Forrest Gump”…Telemundo style.

15. Killed Fernando.

16. Cried about killing Fernando.

17. Ate Ramen.

18. Ate more Ramen.

well fuck a duck...

2011-08-17T07:32:00.000-04:00

I think we can all say there are moments in our lives that... for a lack of better words...freak us the fuck out.

I am in one of those "said" moments...and um...I'm freaking the fuck out.

It's a very surreal moment when the present is laid out in front of you...especially when you have a nasty habit of focusing soley on the future. I want nothing more than to one day make millions laugh based soley on my utter idiocracy...and love for mayo.

But I'm only 22...I have a long way to go...it took Steve Martin over 20 years to become who he is today...what makes me think I possess any hint of talent that could one day forge my way into the rankings of the comedic elite?

I hope I stay weird. I hope I stay awkward. I hope I have a lot of (protected) sex.

But in the end of the day...I just hope I go for it.

I have been in love with comedy since I was eight (and fat). I have been in love with SNL since my mom handed me Gilda Radner's biography in grammar school (and also fatter). I have been entranced by how the pure awkwardness of reality is what makes truly makes the world laugh since my conception (and also probably fat then too).

"Um, birth control and a condom...and you're still here."

I will always look back at my fat days with such fondness, because it exposed me to such comedic genuis and for that I will always be grateful.

This is what I want to do. And the more I write, the calmer I get. Whether I fail or not, I just want to know that I tried.

...and if I really get desperate I can just give myself a camel toe on stage to get a laugh.

packing is a bitch...

2011-08-12T06:44:00.000-04:00

And I have way too much shit…and way too much shit I am unwilling to part with…like…

1. My “I heart my penis” car air freshener.

2. Watch of Hoe Chi Min…or whatever the fuck that asian dudes name is…

3. “Medicated but Motivated” flask.

4. Disco ball.

5. Comedy writing book collection.

6. Whoopie Cushion.

7. “All Dogs Go to Heaven” DVD.

8. My german beer-girl Halloween costume.

9. Black pleather leggings.

10. Two rubber chickens.

11. Some random blue elephant necklace I’ve never worn.

12. This asian trinket box that has two people doing it when you open the box.

13. A crap ton of composition books filled with terrible jokes that I swear one day will make me famous I tell you!

14. Spongebob Squarepants stuffy.

15. A carton of Hellman’s mayo.

16. My funnynotslutty.com stickers…which I plan plastering on every subway possible.

17. Orange nail polish.

18. Your mom.

my life a joke...

2011-08-10T09:10:00.001-04:00

My life is a joke.

I will never be able to say that enough….yet here I sit… utterly exhausted from work/packing up 22 years of my life/popping stress zits…trying to will my way through writing this post without falling asleep. I also may be drunk…I don’t know…I don’t know.

So what do I have to say to you all? What is worth sharing to hundreds of readers?

Today I had a wedgie.

Yes…I’m five…whatever…wedgies fucking exist.

Anywho.

Today I had a wedgie. And it just wouldn’t fucking go away. Usually I go commando at work…cause “free balling” is my personal philosophy. However, today I felt like being a little more professional. So I put on undies.

Hence, the wedge of cotton…shoved strategically up my ass.

That was my first mistake.

Underwear is the bane of existence. I’m pretty sure God did not say… “and on the 8th day…after I rest and shit…I’m going to give you pure cotton/silk/edible under garments to be fashioned to never fit just quite right on your upper left butt cheek…you know the one with the random freckle…yeah that butt cheek…deal with it. Asshole.”

…yeah…way to be a dick, metaphorical Jesus.

It would also help, metaphorical Jesus…cause obviously this story is all you fucking fault….that maybe…just maybe…next time you can make sure I don’t put my boyshorts on backwards.

Maybe say something like… “oh hey awesome lady…I know you’re super tired from work and shit…and maybe from that pound of cake you ate last night…but you should totally look down right now…as you put on undies…which btw don’t you like never wear undies? Are you trying to impress that one dude again? Cause you kind of look like a lesbian right now…sorry…I’m Jesus…I cannot tell a lie. I know. I know. Abe Lincoln said that. Well you know what. That bitch stole that line from me….what a fucking prick…and you’ve just put your undies on backwards…seriously how can you not tell right now. Victoria has got a secret…and it’s shoved up your ass right about now.”

I don’t know if you know this Jesus…but I’m kind of a big deal. So COME ON! Let’s not make me look super retarded…and allow me the option of not putting my underwear on the wrong fucking way! This is all your fault Jesus.

Oh yes. All knowing. And all powerful, Jesus. Next time. Put my underwear on correctly!

God damnit.

holy shit...

2011-08-04T08:30:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the delay...but I've been getting shit done, yo. So I'll just come out and say it...I'm moving to manhattan...in less than a month.

Um. Fuck yeah. About fucking time I got back up there.

I'm going to be living above a funeral home...like seriously...I can't make this shit up. In less than a month I will totally be "My Girl"ing the shit up in nyc...

Any who...bare with me for a hot sec, as I run around like a chicken with it's head cut off for a couple of weeks...getting more shit done.

Also...find me a job.

You're weird...

2011-07-25T06:39:00.000-04:00

People don’t really like “weird.” Well, I take that back…people don’t like being associated with weird, not at first at least.

Thank you, high school. If I learned anything from high school it’s that the best thing to do is conform to your surrounding social norms. Not trying to sound like a downer, but weird is/was not considered cool.

Which quite honestly, I will never understand.

I’m weird. I’ve always been aware of this fact, and probably explains why I was so quiet in high school…I knew I needed to hide that crazy shit going on in my head, bitches.

And it’s not exactly that people don’t like weird…and it’s not that these “weird” people are in fact weird. Weird is an adjective attached to many things that are NOT weird, just unexplainable for “normal” people to grasp.

For the most part people that are considered weird are in fact just brutally honest with themselves and their surroundings…and honesty is just one fact of life many people will never really feel comfortable dealing with.

Yet, normal people surrounded by “weird” people makes them feel secure…or for a lack of better words…unweird.

….what a fucking cop-out.

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard through laughing gasps of breath, “Oh god you’re so weird!”

Yet, they always come back for more, they want more laughs, they want more constant reminders that they aren’t me, and can sleep at night soundly knowing this fact reins true.

Have fun on your high horse…living your mediocre life.

Sorry I wasn’t afraid to take a chance. Or say it like is. Maybe it’s just because I am weird, but I find normal people painstakingly boring.

Get a hobby…grow some balls. Say something for once in your goddamn life that may actually offend someone.

I for one, have offended a shit tin of people (if you haven’t noticed)…also…if I haven’t offended you yet…brace yourself.

Sorry but you are not going to please everyone. So get off your fucking high horse and make a racist joke.

Get a personality. Because while yes you may think people are weird…we just find you boring.

Which quite honestly, is so much worse. No one remembers boring. No one. Why? Because you are fucking boring.

Some one had to say it.

And sorry if you got offended when I informed you that “Beer craps are in fact the best kind.”

Well…they fucking are. And you know it…or you wouldn’t have laughed if you didn’t already agree.

Or if the fact that I’m in a relationship with Hellman’s Mayo on facebook, weird’s you out. Well fuck a duck… love is love is love is loves. And if Hellman’s loves me, then I love Hellman. He’s gotten me through some tough times…can you say the same?

BTW…Ben AND Jerry are cheating on your boring ass…you can blame Cherry Garcia for that one.

I will never be that girl, who doesn’t look slightly LD when she laughs… or who can look sexy while she dances. Or who can’t not not laugh while your going down on her…because she thinking how absurd this would look if her roommate walked in.

Deal with it.

p. s. this post has nothing to do with the intern.

America...you've been warned...

2011-07-21T08:47:00.000-04:00

Okay America,

I get it. I look exactly like my mother. But …Oh. Dear. God. The next person that comes up to me and says, “By golly, it’s like looking at the Olsen twins…except wrinklier….and fatter…and not blonde/famous/or cute.”

…I’m going to cut you.

No seriously, bitches who feel the need to point of the obvious while wolfing down a McRib, I’m going to take my butcher knife out of my party poof and cut you…. yes cut you, with a smile on my face.

That’s my bread and butter, bitches…my bread and butter.

So let me just say this… you’ve been warned, America.

Seriously, last week someone said, “You can definitely tell ya’ll are kin.”

….There are so many things wrong with that statement.

First of all, who the fuck says kin anymore?

And B…what the fucking fuck?

Is it really that weird for a 22 year-old daughter to look EXACTLY like her 52 year-old mother.

Isn’t that the basic philosophy of Botox/Low-Carb Diets/Quiznos?

I’d show you a picture of my madre and me so you could see the resemblance, but my bro keeps snitching on me when I write about my parents.

Bro, you’re 26, stop snitching, or I won’t be your DD to the strip club this week...but thanks for reading my blog.

The worst part is my mom fucking loves that shit. Never fails to plaster a shit-eating grin on her face when she gets compared to someone 30 years younger than her.

“I bet I get carded today.”

“…Sure you will.”

She did… get carded that day. Whatever, I had braces then…it was a very weird scenario.

Well, to be perfectly honest she loved getting compared to me until just recently….

I shit you not, a cashier said this to me and my mother on Sunday….

“Well at least… when your mother dies, every time you look in the mirror…it will be like she never left.”

“…Great.”

I don’t think this pleased my mom….

“What the fucking fuck?!”

and now a serious moment with natalie...

2011-07-19T08:43:00.000-04:00

I have commitment/dependency/intimacy issues. I have said this a million times…and will probably say it a million times more. Something is wrong with me and I am fully aware of that fact.

It’s kind of like being perfectly aware of your addiction to alcohol… I know the situation is wrong, but I’m functioning…so I ain’t changing shit.

I know where it comes from too. I was 15 and this 17 year-old asshole basically cheated on my (with my best friend at the time) because I wouldn’t do what he wanted.

I’ve never been in a relationship since. I’m 22.

And for the most part, I don’t really care. But there are days man, where you just get so sick of “society” telling you that you are a lesser person because you are, in fact, not in a committed relationship.

Thank you, Katherine Heigel.

…bitch.

But yet, here I sit…thinking of my 3 good friends huddled around a table…drinking Michelob…and just completely frustrated with the taboos and speculations of the opposite sex.

Four beautiful girls…brilliant at what they do…longing for more than a silly boy in life…yet we fill this void because America tells us we are a complete part of society unless we are completely with someone else.

And at this point it’s more of a rebellion thing than anything else.

I feel like I’ve grown up in the past year since I graduated college…and I actually think I may be ready to get over some bullshit that happened to in 10th grade…

Yet America also tells us that we should never fully open up. Unless filled with ridiculous amounts of Michelob Ultra.

And as cliché as it sounds…I know this situation won’t change (for me at least)… until I take a chance. (Vomit.)

So let me finally get to my point…it looks like this “taking a chance” will be coming sooner rather than later…Thanks so my lovely boss who told the boss of the intern I like that I…well…like him.

Turns out he may...may... like me too.

And I can already feel my body recoiling in fear. The same symptoms are popping up.

Denial. Complete mental shut down. Flatulence.

So this is my social experiment to “not fuck this up.”

That yes, I will laugh at his jokes…all of his “jokes”. And yes I will blush when he laughs at my perfectly timed black joke. I will not make fun of his hand size….or correct his incorrect assertion about Saturday Night Live (right away).

This is my first social experiment with myself…and if it doesn’t work…then I blame that annoying chick from “Gilmore Girls”. Alexis Bledel.

Fucking asshole.

for those of you blissfully unaware...

2011-07-15T06:33:00.002-04:00

I used to have adult braces when I was 21.

…I’m now 22.

Those days still haunt me.

I don’t think I will ever be able to accurately explain the mental havoc adult braces cause on the individual psyche.

It fucking sucks.

I’ve had a 13 year-old hit on me in a Dairy Queen…I don’t want to talk about it.

So if you ever find yourself in this terrible situation…yell at your parents for not loving you when you were younger and then get the ceramic braces.

They don’t make a difference up close…and they will cause you to uncontrollably snore/drool/fart(don’t ask)…but they aren’t noticeable about 10ft away…so that way that guy walking towards you won’t notice them till about 3ft and then he can’t turn around without looking like a total douche in front of your friends…

ANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNND that way…even with adult braces…he will be forced to talk to you for approximately 10 minutes…giving you ample opportunity to allow your personality to sparkle…and roofie his drink.

It’s a win-win situation to be quite honest...

He gets laid…and you get to tell yourself you aren’t sexually repulsive to the opposite sex…even though you did in fact dope him up with roofies.

Whatever…fuck you…bitches with braces got feelings too.

let your freak flag fly...

2011-07-14T08:23:00.000-04:00

There are few things that I pride myself on, well actually there is only one: the amount of meat I can eat in one sitting.

I eat meat like it’s no one’s business. And I mean that in the most unsexual way possible. If I were speaking with a sexual tone, that “meat eating “ business would have a name and that name would be prostitution/stripping/Brett Farve’s publicist.

Now I know. I know. This is a huge turn-on (the nonsexual meat eating). And yes, the phrase “soul-mate” may be lingering in your mind (Mitchell). And god see me with a tub of mayo and I am irristable. So let me get to the chase.

I’m a disgusting human being. If I wasn’t so gosh darn cute, I’d probably be shunned by society. If you haven’t already guessed, then yes, I am going through a dry spell.

At this point you may be talking out loud to your computer.

“But Natalie, how could this be? Your top three favorite subjects are meat/mayo/masturbation. How does every man not find you sexually appealing and mysterious?”

So true ladies (and the two guys) that read my blog. So true.

However, watch me shovel three pounds of roast beef drenched in a gallon of mayo down my gullet as I dispute the deep philosophies of youporn.com and I’m pretty sure you’ll be holding back vomit, like so many others in my past.

Now many of you may find these revelations repulsive…Mother.

And I don’t know why I feel the need to write about this (blame my writing partner Samuel Adams), yet here I am just typing away, half naked with a beer to my right and a plate of meat to my left. Sadly this is not an exaggeration. And I may be wearing zebra stripped shorts right now…I don’t know. I don’t know.

I feel like many of you can relate. All it takes is one freak, and the rest will follow. I also, think this has something to do with my hatred of stupid girls. They act so prim and perfect and well I all I want to do is wait till they accidently fart in public and then tweet about it for five hours straight.

My feet sweat. Penises used to scare me. I’ve been afraid of vomiting since I was seven. I hear voices in my head, well technically it’s just my own voice but still… I find Louis C.K. sexy, sometimes when my phone vibrates I think I farted. I’ve “accidently” eaten dog food on more than one occasion.

This post was probably more for me than anyone else, but whatever it’s my fucking blog.

Sometimes I hate being a girl...

2011-07-11T06:33:00.000-04:00

I hate the moments when I realize that why yes, in fact I am a girl.
…like when I can’t open a pickle jar without one of those old lady finger pad thingies…or when I realize that I have no clue how to properly use lighter fluid…OR when I look down at my legs and I don’t see a penis dangling in between my hairy legs….

Side note: Dude, if I had a penis…I’d play with that shit all day long. I’d jerk it…do card tricks with it…turn it into a lasso, and try to…um…lasso shit…hit people with it (in a nonsexual manner of course.) Oh god…the list just goes on forever.

Any who…I’m a pretty independent person…and I intend to keep it that way…so when these little nuances…like not having a penis…or upper body strength…pop up…this bitch gets pissed.

And I know I could probably fix this situation, by doing a couple of push-ups…and reading directions.

But where is the fun in that? There isn’t any. It’s fucking work. I don’t like work.

It’s a catch-22 really. I want to stay independent….but I'm cute so don’t want to do any of the work.

Look, I’m good at three things…writing…straightening my hair…creating perfectly timed black jokes….you don’t need upper body strength for these skills…unless the black joke goes awry.

I’m okay with that.

I know some of you feminists out there are not. You guys annoy me anyways…so I don’t really care if
I piss that lot off.

So all in all…all this being annoyingly pissed off about, since I’m a girl that there will be moments where I can’t be a 100% independent, made me realize a huge flaw in this logic. What if I was just dependent on someone for a change? What’s the harm in that shit?

It’s a win-win really. I don’t have to do any of the work…and I get to lie to myself and say I’m still independent.

Did I just grow up a little?

Whatever, I’m pretty. Don’t contradict me.

Maybe I'm a little too honest...

2011-07-08T08:31:00.000-04:00

I’m cute… but I’m disgusting….and lazy…and weird…and kind of an asshole…and a smidge pathetic….

And for a second I thought maybe that w I should reflect on my lesser qualities/philosophies/addiction to mayo and you know…fix that.

…yeah…um…nahhhhhhh.

I started making a list of all my weird shit and it’s bad… like really bad (and sadly all true) ….pretty much… I’m literally wiping out any chance I have of getting laid with this one blog post.

…you’ve been warned.

1. I shave my big toes…they just have these 3 hairs that drive me crazy…and are a bitch to pluck.

2. I hate, hate, hate brushing my teeth…. I really do.

3. Mayo…dollops and dollops of mayo….enough said.

4. KFC Double Down…filled with dollops and dollops of mayo…

5. I’m convinced one day I’m going to be possessed by the devil…or maybe I already am…

6. My dream is to be famous based solely on all the disgusting shit I do… it’s a valid life choice.

7. I often ask myself…. “Why am I not slutty…er?”

8. Fuck flossing.

9. I think all jeans should have an elastic waist-band/spanx/a portable McFlurry maker installed in them.

10. My favorite dessert…hostess mini donuts topped off with a shit ton of vanilla icing fresh out of spray can….but, like 12 of them…in my mouth…at once.

11. My feet smell like fritos (when I don’t wear socks)…I don’t plan on fixing that.

12. My feet also sweat….like…all the time.

13. What does Grade D meat stand for? Damn Delicious meat…that’s what!

14. “Oh…it’s extra, extra, extra mayo girl again…”

15. In the winter I legit don’t shave my legs….it’s the closest I can get to feeling like a man.

16. On second thought… I’m pretty sure I do have a penis….

17. So what exactly is wrong with porn?

18. Fuck fruit.

19. If I had a penis…I wouldn’t wash it….deal with it.

20. One day some dude was staring at me in a truck when I was walking to campus…I screamed…”What the fuck are you looking at?!?”… it was my cousin.

21. I love the smell of chloroform.

22. I use my macbook to write/shield my food boner/conconct mayo masterpieces on….oh and watch porn.

23. I probably won’t care if you thought I was racist…as long as you think I’m pretty.

24. I have dandruff…I don’t plan on fixing that…

25. I like the taste of iron.

26. I just farted.

27. My soul mate is named Bell…Taco Bell.

28. Usually when I think my cell phone is vibrating…it’s just my upper thighs jiggling.

29. I hate nature…like legitimately hate nature.

30. Stereotypes are my favorite pastime….

There’s more…but you know I don’t want you to vomit in your mouth too much…

Just in case you were wondering...

2011-07-05T06:35:00.000-04:00

My life is not hard.

I live such an upper middle-class white class suburban life it’s almost nauseating…well…not nauseating for me…this shit is heaven…but maybe for you who are forced to read about it.

…as I float around in my parents pool…sipping a case of Michelob Ultra…watching my
weimaraner and standard poodle bark at the bad golfers as play by my backyard …all to the easy listening of ZZ Top.

Which side note: I love ZZ top…I really do…but after a while all their songs sound exactly alike…you know that I am right.

Any who…back to the white life…it’s a beautiful picture really, with my bikini clad body reflecting sunlight (like it so often does) into the eyes of my ridiculously annoying neighbor kids.

Whatever, they deserve it.

Everything about me screams white…from my wayfayers…to my lacoste polos…to my unadulterated hatred towards liberal hippie douches/hipsters/jewish guys adorning lip rings.

Even, my “career choice” screams white. How many girls did you know in college that wanted to be writers?

“My thoughts are so thought-provoking and shit…it’s like legit…like fuck Siliva Plath and shit…that girl needed to get laid.”

…exactly.

We crackers all think that our thoughts are so unique and deserving of your time…they’re not.

Have you read my blog recently? I ramble on about mayo…and porn….and yes you laugh…but I’m pretty sure half of you laugh out of pure embarrassment that you even ended up at this web site… while the other half are just waiting for me to sell out and turn this into a porn web site.

I don’t know why I feel this constant need to inform you all that I’m white all of a sudden…but while we are on the subject…yes, it is true…I am in fact not an ethnic.

…just in case you were wondering.

Shit my mom says....

2011-07-01T06:32:00.000-04:00

Me: Oh dear god…I never want kids.
Mom: No you’ve got to pop out at least one so you don’t get breast cancer.

“I wonder what would happen if I farted into my i-phone’s voice recognition.”

Mom: Your father and I are apart of the NPL.
Me: What the fuck is that?
Mom: National porn league.

“I’m a fan of doggy.”

“You want to know the secret to a successful marriage? Beer.”

“You better get famous, I want to walk around naked in your house in the Hamptons and walk in on you and your husband doing it… and be like ‘yeah this is awkward isn’t it’…next time knock!”

“I don’t get your generation’s fixation on giving head…just have sex.”

Me: So I think this lesbian likes me…
Mom: Alright, this is what you do…you just start talking about how you want to fuck the shit out of this dude….and get graphic.

“Are you a lesbian?”

“Birth control and a condom….and you’re still here.”

“No seriously…do you like girls?”

ok so i try not to do this often...

2011-06-30T09:11:00.000-04:00

But holy shit are these guys so underrated...and all ridiculously bone-able.

it's just a travesty really...

2011-06-28T08:58:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I feel like we are losing a culture. I don’t know if it is just because I’m getting older…or if it’s only because I’m finally starting to feel the beer. But I stand by my statement, however…let me make it sound a little more ominous….

Our culture is dying.

We are surrounded by these Dora the Explorererers and I-Carlyerers and they just don’t know what good TV really fucking is. I say “Salute Your Shorts”…and these bitches look at me like a leper.

Fuck off. Dora. Fuck off….and your trashy cousin too. No one is impressed by all these animals you save and shit. And that Boots bitch is about to cut your ass.

You’ve been warned, Dora….you goddamn whore.

It’s just sad man. An atrocity. Fucking mind blowing. These shows I watched fucking shaped who I am now today…well that and being fat…and watching 7 reruns a day of SNL during my summer vacations…while eating 4 chicken burritos…and 2 corndogs a day….I don’t want to talk about it.

Corndogs are a gateway drug…to be perfectly honest. Did I mention I used to be fat? Like my parents had to lie to me to not ruin my adolescent self-esteem…which is still dwindling btw.

Any who…I will never forget getting into a scream-fest with my mother at the mere age of eight because all the kids on Hey Arnold got to roam the streets of NYC and they were only nine…so why the fucking fuck could I not ride my bike down my fucking street?!

…it’s still a sore subject.

But this shit shapes us…influences us…forces us to see why we are so obviously smarter than our elders.

What are these kids going to be like when they are older? Bitches and dicks? It’s all those flashing lights, fucks with your mind.

So thank you, Yo Gabba Gabba, for ruining all of our lives. With all those bright lights and glitter…and I don’t even want to talk about how that freaky green thing dances better than me.

But I do honestly believe that these shows will have an influence on the younger generation…which Pete and Pete so obviously did on me.

These kids will be our future politicians/engineers/NASA and shit people…do you really think you’ll be able to sleep at night when you find out that the President elect in 2036 favorite show was I-Carly?

…yeah.

Welcome to the Apocalypse.

oh...i'm pretty sure everyone will agree

2011-06-23T09:00:00.000-04:00

It’s so hard to know what’s kosher to say with this generation, what with the P.C. police acting like the S.S. nowadays.

And I think the world would be a better place if we would just admit that we all are a little racist.

Every time a W.A.S.P. whispers, “I don’t see color” an angel dies.

Seriously, it’s true. Just like when it thunders angels are bowling and when there is a sun shower the devil is beating his wife. This is how science works, bitches.

Can we just all agree that we all giggle at a good black joke? Or that it warms our hearts when we see the old Asian lady back her car into a ditch? Or that Dave Chappelle’s impression of a white guy is fucking spot on?!

I’m sorry, but you politically correct people can get off your fucking high horse and kiss my fucking ass.

And I don’t care if you think I’m a racist, as long as you think I’m hot.

But the best part of this whole politically correct era is the people that are truly offended are the “Caucasians”…and first off, what the fuck are Caucasians? Seriously, what are they? Where is this elusive Caucasia? I heard it’s next to GAP, but that might just be a rumor.

Placing me within a certain group of people just because I have no pigment in my skin, well….that’s just racist. And I won’t fucking stand for it.

I like to believe that politically correct people lack acceptable personalities, have mediocre sex at best and smell like self defeat and L.L. Bean….

It’s really the only way I can really feel better about my offensive self, but fuck it, I’m not changing shit.

Deal with it.

Another issue to add to the list...

2011-06-22T08:05:00.000-04:00

Now I’m probably completely off base when I say this…but then again when do I not say shit where I’m obviously wrong and off base……exactly.

That being said. I honestly feel like there are only two types of people when it comes to relationships. There are the people that can’t not not be in a relationship…and then there are the ones who just simply can’t be in a relationship.

I fall into the latter. And I am completely aware that this is unhealthy. Unhealthy in the sense that I cannot comprehend intimacy. I even hate looking at that word…saying it…prounouncing it correctly without gagging.

…intimacy…what a douche.

However…the other group isn’t that great either. I like to think that where I (and the fellow intimacy haters) lack intimacy…we gain a shit ton of independence…and vice versa. Meaning where I seem unable to learn how to function normally with someone else…and be happy. The others have no clue how to be by themselves…and be happy.

Both situations suck to be perfectly honest. While I love my independence and the drive it has given me to follow my dreams…I do wonder about myself in the future love department.

I like me. I’m pretty cool. I’ve heard I’m decently funny (when I’m drunk). But will I always like myself better than every guy I ever I’m with?

Will I ever actually “love” someone? Just writing that made me cringe.

Oh…I’m smart too. I know exactly what I’m doing. I always pick guys that I know it will NEVER NEVER work out with. You know…jackasses…pricks…dicks…ridicously hot, yet ridicously dumb guys…drummers.

I do know I’m going to get divorced in the future. That’s a given. I’m too stuck in my ways. I want, what I want, when I want it….I don’t feel like that personal philosophy is changing any time soon.

I’m also terrible at “sacrificing” in relationships. Once I feel like my objectives for my future are being compromised because of some dude I probably won’t give a fuck about in 3 months...and the sex isn’t that great… I’m outie.

To me love comes with a shit ton of strings. And let’s be honest with ourselves…I’m not wrong. Sometimes love means giving up your dreams (especially for women) and that’s fine…if you’re okay with that.

I’m not.

I guess what I really want to know if there is a middle ground. Is it possible to be happy and in love and follow your dreams? And is this just a girl thing? Or do guys have to deal with this too.

If not…you guys fucking suck.

STD

2011-06-16T08:41:00.000-04:00

I'm proud to present my best friend and future roommate, MATT!!! With a story entitled: STD.

Enjoy....and don't forget to check him out at www.mylifeislame.com

“Matthew,” a nurse yells.

I jump up and follow her into a maze that eventually leads me to a dead end inside of a cold white room with a red slab in the center. I’m told to sit on the slab. The nurse leaves and moments later an older woman who looks like she could be in her eighties enters the room supporting my grandmother’s short gray curly hair and her sweet but tired eyes. My grandmother was about to check me for STDs. Great. She introduces herself and her voice sounds like a dogs chew toy. This is all I can think about until she finally reaches the nitty gritty questions.

“What are you here to be tested for?” She asks.

“Chlamydia.”

“We can go a head and test you for a couple others too, it all costs the same.”

“Okay.”

“Alright. You have two options.” Options? “For $45,” that’s a lot, I need to get beer. “You can pee in a cup.”

“Or for $15,” that’s cheap, “I’ll milk your penis.” What? “Until it comes up.” Until it does what? “And then I’ll take a cue tip,” a cue tip? “And do a quick little swab inside the tip of your penis.” I grip the slab and die a little inside.

“I’ll pee in a cup,” I whimper

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“But that’s 30 more dollars.”

“Yea, I’m gonna pee in a cup.”

“Okay. I will take you to a room and give you a cup. You’ll place it in a little box in the room. Then in about a week the doctor will call you and tell you the results.”

“Easy enough.”

and I'm back.

2011-06-15T07:10:00.000-04:00

So before I make any jokes about the “bonnarooers”… I’m not going to lie…bonnaroo was fucking epic. None of this auto-tune bullshit. It’s just real musicians who love what they do and sound amazing doing it.

Who did I see, you ask?

Arcade Fire

The Black Keys

Eminem

Mumford and Sons

Florence and the Machine

Grace Potter and the Nocturnals

Lewis Black, Eugine Mirman and Ted Alexander

Beirut

Iron and Wine

Amos Lee

Freelance Whales

Atmosphere

…just to name a few.

Now on to the jokes…or should I say…shit that pissed me off at bonnaroo.

1. Chicks that feel the need to walk around topless.

Why? No one else is doing it. We aren’t at some nude beach…we are jam packed in a 700 acre far…I really don’t want you to accidently boob check me with your actual boob. Also your tits are small…no one wants to see them anyways. And furthermore walking without a bra fucking hurts. God damn feminists.

2. Dude “painting” the sky.

Fuck you. it’s legitimately 100 degrees outside…and you’re going to pull out a ladder…and a can of blue paint…in fucking overalls…and paint the fucking sky?!?! God damn liberal hippie douches.

3. Bandanas.

Oh come on!

4. Girls that look better in a bikini than me.

Fuck off.

5. Dudes that look better in a bikini than me.

Fuck off.

6. Bonnaroo’s comedy tent.

If you haven’t noticed I’m obsessed with comedy. And the comedians coming to the festival was a major selling point for me, Bonnaroo. So um…don’t sell 85,000 tickets and only make your comedy tent able to fit 600 people.

7. Not being able to see my idol, Kathleen Madigan, perform.

I’m still crying on the inside.

8. 106 Heat Index.

Stop being a whore, mother nature.

9. Having to throw away my fucking Powerades at the security check point.

That was total bullshit….oh I’m sorry… if you haven’t noticed…it’s fucking hot as shit outside…and I would like to be able to keep my body fully hydrated…if that’s okay with you….asshole.

10. Being covered in mud for 4 days.

It’s not a good look for me.

so I'm going to mia for a hot sec.

2011-06-08T09:52:00.000-04:00

Why you ask? CAUSE I'M GOING TO FUCKING BONNAROO.

But don't you worry, little ducklings...I will be bringing my notebook...and I'm pretty sure me surrounded around 80,000 liberal hippie douches, is going to be great fodder for this little blog of mine.

Toodles!

your eyes say it all...

2011-06-07T09:13:00.002-04:00

You’ve been given many “looks” over the years, haven’t you? Some good; some bad; some made you cry in the corner of your bathtub (gentlemen), but the truth is, that’s life.

We all get those looks from friends/strangers/DMV workers, so to make you feel a little less repulsed about yourself, I have compiled a list of looks I’ve been given over the decades:

1. “I’ve seen you naked” look.

2. “I’m not impressed at what I’m looking at while you stand in front of me naked” look.

3. “I’m pretending I don’t remember you vomiting at that party the other night” look.

4. “I know you just pooped” look.

5. “You’re the whore who had sex with my friend on the stairs” look.

6. “I bet you have no standards” look.

7. “I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell” look.

8. I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell and pay with change” look.

9. “I’m sexually repulsed by the thought of you” look.

10. “You’re hot” look. (Side note: This is only from Mexican construction workers.)

11. “You don’t know how to read, do you?” look.

12. “I bet you like fat guys” look.

13. “I just saw you vomit outside of a taxicab” look.

14. “You vomit a lot” look.

15. “I’m pretty sure there is a hell and I’m pretty sure you’re going” look.

16. “You’re antics are a drain on society” look.

17. “You going to Catholic school explains a lot” look.

18. “You think Candy land is a real country, don’t you?” look.

19. “I just watched you pop a zit in public” look.

20. “I’m still watching you pop a zit in public” look.

21. “Did you just tell that man to put 5 scoops of mayo on your sandwich?” look.

22. “Are you still talking?” look.

23. “You just said Danny Glover was your original fuck” look.

24. “You’re just pretending to understand science, aren’t you” look.

25. “You just ate something that fell on the ground” look.

26. “Why are you buying a 20-pack of condoms, toothpaste and a hot-pocket all at the same time?” look.