It's just a ride

Life is just a ride. I'm aware of this. So why does it have to be such a shitty ride? Why can't we all have normally functioning psyches that don't go all haywire when, I don't know, a second passes? Granted, I've felt a little off base all day long. I went to sleep last night with a rolling ball of ugly in me and really, I don't recommend doing that. I mean, look at how I am today. What I really want is to magically have enough money for the plane ticket back to California for the wedding and for the dress/skirt/top/whatever and shoes I'm going to need for the wedding, and Taco Bell. Of course, running for the border is easier than horking up around $500 on a whim but the nearest Taco Bell is three hundred thousand miles away and I seem to be having a little problem with my balance. As in I have none.

Of course, not running for the border and not having $500 are not the only causes of my woes. There is always that pesky matter of the male species. Male Species, why must you inflict yourself upon me like this? Why must I think you generally smell nice and look cute and oh my, what strong arms you have, Male Species! I've given a lot of thought to joining the plight of my fellow Female Species. I mean, I should just get out there, right? I should just make myself available and enjoy the ride. It's easy, right? So easy! Other Female Species do it ALL. THE. TIME.

So why can't I? Because of the stupid good-smelling, cute, broad-shouldered Male Species. Or should I say Male Specie? Yes, I'm talking to you, Mr. Tie-Wearing Professional Swaggery Blue-Eyed God of All That Is Male and Speciesish. Can I be frank (I'll let you be Shirley)? This is my blog after all. I should be able to say whatever I want.

Mr. T-WPSB-EGoATIMaS, You suck and I wish I could punch you in the stomach and then make-out with you for eleventy hours. I'm sure you're just like all the other guys whom occupy that category with you and I'm sure that if I got to know you, I'd hate your breathing guts and I'm pretty sure you need to be castrated, but goddamn it if you aren't just the invisible splinter I can't dig out of my brain. You (along with my staggering inability to MOVE ON but this is about you, not me) are hampering my chances at a normal life that involves cuddles and kisses and sexy-sexy in the queen size bed I don't yet own and babies that don't have blue eyes.

So yeah, I hate you. Please come find me? Pretty please with sugar on top and a cherry? I promise I won't be bad. Unless you want me to be.

See what I mean? Wouldn't you feel kind of concerned/irked/bitchy if you had to deal with a brain like this everyday?

Nyabasazi. That is the one word that sums up my life.