I Do it for the Art

"What should I write about, Collin?"  It's 9 pm, and I haven't accomplished my minimum of 250 words and the crazy person living beneath my forehead starts screaming that the blog award people will start to count my words and then sue me when they see there's nothing here.  The nerves set in, and the ideas fly away.
"Write about your newfound ability to fart."  Collin, it would seem, is not feeling helpful.
Also, I DON'T fart.  Ladies don't fart.  I explode hold it in until bedtime when I hope the covers will absorb the stink the appropriate time and place.
"Write about why you started the blog."
Like it isn't OBVIOUS.
To be rich and famous!  That's the only reason anyone does anything!  I will accidentally stumble across some meaningful topic and the internet will go rabid for my stories, and then book deals will begin to fly in, and I will also find some new talent for drawing/painting.  From there, I will spend all my money on pretty, shiny things use my fame to raise awareness about important issues facing the world today.
I will travel the world, leaving shining shit stains of happiness in my wake.  Collin, too, will be affected by my new glamorous life and will FINALLY beg forgiveness for the fart lies be treated to the easy life he deserves.
Here, I give you the first stages of my fame.  Art.  Be sure to say that in the most pretentious voice possible: Ahhhhrt.

Out with the Trash

I'll rant this once, and then attempt to get over it.  So, please, if you're looking for something a little more light-hearted jokester-ific, you might want to skip this one by.
My identity was stolen by some pissant little shit-monkey who has no idea the type of hell I would like to rain down on her.   She's lucky that yesterday cooler heads prevailed and Collin was there to stop me from knocking her door down with a bat.  She is unlucky, or just a gnarly little skank, that I fully intend to canvas her entire fucking building with signs identifying her as the skank-weasel that she is.  My very own version of the Scarlet Letter. 
It seems that even though my mail was supposed to be forwarded to me after moving out of my old building, she still managed to get her dirty claws on one of my bank statements.  She then proceeded to empty out my accounts at BestBuy.com.  All I can hope is that the human stank that she is was idiotic enough to purchase from her home computer, or have it shipped to her own address.  Then I will have the pleasure of mashing her up like the bit of pus that she is.

I'd like to know what's wrong with people?  Who does this to someone, even a stranger?  How does someone feel absolutely no moral compunction, and completely disregard the well-being of those around her?  Why is it ALWAYS that the nicer you are, the more people are willing to spit on you?  Well FUCK her!  And fuck everybody like her!  I'm tired of this bullshit, and I'm ready to take some "people" down.

These Ideas Are Not My Own

I've run out of ideas. It wasn't so long ago that I thought I could rant and rave for hours on end, about any topic, but currently my brain is at a bust, and the things I have written down to tell you about just aren't all that interesting to me at the moment. So I went on a quest for knowledge online (what would I do without the internet?) and found some writing prompts. Most of them are absolutely ridiculous, annoyingly so, really....but there was one site that was kind of interesting. The whole idea was writing prompts from other writers. mindbump.com is a potential life-saver.
One potential topic was to pick someone I really hate and write about what I admire about him. But who has the time? Or the inclination? So I went ahead and picked: what color is my room painted and what do I think that says about me?
My room is white. That says I'm Caucasian. It also says that I'm only renting my current home, and thus have no rights to paint. Though, I think Bob and Rob would probably be fine with that.
When I was a kid, I remember I wanted to paint my room like a sky. You know, blue, white fluffy clouds, that kind of thing. Then I wanted to let my friends in and paint it however we wished; writing messages and rude things. Thank god my mum put the kabosh on that one! What the hell was I smoking when I came up with that gem? I remember getting all upset and exclaiming, "It's my room!" 

It's still a wonder to me that my parents were able to resist the temptation of murder, many times over.  Thanks, guys. 

When I was a tween, I got really into RED.  I read that people who favor red tended to be more outgoing, spontaneous, and popular.  I was none of those things, so I thought the best way to mold myself was to start with the basics.  At the time, it was a real disappointment that it didn't work.  Those years were tough.

Eventually, my mum picked the color for me, and it's a color I continue to find calming, and I think I'll always associate it with sleep.  It was a light blue, but it looked white in the sun, and violet in the darker recesses.  I loved the purple.  Maybe I was just destined to be royalty.  Or at the very least, I was destined to have this oh-so-attractive sense of entitlement.  Doesn't it just shine on me?

Now, and I know this sounds crazy, I think I'd opt for padded walls.  Something cozy.  My room would be completely covered, and I would have blankets and pillows everywhere, so if tired enough, I wouldn't even have to go through the extra effort of making it to the bed.  I want a room that I can utterly collapse in.  I would also like a maid, and a private chef (giving Collin a break), and a personal massage therapist.  And, you know....free money.  And if I have to have a money tree, then I'm going to need a gardener. 

Add Some Strawberry, And It Was All Worth It

My calves are on fire today, and no amount of crying or pouting seems to heal them.  Yesterday, Collin, myself, Watson, our friend Darren, and his dog Kajul decided to take advantage of the beautiful weather and take a relaxing walk in Chabot Park.  If you've never been, and you find yourself in Oakland, craving a little bit of nature, I'd recommend it.  I'd also recommend you stay the hell off of the Goldenrod Trail.  Or, grab yourself a trail map, like any thinking person might.  Another bit of advice might be: if you're the only one not getting high, perhaps you should take the lead.

Not to break into gender stereotypes here, but really what IS the problem with men asking for directions?  Why can't they do it?  They would rather be lost in the woods than ask any of the other people we happen across for some pointers on how to get back to our car.  So, it was left to me, and this is what we were told by the nice joggers, "just follow this path until there's a fork, and then just keep going right, and it'll take you back."  Here's what the men heard.  "Follow this path, then take your first right, and then MAKE SURE YOU STICK TO THIS PATH, and ignore all other paths to the right!"

So we did.  There were some delightful looking trails on the right, heading downhill into the inviting shade, one even following a stream that I'm sure the dogs would have been more than happy to frolic in.  I, too, would have been happy to stomp about in the water, being the only person that brought any sort of drinking water, and now forced to share it between three people.  But I digress.  We stuck with Goldenrod, continuing to climb up, and actively avoiding all shade.  My farmer's tan can attest to this.
After three hours of this death march, slave-driver Collin starts shouting we're almost there!  The car should be around the next bend!  And Darren starts mentioning that you can tell we've come full circle, because the land is beginning to look like it did at the beginning of the walk.  Apparently, Darren can spot the difference between Eucalyptus trees.
There is a pit in my stomach, but I lead the charge to the final trail marker, nearly collapsing when the marker reads simply, "End."
The men take out their I-Phones and desperately begin trying to hone in on the car, which is apparently still somewhere around the bend.  Behind those nice people's homes.  Just past that barking dog.  Like the electronic bastards they are, the phones inform us that yes, we SHOULD have gone right at every turn, because what we've done instead is walk the length of the park.  The car is just beyond another hundred bends;  we're only halfway there.
Watson and I share a look that can only be interpreted as, "I hate this."  Kajul begins to look at the grass longingly, and it isn't much further into our trek back when she begins to collapse in it and look at Darren in an obvious attempt to express to him, "Go on without me."
Even Watson, 1 year old athletic never-tiring Watson, looked at us, and laid down in the path. Around this time, I diplomatically told Collin, "I hate this, and you."

By the time we DID round that last bend and find the car, every one of us was aching and speaking dreamily of cold beer and margaritas.  The dogs became puddles in the back seat, the windows were rolled down as far as possible, and we headed to the nearest Taqueria.
By the time I had my margarita in hand, and we were sharing chips and guacamole, we were all friends again.  Next time, I'll be sure to have a map in hand.