Ode to Cheeseburger

It's a Friday night and all I can think about is you, my cheeseburger.  have hit the rock bottom of dieting. I don't even want to drink! I just want to close my eyes and transport to that magical place where  the fattiest of meats is served, slapped by a mountain of cholesterol deterioration, artery fucking junk, and shove it  down my throat that is all too eager and overly prepared.

And I am thinking on this cheese burger, this ethereal creature. It beckons to me. I pass my kitchen and its like a fucking scene out of Requim for a Dream, when the fridge jumps out and the tv bitch is scary. You cheeseburger, you have captured my heart and my dreams. You have danced in my mind and whispered in to my soul. Eat me. 

I try to take my mind off you. I browse the pages of an endless wifi world. Reddit...fuck you reddit, with your endless food porn and post post of valentines. And those dinners...those Valentines dinners and boxes of chocolate.... Fucking valentines and their luscious meals. I move on to the next best site, redtube. Its no use, every cock and vag looks like a gruyere and grilled mushrooms. I can see is you, my cheeseburger, you, perhaps a comrade such as a plate of chicken chow mein.

Don't stray for too long...I hunger for you.

My god I want a fucking cheese burger.

All kissy face and shit

I am the girl who is typically unimpressed with Valentines Day. Don't get me wrong, I am a typical girl that likes to be surprised with tokens of appreciation. But it was hard for me to catch on to the whole gift giving, and major ram hard loving on this particular day. I mean, it all felt so forced and generic. A day to show the person that  you love, that you really do love and care for them...am I or was I wrong in thinking that this is bullshit? That my affection and appreciation toward this significant other should be proudly displayed and not saved for 2/14...my personal date in infamy?!?!?!

Here is the thing, I hate receiving flowers. Its a nice gesture when you graduate, or some sort of event. But I have this weird thing about receiving them from boys. Especially boys who should know me and what I love, or some semblance of this. I feel that flowers from a guy are lazy. I know what you must be thinking, what an ungrateful and inconsiderate brat I am. I get it, and I don't blame you for thinking this way. But here is my logic. If I am to invest an amount of time in a person, and they in turn with me, then shouldn't I be presenting them with a gift that speaks to their personality and characteristics, rather than a decaying mass grabbed from a bucket at the Safeway?

Let me clear something up, I am not saying I need to be bought an expensive gift either. My feeling is only that I would much rather be taken for a coffee or a walk than presented with a bouquet because some Hallmark exec cocksucker thought a day in February was a great day to REALLY love someone.

But then something fucking happened. Call it Cupid raping me behind the Jack in the Box, or maybe that I found someone that I actually respected and cared about, not just a person I was "investing" time in. Said guy sweeps me off my feet...not with flowers or jewelry, but with intellect and wit. There was no conversation that was off limits, no moment that life was not a fun, or a day that we could not enjoy each other. Each call, text, kiss was effortless and deep in emotion. I wanted to show this awesome beau my gratitude with daily blow jobs and any other tokens of appreciation.

I suddenly found myself nervous about our first Valentines Day. In fact, I found myself wanting to celebrate this day. I wanted to make it different, set apart. I had already given him more  caring and loving than I ever had with anyone, but on this day, I wanted him to feel extra special. No generic overpriced dinners, no Hallmark cards...something that would set this day apart from the every day " I love you" and "eres mi vida".

Remembering a previous conversation, I decided to engage his sister and his mother in my plan. You see my boy loves food, good food. And a favorite of his was something that his mother made. My master plan was to cook this dish, but first, I had to get the recipe from her. Still intimidated, and desperately wanting to make a good impression, I commissioned his sister to get the recipe from their mother. I had no idea how this was going to go. I didn't want her to feel that I was replacing her, but rather respecting her cooking skills. Luckily she seemed pleased and was happy to share the recipe.
Next was the issue of the card. Now, let me tell you something...I don't have a creative streak at all. And I didn't want to give him some god awful card with a big ass heart on the top. I just wanted something cute and his style. I am fortunate to come from a family of scapbookers. In the end I was able to put together a card with beer bottle stickers and a heart together.

Then came the big day. I made the meal, finished the card, grabbed a bottle of his favorite beer. But I wanted to really surprise him and be cliched in one area...the underwear. So I decide to purchase this frilly red underwear. Now, I am not the tiniest girl, and no matter what size of ruffled chonis you buy, that shit is going to travel up your ass and chafe the shit out of it. So I buy the stupid fucking underwear because hey, my babe is worth it,  and again, this was the first time I really wanted to celebrate this day.

So I go to his house walking like an asshole because the cute little frills are being eaten by my ass, with a dish full of shrimp and a beer. I knew he had been prepping for the day, and I was nervous. I wasn't sure what the day would be like. I mean, this person was someone that I had felt different, excited, in love. Every day was like a first awesome date, how could we ever top anything like that? And then I realized, each day that we spent together, always topped the last, because it was another day with each other. And although it was Valentine's, we were incredibly happy.

It also helped that in leiu of flowers, he bought me a tequila bottle. I am the luckiest girl ever.

The day I shit myself

I didn't actually shit myself...at least not in the occasion that is to be described. But you sure fucking clicked on the link, didn't you, you sick-o.

I did however have a story about the time that I pulled a ten hour shift at the law office. Happily walked my ass two blocks to the "secure" parking garage where my car was parked, only to find the window busted in.

So the story goes like this...

It was a Friday...maybe Thursday. I should know this shit since it just happened a month ago. So after pulling this insanely long day at the office....well let me stop here and tell you about the office. It's a small firm. It's a little chaotic, unorganized at times. Some of the clients are cool and banter with you, but some of them are royal cockers who ride the last inch of patience I could ever have. And its usually the cunt climbers that I typically give all of my attention to that get UBER ANGRY WHEN I can't take the 55 minutes to listen to them bitch about god fucking knows what. To be honest, if it has nothing to do with the case I typically check out and jump on Reddit and the George RR Martin fan site.
 Fuck you, I lead an exciting life.
I mean, normally these clients just want to feel validated and heard, even if it is not relevant to the case whatsoever, so I try to do that for them. But then these bratty shits just take and take, and they can't seem to comprehend that I cannot devote so much time to the incessant complaining. So this particular day had a slew of these people. I am not kidding, every client that needed hand holding grew an extra fucking hand that day. It was a nightmare...To top it off, our checks were going to be distributed a day later than anticipated. Fuck me, shouldn't have bought the forty dollar wine when the "juice" box works twice as fast.

So I end the miserable day looking forward to a dinner with the babe and the cousin. And despite the long hours, I was going to have just enough time to make myself look like a lady and not the vagrant that rustled out of bed. I walk the block, all the while trying to navigate the marijuana reeking  ghetto kids. In my quest to be healthy, I walk the two flight of stairs to my car, slowly...no need to pull something. Since I was already exerting myself by walking up the stairs, I thought it best to park as close as possible to the stairs. Essentially putting the car in a perfect spot for a would be robber.

I walk past the passenger side and open the door to the driver side. BAM. My shit is all over the driver seat. Now, to those of you who know me, you will know that my car is the mother of all shit shows. It is filled with clothes, shoes, food, wrappers, water bottles (empty and full), decks of cards, cassette types, CD's, books, etc...this list could go on for days. The day my car does get cleaned is the day someone died and I am letting foreigners into the car. So to say that I noticed my shit was all over the place means that shit was torn the fuck up in that car. I mean they went through every god damn crevice and dug up shit I had not seen since I first bought the car in 2005. Now tack on the fact that I had a bunch of tupperware boxes with old christmas shit, nothing fancy. Just crap.

I instantly panic and call the babe. I didn't notice a broken window so for a moment I thought some paranormal, parking garage poltergeist shit was going on. As I am on the phone, on the verge of tears, which is not much different than any other day, I notice some crazy alien black looking shit on the seat of the back passenger side. I think, cool, any minute Fox Mulder is going to show up to fulfill all of my prepubescence sexual fantasies, like hand holding and shit. And then I realized, thats not alien shit, that glass, broken glass, from the back window that I had literally just walked passed.

But let me tell you, the joke was on the mother fucker that broke that window, got in my car, and went through all those piles. And believe me, there are a lot of piles...because there was absolutely nothing of value in my car, well, nothing of value to them. I do have the first and second CD babe made me last year, and the charm bracelet spelling out "Vanessa" that my goose princess made when she was four. But they were still there, and I was ok. Well, I was out 140 dollars to replace the window...you dirty rug rubbing motherfucker.

But its ok, it is ok. Because an awesome person made a voodoo doll for the asshole that broke in to my car...so fuck you dude.