Grumpy Lick Nazi and Champion of Equal Thigh Rights

Sometimes hours, fractions of days even, pass by, and the only things I've said out loud in that whole time are

1) Shhht! SHHHT!

2) Stop licking!

3) You better shut it! YOU BETTER SHUT IT!

4) Hey! Bzzt! Ffft!! KAW!! *slams arm down on armrest* 

That last one is for the deaf dog who can only hear sharp noises. Or maybe he can hear all noises and is making a fucking ass out of me. Note to self: Investigate claims of deafness.

I just can not tolerate the sound of licking. Some of you remember this about me, as I've referred to the mnyuh mnyuh sound as "the frenching of a tub of cream cheese".

Right now I'm looking through the door to the other room and I can see just a small part of Farley's back. It's rocking back and forth rhythmically, masturbatorily even, and I have deduced that he is licking his penis. I can't hear the sound, but it's making me so angry because I know the sound exists, just feet away, just barely out of my range of hearing. 

If a dog licks his cock in the forest in the dining room, and nobody's there to hear it, does it even make a sound?

Answer: Yes, it makes the worst fucking sound in the world and it must be stopped. BZZT! KAW!! KAW!! *clapclapclap* STOP LICKING!

Also, I'm in a bad mood. I was up at 4am with Dolphinhead Seizuredog so I decided to take a late morning power nap because I was so tired and I ended up having that dream again where my mom is naked and wagging her giant cock at me in a taunting way, and I know this dream has something to do with how the gender roles were reversed in my family growing up, but rationalizing it doesn't make it any less disturbing. At least the dream didn't get to the part where she shoots Spidey web from her giant floppy donkey dick and traps me in a tangled web of glistening jizz-rope. I hate that part. The more you struggle, the more tangled you get in the jizz-rope. Aint that the truth, though? Metaphorically, somehow? Well, whatever, if Confucious had said it, you guys would all be shitting your pants with its brilliance, you know you would.

Can one qualify for a handicapped sticker on one's car because of one's ridiculously obtrusive inner thighs? Would insurance pay for one's motorized zoom-zoom seat for old people if that person's inner thighs made it more difficult for her to walk? Or if that person was occasionally made grumpy because of her inner thighs?

I've duct-taped them before, which kind of worked, until too many awesome karate kicks on the dance floor caused the tape on one inner thigh to peel off and fall out my pant leg and flap along on top of my high heel until I noticed it and kicked it off. Then the real decision-making began...do I carry on with just the one thin thigh? Or does the asymmetry of my svelteness negate any aesthetic benefit to the tape? 

I ended up peeling off the tape, not because of the asymmetric thinness, but because of me beginning to wonder, when you hold your fat in on one spot on your body...where does the fat go? The answer is not that it goes into your bones, which is what I really wanted to believe. So in search for the answer to this question, I checked myself out in a full-length mirror and found my answer: The fat goes behind you. 

Now, normally my philosophy about everything concerning the back of me is "If I can't see it, it's not my problem." Me from the back is like the hall closet where you put all the mess in your house that you don't ever have time to think about. This is why I don't do any ass exercises or check how jeans look from the back before I buy them. Not my problem.

This is also why people are always coming up to me when I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor and whispering, "Hey Becky, crack kills" in my ear. Thanks for the subtle and discreet heads-up, friends, but you know what? Not my problem. If you don't like my ass-crack, look away.

But anyhow, when you duct tape your inner thighs, your inner thighs move to the back. And normally this would not be my problem to deal with, but I felt sorry for my poor, bound, left inner thigh having to be relocated from its home, while just over the hill its twin got to flounce around all free-range in its natural habitat. This is how evil twins happen. Bitter jealousy and resentment. So I freed it.

Now you are probably thinking, "Becky, why don't you just repost during the month of December? Clearly, you're stressed, and when you're stressed, focus and linear thought become even more of an issue." And I would like to respond with gratitude that you care so much about my well-being, but I would also like to inform you that my "Not my problem" philosophy is not limited to the physical world, but also the temporal. 

In other words, this post is not my problem. It's the "visible ass-crack" of posts. You sort it out.

 

Nana, Smasher of Dreams

Once again, Nana has failed me.

I arrived at her house and followed the smell of baby powder and Ensure up the stairs, past the motorized stair-seat, hung a right at the wheelchair and followed the sounds of oxygen tank. And what I discovered when I peeked around the La-Z-Boy was that the past couple months of year 102 have not treated her too kindly. Ahmahgah. WhahappatoNana. 

I put my hand on hers and bent down to look into her eyes and whispered, "Hi Nana! It's me Becky!

Her Nigerian nurse rubbed her arm vigorously then and shouted, "LOOK WHO IT IS COME TO SEE YOU, NANA!! LOOK WHO IT IS!! IT IS BECKY!! OPEN YOUR EYES!! OPEN YOUR EYES!! OPEN YOUR EYES NANA! LOOK WHO COME TO SEE YOU TODAY!!"

(Holy shit, lady. Let her sleep. It's cool. I'll catch up with her another time.)

But she continued, screaming now. "NANA YOU HAVE A SURPRISE VISITOR!! GUESS WHO IT IS!! OPEN YOUR EYES AND SEE FOR YOURSELF!! OPEN YOUR EYES NANA!! WOOWOOOWOOO!! (clapclapclap) SAY HELLO TO YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER BECKY!! SHE COME TO SAY MERRY CHRISTMAS TODAY!! YAYAYAYAWHOOOO!! (clapclapclap)"

Blog sidebar: Cmere a sec. Now before you go thinking negatively of Nana's Nigerian nurse for all the screaming, let me assure you that she's a good egg. For example, despite the fact that she's very proper and reserved, she uses the word "pussy" all the time to refer to her ladycrotch, because (I can only assume) some evil, mischievous person provided her with the wrong term when she was learning English. (Not me.) (For real, not me.) And she pronounces it "Poo-see" which is so oily and suggestive I can't help but shudder with glee.

Also, Nana's Nigerian nurse has a special friendship with my little dog Juanita. Here are some things I have heard her saying to Juanita when she thought nobody was listening:

"Oh, Juanita. You are so small, but you have the heart of a lion. You can move mountains, and you will one day. I am sure of it."

"Juanita, would you like to go to see the Miley Cyrus movie with me? We will sit in the front row together. We will have a wonderful time."

"Oh Juanita, we are both single ladies. Will you do the single ladies dance with me? (tambourine hands) All the single ladies. All the single ladies dance with their hands up. Go to the club! Let us put a ring on it!"

See? I told you. She's a good egg. Now, back to Nana...  

"NANA LOOK WITH YOUR EYES!! THERE YOU GO NANA!! OPEN YOUR EYES!!"

And she did! Her eyes scanned from left to right and landed on me, and then, hold on, here it comes...I think...I think she's gonna do it...yes here it comes...

*wink*

Booya. A wink from Nana is like a zerbert from God. 

Exhausted from all the activity, she fell back asleep.

So...standing there with my bag full of blogger names written on post-its and folded in quarters, I realized that, once again, Nana will not be able to pick a contest winner for me. And seeing as how she's never alone anymore, it's not even possible for me to attach a piece of double-sided tape to the tip of her index finger, hang her arm over the side of her chair, and dip her hand into my bag of names hoping one sticks. This is bullshit. 

So...contest winner is TBA, as soon as I come up with a plan B. 

In the meantime, I'm reposting below. I have to do it now because, well, you know...*taps watch* if you catch my drift. In other words, to quote a great poet and a master of metaphor, "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives, and Nana's just about out of sand." 

***

You've changed, Nana.

There, I've said it. You have this silent, haughty air about you lately. At first I thought it was a temporary ego thing after Willard Scott announced your 100th birthday on air, but a couple of years have passed and nothing's changed. It's so easy for people to get caught up in your grammy sweaters and your Captain Kangaroo 'do and think aw, she's so cute. But I'm not buying it anymore. Seriously, I'm so done.

I don't care how old you are. I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. You're acting like a dick.

Don't give me that confused look. Alright, let me lay it all out on the table:

1) Listen up, you. I'm 34 years old. A five spot in a birthday card isn't gonna cut it anymore. I realize in your day five dollars would have bought you a log cabin, or a parasol, or whatever you people spent your money on before there was good stuff, but welcome to the future, Nana. Shit's expensive. And the way you so carelessly scrawl your name at the bottom of the card, I can't read a word of it. I don't care how bad your hand shakes, you better find a way to pull yourself together and eek out something resembling a legible signature. Put some effort into it. Take a pill, ask your home health care worker to hold your wrist steady, whatever you gotta do, just make it happen.

2) Is there something wrong with our air? It suits me just fine, same with everyone else you know. But apparently our stupid old atmosphere isn't up to your standards. Don't think it's gone unnoticed that you keep your own private stash (the good stuff, no doubt) in a tank nearby so you don't have to breathe the generic brand. We are literally not fit to breathe the same air, are we. This is elitism at its worst. It's AIR, Nana, it's free, and look around...it's freakin everywhere!

3) Sleeping 23 hours a day is for cats and hobos, so wake the hell up. Come on, up and at 'em! Days a wastin'! It's not like the other waking hour of your day is so exhausting. I mean, you have not one, but TWO people holding you by your armpits every time you go anywhere, so how tiring can your life possibly be? I wish I had it that good, I wish people would carry ME around everywhere by my armpits. I work hard, blogging and texting and thinking all the time, but I manage to walk to the bathroom from my seat in front of the tv and back like everyone else. People are starting to talk about how lazy you are, and frankly, I'm tired of defending you.

4) I, too, get tired of chewing sometimes. I know, food can be so damn chunky. But I get through it, and so should you. The fact that you demand that your food be pureed to a pulp is just such diva behavior. Listen Ms. Ross, use the teeth your periodontist gave you, open up, and get to work. Eat your eggplant parmesan whole and unblended like everyone else, because you're really no better than the rest of us.

5) My name is Becky. BECKY. Here, I'll help you out. You know a neat trick to remember it? It's the same as your name. Which is also BECKY. I know, it's tricky. But in any case my name's not "Howdi-li-do!," or "Don't you look festive today!" And winking at me with your twinkly eye and bright grandmotherly smile does not a greeting make.

6) Woman, we get it. You've been around for over a century, and in that time you have acquired an impressive collection of jewelry. But really, there is no need to flaunt it in our faces every day. What statement are you trying to make with this endless parade of bedazzled hummingbird broaches and gold rope chain necklaces adorned with cardinals, honeybees, and sparrows? Are you trying to make everyone jealous? Well, guess what. It worked. Happy?

7) The drama. Oh Lord, the drama you bring with you everywhere you go. These "Petite Mal Seizures" and "Temporary Comatose States" you seem to miraculously fade in and out of, it's barely funny anymore. You realize you almost ruined Thanksgiving when we had to remove you from the table and lay you out on the floor to check your breathing? There never was a bigger attention whore, ever. If I faked a coma or a seizure every time I felt neglected, I'd never get up. Deal with it.

Pull yourself together, Nana. Really. What would Jesus say?

Lessons in object permanence with Farley the senile dog

Farley jumps around in the passenger seat of the car, barking out the window and scratching at the door.

Me: What are you doing?

Farley: Barking! I need to get your attention! Yarp! Yarp! Yarp!

Me: You're barking out the window. How will that get my attention?

Farley: I'm barking at YOU, the you in the car next to us! Yarp! Yarp!

Me: But I'm right here next to you! There's no other me, pup. That's just a lady that looks kind of like me.

Farley: But I see you in that car...see, look! Yellowhair girl, that's you, and I love you. Don't leave me, Yellowhair girl! Yarp!

Me: There's only one of me, dog. I'm right here. See?

Farley: You are here, that is true. Then I turn my head and you are there too, with your yellow hair. You are so quick! I don't want any of you to leave me. Look, you're getting away! Follow you!

Me: (covers Farley's eyes with my cupped right hand)

Farley: Oh no. The lights went out. I will wait.

......

pant pant pant...

.....

turn signal, click, click, click...

.....

Me: (removes hand)

Farley: Ok! lights on! Where is it??

Me: Where is what?

Farley: What I was looking at just now?? I forget. Remind me.

Me: Mmmmnope. Nothing.

Farley: I feel awfully excited. Are you sure? Was it a bird? A bicycle man?

Me: Before the lights went out, you were just looking out the window, quietly enjoying the breeze.

Farley: Yes, I do enjoy breeze. Wait! What's that? It's your car over there! I see your car! Let's go for a ride! I wanna go for a ride!!

Me: You are IN my car, we are riding in the car right this very second.

Farley: Where? I don't see the car we are in?!

Me: Because you are IN it.

Farley: If I cannot see the car, how can I be IN it? If I cannot see the car, it doesn't exist, and it is impossible to be IN a car that doesn't exist. Listen to me now. The car is there. I want to get in the car because I love rides. Let me out of this little house.

Me: The car is right here. That is a car that looks like my car, which you are in right now.

Farley: Okay fine, the car is here. But it is there. Mostly, your car is there, I can see it. Wait, pull over, I see Yellowhair girl again walking down the street, I need to tell her something real quick. Please, Yellowhair girl, let me out so I can go greet Yellowhair girl!!

Me: There is only one Yellowhair girl, dog, and she is me. Turn around, I'm right here!

Farley: WANNA GO FOR RIDE! YARPYARPYARP! DON'T LEAVE ME, YELLOWHAIR GIRL!!

Me: (cups hand over his eyes)

Farley: Uh Oh. Lights out. I will wait.

She fingered my butt, and insurance paid for it all. Everyone wins.

There is only one rule in the waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health. 

And it is this: There is no waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health. If you find yourself there, you were never there. Neither was I. 

But just in case you forget that rule and find yourself in this non-existent waiting room in the Center for Colorectal Health, there's a second rule, which is: 

In the waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health, keep your eyes down at all times.

Lots of ass-shame in that room. So much ass-shame.

I couldn't quite see too well on account of following rule 2, so the memory is sketchy due to my weak peripheral vision and tendency to imagine things that might or might not have been real, but I'm pretty sure everyone there but me was in disguise. There was Guy in Black Unitard Wearing a Monocle and a Beret, who sat in the corner and twisted his fake handlebar mustache while mumbling things like "Sacre Bleu!" and "Vive la revolution!!" and "Croissant? Eh huh-huh-huh-huh? Oui?" behind his People magazine. I wasn't buying it.

There was Guy in Polo Shirt who brought his own set of golf clubs and kept practicing his swing and yelling, "Yes!! Nailed it!" and asking the receptionist in a loud, obvious voice, "Do you happen to know when my best pal the other doctor in this office besides me, his friend and esteemed colleague, will be ready for our GOLF GAME that we are having after he's done with these *dismissive wave* people with problems?" to which she'd reply, "Has your butt donut deflated again, sir? Please have a seat."

There was a patient who crept into the office holding an empty refrigerator box over his body, quietly accompanied by plinky cartoon secret-tiptoe music in an attempt to throw us all off, quickly setting his disguise down on the floor and playing the old "abandoned refrigerator box" trick every time somebody looked up. He didn't fool me though, I could see him looking around behind the eyeholes he had cut out. Good ruse, though, box guy.

I didn't wear a costume because I didn't know about the ass-shame ahead of time, but I did pose as "The busiest and most important texter in the universe" and "Woman who misplaced the cure for cancer in her wallet" and "Woman whose thoughtful introspection has transported her to a realm of inner peace that few mortals have ever known."

It bothered me that I was the only woman in there. I'm pretty sure they all assumed I'd been having shitloads of anal sex, which I haven't by the way. So to prove it I cleared my throat and said "Hey you guys, quick poll! Raise your hand if you hate anal sex!" and raised my hand, so crisis averted, ass-virtue preserved.

But just in case, to make my point clear, I borrowed a post-it pad from the receptionist and made some signs for my ass, and then sauntered casually around the room for a bit.

They brought me into an exam room early. 

Inside the exam room was a plastic model of a cross-section of an asshole, which happened to have been afflicted with every possible ailment known to ass. 

Finally the doctor arrived.

Doctor: Hi, I'm Dr. Beth. (Holds out hand to shake)

Me: Ah...Oh...you know what? (Holding hands up) Wet hands. (Oh well)

Doctor: So...tell me a little about why you're here.

Me: Um...really? I think that's for me to know and you to find out. 

Doctor: ...

Me: *intimidating fake-out shoulder thrust*

Doctor: You're not going to tell me why you're here?

Me: I'll tell you to mind your own fucking business is what I'll tell you.

Doctor: Don't be embarrassed! Come on, how am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me what's wrong?

Me: 20 questions?

Doctor: You want me to guess?

Me: I'll say hot or cold.

Doctor: How about you just tell me.

Me: Two truths and a lie?

Doctor: One truth, no lies.

Me: Split the difference? One truth, one lie, and one lie of omission?

Doctor: You've never been to a colorectal specialist before, have you?

Me: Hey! I'm thinking of an even number between 1 and 100...

Doctor: 82.

Me: Yes. That's right. (Sigh.) Please don't stick your finger up my ass.

Doctor: You know what? Let's just talk for a bit, get to know each other. 

Me: I'm scared. I've never...done this before.

Doctor: Don't worry, you're safe here. (snaps on rubber gloves)

The thing is...the thing that gets me...the thing about this experience that haunts me...is that...what you don't expect is that...

*lip tremble*

*bravely wipes eyes with forearm*

You know how in movies, they bend you over the table? I was ready for that. 

And you know how at the gyno, they put your legs up in stirrups? I could've handled that.

But what she did was...she rolled me onto my side and told me to pull my legs up to my chest. Then she stuck her jellied finger up my butt while I lay in the fetal position, which is like tucking someone into bed with their teddy bear and a cup of hot cider and nestling them in the arms of the tooth fairy as Santa sits at the foot of the bed making his list and checking it twice and telling you that you've been a good girl and then surprise! Look over there! It's your Nana giving a donkey a hand job! Yeah, see? Confused feelings is right!

Once I was able to calm down and stop shrieking "Oh my God! I'm pooping right now! Poop coming out I can feel it for real this time!!" every time she got her fingertip half an inch in, her finger was only up there long enough for me to groan, "I don't liiiike this one little biiiiiittttttt...." and then it was done, but fetal position is forever ruined.

Sorry, yoga cooldown. 

Sorry, restful catnaps.

Sorry, in utero soothing night sounds CD.

Doctor's orders involved buying lots of things at the drug store that are usually reserved for old people, and lots of things that are usually reserved for babies, and basically confusing the hell out of my asshole to the point that it just settles the fuck down. Break it down with harsh words, and then build it back up with compliments until I've got it wrapped around my little finger, so to speak. I'm gonna be my asshole's Ike Turner, giving it the back of my hand and screaming, "I'll TELL you what's love got to do with it, bitch!!" *SMACK!* And then giving it a diamond tennis bracelet and cooing, "You know you're my best asshole. My ONLY asshole. You know you shouldn't make me mad like that, baby." This Ike and Tina thing isn't part of the doctor's orders, but I can read between the lines. It's what she DIDN'T prescribe that counts.

But she did say I need to chew my almonds better. That makes sense I guess.

Awesomely Bad High School Diary, Vol 3: This disease is tearing us apart

This third installment of Awesomely Bad High School Diary is deeply embarrassing. It's not the handjob talk, or the "fingering", or the boners, or any of that. It's the political anti-war poetry that has me squirming. I posted it because it makes me laugh really hard, but for the first time ever, I'm cringing.

I'm returning the diaries to the memory trunk, but I might update later, because I know there's something about a botched handjob in there, I just can't find the page right now.

In Volume 1 Becky made a metaphor about love and fish and boats and then crowned herself best poet in the history of the universe, and then dumped Brad for Andy because he could draw a skull like nobody's business.

Next, in Volume 2 Becky invented the "first base threesome," left Andy for Kevin, and all of her friends have bowling ball holes for vaginas.

Now, Volume 3: Becky's metaphorical boat encounters some rough seas, due to bad weather caused by mono and chicken pox. Becky and Kevin, also fish in this mixed metaphor, contemplate putting their fins down each other's fish pants.

My commentary in red.

Go:

Kevin has mono. He said he got it from the air, but he's so full of shit. I can't believe he scammed on me. He's mad at me now because I think he scammed on me.

Poem for Kevin:

Procrastination

Feeling inspired (Oh Jesus. Again?)

Waiting for the call

Can't concentrate

Don't let it end

Distractions from you

Call Courtney after

hang up with me

1/2 hour ago (Yes, that's a fraction. Jealous, Maya Angelou?)

Call back please

It won't hurt.

Why not?

Help me.

Trapped.

Isolation.

Solitude.

Nobody. (Could you clarify please? Are you with people right now?)

Alone. (Oh, ok. Got it. Thanks.)

This disease

is tearing

us

apart. (Yeah, AIDS called and wants you to shut the fuck up.)

Five days later...

Ok, me and Kevin didn't break up. I was just making a big deal out of nothing. He was just ignoring me because he was obsessed with football. He's practically over his mono now and I want to kiss him so bad but I can't unless I use Saran Wrap over his face or something.

Mr. Jeffs called me in for suspected plagiarism and I would have got a zero if he had bought the Cliff Notes and checked but he didn't so I got a B+.

Guess what? I got chicken pox. This is the most vomitous experience ever. I just sit here all day, and at this moment there are non-chicken pox healthy people dancing on Club MTV. Fuck them! I think chicken pox affects my emotions because when I look in the mirror I get soooooo depressed. Kevin sent me a teddy bear in a basket with 3 balloons tied to it. This is the first get well package I've ever got. I was so happy when I got this. I don't know how to thank him. I want to try to just give him a hand job but I don't know if that would make him uncomfortable or not.

Kevin just measured his dick on the phone with me. He kept on saying it was 7 inches and I said I didn't believe him and he said "Ok, I'll measure it. Erect or normal?" so I chose erect, and he said, "How do I make it erect?" and I said, "Come on, don't tease me! All guys know how to make it erect. Give yourself a hand job!" and he said, "Ok, I'll make it erect, but it's hard to make it erect on the phone. I'll call you back later and tell you how big it gets and the difference in size between regular and erect."

Saddam is insane. Today he dropped missiles on Israel. This is NOT GOOD. I'm too young to die. They shot down more than 3 American planes. I broke my diet when I heard this. Good thing Saddam has no nuclear bombs! (I HOPE!!!) Why do we have such fucking insane leaders??? I think Beth did ecstacy.

Here's a poem I wrote in my free period today:

WAR! (Oh no. *Pulls hoodie over head, yanks drawstrings tight*)

Traffic stops

Children have nightmares

News programs invade our thoughts

Men in green, laden with sand have chapped lips

and at home...blood pressure rises as hairlines recede.

Big George is mad because Saddam took his Oreos. (Oh God no. I want to go back in time and give my mom an abortion.)

When he threatens a punch,

Saddam throws sand in his face. (Groan...)

Big George takes his missiles and throws them far, (Missiles in one hand, Oreos in the other, keep up people.)

while Saddam runs away crying.

they both poise their nuclear weapons

and prepare

to kill each other. (Takes another bong rip.)

The power lays in the hands

of two children

having fun

with their

bombs. (Get it? Because they are soooooo immature. Saddam and Bush both need to grow up. Maybe I'll make a mixed tape about it. I'll put "Give Peace a Chance" on it, and also "In Your Eyes" because that song rules.)

Next time we're alone I'm going to give Kevin a hand job. I want to so badly. I don't want him to finger me. I'm scared he's going to, even though I'll be pulling his hand away. I hope not, I'm praying not. He could so overpower me if he wanted, like when he sits on my face with a pillow and I can't breathe. He's really strong.

Click here for the final installment, volume 4.

*****

PS: Still really embarrassed about the Saddam/Oreos poem.

And Dolphinhead Seizuredog says thanks for the well-wishes.

Awesomely Bad High School Diary, Vol 2: Sensual Boob Honks and Suspiciously Clammy Fingers

It turns out re-reading old high school diaries is a good distraction from the impending death of Dolphinhead Seizuredog. She's panty and happy and generous with her stinky kisses today. Also, lots of loopy walking around, crashing into shit, collapsing, and leaking pee down her fluffy ass-fur knickers, like maybe a dog version of what I imagine Liza Minelli on a bender to look like.

Now I can't stop thinking about Liza Minelli's ass-fur knickers.

Alright, back to the diary...

Continued from Part One, in which Becky's love for "lame geek" Brad fades, only to be replaced by her love for Andy, who "doesn't ever get white gunk in the corners of his mouth".

As Part Two of our saga begins, the outlook is grim for Andy, as our heroine develops reservations about their budding relationship after meeting newcomer Kevin, who she suspects she "might love just as much or even more than the other two" and who also has "floppy Keanu Reeves hair".

Once again, my commentary in red.

Here we go:

June 30--At the party, Kevin was lighting matches and I kept blowing them out so he stole my shoes and grabbed my leg and I couldn't get away. Kim said Andy thought I was flirting with Kevin. I feel bad. I asked Andy if he thought I was flirting and he said no. Then I sat on the couch between Andy and Kevin, and while Andy had his hand down my bathing suit top and was squeezing my boob, Kevin was holding my hand on the other side. It was really confusing. I'm not sure if we were holding hands as just friends or not.

July 3--Andy left for camp today. I'm sad but Kevin is so fucking cute! If I weren't going out with Andy, these are the guys I'd like:

1) Kevin

2) ?

Aug 10--Kim invited me and Kevin and Josh over to her house on the 10th, and Kim got fingered. Kevin is sooo prude shy. Not that I'd want to get fingered. I love him so much, even though I wasn't sure at the beginning of the relationship, and I don't mind if he's prude shy. He wrote me a poem and left it on my machine and I copied it onto a blank tape but I THINK I JUST TAPED CROWDED HOUSE OVER IT!! FUCK SHIT FUCK SHIT FUCK!!!

Sept 25--Saturday I turned 14 and three-fourths, and I got what I wanted. I kissed Kevin. We kissed for about ten minutes. His top braces were annoying the right side of my lip. He was a good kisser at first but then he kept his mouth open and didn't move his lips for a very long time. Beth got fingered tonight in the other room! Jesus. Did I have any friends WITHOUT fingers in their vaginas?

Oh great, "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" is playing on MTV now, and my stomach is twisted up thinking of Kevin.

Ode to Kevin.

I know a guy

whose dark hair and green eyes

make me shiver inside

when he faithfully sighs. (This line didn't make the cut. I have high standards.)

Every time he leaves

I dream he's here

and hold my pillow

and shed lose a tear. (Good call. "Shed" is such a cliche.)

After all that's happened

the bad ends here. (No more bad. Finally. Phew! I hate bad.)

together at last, I've no more fears.

I'd stop the world to keep him close,

but as the one before, he comes and goes. (Pronounced "ghos" so it rhymes.)

I can't think of life without

because my thoughts belong to him,

and if he leaves he'll take my thoughts,

then he'll turn to Kim. (SO lucky to have a bff with a good rhymey name. This was beyond helpful all through my high school poetry career. Also, he totally turned to Kim. So, foreshadowing! Nailed it!!)

Maybe he will never leave

Maybe it will be me

the future will soon pass

and what will pass will be. (Wise words coming from a girl who, ten pages later, wanted to "Go back in time and give Kevin's mom an abortion.")

I'd grab the moon

and hand it to you,

I'd hold the stars

and give them too. (Good. Verb variety. That fixes everything.)

you will be a memory, or stay more than just a thought,

whatever becomes of us,

I'll love you.

(That's it? I'll love you?? What happened to the whole AABB-ABCBDB-BCC-ABAB-AABA rhyme scheme I had going there? High school Becky clearly had some kind of attention disor...whoa, that's weird. The cartilage at the end of my nose has a split down the middle. Is that just me?)

CLICK HERE FOR VOLUME 3

Awesomely Bad High School Diary, Vol 1

Dolphinhead Seizuredog's up to her old tricks again, that attention whore. All seizey and mouth-foamy and me!me!me! and seriously though, I can't focus on anything because she's breaking my heart with this slow dying business.

So, for the next few days, or maybe just for today, who knows, because I bore easily and fear commitment, I'll be transcribing and posting embarrassing excerpts and awesomely bad poetry from my high school diaries, which I just found in my "memory trunk" (shut up, I'm sentimental). If I decide I just don't care anymore, or if I get drunk or eat too many Kit-Kats again and start making bad decisions, I may post accompanying awkward high school photos.

My commentary in red.

Here we go:

Ode to Brad. (and/or Andy) Parentheses added months later, when I decided I felt similarly about Andy and was too lazy to write a new poem. This is the "Candle in the Wind" of bad high school poetry.

When we were together

I couldn't remember life w/o you,

Now it's like it was before

And I still forget sometimes

that if I died you wouldn't cry.

How could you just stop loving me,

I never did.

I loved you then and I love you now.

We're too young for commitment (Love poem fail)

You were my first (tongue kiss, FYI), and it would be sad

if you were my only,

because there were many before me,

and I felt like your first,

but I was just another fish in your tank.(awesome metaphor)

We are too young now,

but maybe later we won't be.(Maybe. Who knows.)

I'd rather stay young w/o you.(I had an imaginary haggling game going with God regarding not growing older. I usually lost.)

In your eyes, I see your past,

and the fish to come, (I saw fish in his eyes.)

but my boat has sailed on. (YES! Nailed it! I didn't think that fish metaphor could get any better.)

TO ANYONE WHO READS THIS!!!! I DON'T LIKE BRAD!!!! THIS IS HOW I FELT TWO MONTHS AGO!!! OK???? BRAD IS A GEEK!!!

TO ANYONE WHO READ THIS: I AM NOT THE SAPPY EMOTIONAL BASKETCASE THIS POEM SAYS I AM. I WAS JUST BORED AND FEELING INSPIRED!!!

We went to a play last night and Melissa and Emily were pushing me towards Andy to say goodbye and he gave me a picture he drew of a flaming skull chewing an eyeball. He's so sweet. I really like him now. I wouldn't get back together with Brad now if someone paid me $200,000. He had white slime in the corners of his mouth. It was gross. I can't believe I ever went out with him, he's such a geek. It makes me angry what a geek he is.

We went into the village with Damien and Eric and Beth yesterday. Damien was nice at the beginning but then he started slapping me on the face and he almost broke my fingers playing mercy, and he also looked up my shorts. I think he's really cute. I think he likes Beth though. Beth is SUCH A FAKE, but she has good intentions.

Oh, I forgot. On the 10th of June I had my first kiss with Andy. He doesn't know what he's doing and he was nervous because it was his first. I liked it because I got all shivery because I love him. We kissed on "Stairway to Heaven". Then "Forever Young" by Alphaville started playing and it was kind of ironic because I don't want to grow up. If I had one wish, I'd stop time and keep this summer forever. I just kind of realized that everything dies and the world still goes on. I would break up with Andy if God would let me stay this age forever.

Ode to Andy.

You seem so innocent

It was hard for you to try to lose

this image.

But you did

and everything's different now

better.

Now you're leaving for camp

Please don't scam on me

Because I don't think my heart

could take it

again.

CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE TO VOLUME 2