Let’s Talk about Me More

Although I talk about me all the time, I don’t talk really talk about ME. I started writing a post earlier but realized it was going to take some more time thinking it through* (*requires more concentration than being in front of the TV with cookie butter trying to write it for 6 hours).

I’m going to do a short series every so often of traits and quirks that I think are either funny or too stupid not to share. Don’t worry about Songs I Listen to Compulsively. I’ve been stuck on the same set of songs for a while now but I feel a change in the air.

Anyways, let’s get to it. Here are some things:

1) I recently realized that I hate everything in my wardrobe. A lot of people say this, but I pinpointed the issue. I love bright colorful things but wearing them isn’t how I want to express myself. If you haven’t picked up on it, I enjoy expressing myself in many mediums. I am currently working what I WANT to wear into my wardrobe. Read: Lots of black and lots of leather. Not like a biker. But in a “New Yorkers understand my affection for everything tight and black with some leather pants, hooray” mentality. It might seem obvious but I knew I wasn’t comfortable but I couldn’t figure out how I loved something so much and hate the way it made me feel.

2) I have two tattoos. The first one is a yellow rose as a tribute to my Nana who loved yellow roses. I’m thinking of adding more and making it a half sleeve. I would love a blue rose in the sleeve, as a nod to Twin Peaks/Fire Walk with Me. My second tattoo is of a U.F.O. and is a symbol of a lot of things. After I got out of a long relationship, I realized I didn’t really have my own identity left. I boarded myself up into my room and used the X-Files as a crutch. It was something I had for myself. Also, my Nana and Dad LOVED the X-Files and I remember them watching it (and me cowering in fear behind the recliner, peaking out to see what was happening on TV). It’s also a little homage to them and those times. It’s also my symbol for being weird. I get told I’m a little weirdo a lot. Thankfully, I am aware of it AND I don’t try to use it as my little niche thing. I don’t try and heighten in the make myself stand out more. It’s just me! And last but not least, it’s also a companionSHIP (get it?!) to my friend Ryan’s tattoo. He and I both got our U.F.O’s together, so it’s just a cool thing that they are totally different designs, but come from the same muse (X-FIles).

3) I once gave David Sedaris a typed story I wrote about the time I pissed into an almond jar while boxed in during traffic on the highway.

4) Yes, it’s true. I had to piss in the almond jar. It was either that or a Teddy Graham’s box.

5) When I go out for drinks, I have to suck my drink down within the first 2 minutes of ordering it. I don’t know why but I get antsy.





Okay, it’s my bed time. K LOVE YOU BYE!

Blog Challenge: Day 1

Yay Inner-nets!

Finally found a spot where I can get internet to talk to you precious babies.

I wanted to do that blog challenge. So DAY ONE.

A recent photo and introduction.

I don’t take pictures of myself often, but I did take this one to show off my super great new shoes. I’ll attach a picture of them too.

I’ll give you the basics for an introduction. I’m a lady. I’m 23. I like to wear a lot of oddball things (like the shoes). One of my reasons for living is to watch the X-Files. I have a passion for stand-up comedy and would watch or do it every single day for forever.

I don’t want to give TOO much away in case I need to say something fun and interesting for a future blog challenge post.

Okay, time for Mulder and dinner.

Until next time my sweet pickle dicks!


I’m a Piss-Bitch

Hey flarpnarbs

I’m in a real piss-bitch mood. I had 2 cups of coffee and 4 cups of tea, now I’m crashing and trying to chase the high with a little shit ton of macaroni and cheese. It’s not working.

I’ve been hunching over my laptop with my neck sunken down and my head up like a friggen Skeksis. I’m terrible at getting the plates to spin all at once, so now that I’ve kept up with the blog, I’ve totally neglected writing outside of it. Then when it’s 3am and I’m laying in bed with a bag of M&M’s in each hand and a M&M funnel shooting down my throat and I’m sobbing candy-coated tears, I realize I’m not famous because I haven’t been doing shit with myself. Fuck. Sigh.

I’m also looking at a nail polish color called “Fuchsia Bling Bling.” What the fuck does that even mean? Am I missing a cute and delightful reference in my blind piss-bitchery? Either way I think I’m going to bring the iPad to the gym so I can watch the X-Files and work on my glutes simultaneously. That’ll really cheer me up.

Until we meet again, my little Maroon Shing Shing’s.

Prom: A Child’s Tale of Beauty

Prom is an exciting time in most horned-up high schoolers precious little lives. I know I wanted to go the moment my 6th grade self discovered it’s existence in North American folklore. My mother had taken to buying me copies of “CosmoGirl” as “Seventeen,” in her argument, was for girls who were seventeen. Unfortunately, by the time I was seventeen, I had already passed the maturity level of figuring out what the most subtle ways of flirting at a carnival were, and what summertime toenail polish color would best coincide with my star sign (a nice sparkly orange for you Cancers). I really could have used those tips when I hit fourteen, but water under the bridge, I suppose.

However, there was a shining light in my mother’s contradictory parenting methods. I received a 500 page prom magazine, seven years prematurely.

I slapped that sucker open as I laid in bed, looking at all the different dresses and putting together the perfect outfit. There were some darling ball gowns and slinky satin numbers, but it wasn’t until I saw my beauty laid out before me like Kate Winslet on the chaise for Leo, that I knew what I wanted.

The dress was a halter in a muted shade of lavendar. The color found usually as the result of dumping all the food coloring dyes into a white bowl of frosting and stirring it up. Sigh. What’s that? It looks to have a sheen that gives off a rainbow effect once it catches light. Who made this dress, King Jesus? It’s perfect.

What’s more? It wasn’t just any old elegant dress. It was a two piece! Oh, to my delight. Nothing says magical storybook evening like fleshy, deli-ham, skin pouring over the top of the skirt.

That could be easily fixed. Fixed with clear, 5-inch platform heels that lit up when the wearer stomped-I mean floated across the dance floor.


Now, the outfit was fully planned from the neck down. Hm. Something was missing.

That’s right!

A tiara!

In case the other classmates didn’t understand the royalty that would be gracing their presence, the $8 dollar rhinestone tiara would make the vision complete. But what to do with that hair? A princess beauty couldn’t have a tiara sitting on top of some crusty old hairdo. No side sweep will do. Chignons are boring and sound edible. Then, like the light from a unicorn’s horn, a stroke of genius shone down. What hairstyle could possibly compliment such a stunning adornment atop my egg-shaped skull? It’s perfect! It only makes sense! It is the other half of the golden amulet!

A crown of cornrows, of course!

The crown of cornrows would meet the placement of the tiara (did the stars align or what?) then the rest of my hair would be fixed into two french braids that tied together at the ends.


With my forehead so taut, if I had blinked it would change the channel on the neighbors TV. There needed to be makeup shellacked onto this blank canvas.

There needed to be the lipliner, a dark mauve, which surrounded a plum (both in taste and color) lipgloss with gold sparkes. Blush needed to be applied in a circlular motion on the apples of the cheeks in a rich berry. Raspberry, blackberry, or even mashed boysenberry would do.

Then the eyes would need some focus. Simple and chic. White eyeliner to top those lids, followed by a slick coat of blue mascara. I needed to get those eyes to pop. To polish it all off, just a quick glide of maroon “Froot Loop” scented roll-on glitter right into the unplucked eyebrows. A staple in every makeup bag.

A sweet, sensual, Cinderella story in the making.

I don’t know where I went wrong, but I never did get my dream ensemble for prom. I went with something boring, and that includes the Chignon. I like to believe that somehow, somewhere, in a dimension call Skqlarnak, all the girls of the world are living out their dream prom, slow- dancing to Martin Page’s “In the House of Stone and the Light.”

Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to follow at twitter.com/lolovonk !

The Truth Is Out There

There have been some odd happenings lately. I’m not entirely sure if it’s because I’ve been watching no less that 3 episodes of the X-Files per day for the last 2 weeks, or …no, that’s definitely it, but stay with me.

It’s been a long running joke in my family that my mom was abducting from our house sometime in the early 90’s. She claimed that there were bright lights and that she woke up standing next to her bed, no conscious memory of time (which we all know is a clear indicator of alien presence.)

This leads me to yesterday. I started joking with a co-worker about how I could possibly be a figment of my own imagination, and that of everyone I work with. I then retold the story of my mom’s alien abduction, and pointed out that maybe, just maybe I was an alien spawn given to my mother to birth and that her abduction was just some sort of intergalactic visitation rights. We laughed. Heehee hawhaw.

That’s when a car pulled into the office driveway, and suddenly the power went out. The lights went out, computers shut down, the toilet even stopped running. We looked out the window, but could not identify who was driving the car, and as they pulled away, all the lights came back on. Which could only mean one thing:

I know too much. And as the X-Files shows, the government is in on the whole thing, and whoever that driver was, was trying to distract us. So what happened next?

I went home, played bingo, went to bed.

Until today. The office dog started frantically barking and chewing at her retractable leash, trying to break open the plastic. My theory is that she senses a disturbance, and the leash is bugged. That’s how White Car knew we were onto something with extra-terrestrial talk.

It all falls together.


As I’m waiting for my hair straightener to reach white dwarf temperature levels, I’ll tell you a tale about how me and my cat were handcuffed together. This is our story.

Okay, so we weren’t “handcuffed” per say, but let me paint this rolling landscape for you. When I got home from work today, I wanted nothing more than to face plant onto my couch and recover from the last 9 hours spent without break (and without feeding my kitty faces). I walked in, turned off the alarm, and  saw Litty, my 14 year-old princess tabby, sitting like an angel from Kitten Heaven. Before I even had time to dive underneath the couch cushions, I was distracted by her soft fur, her big whiskers, and her cute meow-face. Naturally, I cooed at her and slung her over my left shoulder. She gripped her furry fingers into my shoulder blade as I scooped her bum in my hand. I was Rafiki and she was my Simba. That went on for about 30 seconds until the music stopped and  I hunched forward so she could help herself down.

Then disaster struck. One of her  jagged little claws snagged  in my H&M nine dollar pullover. A familiar tale that has only ended in peril.

I set my elbow on the arm of the couch, so she didn’t have to dangle from my shoulder, like Rose on the back of the Titanic. I knelt, she sat, staring at each other like arm wrestlers do before the match starts. Now normally, a stuck claw can be relieved by simply holding the kitty’s paw and pulling the shirt away from it. But your cat isn’t Litty. What should have been a quick fix was a seven minute foray in a Chinese finger trap hell. She pulled, I pulled, she pulled, I pulled. An intense tug-of-war. The minutes passed and I began to wonder who would die first. Would my mom come home to me laying lifeless on the floor, Litty sitting on my dead face?  I tried desperately to grab her paw to release us, but when I touched her tangled foot, she slapped me with the other one.

I contemplated taking my shirt off and  letting her keep it, but we were in front of a open window and my neighbor was out standing by his mailbox.

Then came the moment of clarity, I draped myself on the arm of the chair. Litty sat staring at me like it was somehow all my fault. I looked up at the clock, 7 minutes. “We can’t stay here forever, Litty. One of us has to make a sacrifice.”

She looked at me as if to say “Whatever, bitch” and turned to look out the window.

It was my only chance. She had looked away, and I took things into my own hands.

I grabbed her paw and ripped my shirt away and screeched, “WE’RE FREE!”

Her ears went flat and she whipped her head around, staring at me wide-eyed. I did a few victory kicks and said “What? No ‘thank you’?”

She stared at me, farted, and jumped down.

So there you have it. My straightener is sufficiently hot enough to murder curls and you’ve now heard my tale of woe for the day. Did you learn anything from it? Hopefully that love conquers all,the good guy always wins in the end, and that cat farts are the worst.