I’m in Bed Already, God Bless America

It’s not even 10PM yet and I’m perfecting my nest. I’ve gathered my pillows and bits of hair and twigs that I can wrap myself in to keep warm. I was getting punchy there for a while so instead of using the $30 firming night cream I bought, I dumped a bunch of lavender massage oil in my hands and greased my face up. I’m feeling relaxed.

The downside to being in bed is now that I’m thirsty, trekking the 20ft to get the Brita filter seems unbearable. I could take the 10ft walk to the bathroom and use the tap water there but it’s been leaving red marks in the sink. At least I think that’s from the water but I have been flossing lately.

Anyways, I’m still hyped up on candy since Halloween. Everyday I treat myself to some leftover candy because I NEVER* treat myself! (*And the lie detector determined that was a lie).

Did I tell you I am in love with the guy who works at the gas station down the street from my house? I bet he likes candy too. I’m not sure if he has a girlfriend, wife, boyfriend, or husband but I imagine we would lay together in my nest and feed each other KitKats and Whoopers. The burger not the candy. I’ll let you know if I make any headway in Operation: Let’s Be Gross.

Today was weird. Was today weird for you? Tell me how it was weird for you. I want to know. You’re special to me.

K I love you, yellow looks nice on you.

Gravatar and Burning Hair

The more I fiddle around on WordPress, the more I realize I have no idea how to use it.

Same goes for Gravatar. Do we not live in an age where the photo you just updated should actually update? I need answers people. Immediate gratification. Which is why I watched 8 episodes of Game of Thrones today. 

Patience has never been in my wheelhouse. I’m looking up “wheelhouse”  right now because I’m not sure I’m even know what it means. I NEED TO KNOW NOW. Is it synonymous with “skill set?” To be continued. 

In disturbing news, I straightened my hair today (keep reading). As most hair-straightener-users know, that when you turn the temperature dial up to 450 degrees, your hair tends to smoke when the volcanic plates press your hair into submission. It’s something I’ve known since I was in 9th grade when I first starting burning my curls. In that 10 years, I’ve never experienced the travesty I did today. As my tresses were screaming for mercy under my godless rule, smoke billowed up (from the heat defender spray you have to douse your hair in so it doesn’t turn into a bail of hay) I turned my head towards my fire locks. A mouth breather by default when I’m by myself, I inhaled a puff of smoke. Very similar feeling of when you smoke for the first time. Burn, burn, hack, hack, hack, burn, hack. It was a sensation and taste I wish on no enemy. I have no enemies, but again, Game of Thrones. I’ve been talking to my cat in an English accent for the past couple days. Good thing she doesn’t know what “whore” means. 

In more disturbing news, I’m still looking for a job. Hire me to write the next big sitcom? Cool, cya there. 

Lots of love or something,

Lolo von Burntmyhairandateittoobergstein

I’m an Asshole

Image

My Best Physical Feature, BY: Me *kisses mirror*

Day 10 of the Blog Challenge!

I have to pick my BEST physical feature.

How do you expect me to do that when all my physical features are THE BEST.

You know, because my self esteem to shooting across the sky like rockets filled with Mentos, Diet Coke, and Pop Rocks.

I don’t think anyone can name their best physical feature with out it looking like a “humblebrag.”

BUT if you’re going to tie my hands behind me back (which I know you are totes doing that virtually), I guess I would have to say….

MY EYELASHES. *bat bat bat*

I’m sure wherever you are sitting you felt like your computer turned on a Beyonce-force fan.

I bet your eyebrows have nearly blown clean off your face.

That whole butterfly effect mumbo jumbo?

I’m totally effecting your world and how you live in it just by how frequently I blink these eyeball hair fans.

 

So there you have it.

Until next time, my little dinette sets.

Blue Like Me

I dyed my hair.

I used henna with indigo so it would turn my crispy, blonde, fried highlights back to black.

Needless to say, I’m a renegade and didn’t use any gloves. Buuut I Eiffel 65’d my hands

(I’m blue da ba dee da ba DYE).

Get it? ….GET IT?

*crickets*

I might as well just smashed up some smurfs, blueberries, and Blue Man Group balls, with my bare hands.

I didn’t think it would be a big deal, but search results for removal yielded phrases like “a couple of months” and “good luck, asshole.”

Oh well. It’s faded enough that it almost looks like I have a horrible disease sucking the life out of my hands yet leaving me with a fabulous helmet of shiny hair.

Anyways, I hope everyone is having a darling Tuesday.

Until next time, my Chicken Mc-Fug-Lets.

Dreamz

Normally, I’m not a “hey listen to me talk about my dream for 20 minutes and then analyze what it meant about my childhood and how my family dog, Puffy, never cuddled with me enough and now I’m emotionally damaged” type person, but I feel that if I can ensnare you with that giant run-on sentence, then you might as well stick around and read what I dreamt last night. Enjoy.

I was at a piano recital (Did I say dream? I meant nightmare.) with a male friend when he suddenly dropped  that pesky pencil he’d been holding, by my foot. Just then I realized that I had worn my khaki cargo pants and forgot to shave my legs! Oh God! This wouldn’t be such a problem, had dream me not had giant, muscular, tree-stump legs of a male black bear who never took up swimming so felt that the natural look was more suitable for his lifestyle. He bent down to get the pencil and noticed the furry trashcans coming out from the bottom of my Old Navy $10 Steal-Deals. The look of horror in his eyes had enough intensity to jolt me out of the sleep, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead.

“But Lolo, ” you may ask yourself, “what does that mean? What horrible buried past does that represent?”

I tore the covers off my legs and looked down. The wooly cylinders of sexless death were still there. I screamed.

Spring is here. Time to get out the straight razor and the blow torch. I’m talking to you, ladies.