(Belated)

So my birthday was in August, right?
Yeah. The big, “Oh, shit! I’m inching closer and closer to twenty five…which is almost thirty. How the hell did that happen? What have I done with my life? What is that annoying ass ticking sound I keep hea—is that my fucking biological clock? Laaaaaawwwdddddd; I ‘on wanna be old!” twenty two.
Once the initial shock of realizing that I’m growing older at what must be a non-linear—not to mention exceedingly annoying—rate, I decided I wanted to do something special to celebrate. But I didn’t know what to do.
I was thinking about doing something “deep” and “meaningful” to show how much I’ve “matured” with age. Y’know, because I’m known for being “shallow”, “nonsensical” and “immature”?
Yeah, no. I tossed that idea out really quick.
After that, I thought about doing a letter to my future self from my then present self so that when Future Ren read it, she’d (I’d?) be reading Past Ren’s thoughts. The meaningfully deep levels present had the potential to reach an annoyingly pretentious high, so before I could make my future self hate m then current, now past self, I decided to scrap the idea and push it along like ATCQ.
After a host of other terrible ideas, some of which are too terrible to even mention, I finally decided to shoot a birthday video…which I never actually finished. Or really even began for that matter. I quickly discovered that I have this weird verbal diarrhea meets ADHD thing goin’ on which is no good. Besides that, have you seen my skin? Horrible. I look like the “before” portion of a Proactiv ad, smh.
I ended up not doing anything. Which sucks. I didn’t post anything on my much more important and much less scarring (unless you happened to be my liver that night) twenty-first birthday and I completely ignored my second Bloggiversary back in February.
…But that wasn’t the point of this.
My birthday was suppose to be my relaunch date.
This, The (Infamous) Life, was something I started for me. Hell, it's still is for me. But lately, I've slipped and slacked off in the worst way. And I know that I've said this in the past, but that won't be happening again. I mean it this time.
So, with all of that said?
I’m officially back on my shit.

…Can I talk my shit again?

So I'm cleaning my room, right? Well, that's what I told people I've been doing at any rate. I've actually been enjoying a bit of Me time locked away here in my admittedly messy ass inner sanctum. Y'know, catching up on my much needed beauty sleep^[1] and sorting my nail polish collection and things of that nature. The finer things in life if you will.
That is, however, until I got bored enough to hijack Egg’s laptop and logged onto Aintshit Social Network # 3:
Tagged.com.
For the people out there that’re blissfully unaware, Tagged is a bit like MySpace meets Black Planet in terms of ratchet nutfuckery. It’s the type of site that makes you wish you could give yourself a real life virus scan in terms of general skeeviness. In short: it’s an awesomely bad place to hang out when you’re bored and it’s filled with the sorts of things that’ll make you love and loathe the Internet.Okay, mostly loathe it, but still. I can’t call it all bad. There’re actually quite a few decent people on there. Quite a lot of thirsty gentlemen in search of a good quenching, but hey, that’s the Internet for ya. If my DM inbox on Twitter could talk…
So there I was, lounging on my bed, listening to Gemineye’s “Penny for your Thoughts” on YouTube when I looked at my notifications and noticed that I had new messages. I clicked the link hoping that someone that I could actually stand had written me a message and let loose a string of curses that would’ve made the proverbial sailor blush when I found out who it was.
You see, for the past day and a half or so, this fool has been harassing me. At first, I thought it was funny in a pathetic sort of way, but now…
Not so much, no.
Dude has sent me a ton of messages—upwards of two and three at one time, smfh—and trying to get the exact order of things down has me confused, but here’s the latest round of What the Fuckness that he’s been sending me,
(Read from the bottom up; you know the deal)

 

Noticing that I changed my name to “Kyrie Eleison”, he sent a separate message asking if this is in fact my real name

 
By now, as I’m sure you understand, I was losing my cool, so when he sent me this

I decided to reply with

Which somehow turned into this
(You may have to click to enlarge these last few messages)


To which I replied

 
And he fired back with

I have no intention of responding by the way. I’m not too big a fan of being sexually harassed online.
I think the moral of today’s story is that the Internet can be a wonderful place full of many joys and wonders, boys and girls. But, if you happen to be me, it’s usually like the club on those rare occasions that I decide to go: full of horny, crazy old bastards.
Anyway doe.
If you’re one of the few people that’s been wonderin’ why I haven’t posted on here—I know, it shocked me to find out that people actually cared, too—you can find me sporadically posting over at The (Infamous) Life: V. 2.4.
Kbye.
♥ 

^{1 if you’ve seen me recently (…or at all) you would understand what I’m saying here is the absolute truth.}

Guess Who’s Bizzack?

If I wasn’t convinced that a wild Stan would appear on some Pokemon Diamond shit, I’d channel Pay-Pal’s supposed number one seller <Kanye voice>of all time!</Kanye voice> and hip-hop’s poster child for fellatio, lace front wigs, self hate botched plastic surgery and colored contacts by saying “I’ve been gone for a minute but I’m back wit’ the jumpoff”, but…y’know. I don’t have the time, energy or the very patience necessary to battle someone who plans on extolling the virtues of Ms. Kimberly Jones because she can make a Sprite can disappear in her mouth and because Hardcore use to be the shit back when I was in first grade[1], and I really can’t be bothered to be inadvertently dragged into that whole Nicki v. Kim thing right now. Beside all that, I’m fresh out of Master Balls. Not that I’d want to capture a wild Stan or anything, but eff it. I think someone out there knows what I’m trying to say. Maybe.
Anyway doe.
Shady bullshit in the introductory paragraph aside, it has been a minute since I’ve posted anything on here or my alternate blog of choice. Not that I’m about to apologize or anything like that. I’m sure that nobody, myself included, cares much or at all, so I’d just be wasting my breath and my keystrokes, but I’ve been busy-ish goin’ through some stuff lately. Nothing bad or even particularly good, just a lot of annoying and necessary, supposedly grown up, things.
During the first four months of the year, I lost a lot and, in exchange, I gained a lot of knowledge and insight. I learned a lot about people, things and situations and I’ve had to make a few not so minor adjustments to this (infamous) thing I call my life. I cut out a lot of shit and quite a few folks and now? Now I’m focusing on who and what matters most to me while chunkin’ the deuce to everything and everyone who never did.
…Ugh. That paragraph sounds like some of the empowering drivel designed to keep women single, lonely and bitter as hell for the rest of their lives, smh. Forgive me; it’s not even like that. I’d elaborate but…
I don’t wanna.
*shrugs*
lol.
Here’s to days filled with more consistent infamy.

♥

1 1996 was a long time ago…dammit, now I feel old.

How (NOT!) to Sell Dreams to an Insomniac

Please, don’t play yourself like this sirs and/or madams. Just don’t.
I’m too lazy to cut, copy and paste this in the correct order, so read from the bottom up. You know the drill.


I’m going to be uncharacteristically nice and withhold my commentary on this “Block” fool, his annoying use of the Caps Lock key and that whole “Winkin’ at you” thing, throw up my first Track of the Day for 2011 and be out.
So…you know I had to pick
"Po Pimp"
by Do or Die featuring Twista, right?

lol

♥

Midol Wishes and NyQuil Dreams

My name is LauRen and I am an insomniac.^[1]
Wait, let me rephrase that: My name is LauRen and I’m a sleep deprived, caffeine fueled zombie on days that end in “y”.
I crave sleep—lust after over? Discuss it even. I fantasize about sleep the same way the lonely and sexually repressed fantasize about pussy and peen on the tragically pathetic “#TwitterAfterDark”. I think I lose sleep to daydream about it.
Yeah, it’s that deep.
All that being said, I’m lucky if I get more than three hours of it at any given time. In fact, the only times that I get the doctor recommended seven to eight hours of shut eye are those nights when I’m more or less heavily medicated, and oh, what blissfully amazing sleep it is.
Last week while my uterus was double dutching with my fallopian tubes, I came down with a cold-flu type bug from one of my students that had me coughing up my mucus filled lungs and generally fucked up. I tried to work through it, but when my temperature spiked at 102.3, I said “this shit is for the birds,” reached for my Midol and two NyQuil liqui-gels and called it a night. Within twenty minutes  of downing my improvised drug cocktail, I was knocked the eff out.
Now, I don’t know what’s in Midol Complete or NyQuil and no, I don’t care as long as they both continue to make my cramps and fever disappear, but I think that somehow the drugs merged, teaming up for mild pain relief and to hijack my resulting drug induced dream.
‘Ey, gon’ head and laugh if you want to; it’s the only semi-logical explanation I have as to why My Voldermort^[2] was harassing me during my well deserved slumber.
The dream opened with MV and I cuddling ^[3] in my spare bedroom. He had been making fun of me my collection of Care Bears and Beanie Babies when I threatened to punch him in the neck if he didn’t ess-tea-eff-you.
“Really, Ren,” he said plucking Proud Heart Cat from the bookcase that doubles as my headboard. “You’re how old? Do I need to see ID?”
”It was a gift; shuddup. Keep talkin’ that nonsense and the only thing you’ll see is my fist in yo’ face when I punch you in it. Nicca.”
Brushing off my very real threat of violence, MV laughed, said something about my “violent ass” and tossed PHC in the air, making my poor Care Bear Cousin somersault in midair. I still haven’t quite figure it out, but I somehow managed to snatch the stuffed animal out of the air, throw it across the room and deliver a right cross to his left cheek while planting a kiss on the opposite.
“You’re pretty much an assface, just thought I’d let you know.”
“And you’re an asshole. I still [redacted]^[4] you though.”
"Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” I replied as I stretched and got out of bed. “I’ll be back,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out of my room…
And into Nana’s bathroom. Yeah. I know.
This is where things get hazy and since it’s almost time for my Skype tutoring session, I’ll have to cut this short, but what followed was a veritable odyssey of random weirdness. There was a cyber versus steampunk showdown that had no clear winner; a killer sale on Zoya nail polish; a series of unfortunate but hilariously effed up events had Tia show up out of nowhere, get hit by parked car and an ambulance and I do believe there was a bake sale, too.
Random, right?
♥

^{1 If this were a meeting of Insomniacs Anonymous, this would be the part where a group of sleep deprived people stifle a yawn and say “Hi, LauRen,” then we would all discuss our misadventures in Insomnia and finish the meeting with stale coffee and even staler Krispy Kreme donuts. I think. Pretty sure I’m right.
2 It’s been well over a week since this happened and I’m still mad that He Who Shall Be Punched in the Face had the audacity to pop his half nekkid ass nekkid ass up in my dream.
Up until last week, I hadn’t heard from My Voldermort since NYE when he sent me a “Happy New Year, love” txt. The three txts that I sent in the weeks following? Yeah, those were all ignored. He must’ve been feeling guilty about his complete and utter lack of communication because he thought I was saying “Fuck Q” instead of “Fuh Q” when I posted a link in my status on YIM. He popped out of nowhere and hit me wit’ some damn, “Fuck me? Wow” and went ghost before I could correct his rather egregious error.
…And he wonders why I doubt that he’ll be coming out here to visit next month. Ugh =/}

^{3 I’m going to assume this all occurred precoital because there was no cigarette smoke in the air or an ashtray in sight. Take that as you will.
4 We all know what the removed word is, I just felt like being difficult.}