Monday, January 31, 2011

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.
can't make this up
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?


Tuesday, January 25, 2011

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.

Monday, January 24, 2011


It’s dang near four in the AM[1] and guess who’s not just getting in from a a night of fun filled, booze driven debauchery and general fuckery? Yerp; that’d be me.
Not that I could’ve gone out even if I wanted to. My funds are currently set on “Bish, you’re broke, fuck you think you’re goin’?” and my sick aye-ess-ess is laid up in bed with my ferocious beast, a box of Kleenex and a woefully drippy nose. Beside that, I don’t commit random acts of drunkenness on Sunday nights. Maybe it’s just paranoia from spending all my life in church, but I always feel like God is watching me especially hard and the fact that I felt a heavenly, “Yeah, I’m judging you right now,” side-eye being thrown at me as I drank (ate? Discuss) a jello-shot the one time I chose to get drunk on a Monday night/Tuesday morning[2] almost made me want to give up drinking …then Tia ordered me a Margarita.
Which I drank. And it was delicious.
Judge me.
I have to be up and at ‘em to spend another exciting day tutoring and searching for a job in less than three hours, so, here’s to that.

1 Although lawd knows if and when this’ll get typed up and posted. I’ll be gotdanged if I get on my laptop to do anything other than watch a porno at dang near four in the morning.
Not that I, y’know, watch por…eff it, I stand by my statement.

2 A couple of weeks ago, The Bestie took me for drinks after The Egg Donor decided to subject me to yet another of her damn near daily screaming tirades about absolutely nothing at all. Being the dependable drunkie that she is, Tia took me to a bar where a huge Long Island Iced Tea, a couple of jello-shots, one and a half Margaritas and three drunken games of pool—all of which I won but only because Tia’s drunkish ass sunk the 8 ball early in every game—turned my scowly frowny face upside down. It also made me wanna strip down to my boyshorts and play in the snow, but that’s another story.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Fuh Q

Whoever raided and subsequently devoured my entire stash of chocolate is gonna get kicked in the eye and punched in their reproductive organs. Just gon’ take my ish and then go about their business like everything is everything. Psh, no.
Ugh. I’ve been more or less out of it, suffering from the annoyingly painful, semi-monthly effects of my period 1, all week, smh. I’ve been moodier than usual, annoyed by everything and everyone, bloated like a muhfucka and prone to insanely random, utterly nonsensical crying jags.
The other day, I was listening to music and beating my high score on Bejeweled 3 filling out job applications online when I burst into tears for no effing reason.
I mean, don’t get me wrong or anything, a new job 2 would rather amazing, I can’t eem lie, but I assure you, it’s not somethin’ that I would typically cry over. The music I was listening to at the time 3 couldn't have possibly triggered my random ass crying.
And these weren’t pretty, Miss Universe accepting her crown and superficial fame. Nope. These were screw-face, eyes all red, it hurts to breathe, bawlin’ like a bitch tears, smh.
Fuck kinda hyper hormonal shit is that?

1 or, as it’s affectionately known here in Chez Ren: “That week where I’m all, ‘Damn you to Hell and back for this shit, Eve! Didn’t nobody tell yo’ ass to eat the fruit from the tree, heffa! Where' the hell is my Midol, gotdammit?!’”. This is a very stressful time for me and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t judge me for my lack of eloquence, please and thank you.

2 If I have to spend another semester tutoring and correcting, properly citing and typing papers for college students, I’ll go crazier than I already am. It’s bad enough that my methods of teaching my Psych students the difference(s) between negative and positive  reinforcement include conducting mini-experiments where I reward them with fresh baked cookies and/or punish them by throwing things at them for wrong answers. Don’t judge me; I get results. Dammit.
3 “Real Nigga Roll Call” inspires me to do a lot of things—buss a couple heads; knuck cuz gotdammit, I’m buck and shake my imaginary dreads chief among them—but crying like I just found out Santa isn’t real and that Ray-Ray has been fuckin’ that ho Sharquinetta and I had to find out from that skanky sloppy slorebucket Eggplant Peaches after she called me to borrow money again isn’t one of them.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Confessions of a CATA Commuter

I feel as though I'm spending way too much time here at the bus station.
Just this week, I've witnessed a gaggle of bird brained, basic bitches almost come to blows over lawd knows what and tried to figure out how in the hell the old man sitting next to me wet his Depends and managed to smell like caramelized onions and apple cider vinegar with a hint of lemongrass. Who has gourmet urine? Ugh... I also feel as though I'm about to smack this ol' no eyebrow havin', nekkid mole rat lookin' bitch for lookin' at me like I'm the one who made her ugly. She better check her parents before she throws another side eye at me. I'll smack her wit' a tube of Carmex and a bottle of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and leave her doin' the "Naked Mole Rap." Eff she thought this was?!
But I digress.
So anyway, I'm sure that by now you've noticed that I've slacked off and loafed by neglecting my baby, The (Infamous) Life, and, to a lesser extent, the randoms who stop by or stalk it. Ooops, my bad, many apologies and all that. I'd excuse myself by saying, "I've been busy," but I don't feel like it. Which isn't to say I haven't been  busy or whatever because I have been, I've just been letting life stand in the way of most things (infamous) which, unfortunately, includes this here blog of mine.
Before you roll your eyes, mutter "nobody cares, b" and hit CTRL + W to close the tab, finish reading, I promise to keep this one than a lot of my old posts. Walk wit' me for a minute.
During the latter portion of the year, things here in the Wonderful Realm of Ren turned painfully reckless in the most literal of senses. I was this close to committing patricide with a Wiimote long story; don't ask after Christmas dinner at Nana's and I found out that a really good friend of mine passed away after I got a friend request from "him" on Facebook. Things at home have gotten...lawd, this shit just a mess. Fights on the daily, raised voices, thrown shoes, slammed doors and stony silences just scream "home sweet home," right? And then, of course, there's this whole non-situation with He Who Must Not be Named...yeah, that nigga.
There's so much to say on this shit that I wouldn't even know where to begin so guess what? I won't. I'll just say that I'm preparing myself for when next month falls through--as it inevitably will--shake my head, curse my relentlessly rotten luck, keep it pushin' and hop my ass on the bus.
Here's to another year filled with inconsistent infamy, y'all.