Whether I’m in a conversation or happen to be eavesdropping, a favorite past time. If done correctly, it’s exceptional cardio. I’ve leaned so far that I’ve fallen out of chairse stretching my legs, neck and arms enough to pull muscles.

I have noticed that everyone has a guy for a thing, whatever that thing is, have you?

1. I need someone to install my hardwood floors. I’ve got a guy for that.
2. I’m looking for someone to fix my hairdryer. My guy is great, cheap and quick.
3. My sunroof isn’t closing properly. Hire my guy, he’s the best.
4. I need my vibrator repaired. If you don’t want to buy a new one, my guy can do it. If you let him watch, he won’t charge you.
5. Oh shit, I ran out of cash and need menstrual pads. My guy will walk around with snatchpads (towels) between your legs for 7-days; he’s super easy going and has a menses fetish.
6. I don’t feel like going super big potty right now. Pulling down my pants, undies; it all seems too daunting. Plus, the seat is cold and I don’t feel like having chilled ass at the minee. My guy has this shit laser transformer thing, it’s so cool! He basically points it at your intestines and teleports the shit from you to himself. The best part is that you feel NOTHING. Isn’t that great?! Love him total shit-meister.
7. I need to have my gall bladder removed, but I so can’t be bothered. My insurance sucks ass. They’ll cover maybe 20%, if I get my MD to sign a 20-page document and my upper GI guy to sign a 10-page document and fax it all to Agent 5608983719042 on February 12^th @ 3:07 PM. OMG, my guy LOVES Jello. Wait for it do you need a guy to be your MD/GI guy? I have one.

Who is your guy and what can he do for me?

As we’ve discussed, blogs are one-part confessional and another part… well, whatever we want them to be, right? This would be the one-part confessional.

7-days into 2010, is akin to having my head shoved up geriatric, hemorrhoid addled, musty smelling rectums. Like a famished dog, I’m waiting for the moment when embracing the New Year washes over me, igniting feelings of hope and enthusiasm for what this year will bring. So far, I’m disgusted, outraged, irked, nauseas and overwhelmed. I’d rather vomit then wake up to another shit day.

I thought the last decade was the worst of my life and it was. My biggest fear is reliving that debaclecade over. So far so good, huh?! I digress Trying to stay positive is like asking a born again Christian (not a Christian), to accept other religions or watch Sarah Palin talk, or watch an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. What’s not painful about that? You don’t want to see it or do it, but you kind of have to. Of course, you keep your vomit bucket within arm’s reach. Still.

I hate people. I hate how shitty many people have become. I hate how disillusioned I am about certain people. I know better, yet the blow is still a hard one to take. Slamming my head against the wall won’t help, I tried. Kidding.

A fight broke out this afternoon in the building next door to me  girl-on-girl I know, straight peens are jerking off at the idea of a crotch fight. Anyway, they’re sisters (I realize this is hotter for the straight peen reading this blog. Calm yourselves). Their fight was over their mother’s Will when, when, when she’s dead. The broad still has a pulse. Dude, seriously?! They were screaming like greedy whorellas, slamming doors and hitting each other. WOW. Disturbing, no?

Drivers have lost their ever loving minds. While plodding along, minding my own business, they cut me off and curse me out for being in their way. Nice. Real classy. Being called an (unjustified) cunt makes a lot of sense.

Not one person I know and love isn’t struggling or hurting, or frustrated, or revolted. It kills me. What can I say? Find a bridge and do the drama diva swan dive. I’m drowning myself. Who isn’t?!

At my last doctor’s appointment for my lady balls (blurred vision, double vision, I can’t fucking see without tinted or super dark glasses), my ophthalmologist’s prescription, I kid you not, was Be positive. I told him, “You might want to turn off your tape recorder now, and proceeded to tear his ass gland wide open. I’m sure there’s room for new tent cities should anyone need to resurrect one.

Life is shit. And, no, a pulse isn’t enough.

On that shituation of a note, let’s discuss the lame ass emails I keep getting. Why not, it’s entertaining.

Someone signed another Katie Schwartz up for Twit with Ease; that was nice. Being a 140 character addict, I can see the menschiness of that act. I just feel bad for the other Katie Schwartz. I’m also curious as to why we have similar email addresses. Don’t mimic Jew x 4.

Caitlin keeps emailing me. Her last email was really short and to the point “Jocelyn”. Super informative, right?

Someone signed me up for a Neo Pet, so fucking great. My username is “Sing Star Sam”. So me, I can’t stand it. I’m ready to Neo Pet myself into a frenzy (boychicks heads-gutter-remove).

Another sweetie signed me up for Pets Next Door. Bitch, my dog is dead. You want to pet next door, fondle your neighbor. Clearly, I still haven’t resolved my issues with death.

Phang just got back from Phucket and sent me a Christmas card. How many levels of wrong is that sentence?

Katieroxol, that’s my new username for Foo Pets. Dog. Dead. Deal.

What the fuck is with people and online pets? Is this a kid thing? I’m so not their demographic. I guess my email address is.

I received a Santa in a Speedo picture; he works a Speedo like nobody’s business. Santa’s got mad crotch thrusting skills.

Did I mention that my Outlook isn’t showing my sent mail as of this afternoon? Fucking fantastic.

Happy Fucking New Year,

Katie