I’ve decided to collect together for your enjoyment and LOL’ing (still I shudder) an assortment of crazy, strange and yes, awesome quotes from my favorite Angst posts. I can and do amuse myself all the time (perhaps I’m the only one?). So…brace yourselves for genius (I’m so full of shit I can’t even let that statement stand on its own. Even the title of this post smacks of bullshit extraordinaire):
Gentleman….start your engines. Ladies too…
First off, here’s a few random quotes that I just thought up or heard (nevermind…put on the brakes):
Said incredulously: “I don’t even know what would happen if I had a 3rd cup of coffee!” As if terrible horrible unknown shit could happen!
Said very seriously: “Don’t worry, there’s room enough for all of us to talk online…to ourselves!”
Mostly this is just a collection of outrageousness and thus…quite lame.
“Also keep in mind that you need to give your operatives a make over. You’re a grown up now! You can’t run a crime family in power bangs and scrunchies, smelling like Baby Soft! You operate now in power SUITS and tasteful cleavage (décolletage, Natch!). Come on!”
“I don’t know if you know, but I’m an English major with an actual BA (Bad Ass)degree in English. Does that mean that I am certified to speak English you ask? Don’t be an asshole! (I am certified for that, BTW, but it’s not the only thing we English majors can do! So rude!) An English major means that I am certified by an actual university to MAKE or HANDLE (gently) dangerous words ( I have better clearance than people in a chemistry lab, this shiz is dangerous). Yup.”
“Ok, back to the task at hand. I made words. I did! I feel like a child saying that I made potty or something like that. That’s how proud I am of making words. I want to scream: COME LOOK, I MADE WORDS!!! DON’T YOU DARE FLUSH!! ARE YOU PROUD OF MEEEE???!!”
“Yeah…I was mining for words. I am a word archaeologist. Except these words aren’t really extinct or anything like that, nor are they part of the fossil record. Their (this form of there means I think words are sentient beings) still in current use, they are…still alive, I guess. So…I suppose I didn’t dig all that hard, only the very surface. I am incredibly shallow. Afterall I do write a blog all about ME. Whatever, you guys are mean to me. You never let me get away with my grandiosities.”
” Flowers are just a reminder of DEATH!! How lovely is it to get your loved one something that looks so beautiful and fresh and young today and then in a few days it shrivels up and dies and you have to dispose of it! It’s a cruel cruel reminder of how young and fresh we once were and now we’re old and used up and soon we’ll be in the compost heap! I’m serious! So depressing. Unless of course you are actually young…and then it’s okay because you aren’t used up yet, you are still young and fresh and haven’t a thought for death.”
“Can you see me now? Wah, wah, wah like a big baby! Chugging self-pity from two 40 oz bottles that I duct taped to my hands while blubbering about how no one loves me. Double fisting the pity! Really working hard for that pity! Stomping around the house like a large child, making recriminations, drunkenly pity pointing out things that make absolutely no sense. Pointing fingers at self, making outrageous points by pointing finger in the air with exclamation points. Cursing heaven and hell, high dramatics better suited for the stage than real life because of their full on cheese, temper tantrums, self recriminations, blathering, runny nose, stingy eyes, totally an adult bout of losing one’s cool. Very very professional, of course. I’m never NOT professional.”
“I looked around frantically. Something was wrong. Things were not right. Why would Hubs want a decoy duck? It’s not his antique speed at all! This speed was much slower and the price was not right!! It wasn’t a tool, it’s wasn’t furniture, and he’s not even into fishing, hunting, elking or ducking paraphernalia!”
“My humiliation was complete. I was the proud owner of a decoy duck that I did not desire. I had been duped. It’s not the right word, but I felt that I had been cuckolded. I had! I REALLY HAD!! I had been had in the worst possible way!! Molested out of my hard cash! And by a duck without a fancy paint job and by my own SPOUSE!! The rage that burned in my heart! $45!!!”
“Now I’m going to tell you why drinking and writing is awesome. It’s called inhibitions. You know those little voices in your head that tell you you shouldn’t be doing something? Like the voice that tells you that twirl dancing on table tops in 4 inch heels at your favorite bar might be a bad idea for more reasons than you can count? Or that hooking up with a certain person will surely lead to emotional bankruptcy and happiness foreclosure? As you might know, those little problems (or fail safes?) tend to go away when you drink. And in public, at a bar or in a relationship or one night stand, a loss of inhibitions might just get you into trouble.
Not so with writing! (so long as you don’t publish anything while under the influence!)”
“Now the thing is, you guys will still be around when blog burnout inevitably rears its ugly head, right? No?! I knew you were fair weather friends! (colloquialism city! BAH) I can hear you now, “Look at that old blog burnout Victoria Sawyer! You new bloggers can take a lesson from her, she went too fast, posted too much, soared too high and now look at her, lost and alone. No one reads that blog anymore. It’s TRITE!” Sob…SOBBBB!!”
“Yes, this barren wasteland of “thoughts” is called Angst.
“Is it filled with suffering, anxiety, fright and terror?” you ask.
Answer: “Stop cowering!”
Now, sort of. But only if you marry that suffering, anxiety, fright and terror (in a polygamous marriage) to humor, sarcasm and witty repartee (okay, a group wedding).”
“The problem for me with running with the hubs is that he used to be a track/cross country runner in the olden days and so he still somehow, even as a huge pile, can kick my ass. Even if I work out and he doesn’t and we go for a run, he kicks my ass. It’s lame.
So we’re running on trails and he’s up ahead leaving me in the dust. It doesn’t help that he has much longer legs than mine. And I’m all panting and dying and my legs are heavy and he’s like a goddamned gazelle, bounding ahead with effortless strength. Later he’ll feel bad for me and run back to run with me again and I’m like, I HATE YOU!!! And he’s like, why? All innocent like. Jerk! As if he doesn’t know why. And I’m like, I’m dying here buddy, DYING!! And he’s like, me too! And I look at him and he’s not even breathing hard! He’s just loping along, so slow because of how slow I am. He could honestly walk faster. It looks ridiculous. RIDIC!! And then I’m like, I hate running with you. And he’s like, someone’s got to push you. You can do it! I’m like…no, this hill is too big, I’m going to stop because even walking will cause me to keel over. And then, he’s like, running with you makes me want to have sex with you. MEN!!!”
“My eyes are lined, a la Cleopatra (hence I am sexy as hell), my phone is so clean you could eat off it and sometimes I do as if it’s a mini platter to hold whores-de-vours (hahaha, I’ve always wanted to spell it that way somewhere official, like the interwebs and now my bucket list is complete!). My brows are sculpted like a greek goddess statue and my body is sooo natural, in fact the only hormones that I subject myself to everyday are provided by the BC anti-children goddess. I am pure…so pure and absolutely perfect that my body thinks I’ve been pregnant for over 10 years now without ever having any actual offspring.”
“Speaking of (rambling) and my failings as a girl, I cannot for the life of me find the patience to wear heels. I bought some this weekend (another attempt to trick myself into thinking that cute footwear is actually something I’ll be able to do) and when I put them on I got pissed because of how SLOW I had to walk. I started walking down the stairs (or I could say mincing like a pig with tiny tiny hooves) and I got pissed because I wanted to RUN down the stairs but because of my shoes and not wanting to hurt myself in said shoes, I had to walk slowly and grip the railing. This is ridic. All my normal speeds had gone from road runner to tortoise in seconds. The speed limit had been reduced!! I was suddenly in a school zone when before I was riding on the damn Autobahn.”
“Here’s the guy:
“I like you, but I’m not going to say so or act like I do or I’m gonna send ridiculous mixed messages that you’ll never decode, even with your secret decoder vagina.”
And here’s the girl:
“I like you guy, but I’m not willing to expose myself because what if you reject me and leave me a miserable insecure body hating slut? I’m just going to tease you until your penis falls off or until I can figure out what the hell you feel. Why isn’t my secret decoder vagina working? Shit is broken!””
“Go to your living room. No trust me, we’re not gonna watch TV. Shut up, don’t question, just do what I say. (Do you like it when I get bossy during writing exercises?! Oy!)
Sit or lay on the couch
Close those peepers. Just do it! I’m not gonna do anything gross to you!
BA-BOOM…wake up that creative mind!
Try not to think about ME (HA…I’m in your HEAD NOW!!! BWAHAHAAAA….ha)
Imagine that you are your character.
How do you feel, what’s happening to you?
What kinds of things are zinging through your head as you experience the scene before you?
What words do you speak, what do you hear?
How do you interpret what’s happening to you?
What do you hate, what do you love? What makes you smile like a insane person?!
How the hell do you feel inside?
What’s the old body up to?
Heart? Eyes? Senses? Fingers? Twitching? Tongue? GROSS!!”
“Also how come a lot of other male species are all pretty and shit. WTH? We got human males instead. Where is the damn plumage? Where are the bright colors? Where is the bright blue penis-like nose or the bright red ass or the big antlers? Where is the strutting, promenading, fighting, feats of strength, singing and/or music making used to get us to mate with them? Hmmmm…. No comment I guess… (If you know the male of the species you have probably come across their mating dance. So I don’t need to reiterate that here. Suffice to say…it needs work. Question: Are those other species putting the male of our species to shame?? Don’t answer that or our males will feel quite poorly. (HAAAA!!))”
“I’ll bring my business cards and sell this old blog like she’s a diamond in the rough! Polish off the shit and you’ll really see a writer with skills! She breaks all the rules, yes and she appears nuts, but seriously, who else can bring that kind of whaaa-zam? Who else can make you feel the way I do?! Like someone stuck a damn needle in your eye?!! (OMG!) Who else can take so many random tangents and somehow make it sound sort of coherent? Who can fucking tie shit together that has no chance of ever actually making sense…but yet…it does??!! Who else has the GUTS to try something new, to be off the wall and full of madness? Who else basically spills their blood on their blog by making fun of all their faults and failures and insecurities?? WAIT…”
“…And yet, And YET!!! Here I am. The word FAILURE looms large! In flashing shining lights! ON BROADWAY!!! FAILURE!! THE MUSICAL!! STARRING MEEEE!!!
So, as you can see, I am sunk right down into the bog of depression. The only thing keeping me afloat at the moment (my life preservers who bouy me up while I slurp and struggle and thrash) are my friends and family who I am clinging to in a way that is probably making them gasp for breath as I push their heads under water to get myself aloft. “
“…I don’t flog the ‘shop. However, for you, for today, I decided to do it. Abuse!!”
“…Jassus! Everytime I look at it, I get a fright! Who is that weird alien-headed being! There’s something not quite right! It feels like a ghost or something. *Shivers*”
“…Oh well, enjoy!! Also, please recognize the lengths I’ll go to, to satisfy you Angst readers. I will photoshop myself into a beautiful monster just for you, I love you that much! Also I’ll admit I’m an alien to you, because you make me feel safe. And that I’m pretty high on the Mendoza Scale. Don’t you guys feel special and loved?”
“Also…let me just reiterate that camping sucks the big one. It really does. The bugs had their small hands all the frick over me. ALL OVER!! Even at night in the tent while trying to sleep their hands were everywhere. I claimed that Mr. VS was having a bug party in our tent. He invited all his friends. One of his friends tried to get frisky with me (a goddamned moth) by trying to fly down my shirt and nestling in a blatantly sexual manner (RAPE!) against my breast. It was OUTRAGEOUS!”
“There’s a mythology that’s been around for a long time regarding camping and drinking. The popular belief, probably since the days of cavemen, was that camping and drinking were a magical combination of outdoor fun coupled with drunken antics and hilarious or inappropriate conversation that yielded some sweet times. i.e. camping + drinking = awesome. It’s simple camping math that seems to make sense, sort of like the pizza math you do when you need to order pizza for a large group. I love making up “math” for stupid shit because I suck at math. I’m a genius at pizza math though and I’m about to disprove camping math using some kind of new logic, it’s a proof or maybe an algorithm. Yea, I used to watch Numbers, that’s right, recognize.”
“So camping and drinking are a myth. Don’t let anyone fool you into thinking it’s a good time. It might seem like the right choice, but it’s not. You’ll be terrified of bears, you’ll have to pee 10 times per night which includes a lengthy process that has to be signed off on by any one of twelve people before you can move to the next step, that’s how slow it is. It’s like passing a law, except instead of inducing sleep, you’ll be wide awake by the time the process is over. You’ll also feel crummy to your stomach and you won’t be able to get clean when your phone jumps into a puddle of…something. You will also be stinky and sweaty and you won’t be able to wash your face. The next day you’ll grudgingly sand blast a new coat of spackle or shellack on your face to hide how tired and hideous you look. All in all, a good time had by all.”
“And then suddenly, out of the blue, while you were so soundly asleep, minding your own business, it feels like someone kicked the shit out of your calf muscle until it’s this burning, squeezing, clenched up agony and you jerk awake. What the…!? Your peel open your heavy heavy eyelids and squint into the night, head pounding. And that’s when you see it… standing next to your bed, grinning maniacally. It’s your old friend alcohol, who you swear, swear on your grandmother’s grave, you left downstairs or at the bar or at that friend’s house you hate but hang out with anyway, but alas no, there he is standing there by your bed.”
“However, all that good shit aside, I still can’t write and I’m still boring. I’ll admit that this post does suck. That’s not pessimism, it’s reality. Respect my truth and my right to feel that a post sucks and I’m doing it anyway. Watch me hit Publish! It’s like a horror movie where you’re like…don’t do it…don’t go into the dark creepy basement and then the character DOES THAT SHIT ANYWAY against all reason or better sense. That’s me, hitting PUBLISH with abandon. I just blew your mind. That just happened. WHOMP!!”