Why I hate waterproof mascara


So I’m not usually a huge make-up person. I mean a bit of mascara, eyeliner and lip gloss are my standard go-tos on a daily basis. Sure I might try to glam it up for a special occasion, but for the most part, I generally can’t be bothered (read: would prefer to sleep in). And let’s be real, those three additions to my daily routine aren’t much. Most of the time I’m just trying to cover up the fact that I may have drunk too much wine on a school night (read: I definitely did) and ended up getting a shitty night’s sleep as a result. But still, it’s my thing.

And just like I stick with this thing, I also stick with my brand of mascara. And yes, I’m really picky about it. Over the years I’ve tried a lot of them out and the one I always come back to over and over again is the Maybelline Great Lash. You know the one, pink tube, green lid, sells a tube every 15 seconds….Ok, I may have made that last part up, but the point is, it’s a pretty fucking big best seller. Especially when it comes to the everyday-I-can’t-afford-the-expensive-shit-but-still-want-to-look-good, anyway.

So I’ve bought this stuff for years and at this point, I’m never going to change. It’s always the blackest black that I get and at any one time, I can have about ten tubes of it on standby at home, just in case. So you can imagine my surprise (and disgust) when I accidentally purchased a fucking waterproof version of my favourite beauty trick. I actually didn’t even notice I’d done it. It wasn’t until the next morning, when I woke up with a bigger than normal case of panda eyes that I finally put two and two together…

Which all led me to the question of why we even need fucking waterproof mascara in the first place. I mean seriously…why? I can think of a couple of reasons and a shitload of good excuses as to why they are bad reasons. Allow me to explain:

  1. Swimming – ok, I’m sorry, but really? Between the fact I’m trying to pull off a two piece while still maintaining control over my naturally curly (fucking crazy) hair as it comes into contact with any form of moisture, mascara is pretty much the last thing I’m thinking about. No amount of “eye-pop” is going to cover up this shit storm.
  2. The gym – this is one that really pisses me off. Anyone who thinks it’s normal to work out with a full face of make up on is a fucking idiot. I mean seriously…I don’t even know what more there is to say about this.
  3. Crying at the movies/work/emotional situation – nothing a pair of dark glasses won’t cover up

So as you can see, there really is no excuse for waterproof mascara. In fact, as I discovered last night when I opened the oven and the residual mascara that no amount of face cleansing can get rid off meant my eyes sealed shut with the escaping heat, it can actually be a health hazard.


House Hunters… you’re assholes


After watching an episode of House Hunters last night with Hubs B, I came to the conclusion that I really don’t like people. While this is something Hubs B has known about himself for a while, I had just discovered it about myself…well, probably not, but I think I finally admitted it. (Once I asked Hubs B how long he could survive on a deserted island and his response was, “Forever. I hate people.”)

So this young, bougie couple had a budget of basically two nickels rubbed together and list of must-haves that was two miles long.

This is where I blame HGTV. Somewhere along the lines peeps with a minuscule budget believe they are owed a fabulous home with all the upgrades. HGTV has led everyone to believe that your home sucks ass if it doesn’t have some kind of natural stone counter tops, walk in closets, a master bathroom, stainless steel appliances, wood floors and an island kitchen.

Now all of these are lovely additions to a home, yes, but when you have a budget for shag carpet and Formica counters, don’t be let down.

As the episode progressed, the couples became disenchanted with their home choices, whining, “It doesn’t have a master bath or a walk in closet.” Um, listen up you fucktards, first off, the house was built in 1953, second, it’s 1200 square feet and lastly, your budget allows you jack shit.

On the second house, which in my opinion was perfectly acceptable as a starter house, the complaint was, “No island kitchen, no master bath, no walk in closet or stainless steel appliances.” Holy fucking shit! Same argument as before and who the fuck shops for a house wearing five-inch heels and the makeup of a stage performer?? The high maintenance chick and her douche boyfriend, who btw, is a personal trainer. (And can we talk about that another time and how much he thinks he’s amazing?)

By the third house, I had written these asshats off and figured they’d never find the house of their dreams. (And yeah, I know this show is fake, so obviously they do find a house because it’s picked prior to even filming.) I couldn’t stand them and I truly hoped they would live with their parents forever. Stop being so fucking demanding!

In the end, they found their “perfect” home minus all the wonderful upgrades that were so important. Enjoy that wood paneling and linoleum flooring!

Just a note to keep in mind, you assholes…work hard, and when you’re not twenty-three, you’ll actually be entitled to all that high-end shit HGTV has made you believe you desperately need. And, should I ever meet you on the street, look out, because I kinda wanna punch you.


True Blood…are you f**king kidding me???


Ok…in keeping with my earlier, TV show obsessed post, I need to have a rant about the latest True Blood episode. As a warning, anyone who hasn’t seen episode 3 yet, stop reading. Not only are there going to be spoilers, I’m about to rant like a fucking lunatic.

Because seriously True Blood writers…

What. The. Fuck. was THAT?

Seriously? That’s all Alcide gets?

A random shot to the head by some fucking unknown loser hiding in the bushes who’s never held a fucking gun before, while Alcide is standing there buck fucking naked (so fucking hot) after swooping in with Sam to save the fucking day?

Fuck. Me. That, is total bullshit.

Yeah ok, I get what you’re doing, we all fucking do, it’s been blatantly obvious since this show started. I mean we all know Sookie is going to end up with Bill. It’s been destined since episode 1 peeps, long before the show stopped following the books and long before it went off the rails with it’s ridiculous storyline about fucking Lilith, the vampire demi-god or whatever the fuck she was.

But that’s not what this rant post is about. No this is about how un-fucking-fair Alcide’s death was. I mean aside from the fact the guy is a 6’5” man of fucking steel werewolf, he’s also a nice fucking guy, a guaranteed bit of eye candy and someone the fans love. He deserved more than that. He deserved an epic fucking showdown that didn’t just showcase his fighting skills and his abs of fucking steel, but also his huge love for Sookie and the rest of his peeps.

Instead we get some random dickhead accidentally-on-purpose popping a cap in his head?

Fuck, the least you could do was pan the fucking camera down so we could get the full monty shot as Alcide lay there dying and I sat on my couch screaming “NOOOOOOOOO.”

And yes I know this is the final season and shit’s gonna get real, but fuck me, what exactly did his death accomplish? All it did was undermine just how fucking awesome Alcide is and make him look like a motherfucking pussy.

Oh, and make me motherfucking pissed.

Take note True Blood. Take. Note.


Please, shut the f**k up…



So last night I went and saw X-Men: Days of Future Past. Yes, this movie was awesome, probably one of the best in the entire series. The ending in particular had me squealing like a Japanese schoolgirl in a Hello Kitty store. But that’s not what this post is about…PM2 and I will regal you in a separate post about how much we loved this movie and in particular, the boys in it.

No this post is about my movie going experience, which almost led me to punch a 7 year old kid in the face.

So being that this was an X-Men movie, I went for the premium, extreme screen and sound, fancy seats, more expensive option. I’m totes ok with this, it is after all, X-Men, I like to be comfortable when I enjoy these boys. What I didn’t count on however, was the 20+ kids that occupied the row behind me, supervised by 2 adults who clearly couldn’t give a fuck about anything, but especially about the fact that these kids spent the next 2 hours ruining everyone’s movie going experience.

Pretty much from the time the movie started to the time the credits rolled, these kids talked non-fucking-stop. And this was despite repeated, “shut the fuck ups” from me, and others, in the cinema. I don’t give a fuck how excited you are, no one needs a running commentary of every single fucking thing that’s going on in the movie. But I especially don’t need it from a 7 year old who has no concept of volume control or even what the hell is going on half the time.

But it got worse, because not only did they never shut the fuck up, on three separate occasions, they all decided on a mass exodus from the movie theater in a style that resembled a running of the bulls…or a herd of elephants…or 20+ kids who simply don’t give a fuck. Of course this was followed up with all these kids running back into the theater, talking, laughing and kicking seats as they found their way back to their row.

I mean, I really don’t understand why these adults wasted their money even buying them tickets. They probably only saw half the fucking movie and when they were sitting there “watching” it, they never shut the fuck up.

And yes I realize I sound like a crabby bitch here. It’s not that I don’t like kids, I do, it’s just that when I pay for a premium movie experience, I don’t expect to have it ruined by a bunch of 7 year olds who not only shouldn’t be watching a PG-13 rated movie in the first place, but who are supervised by 2 adults who simply don’t give a fuck.


My What the F**k Weekend


I spent the weekend in the city…well sorta, which I will elaborate on why I say sorta a little later. I’m calling it the What the Fuck Weekend because that’s exactly what it was. I have never said, thought or mumbled the phrase so many times over the course of two days in my life. And if you follow any of what I’ve posted on here, I use the word fuck a lot.

My first what the fuck moment came as I was taking the train into the city. The train was packed for a Friday at 10am. I assumed I was making a great choice by avoiding the early train that all the commuters take, but I was wrong. What I was greeted with was a large amount of college age students heading into the city for a weekend of drunken debauchery. Now I love drunken debauchery as much as the next person (well, maybe a little more) but not on my quiet, relaxing train ride at ten in the fucking morning! The dude behind me proceeded to have a rather loud and slightly slurred conversation about having drunken butt sex with his girlfriend. I’m certain that not only everyone in my train car, but all the people in the next train car, heard this disturbing account of his Thursday night. Seriously kid, what the fuck? Stop making your mother so proud.

Up next, dog strollers. I swear I saw at least six people pushing their dogs in strollers this weekend. Are dogs really this lazy? I’ll answer that… No. People are really that fucking stupid. What the fuck? Please for the love of everything, allow your dog some fucking dignity and let it walk on a leash. If you feel the need to be all haughty and show the public that your dog is in fact fucking awesome, buy the damn thing a gold leash instead. I’m pretty sure I even heard your dog mumble what the fuck as I watched you force its ass into the stroller.

This next part brings me to the friends post PM1 and I wrote a few days ago. (Here it is, in case you missed it.) I met some “friends” in the city. This is where the sorta comes into play. I sorta spent the weekend in the city, because come Saturday my “friends” decided they wanted to go home. After arriving late on Friday, we all decided to get in around noon; I was the only one who arrived on time, just an FYI. We then spent the entire evening doing fuck all, only to wake up to my “friends” deciding to bail. Using lame excuses as to why they needed to head home. “My hubs is upset I’m gone.” Fuck your hubs. Tell him this isn’t the 1950’s. I paid for a goddamn hotel room for the weekend. Thanks “friends” I appreciate you making me have a what-the-fuck face all weekend.

So that was my What the Fuck Weekend. Something I would rather not relive anytime soon. My last WTF is… Seriously people, enough with the making me say, “What the fuck.” I’m done.


Shiny, flashing road rage


So today was my first day back at work after a ten day break. And as expected, it got off to a spectacularly shit start when I got stuck in the worse than usual gridlock traffic on the freeway. On a good day, and by good day, I mean the middle of the fucking night when everyone else is already home and in bed, my journey from home to work would take between 20-30 minutes. This is largely dependent on how much I’m willing to risk a speeding ticket to save those extra 10 minutes (frequently for the record). On a bad day, say like every fucking day I commute, this can take anywhere from 45-60 minutes.

Except for today. Because today, it took a grand total of 90 fucking minutes for me to get from home to work.

Now I know that like me, there was a heap of other people all returning to work today, which only added to the shitastic traffic. However, in a deliberate move on my part, I decided to start my commute in a little later than normal. Smart move right? Avoid the first day back traffic and therefore severely reduce the chances of unleashing my homicidal rage on either my fellow commuters or my colleagues at work. Well in theory yes, but really, it was my first day back at work, of course I wasn’t getting up at the ass crack of dawn, to rush in to a job that regularly sends me to the liquor store on the way home. I wasn’t about to shock myself into a heart attack, although in hindsight, that would have been a great excuse to stay home.

Instead, my alarm went off a good hour after it normally would on a work day and after a luxurious breakfast in bed, I took a shower, straightened my hair and made a coffee for the commute (thank fuck). And as I reversed my car out of the garage, I congratulated myself on a well thought out plan. After all, going back to work after a ten-day break, hell, after the fucking weekend, is never easy, but at least my drive in today wouldn’t suck too much. Oh fuck me, was I wrong about that.

Because, as I finally reached the freeway entrance, which essentially forms the bulk of my commute into the city, I pretty much ground to a halt. Not only was the traffic fucked, it was beyond fucked. I mean, worse than a normal commute day in, fucked. I’m pretty sure all the cars were stationary and the entire three-lane freeway resembled the parking lot at my local Target. Fuck me, this was not going to be good.

But what choice did I have? Short of saying fuck it and executing an Austin Powers style 20-point turn and driving the wrong way back up the freeway ramp to go home, I had no choice but to continue. And continue I did…for a solid 45 minutes, essentially driving what probably equates to two miles in that time.

Now I know there are often reasons for slow/grid-lock/completely fucked traffic, and as I would soon, or rather, an hour later, discover, today was no exception. And you can imagine my delight when I came upon said reason, only to discover it was an “incident response” van, pulled over on the side of the road with some pretty flashing lights on its roof.

Yep, that’s fucking it. No accident, no alien invasion, nothing.

And look, in some ways I can understand. Pretty shiny things distract me too. But let’s get real, these are normally expensive, come in tiny little boxes and hang from my ears, wrists or neck. They aren’t the type that weigh a ton and sit on the side of the road doing sweet fuck all. Seriously people, you’re fucking slowing down for that??

Naturally a few F bombs fell from my mouth as I finally drove past these pointless flashing lights and all the fuckwits watching it, and actually managed to get my car out of first gear. This maneuverer also allowed me to finally overtake the fuckwit in front of me who’d felt the need to let every fucking car that wanted change lanes in in front of her. A good 90 minutes after leaving home, coffee long gone, I walked back into work only to discover that yes, it takes approximately 30 seconds to feel as though you never left it in the first place.

Fuck me.


Mulder and Scully don’t work here, you morons…


I’m not super keen on writing about my job, because I tend to keep it separate from my personal life. But, something happened at work yesterday that just needs to be written about. Actually several ridiculously idiotic things happened and to just let them fester in my memory would be a disservice to the world.

I arrive at work early; because well, I don’t like to deal with people in the morning, and arriving before everyone else lets me enjoy the silence of my office. To my surprise the tech guy is already there and he is invading my quiet time. He’s ranting about the fucking wireless connectivity. Do I care? Not really, but he then decides the issue lies with the microwaves people have in their offices. Really? My 600-watt microwave is fucking up the wireless Internet? Sure. He then goes on a rampage to remove all microwaves in order to rectify the situation. At this point, I scrambled to hide said microwave that I use daily. All the while, I’m thinking, “Hey dick, do your job and actually figure out what’s wrong instead of coming up with some bullshit far-fetched story so you can go back to sitting on your ass.” I stash my microwave, but decide if he’s right in his outlandish theory, I could conceivably take down the entire wireless network of a large corporation by just microwaving my Lean Cuisine Swedish meatballs. (Insert evil laugh) I work with morons.

Later on during the same day, when my tolerance for stupidity is pretty much gone, my boss calls a meeting. Now you see, like most workplaces, there has been some unrest among my co-workers. People complaining about changes, workload, favoritism, basically just a bunch of whiners looking for someone to coddle them and tell them they are loved. I couldn’t give a shit, but clearly my boss does. Prior to calling the meeting, in all her infinite boss-like wisdom (I’m beginning to wonder if she’s insane), she places a comment box in our lounge. Accompanying this box is an email that asks us to voice our opinions on our job. (Now I know she’s insane.) I instantly grab a lime green piece of paper and write, “fuck off” on it and drop it in the box. My work here is done.

But to add insult to injury, she brings the box to the meeting and begins reading these “bitch box” comments out loud and addressing each one of them. Now some were legitimately valid, but some just drove home the point that I work with morons. Of course my lime green comment is the first pulled and it instantly brings a smile to my boss’ face. My work here is done… again. (I’m on that favorites list, so suck it co-workers.)

While I’m only semi-paying attention, because I’m inhaling a bag of jellybeans out of boredom, I notice my boss pull a rather odd looking paper from the box. It’s folded haphazardly and written sloppily in all caps in blue marker. (We are highly educated individuals, with work issued laptops and an expense account for office supplies, including actual ink pens.) She pauses, and then reads, “The surveys aren’t anonymous. Trust no one.” It takes everything in me to stifle the laugh that instantly forms. Not only do I work with morons, I work with paranoid morons. This isn’t the fucking X-Files. No one is watching you. Well, maybe they are now. Nice going!

My only concern is that I hope I have a front seat when Trust No One and Microwave Guy hook up; the conspiracy theories are going to run wild and it’s going to be fabulously stupid.


A quarter mile at a time…

rs_560x415-131130193834-1024.Paul-Walker-FastandFurious4-jmd-113013_copyOk, I need to have a rant about car salesmen/women. And look, apologies to anyone who reads this and does this for a living. I know I’m stereotyping here, but my recent experience with one has failed to suggest otherwise.

So Hubs A recently convinced me to purchase a new car. I say convinced when what I really mean is he went on about it for so long (years), that agreeing was basically the easiest way to get him to shut up. The man’s a gadget/upgrade kinda guy. Normally I’m ok with this, I like having the latest i-whatever and a kick ass home theater set up. But cars piss me off. They are such a waste of money and I find it hard to justify buying another, newer model when the car I currently drive is still fully functional.

But most of all, I just hate the whole buying a car experience.

But, like with most things, he wore me down. Throwing out words like black leather interior, black paint, GT sports version, and turbo, got my inner Fast & Furious revving (RIP Paul Walker, you are still missed). In the end, I pretty much couldn’t refuse. The man knows I have a weakness for cool looking cars, even if they are as over the top as half the car scenes in the Fast & Furious movies (I never cared Paul, you still looked cool). So off we went, me bracing myself for the fact that my annoyance meter was about to reach I-want-to-punch-you-in-the-face level, Hubs A trying to reassure me that he’d handle the dreaded Car Sales Person.

Because I don’t want anything to do with them. This is partly because I don’t care for their bullshit and also because I don’t understand half the shit they’re talking about. Sure I’ve watched, and re-watched (a million times) all the Fast & Furious movies, (they’ll never be the same without you, Paul), but my understanding of sequential gear boxes and continuous variable transmission and all the other fancy shit they go on about, is basically non-existent. It’s not that I can’t understand it, I simply chose not to. I just don’t care about that shit. What matters to me is the car looks awesome, it’s safe, it’s at the right price and I manage to walk out of the whole experience without punching the Car Sales Person in the face.

So when said Car Sales Person starts going on about the car I’m currently picturing myself racing Paul Walker in (beautiful man, I’d probably let you win), being “priced to clear” or “the cheapest price you’ll ever pay for this model” or “won’t last past this week” or “loaded full of extras”, my annoyance level starts to creep up. Because you know what Car Sales Person, I might not give a shit about this stuff, but Hubs A does. Do you honestly think we’d walk in here, ready to drop several thousand dollars on this without having done our homework? Um no, no fucking way actually. And FYI, when you try to reel us in even more by throwing out an, “Oh and I should mention, I have another buyer ready to pay this price, right now,” I’m very close to reaching punch-you-in-the-face levels.

Oh so you’ve got another buyer who’s ready to go do you? Really, where are they? And why don’t you have a sold sticker on that window? And why have you just spent the last 20 minutes trying to convince me to buy the car for the exact same fucking price?

I know you’re fucking with me Car Sales Person…I’m not an idiot. But I tell you what, how does an, “Ok, that’s fine, we’ve seen a cheaper version of this car up the road anyway,” sound? Oh what’s that I hear you say? “What can I do to stop you walking up the road?” or “How can I get you to buy this car right now?” Ohhhh, where’s your other buyer now huh? That’s right, they don’t fucking exist.

And now, neither do I. I live my life a quarter mile at a time Car Sales Person, I don’t need you riding it. I might just go home and watch the original Fast & Furious (arguably the best, love you Paul). At least the car bullshit in that is entertaining.



The Passive Aggressive Mortgage Whore


A few weeks ago, this chick from our mortgage company began calling both Hubs B and me and leaving a ridiculous amount of vague-ass messages for us. Me, being the bitch that I am, chose to just ignore her. But, Hubs B, the forever optimist… not really… came home and said, “Hey, Sucks with Money, why’s the mortgage company calling us?” He then proceeded to call her back, while I had flashbacks to the hell that was closing on our current mortgage. It was a fucking nightmare.

Hubs B and I are two people, with advanced degrees, well-paying jobs and a fifteen year streak of paying our mortgage on time, so you’d think obtaining a mortgage wouldn’t have been such a fucking chore. But it was. It was so bad that I literally had screaming matches with our mortgage broker. Every time I sent them something, I would receive an email, a phone call, a voicemail and a text message asking for more. The list was endless and our mortgage broker eventually stopped speaking to me and would only deal with Hubs B. Basically, they suck.

So, just thinking about dealing with them again, was something I never wanted to recreate. But, Mortgage Whore said the one thing that Hubs B loves. “Do you want to save some money?” He covered the phone with his hand and began to fill me in on what she needed from us. And what do you fucking know; it’s the same fucking list that we sent them when we bought our house…six fucking months ago!!!

Me: NO!!

Hubs B: Why not?

Me: Um…remember dealing with them when we bought this house?

Hubs B: *Light bulb goes off above his head* Oh, yeah. That was fucking brutal, but it’ll save us $150 a month.

Me: NO!!!

Hubs B: (Speaking to Mortgage Whore) My wife said no because dealing with you guys is a nightmare.

Hubs B hangs up and I breathe a sigh of relief. But like an STD, this chick keeps coming back. A few more phone calls, too many emails and multiple voicemails that nearly prompted me to hunt her down and light a bag of dog shit on fire on her porch. Forget the Face Punch list, she’s on my Death Plane.

A week goes by and I hear nothing. Thank fuck. But… One day, I came home from work and found a FedEx package addressed to me…only me. Hubs B is conveniently left off, hence why I’ve dubbed her Mortgage Whore. I opened it and found this:photo 5.36.40 PM

Yeah, passive aggressiveness at its best, which only makes me hate her more. I hope you enjoy that flight on my death plane, Mortgage Whore. Your technique sucks and so does your interpersonal customer relations. FYI…if you find a flaming bag on your porch, my advice…stomp the shit out of it in your most expensive boots. How’s that for passive aggressive?


Can’t Park For Shit

When we decided to start this blog, I didn’t think the stories would immediately appear, but it turns out I was wrong. One day after a lengthy and downright stupid Facebook convo about our blog, that in turn included too many uses of the word yo, a blog post appeared to me as if it was sent from the heavens above. (Seeing as I have little faith in religion, this statement is slightly ironic and probably condescending to all who believe, but new pope says I can go even if I don’t believe. I’m cool with that.)

But back to the blog… I decided to randomly take the day off of work, which always seems like a fab idea until I enter the day world of the non-working asshats. (Aka: Old retired peeps)

Somehow I manage to make it to the library with only a few expletives leaving my mouth. But when I pull into the parking lot, a loud “fuck” pours from my mouth. The parking lot is packed. Who likes to visit the library on a random Wednesday at 9:30am? I’ll tell you…old people. Turns out they were hosting a class on how to use your ereader. (This is a whole separate blog post. I have so many questions about this course!)

I get in and get out quickly, seeing as I have more pressing matters to attend to. I have to be at the boozy theater at 10:30am to see Divergent. (Yes, I used booze and 10:30am in the same sentence. Go ahead judge me.) Hauling ass back to the parking lot, I encounter this:


My first thought: What. The. Fuck.

Second thought: Seriously, what the fuck?

Now the picture doesn’t do this justice. My car is the white one. The red car’s front end is literally in front of the back end of my car. That’s the first and probably the biggest issue. Next, the space between the two cars is so fucking small that I can’t even fit my ass in it, let alone open the door to get in my car. I look around and realize I’m boxed in. Car in front, cars on either side. Fml…

But just as I’m pondering how the asshat got out of their vehicle, an old Asian lady (Yep, call me a racist) climbs out of the passenger side of the red car. She looks at me, shrugs her shoulders and starts to walk into the library. Again… What! The! Fuck!

Me: Hey, lady! You can’t leave your car like this. I can’t get out.

Lady: I don’t know. (She legit said idk. You don’t know what??? How to fucking park? How to drive? How to communicate with people? FFS)

Me: You gotta move your car.

Lady: There no parking.

Me: Then pull out of the spot and wait for me to leave.

Lady: I can’t get in car.

Me: Neither can I.

By this point the F word is on the tip of my tongue. And what I really want to say is, “You’re a hundred fucking years old and possibly Mr. Chow from The Hangover’s, grandma. Get off the fucking road because clearly you can’t park a fucking car!”

So, in the end Can’t Park for Shit, gets the car out of the spot, but not before an Austin Powers style sixty point turn and a few mumbled fucks from my mouth.

The important thing here is that I made it on time to see Divergent…alone, like the only loser, dipshit in the theater, alone. Where I consumed two beers, a bag of popcorn, three mini bacon cheeseburgers and red velvet bread pudding. A reward to myself for not killing Grandma Chow.

A valuable lesson was learned today…people need a course on how to park a car, not how to use an ereader.

And my review of Divergent: Holy shit fuck…loved it and Four…so hot.