LOWFAT GANG ACTVITY

  If I had a nickel for every time some anorexic chick asked me to cut a biscotti the size of her pinky in half, id have AT LEAST two hundred dollars. "Damn, let me go put that new bentley on layaway."
  The universe is at no shortage for cruel jokes when it comes to me. Just when I thought I could sink no lower, I got a job selling fancy donuts to rich assholes....drunken...rich...assholes. Let's not even start in on the name of the joint ("F*recakes")and the fact that the owner only hires young women. No no...we wont even toe the line of the sexual implications. We will, instead, viciously attack their idiot-dickbag customer basis.
    Donuts are bad, I get it. Donuts are decidedly of the Devil, fine. But if you're going to stare at them (at me) AT LEAST come inside and do it. You've known no real terror until you've been stared down by fur-ridden botox zombies through plate glass for fifteen minutes straight, their martini dragon breathe fogging up the glass you spent all of this morning scrubbing. "fuck you...fuck you donuts. you will be my undoing." yes.yes.
   At first glance: "*GASPS* OHHHHHMYGAAAAWD! Is EVERYTHING a donut?!"
                                    (yes, you fucking idiot its a goddamn donut shop)
"yes m'am, eeeeeverythings a donut"
             "Which ones are low fat? HAHAHA(she and her posse of designer drones erupt in laughter)"
"(mother-fucking-eye-roll)"
              "They're all so huge. I think we'll just share one...(And this seems like a solid plan until one of her braindead cronies chimes in)"

"NO NO NO LETS GET ONE OF EACH SO WE CAN TRY THEM ALLLLLLL"

     And this is not so much her inability to finish a sentence, as it is the coupling of both her words and the shrill screams of her band of broads ringing in my ears.
           "*GASPS* Thats such a great idea! We'll take one of each, and would-you-mind-cutting-each-of-them-into-fourths?"
    Now this, is my most favorite part of it all. The part where I regain my dignity, and send these snot nosed bitches spiraling into the type of reality they thought they'd only see sprawled out in the pulitzer prize worthy pages of their prenuptial agreements:

"oh yes m'am! we have knives right out in front of the register...SO YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF."

(and as their already overworked jaws hit the floor)      

                                      *A ROUND OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLAUSE*

BED BUDDIES

  He is my friend because he is the only person who understands how catastrophic an "Ashanti-with-with-a-penis" would be. (...It has just occurred to me that in 2013, all things are possible.)...
  There have been few constants in my life. Most things and/or people i drink and/or push away. Maybe its that he is the only guy I have ever actively pursued. And by actively, I mean i stared him down on the subway, but this dude is in my life like that splinter i forgot i had that calloused over and i will most likely be living with forever.
  TWO WORDS: sport fuck. "If you need to tire yourself out before bed, why don't you just go for a jog?" Because, dear sir, jogging requires pants. I mean don't get me wrong you're cute and all, and of your luscious penis, i am eternally jealous. But i think i enjoyed the jokes more than the splooge.
   I've never seen myself as the kind of person who would have the capacity or ballerific skillz required to have what i like to call a "bed-buddy", but in 2010 all of my wildest non-dreams were actualized in one shorthairyfunnyman.
    Now i toe the line between wanting to (and needing to) eradicate this succubus of a relationship, and truly believing in the preservation of such bonds. Ours is an illustrious history, with many tales of drunken phone calls and adultery, based almost entirely on insults and manipulation...but we do try.

Welcome Back

Everytime im making a latte, its like im running a little race against myself.....no...wait...
I decided that i was going to cheat on my boyfriend while we were fucking last night...there. Thats the shit I meant to say.
     I cannot be the first woman to have ever thought this. So I give myself credit for being straight up. I mean, he does not know this. He's excited about this blog. He's not going to be so excited once he actually reads it.
    I am a Loganite. Through and through. Biker, barista skills, useless pretensions and all. And I love it. My only problem is that im black. And everywhere I go (including my very own living room) I am the only black motherfucker around. Unless you count the rabbit....Chuck counts the rabbit.
    The thing about my being a barista is, every time I get hired somewhere, I know its because (as ive literally been told) I am "just black enough". Just black enough to make my employer look less-racist, just black enough to shuck and jive AND shut the fuck up, just black enough to get your average customers "Bon Qui Qui" reference...and not impale him through the eyes with my four inch acrylics. (I AM from the southside motherfuckers). These hoes also do not expect me to know plum shit about coffee. A hard head nod and a "so you used to work at starbucks right?" will do me just fine. I can make latte art and a cappuccino that could bring tears to an FOB Italian mans eye. No bitch. I am, in fact, a real boy.