Dude... Shutup.

I deleted my last post because it was a lot of bitching that neither helps nor changes anything and I felt like a brat. However, I am still quite bitter today and I saw something on the way to my account that pissed me off. I don't know how those tweets are chosen that you see while you are logging in, but most of them make me sick. Except the funny ones, or the informative ones, I can roll with that. It's the advice ones that always rub me the wrong way. Or the stupid love quotes and crap like that. Who chooses these things for us to be forced to read while we log in? I, again, say I obviously don't know. But I'm going to focus all my pent up bitterness onto the tweet I read on my way here. 

It was from a man and it went something like this: I love to laugh at ladies who wear too much makeup. Y'all shouldn't look like you got in a fight with 64 crayons.

That's not the exact quote, but pretty close. And he owes me for correcting his grammar and spelling. Dude: Who made you the makeup master? Who put you in charge of deciding what everyone should do or look like? How do you feel qualified to judge for all of us? And the biggest question that you've probably never asked yourself is this: "Wait a minute... Is it possible that every woman on the planet is not aiming to please me?"

Women (and some men) wear makeup for a lot of different reasons. But dude: I can promise you this - I have never spent time in front of the mirror worrying whether or not you would approve of my eye shadow. I wear what I want, when I want, and for whatever reason I want. If I leave the house in full-on clown makeup to go to a wedding, I don't suppose that's any of your business and again, I can assure you, whatever my reasoning was for wearing full-on clown makeup to a wedding, or perhaps to a funeral, to a business meeting, to the grocery store, whatever... it had nothing to do with you.

So, in closing, I say to you, dude, self-proclaimed Earl of Makeup, Shutup.

Really? Are you sure?

I dreamed about sex last night. Seems like no big deal but if you knew me better, you'd know I never dream about sex. I never have sex. I've given up on sex. Sex? No, thank you. I'm fine. The dream, however, left me feeling puzzled like a child who has just been told the facts of life. You put what where and why? Really? Are you sure?

I don't miss sex but I'm not entirely convinced it's healthy for me to have completely forgotten how the process works. There's really no easy way a good girl can get a refresher course just for the sake of re-learning. I have an ex-husband who would oblige but he's a bit of a slut and that bothers me. I have no desire to establish an actual mental connection with someone and go from there, but as previously noted, I'm a good girl and do not engage in non-relationship sex.

The next thing someone is likely to suggest is that I watch some porn. To that, I say gross. Even the thought of watching porn makes me want to vomit. Porn is just a depiction of plastic people having sex in ways most average people are too tired to actually pull off. In strange locations.

You know what? In the time it took me to write these thoughts I've already lost interest. I don't care how it's done. I suppose if it ever happens to me again, I'll notice. And if things don't seem to be connecting up right, I suppose I'll notice that, too.

Glad I got that settled. I think I'll eat a Twinkie. There's nothing subliminal about that, really.