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what the f wednesday…kim kardashian

Let’s talk Kim Kardashian, shall we?

What.the.f.

Last night I watched whatever lame show it is that Kim & Kourtney have on E. My takeaway from Monday’s premiere? I like Kourtney, I want to punch Scott in the balls, I’d love to make Kim cry, Kris is an immature bitch and I’d babysit Mason fo sheezy.

There, I said it.

Honestly, whether their marriage was a publicity stunt or not is completely irrelevant. Clearly at 26 years old, he is not mature enough to be married least of all to a seriously spoiled bitch who happens to be a media whore. I’m actually embarrassed that anyone thought they would actually stay married.


image via


If my boyfriend, let alone husband, would purposely make a mess just to piss me off, I’d probably kill him or poison him just to the point of death so he knows who’s boss. You know? I mean, come on jackass, grow up.

I probably wouldn’t invite a Rastafarian over to my penthouse to do naked yoga, but hey, not my issue. What does he expect from her? She made a sex tape (aka porn film) with her ex boyfriend that half of the world has seen.

But if you are so ridiculous that you think you can only train for your sport in one of two towns, I’m over it. All homeboy needs is a hoop and a gym. He’s got to be kidding with this Minnesota b.s. Go ahead, make my life and move 1,000 miles away. While you’re at it, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Also, can we talk about Scott Disdick (yes, I spelled that incorrectly on purpose)? The biggest douchelord to walk the face of the planet.

This show makes me want to pull a Black Friday and pepper spray bitches.

 

 

 

some forest

On Friday we went to some forest in Northern California where there are Redwoods. I’m pretty sure we were by Santa Cruz but I wasn’t paying too much attention.   That isn’t true at all, I knew where the hell I was.

What pissed me off? I did not know I was going on a hike and my new riding boots were not appropriate. Also, I’d like to thank the GAP for being assholes who make shitty pants because as soon as I got out of the car and did the “pull-up”, the freaking waist band ripped off my pants. And at that very moment I wanted to burn down the forest.

I did get some good photos courtesy of my bomb dot com iPhone. So enjoy. You’ll see a lot of moss and some big ass trees.








My mom is small, but the tree is ginormous. Funny story, she walked out of her bedroom with Tory Burch flats on and I said, “really? you’re wearing flats to the damn woods?” Hilarious.


 

top this.

I’m a very strange creature. I get little to nothing, I mean nil, done when my boyfriend is home. When he’s out-of-town? I think I could possibly be the most productive person to have ever graced the world with her presence.

For serious.

This weekend I:

• Got up early BOTH days. This is an extremely rare occurrence. In fact, it hasn’t happened since I started the 12 step program. Kidding. It hasn’t happened in at least 6 months.

• Cleaned the entire apartment. Come over and eat off my floor, I dare you. No need for a tetanus shot or kidney dialysis due to getting e Coli.

• Finally unpacked the last box of clothes that was sitting in the corner of the living room. I suppose we officially have “moved in”.

• Organized the entire kitchen and scrubbed everything.

• Cleaned the bathroom AND the grout in the shower. I should moonlight as a housekeeper. Meh, probably not.

• Only ate like 3 meals. That’s probably not so good and has nothing to do with my boyfriend but with the lack of food and my non-existent desire to leave the apartment.

• Placed a massive Fresh Direct order. I think I should mention something. Those Fresh Direct people must know I’m trying to get off crack (sugar) because they sent me 2 packs of romaine hearts and doubled my spinach order for free. Had I realized this before the delivery man left, I would have given it back to him. Too. much. lettuce.

• Organized my closet.

• Did 4 loads of laundry.

• And the most impressive of all time: made the bed for the first time since we’ve lived here. So in about 60 days. Please don’t tell my mother.

Try to top that. I dare you.