So, I watched the Nicki Minaj 'Anaconda' video. Without sound. And I decided to type out my real time reactions to see what would happen...
Is this Katy Perry's Roar?
Nope. Butt.
And legs. Whoa shaky butt.
Metaphor for jism.
Ugly shoes. Really fucking ugly shoes.
More butt.
That bikini top looks really uncomfortable. My titties would not enjoy that.
Oh, twerking. Who would have imagined?
So much butt.
Those girls are flexible as fuck.
Sir Mixx-A-Lot would love this video. Babies got back.
That's a waste of alcohol.
So, alcohol and butt? That's the entire video?
Aww yeah, blowjob eyes.
She needs to pull up those pajama bottoms.
What is with the fruit on the record player?
And there's the booty smacking.
Butt so big it's shaking the goddamn camera.
Fellatio metaphors!
I think I would have laughed if I had been on the set. That much jiggly ass would have cracked me the fuck up.
This would be far more impressive if I didn't know that she bought that ass...
And Drake just put his hands on his face like he's sad that he knows she bought it, too.
The end. Jesus. Maybe it's better with sound? I doubt it.
You're all welcome.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Saturday, June 7, 2014
"You're a trooper!"
I can't even begin to describe my abhorrence for that platitude.
In the last month, I have lost both of my grandparents. They raised me from the time I came home from the hospital until I was 15. So, essentially, they were the parents of my childhood. And losing them, kittens, has been unspeakably difficult. There are no words to describe the depth of my grief for the loss of their presences in my life. They taught me so much, gave so much, loved me so much and were undoubtedly two of the best people I have ever known. The sheer amount of people who have shared so many wonderful memories of them with us is a testament to the type of people they were. They were lovers. They were helpers. They were servants. And they did everything with a song in their hearts. And it is to them that I owe so much of who I am today.
Don't get me wrong, in a way I am thankful that they are together once again and that they are both no longer in pain. My grandpa had a rare form of cancer that made living a painful experience as it spread all throughout his abdomen and eventually ate away at his internal organs. I was with him when he went into the emergency room with severe abdominal pain three years ago, and I was the first person to know that he had cancer. It's a moment in my life I'll never forget. My sweet grandpa, who was always so strong and capable, eventually wasted away to a shell of himself. I will also never forget what he told me three years ago as I was there with him in the E.R.: "I'm glad you're here with me." My grandpa and I had a special bond, an understanding, and a relationship that I am incredibly thankful to have had. I was one of the very few people to whom he would listen. He trusted me, was proud of me, and loved me beyond all bounds. And his death hit me harder than I had ever thought possible. It was peaceful, it was quiet, and it was the best possible end of his life on this Earth that I could have thought to ask for - excepting the possibility of his family being by his side as he passed.
My grandma had more things medically wrong with her than I could probably even remember to list. She had been in and out of nursing homes and hospitals for the past two years. One of the last straws to her no longer being able to be home was the day I was helping her to stand up and instead her legs gave out and I had to slowly lower her to the floor so she wouldn't be injured. The final straw in ending her life was her right leg dying from the knee down and beginning to gangrene. She opted to go into hospice care rather than risk more pain and suffering with an amputation. And I believe wholeheartedly that she made the right decision. And so began the week-long process of helping my grandma to die. And it was around this time that I began to go completely numb. There was so much grief and sadness that I couldn't continue functioning if I allowed myself to feel any of it. And for days, my family and I sat at the nursing home and spoke softly to her, said our goodbyes, reassured her that we would all be okay because we had each other, and told her that we all loved her.
It was bittersweet. It was a relief. It was unforgettable.
And then she passed with her family by her side. I'm not sure if it was the numbness or something else, but I could hardly even cry. Even seeing her room empty and all of her things packed up, it didn't seem real. The entire month of May felt like a bad dream, and one that I had hoped so desperately to wake up from. But after my grandma's funeral and the graveside service where we saw their urns interred, I woke up. And the reality has been worse than the dream. Why can't I just go back to sleep?
I've been coping by trying to continue living my life as normally as possible for my little one. I've been going to work, I've been smiling and joking with my co-workers, and outwardly I've been what people have come to expect of me. But I've always been really good at hiding the type of pain that cuts you to the core...
And so, when my boss' wife gave me her condolences this past week and told me to keep on keeping on, my co-worker chipped in with, "Oh, yeah, she's been a real trooper!" I know he meant well, and I know it's meant as a compliment to the capability with which I am continuing my life after all this loss.
But a trooper? As if this is simply a trek through the wilderness? It's a journey, for certain; but it's one that not many people, even some who are close to me, can begin to grasp how hard it is for me to take. And for someone who doesn't know me that well personally to assume that I am trooping through this is infuriating. If I had the option of simply wallowing in my sadness and crying in the dark, I would. To me, it almost feels wrong that I'm not doing so. As if by continuing to live my life, I'm not appropriately showing my devastation for their loss. I break down a little each day, and it definitely doesn't make it any easier. But the thought that keeps me going is that they raised me to do better than that. They taught me to rise above the difficult, to shine through the dark, to lift the heavy burdens and to do so with a smile on my face and love in my heart. And so I continue to live for them. To carry their songs in my heart.
Not a single day has gone by that I haven't been hit by a memory or a thought of them and my vision is blurred and my heart breaks all over again. Not a single day has gone by that I haven't felt empty without them here. Not a single day has gone by that I'm not wordlessly thankful that they gave me something worth missing so hard.
In the last month, I have lost both of my grandparents. They raised me from the time I came home from the hospital until I was 15. So, essentially, they were the parents of my childhood. And losing them, kittens, has been unspeakably difficult. There are no words to describe the depth of my grief for the loss of their presences in my life. They taught me so much, gave so much, loved me so much and were undoubtedly two of the best people I have ever known. The sheer amount of people who have shared so many wonderful memories of them with us is a testament to the type of people they were. They were lovers. They were helpers. They were servants. And they did everything with a song in their hearts. And it is to them that I owe so much of who I am today.
Don't get me wrong, in a way I am thankful that they are together once again and that they are both no longer in pain. My grandpa had a rare form of cancer that made living a painful experience as it spread all throughout his abdomen and eventually ate away at his internal organs. I was with him when he went into the emergency room with severe abdominal pain three years ago, and I was the first person to know that he had cancer. It's a moment in my life I'll never forget. My sweet grandpa, who was always so strong and capable, eventually wasted away to a shell of himself. I will also never forget what he told me three years ago as I was there with him in the E.R.: "I'm glad you're here with me." My grandpa and I had a special bond, an understanding, and a relationship that I am incredibly thankful to have had. I was one of the very few people to whom he would listen. He trusted me, was proud of me, and loved me beyond all bounds. And his death hit me harder than I had ever thought possible. It was peaceful, it was quiet, and it was the best possible end of his life on this Earth that I could have thought to ask for - excepting the possibility of his family being by his side as he passed.
My grandma had more things medically wrong with her than I could probably even remember to list. She had been in and out of nursing homes and hospitals for the past two years. One of the last straws to her no longer being able to be home was the day I was helping her to stand up and instead her legs gave out and I had to slowly lower her to the floor so she wouldn't be injured. The final straw in ending her life was her right leg dying from the knee down and beginning to gangrene. She opted to go into hospice care rather than risk more pain and suffering with an amputation. And I believe wholeheartedly that she made the right decision. And so began the week-long process of helping my grandma to die. And it was around this time that I began to go completely numb. There was so much grief and sadness that I couldn't continue functioning if I allowed myself to feel any of it. And for days, my family and I sat at the nursing home and spoke softly to her, said our goodbyes, reassured her that we would all be okay because we had each other, and told her that we all loved her.
It was bittersweet. It was a relief. It was unforgettable.
And then she passed with her family by her side. I'm not sure if it was the numbness or something else, but I could hardly even cry. Even seeing her room empty and all of her things packed up, it didn't seem real. The entire month of May felt like a bad dream, and one that I had hoped so desperately to wake up from. But after my grandma's funeral and the graveside service where we saw their urns interred, I woke up. And the reality has been worse than the dream. Why can't I just go back to sleep?
I've been coping by trying to continue living my life as normally as possible for my little one. I've been going to work, I've been smiling and joking with my co-workers, and outwardly I've been what people have come to expect of me. But I've always been really good at hiding the type of pain that cuts you to the core...
And so, when my boss' wife gave me her condolences this past week and told me to keep on keeping on, my co-worker chipped in with, "Oh, yeah, she's been a real trooper!" I know he meant well, and I know it's meant as a compliment to the capability with which I am continuing my life after all this loss.
But a trooper? As if this is simply a trek through the wilderness? It's a journey, for certain; but it's one that not many people, even some who are close to me, can begin to grasp how hard it is for me to take. And for someone who doesn't know me that well personally to assume that I am trooping through this is infuriating. If I had the option of simply wallowing in my sadness and crying in the dark, I would. To me, it almost feels wrong that I'm not doing so. As if by continuing to live my life, I'm not appropriately showing my devastation for their loss. I break down a little each day, and it definitely doesn't make it any easier. But the thought that keeps me going is that they raised me to do better than that. They taught me to rise above the difficult, to shine through the dark, to lift the heavy burdens and to do so with a smile on my face and love in my heart. And so I continue to live for them. To carry their songs in my heart.
Not a single day has gone by that I haven't been hit by a memory or a thought of them and my vision is blurred and my heart breaks all over again. Not a single day has gone by that I haven't felt empty without them here. Not a single day has gone by that I'm not wordlessly thankful that they gave me something worth missing so hard.
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