Across The Universe

See it.....

Happy Valentines day.

Get your slow dance on......

F*ck Valentines Day!

I am convinced that Saint Valentine works for Hallmark. The man created a holiday that only terrible things can occur on. It makes single people feel like shit (well, maybe not single guys because in the words of my friend Todd "Valentines is the best night to go out to the bars because every chick is desperate for love and really vulnerable (aka "easy" that night) and even if you have a Valentine it costs you a small fortune to go out that night. I wouldn't be surprised if Denny's had a $150 price fix dinner on Feb 14th. And, did you know that if you get engaged on Valentines, when your significant other turns into a raging bitch and leaves you for your best friend....she gets to keep the ring, because you make the dumb mistake of "gifting" it to her on a national holiday.

Maybe I am just jaded because Valentines Day has never been good to me. I don't think I have been single on Valentines Day since I was 16, so this is a new experience for me. But I've never been happy on V-Day single or not, because something always goes terribly wrong on that day for me for some reason.
It all started way back when, in highschool, when I worked at Victoria Secret. Every perverted old man would come in to pick something out for his wife and they all had the same story "My wife is the same size as you, can you try this on for me to see if it fits?". I may have been 16 and naive at that time, but I was smart enough to know that $8 an hour was not enough to get me to pimp out freaking panty sets...The best part was, every guy that came up with that line thought he was the smartest guy ever for thinking of it. "No, asshole your wife is fat and she is going to return this shit tomorrow torn up with stains on it and I am going to be the person who has to fight with her for 20 minutes while she tries to claim she never wore the shit." Yes, i worked at Victoria's Secret when they had a no questions asked return policy and way before they started giving rubber gloves to their cashiers for handling returns. Needless to say, ladies wash that stuff before you wear it!
Next was the year my Dad sent me flowers to my work for my birthday, but they got delivered on valentines with no card......so I called my boyfriend at the time to thank him for the AMAZING bouquet of flowers.......that he DIDN'T send me (and had no intentions of sending me). That was awkward and ultimately his demise.
Or how about last year, when I came home from work to find my stairway up filled up with hot pink gerber daisies, chocolate covered gummi bears, a bottle of Italian Merlot and my little pony valentines. I figured that my ex of 3 years (that had just dumped me on New Years) had to have come to his senses and made a romantic attempt to win me back... he was the only person that could have known these were my favorite things ever..... Yeah, well I was wrong AGAIN.......the valentines surprise was from a guy I met at Kantina one night who stalked me on myspace, and read a survey I had filled out about things I liked. He had to special order the freaking chocolate covered gummi bears from germany because he couldn't find them in any stores.
But as we all know, nice guys are creepy (I know I have issues ;).... so I pretended to be sick to get out of the date, I drank his wine, ate the gummi bears, got drunk and left shitty messages on my ex's voicemail. I mean seriously, who wouldn't do the same ?!
So, this is why I am over celebrating Valentines.......or its just a really good excuse I have made up to make myself feel better for not having a Valentine ;)

From Your Dog

(from www.phatphree. com)

I mean it, I feel ridiculous. Get it off.

Lady, just because your boyfriend doesn’t want to settle down, doesn’t mean you should pretend that I’m a real baby in hopes that he’ll play along in your twisted game of “house”. I promise you’re scaring him off, and it makes you look insane. Think about it, you dress me like a Gap employee and tote me around like a damned fashion accessory. It’s disgusting, and you need to get your shit straight. Meantime, you can stop force-feeding me Altoids, you bitch.

While I’m on the record, there are some other things I could do without, you psycho. Yeah, as it turns out, I don’t really care for the ylang-ylang oil massage. It’s not relaxing, it actually hurts and generally creeps me out. In fact, it’s damn close to rape.

Oh, this just in, I’m not actually a fucking vegetarian. Do you honestly think that I prefer couscous and tofu over my lamb and beef nuggets?Lettuce wraps? Are you fucking serious… what is your damage? I would rather eat my own shit, and guess what, when you’re asleep, I do. Then I lick your whore face and laugh about it.

Don’t even get me started on my name. Louis Vuitton? You superficial bitch. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? I’m already wearing the gayest sweater since the "Cosby Show", but you insist on naming me after an expensive line of European handbags. Seriously, fuck you. You make me look like a complete pussy and I hate you for it. For real, the next time you try to gel my hair, I will tear a hole in your windpipe. I swear to God I will.

Not that you’d ever fucking notice, but you continue to place me in dangerous situations. Just yesterday at the dog park, I could feel the cold hard stare from a Doberman through my Kenneth Cole double-breasted pea coat. Shit, even the French poodle called me a fag, and he was wearing a beret.

Do you have any idea what would happen to a dog like me at the pound? You don’t even WANT to know. I step in there with even a whiff of CK One on me, and it’s all over.

It pisses me off that you don’t pull this shit on the cat (Although it’s probably because she’s a lesbo). I am really tired of the smug looks I get from that butch-ass feline. Just once I’d like to see you put an ascot around her neck and let her feel what this shit is like. Then she’ll realize it’s not funny, and I’m in real pain here. At the very least you could throw a flannel shirt on that dyike and even it up here, you owe it to me. I promise I will end all nine of her lives if I ever get a chance to chase her without these miniature Steve Madden patent leather urban utility boots strapped on my paws. Not that I’d get far; even without the shoes I still have to battle these Italian micro suede chinos.

Listen lady, I’m at the end of my rope and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking (Yes, there’s a lot of time for that while you watch E!, thumb through your copy of People magazine, stopping occasionally to read the text message on your jewel-encrusted Sidekick). I have decided that I’m running away. I’m going to take my chances on the outside. Tomorrow morning, during doggy yoga, I am fucking gone, baby – and there is nothing you can do to stop me.

The last thing you’ll see is my puckered little asshole as I’m out the door, but not before I leave a hot, soft and juicy turd pile right on my miniature doggy yoga mat – and I’ve got a half a pound of espresso beans and 3 bran muffins for breakfast to make sure it’s a good one.

See you in hell, bitch.

Hey You, Some Guy

Found this online today.....

Hey, you, Some Guy. It’s me, Some Girl. I guess we might as well have a life together. We’re on a schedule here. I’m in my mid to late twenties; you’re two years older than me. We’re at about the same level of attractiveness. We have comparable educations. I need to mate, and you’ll probably do as well as anyone else. Let’s begin this typical courtship process, shall we?

You want sex? Fine. Roll around on me for a while. Whatever gets this moving. Are you done? Good. Now go tell your friends about it. And have a good time, you won’t be seeing much of them any more.

I guess we should go to some movies and maybe a concert or two. That was nice. Now let’s get in a fight and then make up. Good. Now let’s go camping. While camping, let’s take some pictures of us camping that we can hang up in our cubicles to remind us of the time we went camping. That will be a cherished memory.

Okay, I guess it’s time to move into an apartment together that’s about ten miles away from my parents’ house. Let’s live in this apartment for a year. Let’s go to a Memorial Day barbecue at my parents’ house. Good. Okay, time to get married.

When you propose, don’t try to do anything cute like putting the ring in my wine glass or having a sports mascot bring it to me at a ball game. It’s all been done before, and you are not a very creative person. It would probably just come off as cheesy and forced. Just get down on a knee and get it over with. New Year’s Eve works fine for me.

Our wedding will take place a year-and-a-half from your proposal. It doesn’t really take that long to set up a wedding; I just want to relish the fact that we are getting married for as long as I possibly can. During that time, I will be the center of attention. Sadly, this will be the highlight of my life. I have no aspirations to write a great book that will change the way people think, I don’t want to travel the world and witness the majesty and diversity of foreign lands, I don’t want to dedicate my life to intellectual or philosophical pursuits in an attempt to take my mind places that no one has ever gone- I just want to look skinnier in my dress than my bridesmaids. Okay, that’s done.

After the wedding, I will take a year to reflect upon the wedding. I will send thank-you notes, watch the wedding video countless times with whomever will sit through it with me, and show people pictures from the wedding that they have no interest in seeing.

Soon, everyone will tire of my wedding talk and I will no longer be the center of attention. It is time for us to buy a house, so that I have something else to talk about. It will be a three-bedroom ranch home with a semifinished basement.

You will turn the basement into a rec room with a bar. This will be pointless, as you will rarely see your friends any more, and when you do, they will have neither the desire nor the time to go down and drink in our basement because they’ll have mated too. Your masculine rec room will soon be cluttered with children's toys and my infrequently-used exercise equipment.

When people stop talking to me about our house, I will decide that we should have kids. I will take the fun out of sex by incorporating science and scheduling our intimacy around my ovulation cycle. We will conceive.


We'll Go Bowling Sometimes
When I am pregnant, I will have something to talk to people about again, and everyone will pay attention to me. I will act as if I am the first pregnant person ever. Eventually, I will give birth, just as billions have done before me.

Our children will be adequate, but not spectacular. You will want them to be athletes, but they will lack the size and skill. I will want them to be creative but they will lack the talent and drive. Despite this, they will eventually mate, too.

We will move into a larger house to accommodate our growing family. You will build a deck off the back of the house that we will use twice a summer. We will briefly contemplate an above-ground pool but in the end will decide against it, citing cost and practicality.

There will be several dogs.

We will vacation. Myrtle Beach will be our destination of choice, though we will be no strangers to Orlando.

Our kids will leave and we will move into a condo, citing cost and practicality. We will retire. Now the waiting truly begins.

Our children will provide us with unremarkable grandchildren. We will photograph them and discuss them at length.


You Will Mow Our Lawn
You will die of heart complications. Your funeral will be relatively well-attended and will last for just over an hour. Following it, some of us will go back to the condo where there will be a tray of cold cuts for sandwiches.

I will remain for eight more years, watching television and slipping away into dementia. I will die. Doctors will call it natural causes, but in reality, I will have semiconsciously willed myself to stop breathing out of boredom and defeat. It will be done.

You can pick me up at eight.