I believe there are about 100 things you should know about me. And I use “you” loosely. Over the years my desire to blog or share or tweet has dwindled into a messy lump of carelessness. It will make a fascinating story one day but now is not the time.

It’s not that I don’t have a lot to write about. I write constantly, sometimes I even get out my computer and type it into my pages or word documents. Most of the writing I do every day is in my head. Which doesn’t do any one any bit of good. But there it is.

I’ve tried to “trick” myself into writing things. Giving myself little challenges which sometimes energizes me sufficiently but by day 10 I’m back to my old tricks. Abandonment. Boredom. Laziness. The Blahs. You know it’s bad when you can no longer trick yourself. Or at least, I know it’s bad then. Really bad. I can mostly fool myself most of the time. Just part of my genius.

This might be another one of those tricks. I’m not going to think about it much because if I discover it’s yet another plan to get me to write more, I’ll rebel, as most teenagers do, and I’ll stop writing again. So I’ll begin (again, Finnegan).

The first thing you should know about meis I have a fear–a horrible fear–of Kangaroos. I’m aware that there are a few of you who already know this fact, and maybe I even wrote about it in the “about me” section of this mostly abandoned blog. But this is the news at 11 story. The feature segment that you stayed up for. I kid. Mostly.

My fear of Kangaroos happened when I was probably about 4 years old. I think that’s when I first saw the picture of the gigantic bunny rabbit. My brothers would often torture me. Mostly kids stuff until you grow up and find out that they emotionally scarred you. My oldest brother have this box of boy stuff. Not THAT kind of boy stuff, that boy stuff he kept under his mattress. And yes. I checked. That’s a whole different thing to know about me. Let’s stay on track, shall we?

So in this box there were a multitude of things. Bee-bees for his gun (mmhm… I said gun), marbles (remind me about those sometimes), letters from his girlfriend (remind me about THOSE sometime, too!) and these really strange photos. One of them was this old postcard of my father’s. It was all yellowed and sinister looking. On the front of this postcard was this picture of a little man and a huge – I mean HUGE rabbit. the rabbit was taller than the grown man, and the man looked tall, too. Over 6 feet tall, my brother told me. Which would make this rabbit about 20 feet tall by my accurate as usual mathematic calculations. It freaked me out. It freaked me out so bad that I can’t even go on line and find you a picture of the thing that I saw. I know it’s out there because the internet has every picture of everything you could imagine (remind me to tell you about that sometime, too!)

My parents have since told me a multitude of times (probably close to 100) that this thing does not exist. But they also told me that spiders do not travel in groups and I’ve spotted several spiders hanging out together on my ceiling.
In my head I connect kangaroos with that huge rabbit creature I saw when I was a child. They are huge (taller than a man!) and they hop. Therefore I hate Kangaroos. I fear them. If I see them in a zoo I’m leaving the zoo. If I see pictures of them I start to whimper a little bit. If I see one suddenly on television, I want to cry and I leave the room. If Kangaroos suddenly became popular in the state of California, I would move and leave my fingernail polish here because I couldn’t get out of this state fast enough.

I don’t care if there are cute kangaroos. I don’t care if you show me a stuffed one. I don’t want it. And you and I will never be friends again. People can do a lot to me and I will forgive them. But giving me a picture of a kangaroo is one thing I will never forgive. I’m not kidding. I’m not even going to talk about the whole pocket thing and having a joey in there. That is just plain creepy and disgusting.

So there you have it. The first thing you should know about me. There’s more to know. Maybe I’ll write about the next thing sooner than later. Ssssh. Don’t say it.

I’ve caught up! Blog Every Day In February is officially back on track. Hallelujah.

I just got done emailing some of my friends from my last writing class at school. I had to tell them I wouldn’t be returning to campus as a student. I’ll still be doing some volunteer work (because, hey, I need these things on my application for schools!), but I won’t be attending school there. I’ll be working on my math class. Trying to get the damn stuff done already. I have one final math class, and I’m taking it off campus with my tutor.

A few years ago, I came across this porn movie with Gauge in it. She’s this blonde that is exceptionally gifted at anal sex. Actually she stands on her head and gets fucked in the ass which, hats off to you, Gauge, is impressive! The movie I first saw her in had the title Bring em Young. They said it was a university, and I thought it was just a porn thing. Clever, too, I thought. Cuz it actually sounded like it could be a real school. BYU.

Imagine my surprise when my tutor enrolled me in an independent studies class at BYU – Brigham Young University. I told Sarah Nanette last night that I didn’t think it was a real school! As a result, I keep saying the name wrong. Bringum Young. Ugh. My tutor is going to think I’m a bigger freak than he realized.

It was super hard not signing up for any classes. But I don’t need them. I signed up for classes last semester because I needed them and they would count towards my major. But enough is enough. I gotta get out of the small college in this now small town and head for greener pastures. And it’s really scary. I didn’t realize before how much I was clinging to the school. I didn’t realize how it had become a crutch for me. And I didn’t realize how sometimes, when bad things happen, it kind of keeps you stuck. Even if you’re miserable, there is a safety in being miserable and stuck. There are tons of reasons why I want to continue taking classes at my old school, but none of them are healthy reasons, I’ve realized. So… I’m moving on.

What this means for niteflirt is, I’ll probably have better hours. I’ll be more flexible during the next few months. And I’ll be working more because BYU ain’t cheap, to be honest. One class is costing the same as 4 classes at my old school. And that’s not including the books that I’ll need. I’m reviewing a previous class at the moment so I’m covered, but by next month I want to be enrolled.

This is the most adult thing I’ve done in a long time.
And it feels good.

I know I didn’t post yesterday. I got home at 11:50 and I could have just thrown up a “hey. I’m blogging. Goodbye” post, I didn’t want to, since I basically did that the day before. I don’t know what my failure means. I’ve basically been struggling with my other goals as well, so I could start over… (sigh). We’ll see.

Today’s topic? Parents. They just don’t understand, yo!

So there are definitely secrets I keep from my parents. The biggest one being (surprise surprise) this job. But I have other little secrets my parents don’t know about. One of them is my obsession with nail polish and cosmetics of all kinds, really. But lately my obsession has stuck on nail polish and the monkey on my back hasn’t let go! So my dad made me a nail polish rack for Christmas. It’s really nice, too. Like really nice. I can’t even explain how nice it is. And he was so proud of it, but told me that I shouldn’t try to fill it up completely, since the rack can hold 200+ nail polishes. And I just kind of laughed. Nervously. And while I was breaking out into a sweat, I was trying to figure out a way I could ask my father to make 4 more of those racks for my entire collection.

Yeah. I said it.

And the really crappy thing about it is: the new collections have started to come out, and I already purged a lot of my polishes out. I got rid of tons of my mini nail polishes, and some of my LA colors that I picked up at various Ross’ and Dollar Tree stores. I probably can get rid of some of my Sinful Color nail polishes, because there really isn’t anything unique about a lot of the colors from that collection, and I’m not really married to the idea of picking up any more of them. They tend to release new collections that are basically the same fucking polish they released before, but they just add another name to it. I don’t like that. So … the more I think of it, the more I probably will just get rid of those. I’ll peak at them tomorrow and see if I start to cry at the thought of saying goodbye to them or not.

Where was I?

yeah – so my father has no idea. And he was talking about possibly selling these racks to suppliers and collectors. Cuz it’s an awesome rack (why do I feel like a guy describing some chick’s tits every time I say “rack”?). But he probably will sell it for $200. And I told him that was too much. He needs to make a cheaper one. And he told me that anyone who spends 5 bucks on a bottle of polish can afford to spend $200 bucks on a cool rack to show their collection off. I wanted to tell him I’d prefer to go to target and buy a plastic container, shove my polishes in there, and take the other 190 bucks and buy fingernail polish! But he wouldn’t understand. And he’d probably commit me.

That’s the only thing on my mind, currently. How my father will one day see what his daughter spends her money on and wonder where he went wrong. And I’ll tell him I’m sorry I disappointed him and didn’t become a missionary in Africa like he wanted. But things could always be worse. I could be spending all my money on drugs. Or shoes.

After a few debates today, I realized I still have a little bit more to say about the now old news regarding Paula Dean and her admitting to having diabetes and the world’s reaction to the news.

Apparently our beloved Southern Belle admitted to having diabetes only because she’s the new spokesperson for this new wonder drug that helps control diabetes so you can continue eating food like… well, like Paula Deen cooks. Again I have to say – Who the f*ck cares. Apparently I do, because this is my second blog about it. So let me just write my final post about this and then go on to something more interesting – like Demi Moore going into to rehab and Seal and Heidi Klum breaking up. Or sex. Maybe I should just stick to sex.

This is the thing – No one should look at television as some moral road map for good eating, good relationships, good anything – except for entertainment, and barely that! Paula Deen should not be cooking for anything other than decadent people who don’t give a flying tootsie roll what goes into their mouths and the food network. Last I saw, there weren’t a whole lot of people cooking healthy on that show. That whole network is one big food orgy, isn’t it? So Paula wants to get money sponsoring a drug for diabetes while peddling fried twinkies and bacon wrapped hamburgers and sides of french fries and oreo caramel chocolate shakes. How is that any different than movie stars peddling cigarettes in movies and sluts selling beer while washing your BMW and anorexic models dropping dead on runways but preaching about diet pills or the latest diet? Why is Paula Deen any different than any other hypocrite out there and why are we so surprised. Were we looking to her for salvation and she sold our soul to the Devil of Chocolate Cake… I don’t get it.

Stepping off my soap box now.

I’ll post earlier tomorrow because I go out singing tomorrow and have writing group Thursday evening. Looks like the next few nights will be late nights. I’ll try to stay logged in through tomorrow morning, but I’m not promising I’ll actually hear you should you call in the early mornings…though I did talk to a few of you horny bad boys early this morning! Nothing beats being ravished in the early morning by some of you before you go to work. You always leave me happy and pleasantly exhausted!

Speak soon. Oh, and lay off the sugar and butter. Unless you’re licking it off of me, in which case – have seconds!

I was thinking about writing about this for the past week, but there are times in a woman’s life (sorry if this is TMI, but this is my blog and you’re reading it… LOL!) where the thought of two vaginas is enough to make a girl child cry. I think I’m at the point now where I can address this topic and write about it in a way that gives it respect. As any woman with two vaginas should get. Respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Plenty of it. Like barrels filled. Word.

I saw this little “blurb” about a woman having two vaginas and I didn’t even really read it. That’s how disturbed I was by it. But I’m going to google it now, and give you my first impressions/reactions. Here we go. Women with two vaginas.

• According to google, there are plenty of woman who have two vaginas (vagini? vaginay?). Tyra Banks spoke with 5 such women in 2010. Wow, Tyra. You go girl. With your bad kinky multi vagina talkin self!
• The latest woman afflicted with multivaginaitis is named Hazel. Hazel? I dunno, a woman with 2 vaginas shouldn’t be named Hazel. She should be named something sexy like…Shanna. or… Victoria. or…PussyGalore.
• Hazel Jones…she sounds like she lives next door!…apparently has been approached by several adult film producers, one who offered to pay her 1 million dollars. Good for you, Hazel. The things they will probably do to your 2 vaginas warrants much more than 1 million dollars!!
• Let’s think about this seriously for a moment. She has 2 vaginas. 2 cervixes. 2 uterus’. (uteri? uteruseses) which means she can have 2 times of the month, she can lose her virginity twice. And, if she’s having sex and a guy says “oops. wrong hole…” she can’t dismiss it as a guy trying to “slip one by her”! Poor Hazel.

So what do you think? Does the thought of Ms. Hazel’s two Vagini make you horny?

I’m logged in for the next couple of hours. Feeling MUCH better, so give me a call! You’ll be glad you did.