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Bewitchingly Cute or Batshit Crazy?

So, I was watching Tough Love on VH1 today.  (No, I don’t have a problem.  I can stop watching bad reality tv whenever I want.)  In this particular re-run, they played a game show called Cute or Crazy.  The host shared some of the girls’ little quirks (I let my cat help me choose my next boyfriend, I wear a tiara around the house,) with a panel of guys, who were asked to hold up either a sign that read “CUTE” or “CRAZY.”  The idea was to show the girls that some of their “cute” little idiosyncrasies are actually symptoms of being batshit “crazy”, and that they might want to let a new guy in on this little “fact” early on.

Which presents an interesting quandary.  How do you define what’s “cute” and what’s “crazy”?  It’s probably important to mention that as I asked myself this question I was in the kitchen, eating the bonnet off a week-old chocolate duck and drinking a fruffy-lulu drink while cleaning the kitchen with a long piece of string tied to the back of my pants so that my cat would follow me around, batting at it.  To most people, this would probably be a clear sign of my deteriorating insanity.  Luckily for me, my husband finds my instability endearing.

Which brings me to my REAL point.  Everyone needs that person in their life, the one that appreciates all your awkward quirks and loves you for them.  That is not to say that this special person has to be your spouse, or even your boy/girlfriend; romance has nothing to do with it.  You need a best friend who appreciates the way that you snort when you laugh, a cousin who loves your perchance for knock-knock jokes, or a younger brother who doesn’t mind if you absentmindedly hum “If I Had a Million Dollars” under your breath for 6 hours straight.  That someone who laughs when everyone else might force a nervous giggle and eye the exits.  For me, that person comes in the form of my husband, who has on numerous occasions come home to find me watching Spongebob and sticking squares of tape to the back of our cat’s neck.  But as long as Kyle keeps holding up those “CUTE” signs, I’ll be alright, because I know that he loves me at my bests and worsts, and that’s love that can last.

(Until he stops, and then I’ll go get me a sugar daddy.)

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Editing My Past

So, I’m going through the pictures on my computer today.  Kyle’s been riding my ass for weeks to organize my pictures so he can back them up, and I’ve been dragging my feet hardcore.  So today I finally sat down with a week’s worth of DVRed What Not to Wears and plowed through them.

I really enjoyed sorting through all my photos.  I don’t take nearly enough, and as my life gets more and more technologically immersed I believe that my pictures are losing the value that they once had.  I was having fun looking through them and organizing them, when I came across a class of pictures that I have no clue what to do with.

No, they aren’t naked photos.  (Those have their own folder.)  These are pictures of me and my ex-boyfriend, whom I dated for over 2 years.  We ended things on (comparatively) good terms, and though we don’t really talk anymore I consider him a great guy for whom I wish nothing but happiness.  But it still doesn’t change the fact that he’s my ex.  Seeing those pictures gives me a small amount of sadness, and my husband, jealousy that he doesn’t quite understand.  Neither one of us really likes to see those pictures come up on a digital picture frame.  But can I really just delete them?  And do I even want to?  At least half of the pictures taken of me during the first 2 years of college have my ex in them; that’s a freakin’ lot of pictures to loose just because some guy’s in them. I suppose I could photoshop him out of them, but that feels like a lie.

Which brings me to the other issue.  In theory I could just hit delete, and rid myself of every picture with this guy in it.  In a matter of minutes, I could completely rid my life of any evidence that he ever existed.  Looking back, you’d never be able to tell that we were ever together.  But by doing so, I’d be erasing a part of my past.  Do I just pretend that I’ve never been to Mexico?  Or do I just take out the pictures of him, and pretend that I went on the trip with no one, a magical trip spent wafting around the beach? Even if the relationship didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped, it still helped to mold who I am today.

I guess it really comes down to the question of which is more painful: the constant reminder of lost happy endings or the loss of a part of my past?  This question is complicated by the fact that the answer doesn’t only affect me, but Kyle as well.  He hates seeing pictures of my ex, and I can’t say I blame him.  While moving last year I found a stash of pictures of him and his ex; I stuffed them in a book.  I can’t stand seeing pictures of his ex either, so how can I ask him to look at pictures of mine?  It’s a rough question, one that I don’t have a real answer to.

In the end, I don’t imagine I’ll have the heart to delete them.  Preservation of the past is very important to me, no matter how painful that past may be.  I imagine they’ll end up in their own folder, hidden away on my hard drive.  That way they’re always there to be opened up when I’m alone in a quiet office, and thinking about things that were.

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Squeeze that square ass!

So, I’m watching V1H1’s I Love Money, right?  Because despite my deep love of language and literature, I apparently have terrible taste in tv.  And it goes to commercial.  And in between ads for vitamin water and mini vans, I saw the perfect culmination of hilarious and creepy.

According to the rest of the internet, this commercial is offensive.  Some feel that it’s incredibly inappropriate for children, while others feel that it objectifies women.  I think that if this is true, it does neither of them well, and people probably need to lighten up.

While yes, the commercial is a little raunchy, it’s done is such a silly manner that the video becomes the sexual equivalence of red feetie pajamas.  I’m pretty sure that even a 4 year-old could tell you that the commercial is meant to be goofy and funny.  (Now that I think about it, I doubt many Spongebob fans were even alive for the original…with they even get the reference?)  Besides, as an avid watcher of Spongebob, (bad taste in tv, we already covered this,) I can tell you that there are some pretty adult moments in the  show itself, mostly involving nakedness.  And of course, there’s that same old argument about, “If you don’t like what’s on tv then don’t let your kids watch it, why are you letting your tv raise your kids, etc etc.”  You’ve heard it all before, I don’t need to repeat myself.

And as far as the whole objectification of women goes, yeah, it’s probably sexist, but so is every other rap song in exsistence.  According to rap industry, women are tits and ass on a stick.  (Like a corn dog, but squishy.)  Seems to me a man in a creepy plastic king mask talking about women’s square bums is the least of our worries.  Besides, the asses on those women were square.  As in they can’t possibly exist.  It’s not like little girls are going to grow up hating themselves because their ass doesn’t make a 90 degree angle.  To be offended by the sexism of this commercial is to not give enough credit to girls or women.

No, my issue with this commercial is that it’s just damn creepy.  That king!  He’s the stuff that nightmares are made of.  Kids of my generation were scared of clowns; I’m pretty sure the kids of today are afraid of that fucking king.  And that aweful brown shorts/tube socks/black shoes combination the women were wearing?  Now that, I find offensive.

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Oh, and before I forget…

Drive-Through Liquor Store

That’s right.  A drive-fucking-through-liquor store.  Shining in the morning sun.

Enjoy.

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