NO! YOU read MY blog dammit!

blogger sucks ass

2007-03-24T21:10:00.000-05:00

Blogger sucks ass so bad i' moved my blog to wordpress.

here is the new link: http://rosemarystevens.wordpress.com/

love you bitches
-Rosie

Desperate-Attempt-To-Make-Him–Love-Me… and some beef.

2007-03-14T23:09:00.000-05:00

Today, March 14th, witless men across America challenge women to the onset of a new novelty holiday. They call this Steak and Blow Job Day. As of 2002 the holiday creator Tom Birdsey and his supporters have proposed that women use this one day of the year to make their men a steak… and then blow them.

According to the online proposal SBJ Day is offered in response to Valentine’s Day. These men are looking for the “male equivalent” of a holiday to garner praise from the opposite sex. So the why the fuck are they using Valentines Day as their blue print?

You know Valentines Day?—
That most joyful holiday, invented for women by women who are desperate to elicit romance from the men in their lives? Valentines Day is the ONE blessed day of the year where men expel every last dime from their bank accounts into Kay Jewelers credit. They ravage Duane Reades for that perfect card and maybe a plush duck that carries a heart reading “I’m Quacker’s about you!” After an expensive meal that satiates our oral fixations, we women are swept off our bunions to some magical sex cloud made of cotton candy, scented of orgasmic joy… and they lay us down and pound us till we’re cross eyed. You know-- the yearly celebration that every woman in America dreams about, next to her once in a lifetime and totally perfect wedding day...

[rolls eyes and mumbles] motherfucker, I will fucking cut you I swear to sweet Jesus....

But back in reality dear boys, most women in this country, including myself, equate Valentines to any other tedious anniversary, like making a GYN appointment for an annual pap-smear. If men feel that Valentines Day is nothing to celebrate- then guess what fuckers? The feeling is mutual. Moreover, the feeling is sometimes numb, lifeless redundant and in this bitch’s personal experience… cah- rreeepy!

Valentines Day is simply a commercial holiday that allows men the opportunity to ram cheap chocolate down the throats of their never-get-any woeful girlfriends and wives long enough for them to shut the fuck up. The men who go out of their way to please us on this holiday are more often met with some sort of sexual gratification, because quite frankly- they’ve manipulated us into feeling guilty. “Oh you spent $5.50 on a card with a picture of guy you think is hotter than you!?… oh ha ha! No!... Oh! And the inside reads ‘I’ll work on it!’… Love… you!... ‘My. Cuddle. Bear! Oh sweetie!” [thought bubble] When did I ever call him Cuddle bear? That’s a gayest fuckin’ nickname… [/thought bubble] “Oh No!... You’re the handsomest!”

Let’s all be perfectly clear about something. I’m a woman- and it’s not like I ever insisted on having to jump through the motherfuckin’ V-Day hoop every year, either. So please don’t blame this sort of bullshit on women you mentally challenged mongoloids. This "it belongs to a demographic" logic is why Eve Ensler and legions of misinformed wannabe Feminists (aka insecure college girls) decided to equate V-Day with National Let’s-Yell- CUNT- So-Loud-Our-Ex-Boyfriends- Hear-It! Menstrual Theater Day. Yeah, that’s right you SBJ fuckers- the Vagina Monologues are YOUR FAULT!!!!!

Not to mention the years where Valentines Day roles around and I’m not attached to a dude… these are the fucking worst. Not because I’m lonely or an antagonist member of the SAD crew. Being single on Valentines Day somehow opens a gateway for every goblinesque sociopath with a penis I’ve ever encountered to flood back into my life over the duration of the insipid week which surrounds it. Thank you St. Valentine! You were persecuted for your faith and executed by Claudius II for secretly marrying Roman soldiers who denied the terms of their military contracts. And today, men thinks its okay to send notes of “secret admiration” to me, their unrequited love, in the wake of the scariest age of tele-communication and big-brother-is-watching paranoia. Because nothing says “I love you” like cryptic notes on the internet.

Fuck. You.

More specifically, to the propenants of Steak and Blow Job Day I give you this...

Though I love most guys, and wouldn't dare trip the life feminazi and shit pussy blood all over this glorious invented holiday- I want fuckin’ reparations.

From one of the poorly constructed Steak and Blow Job Day websites:

"(1)Every Valentines day you rack your brains for that one special, unique gift that will show your wife or girlfriend that you really do care for them more than any other. (2) Now ladies, I'll let you in on a little secret; guys really don't enjoy this that much. (3)Sure seeing that smile on your face when we get it right is priceless, but that smile is the result of weeks of blood, sweat and consideration. (4) Another secret; guys feel left out. That's right, there's no special holiday for the ladies to show their appreciation for the men in their life. (5) Men as a whole are either too proud or too embarrassed to admit it. "

Crockity crock fat fucker crock.

(1) You know what I got for Valentines Day? Weird messages from estranged ex boyfriends touring Australia, a PBR buy-back, and one bald crazy who humped my leg in front of a mindlessly deranged she-wench bartender. I'm so glad that men, as a collective force in nature of my womanhood- made this effort to deliver this day to me. Seriously

(2) You men don't enjoy fake holidays? Well hey fella... c'mere... back behind this magical curtain of Lady Oz... shhh... closer- it's a secret... NEITHER DO WE YOU FUCKING JAGWEEDS!

(3) That smile on our faces are of utter pity because we know how expensive greeting cards and Russel Stovers candies are now-a-days, and most of us are left to date the incompetent, insane and broke who can barely afford such novelty expressions of love and respect. And don't ever mention the phrase "weeks of blood" in your argument benefiting the privileges of women over men. When you piss blood, then you can cry.

(4) If you feel so left out... why don’t' you join a club or organization where you can brouhaha with the rest of the boys- like the Army? or US. Navy? They have a holiday called "Fleet Week" and I, a motherfuckin' lady, help them celebrate it every year down at South Street. Risk your ass for this country and I'll appreciate you. Bitch and moan about lazy hummers- and I cock punch you. capiche?

(5) Drunken limp dick? So you admit this is all your fault then?

And in summation, I have one final question for the men who wish for women like myself to acknowledge this day....

Where's MY motherfuckin' steak?

2007-03-12T18:27:00.000-05:00

Fuckin' Dog.

So this is what a pure-bred Yorkshire Terrier looks like when he's wet.

He looks like a little Gremlin birthed from the love canal of Satan himself.

Does it make him any less adorable? Oh fuck no...

Once again, you can see what this little fucker has done to me- it's worse what's happened to Erica. We are two fairly competent, grown women who now resort to the ass-puckering babble of Special Education instructors.

I did promise myself I wouldn't post about pupster again.

But I told myself to 'suck it' when I saw this pic.

I'm hopeless.

2007-03-07T21:50:00.000-05:00

Pupster-Mania...

Obviously, I've become a little obsessed with this motherfucker. I've been in and out of the city, staying at Erica's trying to help out with the development of this tiny child she's adopted.

So far Bundar seems to be progressing as well as any puppy would. He's starting to show signs of his personality and if he's cops an attitude it's certainly borrowed from his Mum or myself. In other words, Bundar has the budding disposition of a snarky fuckin' theater hag.

Any creature who was left in the care of we bitches would surely mutate into some state of abnormality. Imagine being raised amongst a clan of eccentric lady homo-philes. Now I understand how Wilhem DeKooning turned out as he did.

Is this cruel?

Honestly, I don't fuckin' care.

Furthermore, I'll argue that the little fucker likes it. I think he enjoys dressing up in doggy dolly clothes. He's such a little ponce. When relinquinshed from his pen, he struts around like goddamed 'Juno and the Paycock'. When in drag, he'd trade in his looks for treats, quicker than a SAG extra hands in a time card. He works for his food... and I mean he motherufckin' works it!

And let me not forget to mention Bundar's amazing sense of humor.

Goddamned slapstick afficianado.

As part of his housebreaking, everytime Bundar lays one out on a 'wee pad' (which we bitches affectionately refer to as 'Granny Panties') we all have to applaud and praise him for getting his shit on the fold out diaper. We're fucking grown women and we practically lay roses at his feet everytime this hairy little mongrel takes a dump. (I feel this method of training is similar to the working relationship between Martin Scorcese and Leonardo DiCaprio- but that's neither here nor there.)

Anyway, on one occassion, Kavi and I were left to watch Bundar while he rummaged about. He made his way down the end of the hall in Erica's foyer to the wee pad and crapped a hefty one square in the center of the pad. Exhaultations abound, we clapped as though Pavarotti befell his final curtain call and galumped off with silent bravado. Bundar, trotted back down the hallway to receive the love from us he so well deserved. Before he reached us though, he turned halfway and ran back to the crap square.

Ah-Ha! It's a motherfuckin' encore! Terrif! I thought...

But lo and behold, Bundar returned to his own crap pile and began to sniff it. Then he gently tried to take it in his mouth. (*I hope people who blog search for gay porn end up here because of that last sentence*). Kavi and I immediately began to shreik in fear- a peircing chorus of reverberated "No's!" rung out like the mournful Halals of Afgahni women. Contrary to what most would assume, I don't think Bundar was trying to eat his own crap. He was very proud of this most magnanimous accomplishment, and I think he was actually trying to fetch his own shit and dump it on us. (Just like some of my favorite theater hags tend to do).

Bundar managed to take his crap in his mouth and with projectile forced Fah-LUNG that shit at Kavi. Kavi was actually the first to drop association to Bundar's name which means 'monkey' in hindi. How approproate that we bitches are collectively trying to help our friend raise a furry little shit slinger.

Given we're all sort of Jane Goodalls at heart I think he'll turn out okay.

Holy shit I love him.

2007-02-21T15:49:00.000-05:00

Here are some pics i did for this stupid thing.. i'll update this later...

2007-02-19T23:25:00.000-05:00

STORK'S LANDING, BITCHES!

GET THE FUCK UP OUT! THE! WAY!

Oh Man. It's officially happening. Everything I promised myself I wouldn't do I'm about to do... on... *gulp*... my blog.

I'm becoming everything I hate.

I'm becoming one "those" bloggers.

Oh Man.

In close to twelve hours, my friend is going to the airport with her Mom to pick up a newborn. He's only six inches long, four inches high and covered in motherfuckin' fur....

And I have a good idea who this baby's daddy Rrrrally is...

Chewbacca????

Oh, Damn straight...

Chewbacca's gone and had sex with a little cat.

Oh Chewie... How could you?!!!

Chewie, you have A FAMILY!

YOU HAVE A SON! wuh 'bout Lil' Lumpy?...

Why?

What?

You don't beleive me?

LOOK!!!

Look at this little fucker...

Look at how goddamned cute he is...

Look at those little eyes...

Look at that little mouth...

And lookie...

At his little...

Wookie....

Paws!!!

The legacy LIVES ON!

Holy Shit...

More to come.

2007-02-03T18:43:00.000-05:00

Drunken Alter Egos...

So last night I attended a very funny function- a Karoake party as hosted by my best friend in honor of her upcoming birthday. Needless to say, I used our friendship of over two decades as a lame excuse to make an unadulterated and complete fucking ass of myself.

I awoke with a sinking feeling today, and it wasn't just the yeast settling in my eroded stomach. I had to wake up early this morning in order to catch a train. I went to my cousin's bridal shower in Queens. Absolute fucking torture. Not that I mind seeing my family or going to these sort of events, it's just... I wish I wasn't still drunk when I arrived.

As I watched my cousin open one registered piece of kitchenware after another to the soothing sound of fifty something housewives cooing her on... the post mortem drunkards withdrawl kicked in and I suddenly got really depressed. I think I purged every ounce of confidence I had in my being into my "performance" at Erica's karaoke party. I left my dignity in the bottom of a beer pitcher I didn't even help pay for. And today I had nothing left- no spare change worth of self-esteem to compensate for flashbacks of all the stupid shit I had said and done in the duration of a melody shitstorm.

I try to justify that my behavior was based on all that I had to drink... about a fish tanks worth of beer swill, chased with a few whiskeys. I actually convinced myself that every single person at that party must have had at least one moment where they seriously thought to themselves "Hey... is that Rosie girl mildly retarded?.. Poor thing."

No, really. And I can back it up.

You see, I really beleive that in real life, my "sober life" I'm actually quite quiet and shy and sweet and altogether well mannered. And there's an obvious drink-for-courage factor that comes into play if I'm going to sing in front of strangers. So with that, my excessive drinking inevitably opens a channel for my alter ego to appear- heightened and repulsive. I call her "McCunty". (We'll revist her later).

Depression really set in when I started comparing my drunken alter ego to that of my friends- most notably, the people who were at Erica's party, they being my first point of reference.

First let's look at the Birthday girl. I love Erica's drunken alter ego. When Erica drinks she becomes like an adoarble daytime version of Liza Minelli. She's charming, witty, really just the the life of the party as the following video depicts.

Towards the end of the evening, Erica sort of devolves into a rampant little monster. Compare the following videos and see if can figure out which one is Erica. Even after twenty some odd years of friendship its hard for me to tell the difference.

Then there's Bobster (Erica's main man). Bobster usually gets old with his drink. His drunken alter ego is comparable to the great Peter O'Toole; saucey articulation, just as charming, ever the gentleman, and of course very very British. For the sake of this blog though, and in my poor attempt at illuminating details of last nights karaoke party... I'm going to nominate Bobster's character as a sort of Dean Martin during his Rat Pack years. When in the company of good friends he can be especially suave and quite the funny man. Enjoy.

It's occured to me it'd take me too long to examine/compare every person at the party and I certainly don't want to leave people out. Most everyone else was really in top form performance-wise and behaved with decent manners. I however, was a total fucking choad. If you'd like to see my pictures of these characters from last night you can view them on my Facebook page. (I have this album set as private, so you'll need to register as my friend- but its well worth it).

Finally we've come back to this evil McCunty character I've mentioned. When I drink as much as I did last night (especially when karaoke's involved) I become this weird, crazy sort of domineering shrew. It's beyond embarassing when I realize she's showed up. My drunken slur sometimes takes on an accent or 'brogue' I don't normally have. People like to assume I'm Irish, maybe Canadian and sometimes I'll even hail from the Bronx. But regarding last night I'm going to pretend that I was as Italian as Maya Rudolph's Donatella Versace. Here's a quick snid-bit which shows how much fun it is to party with Miss McCunty.

At the very very trail of the evening Erica and I seem to transcend each other. Liza! and McCunty trade places and Hell no doubt breaks loose. Erica is far less intimidating than I am, so when she takes over it's usually laughable. In the following video, you can imagine what Erica sees as she prepares to fall into the arms of Morpheous or rather, lies down on the bathroom floor. (Bobster, myself or any other innocent by stander in her company would be played by one of the cats).

We're I not to wrap this post up by mentioning how insanely fucking fun this party was would be extremely inconsiderate. Despite the matter of offending or just annoying some people (which I may or may not have done- I haven't pieced it all together yet) I think it was one of the best nights out I've had in a long time. The only record I have of Erica's party is a few snapshots and some distorted footage from my digital camera. Although, nothing will ever make me forget when Erica took down the house during our duet over "Cabaret!". She was a real show stopper. Liza indeed!

I'll offer readers one last comparison to summarize it all. Here I take what positive memories I have of last night and pit them against reality. Even with this video evidence I still can't completely gage the truth.

I prefer to think it's just a matter of time after all...

Happy Birthday Erica. I love you. You are the fucking best.

2007-01-30T23:10:00.000-05:00

Eve of Destruction...

So I've obviously figured out how to upload movies to YouTube and God forbid anyone actually watches the shit I post. I should say I normally reserve this blog for friends only given I don't do the best job of advertising myself, and my efforts are usually...well...lame.

However, this post imparticular is a short film I made by accident. I was playing with a photo shop program and discovered the Movie-maker feature. You can upload photos, film and music to this cheesy 'technically-inept-house-wife' program and it creates/edits the film for you. So the final product is a retarded SURPRISE!

I uploaded a song off the first CD I found near my desk [Rebel Sounds of the Sixties ] and created a montage from pics/footage of my Aunt. My Uncle shot these pics when he first bought the camera in 2005 and they were dormant on the memory card- until I brought them to life! HUZZAH!

I HIGHLY SUGGEST you smoke something medical and watch the following in its entirety. It is delightfully redundant and I feel, self-indulgent cinematic art at its finest.

Exquisite!

(My Aunt is crazy as all get out...and the fucking raddest. Seriously.)

2007-01-30T22:40:00.000-05:00

POOPIES!...

This is a quick video I shot of my adorable baby cousin on Christmas. My "adult" cousin got her a ghetto Barbie with a pet dog and pooper scooper. This is the most adorable shit ever. Pun totally intended.

Did you catch the "aww... why you so sad?" part? So goddam cute.

2007-01-23T23:38:00.000-05:00

Oh Boy! Oh Boy! Oh Boy!

My online lover tagged me! First he tagged me, then he rescinded his offer after I made fun of him...and then he tagged me again! Oh LOVE!

I'm all juicy over the opportunity to disclose five "intimate details" (things no one knows about myself) to the two terrific people that read this blog! Okay kids! Here goes!

I was a Cheerleader Captain... but a really, really bad one.

I tried out for the Cheerleading Squad in the 6th grade because because my best friend Erica wanted me to do Squad with her. The first two years I was on Pep Squad and fucking hated it. By the time we were in 8th Grade, it was understood that Erica, Christine Szymcheck, Maria Martinez, Jill Seifert and myself would automatically get to be captains. We were a fugly pack of lazy bitches and our Coach was a 60 year old retired Rockette named Ms. Davis.

After the first try-outs of the season I was dorkin' out in the locker room and found an ancient can of Feminine deodorant spray. Without thinking, and just to get a giggle out of the girls, I sprayed "Ms. Davis Must Die" on some lockers with the foam from the FDS spray. It created county wide Pre-Columbine-Massacre styled hysteria the cops came to school the following Monday to hold a conference. I meant absolutely no harm and would've totally gotten away with it had it not been for Mena DiNuzzo. Mena was the village idiot, a Mob-boss's daughter and self-proclaimed bad-ass who thought authorities would assume it was her doing cause she had some sort of invented reputation. Everyone knew I was the really hardcore bad ass in town!

I had to fess up and did the best fake crying act of my life. That year I won the respect of my classmates, the attention of cute rebel boys and the Teacher's Torment Award in 1993's Deerfield Indian' yearbook. [I understand I hold the record for the most office detentions short of expulsion of any female student in that school's history].

I didn't know my real name until I was 13 years old.

My real name 'Rosemary', was not a big secret or anything- it was just that no one bothered to tell me. My family knows me as 'Rory'- a cutesy boys nickname my mom gave me. It got me into all kinds of trouble with teachers who thought I was lying to them during attendence.

Teacher: "No. You're name is Laurie."
Me: "No. It's Rory... It's an Irish name."
Teacher: "Rory is a boy's name."
Me: "I know."
Teacher: "Go to the office."

If you don't know the full story, then you probably don't know me and my family's obsession with the NY Giants. Ask me about it sometime over a pint if you're really curious. *

Religion scares the shit out of me

I went to an all girls catholic high school located on a hill, off a highway, across from a Sears Roebuck Auto Center. I was constantly freaked out by the eyes of all the religious statues on campus. I used to high five one Jesus statue all the time on the way to French class, until I accidentally broke its arm. After a bad acid trip in Chapel one day, I was convinced a statue of the Virgin Mary was possesed so I taped over her eyes whenever I could. Growing up in New Jersey near a reservation inhabited by Satanists, I have always been secretly afraid of the Devil and anything related to Satanism. I have never seen the film Rosemary's Baby and I will NEVER watch the Excorcist in it's entirety.

I beleive I accidentally killed a man when I was five years old.

My Dad was a trucker and beer lover- in that order. When I was a little girl, it was not uncommon that I accompany him to local pubs where he would look for work. During the recession of the early 80's, truckers bars in NJ sometimes doubled as unemployment offices and daycare centers. Shipping yards were usually my personal playground and I used to imagine the cargo beds were gigantic leggo blocks- I had a strangely over active imagination. Back then, my Dad drove a bright blue 72 Sierra Grande pick-up truck, when he wasn't hauling loads to Cinncinati in his Rig.

There's a bar/liquor store on Rte 22 in New Jersey called Chrones Tavern that only trucker's frequented and we popped by there one afternoon after shopping for a Christmas tree. My Dad picked up a six pack of Budweiser and headed into the back, to the bar area, to find the owner and pay up. It was dark inside, but about 3 or 4 in the afternoon so the sun was comin in through two basement level windows next to the rear exit. I saw a dart board and asked my Dad to teach me how to play. I threw the dart and hit some fat guy named "George" (the bartender called him that) square in the back of the head.

I don't know if it was my dart or his drunkeness, but 'George' toppled over onto the floor and before the bartender noticed what happened- my Dad was in the parking lot, beer under his arm, exit door fully ajar. He left me in the bar and I ran out into the sun, really confused. He yelled out to me, "Get in the truck princess. C'mon! Get in the FUCKING TRUCK PRINCESS!" We sped off with that year's Christmas tree and what I now believe was a stolen six pack of beer- all the while my father was laughing like a madman. From that day forward I was convinced I was a criminal, a bad seed, and somehow had made my father very very proud.

I have never paid for an improv/ comedy class.

My friends and some random loveable drunks in an East Village bar pooled together $300 for my 23rd birthday so I could take an improv class at the UCB. I ended up taking my first class with Armando Diaz and have interned/ worked for my comedy training ever since. I have unfortunately never taken a class at UCB - I could never afford it. To this day people ask me if I'm going to audition for Harold teams and I have explainto them that I'm not elligible.

Comedy, oddly enough, is kind of a personal pursuit. I use it to promote the legacy of my late brother Sean Stevens- my mentor, hero and the funniest human being I've ever known. Not too many people know about Sean and I think it's a real shame- he's obviously a very powerful influence over my life. He was an aspiring comedian and I know he would have rocked the comedy world to its core.

I'd like to tag some of my favorite present day writer/comediens who inspire me just the same...

Becky Yammamoto, Rachael Mason and Louie Pearlman

I think I'm supposed to tag five people, so as a weird sub-level addendum to this blogging experiment I'm gonna hit two funy guys with one tag. I nominate the Gethard Brothers as my combined fourth and fifth tags. I don't know either of them that well personally, but I know their mother is super punk rock and they understand the trials and tribulations of industrial New Jersey.

2007-01-18T00:51:00.000-05:00

"ONLINE ROMANCE: Did Rosie and Purns style"

rosiefinance (8:58:17 PM): wait- you just poste the embed code to the html field?

purns (8:58:21 PM): yuh

rosiefinance (8:58:25 PM): or the the url

purns (8:58:32 PM): embed

purns went idle at 9:42:05 PM.
purns went away at 10:02:04 PM.

purns (12:39:25 AM): so you want in on my top 24 just like that

rosiefinance (12:39:50 AM): ?

purns (12:39:55 AM): your myspace comment

purns (12:39:57 AM): (s)

rosiefinance (12:40:00 AM): how are you here aren't you doign a show now?

purns (12:40:08 AM): it's 12:39, it's over

rosiefinance (12:41:05 AM): motherfucker!

rosiefinance (12:41:24 AM): you cna delte one if you want

purns (12:41:26 AM): i did

purns (12:41:34 AM): anyway

purns (12:41:46 AM): where am i in your top 24

rosiefinance (12:42:05 AM): i will trade you for my friend frank

rosiefinance (12:42:13 AM): he is my "other black friend"

purns (12:42:16 AM): and what have you ever done to express anything but superficial contempt for me

rosiefinance (12:42:40 AM): i..

rosiefinance (12:42:51 AM): i don't understand human love...

rosiefinance (12:42:55 AM): you fucking retard

rosiefinance (12:43:03 AM): that's why i go to places like chuckee cheese

purns (12:43:17 AM): whatever rosie

purns (12:43:37 AM): i've always been cool about it.

purns (12:43:43 AM): always will be

purns (12:43:47 AM): whatever

rosiefinance (12:43:57 AM): what do you want ?

rosiefinance (12:44:01 AM): a hand job?

purns (12:46:41 AM): i can do that better than you...i don't want anything

rosiefinance (12:47:57 AM): it took you exactly 2 minutes and 40 secs to come up with a comebakc

purns (12:48:06 AM): no, i was typing out an email

purns (12:48:39 AM): oh rosie

purns (12:49:44 AM): how's that response coming

rosiefinance (12:50:07 AM): oh i'm sorry i was updating my super cool blog

purns (12:50:19 AM): oh yeah

sweetdaddypurns (12:50:36 AM): with that youtube thing i told you about earlier tonight

rosiefinance (12:50:50 AM): yeah uh

rosiefinance (12:50:55 AM): and someother fun stuff

purns (12:50:57 AM): oh yeah

purns (12:55:24 AM): ooooooooh

purns (12:55:34 AM): (how long did that take)

rosiefinance (12:55:50 AM): this is so meta

purns (12:55:56 AM): no it's not

purns (12:56:19 AM): are you posting this to your blog? I'm not sure it's that interesting

rosiefinance (12:56:37 AM): is anything on a blog really interesting

purns (12:56:45 AM): nope, not really

2007-01-17T23:27:00.000-05:00

So I'm really trying my damnedest to not post as much on the IRC...

Occasionally I get swept up in a converstion with someone on that mesageboard and its like I end up queefing retarded babies into a pit of... retarded....babies? (Yeah that's not a gem line but whatever).

Some freak posted spam on there tonight and I digressed by exhaulting my love for it.

Just wanted to share before the "Pamela-Anderson-nude-Tommycoming-sex-giver" thread gets (hopefully) deleted. Here's a little mind flatulence I hope some goof on line can appreciate:

Sometimes I don't delete the spam in my gmail for weeks because I like to collect gems like these and pretend they're being read by wordy Professor Stanley Unwin** beloved narrator of Ogden's Nut Gone Flake:

The reader uphold large curve will remember that horn at five minutes pastpicture A few moments flight after, thing church the funnel of the `Henrietta'existence picture thoughtfully kettle `On foot?' asked Mr Fogg.crooked move `Do not curly let the fires go down,' heart replied Mr Fogg. ` peace sown puncture heard `No; for a voyage.'`To Chicago?' `No.' `A voyage?' "town Passepartout went soak on collar his mute errand enchanted. He soonshaggy long beset Towards pay noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained thei`No; on song a arch sledge,' charming replied Fix. humor `On a sledge withIn concerned a card few moments, with cries and rhythm oaths, awkwardly a bomb app `Yes; will please iron present you agree to bucket take me to Yokohama?' `To Omaha?' `What difficult food difference is bovine it reaction to you? Do you know Plum Cr The sailor leaned on shade the humor song railing, orange opened his eyessuppose `Where off are we?' grubby damage he repeated, with purple face. `Se "

** For your reference:

Fuckin' loves it. Nice on me eyeblodes.

2007-01-17T20:27:00.000-05:00

Where does this happen? Does this sort of pop rockosity ever happen anymore?

Is there some magical rock studio... somewhere fantastic like... filled with leather and lame and long hair? Can I go there? Can I dance irrythmically in the background, off a side-stage while a band of this caliber plays?

I love the Sweet. Probably my favorite band of all time. Most definately the inspiration for Spinal Tap. No, no that's not Nigel Tuffnel, that's Andy Scott... Amazing isn't it?

When I read about my friends in Dublin (dig the link to Love Action), I imagine that they are happily living this dream of mine. I've met a handful of their rocker friends and have seen some of their gigs when they've played in New York. The Dudes, regardless of what genre of rock they play, all mildly resemble these heros of mine. And Suzie and Jess and Lauren are better than all of them combined because they have vaginas.

Please examine the photo to the right. This "portrait of rockliness" if you will, encompasses all of what Dublin Ireland means to moi. If you can understand what is happening in this photo (because I know Suzie and Jess sure as fuck don't) than you can understand why I so desperately need to get the fuck of Long Island, and back on to the real Strong Island.

I miss Dublin so fucking much. If there was a magical studio filled with long haired re-re's, I'm sure its there in lovely ole' Baile Atha Cliath.

sigh...

2007-01-17T18:14:00.000-05:00

I smoke way too much.

Since taking up residency in the fairer part of New York, which I now affectionately refer to as 'Strong Island', I've been smoking something more than a pack a day. It's fucking awful. Everyone in my family smokes and they feel it's almost a sin not to when cartons can be purchased for such a low price at the local Hess station.

Help me.

When I was in the hospital, my good friend Corrine came to visit me. She's incredibly proactive about "air rights" and hates cigarette smoke. She's been using her passive- aggressive jedi mind trick powers to try and get me to quit for years. I remember waking up, three days into my stay at St. Vincents and Corrine and my Aunt and Uncle were there. The conversation volleyed between general "How ya' feelin?" and "when do you get out of here?"

Suddenly it dawned on me. I was aware that thanks to being so heavily meidcated on morphine, and justifying such intense pain (as ya do when your appendix bursts) that I had gone three whole days without a cigarette. Meaning, that I didn't have to endure any of the nasty nicotine withdrawl symptoms that come from quitting smoking. Maybe there was a chance I could finally quit. Maybe, this was God's way of giving me an easy out, or direct path to finally relinquinshing myself of a God awful bad habit which has plagued me since I was fourteen.

I engaged Corrine with my eureka moment, like a young catholic girl exclaiming to her parishoner about visions of the Virgin Mary coming to her in a dream.

"That's kind of rad, huh Corrine? Maybe I can keep this up. I'm gonna be on drugs for a little while- maybe this is my way out?!"

My Uncle, a retired Fire Captain, quickly interjected and dispelled any myth that I had to use drugs to quit smoking.

"Oh don't worry about that! You'll be back to smoking in no time. Back in the '80's my ladder got called to that big fire under Grand Central. I was hospitalized for three days for smoke inhalation and I smoked in the hospital. [laughs] I mean, heh, yeah, I got yelled at by the nurse cause you're not supposed to do that. And back in those days, they had those big oxygen tanks in the room with you... it's not like today where the oxygen valves are lined safely from an outsource in the wall. I would sit in the bathroom with my Oxygen mask- those tubes they stick up your nose, attached to that big tank and smoke out the window... And I used to smoke unfiltered Lucky's back then... and then the nurse came in and yelled at me 'What are you doing! You're a firefighter! Dont' you know that tank could blow up the whole hospital!'... ha, heh, yeah you can smoke when you get out of the hospital."

Corrine sat quietly and pet the cover of a magazine, smiling coyly under the long hair that overed her face. If were anyone else other than my family, I know she would have talked back or started rambling off facts about the corrosive effects of tar or whatever...

Two days later on the drive to Long Island, my Uncle offered me a Marlboro in the car. I passed out almost immediately. I woke up the next day, with a crazy vicadin hangover, hunching as I creeped downstairs to the kitchen. My Aunt sat the kitchen table exhaling her second hand Tarreyton 100 and said:

"Hey ya Rory! How ya feel ta-day?... I got you a carton of Parliaments. You smoke Parliaments right?"

"Yeah..."

"Oh good. Cause I got ya a carton. Let me know if there's anything else we can do to make you feel better okay?"

"Okay. Thanks Aunt Suzie."

"Do you drink wine?"

"I can't drink on these anti-biotics."

"Do ya want some cawffee? Tawm'll make ya some cawffee."

I hadn't had a real cup of coffee, rather caffinated real brew coffee made outside a medical facility in well over a week.

"Yes please."

After my first sip, without even putting the mug down, I tore into the carton of Parliaments.

fuck it.

2007-01-17T01:28:00.000-05:00

2007-01-17T00:45:00.000-05:00

Jesus...

What a woman can do with a vicadin prescription, the internet and a little down time, eh?

Well "the fucker" better known as my appendix was removed on October 10th of last year. I was terribly happy to have a perforated bowl finally aborted from my body. Unfortuantely I'm still paying for it, rather I need to pay for it and my Medicaid still hasn't come through. Retarded, right? It's been four months since I was first in the hospital.

I hate this country's goddamed healthcare system.

Speaking of metaphorically unwanted children... what the shit is the deal with this blogger site? Do I have to download Mozilla Firefox to this hunk of shit computer to get typing? Apparently I spent a few nights imbibing 'round-the-house toxins and decided I needed to start a new blog to become an authentic writer. So now I have all these "bastard blogs" floating around the internet with passwords and usernames I can't remember and I'm far too lazy to correct/delete them.

So there you have it. If you're a creepy freak and want to play Harriet the Spy, go on ahead and you'll discover I was just as huge a loser two years ago when I worked some shitty temp job, somewhere, somehow, I did it my way... blah blah

BLARG!

2006-09-25T22:17:00.000-05:00

GET IT OUT!

You know what's ironic? I've spent the last seven years of my sexually active adult life caving into the advances of stupid men. I drop a few shots, giggle some and rescind all defensive cover with the ever desperate and lazy "go on! stick it in!"

Now... Now I am desperate for one man, and a small crew of underpaid, mildly competent medical professionals to fucking "TAKE IT OUT!" I want to get my goddamned appendix removed. According to a young "Dr. Arian" type surgical resident at St. Vincent's Medical Center, the fucker nearly killed me.

[I failed to finish this post... I suppose that's how much anguish I endured.]

2006-09-01T21:27:00.000-05:00

2006-09-01T14:56:00.000-05:00

Dawn...

So, before I even begin to beat dead horses and rage on about topics no one really cares about... I wanted any readers to know that I've never been a big fan of "the blogging". Rather, I beleive blogging yeilds a very specific purpose to the online community. The Internet serves us as a virtual wasteland, filled with sordid details only the desperately curious should seek out. Once the information highway full of seemingly practical resources, it's now overrun with ineffectual subject matter that corrodes our intelligence. Blogging offers an outlet for individuals, moreover encourages them, to become ranting, frothing at the mouth, idiots.

And I'm sorry good friend, but if you have a blog of your own, I probably won't read it on a regular basis. So please, for the love of all that's good in this world, don't send me links to your blog and say "Hey! Read my blog! I'm a blogger! I'm with it!" 'cause I won't care. If you're my friend of many years and you have some personal matter you want to discuss with someone who cares about you... CALL ME. Telecommunications have progressed beyond the means of audiotape filed answering machines and email. I'd be more than happy to arrange a time to meet with you and chat about current affairs- much like our ancestors once did.

It ails me when I run into someone I love on the street and I ask them how they're doing and they then reply "Oh my God Rosie! So much! So busy! Don' t have time- read my blog and you'll totally know why I'm so crazy these days!"

So I go home... I log on... I weed through contact information to get the link to their blog... then I'm forced peruse through volumes and volumes of commentary about their cat Nipsy and recipes for "THE BEST 'DEATH BY CHOCOLATE', like EVER!" It takes me hours to finally realize... this individual has nothing going on in their life. Why? It's so sad. It's as though they died. I become overwhelmed with moroseness and think to myself, "but, I just saw them the other day? How could this happen?" If I were offered funding to develop a PSA regarding the subject, by God I would.

So why start a blog Rosie? And what's with the stick up your ass?

Well friend, I was recently released form the hospital pending the rupture of my appendix and I'm now laid up in Long Island, recuperating and prepping for surgery. Please don't be bowled over by my fabulousness. Since I'm slowly and surely loosing my mind in the confines of suburbia…
I’ve decided to use the Internet as my outlet- as the last vast resource attainable to me to share about my life and stay in contact with friends. I plan to offer up details about my progress, regress, and the events that brought me to my current situation. Simply put friends, for the next two months I have NO LIFE. The time for “the blogging” is upon me.

Enjoy.