Pimps up, hos down.

Thanks to everyone who answered my survey. The answers were both entertaining and informative. And, to the two pervs who said I need to up the sexual content of my diary… well, this is not a sex diary, and, I can’t write in filthy detail about what I am not getting (at least not from myself).

If someone would just come over here and fix the problem, I might be able to dirty this page up.

But it's not.

Dammit.

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Hey, guess who my favorite person is!

Give up?

It’s NoGoodDaddy.

No, really. It is.

You know why? The fucker sent me porn, that’s why.

I opened my mailbox today, and saw an envelope addressed to “Andria H.” I can only guess the H stands for ‘hoar’, since my last name starts with an L. In which case, why didn’t you just write hoar, you ass monkey?

He also sent some of this (except his was mint flavored):

As if I even need any assistance with that.

Riiiiiight.

Though, at the risk of being a tacky re-gifter, I may give it to one of my Mormon cousins for Christmas.

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HOLY FUCKING SHIT FUCKING HELL FUCK ME THE SKY IS FALLING.

We JUST had an earthquake.

Ok, I have to take a break to have a panic attack.

Oy. I don’t handle these situations well. Not at all.

Since I was a little girl, my Mom and Dad tried to calm me down after earthquakes, telling me that they were normal, and that little sporadic ones were good, because it was relieving the pressure built up in the fault lines.

Fuck that.

There is nothing normal about the ground moving beneath me. Sorry. I am not buying it.

What’s worse, is this is the third earthquake in the last week, and the news was even talking for a moment of a threat of a tsunami in northern California (though I think that was pre-mature, and just more of the networks trying to panic the shit out of viewers – WHICH WORKED ON THIS ONE).

I hate hate hate earthquakes. Not that the disasters that occur elsewhere (tornadoes, hurricanes, etc.) are any more tolerable, because they’re not.

Ok. Time to write about something else and forget this shit.

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Tonight, I went out to dinner with Jason and his *gag* girlfriend. I keep telling him that if he’s going to force me to hang out with the two of them, I should get some sort of reward that involves him naked in my bed. But unless she is there, too (and don’t think he hasn’t asked), that doesn’t seem to be happening.

Asshole.

The restaurant we went to is on a pier, with a bunch of other restaurants, shops, etc. One of the other businesses is a club. A club for fat/curvy/voluptuous/thick/whatthefuckever chicks, and the men who love them. There are actually quite a few of these clubs around here. And, no – I don’t go to them. I hate regular clubs. Because they’re a meat market, and I don’t look like the halter-top-low-rise jeans kinda gal that goes to them.

But a club for big girls is different, right?

No. It’s worse, in my opinion. Because you’re there specifically because of the way you look. A meat market. And the fat clubs are always more women than men, and those chicks are like barracudas chasing those men around. My friend Jeff has told me enough stories to keep me out.

Besides, why would I go to a club to meet men when I have the internet to find quality men?

Duh.

Anyway, there is a point to this story.

This club is patronized by a lot of black guys. And, I am not bragging, but the black men love some Andria. Which is ok – I have gone out with a couple of black guys before (incidentally, I went out with a guy who was half black, half Japanese – guess which part of him was Japanese?). But usually, instead of looking like Taye Diggs or Djimon Honsou (oh, how I want him), most of the ones that hit on me look like this:

I just don’t think that’s my type.

So, a guy in a suit not entirely unlike that one in the picture walks up, and Jason starts laughing, because he a) knows what’s coming, and b) knows how incredibly uncomfortable I am in this situation.

Again. Asshole.

Ok, so the guy comes up to me, and tells me, “Mmmm, girl! You got it going on! Let me look at you.” Then he stares at me like he’s going to start eating me at any moment.

“Um… I think we’re going to go. Bye.”
“You don’t want to come in the club and get crunk with me?”

Crunk? Who do I look like? Missy Elliott? In my head I kept hearing Dave Chappelle dressed as Lil Jon saying “Yeeeaahh!” and “Whhhhattt?”

“Uh, no thanks.”
“Why not, baby?”

GROSS. I hate when guys do that.

“I don’t get crunk. Sorry. See ya later.”
”Wait, baby, let me get your number.”
”I don’t have a number.”
“You don’t have a phone?”
“No. It got turned off ‘because one of my baby daddys didn’t pay the bill.”
“Uh…”

Then we left. Jason laughed hysterically, as that’s not the first time he saw it happen.

We were in the porn shop once, and this guy came up and told me that he was much bigger than the dildo in my hand, and gave me his number so I could find out for myself.

It’s ok to be jealous, ladies. I get ALL the hot guys.

Not.

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Ok. So it seems that my diary has become some sort of anti-Tom Cruise site.

Why would today be any different, then?

On my new Entertainment Weekly, is a quote from Tom saying, “Some people just don’t like to see other people happy. @#*!! Them.”

Huh.

So, it’s ok for Tom to tell people who don’t like his creepy relationship *coughpublicitystuntcough* to fuck off, but he thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to publicly ridicule Brooke Shields’ abilities as a person AND as a mother because she went on television and talked about her post-partum depression and Paxil? Or to criticize people who seek psychiatric help?

What a MASSIVE FUCKING TOOL.