I Swear I Don't Look for the Crazy. IT FINDS ME. Or: how the informal nature of social media has killed one's sense of propriety.

Wowza. Someone turned the dial all the way up to crazy last night. So... this story has hella long backstory, but it's worth it.

Anyway. I'm on the Twitter. I also like to eat lunch. So if you use key words in your Tweets (boobs wang penisy), people can find you and follow you. So there's a certain restaurant that started following me. It sounded good, so I went to get food from there. I had a little trouble finding the place, had to pass by a homeless dude masturbating TWICE to get there, but fuck it all, I was determined.

I got there, the guy behind the counter gave me a free cookie and a wink. My, how flattering!

Got back to the office, tweeted the Homeless Diddler story and Thanks for the Cookie to said restaurant.

Suddenly, I had a new follower! It's the cashier. Hey, no problem. Seemed nice. Seems nice in DM's (that's Direct Messages, for the Twitter uninitiated). We flirt via DM for a day or two over the weekend, because that's what the kids do nowadays.

Last night, the Twitter is all up in arms about how hot it is. Said restaurant is very excited about the heat. I am not, and decide to tell them so, which starts the DM frenzy with cashier guy again. The following is cut and pasted from my DM feed. Names and avatars have been deleted using my mad photo editing skillz to protect the pervy.

***BIRV YOGA BREAK***

Tick Tick

Tick tick tick

Tick Tick Tick Tick

BOOM

So. YEAH. I have a kitty in my pants and baby talk and free food is all it takes to get to see it. Meow.

I recognize that I could have ended the conversation sooner, and that this is what some may view as an utterly misguided attempt at flirtation (REALLY, though??). Here's the thing. You've probably read some of my previous posts, and most likely, you know me personally. I'm a robustly foul-mouthed girl, and I have ZERO problem with dirty talk, texts, photos multimedia, smoke signals blahhhhh potato. However, I usually like that sort of messaging to happen some time after the "So, do you like dogs?" level of conversation.  Or when our actual real life interaction is something more than me giving you my lunch order. 

Questions, yeah sure. I'll answer questions. I wear panties. I've had sex before. However, I can't remember what your face looks like. Let's not start dog-earing pages of the Kama Sutra just yet. 

PS, when you intimate that you're predicating our dating success on the answer I give to how many times I'll fuck you during a week, I lose faith in men as a species and crawl into bed and imagine that Neil Patrick Harris is straight and wouldn't ask me how wet my pussy gets before asking my last name.

Awesomely, as I've been cobbling this post together, "My Heart Will Go On" has been playing on the radio. Sheer fucking poetry, I tell you.

Burger King: Mecca of Tasteful Innuendo

Frankly, I'm surprised that the word "blow" wasn't in a different color, or in bigger font size than the rest of the tagline and mayonnaise wasn't dripping from the poor girl's mouth.

I have to say... I am on the verge of saying kudos to Burger King for just saying "screw you" to everyone that is on a health kick. Or a woman. In the past few years, Burger King has done the opposite of every other fast food chain and strived to make their food as unhealthy as possible. With the Super Seven Incher, BK may as well have flipped the bird at the Surgeon General and thrown lard in his face: "Healthy lifestyle? Fuck that noise!!"

Now if you'll excuse me, I have an overwhelming urge for sausage. No idea why.

Thou Rump-Fed Ronyon!

A joyous Talk Like Shakespeare Day to thee, thou paunchy, onion-eyed maggot-pies!

Methinks the fairest part of Shakespearean speak art the insults. Beg assistance in creating thine own here... and here!

Proposal FAIL

I am all about the videos this week!! Ah well. Sometimes your brain needs to take a little vacation.

On to the video from NBC New York... this dude prepared a romantic proposal for his girlfriend on the Brooklyn Bridge, with all of their family present for the moment... AND DROPPED THE RING INTO TRAFFIC. She cries. I'm heartless apparently; I'd be the family member laughing at Butterfingers and recording him jump into oncoming traffic to get it.

Trials and Tribulations of Being a Woman.

For all the men that want to know why women go to the bathroom in pairs: please review the above flowchart. One needs a wingman in there- talking to someone in line, holding the door closed, getting toilet paper... holding the purse.

Winter in Chicago: a poem.

My stupid goddamn piece of shit car wouldn't goddamn fucking move from it's goddamn fucking parking spot this morning... fucking goddamn piece of fucking crap. I hate cars, I hate winter, I hate Chicago, I hate snow, I hate how goddamn fucking cold it was when I had to take the goddamn fucking El... I hate that the goddamn stupid pieces of dook at the CTA FORCE you to pay goddamn cash for a fucking CTA card, but have no goddamn ATM's at any locations, so you have to trek to the fucking WALGREENS to get some goddamn money out of the fucking machine so that you can get a goddamn fucking CTA card so you can freeze your fucking tits off while waiting TWENTY MINUTES for a fucking bastard train to arrive. I hate walking along the windy-ass fucking HIGHWAY to get to my job an hour fucking late because I couldn't move my fucking piece of crap car out of it's space, and I hate that I am covered in salt and snow because I tried to push my goddamn fucking piece of crap car out of it's spot, and it wouldn't budge because even though I am a fucking goddamn whale apparently all of my heft isn't enough to fucking move a goddamn fucking car two inches. I hate that my fucking back hurts from trying and I hate that my foot and hands hurt from when I then started beating up my goddamn fucking piece of shit car that won't move out of its spot. I especially LOATHE the stupid asshat motherfucker driving by that laughed at me while I was trying to move my stupid piece of shit car out of it's spot. MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, buttcheese! I hope you get a pox on your ballsack for the holidays, you un-chivalrous piece of moldy smegma! I brandish my fist at you!!

Winter Parking Olympics Photo courtesy of Big Brother, the best photojournalism correspondent a blogging girl could ever have.