Thursday, November 18, 2010

Self Glorification

I have been hard at work trying to get my self description for my online dating antics in order. This is the result of my labor:



"I am an extremely passionate guy, hard-working, educated, and adventurous. Travel is the love of my life and I have an insatiable case of wanderlust. I have too many interests for my own good, but I think diversity is the spice of life. I am a college football fanatic, a travel junkie, and a big movie buff.

I drink inordinate amounts of Diet Coke. I laugh all the time and loudly, even at mediocre jokes.

My friends might say I'm compassionate, goofy, loud, and always hungry. My colleagues might say I'm focused, hard-working, and ambitious.

I have an extremely dirty sense of humor and have seriously over-used "that's what she said."

Off the top of my head: I like trying new things. I enjoy outdoor activities and sports. I love food. I like to cook. If you cook for me, I'll think it's romantic. I like bad horror films. I enjoy camping and road trips. I want a dog. I love making out. I'm actually a really nice guy. I have a huge insane family. I have an old soul. I like wine and jacuzzis. Even though I love LA, I'm a southern boy at heart. I believe in love, karma, and astrology. I'm a little competitive. Did I mention I love food? Hit me up."

Now you tell me, who wouldn't want to tap this?


xo

William

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Gays- A Party Divided

If you are a new reader then you may not know that I am on the same, never ending quest for a lover that everyone else is on. However, unlike most I am limited to the pool I can choose from to date in this city which is ironically coined as "the City of Angels". You see, I am limited, the gays are a picky race, and a much divided one at that. If you do not fit into the proper "clique" you could be passed over for being a potential mate. Before I tell you what I have decided to do, I feel it is important that you all understand what these sub-groups of homo-ism are, they are as follows:

"The Jocks"- These men tend to define themselves as "masculine" because they play sports, lift weights and wear jockstraps (even under formal clothing, it's disgusting we will talk about this later). They think that because they wear baseball caps and sports team shirts they fly under the radar and are seldom questioned about their sexuality, that is until they are caught ogling other people's goodies in the communal showers after practice. They tend to want to date only amongst themselves because they like men who act "super manly". I sometimes wish to be in this group, because like in high school, they are the most popular everyone likes looking at them and they do have great bods. However, sticking with the high school theme, they also tend to be mildly retarded. Whether this low mental capacity is brought on by overly abused steroid use, or too many hits to the head whilst playing manly rugby, the fact is, they just aren't that bright. I once dated a body builder who fits this type, we can discuss that later.


"The Twinks"
- The twinks are the skinny ones, the ones who look like they could be confused as someone who should still be in high school. The older gays who have father son fetishes usually go for them. They are generally slim, baby faced, no facial hair (or any body hair for that matter), blonde with horrid highlights, and apply way too much foundation and or bronzer. They tend to prance around sipping a Mochachochalatayaya from Starbucks and judge people who eat carbs. They think everyone should be equally as concerned with their gayness as they are; yet, no one takes them seriously because of their insatiable desire for gossip, drama, and random hookups. They die for Lady Gaga.

"The Bears" - Bear culture is scary quiet honestly. The big hairy boys. They are not all fat, some are just like jocks but with hair, LOTS of hair. Most of these men look like Al from "Home Improvement", except the lesbians stole all the flannel so they stick to wearing leather ass less chaps. If you are an older "bear" seeking a younger chubby boy, you call the boy you seek a "Cub". They are usually blue collar employees, having beards, are the only gays to drink not Lite beer and for some reason are associated with leather and cock rings. Nice people, the Bears.

"Mr. Popular's" - These men comprise the high and mighty "Gay List". They think that they sit higher than you because they have a Louis wallet, a Nordstroms card, unimaginable debt at Bloomingdales, and an Audi that they emptied their trustfunds to purchase. They tend to have personal trainers that have their own TV show, assistants, and a celebrity hairstylist. Oh, and did you know that Britney was in their spin class last week? These men are usually in entertainment(shock), advertisment, or pulic relations.

"The Trannys/Drag Queens" - A lovely race of people, they come in every different shape and in most sizes. Some you can spot from a mile away but be careful, a guy who worked with my dad thought RuPaul was the hottest woman in the 90's. My dad had to tell this 6'4 300 pound man that RuPaul was a dude. Moral of story: the good ones can fool you, they do walk among us and they LOVE straight men.

"The Artists" - These guys are actually too cool to talk to you, or your friends. They are generally have tattoo's that cover their well worked out arms, because they are just that cool. They are deep and artsy and are really cool looking. They generally work as photographers, dive bar musicians, or record sales men. They dress in outrageous layers that they want you to think took them only two minutes to assemble, but in all likelihood, they spent hours perfecting the "I don't give a shit because I am so cool" look. Hate it.

Then you have your general LA club going-I have a hot boyfriend from Sweden-I work out 6 days a week and judge those who don't- I am 6 percent body fat- I preen more than a peacock type guys. They disgust me. They fixate on perfection, and make me want to yack all over my panties.



Not all of the homo's fit in these categories perfectly, in fact I am sure that most of them don't. Some are a conglomeration of multiple groups. Which leads me to my question, Where do I fit in?

OK sure, the high heels and big hair (Queenie). The interest in sports, football and dance teams (Jock, mostly). I am super cool (Artist). Everyone loves me (Mr. Popular). I am not a stick figure, kind of thick (Bear? Ew, please no). But I am also a lot more than even just this

Since I have had little luck with the dates I have picked up whilst at social events, or parties or what have you, I have decided to conduct an experiment.

I am going to resort to online dating. That's right opossums, I am going to sign up on three different free dating sites and see which one leads to the best results. I will document dates from each of these sites, report back to you, and hopefully find some one worth talking about about. If not, I will still write about them, and document the antics that occurred. We will see, based on my personality tests on these sites which "TYPE" of men I attract, and hopefully, which sub group of gayness I fall into.

Wish Me Luck Chipmunks!

xo
William

Where in the World Is A Boy in Heels?

Oh my little opossums, how I have missed you!

I know, I know what is my excuse? Well, it is a combination of laziness and over exhaustion stemming from my extensive work life. Now, I am jobless, well rested, and have full attention to give to my little munchkin readers! I hope that I am finding you in good health and in a positive state of mind, and that you are not sitting in your apartment eating chocolate cake icing and wallowing in self pity; hopefully that existence is meant only for me.

In my absence I have since left Hilton Head Island and returned to Los Angeles, founded a sorority, started online dating, witnessed a super natural experience, made love to a Purple Cowboy, passed out in a garden wearing tight jeans and my glitter shoes, discovered contraband in my own household, performed multiple bodily functions at once (due to excessive dark liquor intake), won a Halloween costume contest, made many a new friend, made out with a man more than twice my age who conveniently works as a church administrator, invented new words, gotten a blow out, and picked up a new hobby.

These are not all going to be listed right here and now, because A) what fun would it be if I gave it all away at once, and B) I am too exhausted from eating so much Pillsbury icing and left over lasagna to complete English sentences, and may start into jibberish soon.

I love all of you, so so much. I can’t believe that you are so good to me, and I have neglected you since August 15th? Who the hell do I think I am?
A heart full of glitter scented love to you all.

Until Tomorrow, William xox

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Tricks of a Triathlon

I have been inspired to work out all the time now. I know that most of you may be rolling your eyes and saying “We’ve heard this before”, but HALT my weary reader, this time I am a changed man.

I was recently working a triathlon; we were filming it and I knew several of the participants competing. It was early, it was humid, we won’t even talk about my hair, I really would have rather slept in to be honest, but my demeanor soon changed, because as I turned the corner I was greeted by greased abdominals and perky pectorals.

The beach was full of men wearing nothing but booty shorts and baby oil.

What in the hell? Where has all this man meat been hiding in Hilton Head? It was paradise. I mean, yes, there are some prune-like old men wearing spandex and Speedo’s, but you have to take the good with the bad.

As soon as I realized that I was salivating and experiencing a tingle in my tutu area, I had to snap out of it and pretend that I wasn’t noticing the delicious assortment of beaux-hunks.

Let Me Tell You How This Works:

1. The Arrival- You get there and you go sign in and get your cute little tag to wear while you compete. Then a woman comes and writes the same number on your arm with a permanent marker. THEN, this is the best part, she writes your age on the back of your right calf! She is doing all the work for you, and she doesn’t even know it, she is like the best wing man ever! This allows for you to scope out all of the potential candidates in your age range without even having to talk to them. Talk about perfect?

2. The Start of the Race- Everyone gathers in a big cluster barely clothed; they are shaking hands, patting asses, HUGGING! Agh. Anyways, this allows time for you to take your position near the age appropriate hotties that you have scoped during the arrival section. Make sure to tell them “Good Luck” or something of that nature so you know that they have taken notice to you, I mean of course they would notice you anyways, you’re hot, but just in case they’re way too in the zone, you at least make your mark.

3. The Swim- As the gun, or cowbell as it was in this instance, goes off you run into the water. Try and stay close to your options, but not too close, we aren’t desperate. This swimming portion allows for further inspection of their back, arms and shoulders, muscle groups you are going to want to take into consideration. I mean, what if you marry one of these men? Aren’t you going to want to have a strong man to carry you across the threshold of your new home after your wedding? You certainly don’t want a scrawny little thing that gets a hernia when he attempts to lift you. These are the things you have to think about. Also, don’t worry about the jellyfish stings; there are so many people peeing in the water at this point, that it won’t hurt but for a minute.

4. The Biking- As you and your dripping wet hunks make it out of the water you have to run to your bike. At this point in the race you can choose to tag in a team mate to do the biking part for you. If one of your options does decide to do this, cross him off the list; this shows that he lacks stamina, and we know what that means. You don’t want a strong man to carry you across the threshold on your wedding night with his big arms, and then have to “tag someone in” because he lacks the stamina, no ma’am! Follow the “one man team”. The biking can get rigorous, but stay with it, this is ample time to check out his legs, and of course his buttocks.

5. The Run- Girl, I know this race is difficult but you can do it. This is the best part, he’s shirtless and wearing barely any pants! I know that you may be lacking energy but this is where we have to power through. At this point it is safe to jog alongside your new found men ( I am pretty sure you have narrowed it down to two or three by now). Staying alongside him at this point will make him realize that he has some competition that he didn’t have before; of course, we all know that you could easily smoke him, but you have been busy checking him out the whole race. The final test starts here. Keep in time with your prey, it may be a smart idea to even get in the same rhythm as him, and then pretend you have a bead of sweat forming around your eye. Take your elbow and casually, without breaking stride with him, wipe your face to “clear the sweat”. This is an old trick, but it works. While your man may think that you are just wiping your sweaty brow, the real intent is to check out what he is packing; don’t act like you haven’t done this, I know you have. I realized yesterday that triathlons are the ideal place to see what is going down in Wienerville, they just flop around like nobody’s business, for everyone to see! Even though there is this blatant display of manhood, be discrete, it is not a good feeling when a man sees you ogling his goodies, he thinks you are only interested in one thing after that, and we are ladies, that isn’t ALL we are after. Think about the wedding night, the big arms and high stamina may be worthless with out a decent sized friend joining the party. Be weary of no flop, but cautious of TOO much flop, a little swingin' is all we be needin'.

6. The Finish Line- You did it! You finished the race, and looked damn good doing it. You also found a potential mate in the midst of things, whether he knows it or not. Just because you have crossed the finish line, doesn’t mean you are done with your prowl, you have got to walk it out, I mean you just did a triathlon and all. Follow him discretely (if you haven’t noticed yet, the general theme is to be close enough to be approachable, but far enough away to be mysterious), start to stretch. Pass a flirtatious look his way when he is bent over stretching his calves, and catch his eye. Smile turn away.

7. Awards- OK, so you did a great job, and you won 18 trophies, but the ultimate prize hasn't been won yet. You see your man walking off the platform, he is carrying an award, of course, we only choose award winning men. At this point you should start talking. You chose the conversation, you are in control, he is suitable for you, not the other way around sister.


Good Luck.


I had once thought that triathlons were a place where only skinny people who have no sort of social life went to hang out with their own kind. On the contrary my friends, the women who attend these wiener races have it all figured out.

Now, where is my speedo?

Sunday, May 30, 2010

epic. not.

I wanted to write an epic post today.

Once I logged on I couldn't think of what I wanted to write about...

I am currently in South Carolina working on a show, I guess my wishes to get out of Los Angeles were granted. I will be here until October! How uber exciting is that?! I am going to use my work as my excuse as to why I have not been so diligent about my blog, but I am going to do better. I promise.

High heels are not really a fashion staple here in SC. I mean, no one really appriciates them. All you see are flip flops, and the ever dreaded kitten heels. South Carolinians WAKE UP! Clogs and wedges with cut out shapes in the middle of them are not ok to wear.

Alas.

I just got done watching 9 to 5 for the first time and I have to say that I am underwhelmed. I mean I love all the actors, but Lord-a-mercy it is a dragggging movie.

A better post will follow this one shortly. I am sorry for the epic-less-ness of this one....but is there anyone out there even reading these things anymore?

xoxox
William

Sunday, April 18, 2010

FUPA FIASCO

I JUST found out what a FUPA is. I thought that it was short for “flirty under pant action”.

Sadly, this is not the case and I am outraged that no one told me.

I think that my first indication that my acronym was incorrect, should have been the looks that I got when I went around telling all the beautiful jacked men at the gay bars that I had some FUPA action happening, and their perfect smiles turned straight to disgust.

Thinking that my ass had lost its “Umph” and that men no longer wished to ogle my goodies, I went to the one place that would tell me the truth, the internet.
For those of you who are not aware of what FUPA stands for, it is the “Fat Upper Pubic Area”. Urbandictionary.com describes this as follows: Descriptive of the phenomenon common with men and women so afflicted by obesity that their pubic area is used to store patches of fatty waste.

So…are you telling me that I told all of these handsome creatures that I have a fat upper pubic area and not that I was sporting sassy boxer briefs?

Yes.

And I am MORTIFIED.


Ughskies, no wonder I am single.

xoox

William

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Psychic Readings..

I got my fortune told the other day, and in retrospect I am pissed off that I did it. I don’t understand why I paid some woman with saggy boobs and acne scars to tell me about how miserable my life is. I left there a little sickened with the thought that this woman was making so much money off people when I don’t even think she is legit. Below are some of the things that made me ask the question: “How ‘psychic’ is this bitch?” **NOTE** I DO BELIEVE IN THOSE WITH SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES, JUST NOT THIS FAKER.

1. My Love Life

This Miss Cleo wannabe told me that I was having issues in relationships, as if that was some ground breaking phenomenon. Hmmm...Ok, well, I counter that statement with “Who isn’t?” Are you trying to sit there and tell me that I am the ONLY person who is having love issues? Everyone else is completely happy? No Ma’am.

2. My Poor Life Decisions

She asked me why I didn’t go to school longer, “you should have kept going”. Now, for those of you who have the pleasure of listening to me have complete break downs about my second guessing of opting not to pursue a college education, you will know that this rattled me a little. This is when I started to doubt her though. I sat there for a hot minute and pondered how she could have known this. Well, one reason could have been that I look like I am 12, I mean I got a kid’s menu the other day, it’s not a secret that I look like a 7th grader. Aside from my cherubic demeanor, I am sure she also noted how soft and moisturized my hands were, due to my bi-monthly paraffin waxes, and thought that they could only be the hands of someone not withered and aged my the cruelties of time.

3. “You Hate Yourself, You Are Not Happy”

While hate is a strong word, I will give her this, I am not “in love” with myself, which is sad, I know. And while I do have difficulties embracing myself, I have to point out this tiny fact. If you were a borderline plus size gay man in West Hollywood, wouldn’t you find it hard to love yourself too? I mean, sure I have a personality that is pretty damn impressive, I must say, but WeHo is the pinnacle of gay perfection, which means you should only be seen, and not heard. I am not one of these 6’2 waxed, bleached, tanned, buffed, men in designer (although this is Yves Saint Laurent mascara, thanks for asking), who carries his teacup Chihuahua in a Louis tote. I am 5’8 wearing a Banana Republic bag and Jessica Simpson platforms, how couture am I? This bitch hit the nail on the head, but it is a bit of an exaggeration, because while all these men are gorgeous, they are equally as self loathing as I, for one reason or another. No big shocker, lady.


She put on quite a show I must say, I mean she was no Meryl Streep, but more like a Hillary Swank, doing enough work to get by, and still getting invited to parties just because she has been around long enough. Whatever.
I do need to love myself more, I am taking that lesson from the experience, but I am also telling myself that she is just some lady with a couch who “reads palms”. At least she didn’t start sacrificing a goat in front of me. I mean, I know that these are Jessica Simpson shoes, but do you know how hard it is to get blood out of suede?


Loving you, and myself Always. Ever so thankful for your support..

Xoxoxooxx
William

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Sock Scandal


I think I experienced my first heart attack this morning in my journey into work. I saw a girl wearing black peep toed Chanel knock offs, and some navy wool socks. Cut to my heart ceasing to beat and me gasping for air.

I sat down and performed a breathing exercise to keep the room from spinning.

Trying to give her benefit of the doubt,I carefully researched color blindness statistics in women and learned that it is very unlikely that she in fact is color blind, because it is more predominant in men. With this helpful tid-bit I was able to draw the conclusion that this know-nothing willingly paired black with navy.

While I am concerned about her poor decisions in color pairing, I'm more greatly concerned with the fact that this ding dong was wearing socks with open toed shoes. Wool socks for that matter,we live in Los Angeles not the Alaskan tundra .

If some of you have been inhabiting the same cave that this girl was obviously living in, let me go ahead and clarify this for you: if you are going to wear a shoe that shows any part of your toes, you should not be wearing anything but the shoe. No socks (wool or otherwise), no pantyhose (those are over), nothing. Some people try to argue that you can wear some chic leggings...no bitch, you can't. The whole purpose of a "peep toe" is so that we can catch a glimpse of you little piggies, not you K-Mart "Bare Necessities" brand nylons.


While this girl was a violent offender of this rule, she is not the worst. The worst would be the teenage girls that were shopping the mall the other day wearing tube socks with their gladiator sandals. I understand that their teenage angst may pardon their foul moods at times, but there is only so much you can blame on the hormones, there is no excuse for this footwear faux pas.

I may being praying a rosary for these victims.


I find no room for negotiation on this matter, and while some of you bravely defend your clogs and tube tops, let it be known that out of any of my rants, this one is ranking supreme.

Loving you long time.

xoxo
William

Monday, March 8, 2010

The Not So Little Mermaid...

I went skinny dipping in the Pacific Ocean on Saturday night, and I am not going to lie to you, I think I would make a terrific mermaid.

Of course there was alcohol involved in this endeavour, and it ended in some scabbing of my leg.

Let me tell you guys something, I think that I am one of the only people who can cause themselves pain in the process of swimming naked.

My friends Andrew and Amanda, partook in this event as well. However, those two assholes stood there and did NOT go on the count of three, like they swore they would. So I was the only one, running my fat white ass covered in nothing but the moonlight, straight into the deep blue sea.

Well, they did follow suit, thankfully, and Andrew in a fury of excitement busted his well toned Colombian ass, eating sand, but eventually making his way in to the water as well. Amanda kind of skipped in, leisurely.
Oddly enough I came out with blood all over my left leg, and was so thankful that sharks were afraid of blood...wait..damn...that was the champagne talking.

I think I was attacked by coral or some seashells. Or a shark..that would make an amazing story. We will go with that. I was attacked by a shark while I was skinny dipping in the ocean with two friends under a champagne fueled spree of spontaneity.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Parental Control

I hate to say this, but I am kind of an advocate of scaring the shit out of children. I think that children should be completely mortified of what their parents or guardians may do to them if they disobey orders.

These twin 7 year old boys were at the Post Office with a woman, who, I assume was their mother, given she had bags under her eyes, a lone hot roller stuck in the back of her head, and a chipped manicure. This girl hadn't slept in weeks it looked like. So I was standing behind them holding my package (ha) and waiting for the sea of people to move forward when one of the kids threw a pen at me. I kind of did that half-glare half-smile look to him and handed the pen to the mother who apologized.

Whatever.

So as we proceed forward one of the kids starts talking about how he has to use the bathroom and had to go right then. He was screaming, like squealing-screaming that he had to go at that very instant. He was pulling at his mother's already ill-fitting peasant blouse, and almost ripped it off. At the same time the other boy, who had thrown the pen, was now tearing up shipping slips and throwing them on the floor. The mother was horrified.

Now I know that I have never raised a child, nor am I a very patient person, but PARENTS LISTEN TO ME for I am about to tell you something that everyone in wants to say to you when you are that woman in the post office.

SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR KID. Please, do not make it a habitual occurrence, do not abuse them, but knocking them one time will keep them from doing it again. Also, if they are whiny, fussy, crying, etc., please don't hit them. BUT if they are raising hell in public, by all means, go on ahead. If a hippie cloth of the earth clad person tries to call you out for abuse and calls the cops, I will personally come save you.

If you don't agree with the open hand slap, fear not, because there is another tactic that you can use. If you are dealing with a small child, threatening them with a wooden spoon is one of the best scare tactics. My stepmother (Wendy) used to keep one in her car, in her purse, everywhere my sister went, the wooden spoon monster was lurking somewhere close by. If you can get the wooden spoons with the holes in it, they work best, according to Wendy.

The belt, the switch, the wooden spoon, all of these will spark a fear in your child, if they aren't afraid, you aren't doing it hard enough.

Maybe I am the only person this bothers, but we have all seen that poor woman once in our lives. The one with her kids running all over her, controlling her. HELLO LADY! You are in charge, take that Target brand flip flop off and whack your child with it. Show them what's up. Ugh.

I hate when parents don't take control of their kids, I guess they deserve what they get.

Shitheads.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Lessons of the Loo

I was once in a bathroom at Outback when my stepdad, who was wondering why I was taking so long, came in and found me belting out “Tomorrow” (they had great acoustics there), whilst I sat astride porcelain God, taking my sweet time. I was about 7…teen.

No, seriously, I was only 7.

While it is not uncommon to hear me belting show tunes, I have to say, singing “Annie” is not proper etiquette when you are relieving yourself, unless you are in the solitude of your own home. And, while I was only seven, I learned from my red faced stepfather that there are rules in a bathroom. And today, I took a minute and silently thanked God, that Miller (stepdad) had taught me these vital rules, because some people, who are much older than me, have STILL NOT learned them.
So, for all of you, right here and now, I am about to teach you the same rules that Miller taught me, those many moons ago.

1. Location, Location, Location- If you are the first person in a restroom and there is a line of 5 open urinals, go ahead, take your pick, the bathroom is your domain…until the next guy walks in. If you are indeed that next guy there are now only 4 open urinals left, it is your job to keep the most distance between you and the first guy, as possible. When the third man comes in, and the first two are STILL peeing, there should then be a urinal between each of you. This pattern should continue until all the urinals are occupied. This isn’t rocket science.

2. Assuming the Position- Why are you standing with your legs 3 feet apart? This isn't a ballet class. Why are you hugging the urinal? Why are you standing so far away? Keep it casual. Stand back, slightly, you don't want any of it to bounce back and land on your pants (embarrassing!),with your feet shoulder width apart, relax,and let it out…

3. Don’t Low Ride- There is no reason to pull your pants down, not even a little bit, if you are using a urinal. I honestly don’t care if you are wearing a unitard. There is no reason, as a grown ass man to pull your pants down. They make the “fly” for a reason…

4. No Peeking- Let’s be honest, we are all curious about who is packing more heat, but if you don’t want to get your teeth knocked down your throat, keep your eyes on YOUR prize or straight ahead, no one likes a nosey neighbor.

5. Keep It Mute- There is no reason to talk in the bathroom. Any words are fighting words. Humming, Whistling and Singing fall under this category as well. This requires no further explanation.

6. Touchy Feely- OK, so maybe I am the only one this has happened to, but when I am peeing I don’t need anyone slapping my back and saying “Hey Man! What’s up?” Don’t touch me asshole, I am holding my penis in my hand. This is violating not only this rule, but rule #5 as well.

7. Farting- I get that it is a “Men’s Room” but farting whilst peeing, is disgusting, not to mention, very rude. We may be men, but I am damn sure I don’t want to be smelling your stank ass gas, and I sure as hell don’t need it settling in my clothes.

8. Wrapping It Up- Two Shakes is all it takes, if you are jiggling it more than that, you are playing with it. No Questions Asked.

While I may be a bit of a stickler, I find that this is the best advice some people will receive today, and hopefully I have touched some of you. If you or anyone you know is a habitual breaker of any of the rules listed above, please feel free to cite this posting for reference. For those of you who are going to ask about going number two, my best advice is don’t. Wait till you get home.

Loving you Always.

My hair is still giving me the silent treatment.
oxxoox
William

A Big Hairy Ordeal

I am not one to brag.

OK, yes, on occasion, I brag, but I try not to make it a habit. On one such matter however I do have to give myself “props”…I have great hair. And since I am not the man with chiseled features or rock hard abs, I am going to go ahead and give myself permission to brag it out. My hair has a great natural coloring that is a mix between honey and maple, great shape and bounce that seems to glisten on demand, and it is outrageously soft, and thrives in the presence of hairspray..but since I was getting to the point that I could French braid it I had to get it cut, and now my hair won’t even talk to me…it is PISSED. This 30 year old trendy girl at Floyd’s in Hermosa, who shall remain nameless, for I am about to shame her, “did not pick up on the fact that I was gay”. That’s a direct quote, and should have been my first sign to stick the scissors in her leg and run out with my Rapunzel hair still intact. I believe in the bible some where it says “A gay man’s hair is his crown and glory…” or something along those lines, she obviously isn’t a Bible reader or else she would not have committed this mortal sin. This bitch cut the shit out of my hair, we are talking like, 3.5+ inches off. My hair is so pissed off at me that it is has decided to go on vacation to recuperate, so I am left to deal with the aftershock of this terrorist attack on my scalp.

I hyperventilated.

I am not this person. I am not the person with bad hair. I am supposed to be a gleaming beacon of hope for all the frizzy headed fuckers who only wish they could have this natural bounce and shine. I am supposed to be the person people call for advice when they over condition. I am supposed to be the Messiah of Hair Maintenance!

I have hit a low. After indulging in the Apple Pies from McDonald's (please stop judging me, I am in mourning), I did the unspeakable…I started wearing a baseball cap, BACKWARDS. I KNOW.I don’t even put product in it anymore! What’s the point?! I am a fraud. I washed up has been who used to be at the top of his game, and is now indulging in high caloric foods from fast food chains and wearing frat boy accessories. Just call me Delta Burke and put me out of my misery.

I used to be such a critic. I would call out the boys who highlighted their close to black hair with bleach, I would throw rocks at the ones who thought that frosted tips were ever in style, I would laugh at Jerry curls and rat tails, and I would berate anyone who voluntarily put their hair through the process of perming. Now, I am no better than any of them. I am a failure.

I used to talk to my hair, every morning. That is my secret, like people say you should talk to your plants to keep them alive, if you talk to your hair, it will respect you. It will be thankful that you are showing it the extra attention, and will work with you (rather than against you) to achieve the optimum “WOW” factor. I used to preach from the Gospel of Good Hair, that you are responsible for your bad hair days, you can keep them from happening if you respect the hair on you head, it will respect you. But now, since I disrespected my beautiful mane, and cut it all off, it is refusing to work with me, I am talking fly away central.

Ughskies, is there a Saint that you can pray to for your hair? Can we make one? Or does this count me as a martyr of my people for sporting such a wretched hair cut, that I automatically become the saint? I like the sound of that.

Please pray for me in these horrible times..

Amen.

Loving you All.
Saint William-Patron Saint of Hair & Hair Maintenance.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Something to Talk About...

Some people have been asking who I am, what I am about; so here are some things that I thought of to give you a better idea... I hope you enjoy!

•I am a sassypants 24/7.
•High Heels make me feel powerful, and I can run in almost any pair you throw my way, the higher the better.
•I am going to live as many adventures in my life as I can, in high heels…
•I talk to my hair; I believe that it makes it look better.
•Hairspray is my favorite scent in the world.
•I have an accent, it’s cute.
•I live in a hobbit hole in Los Angeles, and wouldn’t have it any other way.
•I care about intellectual pursuits.
•I don’t think walking in the rain sounds like fun at all, actually, and people who say it is romantic, it isn’t it’s obnoxious and cliché.
•I take chances, I am pretty ballsy.
•I laugh at the most inopportune times (like at funerals or in business meetings).
•I believe in romance, chivalry, and manners.
•If I were a drink, I would be champagne, because I am bubbly, classy, and after enough of me you may get a headache…
•If I were a color I would be orange, take that for what you will.
•I think everyone is pretty. OK, so not really, but I think that everyone should be told they are.
•Auburn Football is the only sport I watch, other than figure skating, tennis, volleyball and cheerleading nationals. (I do love playing sports though, a lot.)
•I root for the underdogs, usually, unless they like, really suck.
•I HATE mayonnaise, tube tops, & clogs/crocs.
•I tell everyone that I am not afraid of anything, I wish that was true, but I am terrified of failure & super paranoid about being in a car wreck…and birds.
•I steal kisses, but not lip-gloss ;)
•I am TOO nice to homeless people & old folks.
•I tip well, if I have any money left over from the homeless people’s fund.
•I believe in astrology, love, and karma.
•My mom is my err-thang. I love her, so so much. My best friend.
•The most important thing to me is to be the best big brother possible to Isabell, Walker & Bailey.
•I have a mild obsession with most of the series shows on Showtime (United States of Tara, The Tudors, etc.)
•I am not going to lie; I love Cher, Bette, Barbara, Liza, RuPaul, Whitney, Tina, Aretha, Madonna, etc.
•If it sparkles or has buttons, I can’t help but touch it.
•I speak too quickly sometimes, I am a mumbler…
•I think my sister Isabell could be a model, she is gorgeous…tell her, she doesn’t believe me.
•I can quote Clueless, Legally Blonde and Mommie Dearest without missing a word.
•I have 3 tattoos.
•I am constantly looking for my Mr. Right, even though I am too young to even be looking for one..I am sure he is 6’0-6’2 blonde white, mixed, or Brazilian. Straight teeth, striking eyes. Good jaw line, a dog, and a SUV. Regardless, he has an accent. Make it happen, ladies.
•Bee.
•I think that all men should own a “murse” or two…why not?
•I watch YouTube religiously.
•I am full of surprises, you never know what you are going to hear, see, or get next.

Now I want some interesting facts about you. :)

xoxo
Willicious

Monday, February 22, 2010

TeVa's, Kitten Heels, and Clogs

I think that I am in the twilight zone. That is the only explanation that I can think of, because no one, not even Helen Keller herself, would commit the heinous crimes against footwear that I have recently witnessed.

I know as faithful subscribers that none of you have, or would ever think of doing what I am about to preach against, but I just have to tell you this, I will never take you seriously if you do any of the listed below, I will write you off for having fewer brain cells than I gave you credit for, and cut ties with you.

1. The Man Wearing TeVa's and Crew Socks.
2. The Woman Wearing Open Toed KITTEN Heels With Footie Nylons.
3. Clogs.

The man wearing TeVa's and Crew Socks is something that is not uncommon to see, I am sure that we have all have witnessed this distressing fiasco. He falls under the category of "Victim" as soon as the hippie sales clerk at the local outdoors store convinces him that they are still "in", when in reality TeVa's went out of style with the mid-90's, how they are still in production is beyond me.
Now, before my tree hugging followers get on their soapbox about how great TeVa's are, I will be the first to say, yes, some of their stuff has progressed to be somewhat stylish, but I am talking the Velcro strap sandals that everyone wore when they were jamming "The Cranberries" and playing hacky sack. Frat boys and girls who don't shave their legs can usually be found sporting the TeVa "fashion", and it is these groups alone that can be written off as the exception to the Anti-TeVa Rule. With this said, the only way to make TeVa's look worse is by matching them with SOCKS(any kind of socks, but my experiences lead me to believe that people love wearing crew socks the most with TeVa's)! I was in line at a deli when the 33+ man came in and was wearing a fitted muscle T-shirt and a baseball hat, and I was like, "Ohh hey!!" (Because he was cute in like a grungy way), then I saw that he had matched his TeVa sandals with his crew socks, and he had his sweatpants TUCKED IN. GAG. The cute grungy effect disappeared real quick, like an erection in a snowstorm. Birkenstocks and Crocs are also in the realm of the NO SOCK ZONE.

Today I saw a woman, who committed a double whammy. The first of these was the wretched Kitten heel. For those of you unfamiliar with this term it is referring to the teeny tiny heels that are like .32 inches, that ultimately serve no purpose, and make you look like an idiot for even trying, Michelle Obama is the Queen Offender in the kitten heel pandemic; if you are tempted to wear these because you are "too tall" or "can't walk in high heels", rise above the urge and sacrifice the 1/8 of an inch and go with a pair of sassy flats, you will look far more put together. On top of this obvious fashion NO NO, she committed the cardinal sin of footwear; she wore the nylon footies that you use to try them on in the store!!! WHAT THE HELL?! NO MA'AM! Take those off right now! I have used the footies to get a newer shoe to go one easier, but I
A. would never wear them with open toe shoes and shorts
B. cut off the tops of them so you can't tell they are in the shoe.

This whole scenario, hopefully, speaks for itself, I don't feel like anyone is going to say "What is wrong with this?" because in my book this is like seeing someone get murdered. If you witness a murder, you contact the police. If you witness footies with open-toe kitten heels, you call the fashion police and report a serial killer.

Then there are clogs. Someone said clogs are becoming fashionable again. I just can't stomach this, I hate clogs. A "girl I know" owns, and wears, her studded orange clogs in public. It makes me sick. If we aren't going to pick tulips or participate in Riverdance, let's leave the clogs at home my little chickens.


In conclusion, I think since sexual predators have to notify everyone within 400 yards of their home that they have a record, the following people should also have to send out a warning to their neighbors as well:

A. Anyone who owns kitten heels, TeVa's, or clogs.
B. Anyone with access to nylon footies that may own any of the before mentioned in section "A".
C. Michelle Obama (seeing as how she is a repeat offender of both crimes)


What are some other footwear faux pas' that you can't stand?

Loving. Meaning.
xoxox
William

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Poltergeist Phenom

Does anyone know anything about poltergeists?

I am sure I have one living in my house. Every time I turn on my TV it is playing TNA wrestling, no matter what station I leave it on it always comes up. There is no other explanation for this other than that of a poltergeist living in here with me.
I am not afraid of this fact, he seems to be a nice poltergeist who just has a habit of watching fake wrestling.
I am not going to lie, I started to watch a couple minutes of the "sport", and when I had decided I had lost enough brain cells, I turned it off, but in that wretched 10 minutes I realized that there really isn't a gayer sport than wrestling.

These guys are greased up and muscled to the max, rolling around in spankies. That sounds like a Saturday night in my book! And let's also notice how synchronized and fluid all of these "moves" are. It is like a weird lesbian ballet, I mean they incorporate leather vests (with fringe) and knee high doc-martins...let's be real.

Anyway I am naming my poltergeist Carlton. I feel that it is fitting.

And before any of you think that I am being dramatic or that I am not knowledgeable on the topic, I used to have a ghost in my old house when I lived with my parents, his name was Mule Jimmy, and he was a nice soul who always turned our ceiling fans on when it was too hot for him.
And I also had an imaginary friend when I was four, and named him Judd, I blamed him for all of the bad that I used to do, like cursing ( I would say, "I didn't say it, Judd said it"). So I think I know what I am talking about, I am an expert in the supernatural if I do say so myself.

But, since this is my first experience with a poltergeist, please give me any advie that you may have.

Tell me about your supernatural experiences!!

Love you all!

William (&& Carlton)

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Hula Hoops, Snaggle Teeth, and Anti-Valentine's Day

I know, I know. I am a horrible person, and I haven't been blogging.

I hate to use this excuse, but I have been really tied up with work and whatnot and every night I get home I am completely drained, and therefore, I am sorry that I have been delinquent in my entries. You will be pleased to know however, that I do have some exciting things to talk about.

1. I have discovered that my newest talent (that I should probably enter into a world record book) is Hula Hooping in Platforms. Yes. I know, it sounds like I am making this up, but fear not my friends, anything that I state that I can do in high heels, is not a lie, and I am willing to be tested on the validity at anytime. I was in my backyard with my roomie Michael and his girlfriend Angela (we die for her) and we were trying on all my shoes (me and Ang, not Mike), and as I put on my platform leopard print peeps (you may remember these from the Vegas Cop story), I spotted a hula hoop. I trotted on over to the multi-colored ring of goodness, and you can take it from there. I am not perfect yet, but I am pretty damn good, I haven't hula hooped since William Turdley's 6th grade pool party.

2. I had lunch with Sarah on Saturday. We went Valentine's day shopping at the Beverly Center and she insisted on buying me a thong, which, to her surprise, and for your clarification, I did NOT already own. Whilst we were browsing for the perfect butt floss, I got a text message from a number that I didn't have saved in my phone. It read: "Walk away like a dog with your tail between you legs.."

Ok..

If you are ever going to send a text message that is trying to be "aggressive" please don't use sayings that are ridiculously lame. My grandmother Sherrell wouldn't even fathom to put something this moronic in a text, even if she knew how to send one.

So just as I am leaving Bath & Body Works, still high from sniffing their moderately priced body spray, I run right into my old neighbor LaBrina. LaBrina, I knew from my old apartment complex, she used to get drunk and have crazy hot sex in the apartment above mine, and then come down and drink all of my tequila, from the bottle, as if it were water. While she is a little crazy, I still like her, she hasn't really ever done anything to me. Well, it took me a minute to realize it is her (fumes from the Cucumber Melon Body Spray were clouding my head), and then I saw the company she was with, and right then and there, I KNEW who sent the "anonymous" text message.

She was there with a boy who had the ugliest haircut I had ever seen in my entire life, raggy unflattering clothing from Hollister (remind me to tell you my hatred of Hollister later), and the most heinous man purse (it is the size of a crayon box, with a spaghetti strap type string), he was, sadly enough, my ex-roomate Grayson. There is so much drama with Grayson, it is way to long of a story for this entry, but just know that he is a user, and won't succeed in life.

So Grayson apparently saw me in Forever 21 as I was trying on a rainbow hoodie (Sarah's suggestion), and thought that when I saw him I was "running away like a dog with my tail between my legs". This made me so mad that he thinks that I would run away from him. He looks like Alfalfa with that weird ass cowlick, and snaggle-teeth, the only thing I am afraid of is catching his stupidity, he oozes with it. I had to give him the HEAVE HO when I moved to my new house. He is a leech. We all have one, and we all need to get rid of them.

Ugh..

3. The third topic is that Valentine's Day is the most pointless day of the year. I realize that only single people usually say this, but I have to express my hatred. If there is a Scrooge for Valentine's Day, it is William. Why would anyone in their right mind spend $94.00 on roses that look like they have been sitting in the same delivery van since last Valentine's Day, and are overrun with baby's breath (PS adding baby's breath to an arrangement is the equivalent of "bedazzling" in floral shops, it is tacky used to cover up the fact that the quality is poor to start with)? Overpriced candy, Valentine's cards, expensive dinners, it is all material. And I realize that we are Material Girls and we live in a material world, but velvet stuffed bears and chocolates in red cellophane are not the materials I want to be around anyway, give me diamonds.

Enough with the ranting already. My house warming is this weekend. I hope to the LAWD it is fun!

Loving all of you!
OXOX
William

PS. And while I am very grateful that you are all reading, please please leave comments, suggestions, etc., so I can have some feedback! Our new website is coming soon, but tell your friends to become followers now anyways! Love you Opossums!!

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Bucket List

I need ideas for my bucket list.

Give me suggestions of things that I can put on it.

Share with me what is on yours :)

xoxo

William

Monday, February 8, 2010

Shit Happens.

We all need support; this could be support from our friends, family , or even our bras. But no matter what kind of support it is that we made need, it is undeniably evident that we all need support. It keeps us level headed and grounded. We need "that person(s)" to talk us through our toughest times, congratulate us on our successes, and to force us back on to the stage when we have explosive diarrhea and are about to shit in our lederhosen. You know, that person.

No, you didn't just mis-read that, I almost shit in my lederhosen once in a play.

I was in Hansel and Gretel, I was playing Hansel (does anyone else see how I was type casted in all of these plays? Performing as the blonde fat kid?). We were doing the show at the Alabama Theatre, a really beautiful old style theatre with plush curtains and gold plated everything, fringe everywhere, a gay man's sanctuary. At the time though I didn't care a damn about those vintage embellishments, I was so ready to be in that spot light girl, I had my lipstick on, my false eyelashes were at the ready (I realize that a little foundation would have done the trick, but any chance I had, I looooved putting on that make up!) and I was vocalizing in my German boy regalia. We were doing two shows that day, and the first one went off without a hitch, and in the middle of my deep swan-like bows I felt a little churn in my stomach, I thought it was just because I hadn't eaten, being the diva that I was I was only nibbling on some bits of tissue and room temperature water before I took to the stage, so that had to of been it.

I stupidly ate a hamburger with all of the little peasants in the ensemble in between shows, and felt much better, for the time being.

Let's jump ahead a little bit through the story, we are past the time that the evil stepmother (who was played by this crazy girl who had a lesbian mother who wore black fishnet stockings, a corduroy mini-skirt, and TeeVa's) left them in the forest, Hansel had already left the breadcrumbs, and they had already been captured by the witch. As I laid there on the stage pretending to be captured, I felt that rumble in my panties. I mean RUMBLE in the JUNGLE kind of rumble. I had to shhhiiiiiiit! And I mean, I had to go RIGHT THEN!! By some stroke of luck the good Lord above us (thank ya Jesus), let the curtain fell, because they were performing a scene in front of it during a set change. I hoped my ass up, and hauled it to the little fairy's room. My mother, Miss Amy, who was THANKFULLY the backstage chaperon mom that day, came clicking in her size 7 Balenciaga's into the bathroom behind me. It was that damn hamburger that did it, I just knew it, one of the cretins in the ensemble had tried to poison me so they could perform in the next show instead of me!

As I sat there, for what seemed like the next 56 minutes, I was bawling (wasn't wearing waterproof mascara, and ended up looking like By George) and in a screaming whisper was yelling at my mother " I CAN'T DO THIS!! I AM SO ASHAMED!!!"
People were knocking on the door, asking if I was OK, rushing me to get back out there before the curtain came back up, and Miss Amy, with all her might, jerked my ass off that toilet and said something I will never forget: "You WILL dry up right this minute because I did not spend all this time and effort to have you sitting here crying like a little baby because "you don't feel good & your stomach hurts". Get out there and give that audience what they paid to see, A SHOW!"

With that, Miss Amy opened the door and literally, threw me (she has Wonder Woman strength) back on the that stage as the curtain was creeping back up.

It may have been that I had just given birth in the bathroom, or that I was completely horrified that my mother may beat me senseless if I walked off that stage, but what ever it was, something in me made me finish that show. There were no swan like bows, just a quick little curtsy, and I was out of there.

I am mortified that this event ever occurred, I usually don't talk about it, but I feel this may be one of the greatest examples of support that I have experienced. Sometimes it takes your mother, hovering over you in a tiny bathroom in the wings of one of the most historic theatres in the South, screaming at you to get your ass on that stage before she unleashes a wrath terrible to behold upon you, that makes you realize how much she supports you. This may be sounding like my mother is a horrid stage mom from pageant queen hell, but she is quiet the opposite, all she wants is for me to succeed, and if it hadn't been for her picking me up by my lederhosen and chucking me back on to that stage, I might still be in that bathroom. She was letting me know that she was there for me, in a strange & slightly convoluted way, that I wouldn't respect until years later.

That is my version of support, someone who can help you through your "shittiest times". I hope this translates over to you..maybe I am just loco.

PS Thank YOU all for supporting me in this blog. It is great to know that I have people, other than Miss Amy reading this. And a special thank you to Sally, you are single handedly making me a better blogger day by day! You rock girl!! SPARKLES FOR SALLY!

xoxox
William

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Big and Chunky.

I have gained 15+ pounds since I have been back in Los Angeles from Christmas break.

NOT CUTE.

I have eaten everything but my shoes it feels like, and in case you are wondering, yes, I did indeed, eat that cake icing yesterday. I went to Ralph's at 2 in the morning and pretended that I was on the phone with someone so the sole cashier wouldn't talk to me about my purchases. I made my mock conversation sound like I was in a hurry, and picking up the icing for my friend who had just broken up with her boyfriend, and needed comfort food.. I know, pathetic.

So I can not tell you how concentrated of an effort I am making to drop this spare tire. I know that this sassy attitude and set of Betty Grable legs is enough to make any one check me out twice, but I mean, how am I ever supposed to walk the red carpet with a 6' blonde with piercing eyes and a sparkling smile, if I am carrying my baby weight around?

No fast food, no sodas, nothing. Water, lettuce and some of whatever killed Anna Nicole Smith, God Bless her soul.

I guess this is a post New Year's Resolution? I don't know, but to hell with it.

PS I need everyone to be on the look out for my "6' blonde with piercing eyes and a sparkling smile"...please send out some feelers. And if you perchance find one, send in pics!!

looooving you!
xo
William

Ponies and Angels.

It is going to be a great day friends!

It's Superbowl Sunday, I don't know much about who is playing...the Ponies and Angels? I am not sure, but they both have great colors! And Superbowl Sunday means beer! BEER BEER BEER!! I will keep you all updated on what happens!

xox
William

Pooches.

Last night we had a little rendezvous at our house. There was a rousing game of King's Cup that led to sex talk and a craving for pizza. Jacqui and I tried on a series of hats from my costume collection, and it was about the time that we started to walking around in the street with mixing bowls on our head that I knew it was time to call it a night.


As I was laying in my bed this morning, surprisingly not that hung over, it was raining, and I could hear the water hitting the pavement. I was curled up in my down comforter, completely relaxed, and thought that the only thing missing was someone lying next to me to enjoy it. While a 6'2 well built Brazilian man with straight teeth and a strong jawline would have done the trick, what I really wanted was a dog.

I know, I know. I can't afford one, I don't have the time for it, but put the brakes on it, I am not going to buy a dog, but I did have an epiphany while basking in my 700 count sheets.

I am going to become a dog walker. Not professionally, but I am going to volunteer. I think that this may be the best substitute for my longing for a dog, temporarily, or at least until I can afford one. I looked up a local shelter, and decided to give them a call. It is called, Rover Rescue (http://www.roverrescue.com/) and they are very credible for the humane and loving treatment for their animals. I am excited to soon be the hottest thing on the beach, with 4 dogs in a pair of Yves Saint Laurent Tribtoo's , and maybe, just maybe, I will end up like J.Lo in "Monster in Law" and run into a shirtless doctor who has a beautiful personality, a trust fund and a lavish mother. One can dream.

Dr. Charming will one day come, but the dogs are calling for me now! I am hoping next weekend I can start.

I am watching possibly one the worst movies right now, The Women, the 2008 version. While the writing is somewhat witty, I can't believe that with the amount of talent that each of these actresses possesses, how short it falls in this film.

I think that my TV is oozing estrogen, because now I want cake icing...

Loving you all.
xo
William

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Living in High School

**NOTE**This entry is probably convoluded and didn't make it full circle, but I guess it is just a random stream of concious. I hope that it may have had some sort of impact?


All I really just want to emphasize that some people suck. And these people are not the kind that I want to associate with. Some of these people include bigots and liars, and others include "that person" from high school who still thinks that he/she is the most important thing to walk the earth. They weren't that important then, and they sure as hell aren't that important now. The funny thing about these people is that they rarely as successful as they plan to be. The once high school pageant queen will probably end up with three kids and a divorce by the age of 27, and the guy who was so sexy and athletic will be paying his child support on the meager earnings as a gas station attendant. The kids who played "Magic" in the cafetria, and the art club girls, who no one seemed to get, will be contributing to society, saving lives, building rockets, and performing open heart surgery.
There may even be some people like Romey and Michelle, the girls who were just trying to fit in, and no one seemed to really give them a chance.

Living in the real world has already taught me one important lesson, high school never ends. Life is just one big high school. Just because we aren't contained in one big cinderblock building and constantly under florescent lighting (can you imagine how horrible), doesn't mean it is going to stop. There is going to be that girl with the bleached flat hair and the eye makeup that was applied way too heavy and incorrectly who thought (thinks) she was(is) all that. There is going a plethora of people that pass you by and you may never get to know. There are always going to be hippy stoners around, some girl who can't stop gossiping, some boy that never gets tired of pants-ing people, the sensitive artsy type, AND there will always be the negative nancy's.If you are in high school, become the person you want to be known as now, because the image that you create now is how you are going to be remembered by majority of the people you graduate with.

Point being: The people in your life that suck need to get a big heave-ho. Toss them overboard, because like any other unnecessary baggage, they are slowing you down. And those people who deserve the recognition, let's give them some. The time is now. Don't make excuses.


Loving.
William

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

The Turmoil of a Twinkie

I was once in a play, "Peter Pan in Neverland",it was the same story line as the original, basically just a cheaper version,(Peter Pan flew with the aid of a florescent orange extension cord), obvi a low-budget budget production. I had done previous shows with this company, and I was very excited to return to the stage with them, and just knew that I was going to be a lead maybe playing Peter, or Mr. Smee.

Was I?

No.

They cast me as "Yummy". Who is "Yummy"? That is a very good question, I am glad you asked. Yummy is the fat Lost Boy who eats cake all day, and my only line was "Mmmmm, YUMMY".

Let me just tell you, I hate the f***ing word "yummy". It grates on my nerves and makes me want to drop kick whoever says it in my presence (other words that have the same effect as "Yummy" are "Supper" and "jolly"). And what do I hate more than having to say "yummy" a total of 29 times in the course of a 90 minute musical? The fact that I was force fed twinkies the entire show in order to make my character more authentic. I HATE TWINKIES. And I know that that may be hard to believe given my curvy stature, but trust me, I can't stand them.

Even though I wanted to pull my well curled eyelashes out one by one every time I had to say 'yummy' and started getting anxiety every time someone mentioned processed cream filled pastries, I stuck with it. I had to, my mother wouldn't let me quit. She always told me that I could do whatever I wanted, but once I started, I couldn't quit, until it was over.

This is something that I am glad my parents enforced, it has taught me a tremendous amount of responsibility, as well as, the great life lesson of sucking it up. The point of this being, there are always going to be things that we don't like, or agree with that we have to do. And I know that this sounds like such a preachy entry, and it is, kind of, but when I get down and out about a situation I like to remember this calorie infested play. It reminds me that if I had quit, I would have missed out on one of the greatest happinesses I have ever know, my first love, one of my best friends, and a constant supporter of mine who always fills my heart with sparkles, Brandi. Even though she broke up with me over email in the 6th grade, we still have a very amazing relationship.

Opossums, I am going to wrap this, but I am just trying to say that I know that our lives suck sometimes. We break up relationships (or, God forbid someone breaks up with us), we doubt ourselves as parents, we goof up at work, we drop our phones in the toilet, or we are force fed Hostess snacks. Whatever your "F*** My Life" moment is, something good is going to come from it, you will always get 'a Brandi' in the end.

I love y'all.
Will'yumm'.

Sparkles!

Monday, February 1, 2010

Franzcia Fiasco.

Never drink wine out of a box. You will regret it.

I don't know why the term "Wine from a Box" wasn't a clear enough indicator for me.

It tasted like nail polish remover or paint thinner and was as clear as water.

YOWSAS.

The results of this mistake involved calling the boy that I have been in love with for the past 2.5 years, who hasn't come out of the closet yet, but is very much a homosexual, and telling him that I am perfect for him, and the sooner he realizes that he is supposed to be with me, the better. Oh yeah. That happened. I also told him that the girl he was interested in was heinous (she totally isn't the most attractive thing, but I am sure she has a great personality, and I shouldn't have said anything anyways) and that she was a "beard". If you are someone who is wondering what a beard is (Nana Sherrell, if you are reading this, pay attention), beard is a term used to refer to a girl who is used by a closeted homosexual man, to make it appear as if he is really into women. When, in fact, he is only thinking about one thing..mmhmmm..

While talking to him and calling him all sorts of terrible names that he kinda of deserved, I was walking around my neighborhood. BAD IDEA. I started talking to my neighbor that I have never met. She told me if I saw her brother Christopher, to let him know that Mr. Mungo (which I assume is her cat) got home safely. PS I have never met this woman before, and here she is telling me to look for her brother and tell him her cat got home safely. Bitch, it is 11pm, and I am talking to my love interest, I don't give a damn about Mr. Mungo!

Ugh. Then I proceeded to lay down in our hammock in the backyard, this should go with out saying, don't get drunk and get in a hammock. I thought I fractured my skull, no worries, it is ok. I hung up with "him" and felt so sad because he is in such denial, and it haunts me to think that he is so perfect and won't tell me he loves me blah blah blah (this is, keep in mind, heightened emotions due to the Franzcia Refreshing White Wine, and always laugh at the people who do this sober). So what do I do? Call my mother. After leaving a hysterical message on her phone for a good 13 minutes I went to bed. I wake up at 6 craving a caffeine.

I then got in my car and drive to Jack in the Box, which is only a block away, and demand a large coke. Well, this bitch gives me a Diet Coke. And while I love Diet Coke, that is not what I asked for. So I put LaRhetta in reverse and got through that drive thru backwards, tap on the glass, and tell her in SPANISH this time, REGULAR COKE, GRANDE, POR FAVOR. I make it home and get ready for work.

All day I continued to feel HORRIBLE. The worst hangover ever, all because of this damn box of wine.

Moral of Story: Boxed wine should only be consumed by women who live in Reno, who bet all their money on the penny slots and wear shiny gold pants and Donnie and Marie Tour T-Shirts, or by kids in high school who will drink anything as long as they can fit in at "that party".

Just saying..

Love Y'allllll!
xo
Willyummm

a Terrible Tiara Tale...

An important thing to remember when you are going to an event, especially an event that you have to travel multiple hours/miles to, is this: always note the time change.

Why do you think I am telling you this? Guess. JUST guess. That's right, THAT IS RIGHT, I missed Miss America 2010.

I was sitting here thinking to myself, as I was choosing which shoes to wear to this momentous occasion, how excited my mother was going to be to see her first born on TV when she tuned in at 7pm to watch THE Miss America pageant, and see me in the crowd, cheering, possibly crying because I was so overwhelmed with glee...and then it hit me. If she was tuning in at 7pm Alabama time...that means, it is going to be two hours earlier in Vegas, because of the time change. I panicked and in a whirlwind of chaos grabbed anything that looked remotely like something I would need at the pageant. I was getting hairspray, colognes, all my shoes, etc., and bobby pins, in case the reigning Miss America forgot some when she crowned the new one, I would rush up to the stage and offer my helping hand!

In this mad dash I am not able to get hold of Bex, screaming and running to my car in 6" leopard print peep toe pumps, I fumbled with my 7 bags and car keys, cursing the gay powers that be, for letting me be so stupid. I cranked up LaRhetta, and hauled off to meet her at her house. I text her and told her to be ready to start moving as I pulled into the driveway. As I fought traffic as if someone was chasing me down the freeway, all the while calculating how fast we would have to go to get there, it was possible, if we went at a constant speed of 84 miles an hour.

I pull into Bex's house and I see her, in a full out run, loading up her car, I pause here to make a note that this chick had some rocking hair, she curled it for me because everyone who knows me knows of my obsession with curly hair, and she did it as an extra surprise for me, ANYWAYS, I digress. She is in a full out run, literally throwing her suitcases into her car from across the yard. Without a word, we both, in unison, start to unload my bags and jump in her car. Out of breath, panting and praying for a miracle we sped down the 15 towards the Silver State.
We finally start to talk about how stupid we both were for not realizing it sooner, and laughed it off, I mean, we were making good time , and what else could go wrong?
(NOTE: Never ask yourself, "What else could possibly go wrong". Why? Because God will show you instantly.)
We were right in the middle of the chorus belting out "It's Raining Men", and I heard a sound effect that I had never noticed before. That sound effect sounded oddly like...a police siren.
Yup.
The fuzz. The fuzz was pulling us over. For speeding. Mind you, I never told Bex my theory of the 84 miles an hour, just so it is clear.
We pull over to the shoulder, and we prepare for the State Trooper to let us have it. He comes up to my window, and screams "I PULLED YOU OVER FOR SPEEDING". We informed him that we were in a hurry to get to Vegas and we didn't realize how fast we were going. He asked for ID, registration and insurance. Bex reached across the car to open the glove compartment box, and he instantly reached for his gun and said "Woah!!". When he realized that she was reaching for her papers, that he had just asked for, he felt embarrassed, I think, and then tried to be smooth about it and act relaxed. This is when he saw my shoes. My big ass 6" leopard print peep toe shoes with the 1" platform. I thought he was checking me out, then realized that it isn't everyday you see this, especially in the Mojave Desert, I know he secretly enjoyed my well toned calf muscle in those shoes, because I am sure that his wife has cankles and only wears crocs, so it must have been a treat for him to oggle my goodies. We were asked a series of questions, and then he went to run the plates. He came back with a ticket. Going 96 in a 70. Whooops! So that took up 25 minutes of our journey. Then we hit insane traffic. At this point the pageant has started seating people, and we had barely gotten into Nevada. We finally arrive to the outskirts of Vegas. We make it to the pageant doors, after valeting Dora the Scion, both of us clacking up in our big girl shoes. Then this BEAST OF A WOMAN denies us entry because the pageant commenced 25 minutes prior. I wanted to cry. I was on the verge of a breakdown. I still am actually.

After 10 minutes arguing with this sexually depraved creature in her awful navy suit and totally out of season doc martins, we left. Defeated. I heard the crowd cheering, and it was clear, my dream of seeing Miss America, was still just that, a dream. I wanted to slap that woman in her throat, and punch that cop right in his gonads.

We went to our hotel, Miss Amy texting me all the results as we waited in our check in line at the Flamingo. Went up to the room, and caught the tail end of the pageant. We still had a good time that night, for the most part. I mean, it's Vegas, Vegas always has something to do. I was introduced to Jimmy Buffet's restaurant and Bex and I followed around a lesbian couple, one of them, the short squatty one, was wearing a plaid skirt, that came a shade above her ass cheeks. It was so horrifying we of course, had to follow it, and listened to the comments that people were making about it as she passed them. We drank out of an Eiffel Tower shaped cup.

I am, of course, upset blog buddies, I mean, it was a big deal for me to go see the glittery dresses and teased hair. But this blog isn't called William Goes to Miss America, it is Adventures of a Boy in Heels, and that is exactly what I had. An adventure, and, no, it isn't the adventure I had planned, hoped for, or promised you, but I did deliver you an adventure. I promise that our next trip is planned/thought out better!! I am glad to now have 39 of you loyal readers, and hope that you stay tuned for my next installment, the fun is just beginning...

Loving you always!!
xox
William


PS I totally picked Miss Virginia to win, before I even left for the pageant, I am just that good.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Clothing Catastrophe

I hope that all of you have seen the film Legally Blonde. Remember when Warner broke up with Elle and she had spent all day picking out her outfit because she was planning on him proposing to her at the same restaurant that Madonna went into labor at? Well, he didn't propose, he in fact broke her heart, and soundly dropped her off at the front door and sped off. Well, these turn of events made that dress and new pair of pumps that she had been so sure were THE ones she wanted to be proposed to in, absolutely intolerable. In my mind, Elle, after climbing back up the spiral stair case of her sorority house, promptly went into the bathroom, and burned that hot pink cocktail dress in the bathtub fueling it with the perfume Warner bought her for Christmas. This of course, may not have happened, but it very possibly could have, and very well should.

Clothing is supposed to make you feel put together, beautiful, and confident(which, is why it kills me when people wear overalls with Eeyore or other such fictional characters embroidered on them..GAG..but that is a different story). But when we, like Elle Woods, are forced to go through traumatic experiences like break ups or something of another caliber it is my belief that we should immediately get rid of that outfit. I don't care if it is your favorite pair of jeans, or your most comfortable sweater, get rid of it. You will never have as enjoyable of an experience if you wear something that was present at the time of a traumatic occurrence.

I am speaking from experience, trust me. Today I wore this pink plaid shirt that used to be so cute to me, and I loved it, and I felt good in it, but then, one fateful day last August, I had an atrocious experience in it, and haven't worn it since. I was out of clean clothes today, and found that it was hanging in my closet. I decided, against my better judgement, to wear it, and all I day, all I could think about was that one day last August and it made me have a terrible mood. I now hate that shirt. I am throwing it away. By hanging on to it I am only hanging on to that memory, that I would much rather forget. It is cluttering my life, and closet space (which is limited as it is).

So, friends, I urge you, please make yourselves happy and get rid of all you bad memory clothing. Burn it, throw it away, donate it, for all you know, this unlucky blouse maybe someone else's blessing, but don't keep it. You are all to amazing and beautiful to be tied down by the bad memories that your fabrics can hold against you.

I am hoping this post makes sense. It is late, and it sounded good in my head. Loving you always! 12 hours before I am on the road to Vegas for Miss America!!

xox Opossums!!
William

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Preparing for My Big Pageant!!

So Miss America is two days away.

Bex is going with me, we are taking her car, Dora. We will be staying on the Las Vegas strip in a luxurious room with champagne bubble baths and rhinestone bedframes.
There will be Cher and Wayne Newton themed pillows that decorate the beds and sofas!

I don't know what shoes I am going to pack, something conservative for my interview with the judges, something tall for my swimsuit, and of course something clean for my evening gown. Some one give me some ideas!!

I know this is a short posting, and it leaves you with no real sense of fulfillment, but please know that I will do much better tomorrow!

This is going to be our first adventure together and I think it is a fitting one, don't you?

I really do love each and everyone of you. Thank you so much for your support, even if I did threaten some of you within an inch of your life to become my followers on here. It really does mean a lot to me, and I know we are going to have so much fun!!

Love Y'all!!!
xoxo
William

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Garments from Hell

I witnessed a 58 year old woman wearing a tube top today I almost hopped out of my car and slapped her to the ground to rip it off of her wrinkly body.

I hate tube tops. HATE THEM. I don't care if you are a 5'10 slender, flat stomached woman, or if you are a 300+ mess of a woman , no one should wear a tube top.

They are trashy.

Do you wish to rebuke this statement? Do men come up to you when you are wearing your tube top? Yes? Where are you when this happens? In your local biker bar? Oh, OK..and are these the type of men you want to marry? [If you are in a biker bar and wearing a tube top,I realize, yes, this is the man you will probably marry, but, otherwise,no]. And if on the off chance you do marry them, they are probably going to cheat on you with the first bedazzled tube top to cross his path after the honeymoon.

Why?

Because men have it programmed in their heads that "tube top" is code for skank, which, as a good rule of thumb, it is. And you may not be a skank at all. For all I know you are a Harvard law student who is working towards a high powered legal career, and the only reason you wore that tacky piece of shit is because that blonde girl, Cindy, from Malibu who you somehow ended up being roomies with junior year convinced you that that would be the perfect choice to wear for a girls night out.
Regardless, a man is going to take you as a skank and all that Harvard crap isn't going to matter, we all know what that tube top translates to in a straight mans head...sex. and skank.

If you feel like I am being overly dramatic about this topic, you may be right, but I am very ANTI. So anti in fact that I had to let my own mother know what I was thinking when she whipped out a little white number on me one fine spring day. We were sitting in her closet (yes, I was sitting in a closet..don't even try..it's too easy) and she was showing me her outfits she was packing for an all girls beach trip. Well you know, there were sundresses, and there were sandals, some cute jewelry...and then, tucked into her little duffel bag was a garment that will haunt my dreams forever. IT was this white tube top that LACED UP THE SIDES, like shoe string status! I completely blacked out I can't remember a thing, it wasn't until later when I awoke from my fashion coma, I asked her which corner of what bargain bin she salvaged it from, AND ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?! She borrowed it from my Aunt Sloane. And then went on to defend it! Saying that Sloane got all these guys looking and coming up to her when she was wearing it, at the FLORABAMA when they went on their last beach trip.

To give those of you an idea of how classy the Florabama is, they are hosting their 25th Annual Mullet Toss this year. Nice.


Now, I will say this, my mother and my Aunt Sloane, they are very well dressed women, and out of anyplace to wear a tube top, a beach bar is, I guess, the best choice. And, hell, if they are wearing tube tops somewhere that is proudly hosting a "Mullet Toss", they might be the more dressed up in the crowd.

My point being, even my mother and beloved aunt who I think are amazing, beautiful, smart, and independent women, are not safe from my war on tube tops.

Moral of Post: Tube Tops are Horrid. I don't care if they are full coverage, midriff, bedazzled, glittered, Ed Hardy,gold plated, rhinestone incrested, hell I wouldn't care if Jesus came back wearing one, I would tell him the same damn thing. TUBE TOPS ARE WRETCHED!!!

I hope that anyone reading this soundly burns their TT's, and every time you see someone wearing one, please roundhouse kick them in the face.

Thank you for your support.

William
xox

Bridget the Fancy Feast-er

I was talking to Bridget today. She quoted a line from Disney's "Bambi", she referred to some one being "twitterpated". I thought that this was a cross between the words 'to twitter' and 'masturbate', like, he got so excited about how many followers he had he started twitterpating about it. This is not the case. Apparently, to be twitterpated means to be excited or overly zealous about something or someone, it was used by Thumper the Rabbit in Bambi, which just goes to show that you are never too old to learn new things everyday.

She mocked me for not knowing this quote, because I am a self declared Disney fanatic, and it seemed that I had lost my touch. I, however, could not bear to watch this movie, or Dumbo. I hated that both of them lost their mothers (even if Dumbo did finally get reunited), and that in turn caused me to have a fear for most of my youth, of being obsessed with the thought I was going to lose my Mommie Dearest. So, Miss Amy cut me off of the depressing shit.

Bridget, now feeling awkward by my informing her of my inability to cope with these cartoon tragedies, felt obligated to contribute something strange about her childhood that would make me feel a little bit better about being the perfect Zoloft candidate at 4 years old. And boy did she deliver. This is what I got.

"Don't worry. When I was younger I used to lick my hand after feeding the cats."
"WHAT? Like after handling the food?"
"Don't judge me Mama's boy."

Touché.

xox.
William

*EDIT* After reading this entry my friend Bailey informed me that she "once" urinated in a pizza box as a child.

"When I was a kid for some reason I peed in a pizza box one time, and the threw it away in my kitchen I was a weird kid"

This leads me to the question...weren't we all weird kids? Tell me what you did that was weird..leave a commentskies!

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Beers & Sticky Boobies

There are things that you and your best friends do that you will never forget for as long as you live. I was reminded of one such occurrence today when I was talking to my best friend, Bridget, and we started to gab about one of our adventures one fateful Homecoming night.

This was before the high heel craze, and I was just a little closet gay boy in Alabama, who had great hair, and new perfectly straight teeth, I was just beginning to get the hang of high school and come into my own. Bridget was the same as she is now, beautiful brown hair that is always perfectly curled with the aid of her hot rollers,and pearls with every outfit, even when she was playing basketball, which just goes to prove that she was, and is still a lady. This maybe the best time to mention that we have the same size feet, and as fate would have it,her secretly gay friend always tried on her stilettos, and now she is asking to borrow his. We were usually each other's back up dates to these sort of things, just so we don't appear to be dateless or pathetic, both of us with the understanding that if there was an available man at the function, we would bow out gracefully and race to see who could get his number first. This year, however, circumstances were different and Bridget had been asked by a junior, which was no matter to me because I had a secret weapon, her name opossums, is Audrey. The one thing you need to know about Audrey is that you never know what she is going to do next, she is a firecracker, a wild card, and it is the one quality that she has that has made me fall and remain deeply in love with her. Audrey came to homecoming at my school, that only had 144 people at the time, and turned my modest Catholic Boarding School on it's ear.. Most girls wore a long floor length dress made out of all kinds of hideous fibers that I wouldn't let come within a 23 foot radius of my body, and they all had ghastly up-do's that their pageant mothers did for them on the porch of their double wide, every hair held securely in place by copious amounts of Aqua Net and bobby pins. Audrey, however, came into that sorry excuse of a dance wearing a sassy and dangerously short teal flowy dress that showed off her long dancer legs, with her hair down, and wavy. She wore her show choir heels and told all the nun-wanna-be's that they were designer, Michael Kors or something, they were definitely $45 from a dance apparel store, but these people ate her up, they loved her, as anyone would, they thought she was a big city girl. We all danced, I showed her off, and that is when the trouble began. One girl, Marie, came up to us and asked us if we "really wanted to party". A note to anyone reading this that is in high school, and is approached by a "Marie" type person, always say "HELL NO MARIE YOU CRAZY FUCKER". Trust me, it will only save you many hours of stress and heartache. Naturally, Audrey was all about something, a little more exciting than the electric slide. So we follow Marie to a gas station that shares the same main road that our school does. Audrey and I pull up behind my friend Claire, who has a car full of Freshmen who in turn are all related to her. And then, our friend who will forever live in my mind as the Wootten drove up. The Wootten was the smaller scale version of Audrey, she was kind of a ding dong at times, but I always have loved her. So, the Wootten and Marie get out of their Cadillacs, yes two white 16 year old girls in Alabama drove matching pimped out Caddy's, I know, what the hell, and pulled out beers from their trunk. I am not going to lie to you, I was this little virgin gay boy who spent his time admiring shoes in Vogue magazine, the same little gay boy who had the fear of God put into him by his parents if they ever caught him drinking and driving, I started to panic. Audrey was all about this. I was petrified.

We each got handed a bottle of Bud Light. It was warm, Marie had gotten
"a guy she new" (that means one of the redneck boys who hangs out at the local Wal-Mart, who graduated high school three years earlier and dropped out of community college after a month because he was going to be in the Army, then he failed because of drugs or something, and now spends his days huntin' and fishin' and drinking Natty Light in the back of his pick-em-up truck, scamming on girls who are still in high school, because they are the easiest ones to convince to sleep with you because everyone your own age knows you are a dumb ass, you know, those types). We all sat in our cars, with open hot alcohol, in our hands waiting for the person in the next car over to take the first sip. The Wootten did it first. Then Claire, then Bridget, then me. I looked over at Audrey who handed hers to me, and told me to drink it, she was "watching her weight". I forced down two gulps of my beer, then I heard the sound of what I thought was a mix of God and my Mother in my head. "YOOOU ARE DRUNK! YOU CAN'T DRINK AND DRIVE!!" I just knew I was shit faced, those two gulps had rendered me unfit to drive and I started sweating, I was an alcoholic, a drunk, I was my GRANDMOTHER!! I turned to Audrey, who had her eyes bright and lit up. She had been planning to use this as her opportunity to drive LaRhetta, my car. She had been bugging me about it ever since I had gotten her, and now took complete advantage of the situation.

"You don't look like you should be driving, how many beers have you had? What if we get pulled over, what will your step dad do if he knows you were drinking and driving?"

She had me cornered.

I agreed to let her drive, but she had to go slowly, the radio had to be off, no cell phones were to be used whilst driving, and she had to keep her hands on the wheel.

PS Audrey didn't have a license.

So we all decide that we need to go back to the dance before someone wonders why all of our cars are parked across the street at the closed gas station that was in clear view from the school. We stashed the beer bottles in a bush in front of the store, and we all get back into our respective vehicles. I was coaching the license-less Audrey, "OK, put it into reverse, now check your mirrors..." She started to back up, slowly, as coached, and started to turn the wheel to back out of the lot. As she is turning the wheel, I will never forget this as long as I shall live, Marie's gray Cadillac slams into reverse and plows right into my car.

MY POOR LARHETTA was in her first accident! We were all stunned that this had happened. I just knew right then and there that the cops were going to show up and breathalyze me and send me to prison, Audrey was going to get the death penalty for driving without a license, and my poor car was going to be sent to a junk yard and sold for parts because no one else would ever buy such a beaten up heap of junk.

Marie got out of her car. Everyone else sat in complete silence, mainly because they thought that I was going to commit a homicide right there in the Pepco parking lot. I opened my car door and got out. My bumper lay there half hanging on with dear life to LaRhetta, half defeated on the slick black pavement.

All Marie could say was "Man, don't worry about it. It won't be that expensive of a fix." As she lit her Camel No. 9.

"It's a fucking Saab Marie! Windshield wiper fluid is expensive for this car!, " I shouted back.

Everyone is slowly starting to trickle out of their vehicles and Marie and I are in the midst of an all out screaming fest when we start to notice a lot of traffic on the road behind us. The dance had started to let out and people's parents were driving by, to pick up their sober, not screaming children up from Winter Homecoming.

Some cars started to honk at us. 11 of us in all, all in our formal wear standing around my broken car in 23 degree weather, wondering what the hell we were going to do.

I will tell you what we did, we panicked. Everyone fled to get into someone else's car so they could leave before anyones parents recognized them and pulled over to see what was happening. Bridget, my best friend in the entire world, yelled at me "See you back at school! Call me!" she jumped in Claire's car, and they drove off, Bridget's coral dress flapping in the door, leaving Marie and me to our own battle. Audrey is sitting in the car at this point, giggling & texting.

We stood there, in awe. We weren't sure what to do at this point. Then,the only remaining soul in the Pepco parking lot, the Wootten, lept out of her car doing what looked like, a boob massage. She was screaming "BOOOOBIES TO THE RESCUE!"
I asked her how much she had to drink, and that this want a time to talk about her mammary glands. She whipped out her fake sticky breasts that she was using to keep her dress up at the dance and adhered them to my bumper and stuck it back onto my car. It was amazing. It worked. The Wootten was my hero. We decided that I would worry about fixing my bumper later, and I would call Marie in the morning with an estimate.

Audrey drove us up to the dance, right as it was letting out, everyone staring at the two C-cup stick on's that LaRhetta was wearing, the monks and nuns that were chaperoning eyed Audrey and I wearily as we walked across the quad. I looked around so I could yell at Bridget, but I couldn't find her. Audrey and I had a final dance, and then decided we wanted IHOP, I was going back to get in my car when I noticed a coral dress sticking out of someone else's car. I went over to the window, of the old stank ass pick up truck and saw my best friend having her face licked, seriously, licked, by the junior boy who had asked her to the dance, Robby. Robby was so frightening, a nice comparison would be that of a goblin. I, at first thought that I was still drunk from my two gulps of beer, but nope, it was happening. I died laughing at the scene, and Bridget gratefully got out of the car, vowing to never leave me stranded again at a gas station as long as she ever lived. Having to make out with Robby, I figured was punishment enough, so I let it slide.
And went to Ihop.

I came up with some lie to my stepfather about this situation the next morning, it must have worked, because I am alive today to tell it. Don't ever go to parking lots and drink warm beer purchased by a redneck. It just isn't worth your time.

xox
William

Sherrell is a Super Freak...

Here is something amazing.

If anyone is actually following this blog, you are now aware based on my previous entry that I am completely obsessed with the Tudors on Showtime. Well, I am here to tell you that I was telling my mother about it and she was quick to inform me that Sherrell, my grandmother, has told her that "the Tudors" was her favorite show too. My grandmother and I share the same love for soft-core pornographic TV programs about European Royalty.

What a bond my family shares.


xox.
William

I Need a Tudor...

I have come across my newest obsession. I am very outraged that no one had told me about it earlier, but I came across it last night when I couldn't find anything else to watch On Demand. "The Tudors". Oh. My. God.

All I really have to say about this is how much more enjoyable my AP European History class in high school would have been if we had gotten to watch the Showtime version of this family. Who knew that King Henry VIII was so sexy? With his ripped lean body, white beautiful teeth, 5 o'clock shadow...oh sweet Lord, is he chiseled out of stone?! OK, so maybe this isn't the most accurate version of the story (physically) but, I mean, I am not going to lie to you, watching this is more enjoyable than watching porn..for real. The soft-core adult content is so intriguing that I couldn't turn it off! I watched 5 episodes last night!

Needless to say, I am a fan, you should be too. You will thank me.

xox

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Bitch and Whiinneee

Tonight I decided I needed a drink after work. It was a long day, and I was tense and I thought I would relax. However, I have been really upset with my eating habits and I didn't want to over do it with the extra calories that alcohol provides, so I decided in the best interest of my curvy figure, and my heart, I would only have a glass of red wine. Well, that one glass came and went. And by God and Sweet Sonny Jesus, I wanted another. My brain kept screaming at me to not do it, that I didn't need it, but my hand started going towards the bottle. Then, genius struck me. I decided that if I were to have another drink it should be a healthier version, so why not make a wine smoothie? This, was where I went wrong. I don't really make smoothies that often, in fact, ever. So I had to kind of improvise with what I had in my fridge, and let my own creative concoction take it's course from there. All I had were bananas, ice cubes, and grapes. The grapes were looking kind of puny, but I threw them anyway. Let me explain opossums, this was the worst idea I have had in a while. And I often have bad ideas (let us reference when I decided to save time and Nair my face because I didn't feel like spending time shaving), but this was RANCID.

A. Don't ever think that green grapes and bananas are ever going to taste good together. They don't.
B. Wine should only come in one form, in a wine glass, straight, no added flavors or ingredients, or else you will regret it.
C. If anyone ever tries convince you that there is a healthier form of preparing an alcoholic beverage, kick them in the shins and slap them in the throat, and tell them to give you the regular version. The extra 12 calories aren't going to kill you.

After tasting this horrid mixture I immediately tossed it in the sink, and had to consume the rest of the wine to make the potent taste disappear. In result, my little lambchops, in attempts to watch my weight, I ended up getting completely tipsy... Alas, the price you pay when you try to count your calories.

Goodnight Opossums. xox
William

Monday, January 18, 2010

Pants Party

There is a man in our office building not wearing pants. I wish I was joking. He is wandering around PANTLESS. He isn't even staying stationary, he is moving around the office covering his middle aged wrinkled up junk with his horrible polyester shirt. And what is the most horrific part of this story? Everyone else knew about it and didn't tell me, I had to witness it. Yes. My poor little eyes had to bear witness to this chicken legged catastrophe roaming the halls. You may be asking yourself, why is he not wearing any knickers? Answer: He spilled tea on them. So in his mind, it would only make sense to take them off and place them on the fan so they could dry. He covered a fan up with his nasty ass drawers and continued to walk around bare bottomed. I am making it sound like he wasn't wearing any underwear, but let me tell you friends, there was no VPL (visible panty line), so unless he is wearing a thong, I am going to make a bold statement and say he was going commando...that's right. More to come.
Love you Opossums! xox
William