Oh, I get it now.

I have a huge issue with one of my friends. We never really talk all that much, just hang out every once in a while. The other night we hung out and ever since then this person has been texting me everyday. I figure, sweet, we had a good time and we might end up doing more shit together. So I get three text in a row which explained exactly why all the traffic.  It has nothing to do with me or our friendship, more to do with his dick. He wants to poke someone I know and he thinks he can get to her through me. What a silly girl I am...

Us on Air?

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/mosh_girlz.rss

This is something we could be exploring soon. We'll keep you posted.

The Weight of the Word FAT.

At the age of thirty....something and a fat girl to the core I've gotten used to the snide comments people like to make. I've been a big butt since I was a little girl and there isn't anything that can be said to me that hasn't been said in the past. When one is ridiculed for the their appearance at such a young age it's nearly impossible for little girls to not hide behind bricks and avoid the pain that words carry. I thought this sort of pain was behind me, the other day I found out I was wrong.

See, I've been busting my ass in the gym for nearly 6 months. I've lost a total of 30 lbs and two sizes and I've been feeling pretty good about myself. I suppose maybe too good because one of the few assholes that I work with decided I needed to be slammed back into low self-esteem town. I guess he thought I should have made more progress or that my thighs were still too fat. Whatever the case, he'd done what he set out to do.

Stunned that someone of our age and current location (at work) would make such a rude comment, I sat and thought about what needed to be done. My first instinct was to march down stairs and blacken both his eyes. The frail little half-wit deserved a good ass kicking with an audience of on lookers wondering what just took place. But I side with my better judgement and decide to bring it to the attention of his supervisor. Normally, this sort of shit wouldn't get a rise out of me but this asshole is looking for a fight. He constantly insults and belittles people, walking off with a smirk like he's just please as pie with himself. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

I'll tell you who he is, he's a old man who works in inventory, probably hasn't see the vagina in eons, picks his nose and eats his boogers, plays with toy cars and boats, and thinks that his shit doesn't stink.  And, AND he used to be fat. You'd think that if anybody understands how one feels being overweight it would be him. Apparently former fat people become just as heartless as current non-fat people, thinking they have a right to judge and ridicule.

In the end he got reprimanded for harassment. I didn't use that word, his supervisor did and I was stunned that in his own defense when confronted about it he responded that he was "shocked". Shocked? By what? The fact that what he said offended me or that I put an end to his reign of bullshit. Would he be just as shocked if I called him a faggot? Should I then pretend I was unaware that that word would offend anyone? I suppose the whole purpose of me letting someone know what the douche bag was up to has worked out. I just hope that he understands the weight hateful words carry to those of us who's self esteem has been battered for many years.

WHERE'S MAH PURSE???!!!

Yesterday, my brother took me and my friend Miriam to a movie. He paid for everything, which shocked me. That's not to say that my brother isn't a generous person, he just has other priorities.

I must have been in quite a stupor from having him pay for everything because upon leaving the theater, I left something behind, in addition to my dignity for seeing the Nightmare on Elm Street remake, which was kind of terrible.

I leave the theater and head to the gym for yoga. When I get there, I realize I'm early. OH HAPPY DAY! That means I can do a few minutes of cardio before jumping into twisting my body into the form of a pretzel and hearing my bones snap and my muscles quiver.

As I pull into the parking lot, I absentmindedly grab at my purse, or the area where my purse normally is. My lips were chapped and my chap stick was in the purse. But my purse is nowhere to be found. I sit in the car, dumbfounded. There has to be a logical reason for this.

I sit there for about two minutes trying to make sense of it all when I realize that I never walked out of the theater with my purse. Eventually, I put two and two together and realize my purse must still be in the theater.

I hit the back roads to get to the theater as soon as possible. I'm driving like a maniac before I realize that if I get pulled over, I'm fucked because I don't have my license. I slow it down.

When I get to the theater, I sprint from my car to the front doors and thrust myself in. I'm looking around, it's tuesday and the place is empty. I look for someone who works there.

"Hi, you don't know me but I think I left my purse in one of the theaters!" I say, out of breath. Let's face it. Nearly fifty pounds lost and I still huff and puff from a four second jog.

The guy stares at me like I'm from another planet. I suddenly have an intense urge to piss myself and run away.

"Was it about this big?" the guy makes a motion with his hands.

"Yes!"

"Did it have weird animals on it?" he asks.

"Yes!"

"Are they like, dead super hero animals?"

"For the love of god YES!"

"What's wrong with you? That's a weird purse," I give him a look that either says I'm borderline retarded or I'm gonna fuck you up. He points me in the direction of the managers office.

"She has it," he says. "You'll have to knock on her door to get it, you can't just walk in there."

"Okay, just knock on the door, got it." I saunter over to the managers door. The pipsqueak is still rambling about not knocking forcefully and knocking no more than three times. I pound on the door anxiously and wait for it to open.

I notice the door has two peepholes. I hear a meek, "who is it?" from the inside. Did I accidentally just step into twilight zone? Why not just open the door? Why sound so fragile behind the door?

"It's me," I say without thinking that they probably don't know who me is. "I have a problem," I quickly add.

"Yes?"

I pause for a moment. "Are you gonna open up?"

"What's your problem ma'am?" The voice responds. Suddenly, it's like I'm talking to the great and powerful Oz.

"I left something in one of the theaters," I say. I hear nothing and wait for the great and powerful Oz to tell me to bring back the wicked witch's broomstick and he'll grant me a wish. Then I hear the door unlock. Really? I thought. A face peeks out and looks at me. The manager, I presumed. And not male, like I had thought.

"What are you missing?" She asks. My first thought was to make a joke. I thought about saying "My soul," or "The broken pieces of my heart," but this bitch looked pretty serious.

"I left my purse in one of the theaters," I say. "It's about this big," (insert hand gesture here), "and it has dead animal superheroes on it. I can has?"

She disappears behind the door briefly and returns with me purse. A look of pure joy and ecstasy flood my face. I grab for it and she pulls it out of reach.

"Are you sure?" She asks.

"Yeah," I reach for it again and she pulls it out of reach yet again.

"But are you sure?" She asks once more.

"Yeah I'm sure, gimme!" I grab it out of her hands, not wanting to play her jedi mind tricks. She gave me a dirty look before disappearing behind the double peepholed door. I can tell they were about to look through it before I had gotten there. The zipper is half opened. I look inside and check everything thoroughly, to make sure none of my credit cards are missing, that my camera is in tact and has no new noodz on it, to make sure messages hadn't been written in my little notebook. All is where I'd last left it. I skip gingerly to the car and get in and drive back to the gym.

Losing a purse is serious business... Especially to theater folk.

~Suge

Dirty Water Wieners: Late Night Epidemic

You've all seen them. It's 4am and you've been out drinking and dancing all night. Your stomach growls and you need something to soak up the alcohol churning inside. Walking the streets you realize that Sub Way is already closed and you're pissed. Looking around for something, ANYTHING, to feed the hunger from within and when you spot it. Tattered deck umbrella, line 4 people deep, and the smell of...well who really knows whats brewing in the roach coach and sauerkraut. It calls to you, it whispers sweet nothings to your tummy and you cross the street. You've just decided to eat a dirty water wiener.

Time after time I've warned my friends not to do it but they insist on taking chances. Dirty water hot dogs should never, on any occasion be enjoyed. Whatever the toppings, there is a good reason why these ghetto bologna rolls get covered in condiments. These things may look edible but they're just little tubes of intestinal trouble waiting to happen. Bacteria swarming around inside the mystery meat wands of death, hoping that you're drunk enough to put one in your unsuspecting mouth. You might think the 4 pints of whiskey and coke is enough to kill whatever lurks in the hot dog water, but it's not...nothing is! This stuffs been brewing for months, night after night, hot dog after hot dog. In the cold night air, heating time and time again so the layer of floating fat doesn't form a crust between the poor sap serving you and the dogs of deception. Jose, I'm sorry but your cart of botulism must be driven off a cliff.

Save a life, refuse the wiener.

~Kimmeh~

Time to talk about something serious now...

I would like to discuss an issue, a disease even, that is very near and dear to my heart. Many people aren't aware that it even happens, most people dismiss the idea of it. It is rare and only happens in a handful of people. And most of the time, they have no idea that they are afflicted. Until it randomly pops up.

I'm talking about sleepnomming.



I know, I know. Just hearing about it releases fear in your heart. I was stunned to find out that I, Suge, suffer from such an ailment. I had no idea, no warning, and no way to deal with it. I'm going it alone, and I need your support.

Now, some of you might be wondering exactly what sleepnomming is. Obviously, you have not been updated on the new age of medical illnesses. This isn't something to take lightly. Allow me to explain my illness to you.

A few weeks ago, I had taken a cough medicine to help my cough. It also got me pretty high and made me sleepy. I went to lay down and had a hard time falling asleep because my legs were twitching like a junkie hungry for his next fix. Finally, sleep found me but my sleep was to be interrupted.

The next time I woke up, it was two in the morning. I'm in the kitchen. I'm in mid bite of a piece of pizza. The cat sits on the pizza boxes and watches me, with a WTF look on her face.



Shocked, I threw the crust down and looked around the kitchen. How did I get here? I asked myself. I decided that it had to have been the cough medicine and I went back to bed. Terrified. I've always known I was a sleep walker, but a sleep nommer? Not I! Cleary you jest!

I let the issue slip my mind, but I knew in my subconscious, it was lurking. Would I do it again? When would it happen? Is there a support group for my illness? Can it be cured? Is this why I'm so damn fat?

The questions kept pouring but I deflected them all. I ignored them and went back into my daily routines of loathing life and WalMart people.

A few weeks go by and, I figured it was the cough medicine as I hadn't had another incident. I figured this would be a one time thing.

I was wrong, oh god was I wrong!

A few nights ago, I went to bed twenty minutes earlier than I normally do. I'm comfortable in my REM sleep and then I open my eyes. And I'm in the kitchen again. Ruby is rubbing herself on my legs and I'm nomming a spoonful of peanut butter.



Not only that, I have a handful of chocolate chips. WHAT IS THIS MAGIC?! I ask to no one in particular. I throw the spoon in the sink, put down the chocolate chips and wash my hands because the chocolate had melted and looked like I had issues wiping my own ass.

I got back in bed and hide under the covers. I hadn't taken any medication. I couldn't understand this... I just couldn't...

So we sleepnommers need to stick together. Because, this is an issue that will not go away, not without force. And even then, it'll probably just happen without us even being aware. I don't know much about this disease, as it is newly discovered but, I are scared. I are scared for mah life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But it makes sense as to why my weightloss has slowed. I wonder how many times a week I do this... Curiouser and curiouser...

~Suge

Crimson and Clover.

Good god how I loath shark week. It's not the constant leaking of blood or the occasional pop of tissue from deep within the female cradle of life. It's not even the water that I retain or the zit that burst through my skin like a fart bubble rising to the surface of the water. It's the fucking CRAMPS! I swear I've been in labor the last three days with no sign of it easing. The constant ache and random sharp pains is enough to make a girl want to shank her co-workers. Taking enough pain pills to numb Godzilla doesn't seem to be working and the only thing that was starting to help (hot tub at the YMCA) was short lived. My cramps lasted into the wee hours of the night. I woke up sometime around 1AM and turned Avatar off and they were gone.

In other news I saw the funniest thing on Monday. I was just about home and I happened to look to the right at a guy on a bike. I could see that he was trying to use his cell phone and ride at the same time. Next thing you know this dude drops his phone on the cement and in a fuss to stop his bike and or pick up his phone this guy proceeds to fly over his handlebars. Face first, this spaz is flying through the air and lands on the grass for two stunt like rolls before standing up. The best part of this was when he punched his fist into the other hand because he was just so pissed of at himself. He violently grabs at his bike and cell and starts off again. Fuckin retard...

Get outta here, creepster!

A very strange and unusual thing happened last night at the gym. It doesn't happen very often, these types of things and I was quite caught off guard.

I got hit on.



It was quite random. I didn't see it coming. I mean, this guy has made comments to me and my friends before when we were working out at the gym and racing mats. But this was different.

I was working out with Kimmeh last night. We had just finished up and were going to do some stretches and crunches and shit. We're laying on the mat, talking, doing our crunches when this guy comes up. He's in his fifties, dressed all in yellow like a big, walking eye sore, and I know he used to weigh a lot because my brother used to buy drugs from him. As I'm laying there, being poked by Kimmeh, this creepster looks down at me, towers down at me.

"You guys always havin' fun, always ticklin' each other," he said. I started giggling, and looked at Kimmeh.

"Yeah," I said.

"Ya know, you so beautiful. You are just so beautiful. Does anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

I'm speechless because, as I'm laying there, with this old dood towering over me, I can see straight up his basketball shorts and I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

"Uh sometimes," I look to Kimmeh as she's trying to hold her laughter in.

"Well you so beautiful," he looks to Kimmeh now. "Isn't she beautiful?"

"She's purdy!" Kimmeh says, and we both start giggling.

"Man I wish I had a girlfriend as beautiful as you," he said. "I used to weigh 485 pounds. Then I started going to the gym and I started eatin' baby food. All the time, just eatin' baby food. And now I'm down to 153."

We congratulate him and he eventually walks away. I'm facepalming and laughing, as is Kimmeh. I tell her the news of my being able to see straight up his shorts. I'm pretty sure I'm a lesbian now.

Later, when I'm leaving with my broooosef, I tell him what happened and he says, "Ugh, what! The chicken shack guy? GROSS!" I echo his sentiments and told him all that the weird guy said.

"The only reason he eats baby food is because his business went bust. It's all he could afford after that," my bro said. I giggle and then I cringe a little. I don't ever seem to attract anyone but old guys. Says a lot about my looks. Not good enough for the youngin's, but good enough for someone going through a midlife crisis.

At the end, this picture truly sums up how I feel...



~Suge

The Thing That Wouldn't Die

So, I had this humorous letter written up for the blog about ending my relationship with my scale. It was cutesy, funny, and totally Suge, but I had to abandon that quirky little letter to tell a better story. Please, allow me to elaborate...

I have noticed, that if I have a scale in the house, I will be tempted to weigh myself. I've known this for awhile. I had the scale but it didn't have batteries. A few weeks ago, I got it batteries and the fucker came to life. And I knew that having that little shit stain in my house meant I'd always want to know my weight.

And that was true. I weighed myself before I got in the shower, and after. I weighed myself when I was washing my hands. I weighed myself before and after I took a shit. I was weight crazy!

But then I noticed something. I weighed myself one minute, and a minute or two later, I weighed myself again. Somehow, I'd managed to gain six pounds.

Oh that can't be right, I told myself. I stepped on it again and became six pounds lighter. I weighed myself the next day and was nearly ten pounds heavier. What the eff?

I concluded that it must not have quite survived the move from my brothers domicile to my place. It had to go.

Even with that knowledge, I couldn't stop weighing myself. At first, it was funny, I wondered how much weight I'd gained or lost just from walking into one room from another. But then, I got butthurt about it. I felt as though my fat was bipolar and couldn't decide if it wanted to weigh more or less.

The scale had to go.

One day while having lunch with Kimmeh, I told her I had planned on dismantling the fucking thing. She said she had a machete, I told her a good ol' fashioned hammer would be just fine.

I was wrong. Oh god how I was wrong.

A few hours ago I came home with the intent of destroying something. I started planning how I was going to do it. A few swift hits with the hammer would do it, I thought to myself. I grab my hammer, with my kitteh Ruby in tow, and set out to kill the scale.

I set it on the floor before me. I'm seated, indian style, on the ground. I figure the suckers gonna shatter everywhere, I mean it is made of glass. I put a towel underneath it and, with a sick and twisted smile upon my face, I smash down upon the face of the scale with the hammer.

The sound was AMAZING. Having closed my eyes when I connected, I slowly opened them to see the damage done. What I saw damn near made me shit.

It was intact, with a light scuff mark on its face. Whaaaaaa? I say. I give it another hit and still, it does not break. I hit it again. Nothing happens. The face of the scale is showing all eights, like it was laughing at me or displaying a toothy grin. You can't destroy me, I swear I heard it say, I've had to carry your three hundred pound ass for who knows how long! I've bulked up! I'm ready for anything you can throw at me!

I gasp and hit it with the spiked side of the hammer. Nothing happens. Frustrated, I go nuts and start beating it like it was my stepchild and screaming WHY WON'T YOU DIE!!!!!!! It's still showing all eights. The toothy bastard was going nowhere.

I get up and grab the scale and take it outside. I throw it down hard on the concrete, expecting it to shatter. It doesn't. I pick it up again and throw it down harder than before, and still it doesn't shatter. I stare at it. It's showing 0.0 now, as though it were confused. I look up in horror to see my neighbor from across the way looking at me. We lock eyes for a moment and I collect the scale and go back inside.

I give it a few more whacks with the hammer. I throw it on the linoleum. I get on the fucker and jump at it, watching the numbers bounce from two hundred to zero repeatedly. I bite it (not my best idea but at this point I'm getting desparate). I throw it down a final time.

I'm running out of options and wondering if scales can drown when I spot the screw driver. Smiling slyly, I reach for it and turn back to the scale. You little cunt, let's see you survive this! The scale displays Lo; the batteries are dying but I took that as a sign that the scale's will was weakening.

My instincts tell me to turn it over and stab at the only plastic part of the scale. Being the fierce indian warrior that I probably am not, I give it a few jabs and break apart the plastic. I take off the cover that reads the numbers, ripping wires along the way. The scale gives a small scream of fright. But soon it was silenced.

HA HA! VICTORY!!!! I look at the piece in my hand and it's reading a bunch of eights. But, but, but I stammer, trying to find the words. The eights soon fade and the scale is dead, but I knew it would be back...

I'm quite happy at the defeat. I take a picture to celebrate this joyous occasion. I give a maniacal laugh. And then, I notice my foot is bleeding. Once I notice this, I feel pain. The fucker cut me before it faded!

I bandage up my wound and throw the scale away. It's time for bed. I grab my book and head to the bedroom. Ruby follows. I know soon I will fall into sleep. I know soon, I will be dreaming of this defeat, and how I came out of this battle, nearly unscathed.

~Suge

Dear Phone...

I'm so glad you came back to me. When I reached for you last Saturday and you were gone, my heart sank. I looked for you everywhere, even places nobody should have their face close to. I realize that maybe we've been spending too much time together, with facebook and all, but it's only because my whole world revolves around you.

I know that while we were apart you found someone else. I suspect they even tried to use you. Did you let them? Did you show them what you could do when you're turned on? When Kyle called Suge and told her that he found you in the back seat of his van, I couldn't believe it. I thought I was dreaming! At first I felt so betrayed but then I thought about how you must feel when I'm constantly pushing your buttons. I know I've been rough, but my social life is pretty active. I didn't mean to make you feel used and I'm sorry.

Last night, when I got you home I couldn't wait to clean you up. God only knows who's hands were all over you and I can only imagine where they stuck you. I understand that hand sanitizer was a bit harsh and the Lysol was probably overkill but I can't take any chances. I love you like a fat kid loves cake, or anything with sugar in it for that matter and I'll never put you in my back pocket again. Dear phone, you are my world.

Forever yours, Kimmeh

"Your child is gonna grow up to be a perv!"

I'm not going to say that I hate kids. That's not true. I think they're fun, but I don't want any myself. At least not right now.

I have noticed a rather rare occurence when I go work out at the YMCA. I've noticed that, my amorphous figure is tantalizing to children. Of all ages. What do I mean? Well, I mean that I always get gawked at by some small being. And I ain't talking about midgets!



I get to the gym early one day. There's a mother and her child, a little red head, in the gym. They're packing up all their shit getting ready to leave. I put my rubber ducky gym bag in a locker and start stripping. I am past the point of shyness and I get down to business.

I take off my shirt and I feel a pair of eyes on me. I'm getting nervous so I put a scowl on my face and turn around to see that kid staring at me. Not just any kind of staring, we're talking hard-up gawking. I turn away from him and continue changing. I'm facing a corner of lockers and this kid is inching closer to me, trying to get a glimpse of me. This is very annoying.

I turn around and look at the mother. All she's doing is throwing shit in a gym bag. At some point she tells her lil bastard to get away from there. As if my stomach and fat ass were a location rather than a part of me. I try to get back to changing but the kid is relentless. He's trying to get in front of me.

At this point, I'm about to pick him up and punt him across the locker room. I have my gym pants on and am about to put on my shirt. The mother tries pulling her child away and he says "But I wanna stare at this lady." Well, at least the fucker is honest.

She tells him it's rude and pulls him away. Finally, she asserts some parental authority. They walk away. I feel more comfortable now. I'm topless, and fiddling with my shirt when I hear that familiar music. You know the one. The Jaws theme. Only there was no shark, there was a ginger. Still staring at me.

Are you fucking kidding me? I say to myself. I turn around, and I glare at him. He continues staring at me. It's a show down, but I know I can win. I've done this with my cat a million times.



His mother returns and I feel the need to speak up. I mean, first it's me but then what if he starts staring at the fat, handicapped lady? I'm just trying to spare some feelings, that's all.

"Ya know, your child is gonna grow up to be a perv," was the first thing out of my mouth. The mouth stares at me, shocked.

"He's only a child," she responds.
"So was hitler," I mutter as I put on my shirt. The kid still stares. "I just find it incredibly rude that he's staring at me. Teach him some god damn manners!"

Still shocked at my aburpt outburst. They leave and I feel comfortable in the locker room once again, until some old wrinkly naked lady passes by.

But that's not the first odd encounter I've had with a youngling in the YMCA locker room. Not long ago, I walked in from a heavy workout (which means I succeeded in not falling off the treadmill again) and was going to put my stuff in my locker before hitting the sauna.

The locker room is full of children of all different breeds and ages. As I'm walking to my locker, something strikes me hard in the back. OUCH! I yell and turn around to face my assailant.

I look down and see a two foot tall kid smiling. He'd hit me with his fucking life preserver and thought it was hilarious. I look at the first adult I see, and assuming it's the mother I say, "That fucker just hit me!" And walk away.

She says, "He's not mine," to which I respond "Well who's is he?" And she says "I dunno," at which I respond, "Well WHAT AN ASSHOLE!" And walk away.

I mean seriously, I think some people are skipping out on teaching their kids some manners. This world is approaching an intellectual decline, and it's mostly evident in the locker room at the YMCA.

~Suge

Look at my Vagina, Please!

So Suge and I were fucking around before yoga class started last night as usual. I had asked her to hold my hands down on the floor to see if I could do a pose that seem to elude me the first time I had tried it. I'm on my back (big shock there, right) and I proceed to lift my legs up and over my head. My lack of control past this point of my knees being inches away from my ears, shot my vagina straight towards Suge's face as she kindly held my hands on the ground. I'm not sure if the look on her face was terror or of thrill, but this caused me to quickly unfold myself and giggle like a child. I do believe I'm guilty of a vagina fly-by with potential to suffocate, and second degree yoga slaughter.


Guru Kimmeh!

Good day!

Eventually, there will be stuff here!