I used to be a people person.
At least, I thought so. But today, sitting at at table with three wonderful dinner companions, I realized I seem to have lost the knack for making small talk.
I think I'm spending too goddamn much time alone or dealing with people I cannot have genuine conversations with. So I just can't do it anymore, even when I'm with people I actually want to talk to.
I think I may now talk in blog-bites. Short, superfluous, random chatter.
Maybe it's the ADD. Or maybe I've just become dull and withdrawn and crotchety.
I hope not. I hope that a change in circumstance will lead to a return to my happy, skippy, cheery self.
Is it time to get cats?
Because I can't get that hour and thirty-three minutes back.
I just watched this frenchy-franceypants movie about two people being selfish, irresponsible assholes.
See, they were kids, and got along, and had a game where they dared each other stupid shit all the time. And then they grew up. And dared each other to do stupid shit all the time, but with more grown-up type situations. You know, like marriage, university, standing on railroad tracks in formalwear blindfolded. Neat huh? Whimsical frenchy franceypants-type stuff. Whee! Look at the crazy dream sequences utilizing construction-paper and cardboard props that manage to incorporate parents and authority figures and stupid prank-playing as metaphors for God and Eden and temptation! Wheeee! Look at the light and color and complex emotional game-playing, wheee! Are they friends? Soulmates? Destined or star-crossed? Will they really stay in that pit while that truck pours concrete over them? Wheeeee!
Or should I be saying, ouiiiiiiiiii?
Whatever, they were selfish, irresponsible assholes who crushed the hearts of those around them because they couldn't get their shit together enough in twenty years to go, "You know what? Maybe we should screw. And then get married. To each other. Thereby avoiding crushing the hearts of our spouses and the children we'll have with those other people. "
Funny thing is, it was supposed to be about love.
Why do people always use the idea of love and fate as excuses to be fucking assholes?
Goddamn Frenchies.
I actually quite like the French.
One pair, in my size, at Harry's on 83 and Broadway, for $39.
$39!
Bwahahahahaaaa!
I love sales.
Screw the jihadis.
This is the kind of thing that pisses me off about this country, and I love the hell out of this piece.
It's a chicken finger sliced in half lengthwise, bitches. That does not--I repeat, does NOT--warrant a renaming, branding, and multi-million-dollar media campaign featuring some asshole in a chicken mask leading a rock band, do you hear me?
Goddamn. I swear, there has got to be a whole cirle of hell set aside for marketing executives. A circle of hell in which those Yoplait "This is good" characters' creators are sodomized by chicken boy's creators for all eternity.
After yesterday's training session,
which involved lots of lunges, push-ups, sit-ups, tricep dips, weirdo pull-up machine thingums, reverse crunches, and a nice 40 minutes of hot cardio action, I hurt.
I hurt so much that walking is a challenge, lifting my arms is something I've reconsidered at least three times in the last 30 minutes since I woke up, and sitting, on my own ass, is painful.
I love my new trainer.
Report suspicious activity.
I think that's what I'll title my first album.
And in other useless news...
Miami Ink is so much THE SEXY. Hot damn, punk boys with tattoodles! Can you have the hots for an entire cast? No? Yes? I'm trying not to. Does the fact that I do make me a teleslut?
Have you checked out the Blogroll lately? Now with more flavor!
Why do I suddenly really, really want these three albums?
And can anyone explain why I remember all the words to every song on ...Morning Glory, which until today I don't think I've listened to since '01, and yet I couldn't tell you how to find the volume of a cylinder?
Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka!
I saw Charlie and the Chocolate factory today.
It was wonderful, I loved it, Johnny Depp is great, Tim Burton's a genius, no one I know is or should be attracted to the oompa loompa *cough*...*cough* all is right with the world.
But this isn't about the movie. This is about my (not really) righteous indignation (okay, minor grumpifiance) over the state of movie going affairs!
Actually, it isn't, because Mr. Death said it already, better than I ever could.
But I still got gripe, yo.
So, first, let me point out that, as some people have probably learned, I am rather particular about where I sit in a theater. I like to sit within the first six or seven rows, preferably around row five, and if at all feasible, dead center. That way, I don't have to deal with other people next to me (usually) no one sits in front of me (usually), and the whole experience is just me and the screen.
Sometimes.
But sometimes not. Sometimes, the force just ain't with me. Take tonight, for instance. I went to see a much-hyped film only in its second week, at 9 on a Saturday night. Admittedly, that was foolish. But I took precautions. I bought tickets before 8, went to the Food Emporium next door and got my theater nosh (yeah, I'm ghetto like that, what!), came back and stood in line with all the other movie-going whores who show up an hour before a movie begins. And when they opened those glorious doors, I got the perfect seat. Dead center, fifth row. Movie heaven.
I was early as hell, but hey, that's the price you pay for the perfect seat, right?
Foreshadow, foreshadow.
The theater begins to fill around me. This is, of course, to be expected. I'm good, I got my seat.
People to my right, with a seat between us. It's okay, I'm not feeling crowded.
Then, someone appears to my left. It's a little man, bearing little-man accoutrements. "Is this seat taken?" he asks politely, about the seat to my left.
"No."
"What about the one on the other side of you?"
Oh godmotherfuckingdamn, this man is not about to ask me to move!
"Nope."
"Would you mind moving down one?"
Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes, say yes you mind, bitch! I think.
"I guess." GODDAMN! Why does that polite shit come out? GODDAMN!
I mean, it's just one seat, right? Just the one? I'll only be a little off center, right? (To my bitch-credit, it took me, like, a whole minute to actually make up my mind to move.) Of course, as soon as I moved down that one seat, some big blonde lady and her boyfriend plop themselves into the seats right in front of me. So now I'm not in the middle and I have two loud, tall people all up in my line of sight.
I tried to stick it out, but that shit just pissed me off. I mean, I pay $11 goddamn dollars and show up an hour early to sit where I want, dammit, and all these people come in fuckin' it all up! Argh! This is, of course, the monologue that runs through my mind as I eye the dead center, third row seat that is empty up ahead. But I am trying to not let little shit get my panties in a twist, which I think is called being zen or something, so I sit in my little just-right-of-center-with-bighead-blondes-in-front seat.
And then I hear one of the party that moved me over for their convenience say this:
"You know, I just really like to be centered."
OHGODMOTHERFUCKINGDAMNNOTHEYDIDNOTJUST--
So I moved to the third row, center seat, quick as hell, before I hurt anybody and/or that bitch was taken. Of course, immediately after I sat in row three, a woman shows up with her three-year-old (who takes a child that age out after 9, seriously, people?) and plops him down beside me. Thankfully, the child was absolutely adorable, and totally silent once the previews started.
Jesusgod, really, people, if you know you're rolling with a crew to a prime-time, just-released film, show your asses up early enough to get decent seats so you ain't moving other folks all around. Damn. Shit like that makes me crazy. That's how folks get shot in movie theaters! Okay, it's not, but it still irks the shit outta me.
Yes, I know, the no swearing bit lasted all of two posts, what of it?
Also, does anybody else think Johnny Depp looked like Faye Dunaway in this movie?
So, I was putzing around flickr when I came across a genius shirt idea by this lady.
Idea being, dark shirt + some artistic skill + Clorox pen = CASH (that would be cool @$$ $#!+, but since I'm not swearing anymore, I can't just say that).
So I poked around her photos. More cool stuff. And a link because...drumroll...she sells some of it!
Yay!
I want the e. coli tea towels, and all the baby gear for my as yet unborn children.
I wish she would open up a Cafe Press shop and take that octopus to the masses.
Edit: And following one of her links, I found this. I am now officially in love with his work, and really, really, really want to own a piece. Allegedly, there's something in Brooklyn...I'll track it down and report back. I love his sculpture, though I am sure I can't afford it yet. Sigh.
Infusion of taste.
I've taken up a new hobby:
Making vodka infusions.
That is all.
[Edited to add] Flavors and methods to come, perhaps with a little help from my yeasty friend!
Shut up. Stop ruining perfectly good songs. Shut. Up. Shutupshutupshutup.
What's that? You've already split up? Oh. Okaythen.
Thanks.
Ohgodohgod.
Thanks for all the kind and encouraging words. I'll need them. And this is too important to screw up or take lightly, so I'll be in a panic for the rest of the bloody month. I'm tempted to bow out now. I won't, but I'm tempted.
Nuthin' like walking into an interview/meeting situation cold and realizing you know absolutely nothing about what's going on, and that it'll be awhile before anyone else can enlighten you, to set the old blood a-pumpin'. And by "a-pumpin'" I mean:
Ohgodohgod. What have I gotten myself into?
Never. Ever. Ever. Accept a job before you know all the details. You'd think I'd have figured that out by now.
Crap.
Notice I didn't swear once in this whole post? I'm turning over a new leaf!
Oh Jesus.
What have I gotten myself into?
I think I'm taking on a freelance gig. If they'll have me. A freelance gig outside my particular area of expertise. Sort of. Thank god today is a half day for me. I'll need to spend all evening in the script writing section of Barnes.
I predict the next two weeks will be filled with coffee, nervous tics, babbling, fingers glued to keyboard and more coffee.
Ohgodohgod.
Dear period,
Please hurry up. If you must plague me, do it quickly.
This whole "pre-menstrual" situation you've got going on is really quite unfair, as it is torture piled on torture. My belly aches, my below-navel pooch is swollen, my boobs have gained six pounds each overnight and hurt like hell, I have pre-cramp cramps, I could eat a horse a day if I let myself do so, and suddenly I am a sissy little bitch in the gym and have to drop all my weights down by 5-10 pounds because I just can't lift my usual. Did I mention I also turn into a mildly weepy cow? Yeah, that too. And this is all days before I spend almost a week cramping, swelling, and sleeping, like, twelve hours at a time for the actual event.
That is so not cool.
So, yeah, end of the day, think you can swing that? Let's just get it started already, no? Appreciate it.
--Sid
Why on earth...
...would I eat one of these, at 60 calories, instead of one of these rugelach at 50 calories?
...do I have a twisted desire to throw good money away on Hustle and Flow? I know I'll hate it. I know it. And yet, I almost went out to see it today. WTF?
...do I think that Terrence Howard man might be as evil as crazy Tom Cruise is crazy?
No-Good, Superbad, Fucked-Up Day
And mine hasn't even officially begun yet.
Now, everyone, from time to time, has to start working before they start working. You know what I mean--you're off the clock, but you still need to get isht done, and it ain't gonna happen during regular work hours.
Today, for me, is one of those days.
Everyday is one of those days, in a way, since phonecalls and emails and coordination for my job usually begins 2-5 hours before I actually start work, but today, I actually need to go out and do shit.
Anyway, I tried to get my act together extra early so I could go out and take care of this stuff before work. This is how it went:
Breakfast: Ryvitabutterandjelly cracker, turkey bacon, blueberries.
I get so distracted in my attempts to spread the "jelly" that my turkey bacon is burned all to hell; on its way to my mouth, the most perfectly splendid-juicylicious looking blueberry ever jumps from fingers directly to garbage. I grumble. I have a bunch more, so grumbling is minimal.
Post-breakfast attempts to leave:
Realize I need to take out trash; grumble, but bundle trash for disposal. On my way out the door, I spot the container of blueberries I've rinsed and neglected to return to the fridge. I don't want them to go all moldy while I am at work, since they are the deliciousest looking blueberries this season, so I grab them to put in the fridge, roughly 15 inches away. The little plastic snap-top container is not totally closed, so my one-handed grip on tip and bottom snaps it open as I lift, sending blueberries flying around my kitchen. I back up, attempting to avoid stepping on them. Instead, I grind the ones that have landed behind me into my kitchen rug. Now I feel like a fucktard. A fucktard with no time to clean up the berries. I run out grumbling. Okay, cursing like an angry bitch.
Actually outdoors:
Three feet from my front door, I realize I have left my favorite new book upstairs in my apartment. I am now pressed enough for time and angry enough that I literally go, "Ah, fuck it," in the middle of the sidewalk, and decide to just buy another copy during my errand mission. A half-block later, I am stomping along, grumbling, when my eyeball is savagely attacked by air-conditioner runoff. (Aside: I hate that shit. 1. Everygoddamnthing flies into my ginormous eyes, which pisses me off anyway, but I am extra disgusted by the AC gak epidemic in this city. 2. When I moved here last summer, I honestly used to carry an umbrella around all the time, wondering why there were so many spontaneous showers in this town. Imagine my horror when I realized there are just that many goddamned window-muonted ACs pissing their runoff down on me. Grrrrrrrr.) As I stumble down the street trying to keep said runoff from blinding me, or at least giving me one nasty case of pink-eye, I stumble on one of those friggin' basement storage doors that open out onto the sidewalk. Mercy of mercies, at least it's closed. I stumble to the end of the block and my cell buzzes. In the confusion, I've missed a call from my boss. Oh goddamn.
I'm so disgruntled by my little drama I've actually come back home. Total time elapsed from beginning of drama to end (not counting breakfast debacle): about 17 minutes. God help me if it gets worse.
At least I can get my book now.
*heaving sigh*
Holy Shit, It's My Bloggerversary.
Hot damn. This calls for cupcakes.
Except, I'm off cupcakes and delicious things, so I'll go have a Ryvita with reduced fat PB and no-cal Walden Farms J. With a candle, it's almost celebratory. Actually, it isn't. It's what I would have had for breakfast, anyway. Except for the candle.
I had planned to have a groovy redesign by now.
Crap.
You BASTARDS!
How is that even possible? She's so sweet! And human!
*SLAM*
Will write more when can fit arms around distended belly to type.
*passed out*
Nearly four hours later...
I am almost no longer full-to-bursting. Now I'm just mildly, uncomfortably full.
I love this place. I wish it weren't in the middle of Nowheresville, Harlem. Actually, I'm glad it is. At least I can't roll myself there once a week as I'd otherwise want to do.
My dining partner and I split an order of fried green tomatoes to start. I love, love, love fried green tomatoes. My grandma used to make them when I was little, from the unripe 'maters my grandfather grew in the back yard, and slap 'em on Wonderbread with some bacon and mayo. Mmmmmm. She also used to put spaghetti on buttered Wonderbread and serve us grandkids spaghetti sandwiches. Mmmmmmm.
Yes, I was an enormously fat child, why do you ask?
Anyway, Grandma's green tomato frying method went something like this:
Slice green tomatoes
Dip in a mixture of flour, salt and black pepper, ensuring the tomato juice has made a nice layer of battery goodness.
Fry in bacon grease that has been sitting on top of the stove in an old Maxwell House tin for the last week, in giant iron pot that has never, ever been cleaned, or at the very least looks that way.
Serve with fat, fat and starch. I mean bacon, mayo and white bread.
Dino kicked the FGT way up by actually coating the tomato slices in a crunchy seasoned batter, sprinkling them with grated romano cheese, and serving them up with ranch dressing on the side. Delicious. Not as delicious as my Gran's, partly because it is nearly impossible to find an actual unripe tomato in this town, let alone one of quality akin to what my gradfather grew in the yard under his tender ministrations (which would be, tossing biodegradable fruit rinds in their general vicinity and not dumping motor oil from his auto-repair business there, within at least three or so feet), but very good, in their own special way.
We both followed with their half-rack-plus-sides special: six or seven ribs and your choice of two of roughly a dozen sides. I got the barbecue beans and fries. I ate the fries topped with the deliciousest barbecue beans I've ever had. Not saying much, since I don't think I've had any real barbecue beans anywhere else, but them were good. Supergood. So super good I could only eat two ribs after that and the tomatoes, alas. But the ribs were fantastic--the meat fell right off the bone. I'm a fan of a sweeter sauce, but I didn't leave those extras for the alley cats, if you know what I mean.
They're chillaxin' in my fridge. When I get hungry again (next Tuesday), they'll be there, waiting to welcome me with open, smokey barbecue arms.
I didn't drink. It was lunch, after all, and M is my only drunk-in-the-sun buddy. But I did have a peek at the dessert/drink menu. On offer: drinks with names like Donkey Punch and Bitch Bastard (with Makers Mark for X-types), served in Mason jars. Lordy. Again, I am thankful for the Dino's location. 1. I will not drink near a highway. Too truck-stop whore for me. Hooch in Mason jars? Nuh-uh. 2. Dino is truly in the ass of Harlem. Okay, it's across from Fairway and down the street from Cotton Club, but there is nothing else there but auto garages and, and, well, nothing worth mentioning. If you think I'm going to get lit in that kind of neighborhood, and then walk back to civilization to catch a cab at midnight, you've got another think coming, my friend. 3. I cannot drink anything called the Donkey Punch. I'm not sure I wish to drink in a place that serves a drink called the Donkey Punch. Did I mention it and several other drinks are made with Sierra Mist? How declasse! *snort*
I'd go back for the flesh, though. Ah, the taste of life, butchered, bled and charred for my epicurean edification.
*burp*
Two B-level celeb sightings in a single week!
This morning, Matt Dillon came swaggering out of my favorite Starchucks and slid into a waiting livery cab, iced coffee in hand, as I was on my way in. I wasn't terribly surprised to see him, though, since one of my compatriots-in-servitude used to hang out at that very Starchucks all the time and spotted him on the regular.
Is he B- or A-level? I dunno.
Stupid is as stupid does.
And I'm The Stupid in question.
After eight--EIGHT--flake-outs and reschedules and reschedules of reschedules due to flake-outs (two of them this week), I am finally getting a new trainer.
Since I see the potential new trainer at the gym all the time, or at least all the time I'm there, I'm assuming he'll be a little more likely to, you know, show up and shit. Woot.
Just when I thought my hatred for Urban was on the downswing.
The $100 Grail tee.
I swear to god, I would stop speaking to my nearest and dearest if they spent a hunnid dabgum dollars on a cotton tee with bleach stains. I swear to god.
And if they bought $300 jeans, I would have to maim.
In other news, in the last few weeks I've seen him and her tooling (separately) around the UWS. She's even skinnier than she looks on the TV, which is hard to believe, but true, and he's just as tall-looking and only half as gay. I don't quite get why, but there you have it. I should tell my mom. She'll be excited, I think.
Jesus H.
You can get damn-near anything from Amazon.
There's a cute little set of throwing knives and a matching throwing axe I've got my eye on.
Vive la Internets!
Show of hands:
Who believes this is for your back?
And is it extra wrong that it's a little yellow, uh, well shit, what is it? A possum?
It also comes in blue. Personally, I think the little green grub is much cuter. Doesn't he look happy! He looks pleased as punch.
But this right here? Wrong as hell. Wrong. As. Hell.
It looks like a teething ring!
Twisted folks in this world. Hmph.
Despite Barnes & Noble's best attempts to keep me from the angsty, adolescent, magical goodnes that will be Half-Blood Prince, which included some skraight bullshit like not recognizing my email (forcing me to set up a new account), forcing me to create a "nickname" for my own mailing address, and asking every personal question they could come up with save my shoe and ring size, I gots my pre-order on before 11:59!
Wait a minute. With shipping and handling, that mug just cost me $24. Why didn't I just go to any of the 12 million bookshops within walking distance of me and pick it up on Saturday?
I am such a sucker for deadlines.
*smh*
You know you're tired when...
You stretch out on the floor at work, at 7:30 on a Sunday night, with the sole intention of cracking your back to work out some tension...and you wake up at 9, staring at the ceiling, wondering where in the hell you are and how you got there.
Dammit.
Please. There's some "doctoring" I'd like to do...
Also on my wish list:
This one
This one
And Phil's :D
Song lyric of the week, courtesy M.I.A.
Excuse me little hombre
Take my number call me
I can get squeaky so you can come and oil me
-from "Hombre"
See, now that's classic. And classy.
Pray for us all.
Let's not forget that we don't have a lock on terrorism. We don't own it, it's not all aimed at us, it isn't all about us, as M noted. In fact, we're pretty new to this whole thing. The UK has, sadly, a long history of dealing with such attacks.
Earlier this year, it was Pumas. Seven pairs and a few hunnid bucks later, I've calmed down a bit. But now I'm obsessed with weirdo tee shirts. I used to hate tees, with a passion. Turns out, I just hate oversized, baggy tees. I'm all over tees that are snug enough to be just this side of indecent. I've wanted to cop a top from T-Shirt Hell for a while now. Last month, I finally did.
Twelve years later, my T-Shirt Hell shirts have arrived. You should pop on over and order yourself something naughty. Do it now, because those triflin' muhfuggahs only ship their orders out every two weeks, and last Friday was a shipping day, so...yeah, they won't ship again until next Friday, I think. Hm.
I got another one that handily says, "Also available in sober!!" I love T-shirt Hell. I'm kinda pissed I still haven't won their "Lazy Little Bitch" contest, though, especially since I've been signed up for their newsletter forever. I mean, da hell would I want their newsletter for, other than for the chance to win two free shirts that will take eons to arrive? Really! God knows every time I read it without deleting, I burn to copyedit it for typos and shit.
Lunch
Asparagus and a 4 oz. steak. Not a starch in sight! See? Yay!
Diets don't totally suck.
Just mostly suck.
El Boxeo
Okay, so next week, my lovely and talented trainer tells me, we get to start boxing!
Yay! Right? Yay!
Well, no. I should not be allowed to learn to box. Not even pretend-box. Because boxing, in the hands (no pun intended) of someone like me is very, very dangerous.
With my smart-ass mouth? And this temper? Somebody's liable to get an ass-whuppin'.
And that someone is me.
You don't look surprised. Why don't you look surprised?
Because er'rybody knows the only thing worse than somebody with little-man syndrome who can fight is somebody with it who thinks they can fight but cain't.
I said it. Cain't.
Godamighty.
Food. Ish.
What the frig is this? This is my pre-workout breakfast:
A ryvita fiber cracker smeared with a half tablespoon of reduced fat peanut butter and no-carb, no-sugar, no-cal "fruit" uh, "jelly."
There is something so wrong with this.
I guess I need to get back on this whole blogwagon, but shit, lately, I just ain't been feeling it.
Nothin' to say.
I did finally get around to listening to Arular, like, 3 minutes ago. It only took me a week and a half. I like it. I think.
I need another listen to decide on all of it, but I'm definitely already enamored of "$10 Dollar," "Hombre," and "Galang."
HOAS is right. She's a bit ADD. I also kept thinking, "Gwen Stefani + Neptunes -superproduction + Tamil Tiger daddy = M.I.A."
I also noticed Justine Frischmann was credited with co-writing "Galang."
That seems so wrong somehow. Like learning The Donnas helped pen, well, nope, that was going nowhere. Also, come to think of it, it doesn't seem all that odd, considering the mind-jacking catchiness of "Connection." Meh.
Justine Frischmann had a fucking awesome haircut.
This is why I cuss a lot and mock things and don't review shit. Even I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
A few addages and sayings (with slight modifications) and whatnot to start your weekend.
1. If some shit sounds too good to be true, it goddamned well is.
2. Patience is a virtue. Develop some, because in this economy, you could be waiting a long time before you get the shit you were hoping for.
3. Crazy is doing the same shit over and over again and expecting different results. Stupid is paying for the privilege of said assed-up results. Stupid as hell is dealing in said results for a living because you weren't paying attention to addages 1 and 2.
4. A bitch in time saves nine. Usually. Goddamnit.
Anything to add?
Which chocolicious action heroine are you?
New quiz time! Wheeeeeeee! Aren't you excited?! Wheeeeeeee!
Okay, pretend, shit.
Chocolicious superdiva action heroines! They're everywhere these days! Actually, they aren't. In the history of comics and cinema, there have been, like, five. Maybe. so you probably know just which ones you have to choose from and could figure out which you most identify with all on your own, were you so inclined, without benefit of this little quiz, but, you know, I was in the mood. Choose the answer that best fits you and then scoring at the end, yadda yadda, you know the drill.
1. A night on the town! Where you goin'?
a) To bust some suckas tryina pimp they old ladies. Then, out for chicken and waffles with Slim. That always gets my blood pumpin', suga!
b) The Planetarium. I do so love to watch the skies.
c) Out with my honey for seafood. After, we'll play around a bit and get ice cream, and I'll end the night curled up in his lap.
d) Into that seedy bar to meet with Mongolian thugs so I can uncover the whereabouts of an acient crystal lingam...
e) Spoken word performance, followed by some demon hunting.
f) The Emmy's.
2. What you wearin'?
a) A nurse's uniform by day, a whole lotta cleavage, my 'fro and some fly platforms by night!
b) I have a thing for white jumpsuits. And capes.
c) Black turtleneck, little black skirt, black tights, knee-high boots with a three inch heel and a canary-eating grin.
d) Shorts, a tank top, a holstered Browning 9mm, a thigh sheath for my blade, a pair of Docs and my whip, which doubles quite handily as a belt.
e) My locks, a tank top, some cammo cargo pants, a sword.
f) Nothing Hermes, that's for sure.
3. What's your greatest, shall we say, supertalent?
a) A rack to distract and a mean left hook, babies!
b) I can part the heavens with a look. Also, I don't look like Elvis in this white jumpsuit.
c) My balance is incredible, I can pull off a roundhouse in four inch Jimmy Choos. I'm also very lucky. It's like I have nine lives!
d) A rack to distract and an incredible arsenal paid for by the trust my parents left me. Also, I'm quite handy with automatic weapons.
e) Vampire slaying. Also, the fate of the world rests in my womb.
f) Everybody loves me and does whatever I say, so I guess, mass mind control.
4. How did you discover it?
a) When those pimpin', drug-dealin' fools killed my sister, the rage just took over! I seem to have a talent for whuppin' ass!
b) I hated having my hair pressed. Every time my mama came near me with a hot comb, the rain just came pouring down. Eventually, we made the connection and she gave up trying to get me to sit still on Sunday afternoons. Now I just wear this big white wig and I always have a good hair day!
c) Do you smell catnip? *wanders off*
d) Discover it? I've been training for years. I've got a bloody obstacle course in my back yard and I've booby-trapped my own home for practice. Hmph.
e) Marlene told me.
f) The first time I heard one of my melanin-challenged sistren use the phrase "you go, girl!" I knew I held sway over them all, mwahahahaha! Ha!
5. You're pissed! How can we tell?
a) My knee is in your balls, suga!
b) Your skin will prickle, papers'll fly all over the place, wind'll come out of nowhere, and lots of white people around me have that funny staticky hair thing going on.
c) I've peed in your underwear drawer. Just kidding! I'll scratch the shit outta you!
d) I've killed your dogs, all of your guards, blown a hole through your front door, taken anything that I could find that might remotely be of use later on, like the first aid kits you've seen fit to leave laying around, and stolen your boat to escape with.
e) I've doused you with holy water and run you though with my blade!
f) It's all over Page Six and your stock just plummeted. Bitches.
6. A nice afternoon off for you is spent:
a) Bustin' pimps and dealers! Or picking out my 'fro.
b) Watching the Weather Channel, drooling over the local meteorologist, tending supertalented mutant youth.
c) Curled up in a sunny bay window with a tuna sandwich and a bowl of berries and cream, watching the birdies and napping.
d) Ropes course, a bit of swimming, some judo, and then a spot of tea.
e) Ropes course, a bit of swimming, some judo, and then some lyric writing while I try not to think of my vamptastic boyfriend.
f) Running with my dogs and eating cookies made with orange juice instead of butter, reviewing my boyfriend's expenses...
7) Quick, somebody's in trouble! What do you do?
a) Whup some ass!
b) Gather up the rest of the team and then start hurling lightning bolts from a safe distance.
c) Do? Why should I care?
d) Pick up the rifle over there next to the shipping crate, run back to the platform over the toxic waste where I think I saw some ammo...
e) Holy water, crosses, my blade and my crew--go in and whip some Amanthra ass!
f) Get my producers on it to gather up the appropriate guests and experts; write really big checks.
8. Your true love:
a) Wears a feather or three in his cap, looks good in a brown leather duster, and knows how to handle his business!
b) Love? What? I'm the asexual black team member!
c) Thinks I'm very, very naughty. But he's a fine one to talk, running around in spandex and masks as he does...
d) Stole the map and my commission, but he'll get his in the end.
e) Is kinda in league with the Devil. No, really. But I think I can change him.
f) Is my hairdresser.
9. I am so tired of this quiz right now. Which one of you needs a sidekick?
a) I work alone, suga!
b) I'm sorry, but until I see some latent mutant skillz, you're on your own.
c) *roundhouse to my gut* I said who needs a sidekick, not I need my side kicked!
d) How good are you at shooting, computer hacking, hand-to-hand combat and antiquing?
e) Have you ever been attacked by vampires? Are you sure you want in?
f) Sorry, Gail wouldn't like the competition.
10. Anything you'd like to add?
a) Look out, suckas! I'm comin' to getcha!
b) Looks like rain.
c) *ignoring me, purring* Okay, quit rubbing yourself all up on my couch, hussy.
d) Yes. Three boxes of ammo, one large and one small first aid kit...
e) Don't invite anybody in after dark.
f) Have you read Cane River yet? Oh, girl, it is so beautiful! Also, beware that Tom Cruise character. I've met him. He is nuts.
Scoring
Mostly As: You are Pam Grier in absolutely anything! Well done! I have no drugs and have never pimped anyone! Please don't hurt me!
Mostly Bs: You are Halle Berry as Storm. You might notice that some of the answers seemed a little off. That would be because your character was really pretty fucking forgettable in the grand scheme of the X-Men movies. Better luck with your next superhero portrayal! Whoops, that was Catwoman! Well, we liked the new empowered you after that one, anyway! And you survived an attack--er, kiss--by Fred Durst in that "Behind Blue Eyes" video after Gothika came out. That has to count for something!
Mostly Cs: You are Eartha Kitt's Catwoman! Meow! I have nothing else to say here, really!
Mostly Ds: You are so not black! But you are taking this test, so here is your superwoman: Lara Croft! Yay! Later, we can go antiquing, but only if you promise to leave the gun at home.
Mostly Es: You are Damali Richards, Neteru extraordinaire. Avoid fanged-men named Carlos, and you should be able to save the world juuuuuust fiiiiiine. But can you listen? No. Godamighty. We got mutant demon-vampire hybrids runnin' around, and you can't do this one little thing? Dammit!
Mostly Fs: You are Oprah. You go, girl! Also, can I get a hookup? Like some tickets to one of your Christmas in July-type shows?
Only in New York
...can you give somebody, standing at a parking meter with a bunch of dimes and nickels lookin' dumb, a quarter, out of the goodness of your heart, and have that person not only not say thanks, but have the nerve to look disgruntled that you only had one quarter.
Ingrates and infidels. This town is full of 'em.
