Hillbilly Brian.

Ladies, Ima assume that you are ladies, I give you permission to pelt a certain someone with shoes. There's this...unsavory character in my Women's studies class. I don't know his name, but I shall call him Brian coz he seems like a Brian. He had the audacity to compare women to cars. And we ladies are certainly not cars. Would you like to know what this Mississippi pipsqueak said during class?? oh ho ho. We were talking about face lifts and why aging women felt the need to get them, when he said " Weill, I don't see the problem. It's like cars. When it gets old you trade it in for a new one." Cars? CARS? Is that the best you can come up with Brian. I'll show you cars. If women are like cars then you are like a garbage truck. And you know what else he said? We were talking about how back in the fifties, women didn't have much of a life other than being a perfect housewife who cooks while wearing high heels. And then he pipes in with the most inappropriate comment. "Weill I must be doing something wrong coz I want a girl like that. Har har." I'll tell you what you're doing wrong Brian, you're breathing and living. What kind of a woman wants to put up with your hillbilly accent and mentality? Huh? Maybe if you found a blind and deaf woman so she won't be subjected to listening to your idiotic voice and looking at your stupid face. There. Go throw shows at him. Stilettos if you can manage it.

Cobra starship has an ego the size of texas.

Okay. I'm going to admit it. I'm as guilty of singing along to cobra starship's song "good girl gone bad" as the next girl in line, but can I say that this song really irritates me? I have no idea why. Maybe it's the fact that the whole song is about driving good girls wild. Or maybe it's the lead singer's assumption that he can make all the good girls go bad. Well guess what Gabe Saporta, YOU AIN'T GETTING TO THIS GOOD GIRL. And I dare you to try, coz believe me by the time I'm done with you, you'll be sorry you ever messed with the good girls. There's a reason we're called good girls bucko, and it's coz no matter how many times egotistical little farts like yourself try to "get it on" with us we send you on the right track. mmhmm. you're an insult to womanhood.

In danger of getting pelted with missiles.

It's that time of the year folks. You know, when you have to run outside with an arm covering your head at ALL times, because it's official: the infamous shoe-thrower will be released on September 15. In case you don't remember, an Iraqi journalist last year threw his shoes at George Bush (Is this guy awesome or is he awesome?)And while he hurled BOTH his shoes he shouted "This is a goodbye kiss from the Iraqi people, dog." Fitting ending to Bush's eight year reign huh? In case you don't know, In the middle-eastern culture throwing shoes at people is the highest display of contempt and is reserved for the lowliest of the low.
I'm sure after this incident, the secret guard will have all journalists remove their shoes before meeting with the president...pity really. Anyways, to Muntazar, ROCK ON DUDE! And to my four? five? followers, leave comments and share your thoughts whether they are in agreement with my views or not.

XOXO

Confessions of a fat girl.

Hey chicas. I know it's been a long long LONG time and I'm sorry. I have neglected this blog beyond common courtesy. But that's over with, isa, and I want to post a couple of pages I have written from a book that I'd like to finish.

Confessions of a Fat Girl

Oh. My. God. Oh no. This canNOT be happening. I gingerly opened my eyelids and looked down. Oh, this is definitely happening. The needle was still pointing resolutely to the very ugly number of 168. I sucked in my stomach, still at dang 168.

"Jenna?" The worried voice of my mother cut through my panicking thoughts. "How's it going?"

My cheeks redden as I exhale loudly. "It's fine, mom." I step off the scale and collapse onto the cold edge of the bathtub. 168. 168.168? How in the freaking world did I get to 168 pounds?

"So?" My mom called outside the locked bathroom door. Great. Almost forgot about mom. Almost. She's the reason I'm even in this situation. Who knew that my mom could bully me into weighing myself. I heave myself off the bathtub, slip into my nondescript gray sweatpants which has become my best friend in the last couple of weeks, and knead my forehead.

"So what?" I call back to my mother in a flippant tone which I desperately hope to mask my trepidation. The bright fluorescent lights beat their way through my head pounding the same message over and over, slowly building up pressure.

I'm....fat. No way to smmoth over the truth, I don't have "baby fat", I'm not slightly chubby, or voluptuous. I'm faaaaaat. Lord above help me.

Missing my trasfat-loaded butter.

One of my besties has moved far away from me, a crime I'm not sure I will ever forgive. To show Hadia my....appreciation, I have written this poem to honor her memory.

I wrote this poem for a very dear friend
In case you don't know who it is, it's Hadia.

She's the yin to my yang
The butter on my toast.

But as everyone knows,
She won't be here anymore.

No more will I hear her biting sarcastic comments
Or see her arching eyebrows.

No more will I hear her exasperated sigh of
"Alaa. Be serious."

She's gone. Gone. GONE.

Gone to be the butter
Of someone ELSE's toast

But no worries Hadia.
You may be leaving today, but tomorrow
You'll find me in your room. Again.

Letter to the Queen Bees of the World

Letter to the Queen Bees of the World


To the Queen Bees of the world:
I loathe you.
You embody all that’s wrong in women,
Wrapped in pretty paper.

To the Queen Bees of the world:
I hate how you flip your glossy hair,
While you ridicule the poor girl.
I hate how you flash your even white teeth to the world,
While whispering about how fat your friend has become.

You may be on top of the world today,
But when your daddy’s card maxes out
And when your plastic looks fade,
I’ll be on top of the corporate ladder
And you’ll just be a trophy wife.

XOXO
Ella Kay

Lady who has no logic.

So this story took place in early January. In case you don’t remember, Hamas and the Israeli government where having a slight tiff, and of course when these two have an argument usually hundreds of innocent civilians die in the process. The M.S.A at my college was quite concerned over the death toll so they had an interesting idea on how to raise awareness to the Palestinian’s plight. They basically had a table laden with all sorts of cakes and brownies, and people could help themselves to anything as long as they asked a question pertaining to the situation back in the mid-east. ANYWAYS, I was sitting at the table with the rest of the M.S.A members when this middle aged woman with a cane cam limping to us.

This lady kept on going on and on about Hamas this and Hamas that and Israel is a humane country blah blah blah. We listened to the lady and told her that the politics of the situation didn’t interest us, but rather the deplorable state of the Palestinian civilians is what’s raising our concern. Get this; the lady actually said “Well Israel is being very nice to the Palestinians. They leave voicemail messages to the Palestinians anytime they’re about to start an air raid.” I believe that at that moment I looked like a fish that has just been thrown out of the sea. I was so flabbergasted that my mouth was wide open and I kept on making noises like “ungh, unga, mmmm”. I had no idea how to answer back to this dim-witted woman. Luckily, my friend Hadia answered back “ Ma’am, You’re talking about a country that currently doesn’t have electricity, they’re sewage system is busted. I have a slight hunch that the Palestinians DON’T get voicemail messages.”

To this day, Hadia and I, make references to this crazy lady. Our favorite one is yelling to each other as we’re leaving a room “Now don’t leave me any voicemail messages!” Voicemail messages. Voicemail. I’m still laughing hysterically to myself.