Belle Blog

I had the weirdest fucking dream yo.
I had a dream that on my way to the lake, My sister and I passed a school bus accident. so, we pull over to help the burning children inside. and when we get to the flaming structure and crawl inside to rescue people for rewards the dream morphs into somethign totally else. Don’t you hate it when that happens. why can’t your mind focus on one story line when it asleep? especially since the first one is usually the calm cool one. But no, your mind wants something alarming to happen. who knows why. to be remembered? to be feared/ maybe you have to pee and your body wants you to wake up before you pee on the bed so it ALARMS you with this terrible dream.

so anyway, now we’re in the burning bus, which impossibly isn’t burning on the inside. and I realize these children don’t need rescuing from the fire. they need rescuing from a psychopath old man who is trying to kidnap them. you see, they aren’t children at all, but fully grown mentally retarded people on a field trip. and now that they are going to live with the psychopath he can collect social securioty funds for housing them. now we are in a building. his building. so i set the retards free, run down to the shore and jump on a boat with my sisiter, fleeing on water as the building blows up. i blew it up.

then i got up and went to the bathroom.

And the bad news keeps coming.
ever relish, wallow if you will, in bad news? are you supposed to feel bad about it?
ok, so you get the phone call. whatever the situation. but, its not about you, just related to you. painfully related to you, lets admit. So, is there a degree to which you can or cannot grieve before it becomes self-indulgent?
and even then, is ther anything wrong with that? Because to me, this over indulgence in grief is something your heart and your mind only allow if its needed. I can see that there are people who really just like to wallow. duh.
but for ‘normal’ people, maybe they go overboard on pain sometimes because they need an excuse. Because they would feel even more guilty about grieving for themselves, thinking its stupid and selfish. so when they get a call, they use it as an excuse to let loose.. still berating themself for being selfish, but not so much.
know what I’m talking about?

Dave’s gonna be disappointed this wasn’t funny.
grieve Dave.

I know you bitches are tired of me posting other people’s funny shit, but don’t bitch. cuz ya’ll all know I’m not that fuckin’ funny so there’s nothing wrong with stealing other people’s jokes.
Here’s George Carlin:

“For 2006:

Stop giving me that pop-up ad for classmates.com!
There’s a reason you don’t talk to people for 25
years. Because you don’t particularly like them!
Besides, I already know what the captain of the
football team is doing these days: Mowing my lawn.

Don’t eat anything that’s served to you out a window
unless you’re a seagull. People are acting all shocked
that a human finger was found in a bowl of Wendy’s
chili. Hey, it cost less than a dollar What did you
expect it to contain, trout?

Stop saying that teenage boys who have sex with their
hot, blonde teachers are permanently damaged. I have a
better description for these kids: Lucky bastards.

If you need to shave and you still collect baseball
cards, you’re a dope. If you’re a kid, the cards are
keepsakes of your idols. If you’re a grown man,
they’re pictures of men.

Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here’s how much men
care about your eyebrows: do you have two of them?
Okay, we’re done

There’s no such thing as flavored water. There’s a
whole aisle of this crap at the supermarket, water,
but without that watery taste. Sorry, but flavored
water is called a soft drink. You want flavored water?
Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt.
That’s your flavored water.

Stop fucking with old people. Target is introducing a
redesigned pill bottle that’s square, with a bigger
label. And the top is now the bottom. And by the time
grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be in
the morgue. Congratulations, Target, you just solved
the Social Security crisis.

The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger
the asshole. If you walk into a Starbucks and order a
“decaf grande half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla,
double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino, extra dry, light
ice, with one Sweet-n’-Low and one NutraSweet,” you’re
SUCH a huge asshole.

I’m not the cashier! By the time I look up from
sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing
“Enter,” verifying the amount, deciding “No”, I don’t
want cash back, and pressing “Enter” again, the kid
who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there
eating my Almond Joy.

Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it
doesn’t make you spiritual. It’s right above the crack
of your ass. And it translates to “beef with
broccoli.” The last time you did anything spiritual,
you were praying to God you weren’t pregnant. You’re
not spiritual. You’re just high.

Competitive eating isn’t a sport. It’s one of the
seven deadly sins. ESPN recently televised the US Open
of Competitive Eating, because watching those athletes
at the poker table was just too damned exciting.
What’s next, competitive farting? Oh wait.
They’re already doing that. It’s called “The Howard
Stern Show.”

I don’t need a bigger mega M&M. If I’m extra hungry
for M&Ms, I’ll go nuts and eat two.

If you’re going to insist on making movies based on
crappy, old television shows, then you have to give
everyone in the Cineplex a remote so we can see what’s
playing on the other screens. Let’s remember the
reason something was a television show in the
first place is that the idea wasn’t good enough to be
a movie.

No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just
for weddings. Now it’s for babies and new homes and
graduations from rehab. Picking out the stuff you want
and having other people buy it for you isn’t gift
giving: it’s the white people version of looting.
”

pissappointment.

I’m going to make myself famous singing Fugees songs on top of a Garth Brooks beat. and you are going to buy that album bitch.
Last night, in my bed, the map of London was ripped aside and conquered by a non-state. a prominent one.
Mind the gap.

So, the Yankee can’t understand why I wouldn’t ever want him to touch me again. or talk to me, really. He attributes this baffling turn of events to directly correlating alcohol contents. And numbingly trying to make sense of my lack of affection through his 7&7 goggles, deducing ever so bluntly that I must be pregnant.

of course. pregnant. me. Belle. anybody else having Rosemary’s Baby flashes? I think it is actually impossible for me to get pregnant. I have been on birth control for so fucking long that there’s a good chance I have NEVER dropped an egg. Some people are born knowing they want to live a sex filled, repercussion free life and spend the first 12 years of it trying to squeeze a prescription out of every gyno they meet. ortho-heroin.
So, no, i’m not pregnant.
I hate babies.
hence the reason for breaking up with him. if only he could put those two things together.

Sometimes I just look at people at the bar, and I think “what the fuck are you doing here?! just go the fuck home you loser! No one is talking to you, you’re sucking down nattie light by yourself at 4 am. no one even wants to talk to you. I’m the bartender, I’m paid to talk to you and I won’t talk to you. go home loser.”

but i don’t say it.

and i try really hard not to look at them with that ‘go the fuck home loser’ expression on my face.
but seriously…go home.

and you all know how hard it is sometimes for me to conceal disdain. (understatement)

tonight I celebrate cinco de mayo with my new hot latin lover.
ole ole!!

yo. i got upper cut on my right eye in a fight.
its fuckin ugly.

http://Belle.Caplis.justgotowned.com/