Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly present to you the worlds first 'Filing System' for crazies on FB. After many late nights spent breaking down the insanity that composes 98% of Facebook posts, Ive created a taxonomy of sorts to help you wade through the nut jobs. Im confident ALL of the crazy people on your page will fall into one of these 5 basic categories:
1. PAN's (Passive Aggressive Nightmares): These are truly the most annoying and arguably the most entertaining to read. There is always someone wronging them and they are ALWAYS gonna tell you all about it..via FB. If they had a fight with their husband/wife/boss/sister/cousin/gas station attendant, you will know about it. No one appreciates them and they are PISSED about it. Do yourself a solid and NEVER comment on these posts. Your words of consolation are like heroin to these attention whores. Do not be an enabler. Read the post, laugh, move on.
2. The Friend Collector: They need a fan club. They want you to be among the 1108 people they annoy on a daily basis. You met once at Zaxby's or you know their cousins cousin and now you have to wade through 17 updates a day because this asshole has made Foursquare their full time job. My advice? Accept the friend request and then delete them from your page in 4 days. (That's about how long it will take them to forget about you and your meeting). My best advice? Ignore the friend request altogether.
3. The CREEPY Friend Collector: He's creepy because you dont know him but you have a mutual friend. You look at his page to see if something will jog your memory but nothing does. Then you notice it. He has 956 friends and none of them are dudes. At first you're flattered that he thought you were pretty enough to add to his harem, but then you come back to your senses and realize you dont want any part of this STD laden freak. Hasta La Vista Douchebag..
4.The FaceBook Fakers: Oh, you know them...They make you want to shoot them in the face with an automatic weapon. The 'I love you so much, you make my life worth living, no one knows me/treats me/loves me the way you do' assholes. Seriously, stop gushing about your perfect love or you'll be gushing blood from your corotid, because im about to knife you. Best/worst part of it all? You know that they are truly one of the most disfunctional couples you've ever known or even seen on Springer. Facebook Tip: Hide them before they force you to kill them.
5. The Unshakeables: You've deleted them more than three times from your page and they just wont stop sending those friend requests. They 'like' every post and have an asinine comment for most all your status updates. You're constantly having to delete their comments from your pictures. They've friend requested everyone on your page and you're tired of having to explain how you know them and why you're friends with them. They are like ticks, only worse because you cant flush them down the toilet.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Baby Daddy Drama
Dear Spinning Bike at World Gym,
This letter is to inform you that during a particularly intense cadio workout today, im pretty sure you bruised my lady parts and quite possibly impregnated me. I have an appointment with my ob/gyn to get tested this coming Tues. Since I refuse to make my ass look any fatter by wearing padded bike shorts, im afraid this will be the end of our relationship.
Now, Im willing to overlook the swelling and discomfort, however, should the pregnancy test come back positive, I feel I should let you know i've decided not to have it. Chad would never accept a 10 speed as his own and we live in a small town. Everyone would talk. 'Did you know Misty Mills is having ANOTHER baby!?! Yeah, I hear the father is some bike she only rode one time at the gym...' Im just not strong enough. The world isnt ready for a love like ours.
I hope in time you'll be able to forgive me and put this ordeal behind you.
All of my love -
Misty
This letter is to inform you that during a particularly intense cadio workout today, im pretty sure you bruised my lady parts and quite possibly impregnated me. I have an appointment with my ob/gyn to get tested this coming Tues. Since I refuse to make my ass look any fatter by wearing padded bike shorts, im afraid this will be the end of our relationship.
Now, Im willing to overlook the swelling and discomfort, however, should the pregnancy test come back positive, I feel I should let you know i've decided not to have it. Chad would never accept a 10 speed as his own and we live in a small town. Everyone would talk. 'Did you know Misty Mills is having ANOTHER baby!?! Yeah, I hear the father is some bike she only rode one time at the gym...' Im just not strong enough. The world isnt ready for a love like ours.
I hope in time you'll be able to forgive me and put this ordeal behind you.
All of my love -
Misty
Monday, March 14, 2011
Before and After Shock
Rough day at the gym. Workout went off without a hitch but I decided to take my BEFORE pics today and that really came back to bite me in my dimply ass.
Before heading out of the dressing room, Rhonda and I stepped into a private area where all the modest folks change and pulled the curtain. Que nearly nude photo shoot, complete with giggling and ridiculous poses. (Clearly, this had to be done so that I may track my progress and not because we're creepy idiots.) Anyway, we do the photo deed and scamper off to 'get shredded'. (AKA - take turns pointing and laughing at each other as we do a few reps on the machine that works your inner thigh)
Enter dumb girl we went to highschool with. Rhonda's pretty much indifferent to her but I have never been a huge fan so let the stinkeye and petty picking apart of this girls entire existence commence.
Two hours later we're exhausted and I head to the locker room. Rhonda bails to tan for a few minutes, so Im alone.. I plop down on the bench with my back to the door and snag my phone from my locker. Check my texts, ignore some calls and decide to flip through the before pics to see just what im workin with. Bad call, Mills. Who walks up behind me just as I get to the pic of my bare, pasty ass and back fat? Oh yeah, Dumb Highschool Girl.
Im pretty sure I heard her gasp. Two possible scenarios: She realizes it was me and is wondering why im looking at naked pics of myself. Or, she didnt notice it was me and she thinks I was ogling pics of some other naked chick...*single tear*
Karma - 10, 976 Misty - 0
Before heading out of the dressing room, Rhonda and I stepped into a private area where all the modest folks change and pulled the curtain. Que nearly nude photo shoot, complete with giggling and ridiculous poses. (Clearly, this had to be done so that I may track my progress and not because we're creepy idiots.) Anyway, we do the photo deed and scamper off to 'get shredded'. (AKA - take turns pointing and laughing at each other as we do a few reps on the machine that works your inner thigh)
Enter dumb girl we went to highschool with. Rhonda's pretty much indifferent to her but I have never been a huge fan so let the stinkeye and petty picking apart of this girls entire existence commence.
Two hours later we're exhausted and I head to the locker room. Rhonda bails to tan for a few minutes, so Im alone.. I plop down on the bench with my back to the door and snag my phone from my locker. Check my texts, ignore some calls and decide to flip through the before pics to see just what im workin with. Bad call, Mills. Who walks up behind me just as I get to the pic of my bare, pasty ass and back fat? Oh yeah, Dumb Highschool Girl.
Im pretty sure I heard her gasp. Two possible scenarios: She realizes it was me and is wondering why im looking at naked pics of myself. Or, she didnt notice it was me and she thinks I was ogling pics of some other naked chick...*single tear*
Karma - 10, 976 Misty - 0
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Surviving the Death of Your Metabolism
I've forgotten what day we're on at the gym. It's all a blur of painful kettle bell exercises, treadmill accidents and strange looks from the gym staff.
Since I skipped the workout on my birthday and consumed somewhere in the ballpark of 27,000 calories, today it was back to business as usual. Back to bustin my arse so that my pants will no longer force me to choose between a muffin top or camel toe every single day. That's a hard decision that no one should ever have to make. (If you pull your jeans up over the muffin top, you have raging camel toe. Leave them down around the hips and boom, MT..) Now, rest assured, muffin top always wins, but lets be honest: NO one wins with muffin top.
Just recently they have laid out a giant rope in the kickboxing room of my gym (Biggest Loser style) and I know it's for exercising, but all I ever want to do is attempt double dutch with this thing. Bad idea. Rhonda makes me go first, of course, and even though being the guinea pig has literally caused me bodily injury and broken teeth in the past, I still agreed. (That's on me, I know.) After she gets them moving and I feel out a pretty good rhythm, I hop in. One of the ropes (about 2 friggin inches in diameter) hits me on the back of the neck and nearly snapped my spine. I called uncle and made her switch. Since Im incredibly strong and managed to get the ropes moving at a really nice arc for her to run through, she gets to the other side unscathed..That is until she runs face first into a heavy bag. BAM! IN THE FACE! Like she forgot there were 14 of these things hanging like a heavybag forest on the other side of the ropes. Oh well. We're both in pain, so it's officially time to move on.
To 'Giant Exercise Ball Vollyball' that is...She served up a pretty sweet lob and just as I was spiking it back across the room, some meat head comes in and looks at us like we're insane. He walks right over to the 45lb kettle bell weight and asks us if he can use it. Neither of us could pick it up off the ground. It might as well have been a VW bug sitting there. Oh well, we need to stop the shenanigans and start our work out for real, anyway.
A solid hour of cardio later, we'd successfully narrated an unsuspecting mans workout with porn voices Mystery Science Theater 2000 style, laughed in the face of a dude wearing water socks (river shoes) and a bright purple tank top and spit water out of our noses after seeing a small child fall backwards off the treadmill next to us. (she was fine, stop judging!)
Now, of course Im sorry the treadmill gods decided to take a child in my place today but I have no control over their wicked ways.. And you'd have laughed too if you saw it.
Since I skipped the workout on my birthday and consumed somewhere in the ballpark of 27,000 calories, today it was back to business as usual. Back to bustin my arse so that my pants will no longer force me to choose between a muffin top or camel toe every single day. That's a hard decision that no one should ever have to make. (If you pull your jeans up over the muffin top, you have raging camel toe. Leave them down around the hips and boom, MT..) Now, rest assured, muffin top always wins, but lets be honest: NO one wins with muffin top.
Just recently they have laid out a giant rope in the kickboxing room of my gym (Biggest Loser style) and I know it's for exercising, but all I ever want to do is attempt double dutch with this thing. Bad idea. Rhonda makes me go first, of course, and even though being the guinea pig has literally caused me bodily injury and broken teeth in the past, I still agreed. (That's on me, I know.) After she gets them moving and I feel out a pretty good rhythm, I hop in. One of the ropes (about 2 friggin inches in diameter) hits me on the back of the neck and nearly snapped my spine. I called uncle and made her switch. Since Im incredibly strong and managed to get the ropes moving at a really nice arc for her to run through, she gets to the other side unscathed..That is until she runs face first into a heavy bag. BAM! IN THE FACE! Like she forgot there were 14 of these things hanging like a heavybag forest on the other side of the ropes. Oh well. We're both in pain, so it's officially time to move on.
To 'Giant Exercise Ball Vollyball' that is...She served up a pretty sweet lob and just as I was spiking it back across the room, some meat head comes in and looks at us like we're insane. He walks right over to the 45lb kettle bell weight and asks us if he can use it. Neither of us could pick it up off the ground. It might as well have been a VW bug sitting there. Oh well, we need to stop the shenanigans and start our work out for real, anyway.
A solid hour of cardio later, we'd successfully narrated an unsuspecting mans workout with porn voices Mystery Science Theater 2000 style, laughed in the face of a dude wearing water socks (river shoes) and a bright purple tank top and spit water out of our noses after seeing a small child fall backwards off the treadmill next to us. (she was fine, stop judging!)
Now, of course Im sorry the treadmill gods decided to take a child in my place today but I have no control over their wicked ways.. And you'd have laughed too if you saw it.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Weight Loss Woes
Day 1: Procured a workout partner in crime. Rhonda has a membership to the same gym, so we agree to hold each other accountable. She shows me around a little. I mount an eliptical for the first time and end the session by flinging myself wildly off the back of said machine into an occupied treadmill. Damn it.
Day 2: Head to gym in stretchy pants and Chad's tshirt bc nothing else fits/conceals my giant ass. Sit backwards or sideways on most of the equipment. Severely strain my muffin top on one of the ab machines. Vow that the insanity stops here and to come back everyday until Im waif thin and buff enough to snap Chuck Norris' head off with my pinky.
Day 3: Get up early and head to the store to buy new workout clothes. I buy the least expensive pair of workout pants for two reasons. 1. they are gonna wear out QUICK due to the lack of steel reinforced mesh panels on the inner thigh. (Maybe they could use Kevlar instead, but i doubt it wicks away the moisture like you'd want it to and swamp ass is the worst.) 2. Hopefully I'll be dropping some lb's and will need a smaller size in the near future.
Day 4: Make pact with Rhonda to not buy any new clothes until we're able to buy a size that doesnt make us want to punch newborn babies in the face. She puts me in the sauna for first time. UGH! It's hot and there is nothing to do in that wooden box of hell fire. She gets tired of me spraying her in the face with the water bottle fairly quickly. Three minutes into it im dying and stripping like she's got a wad of singles in her sports bra. Oh, and we have to keep our underwear on or cover up with a towel? Would have been nice to know that before this nice lady came in. Hello ma'am. Please stop staring at my vagina.
Day 5: Fuck the gym.
Day 6: Hoping today would be the first day I didnt bust my ass on the treadmill. No such luck. 'Treadmill rash' is worse than road rash bc now im chubby and uncoordinated and bleeding. Cross your fingers it scabs nicely and heals clean. I cannot figure out why I feel the need to jump off the moving treadmill instead of pressing the stop button and waiting for it to slow. It's like my feet have ADD and just have to show their ass while we're in public. Maybe tomorrow's my day...
Day 2: Head to gym in stretchy pants and Chad's tshirt bc nothing else fits/conceals my giant ass. Sit backwards or sideways on most of the equipment. Severely strain my muffin top on one of the ab machines. Vow that the insanity stops here and to come back everyday until Im waif thin and buff enough to snap Chuck Norris' head off with my pinky.
Day 3: Get up early and head to the store to buy new workout clothes. I buy the least expensive pair of workout pants for two reasons. 1. they are gonna wear out QUICK due to the lack of steel reinforced mesh panels on the inner thigh. (Maybe they could use Kevlar instead, but i doubt it wicks away the moisture like you'd want it to and swamp ass is the worst.) 2. Hopefully I'll be dropping some lb's and will need a smaller size in the near future.
Day 4: Make pact with Rhonda to not buy any new clothes until we're able to buy a size that doesnt make us want to punch newborn babies in the face. She puts me in the sauna for first time. UGH! It's hot and there is nothing to do in that wooden box of hell fire. She gets tired of me spraying her in the face with the water bottle fairly quickly. Three minutes into it im dying and stripping like she's got a wad of singles in her sports bra. Oh, and we have to keep our underwear on or cover up with a towel? Would have been nice to know that before this nice lady came in. Hello ma'am. Please stop staring at my vagina.
Day 5: Fuck the gym.
Day 6: Hoping today would be the first day I didnt bust my ass on the treadmill. No such luck. 'Treadmill rash' is worse than road rash bc now im chubby and uncoordinated and bleeding. Cross your fingers it scabs nicely and heals clean. I cannot figure out why I feel the need to jump off the moving treadmill instead of pressing the stop button and waiting for it to slow. It's like my feet have ADD and just have to show their ass while we're in public. Maybe tomorrow's my day...
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Hey There, Wait a Minute Mr. Postman...
This letter is to Tom, my mailman.
Dearest Tom,
It has become painfully clear to me that you take more than the usual amount of interest in the personal lives of those you serve on your route. In order to keep you from any more sleepless nights, im giving you the inside scoop on the Mills family. My hope is that our family's comings and goings will no longer be a mystery to you and all the time you spend milking my good friend for information can now be put to better use sorting and delivering the mail. (You know, the job which you are actually compensated for.)
I got knocked up in high school. For a while I was a bitter, hateful bitch that would rather tell someone to go die in a fire than to say 'hi'. (I know the looks you get when you pull up to my box would lead you to believe not much has changed, but rest assured, I am alot nicer nowdays. Just not to you. ) At 19 I met my husband Chad and he made an honest(ish) woman of me. He's a good man with no strange fetishes or garrish secrets in his past, but you already know that, don't ya, Tom? If his lack of receiving porn through the mail leads you to believe he must be an 'internet' man, I'd like to cordially invite you over some Sunday for dinner and a 'browser history check' as a show of good faith. Im pretty sure the Postal Service's motto is, "Leave no stone unturned in the personal lives of those on your route", and I just want to help you help yourself... to a big ol' helping of my personal life.
Chad and I love each other and for the past 10 years have made a life together, most of which has been spent in WF. Our marriage is good but far from storybook. We've lost jobs, gone through a bankruptcy, suffered the loss of beloved family members under tragic circumstances, and struggled with the day to day stresses of being married with three kids. We argue. Not violently and never for long, but sometimes I wake up pissy or Chad has a crappy day at work and we get into it. No guns or knives are drawn so i consider us 'normal' in that department. Our sex life is great. We enjoy 3-5 romps a week, kids and schedules permitting. I still think he's cute and he still whistles and slaps my butt when he see's me naked. I think that's nice, don't you, Tom?
Our sons are good kids. We try to raise them right but who knows. I guess we'll find out about our kids like everyone else does. Do our best, wait for them to grow up and hope to God that they are kind and caring or at least smart enough to hide the bodies well. I sure hope they have been respectful to you in the past.
Now me, on the other hand, I don't like you. I think you need to mind your own damn business and start acting more like a middle aged man and less like a 15 yr old girl sniffing around for a fresh bit for the schools gossip column. Next time you have a question about me or my family, do me a favor. Place my mail in the box, drive straight into town and get a fucking life of your own.
Sincerely,
Misty Mills
Dearest Tom,
It has become painfully clear to me that you take more than the usual amount of interest in the personal lives of those you serve on your route. In order to keep you from any more sleepless nights, im giving you the inside scoop on the Mills family. My hope is that our family's comings and goings will no longer be a mystery to you and all the time you spend milking my good friend for information can now be put to better use sorting and delivering the mail. (You know, the job which you are actually compensated for.)
I got knocked up in high school. For a while I was a bitter, hateful bitch that would rather tell someone to go die in a fire than to say 'hi'. (I know the looks you get when you pull up to my box would lead you to believe not much has changed, but rest assured, I am alot nicer nowdays. Just not to you. ) At 19 I met my husband Chad and he made an honest(ish) woman of me. He's a good man with no strange fetishes or garrish secrets in his past, but you already know that, don't ya, Tom? If his lack of receiving porn through the mail leads you to believe he must be an 'internet' man, I'd like to cordially invite you over some Sunday for dinner and a 'browser history check' as a show of good faith. Im pretty sure the Postal Service's motto is, "Leave no stone unturned in the personal lives of those on your route", and I just want to help you help yourself... to a big ol' helping of my personal life.
Chad and I love each other and for the past 10 years have made a life together, most of which has been spent in WF. Our marriage is good but far from storybook. We've lost jobs, gone through a bankruptcy, suffered the loss of beloved family members under tragic circumstances, and struggled with the day to day stresses of being married with three kids. We argue. Not violently and never for long, but sometimes I wake up pissy or Chad has a crappy day at work and we get into it. No guns or knives are drawn so i consider us 'normal' in that department. Our sex life is great. We enjoy 3-5 romps a week, kids and schedules permitting. I still think he's cute and he still whistles and slaps my butt when he see's me naked. I think that's nice, don't you, Tom?
Our sons are good kids. We try to raise them right but who knows. I guess we'll find out about our kids like everyone else does. Do our best, wait for them to grow up and hope to God that they are kind and caring or at least smart enough to hide the bodies well. I sure hope they have been respectful to you in the past.
Now me, on the other hand, I don't like you. I think you need to mind your own damn business and start acting more like a middle aged man and less like a 15 yr old girl sniffing around for a fresh bit for the schools gossip column. Next time you have a question about me or my family, do me a favor. Place my mail in the box, drive straight into town and get a fucking life of your own.
Sincerely,
Misty Mills
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Cadillacs and Donkey Shows
Once a month I go a wee bit crazy and all the emotions Ive denied having for the past 28 days suddenly come pouring out in strange and unusual ways. Some months it comes and goes without causing much of a problem in my home life and others result in my husband sleeping on the couch of a fat, balding man who works at the grilled cheese shop off the square. This is one of those months...
Chad works from home. The vertically challenged sociopaths I harbor are out of school due to the blizzard and I am cycling like a mofo. Yes, the subject of divorce has been broached however no one is buried in a frosty, shallow grave out back, so Im considering this week a 'win'.
Today, a salesman from Windstream came to my door and Im pretty sure he's at home still hugging his wife after what he saw.
Whenever someone knocks on the door, our little inbred Pomeranian mistake starts to yap uncontrollably. I yell for Andrew to take the damn dog into Alex's room and shut the door. Then I open the front door. Im pissed because it's cold outside and this doucher looks 'slow'. Im wearing gray and green thermal socks, leggings, an oversized tshirt, a lime green robe and I have a large greasy wad on the top of my head. I can only guess that the look on my face was off putting or I smelled. Both are possible. Hell, it could have been a combination of the two. I dont really care. So he begins his pitch about the services they offer and what great deals they are...I just closed the door. But our door is kind of messed up and sometimes it doesnt 'catch' when you shut it. The only way to make sure it's shut is to reopen it and slam it super hard. So not only is this dude forced to go door to door in a damn blizzard, but he got the door slammed in his face twice by possibly the skankiest woman he's ever laid eyes on. (I cant say for sure, but Im crossing my fingers that he's worked in Madison County before and he's seen alot worse.)
Does this happen to anyone else?! Am I the weird chick on the commercial with the gray and fuzzy sad face while all her super hot, skinny friends are drinking colorful cocktails and laughing?! I dont wanna be that girl!
I'd like to go to the doctor and maybe get a pill for this but I'm legitimately worried she's gonna tell me there is no hope aside from electric shock therapy and some sort of 12 step program for assholes.
Here's what I think I need: A really strong drink, a hysterectomy and a time machine that propells me back to the day after Ryan Reynolds broke up with Alanis Morissette... cuz Im sure he was vulnerable and AINT NO WAY im crazier than that bitch! Problem solved. =)
Chad works from home. The vertically challenged sociopaths I harbor are out of school due to the blizzard and I am cycling like a mofo. Yes, the subject of divorce has been broached however no one is buried in a frosty, shallow grave out back, so Im considering this week a 'win'.
Today, a salesman from Windstream came to my door and Im pretty sure he's at home still hugging his wife after what he saw.
Whenever someone knocks on the door, our little inbred Pomeranian mistake starts to yap uncontrollably. I yell for Andrew to take the damn dog into Alex's room and shut the door. Then I open the front door. Im pissed because it's cold outside and this doucher looks 'slow'. Im wearing gray and green thermal socks, leggings, an oversized tshirt, a lime green robe and I have a large greasy wad on the top of my head. I can only guess that the look on my face was off putting or I smelled. Both are possible. Hell, it could have been a combination of the two. I dont really care. So he begins his pitch about the services they offer and what great deals they are...I just closed the door. But our door is kind of messed up and sometimes it doesnt 'catch' when you shut it. The only way to make sure it's shut is to reopen it and slam it super hard. So not only is this dude forced to go door to door in a damn blizzard, but he got the door slammed in his face twice by possibly the skankiest woman he's ever laid eyes on. (I cant say for sure, but Im crossing my fingers that he's worked in Madison County before and he's seen alot worse.)
Does this happen to anyone else?! Am I the weird chick on the commercial with the gray and fuzzy sad face while all her super hot, skinny friends are drinking colorful cocktails and laughing?! I dont wanna be that girl!
I'd like to go to the doctor and maybe get a pill for this but I'm legitimately worried she's gonna tell me there is no hope aside from electric shock therapy and some sort of 12 step program for assholes.
Here's what I think I need: A really strong drink, a hysterectomy and a time machine that propells me back to the day after Ryan Reynolds broke up with Alanis Morissette... cuz Im sure he was vulnerable and AINT NO WAY im crazier than that bitch! Problem solved. =)
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