Prison Daddy

My mother once told me that I’m an acquired taste.  My mother is sometimes a bitch just because she can be, but she’s a truthful bitch (which might be the worst kind).  I can’t count the number of times a person I’ve known for a little while has come up to me and said something like “You know, I didn’t like you at first, but you’ve grown on me.”

Yes, like a fungus I creep up on you when you least expect it and spit my poison spores everywhere.  They infect your brain and you somehow magically end up liking me...or not.  No matter what I try there are always people who don’t like me.  I tell myself it’s because they don’t get me, but let’s face it, I deluded myself into marrying not one, but two separate men who were horribly wrong for me.  The people who don’t like me might not have poor taste.  They might just be sane.  Or immune to my poisonous spores.

In personality, I can be a bit prickly.  I usually think I’m right (but ask my boyfriend, I am so often that it’s led to arrogance.)  If you’ve known me for longer than a week, I’ve probably gone on a rant about how the white male power structure...yada yada yada.  You’re not listening are you?  Well, fuck you.  I didn’t care to discuss this with you anyway.

To be honest, I’m a little like a burnt marshmallow.  My outside personality is probably a little repulsive.  If you could create a visual image of the way I act sometimes it would be charred black and dropped in the dirt by a six-year-old.

I’m not going to talk to you about the soft, sweet center that is the secret me, because frankly, I don’t think you’ve earned that yet. That’s right, you have to earn me being nice to you...unless you sign my paychecks.  And then I’ll smile and say sweet things all day long, because I’m a whore like that.

No, the truth is I have a bit of a reputation of being a hardass.  ZmbSlyr likes to joke that I’m a warrior woman, but I think he’s only half kidding.  He’s said it or some variation one too many times not to be a little serious. 

For example:  The other day, while I’m getting ready for work, he said something obviously unimportant to me because I’ve already forgotten just what it was.  I, in return, of course, acted like a smartass.  To which he responded by doing one of his many impersonations of me. 

He turns and, with a straight face says:  “RWAR!  I’M BRANDY!  I’M A BADASS!  WATCH ME EAT A MOUTHFUL OF BROKEN GLASS!”

  
Well, that was exactly what I was about to go do, but he’d ruined the surprise, so I just slipped my bra on backwards and jerked it straight in frustration.  He’s always finding a way to keep me from doing anything fun.

Another night here recently we had the following conversation:

“You do realize I would straight up kill anyone who ever messed you, right?”  I don’t know why I thought he needed to know this.  Maybe because I was hoping that, if someone ever did mess with him, he wouldn’t tell me for fear of me doing something overly harsh in retaliation, thereby helping me to avoid to messy process of having to dispose of a body via a wood chipper.  (Trust me, it’s disgust!  And the noise it makes.  You hear it in dreams for nights afterwards).

“I know, baby.  You’re like my prison daddy.”

I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes.  “What makes you say that?”

“Well, in exchange for sex you make sure no one else beats me up or rapes me.”

“I’m not your prison daddy.”

“Whatever you say, daddy.”

From the sounds of it, it may be sheer terror alone that keeps the man coming back to me, but I can live with it.  Wasn’t it Machiavelli who said it was better to rule by love and fear, but to always choose fear if you must pick between the two.  Yeah, I took that shit to heart.

And that, my friends, is exactly what makes me a wonderful prison daddy.

The Goodness I Could Afford If Not For Student Loan Payments

Student loans.  Oh, how I loathe thee. 

No, that’s not right.  I loved you when you were the thing keeping my head barely above the poverty line as I desperately threaded water throughout undergraduate career.  But back then I thought my education would actually enable me to make a salary that wasn’t effectively being paid in chewing gum, like I am now.

Back then I was arrogant enough to believe the economy would recover around the time I graduated.  Of course someone would send it a memo that an important person, me, needed financial security so it was time to quit dicking around and get back to business.... Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Instead, I’m making only a dollar and a half more than pre-degree Brandy, doing the same thing, but as a temp. (possibly one day permanent worker) with no benefits. 

I know what some of you are thinking:  “At least you have a job, you entitled brat.  Some of us are barely making it on minimum wage style unemployment checks.  We’d love to be car dealership receptionists right now.”

To those people I proudly say:  “Screw you!  This is my blog.  If I want to bitch here, be it about being underemployed and overeducated or about how the drug eucalyptus is devastating kola communities everywhere, I will.  You want to bitch, get your blog.  They’re free.  Trust me, I wouldn’t have one otherwise.”

The worst part about student loan payments, aside from the fact that I’m paying retroactively for something that apparently me little to no good, is the fact that, every time I send these smug bastards money, I can’t help but think of all the things I could be buying with that cash.

So, without further ado, I present my non-existent fan base with a list of what I could purchase each month with the $230 (It’d be $430 if it weren’t for the graduated payment plan) I send the banks for two degrees that aren’t worth their weight in toilet paper:

1.)    Tacos.  Approximately 244 to be exact, providing I bought them at Taco Bell and didn’t special order.  To those of you who are thinking “Who would ever want 244 cheap ass tacos a month?” I say: “Fuck you.  You think you’re too good for Taco Bell?  Elitist prick.  Tacos are always awesome, so much so that my boyfriend thinks they’re actual currency.  Go take your snobbery elsewhere.  We don’t like your kind around these here parts.”

2.)    Glow in the dark Bubbles.  These are a real thing.  You can buy them online, which is part of why the Internet is my idea of heaven.  They’re also what I want for Christmas right now.  At $8.34 a bottle, I could, were it not for student loans, own 27 bottles of awesome each month.

3.)    A Gun per month.  I don’t really know the price of firearms, because I’m not a hunter or a psycho, but I’m pretty sure I could get one, whether through legal or illegal means, for $230.  Sure, it might not be the best one, but it would only be beginning of the arsenal I should be amassing for when the Zombie Apocalypse actually happens.  Yeah, so screw you Student Loan Corp.  If the zombies turn me into one of them, because I lack the ability to protect myself, you’re going to be on the top of my list of people to infect.  You’re going down, bitches.

4.)    A New Car.  Okay, let’s be honest, it wouldn’t actually be a new car, but it would be new to me, and that counts for something.  I could be driving around a vehicle whose gearshift isn’t threatening to fall off, whose interior wasn’t ravaged by an ex-husband who didn’t understand his coffee needed to stay in it’s cup, maybe even something with power windows.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my car (Her name is Willis), but damn, power windows and rear defrost would be nice.

5.)    11.5 Small Crack Rocks.  According to Answer.com, a small rock costs around $20.  This means I could buy 11.5 of them!  Now, I’ve never done Crack, but two of my stepfather’s have said it was awesome (You don’t argue with a crack head about whether or not crack really is “the shit”.  You just go with it.)  I don’t really want to do it, because I’m a chicken shit pansy and nothing like the hardcore badass I pretend to be, but I think it should be my God given right to ruin my life, if I were so inclined.  My student loan payments are robbing me of my financial ability to become addicted to crack, and that’s just wrong.

6.)    2090 Packs of Ramen.  Can you imagine the salty goodness I could buy with $230 extra month?  Now, since it has no real nutritious value, it might kill me, but that’s 2090 packs of Ramen I don’t even have ability to buy right now.  This would probably manage to turn out very similar to time I bought 72 Glazed Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, just because I had a coupon, but I should be allowed to find out for myself, damn it.

7.)    Roughly 230 Condoms.  Okay, I’d have to be a crazy person to be having sex enough in one month to use 230 condoms.  At that rate my vagina would just fall off.  I could, however, hand them out to all the stupid people I know who shouldn’t procreate (I know A LOT of stupid people) and I would be making a real difference in the world.  So, thanks Student Loan, Corp. you’re what’s keeping me from changing the world.  Assholes.

8.)    Pay OFF My Credit Card Faster.  Okay, you and me both know this one probably wouldn’t happen.  Not in a world where tacos and glow in the dark bubbles exist, but it’s nice to think about.

While I’m sure that there are a million other things I could buy with an additional $230 a month that I would enjoy more than giving my money to the student loan giants, creating this list is starting to feel like work, so I’m going to go count the ceiling tiles again.  I’m thinking about naming them.  Each and everyone. 

The Lost Boys

Of the many things I suck at, being an adult is at the top of the list.  I don’t own a vacuum—or any non-plastic dishes for that matter.  My grocery list is mainly comprised of generic sugary cereal (in a bag) and hot dogs.  My plans tonight involve German Chocolate cake and re-watching How to Train Your Dragon.  I was absent on the day the “Being an Adult” lecture was taught at all three of the colleges I attended (So, what?  I missed a lot of days.  Don’t judge me.)  But no matter how bad I am at being an adult, I’m always reassured by those who fail harder at it than me.  They make me feel like there is still a chance for me.  They, however, are likely screwed, at least until thirty-five or so.

My favorite measuring stick of maturity would have to be my boyfriend’s current roommates, who I affectionately refer to as “The Lost Boys”.  These are not your typical directionless man-children—these are four homeless people that just happen to have a home.  When boyfriend got sick of being the only to purchase toilet paper, ”The Lost Boys” simply went without, for almost a month, until the toilet rebelled against their use of various fast food restaurant napkins.  Amongst the house of five, there are only two vehicles, neither of which are registered with the DMV or have insurance, one of which has a vanity license plate that reads “ZmbSlyr” (I date its owner) and a bike.  There is a pile of garbage in the kitchen that has grown to such epic proportions it now resembles Marjory the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock, except with more pizza boxes and beer bottles.  Quite frankly, I’m shocked every time I go into that room that it hasn’t become sentient and started giving advice such as “Clean this shit up.  Even I’m embarrassed to live here and I’m a Trash Heap!” 

Despite their housekeeping shortcomings, I find that I actually care about the health and well being of “The Lost Boys”.  It’s impossible not to, particularly if you have any human compassion what-so-ever (I previously had thought I was devoid of such faults, but apparently not).  Amongst their endearing qualities is their willingness to share everything they have with anyone who walks in the door.  The downside of this, as boyfried/ZmbSlyr has found, is that they expect the same in return, whether or not you partake in whatever they offer.  This has caused him to do such things as hide Ramen under his pillow and lock his toilet paper in the trunk of his car.

They’re also a rather entertaining bunch, if you can stomach watching a roach being mercilessly slaughtered with a Nerf gun or enjoy seeing two grown men argue over a game of Magic the Gathering.  The other night, for example, I heard one of The Lost Boys, who was trying to explain the kind of stupid things he says while drunk, actually utter the words “Well, if the women were on fire, then the men would put the out.  And then we’d get our dicks sucked and make pie.”  Yeah, it didn’t make any sense then and it still doesn’t now.

A few days ago ZmbSlyr returned to their two-bedroom hobo home to find out that the water had been turned off due to lack of payment.  A bill that would have effectively cost them around $30 a month had turned into a roughly $65 ordeal plus a $60 reactivation fee.  In addition, “someone” had “stolen” the trashcan, which I secretly believe to be code for “we forgot to pay that, too”, but I’ve been wrong before.  I just can’t imagine why someone would want to steal anything The Lost Boys own.  That’s a good way to catch something prehistorically detrimental to your health.  Only a pterodactyl or one of The Lost Boys themselves could survive the diseases that cling to certain objects in that house.  Frankly, I’m surprised I’m not dead yet.

The funniest part of the incident had to be ZmbSlyr’s minor breakdown over the event.  He likes running water, clean things, and not having to ask the Trash Heap monster to move its rather large ass so he can get into the fridge.  This is probably why he usually stays at my place.

“How can you not pay something as small as a water bill, but afford a new video game?” 

I believed this to be a rhetorical question, so I didn’t bother answering.  Secretly, I was reveling in the fact that, even if I’m not an adult, my water/electricity/cable/trash pick has never been terminated.  I’m not an adult, but I”m not an idiot either.  Of course, men don’t have the option of hooking to pay the bills, so that might be a harsh judgement.

“And seriously, what the fuck?!  This happened last year around the same time.  What do they think October is? Water Conservation month?  Is this really how they want to celebrate Halloween?  By all smelling so bad the house becomes a place of nightmares?”

 At this point, I’m giggling so hard I’m having trouble breathing.  This always causes me to gasp for air, making noises similar to Goofy, which my boyfriend says are “endearing”.  (I believe this is code for “I don’t think I can do better than you because I have terminally low self-esteem).

“You mean they do this regularly?”  I managed to choke out.

“Oh yeah.  Seriously, October is No-Water month to these people.  Last year it was so bad E’s girlfriend had to take a shit behind the barn cause we could flush the toilet.”

“She what?”

“Had to take a shit in the woods.  Multiple times.  This is why I can objectively say that, yeah, she’s attractive, but I could never date her.  I mean the girl shit in the woods behind a barn, rather than ride up the street to a civilized bathroom.  She’s like a wild animal or something.”

“So, there’s just piles of human shit out behind the barn?”  As you can see, I’m sometimes rather slow on the uptake.

“Well, not now.  Shit decomposes pretty quickly.  But, yeah, there was.  Like I said, a wild animal.”

So, to my boyfriend’s friends and acquaintances, I would like to thank you.  While I may be maturity repellent, you always manage to make me feel like a well-rounded, functional adult.  Now, excuse me.  I do believe it's time for my nap.

In Which a Sandwich Beats a Grown Man (an Introduction)

Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat—I have very few marketable skills.  Two degrees, but I’m apparently about as about as employable, at least in today’s economy, as a Jack Russell Terrier.  Maybe less so, because I’m really suck at that adorable “pet me” face.  Which is why I’m still answering phones at a car dealership, exactly like I was before I got my ridiculously expensive education. 

I get to spend every day faking smiles and a lower intellect, while repeatedly saying things like “It’s a great day at Bob Taylor Ford.  Have you heard about our Unlicensed Driver incentives?”  Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve got skills (mad skills, in fact.)  They’re just nothing you can get paid for.

For example, I have a wonderful talent of marrying the wrong men, which I inherited from my mother (thanks, mom.  Really.).  I’m great at forgetting whatever witty thing I was going to tell you as soon as you show up (but it was awesome, I promise).  I’m also fairly adept at locking my keys in my car (though to be honest, the last two times that happened, I had my boyfriend to thank for that experience).  As you can see, these aren’t skills that would make an employer want to throw exorbitant amount of cash at me. 

I’ve tried to come up with other options.  I really have.  I’m attractive enough to do porn, but not attractive enough to get as rich as I would need to be to justify my actions to my extremely religious grandmother.  My brother has already corned the market on dealing drugs and getting arrested for petty theft in my family.  And my mother’s office won’t hire me because they’re afraid I’d manipulate the payroll to give her raises (as if, I’d do it to give MYSELF more money).  So, for now, I’m stuck answering phones.

My job involves lots of down time.  The phone simply doesn’t ring for hours, giving me a lot of time to do other productive things (like play Crackville on Facebook or look for another low paying, emotionally demeaning job).  Instead, I’ve decided to harness my rage and write this blog, which no one except my incredibly supportive boyfriend will read.

And he really is incredibly supportive.  This morning he was making my lunch, as he does every morning, while I did my hair and got dressed for work.  I live in an efficiency style apartment (because student loans are a bitch), so he was preparing my food on a napkin on the floor of my bedroom.  I was watching him from the mirror when he started to yell at the sandwich.

“Boyfriend, are you being beaten by a sammich?” I asked, without an ounce of mockery in my voice.

“No,” he mumbled.  “The peanut butter just won’t smush on the bread properly.”

“So, it’s winning?”

He didn’t say anything.  I was watching him, though, so I don’t think he spit in my food.

It was at this point that I turned to him and said: “I think I should write a blog and become ridiculously famous on the Internet.”

He had shoved the leftover spoonful of peanut butter into his mouth so his response sounded a little like ‘MmmHms Mhmms Smmmh”, which I took as a challenge.

“I’m serious.  I could do it.  You’re just afraid you’ll be the butt of all my jokes, like you are in real life.” 

“Baby,” (he always calls me this, because, to be quite honest, I think he’s forgotten my name) “I’m completely okay with you making me out to be a retard on the web.  In fact, if it will make you happy, you can convince the entire world that I’m totally Rainman.”

I smiled, because you know someone cares when they’re willing to look like they’re mentally challenged for your entertainment.  And when they make you sandwiches.

But what would I call my little foray into writing that wouldn’t be accepted in the worst creative writing bachelor program?  And then I remembered a conversation Boy and I have had several times. 

I don’t remember if we were discussing how to survive the impending Zombie Apocalypse (his favorite topic) or debating whether or not Aquaman should even be considered a superhero, instead of a super-let-down.  What I do know is that I turned to him and said:

“You do realize our conversations are the intellectual equivalent of jelly beans, right?”

He smiled.  “I like jelly beans.”

“Everyone likes jelly beans.  But no one purposely goes out and buys jelly beans.  They’re just kind of willing to eat them till they get sick if they’re sitting around.  That’s what our conversations are like.”

And thus the name of the blog, a place where I’ll spill my heart and soul out to you in Internet-land, discussing every stupid thought that goes through my head while at work.  A place where you’ll probably troll me and tell me I’m not as witty or interesting as [insert popular blogger name here] or no where near as hot as [random person who posts half naked attention seeking pictures].  This is going to be a love/hate relationship, I just know it.