For lent I’m going to stop holding my pee just because I remembered that I wore a belt and I am too lazy to deal with that.
Have you ever wondered what whiskey and goat’s milk tastes like?
Well, you have three options:
1. You can go out and buy whiskey and goat’s milk and taste them.
2. You can watch this Taste Test Tuesday featuring some fucking superstars.
3. You can watch this video and then go out and buy whiskey and goat’s milk because you are still fucking curious.
MEMORIES MY BABIES. MEMORIES.
OH HOW I MISS THAT RAT AND THAT GIRL IN THE RED HAT..
OH MY LIFE. HOW WONDERFUL :’)
Dear Mari, I've been following you since Ned linked to something you posted in his BonerParty days, yes, it's been that long and yes, it's built into one of those odd "this stranger is my friend!" internet-type of things, which is why I'm posting anonymously, but it seems the haters have been coming out of the woodwork recently and I just want you to know that you are incredibly interesting, funny, intelligent and inspiring. Take as much time as you need, I'll keep checking for new posts.
God bless you and god bless the years where I would thank blogs like “boner party” for my 15 minutes of fake internet fame.
Its been a hell of a couple years!
But these three cubic feet of bone and blood and meat are all I love and know
Love Rufus doing a cover of one of his dad’s earlier songs. It makes my heart act more like a heart.
My hands and nails have always been one of my biggest source of shame and embarrassment. Being a barber means that I probably have cut off my right middle knuckle so often that I have no feeling any more. The side of my index finger, when I run my thumb across it is covered raised scars and rough skin from point cutting into my own hand for the past ten years. I’ve spent hours staring at my hands and wonder how other women have long, delicate, ivory hands with perfect groomed, long strong manicured nails. My nails are always brittle, peeling, breaking, close enough to hurt even now as I type this. I try to always keep them polished but that doesn’t mask the true nature of my beat up, working hands.
Even in middle school, when my teeth stretched out further when I smiled, when my hair, limp and tentacle like over my shoulders, and my glasses slid down my greasy nose, even then I was always nervous about my hands. Squeezing the tip of my round sausage like fingers in hopes that some how I could mold them into elegant, poetic paws like my other girlfriends. Like I was made of clay. I could mold my own body into what I thought was beautiful. I was too embarrassed to join my girlfriends in manicure parties, and most of the time volunteered to help them with their opposite hands instead.
I’m not clay though. My hands never changed, instead they became more scared and muscular. After I was hit by a car on my bike two years ago my left thumb refused to move correctly due to a snapped tendon. So now, not only do I have torn hands, I can’t even make the number 4 correctly. My thumb will reach a certain spot and then refuse to move. It just hovers there, shaking and unsure. I always thought this was a myth, but my old deep scar from the accident… I can feel it when it rains. It aches. My hand aches and can hurt while I’m working if its raining outside. I always thought it was a myth. Or it only happens to old war veterans. But it doesn’t, it can happen to 28 year old girls and insecurities on their hands.
And if you think this is bad, you have no idea what I feelings about my feet are.
But I’m not clay. I can not mold myself into what I think to be perfect or beautiful. I think that’s a good thing, if I were clay… I would constantly be molding myself into I turned into something that even I didn’t know where I started from. Not because I’m that insecure were I want to change everything about myself, but because as the years change and as I get older, my idea of what is beautiful has become so vast and changed so many times that I would constantly be molding and molding and molding myself into something different from the next. That the only next thing to mold myself into is my original self.
Just original plan ol’ Mari with ugly hands and beat up runners toes and who falls too often and who loves her friends and who is scared of being a lone and even more scared of forgetting herself. I would rather not be clay at the end of the day I think.