Eat This Blog

I haven't had a decent dream in a while. CURSE YOU, GOD! So instead, today I am listing a list of thorns and roses into a neat little list. Fuck, do I have to explain to you what 'thorns & roses' is? Jesus...thorn is something you hate, rose is something thats good.

THORNS

14-hour days on set
Paris/Perez Hilton
My too-dry swordfish at lunch
Diarreaha
Pictures of Britney Spears sans underpants
Cockroaches
People who make jokes about mullets (mullets are redundant, you asshat)

ROSES

Taco, the 12-year-old chihuahua I want to adopt from the Toronto Humane Society
Snuggling
MySpace/Facebook
Hummus
Calling people an 'asshat'
drugsandpoisons.blogspot.com
My impression of Dane "King of the Assclowns" Cook
The Hills Season 2 - Feb.5 10pm

Payce.

Flavor of Davey-Love

Hey y'all.
So, Alex and I had another verbal throwdown. She referred to me as "New York" from Flava-Flav's hit television show 'Flavor of Love'. If you are not myself or my good friend Tom, you might not be aware of FoL and its illustrious group of classy ladies. Flav has ho's living in a house vyying for his love (and penis). He gives them stupid nicknames like Red Oyster, Hoopz, Pumkin, and my favourite, Nibblz. New York, the crackiest of the crackheads, has been on both FoL and FoL2. She is retarded. Really. She says shit like "Pee-pole should nawt messsss with my spaccce or my thingzaah. Thissss is New Yorkkkz air to breathe." She is really a turd.
Anyways, Alex said I was insulting her and a) not making sense but also b) saying everything phoenetically. Like New York. Then I pulled out the classic of the classic Davey Twins comebacks; I made a crack about weight. And when I say 'crack about her weight' I told her that if I was New York, she was Like Dat (yes, another FoL ho...except she was like 400 lbs. and had a shit weave)
Anyways, my dream was really boring last night - I dreamt that I punched Rachael Ray in the face. I don't know why. Wait, I do know why, she's annoying as hell.

No Dreams, Just Fights

Okay, so my dreams have seem to have taken a hiatus - they are so effing boring lately. Instead, I am choosing to update everytime Alex beats the shit out of me. Now, iif you know anything about Alex, you know she is unneccesarily aggressive and angry all.the.time. She also loves beating up on me cause I used to beat her up all the time when I was little. Let's face it - I was strong and tall and she was short and lazy. Now the tables have turned - I am weaker and more genteel and she is more angry and strong and has tonnes of beat-lust. I myself cannot punch someone. Alex loves it.
So, two days ago, Alex delivered my daily beating as I was trying to watch TV. She wailed on me for a bit and then, cause she is so clumsy, she kicked a bowl off my nightstand and it broke. It was also filled with cereal-milk, which got everywhere. I chose to clean it up, cause she's a pig and wouldn't do it right and my room would end up smelling like baby barf.
And yesterday, she was fighting me (mostly tickling, which feels more like hard poking and scratching) and she pulled my finger so hard...okay, I have to preface this by saying she has this thing called "twist and turn technology" where she basically rips your fingers out of the knuckles. So she gave me some twist and turn technology and broke my right-hang ring finger.
What a psycho. Also, I think she needs Anger-Management lessons or something. Actually, no, because normally when she beats the hell out of something, she is laughing her dumb ass off. So, maybe she needs Whitby Psych or something.
Payce.

Cod Poppers

So, my dream is based around a tapas menu item at reds, where I work. 'Tapas' is a pretentious word for 'bar food'. Anyways, they have this one tapas called 'Panko Crusted Scottish Cod with Crispy Frites & Tarter Sauce', which is a pretentious way of saying 'Cod Poppers and Fries'. Anyways, in my dream I was at summer camp held at my cottage. It was kinda like Wet-Hot, except no Jeanne Garofalo. The Stella boys were in it, tho. Anyways, the final camp-wide event was a boxcar race through the forest. We prepared our cars and fixed them all up. Then, when it was time for the race, our cars mysteriously turned into cod-poppers and we just pushed them around in the dirt. Mine won, and we all ate our cod poppers. They were delicious. Then I heard someone go "they're not called cod poppers!!"
I don't know who it was, but I'm pretty sure it was one of my managers.
Tapas are lame.