Only Fools Rush In

Hey Guys!

I know it's been a while since I've written, but it's been a hell of a week trying to train the puppy. Luckily, my efforts and frustrations have not been in vain as she's picking it up quite quickly! Thank you, thank you, save the applause. Anywho, happy Sunday! Today, I'm feeling inspired to write about something I think we all, or at least most of us, can relate to... And that is...

DRUM ROLL PLEEEAAASE!!

... Falling in love! Yep, I'm taking Cupid head on. Now, falling in love, that is something little ol' me never even entertained the idea of. I was not a one person girl. Quite frankly, I was an asshole before Cupid shot that shit straight at my heart. I'd hang out with you a few times, then jet and completely vanish once I got bored. I swore off monogamy and marriage entirely. I was going to be a bridesmaid, never a bride, forever; and I was wholeheartedly okay with that.

Precisely.

 *Disclaimer: I'm going to be using my personal experience with this matter as a base for my perception of it.*

This was until I created an account for Twitter. Yes, Twitter.

So, you know that commercial that’s like “first doesn’t come love, first comes like” or some generic bullshit like that? While I scuff at the horrendously corny way they said it, the meaning of the message is true. When I first “met” mine, she followed me on Twitter. Now, at this time, I was new to this “Twitter” phenomenon, so I enlisted the help from my trusted little brother, who was in the know, to teach me about this; and more importantly, as I would come to learn, to figure out how to navigate to this pretty stranger’s page. As the avid student I am, I’ll say I got this Twitter thing down pretty quickly, so no sooner than this person following me, was I navigating her page and learned that she was a rapper and a “vlogger” (I still make the mistake of calling is “video blogging.” Oh, no, it’s “vlogging;” don’t get it twisted.).

Whilst utilizing my newly acquired Twitter skills, I was able to open one of her vlogs. This, there was no coming back from this. I watched it, and felt a tinge of something. I wasn't sure what this unfamiliar feeling was, so as a woman who had been with men my whole life, I brushed it off as mere friendly admiration. But then I found myself continuously returning to her... And responding to mostly everything she posted just to get a response from her... And then that thing happened again...

What is this sorcery happening in my chest?

I kept it light, and even (as she claims), "friend-zoned" her when she sent me a message in August telling me that I was beautiful. Between then and the fruition of our admiration, we were both dating (loose term) people, so the conversations were minimal; despite my burning allure toward her and the want for her attention. But I realized that I liked her. Not in the "oh, she's cool and probably fun to hang out with" kind of like-y way. No. In the "I hate that she's dating someone... How would I even go about this?" kind of like-y way. That's top 4 worst parts of the falling in love process - that initial hope that this person that you're developing a liking toward is even available for the... Taking? I don't know, but you know what I mean. By December, we'd both become single; and I wasted no time.

I didn't even try to act cool about it.

Well, actually, I gave her my number and totally lied saying I had to get off Facebook messenger, but could text. Mind you, she had 22,000+ followers on this Twitter machine, so the chances of really standing out were slim. It's interesting how that happens though, huh? You like someone, and all your coolness and swag and suaveness is gone. Poof. Later gator. And you become, for the lack of a better word, a chump, because you want this person. Bad.

So, so real.

So, after I tried to slyly get her to text me, I was sitting in a chair getting tattooed. As I can only imagine, part of the tattoo cost has to be a therapist interest, because my tattoo artist (luh you Jasmine) had the pleasure of being the first person I spilled my guts to about this girl. I had to tell someone and get it out of me! Anyways, I'm getting tattooed and my phone buzzes. I look at it and it's a number I don't recognize. Hm, 602 area code... Where the heck is that *clickity click on through Google to find out* Oh, Phoenix. Wait, hot Twitter girl lives in Phoenix. Ah yisss! Act cool Courtney, c'mon, keep it together!*

(602) 555-5555: Omg, your tattoo is turning out awesome!
Me: Hey girl, thanks :)
*Acting cool as a cucumber.*
(602) 555-5555: We'll have to get together when you're done!
*Hm, Phoenix is a bit far for a quick get together...*
Me: Totally! I'm sorry, I lost all my contacts (another lie), who's this?
*Not hot girl from Twitter - Friend of a friend. Damnit.*

Okay... She's acting a bit hard to get. Guys typically jump on that shit real quick. This is new.

I was legitimately confused. Like, you know during those first stages of like, you don't do something unless you're feelin' yourself and feeling confident that whatever you're doing is going to pay off. So, I gave her my number with the confidence that I was that awesome to talk to, that she'd surely jump at the opportunity to continue this conversation. No. Not the case.

I thought she recognized that, but I guess not.

So, now I'm salty because I put myself out there, only to be like...

Well, fuck me.

And no, ooh no, I was not going to reach out again. Nope. No messages, no favorites, no likes, no retweets - NOTHING! If she wants to talk to me, she can talk to me; this is a two-way thing sister. I did my part. Then you're trying to act hard, like "fuck that girl then, whatever;" when really, you're checking your phone incessantly, hoping to see an unknown number pop up. Pride and hope are two very conflicting feelings when it comes to liking someone.

Days pass... I stay strong. Do I continue to creep her page? Obviously. I can't miss something cute or funny. But I don't say anything because I'm not about to be thirsty and shut down again. Then on like the fourth day of nothing, my phone buzzes. I've long since lost hope so I don't really jump, but I'm still curious. *(623) 555-5555 ... Clickity clicking again. And it's Phoenix, again.*  I mean, once from Phoenix is one thing, but twice? This must be her.

(623) 555-5555: Hey it's Emily
Me: Oh, there you are :)

At this point, I'm staying cool by remembering that I'm still a little peeved that she took so long. I tried, but it doesn't last long; because that feeling that I had months ago is back, amplified with a vengeance. Finally! Finally that person you like gives you the time necessary to show them how much they should want you back. It is a glorious time in the falling in love process because it's your time to shine.

I got this. My time to shine!

Fast forward a few days:

(623) 555-5555: I think I have a crush on you
Me: I think it might be mutual

Yes! You did it! You broke through this seemingly impenetrable front this girl had put up, and got her! Out of 22,000 Twitter followers and the unquestionably endless real life options, she wants you. You thought you were feelin' yourself before? Oh no, that was nothing. Now you're like, ayeee...

Go girl, go on and brush yo' shoulders off.

I was falling fast from like to full on live (in between like and love... I read it in a book). It wasn't long before I purchased a flight to Phoenix to meet her. Yes, meet her. I had done some daring, arguably stupid shit in my life, but spending over $200 to meet someone and be stuck with them for 3 days, regardless of how the chemistry worked out, was high on that list.

A few weeks later, I'm walking toward baggage claim, where she's waiting, and I'm quite literally quivering with anxiety. Am I getting Catfished? Do I hug her? What if she doesn't like what she sees and she's just being polite? Oh god, I'm getting closer, holy shit!

Where you at EMT? Heart palpitations are happening!

... Then I saw her. God, she was even more beautiful in person. I didn't even know what to do but to awkward wave, like an idiot. She went to kiss me, but as a (former, now) opponent of PDA, I turn away (well, that, and I didn't know how being with a girl worked.). It's so stressful anticipating that first kiss. We all know, you can have awesome conversation with someone, totally hit it off, think they're all that and a bag of chips - the whole nine yards. But that can be quickly crashed and burned by a missed physical connection... That starts with the kiss.

Alright. Here we go. We're in the elevator and she's getting close. Okay, you can do this Courtney. You've done it before, it's the same thing... Except way better. Holy hell. That spark thing that people talk about, it's real. I look at her perplexed because I think my live is making a sharp turn to something way more real...

Seriously, it was. And it didn't crash and burn. Win.

We carried on to have a wonderful weekend, at the end of which I cried the entire flight home. I literally felt like I was being ripped from her, and I wasn't ready. Why wasn't I ready? Because I was in love. I was in love with her. I fell. The thing you never think would happen because there can't possibly be life after bars and one night stands (not me, never...). But it happened. Cupid, you little shit, you got me.

It's a fun ride though, falling in love. It's challenging, but fun. Now, almost two years later, I can't believe that I hang out with the same person every day. I never, ever expected this to be my life. But it is, and I love it. So, that's my experience with and perception of falling in love. I know it's a long one, but hopefully it was at least mildly relate-able / entertaining. However, my stomach is attempting to eat itself, so I have to go. I hope everyone has an awesome Sunday! Until next time, Witte out.

She Called The Shit "Poop"

Howdy!

Happy Sunday everyone! It's a calm one over here... Specifically, by "calm" I mean I'm being held hostage by an overactive puppy bladder/asshole. As most of you know, me and mine got a puppy this week - on Wednesday.

Photogenic little thing, eh?

Contrary to our parents' advice, we did it anyway. We knew it was a big commitment that would require a lot of time and effort, blah blee blah, yeah yeah. I mean, she's cute and all, but Jesus H. Christ...

I don't understand where it's all coming from! WHERE ARE YOU STORING ALL OF THIS?!?

It's amazing how your senses become heightened after you become responsible for a thing that actually needs you to take care of it (unlike the cat because he's independent and makes his own cheese and all that jazz. Way to go kid.)... Like we'll just be sitting there talking or something, then our nose and ears perk up. Oh god... No, no, no... I smell it...

It happened. It's done. It's there.

The Lord haventh tested me until now. I knew not what a true test of keeping your shit together in the midst of building anger was... Until I got a puppy. I have to admit though, she has hit her mark - the potty pads - twice. I'll give credit where credit is due, and for an 8 monther who previously had no inside potty training, that's not too shabby.

On another note, many have inquired about how our beloved Bentley - a self-proclaimed, unquestionable asshole of a feline - responded. Well, we'll be honest, we were ready for shit to hit the fannn... Oh man. We slowly introduced them, ready for claws to come out, blood to be shed, dignity to be lost, and lives to be put in danger (ours, not theirs). We took a deep breath and just went for it. We're basically just like fuck it, if he kills us in our sleep then that was our fate. Alright cat, be free. Here we go...

It's finna get 50 shades of real up in this bitch.

Okay... Bentley is approaching the mysterious subject slowly, cautiously, yet curiously. He throw a paw up like come at me bro, I dare you; but doesn't swing. Just making sure the new one knows who's boss. He's getting closer, still weary, when the dog starts growling. Our self-proclaimed, unquestionable asshole of a cat is getting growled at by a little 8 month old collie. Ayee, this collie has balls - or, well, ovaries... For now, until her snip snip happens (shh, don't tell her). However, this growl has green lighted Bent's paw into forward motion, slapping the shit out of the dog, like...

You better get to know your place, and quick.

One would think that this little itty (she's actually not that small) puppy would be like wow bro, my bad! But no. Oh no, she growls again (rest assured that we reprimanded her after these growls so that she knows that they won't be tolerated because Bentley was here first). She's basically like:

It's a bold strategy, Cotton. Let's see if it pays off for her.

At this point, Emily and I are just sitting back like, holy...

*Feel our arms, look around* Okay, everyone's still alive. This is going rather well... For now.

After a few more moments of introduction, they're off to the races. The new kid on the block is hot on Bent's trail while Bent runs more in the next 10 minutes then he has in his entire life. At this point, we've let go and let Jesus take the wheel. The kids come into the living room, and to the utmost surprise and holy shit-ness, Bentley is on his back letting Riley play with him. They haven't gotten into a single fight, and they follow each other everywhere. I imagine something like this took place in animal language:

That's right kids, you go and get along!

Meanwhile, the wife and I are proud of ourselves and our cat and are happy campers now that there's no bloodshed. Great job, team!

Atta boy!

Now, to focus on potty training. I've never been so happy to see shit and piss on a concentrated area. I hope, a wish of all wishes, that I'll be able to experience that happiness on a more consistent basis in the near future. Until then, we sit and wait...

Ready to git her done. Bring it.

So, yeah... That's been our experience ~5 days into parenting. It's been stressful and smelly, but she's a good puppy so it's worth it. Safe to say we will not be doing this again any time soon. And don't even get me started on having real kids. HA! Well, I gotta go monitor the shit machine. I hope everyone has a rad rest of your day! Until next time, Witte out!

We All Know a Douche Named...

Howdy my friends!

Happy (hopefully) Monday! So, my Monday's focus was on yoga. I decided that I'd do yoga in my living room with the help of a stranger on YouTube, with the intent on like namaste and centering and what not. It was going pretty well... Until my asshole cat decided to attack my poor foot during downward dog. I'll admit, I threw the camera bag his way, spooked him a bit and won that fucking fight... Er, I mean, calmed him down so that I could continue. Result: I don't feel all that different but I'll keep it going because I heard it's good for you.

I'm in the green.

Anywho, today, I've decided to take my shot at social media "personalities," if you can call them that. More so, the different kind of people you experience on social media. Before I start, I admit that I'm not the ideal social media friend... I have my moments when I show emotion, I share things about my life that I deem shareable, and I've posted a selfie or two. I'm not perfect and I don't claim to be; but some people need a little teachin'. Some coachin'. A wee bit of shut the hell up for the love of Jesus'n.

I'd like to start with what seems to be a relatively new trend. That person who thinks people honestly care about how much they work out or how long it takes them to meal prep on Sundays. The fitness friend. That's what I've dubbed them as. I maintain the "friend" in the title because I still like them as people, but as social media friends they're annoying as hell. I mean, go you, I'm sure we're all feeling incredibly inspired by you...

I sprint at the opportunity to mirror you.

And I know that I don't ever plan on giving up this:

Although, no true San Diegan would through a burrito out of their window.

For this:

It's so healthy and weird.

While I commend you for your mega fit #getswoll #fitlife way of living, I personally don't give a shit. Now, this does not apply to people who are making a huge change and exercising to get out of the way of an early death, or those who've suffered an injury and can finally move again. I like seeing that because they're beating the odds and other inspirational things. Those who are already boasting a BMI of 2%... Leave that to yourself. All your doing by posting any and every time you lift weights or cook more asparagus is making yourself look silly. Come to me when you enjoy a unhealthy carb that way we can relate; until then, save your relentless fitness and celery posts for a fitness directed forum. I'm going to Fiesta Burrito.

Next on my list is the selfie queen. Ooh boy. Yep, we all know that one... Or multiple. Bless your heart, if that's the case.

Get that angle girl.

Now, I've had my share of selfies; but hell, at least I'm honest about it. The one that gets me the most are when the caption is like "I'm so ugly #omg" or "#scrubbingit"... But no. It's quite apparent that you've put relatively mediocre effort into your current physical appearance. If you want compliments, you own it! That's why, while they get a bit excessive at times, the selfie queen I can stomach the most is the one who's real about it. The one who's caption says...

Ayee! Do you boo! You get those likes 'cause you look fly!

Just own it! When I say that I'm "#scrubbingit," I look a hot mess, I could use some help and I might need Jesus; and I'm aware of that. But you're beautiful, regardless, just embrace every aspect of yourself... Whether it's legitimately scrubbing it and going with that, or straight feelin' yourself and boosting your ego. All are welcome! Just don't spend 3 hours on your face make-up and hair, throw on a hoodie, then tell me you're ugly or are scrubbing it. No, you're not. So stop.

Sincerely, your fellow female comrade. We bitches have to stick together because, well:

Amen!

Lastly, my personal favorite, the political, social, everything'al expert. Grab your popcorn kids, you're about to be informed by Facebook Congress and the social media police. We all have those social media friends who have astoundingly done a term in Congress between today and last week, all the while experiencing the every day lives of multiple cultures in order to develop an informed opinion on one, aside from their own. I'm not even mad... It's amazing! I wish I could get that much done in a single week. And then, the best, is totally fucking around with them. It's truthfully one of my top 10 favorite things to do now that I live in the land of Congressional citizens. I don't always succeed in pissing them off, but hey? What can you do?

I'm trying, okay!?

The reason these social media friends are my favorite is, being the sarcastic asshole that I am, I begin my responses seriously like "Oh, yes yes... Benghazi and social conformity. Ah, indeed." But then... Like the Hulk... I can't help it... It's happening... I can't hold on any longer!

THIS IS FACEBOOK - NOT THE NEW YORK TIMES! SHUT YO SHIT DOWN!

I'm literally laughing as I type this because it's that entertaining. I love it. You can't make up the shit you see on Facebook, Twitter, anything else open to anyone with Internet access, etc. Just, stop. I know that social media is the new platform for you to present your newly - newly - acquired legal and political credentials; but just keep them to yourselves.

...

Okay, okay... One more! We all know this one. All of us! Once again, I don't point fingers if my own hands aren't clean, so I'll admit that I've fallen weak to the urge of sharing personal things with 500+ people, of only which maybe 10 actually care. I've done it; but some people just need to lock it the fuck up. I get sad being your friend because I'm an empathetic person and I feel what you feel and I'm feeling sad... Because your daddy's credit card declined. Haha, just kidding (kind of... Not really.) But, honestly, people don't want to know that you're "running from it all" and "tired of people betraying you" and "still holding in those tears that you've held onto for so long." Okay. I'm sorry that you're bummed out but for the love of Christ Almighty...

STAT... As in right away... As in yesterday. Stop.

Like, what do I say to that? I won't say I'm sorry because for all I know you've caused your own shit; but I don't know because you've left us Facebook friends with an ambiguous message implying that you're having troubles, yet haven't expanded on what they are. And then, in the comments - those goddamn comments - you say "I'll message you" when someone inquires about your troubles.

I... I just don't. Can't. My words cannot form at this time.

Get a journal, text a friend, Facebook message someone, go see a priest, maybe even a therapist, do yoga (give it some time to work)... I don't know. Do something that doesn't involve filling your friends' timeline with depression involving relatively unimportant things (i.e. that friend who sucks anyways so who cares that they're not your friend anymore). Hell, even shoot me a message. I've been told I'm a good ear... Unless you're being dumb because then I'll just say BYD (Bitch You Dumb) - with love.

Honestly though. There are too many things to be amped about to not only waste your entire day on social media, but to spend your time posting sad things to your friends on social media. Get outside. Take in the air. Get a fucking drink. Whatever you do,

Carol is not included, but you get the point.

Whew. I'm exhausted. I could keep going, but who's got time for that? Just, my dear friends, we go on social media to enjoy ourselves and share our lives with our "friends." Try to make it enjoyable for everyone, as that's the point.

You work out? Cool. You don't eat carbs? You're strong. You like to post selfies? Caption that shit accurately, fool. You're bummed? Okay, we all get that way, but save it for your close people. I'm not too down to see that when I'm trying to go through all my Candy Crush invitation rejections (which, stop with that shit, too).

Okay. I'm going to stop here. I hope you guys had an awesome Monday and I hope you take a few of these words to heart... We all want to keep our friends. Being unfollowed is a bummer. So, you're welcome. Until next time, Witte out!

It's Not You... Actually, Yes. Yes It Is.

Hey there!

Happy Sunday! How was everyone's weekend? Mine was great - thanks for asking. We saw "Trainwreck" yesterday and it was hilarious. I recommend it to everyone! Amy Schumer is a gift to us all with her insightful thoughts and hilarity inducing intellect...

Luh you boo.

 ... Because how else do you land a quality partner than by sweeping your crazy under the rug for a while before it gets released with the ferocity of a kraken? Thank you for this transitional help Amy, but I'll take it from here. The topic on this lovely day is... Brace yourselves... Dating. Yes, that motor boatin' son of bitch - dating. Of the many things I'm grateful for, having survived through the dating scene, relatively unscathed aside from my disdain toward and essentially the complete loss of faith in 97% of the male population, is a big one. I know it was the other person, not me, because, well...

Especially you - diamond earrings and inability to contribute to a conversation not involving sports, your car or how much you work out. You know who you are.

Dating is the worst. It's all fun and games until you have to fake an emergency phone call notifying you that your fish died for the 3rd time this week and you have to go because your date is making your eyeball seem like a more fitting option for that steak knife than your under-seasoned slab of beef. Although, sometimes he's not so bad, just a little bit more bland than a rock, so you stick it out just to be polite... It's not easy, but you do it.

Specifically a triple-decker, untoasted from Sandwich Emporium.

Let's backtrack to before you even get in his car... You were at the bar with your girlfriends, doin' the damn thing and bringin' all the boys to the yard, when Mr. Future Shitty Date and yourself make that exceptionally long eye contact and you know there's about to be interaction. Okay, you got this girl. I know it's 1:30am and you may or may not be 7 sheets to the wind, but you're pretty sure he's cute and hopefully he can properly form words to accompany his perceived, albeit blurry, attractiveness. C'mon universe, throw me a bone - I could use a dream or a genie or a wish.

CAN WE PRETEND THAT AIRPLANES IN THE NIGHT SKY DROPPED THE PERFECT PERSON RIGHT IN FRONT OF MEEEEE!

*Fast Forward*

Update: the beer goggles betrayed me and Mr. Future Shitty Date looks a lot different under the lights of Applebees. I mean, I'm not saying looks are everything, but if I'm going to have to look at you everyday, I would prefer, if possible, to enjoy the sight that my eyes are being forcibly fixed on. Okay, he's not a 10 but he's a solid 6, so let's give his personality a chance to knock him up a few points. Fingers crossed for an 8! So far, I've got his workout plan down, his meal plan ingredients memorized, the names of all his "bros" all ready to forget to second this date is over, and the name of his truck.

......

... The steak knife... It's going in. It's going directly into my right eye. That's my only escape - the emergency room. "Welp, gotta go, I think my phone is about to ring and I have a feeling it's going to be an emergency. I look forward to never seeing you again!"

Let's not even get into meeting him online and facing the real possibility or being catfished, or worse...

Asking for a friend...

Ugh, first dates are just... Too much. Moving on. Along with being gut wrenching at times, dating is so goddamn stressful! Just getting ready is like the hardest thing ever...

Nothing... Only a one closet full of clothes and I got NOTHING.

Once you finally pick out the perfect outfit, you've got to take care of the face situation so that they don't know what you truly look like until at least a few months in, if it gets that far.

Goal:

Reality:

It's just so unfair because all boys do is throw on some clothes that they deem as stylish - which is a whole other conversation - and maybe even rub some gel through their hair. And then, even after all of that effort, if you've accomplished an acceptable level of presentation for your hopeful future hubby, you have to pretend like walking in heels isn't one of the most difficult tasks on the face of this earth.

You're trying to be sexy, but the world and gender roles don't allow it.

And lastly, after all of that, you have to hope you don't want to shove your steak knife into your eyeball at some point in the date because then, not only was all of that preparation useless, but also, your presumably liked outfit will get blood on it and everyone loses.

I mean, I guess it's not all bad. It is fun to get that fuzzy, butterfly feeling when the date actually does go well. You look fly, you haven't fallen, he's not a total douche, he looks relatively similar to the way he did at 1:30am through beer goggles, and you've had a few glasses of wine to loosen up because he is quite attractive and you've been on a dry spell for a while. While the aforementioned list of date characteristics are wildly unlikely, they happen... And that's when a lovely relationship develops and you get to release your crazy after a few months to really test how much he likes you.

Luckily, I'm no longer subjected to this miserable social process, being off the market and all. I'm not bragging, just saying...

Haha, I'm just kidding... Kind of...

I was lucky to land an incredible individual who likes to look at me and hang out with me all day. I've pulled the crazy out from under the rug plenty of times and shockingly, they're still around, touching my butt and stuff. It's fun. I wish the best of luck to all of you daters out there - may the wait be short and the failures be gentle. As for you men, work on your shit. We females go through a lot to see your ass, both literally and figuratively, and you should be grateful for that by at least attempting to be a quality date. We don't care about how much you work out or what you and your bros did in college or what useless things you've done to your car. We just don't. And to my ladies, keep doing you, beautiful!

Your Prince Charming, Johnny Depp, Ryan Gosling - what ever is your cup of tea - is just around the corner! You're pretty.

Well, those are my thoughts on dating. Obviously, I was really fun to date and I know I was the best date ever, but this is what would be happening inside my mind. (To those I've been on a date with reading this, you were great. This applies to the other 3 percent of the male population; except diamonds earrings, you weren't great. You sucked.) Gay, straight, old, young, white, purple... I think we can all agree that dating sucks, for everyone. Anyways, happy Sunday to all and to all a bottoms up! Until next time, Witte out.

When the Lights Went Out In Georgia

Hello all -

Here's the link for the blog I attempted to have on blog.com before it went down for like 2 weeks so I gave up:

*Tried*

http://cwitte.blog.com/

Hey, there are 9 entries. That's solid. I can't just let them go.

They're mine, blog.com, you had your chance!

That's all.

- Witte

I'ma Let You Finish, But...

... You need to get a gotdayum hobby!

Before I get started, hey guys :) How's everyone doing today? It's almost Friday! Ayooo! And today is pre-season football... Which, albeit, is a shitty version of the real thing, but I'll take it over baseball any day. (Go Chargers! Until you move to Los Angeles because Spanos is a greedy fuck; but for now, go you!)

Yeeaahhh boiiiii!

Okay, so I don't know if you guys have heard, but Target announced recently that it will be transitioning to gender neutral signage, specifically in reference to girls toys and boys toys being categorized by the gender they're intended to entertain. What was my response when I learned of this? None, I didn't have one. Why? Because I have about 237 better things I could be doing than to criticize the decision of a store I love so much. I mean, if I have to give a response, it'd be "Alright... So, I mean, my real issue lies with the cell phone service in the stores. Maybe it's just me, but I fall into a black hole of service-less oblivion whenever I walk into your stores. Let's focus on the real issue at hand here. Oh, and... Wait, what was the question?"

Oh no, people are legitimately boycotting Target. Boycotting... Like that thing that the black community did when they were segregated from sitting at the front of the bus and treated differently (poorly) for no reason other than their skin color. That kind of boycotting. But no, I'm not mocking our civilian right to refuse patronage at a "liberal" company for no reason other than them doing something you don't like. I'm not, I understand. Okay, you want to boycott Target?

Go ahead, be my guest. Drive your whiney little, have no hobby ass over to Walmart. Leave me to my chic home decor options and friendly employees.

Honestly, do you have literally nothing else to do than to troll on the internet about how Target is pandering to liberals and encouraging people to dismiss gender roles by eliminating the categorization of children's toys by gender; thus sending the message to boys who like Barbies that they're not weird and they don't need to play with the egotistical, tool that is G.I. Joe over there in aisle 7? I saw a comment saying that children like that - you know like girls who prefer baseball cards over a bullshit stove that perpetuates the 1950's notion that a woman's place is in the kitchen - are a freak-show and shouldn't be forced on others.

Honestly... Say that shit to my face when my kid wants to play with something that apparently makes them weird. I dare you.

It. Is. A. Fucking. Aisle. Sign. I can say with 200% certainty that you wouldn't have even noticed the difference had Target not made an announcement. I was a tomboy growing up (it all makes sense now, huh?), so I wanted skateboards to do sweet ollies, roller blades to do sick grindy things... And I couldn't care less about how that ho Barbie looked (honestly, talk about being unrepresentative of the gender it's aimed at entertaining - that bitch looks nothing like the average woman; but that's for another time). I can tell you that my parents didn't see the "boys toys" sign, where my desired fun gadgets were located, and say "sorry sweetie, but you can only shop in this aisle." No, they wanted to shut my annoying ass up so I'd stop asking, so they infiltrated that apparent invisible shield to get me the toys I wanted. I know...

It's shocking. And I only broke ~4 bones.

People say this is all because of liberal cry babies, the epidemic of political correctness, and the slow descent into hell that our society is apparently making... Um, well, I guess I'll see you there! I'll bring the booze because God, or I guess Satan now, knows I'll need it to deal with your stupidity for an eternity. P.S. No more Target for you. You said it, not me.

Seriously... Log out... As in throw away anything that enables your moronic thought vomit containing bitch face inducing toxicity being spewed on us.

Now, since we're on the topic of people coming up with ridiculous ideas because they have nothing else to do with their time... There are actual people, like they're real and breathe oxygen, who are in favor of making homelessness illegal. So much so that they passed legislation - laws - making it illegal to be homeless. Okay, wait...

I'm have trouble conceptualizing this... Hold on...

Here comes the kicker... These are the same people who are so pro-military and pew pew 'Merica, yet apparently are unable to go outside of their delusional, close-minded news source to find out that about 23% of the homeless population are veterans. I know what they're wondering: What are these numbers you speak of that seem mathematical and scientific? It's okay, your kind isn't so familiar with these. They're what we call "facts," or for the more advanced human "statistics." Yes, the second one is a doozy, so we'll stick with facts. So, the facts tell us that you're a hypocritical, uninformed son of a bitch. I lost the source to that, but I read it, it's credible.

Hey! I have a hobby idea for you! How about you get off your ass, quit with your Twitter fingers, and go volunteer at a homeless shelter so you can get these people off the streets since it bugs you that they're there so goddamn bad. How about that? That's a pretty cool hobby. Asshole. So, yeah...

What they said.

Anyways... The moral of the story is get a hobby. Only when you have hobbies are you allowed to share your opinions. There's a reason behind that, which is whatever opinion you share when you have nothing better to do is probably soaking with hypocrisy, illiteracy and lacks any factual basis; therefore nobody wants to hear it because nobody wants to lose a number of IQ points that they worked so hard to build up.

I'm tired of ignorant people saying stupid shit. If being progressive towards abandoning gender roles and teaching our kids that they can like to play with whatever the hell they want is political correctness and the cry of baby liberals, then color me rainbow. I own it. And if you want it to be illegal to be homeless, then get off your ass and go get the homeless people off the street... By being a decent human being and trying to help a brotha or sista out, instead of telling them through your passive aggressive votes that their bad luck or rough life is against the law. No, no. You, it's you who should be against the law. I'll gladly deport you... To somewhere you can't afford so that you can see what it's like and walk a mile in someone else's shoes. You judgmental fuck. I'm done with it.

This is too much.

Okay, I'm all worked up. Which is interesting because I was doing some living room squats when I decided to start a blog really quick so I didn't lose the idea... 45 minutes later, I've yet to squat again. Gotta get going before zee foosball starts! Until next time, Witte out.

Source for veteran homelessness: http://www.nationalhomeless.org/factsheets/veterans.html