from The Doppelganger Tales

Ronald McDonald rang the doorbell. My doppelganger was the first to answer. Their clothes were radiant, although in different hues.
"May I borrow your phone?" Ronald twisted his toe into the welcome mat.
"Yeah, just let me ask my-" My doppelganger turned to me. The night stars glistened in her eyes.
"Let him, let him. I don't care," I sighed. This was not the first time this had happened, and it wouldn't be the last.
I adjusted my seatbelt. I always wear a seatbelt in the living room.
Ronald squeezed past my doppelganger and looked at me in his pitiful way.
"Is that your natural hair color?" he asked, stretching out his gloved hand to touch it. I pulled my head back into the armchair as far as it would go, avoiding his touch and probably evading it too.
"Phone's over there," I pointed, avoiding his gaze.
Asshole, I added silently. You big rip-roaring stupid face asshole.

creepy paperclip, anyone?

i was just typing my astronomy homework (that's right- i'm gonna be a rocket scientist!) on a program known as microsoft word- maybe you're familiar with it? regardless, at some point in time the makers of this aforementioned program thought it would be a good idea to add a helpful little cartoon graphic. this helpful little cartoon graphic (from here on out i will simply refer to him as "asshole") can take one of several forms: a little orange cat, a bare-foot Einstein looking fellow, and a paperclip. you might be familiar with these little assholes. the reason i call them assholes is because that's what they are. frankly, i don't need a damn paperclip watching me while i complete such tedious tasks as my astronomy homework. no thank you. regardless, i'm kind of "stupid" and i can't figure out how to make the damn thing go away, or at least change it to Einstein mode, which is at least a little more bearable and in fact, kinda cute (although why he's barefoot is completely beyond me). anyway, here's the creepy part. as i was typing, i noticed that the paperclip would have these bouts of silence- that is, moments when he was just sitting in the corner of the screen, minding his own. fine by me. but it seemed that every time i punctuated, this little fucker (asshole) would actually peer over to the words and raise his freaking eyebrows! at first, i thought i was cuckoo and imagining the whole thing. but i did an experiment and just started typing out punctuation marks. people, i'm telling you the truth here. this little fucking asshole paperclip was questioning my ability to punctuate. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? is nobody else bothered by these kinds of things? does nobody else notice when there's a fucking paperclip reading over your shoulder?
and here's the real kicker. when you're done with the program and go to leave, the paperclip transforms into a friggin' bicycle, waves at you, and rides away! how the hell does this kind of shit slip through the cracks? why isn't anybody doing anything?!!

biology report

hi. my name is renee summerfield and i am here today to talk to you about evolution. some people confuse evolution with evilution. evilution does not really actually exist, yet. evolution is when mother nature looks at something and says, "hey! you're not good enough!" and then makes something happen so it changes. humans have the corner on evolution because supposedly they discovered it. but we don't even really know for sure if that's true. just look at dolphins. dolphins bone for fun and copulate all day long. they chirp secret coded messages to eachother under the sea and birth bloody little babies in the water. and you're telling me they're not evolved? yeah right. maybe they don't have ipods, but maybe ipods doesn't really mean so much in the end, after all. people say that change is good. they say, "oh! i love change. change is so good. i can't wait for change." i say change is like crotch rot- nobody needs it, nobody wants it.
evolution: it's a theory that is over-rated and super under-evolved.

birthday wish list

1.) a set of small weights, maybe 5 or 8 pounds- i want to start pumping iron, but i also want to be realistic about my goals. i'll be 25 this year, and i figure that if i do just enough sets each day (is that what they call them, those buff beefy people? "sets"?) then i'll be able to kick your ass when you get me another crappy gift at 26.
note: if you just get me a bottle of iron supplements, just to be ironic (no pun intended), then i'll just cut to the chase and kick your ass right now.
2.) a collection of modern polish poetry- don't get me no shit from the 17th century. also, don't write any yourself poetry and think that will suffice.
3.) a fancy new expensive microscope- that way, i won't have to sneak baggies full of semen and fingernails into the biology lab at school anymore. i can pursue my academic endeavors, right here in the comfort of my own home.
4.) just a little bit of respect for once.
5.) some new bras- cupping your hands under my boobs and giving me a wry smile doesn't count.
6.) a night at the roxbury- not the movie, please. just a night out on the town to this place, wherever it is. i'm not even sure it really exists, but i like the ring of it.
7.) a lime colored color pencil- just one pencil. lime-colored please.
8.) oh, and maybe a salmon colored one, and a pink one too.
9.) also, a kelly green one would be nice.

that's all. frankly, i don't think it's too much to ask, when you consider all that i've done for you these past 25 years.

seriously.

a little bit about myself

i thought that before i dive straight into this whole blog thing that i should tell you something about myself that may effect how you receive this and other blogs that i write, or will write, or do write, or maybe am writing right now, if that's the case. it's something that i consider to be a part of me-- inherent, if you will. it's something i'm not necessarily proud of, but something that i don't see myself being truly myself without. so here it is, plain and simple:
i hate cyclists.

it's true. i fuckin' hate them.

i know what you're thinking: "But, Zulema, isn't your own sister, your very dear, loving sister who means the world to you and so much more, isn't she herself a cyclist? Or at least, isn't she on the verge of being a cyclist?" and i answer you boldly and without hesitation that, yes, my sister is indeed on her way to being one of them. but, as is the case with all sweeping generalizations, i can make a few exceptions.
but only a very few.
why only a few? because i fuckin' hate cyclists. i hate their helmets. i hate the way their shoes click when they walk. i hate the way they blindly hog the road like they have the right to just because they're sponsored by Jelly Bean or Red Bull or some shit. i hate the way their spandex hugs their frames, giving us WAY too much exposure. (we don't need to see that shit. not now, not ever.) i hate the insipid camaraderie they seem to hold with one another- i actually saw two fucking cyclists slap high five at a stop light the other day. i'm not lying.
i hate their sweaty hair, their sweaty hands, their gross, sinewy sweaty necks. i fucking hate thier stupid fingerless gloves, because you know they never wash those things and they wear them all the damn time. i hate thier neon, i hate their pedals, i hate their sticky little water bottles, i even hate the cycles themselves. hate 'em.
don't get me wrong here- i'm not calling for an all-out war against the cyclists or anything. it's not like i daydream about mauling them, and i certainly am not promoting any type of violence whatsoever against these people. but you don't have to be violent to just fuckin' hate something a whole lot. what happened to good old american hatred without all the violence? can't you just hate something without having to run over it or throw trash at its face while driving by at high speeds or bludgeoning it with that silly little air pump they keep strapped to their bikes while they're riding, "in case they get a flat"? can't you?!
i can, and i do. hate them, that is.
i especially hate the way they crowd into coffee shops on weekend mornings, the entire massive vapor of their collective sweat rising in the air, stifling and suffocating the rest of us. i hate how they click about, their to-go cups clutched between their sweaty fingers as they wipe pools of more sweat from their dripping brows. i really hate how, well, you know these people think they're better than you. you know they do. and here they are after all those hours of cycling about, and they're eating brownies and drinking mochas and shit? what the fuck? but what really gets me, what really really disgusts me, is that afterwards these people most definitely all gather in some tiny apartment somewhere for what can't possibly be anything other than expansive, exhausting, gruesome orgies. these orgies probably last for hours if not days, and the whole time they're going at it, i mean really going at it, they've still got those goofy euphoric grins all over their sweaty mugs, and all the while they're foreshortening eachother's names, all night long-- oh yeah, give it to me jer! just like that, barb! oh ton, ride me, ride me. RIDE ME!!

and that's just fuckin' sick.