Off to Get My Ass Kicked

Being a Juventus fan in the middle of Rome is like having an affair with Dr. Kevorkian.

There are two footie teams (aka soccer) in Roma: A.S. Roma and S.S. Lazio. I root for Juventus (from Torino) due to the simple fact that when I first started following calcio, I was awed by Zinadine Zidane's skill and grace with a ball. The man danced with the ball like it was Ginger to his Fred. At that time, he played for Juventus , ergo, I started following Juventus. He left for Real Madrid a year later, but by that time it was too late; my loyalties were firmly placed with the bianconeri.

AS Roma gets on my tits, mainly due to that ponce Totti and their fans tend to be self-righteous little bastards. SS Lazio amuses me for some reason. The past three winners of the Italian cup have been Lazio, Roma, and last year JUVENTUS.

That Bitch J. Rowlings Has Beaten Me to the Punch

Apparently my idea is dead in the water before I even had a chance, damnit. Ladies and Gents, I present My First Vibrator (scroll down to read the customer reviews)

Now y'all know what to get me for Xmas.

Via adampsyche via filepile

Confessions of a Borderline Eating Disorder

I started dieting at 14.

I started out just by eating healthier. Cutting out sweets, ice cream, fried stuff. With all the ballet classes, the baby fat started to fly off. Within a year, I was obsessing over fat grams and calorie counts. I wasn't exactly anorexic, nor exactly bulimic, but a 14 year old should not be able to quote exactly how many grams of fat and calories are in a Snickers bar. The summer before I turned 16, my body decided to rebel by hoarding any calories it came across. Puberty, after all, is something that won't be denied. And so began the yo-yo cycle of dieting.

Pick Up Lines and Other Foibles

How the hell do you guys come up with this crap?

Has anyone in the history of mankind actually fallen for a pick-up line? Anyone? Bueller? Uh-huh. Thought not.

So why the hell do guys persist in using them? I'm much more likely to fall for some intelligent conversation and a guy who's interested in both my brains and my tits than some dude with a one liner and a one track mind.

I've heard everything from the classically corny (Hey baby, what's your sign) to the amusingly blunt (Nice shoes. Want to fuck?) to the appallingly dumb and offensive (Are your tits real?)

Last night I heard what just might constitute the Dumbest Fucking Line Ever Uttered.

Pervy Sex Fiends R Us

Am I gazing a bit lower than my navel? Hell yes.

I admit, topics around here lately have been a blog of my libido and dating travails. Eh, those that know me in real life (you know, the time you spend *away* from the computer) already know that I'm a perv. I like sex, even when I'm not getting any. I've never understood the part of the female population that thinks knocking boots twice a week constitutes a very active sex life. It boggles my mind. I am left wondering if whether I have just been gifted with a freakishly active libido or if these poor girls just haven't had great experiences. Or don't masturbate enough. I'm not casting aspersions on anyone here, it's something I honestly don't understand.

Which is not to say I will shag anything that moves. I vastly, VASTLY prefer sex in a relationship. Half the fun for me is discovering the other person's body. Every frickin' inch of it. Learning it like the back of my own hand, being able to tell from a sigh if they're going to come or if they want the moment prolonged. Monogamous nymphomania, bay-bee. Unfortunately, my track record with relationships as of late is batting a .000 average. Which is why god invented vibrators.

Parlami delle porcherie

International Language of Love? Pfffft.

I've never been an overly talkative gal in the sack. It just never seemed to come naturally (pardon the pun). Nor was I overly turned on by someone whispering nasty sweet nothings in my ear. It just made me want to giggle.

That changed when I came to Italy. And apparently, I've been here long enough that I now shag in Italian. I'm still not overly talkative in bed, but the occasional phrase slips out, mainly 'O Dio' or its variant 'Cristo di Dio'. Must be the leftover Catholicism.

Pithy Observations on Life

• There is no finer experience than good food, good wine, and better friends.
• Family and friends I will kill for, if neccessary. The rest exist either for my monetary gain or my entertainment. 
• You don't ever want to become my enemy. Trust me on ths one. Fuck with me or (especially) mine, and you will pray for death

Wandering

I get these moods where I just have to walk or I'll explode.

Guess this is what comes of expressing myself through movement for so many years. Face to face, when I get in these moods, I'm a stuttering idiot. If perchance, somebody asks me "What's up?", I find myself unable to respond, and actually it's better for all concerned if I head off by myself for a while. Writing doesn't help; I have to move. If I could run without my knees screaming in agony, I'd run all the way to the beach. So instead I walk. And walk. And walk.

Sometimes it's because I'm upset. Sometimes it's that restless itch of sleeping alone. Sometimes it's because I need to make a big decision. And sometimes, who the fuck knows. I've been doing it a lot this week.

Sunday 12 August - Green Eggs and Spam

The word 'spam' tickles my linguistic funny bone. That and I like the phrase "Spam - the *other* meat substitute"

You really don't want to know exactly why I find that phrase funny. Anywho....

I have an old Hotmail account that's currently good for shit. It was my first email address, and I hold onto it for the mere fact that every once in a while an old acquaintance will email me at that address. Other than that, it's a massive receptacle for spam. Some of which perplex and amuse me with their subject lines or sender names.

is your phone tapped
OH NO! Could it be?! *Gasp* Someone listening in on my conversations? Shit, now the feds are going to know where I hid that stash of drugs, guns, terrorists, porn, and gummi bears. Dude, if my life was ever so interesting as to warrant someone listening in on my infrequent and extremely short phone conversations, I would already have minions and underlings insuring nothing of the sort would occur.

From: Low Cost Divorce
Who the fuck put me in the "married" demographic of the spam lists?

Who else wants a bigger penis?
Honey, I would settle for just about any penis right about now.

Someone is waiting to date you online
I might be horny, but I'm not desperate.

Grow 3-4 inches Satisfaction guaranteed
Woo-hoo! I can finally surpass the 5' 1" barrier without high heels. Wait, what do you mean "for men only".....?

Testing Testing 1 2 3

Well, you get what you pay for.

I can't bitch too much about a free hosting service (with Perl, PHP, and MySQL) having some down time. But damn, just as I was posting my back log of mental masturbation, their server decides to go *blork* again. let's see if this go-round is luckier.

Saturday 11 August - Of Hickeys, Tans, and Colds

Let's play the good news/ bad news game.

Good News: I met a tall good looking blonde guy on Thursday night, a friend of a friend of a friend.
Better News: He has a brain to match the looks and we went outside the bar and talked for a long time.
Even Better News: He's a good kisser.
Mo Better News: He has a tongue piercing.
Bad News: He left a huge hickey on the left side of my neck. We're talking more black than purple. I am now attempting some friends' advice and am rabidly applying toothpaste to the hickey, as rumour has it that toothpaste is good for getting rid of love bites, as well as drying up your spots and whitening your teeth.
Worse News: He has a girlfriend. This I find out during a break in the snogfest. Thanks for the hickey, don't call me I'll call you, bud. *sigh* I really know how to pick 'em, eh? And trust me, you don't even want to hear about a few of my ex's. Celibacy would be so much easier; unfortunately, that persistent sex drive I have tends to screw with my best laid plans of spinsterhood and an apartment full of cats, with cupboards full of batteries.

It Figures.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologise for the technical difficulties you have experienced...

So just as I was typing up the latest Navel News Update on Saturday, the free host i use went *kapoot*. Or *blork*. Or *supercalifragilisticexpealidociously dead* I could get to my database but attempts to view the homepage or FTP anything was an exercise in futility. Which sucked, as I've been feeling rather verbose as of late (alright, when am I not. I mean, 'consise' ain't my middle name).

So the following extravaganza of entries for today is catch-up. I've been a busy girl.

In the throes of a mood swing...

I've turned off required registration for commenting. Because I can, dammit.

Tits like the Hindenberg

Happy Happy Joy Hoy, it's That Time Of The Month (TM).

At the age of sixteen, I discovered the true source of Penis Envy. (I was a late bloomer, due partly to excessive dieting beginning at the age of 14, but that's another story entirely). The arrival of my monthlies was nothing less than a complete disaster; I had been hoping that I was some sort of period-less medical aberration. Mom, of course, was beside herself with maternal pride (though I have a strong suspicion that all maternal pride of this sort stems from a sentiment akin to "HA-HA. Welcome, sister to the monthly week of hell known as fertility").

Considering the 6 hours a day, 6 days a week that I spent in a leotard and pink tights, I was less than thrilled. Pads were obviously out of the question, as they felt like you had a Cadillac between your legs, and looked like it too. How the hell was one supposed to prevent leakage when lifting your leg to the vicinity of your ear? It was one thing to be on the rag and in dance class when we were allowed to wear warm-ups and cover-ups; it was another thing when the director went on a purity streak and made us wear nothing but white leotards and tights. There were always horror stories passed on about some famous ballerina performing Swan Lake and leaking through the brilliant, expensive white tutu. I always did a lot of hamstring stretches to surreptitiously check for any signs of crotch leakage those days.

What do you mean I can't smoke in the office anymore?

Fucking hell. Coding without cigarettes is like scuba diving without a tank. I hate Mondays.

So the decision was made (by who I have no idea) that from today we can't smoke in the office any more. I could see that if there were some non-smokers in the office, but there aren't any. Silly. Not to mention that "not smoking in the office" only means that we hang our heads out the window to puff on our cancer sticks. Irritating, as many a Camel Light has helped me figure out where I forgot to close some tags or other such web nerd nonsense. Instead, I get to haul my ass out of the chair and over to the window where my train of thought is derailed by thoughts along the lines of "Damn, it's nice and sunny out, wish I was at the beach..." Arrrrrrggggg.

Yeah, I know. Big fucking deal, right? But come on, man, this is Italy. A "no smoking" sign is like an open invitation to light up. I can't count the number of times that I've seen some wizened old man exhaling underneath a vietato fumare sign in the metro. Recently a law similar to those in the states has been passed, which bans smoking in certain public places unless the ventilation systems are up to spec. More on this in a bit*. Ponder this little blurb for a minute:

Old Rant

This might look familiar to a few. Slightly edited.

Prozac Popping, Whinging, Pop-Culture Sniffing Dipshits

or

Holy Shit, You People Are Stupid


Ah, the good old days. Times when I truly believed that peace could be achieved in our time, the wanton destruction of the rainforests would cease, and everyone could live together under a rainbow's arc of happy multi-ethnicity.

My family and my friends I will gladly give my kidneys, nay, my life. The rest of humanity at large can fuck off and die. If the four horsemen of the apocalypse should come pounding out of the yellowed pages of my Catholic upbringing, I will swing myself up behind the nearest one and gleefully help humanity come to its nasty little end.

What, you might ask, caused a budding neo-hippie to transform into a misanthropic, snarling bitch?

You ever worked tourism?