If You Can't Write...DON'T

So I know that the Miss Musing scam is old news. We’ve all heard, gasped, shaken our heads and pondered the seeming inexplicable act of plagiarism and stolen identities. In the days immediately following the revelation that one of my dearest blog friends was apparently a fake, I was livid. I was pissed that she would let me talk to her and confide in her and share things with her in confidence. I was angry that she plagiarized so blatantly from other bloggers who deserved the credit in her stead. And I was all worked up to write a big, ranty blog about it…

But then the blogosphere lit up with that shit and I just thought it was too much. I let it slide. Everyone else had essentially said what I wanted to say (give or take a few expletives) and it was water under the bridge.

Until today. A little while ago I was minding my own business, procrastinating (as usual), and checking up on my Twitter when I saw a tweet from Alexa that made me irate.

Her message informed us that “the plagiarism continues” and this time it’s by some guy named Kyle from The Beat Goes On. Apparently he thought it was a good idea to word for word copy and paste Maxie’s post from April 21 THE VERY NEXT DAY on his own blog.

(Check those links. "His" post is literally word for word copied from Maxie's blog. What a whack job.)

This dumbass thinks that inserting his name in the last line in place of the original author’s makes this his own writing and perfectly applicable for passing it off as so. Naturally I left him a highly irate comment but he’s a comment moderator so I’m assuming it will never see the light of day. (Ugh. Douche.)

I will never understand why some people think it’s okay to steal other people’s work. Come on people, this is not middle school. We are all grown adults and we know what’s right and what’s wrong and clearly stealing someone else’s words, thoughts, ideas is WRONG.

Bottom line: if you are not funny enough, witty enough, clever enough, articulate enough, or good enough (in your own mind) to write your own material, DON’T WRITE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(It’s days like these when I wish public stoning was still an appropriate form of punishment.)

Holy S*@&

In 5 days, the Boo and I will be living in Charlotte.

5. FIVE!!!!

Less than a week.

Holy shit that came fast!!

So because of that our remaining days here will be consumed with packing boxes, labeling boxes, unpacking boxes (realizing that we packed shit we still need), going to usps to change our addresses, turning on our electric, setting up our cable and internet, having transcripts transferred, vet records copied and transferred, cars cleaned and repaired, survival kits packed, hotels in jacksonville and hilton head island reserved, having doctor's records transferred, final meeting with movers, cleaning the old apartment, loads and loads of laundry, returning books to the library and movies to Blockbuster, reviewing for the Boo's finals and trying to keep our minds amidst all the chaos!

(I'm exhausted just looking at that.)

Being the responsible adults we are the Boo and I have rolled up our sleeves and are prepared to tackle these remaining days with full force.

But for now? We're gonna go eat some crab legs, sip some brews and watch the Draft. Because clearly we know how to prioritize.

Clearly.

If I Didn't Love American Idol So Much My Credit Would Be Atrocious

Is it just me or does anyone else delay the inevitably of paying monthly bills, even when the funds are present, until precipitously close to destitution, eviction, or at the very least, your cable being cut off?

(Actually don’t answer that. I know it’s just me.)

And I have no idea why I do it. Ya see, here’s the thing. I may not have a “job” right now and I may not be pulling in a weekly “paycheck” (I feel the quotes add a certain level of maturity to the situation don’t ya think?) but I always have a way to pay the necessities.

Some way, somehow, every month I turn just enough tricks do just enough freelance work to pull it off. And when the money gets to my account I revel in the illusion of optimism and wealth.

(Delusional? Yes, but I blame that on my parents. Growing up they always told me to use my imagination. They never dreamed it would pave the way for my large capacity for denial.)

Granted I’m more than willing to splurge on happy hour drinks, a night of sushi and Blockbuster or anything else completely irrelevant, unnecessary, and completely ludicrous.

But when it comes to bills? HELL NO. They are NOT getting my money. I greedily horde my meager wages in incarceration until that final day of “grace period” ends. Not until the latest possible day acceptable. Not until that foreboding text from T-Mobile warning me that I am seriously overdue on my balance and will be losing my service in approximately 24 hours.

Only then do I give in. But would it really kill me to just pay it “on time”? Just because I delay paying it doesn’t mean I actually get to KEEP the money. It’s the same as the concept I used to harbor…that if I didn’t SEE the actual bill in my mailbox then I wouldn’t have to PAY it.

(What? Delusional remember? See above.)

I guess there’s just something a little tragic about watching your checking account balance slowly deplete the same day it finally gets past single digits. But apparently this is part of “growing up”? (What is this you speak of? I want no part in it.)

Now excuse me. I’m off to pay my phone bill which is now, coincidentally, 11 days late. I’m such the champion for responsibility, huh?

The Ebb and Flow of My Constant State of Annoyance (Or Why I Should Probably Seek Therapy)

As you all may know by now, I am rarely ever not annoyed.

The dogs and their curious slobbery ways annoy me. The sound of my dishwasher blaring loudly over the TV volume that’s already set to 45 out of 60 annoys me. The fitted mattress that NEVER seems to stay down on my side…EVER but somehow miraculously clings to the Boo’s side all snuggly like night after night. The fact that I live around a bunch of morons who think it’s acceptable to puke chunky Checker’s fries and Goose and Cranberry all over the breezeway and not clean it up for THREE DAYS!!!! (Ok, that’s just disgusting. And yes, for the record, I’ve remained hibernated in doors while it’s been out there. And no, I’m not making this up. I really wish I was. Can you see now why we’re so ready to move already?)

But that brings me to my next and most current annoyance, boxes. Remember how I waxed poetic on loving boxes and tape and the tangibility of finally being able to see our move approaching? How it made me happy and joyous and gleeful for the blessed day?

Well, now…not so much.

I feel like I live in a hobo fort and it is not fun.

You can’t walk anywhere without stubbing your toe on the end of a box or a garbage bag of trash, hangers or clothes to be donated. You can’t see the TV from the couch unless you’re perched at just the right angle craning your neck like a Pepping Tom.

I am literally boxed in.

Pun intended. (Or not. I really hate puns.)

The Boo’s cleverly pushed up his departure time for school ever so slightly to escape this cardboard prison we’ve constructed, meanwhile I’m left knee deep in shitty moving tape that never stays on the little metal thing like you want it to so you end up peeling away 1/3 of the role just to restart it again.

That and Always ultra protection maxi pad boxes. Because nothing says class like boxes that scream “We’re too cheap to buy moving boxes so we stole some feminine hygiene ones from our local Publix. “

“Oh and by the way, we’re your new neighbors!!”

My Teeth are Rotting Out of My Head

Over the last few days I’ve tried to convince myself that the cavernous regions of my mouth are not revolting against the rest of my body.

It all started about 6 days ago. I woke up one morning and realized that the gums around my back molar were slightly swollen and bright red. Mehh. It’ll go away. I began getting random hot flashes and wrote them off as the AC not being low enough (despite the fact that it was already blasting in the 65 range.) It was when I finally caught myself chewing last night’s take out BBQ with my front two teeth like a fucking rabbit that I realized something might be off.

Apparently I’ve got what’s known as a toothache?!?!? What is this you speak of?? Never had one. Ever.

But somehow I’ve found myself unable to chew, swallow, or (much to the Boo’s satisfaction) speak and let me tell you this BLOWS. My throat is red and burning and my glands are swollen to the point where I look like I may or may not have an Adam's apple and therefore be in possession of a bulge. Clearly I can’t go to the dentist to have it properly fixed. No job plus no money means I get to suffer my way through the pain Little House on the Prairie style.

(And let me tell you, I’m no Laura Ingalls. I don’t take kindly to throbbing, aching, make me want to blow my brains out pain.)

So here I sit, hopped up on the Boo’s excess 800 mg Ibuprofen from his recent fracture, sipping water, inadvertently fasting and wishing someone would saw my jaw off.

Or bring soup. Ya know, either or.

On How I Was Violated by Hagar the Horrible

So I know you’re all waiting with bated breath to hear about the rousing time I had at the doctor’s on Thursday and I’m here to assuage your anticipation.

The place was pretty skimy. (I have no insurance so that kind of forces my hand to opt for walk-in clinics and the like, most of which are not exactly beacons of hygiene and professionalism but ya know, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.) However, because of the outdated offices I was aesthetically blessed with a superfluous amount of faded silk flowers infiltrating every space upon which to gaze at. Beautiful I tell you.

The Boo drove me but refused to enter the premises as he told me it was a “girl doctor” and he “doesn’t do stuff like that”. Fine, suit yourself and sit in the car. (He was out there for 2 hours.) The benefits of your boyfriend sitting directly outside the entrance to your doctor’s office? You get text messages like this for the duration of your visit…

“If you get a nurse in pink scrubs who looks like an inbred make sure she washes her hands. She is out here smoking a cig like she’s on crack or coke.”

(See where I get it from?)

Luckily I didn’t get the coked up by-product of a mother-son relationship. Instead, I got the mean, angry, heavily mustached Hispanic woman who looked at me with disdain for making her actually work. (So sorry, heifer. Didn’t mean to pry you away from your Cup O’Noodles.)

She had a severe tude for the first 5 minutes or so in which she talked over me and ignored my questions. However, being the true bitch I am, I cattily pulled the “kill em with kindness (and sarcastic, snide remarks)” and eventually she snapped out of it.

At one point while the stached nurse was consulting a BMI chart and informing me that I was, indeed, overweight for my height (well, thanks for that), a wandering redneck with an improperly bandaged hand seeping blood and wreaking of Hepatitis shuffles his way into the room, ambling about, muttering incoherently and asking for “that there” (ie. Blood samples). I was horrified to realize that this man was not some homeless war vet from the street but yet, an EMPLOYEE for one of their sister companies. WTH??! How does this crusto have a job and not me?!?!?!

(The world is a cruel, cruel place.)

I eventually saw the “doctor.” She was a "huge, beastly, bulging" man woman (name that movie) who stampeded her way into the room swaddled in stereotypical floral moo-moo and hair cut appropriately butch-like. This worried me.

Her breathing was excessively loud and the flammability of the friction from betwixt her thighs imposing on each other’s personal space was quite scary. And loud.

Her fingers were akin to Cheddarwurst and her breath was something atrocious.

It was then that it occurred to me that either a) this woman was not an accredited doctor and I was being swindled for a ghastly amount of money or b) this woman was dying right before my eyes insinuated by the shortness of breath, beads of sweat forming along her upper lip, and the 20 second pauses between her words while walking down the hall.

Or c) she was a man.

All in all it was pretty traumatic. But hey, at least I had this to look at while I was being violated by the He-Man's German sausage sized digits.

I kid you not. It was (cleverly) taped to the ceiling above my examination table.

I would have felt much more comfortable had it been this.