"cupping testicles"

he taught me how to ride a bike.
he also agreed to "father" the children i decide to have like 20 seconds before my ovs shrivel up and fall off.

STOP THE PRESSES.

seriously because, low and behold: i have figured out what i am going to do with the rest of my life.

Now, i'm sure you're asking yourself "good, golly! what might that be" or you're probably thinking "well, frankly, i don't really give a fuck, diane" (well fuck you back, because this is my blog and my name is not diane, assholes.)

Back to the idea that you're actually caring just a little bit as to what i'm talking about and i'm sure you're asking yourself "teacher?" or "carpenter" (just like my baby J and his papa- my idols) but NO.

the fact of the matter is. my new dream. is to coach.
coach what you ask?
well coach little girls in beauty pageants, of course!

why?

because first of all, nothing makes me happier than the once in a lifetime opportunity to scream, rather, swear loudly at 4 year old girls (gotta get them when their young y'know. gotta build some, er. balls).

secondly. miniature flamboyant costumes and "shot in the face with a paint gun" makeup are the number 1 and 2 on my list of things my life would be incomplete without.

third. who else is going to choreograph age inappropriate dance routines? the raunchiest of songs by salt n' pepa will not whorify themselves and god knows those prostitoddlers don't know what the fuck they're doing when it comes to anything.

Finally. I want to inspire. not perspire. INspire.

so there you have it. I'm going to do it. I'm moving to the southern states. i'm gunna get meself a big bottle of Jack Daniels and IS ON!

"yeah, you can eat...WHEN YOU DON'T FUCK UP THE DANCE ROUTINE!!!!! now MOVE. Those toes better be bleeding or on fire when i get back from the saloon..."

bad

this is why they don't let me near famous people

Dear Omar Rodriguez lopez.

i've spent the last 10 minutes on google image and i've come to the conclusion that:

i think i'm in love with you. and i know i'll look like a blimp standing next to you because you're like a stick and i have broad shoulders but i don't care.
you're so effing rad.
and i want to build a nest of love in your sick afro. or i would think you wouldn't like that most probably because you're intimidating like that. so maybe i'll just touch it while you're asleep.

also.
if you agree to marry me. i will never talk ever again, a selective mute will i be. i promise. because for sure everything that comes out of my mouth
will confuse and or scare you.
i promise not to touch your guitars because i will probably break them. for that matter, i wont touch anything musical belonging to you for i will probably turn it into something autotune or donny osmond.
and i won't look cedric in the eye because i've convinced myself that he will one day get so angry at me that he will run after me screaming all high pitch. then i'll start crying and you'll be all "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" but in spanish because in my head. that's the only language you speak.

Our children will look like a mixture of porcelain doll and speedy gonzalez. with glasses and afros (regardless of sex)and sick full on plaid polyester suits. or like maybe eggplant. or ou ou ou!! burgundy!


ps. i also like mars volta and at-the drive in so. i mean. its not like i just go on google image and then propose to just anyone.

plus you're rich so yeah.
i'm a history major and unless there's another world war prompting an insatiable need for history book writing..we'll be registered at the bay and standa.

if i could be anything in the world

without a shadow of a doubt. middle-aged gay man.
i think i have the potential to love middle-aged gay men possibly more than my own children. they're the fucking bees knees man. the cat's pyjamas. you've never lived life until you've had the privilege of having a magm talk to you about his saturday night sexcapade. it's better than any soap opera or reality tv show in the history of anything. and i only say that because i'm an old soul. and that soul is the soul of that of a middle-aged gay man.

this brings me to a segment i like to call "my own personal middle aged-gay man"

- silk floral pattern shirts buttoned half way.
- linen pants year round.
- hot young cabana boys EVERYWHERE.
- Tom Selleck is GORGEOUS.
- monacle, please.
- madonna max vol. NOW
- "jamaica. no problem" t-shirtttt with a stoned rasta lizard on it.
- loafers loafers loafers.
- golden girls marathon (girrrrrl. go on wit cho bad self)
- ricky martin music video
- barbara fucking streisand forever.
- BINGO NIGHT YES.
- uh. mustache OBV.
- strawberry daquiris in my belly.
- shrine to judy garland and predecessor liza monelli.
- "Marzapan". my bichon frise and "Mr. Jinglepants" my trusty yet crazy cat sidekick.

you may think i'm being a stereotypical jerk. but joke's on y'all. because all of the above would exist regardless of whether or not i was middle-age, gay, or a man. except the hot young cabana boys. cause boys whether they be hot or of the cabana genre. do not like me.

...but they would if i were a middle age gay man.
cause that would make me fucking awesome!

text messaging satanity

I fucking loathe text messaging.
yes. its fine when you think of something funny in your head and you just KNOOOWW someone would die laughing if they read it in a text.
but i personally feel as if the world would be a far better, more enriched place if it were not for texting.

ever since the phenomena that is typing on miniature keyboards, the world has become far more impersonal. there's nothing i hate more than being with someone who's constantly checking their phone or texting while they're in your company.

its called manners. they've existed since maybe not jesus time (Cause those fuckers were crazy) but like i would say more or less the french rev. nothing says "i couldn't care less about your existence in my presence right now" than someone whipping out their phone sliding it open (you know those phones) and tapping away like its nobody's business (literally).

what happened to people picking up a phone and dialing some numbers. it's a lot less work that writing an entire gospel of words. and i'm sorry. but unless i want to fuck a robot. which personally, i don't (seriously). i don't get the point of sexy text messages? unless you wanna feel like you're banging the scary radiohead voice from kid a (now that shit is hot.)

most of all. how am i supposed to type with my ghetto fab fingernails with hello kitty airbrused on them? i don't want to look like the cashier at the kmart in virginia beach when you were 10 that you still remember now and you were and still are thinking "wuhthefuhhhhhhhh"

so to recap: 1) i dislike text messaging.
2) i enjoy the undivided attention of people i force into my company at
gunpoint
3) my LONG ASS fingernails have pictures of hello kitty on them.
4) haha. that caps lock "long ass" was way unintentional but so awesome.
5) WUHTHEFUHHHHHHHHHHH.

Ever so pissed.

(i am so tempted to auto-correct every "texting" in this post to "textile". so everyone will be like "she hates textiles? now what's wrong with textiles?". I'LL TELL YOU WHAT'S WRONG WITH TEXTILES!!!!!!)

Fernando

is a sex fiend. just kidding.
fernando is the man with whom my father is having an affair.
or so i tell my mother.

this all stems from the fact: my father is an avid golfer.
summertime consists of my mom being home and loud (as per usual) and my dad going golfing at any chance he gets.
hence. the birth of Fernando, the Guatemalan sex pot.

so it goes like this: SCENE- Kitchen

me: "where's papa?"
nina: "golfing..."
me: "oh, golfing eh?"

...

then i go on to sing the song "fernando" by abba in its entirety.

ps. my voice sounds like the angels and saints in heaven having an orgy, that of which produces the birth of the demi-saintgod that is my voice. its THAT good.

pps. my parents ask me to move out every other week.