Wednesday, July 26, 2006

The Shower-Head Chronicles

To all the like-minded pervos out there, I am referring to this kind of shower-head:

Get your minds of the gutter, bitches! Or don’t, like I’ll judge you. I live in the gutter. I drink the gutter water and roll around in the slime. Sensually.

So anyway, some of you might remember the shower-head that I mentioned in a post a few months ago. When I moved into my new apartment, it took a while to get used to my new shower-head, which I believe I described as “nipple-chaffingly sharp”. The water that shot out of that fucker could shear the skin off a rhino. But I guess I got used to it and didn’t give it any thought…until a few weeks ago.

When TigerCat came to visit me for Canada Day (and I use the term “visit me” in the loosest sense, since she spent every night getting it on with CockDoc. Except for the night where we stayed in to eat chips and play Sex and the City charades…wait, I don’t think I was supposed to tell people about that), she started dropping subtle hints that my showerhead might function more as a medieval torture device than an instrument of cleanliness:

TigerCat: get a new shower-head, you lazy whore.

Whatever. During that same weekend, FauxHawk’s water got turned off for a day, and he panicked at the thought of not being able to carefully sculpt a fresh ‘hawk for his night out, so I let him use my shower. Which was…special.

FauxHawk: Do you have a loofah I can use?
ThePeach: No, I am not a homosexual male.
FauxHawk: But how do you work up a soapy lather??
ThePeach: With my hands, like the pioneers used to.
FauxHawk: That’s not going to work for me.
ThePeach:…I might have a face-cloth you can use.
FauxHawk: *sigh*…I suppose that will do.

And then, after he worked up his mediocre lather with my face-cloth:

FauxHawk: get a new shower-head, you lazy whore.

Whatever. Later that weekend, FauxHawk and TigerCat ganged up on me over beer and the mature and orderly sharing of deep-fried delights at the local pub:

FauxHawk: You should really buy a new shower-head.
TigerCat: It’s not fine…it hurts. How do you shower every day?
ThePeach: You guys are just wimps. That, and I got used to covering my nipples with my hands and letting the water lather the soap for me. STOP HOGGING THE SALSA!!!
FauxHawk: You can’t go on like that. You need a new shower-head. THAT CARROT IS MINE, BITCH!
ThePeach: No one wants your fucking carrot, manorexia.
TigerCat: Please just buy a new shower-head.
ThePeach: Fine…I’ll do it eventually. *slaps the hand of the person trying to pick up the last nacho*
FauxHawk: Oh god, is this going to be another one of those situations where I have to force you to do it because you never will? Like getting your driver’s license or taking your calcium supplements? Um, can you try not to mix any of the sour cream in with the salsa?
ThePeach: Probably. *slops sour cream into the salsa; 50% out of spite, 50% out of being useless*
TigerCat: Just get a new shower-head, you whore.
FauxHawk: *looks pitifully at the soupy sour-cream/salsa mix, which he will now refuse to touch*

I did not buy a new shower-head. Mine still worked, and I had gotten quite adept at showering without letting the streams of water anywhere near my nipples or eyeballs. But, a few weeks later, FauxHawk ambushed me.

ThePeach: YAY! I’m so excited that you decided to take me to the mall!
FauxHawk: Yes, as am I.
ThePeach: Let’s go to the pet store and hold the kittens!!
FauxHawk: Sure.
ThePeach: And let’s go to the ice cream shop!!
FauxHawk: Sure. Oh, and we’re going to Zellers so you can buy a new shower-head.
ThePeach: Bitch.

Well, I let FauxHawk carefully choose a new shower-head for me and I dutifully purchased it, took it home, attempted to read the instructions, then left the new showerhead sitting on my microwave for a week and eventually threw out the instructions.

TigerCat messaged me on MSN one night that week:

TigerCat: I got you a house-warming present!
ThePeach: YAY!!!
TigerCat: It’s a new shower-head!
ThePeach:…You’re too late, FauxHawk already made me buy one.
TigerCat: Shit. Oh well, how is it?
ThePeach: I don’t know, I haven’t installed it.
TigerCat: Did you just buy it?
ThePeach: Ya, a week ago.
TigerCat:…what is wrong with you?
ThePeach: Bitch.

Well, TigerCat came to visit me that weekend, and I let her install the shower-head for me. She’s my Mr. Fix-It. With boobs. Of course, the kitten was so excited by the action that he decided to help, too.

TigerCat: And now we just need to turn on the water to test it out.
Milo: I HEAR NOISE!!! *dive bombs into bath-tub*

Milo got shot with a stream of cold water, slid around in the tub trying to claw his way back out, and then shot out of the bathroom and ran around the apartment like a demon in hell, leaving little muddy paw-prints in his trail.

ThePeach: Well…that was unfortunate.
TigerCat: Hilariously unfortunate!
ThePeach: Yes.

Well, the new shower-head was…PURE ASS. Every shower was like standing under a trickle of luke-warm urine. I couldn’t even get all of my hair wet. Shaving became out of the question, and it became obvious that I would never know the sensation of being fully saturated again. TigerCat hated the shower-head too. I decided to call in the big guns, and asked FauxHawk to take a look at it.

FauxHawk: Ok, where are the instructions?
ThePeach: I threw them out.
FauxHawk: Well, maybe it’s a problem with the water pressure and not the shower-head. Where’s your old shower-head?
ThePeach: I threw it out.
FauxHawk: Ok, well maybe you should just return this shower-head and buy a new one. Where’s the packaging and the receipt?
ThePeach: I threw them out.
FauxHawk: You suck so much.

I spent the next week blaming FauxHawk for making me buy a new shower-head and taking horribly unsatisfying showers.

After 7 more warm-urine showers, I finally stopped having a temper-tantrum and asked him to drive me to Canadian Tire to purchase a new shower-head. He installed it for me, despite the fact that I accidentally cut the instructions into shreds when I ripped open the packaging. I do suck.

FauxHawk: and now we just need to turn on the water to test it out.
Milo: I HEAR NOISE!!! *dive bombs into bath-tub*

Poor little mentally challenged kitty.

But people, the new shower-head is BEAUTIFUL! Every shower is like a hug from jesus. If jesus didn’t hate me for dating a Jew and being a general sinner. I have finally found the perfect balance between darting between the razor-spikes of water that threaten to make me lose an eye, and walking around all day with conditioner still in my hair and a layer of soap-film sitting on my barely-saturated skin.

FauxHawk: You should probably keep that last shower-head just in case you ever need it.
ThePeach: I threw it out.

I refuse to learn from my mistakes. Just like Milo.


Thursday, July 20, 2006

ThePeach Dabbles in Self-Loathing

I’ve been so busy studying, working, and drinking lately that I failed to notice my slow decline into becoming everything that I hate. But it happened, and now I feel dirty.

Peach’s #1 Hate: Label-Whores.
You’ve all heard me bitch about the anorexic ho-bags who wear nothing but lululemon gear to the gym, where they safely stow their louis vuitton handbags in their lockers and proceed to “stretch” half-heartedly on the gym mats in the weight area, hoping to catch the eye of a surgeon or lawyer as they demonstrate their capability to place their ankles behind their head during sex by sitting in the splits and talking on their cell-phones?

First of all, you don’t need to be able to do the splits to put your ankles behind your head during sex – you just need to be drunk.

Second of all, I hate those bitches and their perfectly groomed gym-hair (a pouffant half-up hair-do? Really?). They make people like me – the sweaty, disheveled, panting-for their lives people – look worse than we already do. Plus, we smell. God, how I hate those bitches!

Yet yesterday, as I walked to my yoga class, I realized that I WAS ONE OF THEM. True, my hair was far from ‘styled’ (unless two wet braids constitutes ‘style’), I wasn’t wearing a drop of makeup (hide your children!!), and I already kind of smelled from the walk – but I was wearing head-to-toe lulu. AND I LIKED IT. My black shorts made my ass look approximately 65% less fatty than it really was, my purple shirt managed to contain my sweats AND my tits – and gave me a little bit of cleave for the men-folk, and my new pink headband kept my hair out of my face and my sweat out of eyes. And all it cost me WAS MY SOUL.

Whatever…I’m not going to stop wearing them just because I hate myself. All that matters is that I’m pretty on the outside. Nobody can see my dead insides!


Peach’s #2 Hate: My Mom.

That might sound a little harsh.

So, ya. I was leaning over the sink washing my face before I left for yoga, and when I straightened up to grab a towel – it happened. I clocked my head on the medicine cabinet above my sink. I may have attained a minor brain injury. You don’t need parietal lobes to function, right? Anyway, I swore like a motherfucker and my eyes welled up with tears and, goddamnit, IT HURT!

At this point, you might be asking how slamming my skull into a cabinet equals me becoming my mother. Well, my mom hits her head approximately once a day. She has for pretty much as long as I can remember. On the fridge door, car roofs, walls, anything she happened to be leaning under, other people’s heads…you name it, she rammed her head into it like a ‘tard expressing his anger. And this would usually be followed by the screaming of various obscenities followed by a torrid fit of crying. When we were younger, this scene would invariably scare TigerCat and I into crying ourselves. Then all 3 of us would be wailing, my mother holding her injured head, CoorsLight backing slowly towards the door with a beer in his hand and the fear in his eyes (Jesus Christ, no wonder he drank). Nowadays I just laugh when my mom hits her head.

Poetic justice is a motherfucker.

And my head still hurts.

In conclusion: I have become everything that I hate. Next up, I’m going to dye my hair blonde, lose 30 pounds, and elbow cynical bitches in line at the bars. Or just clock them with my Louis Vuitton purse.


Ps – TigerCat used to hate our mom, too. It’s not just me. For example – you know those email surveys/chain letters that people used to send to all their friends? That you would never actually fill out or even really read? Well, 5 years ago my sister sent me one that she had filled out, and I actually read it. This is a direct quote:

Q: What is your least-favourite household chore?
A: Mom. Oh sorry, I thought it said household whore.

And I’d just like to throw this one in for no reason:

Q: What makes you laugh?
A: When people trip. Chinese people.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

You Asked For It

I'm so fucking hungover today, that this is the best post I can muster:

A Picture of my kitten eating a box.


The Peach

ps - this one's for you, cleavage! Now I must go back to bed and pray for the sweet release of sleep.

Friday, July 14, 2006

ThePeach Has A Blast From The Past

First of all, bitches, the reason I haven’t been updating my blog (and thanks so much for all of the harassment) is that I have 2 essays due this week and then 2 exams next week. I’ve been a busy little bunny. In fact, I’m stressed out and busy as all hell. My plan tonight was to read an entire Shakespeare play and then write a brilliant essay, but then…

TigerCat: How’s the reading coming?
ThePeach: …slow…people keep distracting me. Plus you know our estranged aunt? The rich-bitch one who lives in Arizona with the Arabic/Artist/possibly abusive husband? Well she showed up at my house and took me out for dinner today.
TigerCat: What…the fuck?
ThePeach: Ya…I can’t explain that one. Anyway, I just got back and I really need to read. No more distractions. Seriously.
TigerCat: Ok…

TigerCat: So, you haven’t updated your blog in a while.
ThePeach: Holy Mother Fucker! You’re the 3rd person to tell me that in the last hour! I have to read!!
TigerCat: Ok, sorry.

ThePeach: I’m updating. You a bitch.
TigerCat: Huzzah!
ThePeach: But seriously, now you have to let me work.
TigerCat: Ok, sorry.


Oh Tom Hanks, how I love thee. TigerCat: you a bitch.

So anyway, here is the blog entry I promised my manipulative scab of a sister:

If any of you are like me (and if there are a lot of you, we should seriously consider forming an army of cynical bitches), you have people on your msn list that you rarely if ever actually talk to. People that you used to be friends with, say, in high school, but now it’s been 5 years and the only reason you keep them on your list is to check out their msn names to see if their lives are more successful than yours and then either a) laugh at their failures, b) feel momentarily sad at how unsuccessful you are but then just pour yourself another drink?

Ya, I have a few of those people on my list. One of them happens to be my very first ex. We dated for a year in high-school (which is practically biblical in high school relationship years), I fancied myself in lurve, we held hands in the hallways and felt each other up in his car – it was all very typical.

Then he dumped me, I became a psycho-bitch and we hadn’t really talked too much since. Last I heard he was living on the other side of the country making the big dollahs as a corporate pimp. I shall refer to him from here on in as “SaraLee”, which some of you may recognize as a brand of frozen baked goods. The name has much more meaning to me and to anyone who I have forced to watch the tape of my grade 13 musical, in which my ex danced and sang (jazz hands!) to a song about said frozen baked goods. It was a tear-jerker.

Anyway, 2 nights ago I was working diligently on an essay like a good girl when SaraLee messaged me for the first time in god knows how long to comment about my blog, which ThePilot had showed him.

SaraLee: Nice blog!
ThePeach: Who the fuck are you? *scans mind* Oh, I mean…thanks? I didn’t know you were a reader.
SaraLee: Look at you…blogging…you’ve come so far.
ThePeach: *?* heh…
SaraLee: All I remember is that old clunky computer of yours (ie. and the 3 days/all of my human strength and the will of god that it took for me to teach you how to use e-mail), and now you’re blogging!
ThePeach: Oh, I’m an internet pro-star now! *typed furiously with 2 fingers on a computer that is seconds away from blowing up*
SaraLee: I can see that.

*20 minutes of catching up on our lives*

ThePeach: and then I got drunk and told him to go fuck a leper!
SaraLee…right…so tell me more about FauxHawk. Does he treat you well?
ThePeach: Yep, he’s great.
SaraLee: I hope he’s better than some of the other assholes you’ve dated.
ThePeach’s angst-y 18-year old self: BETTER THAN YOU, BITCH!!
ThePeach: Haha, he is.
(In case I sound like a raging lunatic, I should clarify right now that I really have absolutely zero hard feelings towards SaraLee. He’s a great dude and I enjoy talking to him. My 18-year old self, however, wants him to feel enormous amounts of pain. Ok, I guess I still sound like a raging lunatic but I’m just going to roll with it).
SaraLee: So how’s your family? Is your mom still dating CoorsLight?
SaraLee: What the hell?
ThePeach: Whoa, did I say that out loud? No, CoorsLight and my mom are no longer dating and I have absolutely zero emotional scars from the whole experience.
SaraLee: Right…so, how’s your sister? I hope she’s not as crazy as she used to be. Remember how the first time I ever met her at your house, she and her friends had gotten high and drunk and one of them puked up blood and they were all freaking out because they were so high?
ThePeach: Ya…12 is a tough age.
SaraLee: So, did she ever calm down?
ThePeach: I thought you said you read my blog.
SaraLee: The one thing I remember about your crazy family is how your fridge only ever contained sauce. No real food, just assorted sauces.
ThePeach: *eating a hearty snack of icing and peanut butter* Ya, good thing I moved out.

Anyway, SaraLee and I had a nice long conversation and it was great to talk to him again, even if it meant re-living my tumultuous teen years. But then, the next night…

ThePilot: So, I was talking to SaraLee about your blog.
ThePeach: Ya, I talked to him the other night.
ThePilot: He cannot believe how bitter you’ve become!!
ThePilot: He just kept saying “I can’t believe ThePeach actually wrote this”.
ThePeach:…have I really become so bitter and jaded?
ThePilot: Oh shit, sorry – you were being serious. Well Peach, you’re not exactly the same woman he dated in highschool.
ThePeach: Because I have massive knockers now?
ThePilot: That, and you’re…um…how to put it delicately…a bitter, cynical, sarcastic, hilariously self-deprecating wench. *editors note: I may have exaggerated this line*
ThePeach: I guess I’m not exactly Suzy –fucking-Sunshine.
ThePilot: It could be worse. Imagine if you had dated me instead of SaraLee.
ThePeach: We’d probably both be dead.
ThePilot: Probably.

So, that was my blast from the past. Here is what I learned from that little adventure:

1. I used to be a nice person with an optimistic outlook on life.

2. Somewhere along the way, that part of me died and was set on fire and then pissed on and then someone threw dog shit on it.

3. Probably as a result of the string of hobos I dated for the last 5 years, most of whom had sexual dysfunctions, substance abuse problems, mommy-issues, and anger problems. All of whom I was immediately attracted to, probably because God hates me.

4. SaraLee was not a hobo, which is why he is the only one of my exes that I still talk to.

5. 18-year old angst-y Peach: HE WASN’T A HOBO, HE WAS A HOMO!!

6. Kidding. God, I’m a bitch.

7. TigerCat got an early start on her foray into drugs, and I applaud her.

8. CoorsLight might actually be a demon.

9. I don’t need therapy. I need an old priest and a young priest.

10. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree re: sauce in the fridge.

And TigerCat – I could have finished an entire Shakespeare play in the time it took me to write this. You is such a whore. I command you to cook me dinners when you come to visit me this week if you’re not too busy taking it up the pooper.

Me Fail English? That unpossible!


Thursday, July 06, 2006

I Ain't Saying She a Gold-Digger (a.ka. ThePeach has the Rambles)

This is just going to be a quick one, as I am

a) trying to read "Much Ado About Nothing" for my english class, and the play is the most long-winded and verbose literary soap-opera I have ever forced into my brain. My brain is currently screaming "YOU WHORE!!! I HATE YOU!!! YOU PICKLED ME IN ALCOHOL FOR THE ENTIRE LONG WEEKEND AND NOW YOU EXPECT ME TO DECIPHER THIS BULLSHIT?! FUCK YOU, LADY!! I'M SO GOING TO PICTURE YOUR MOM NAKED RIGHT NOW JUST TO FUCK YOU UP!! HA! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT!?? TRY HAVING SEX NOW, BITCH!

b) exhausted from the intense Yoga class I went to tonight with TheHippie. We've expanded our repetoire of lesbian activities from singing, canoeing, and theatre-going to include sweating in a room full of hippies as we contort ourselves and listen to cds of monks ringing bells.

c) scared from the last Lost episode I just downloaded and watched. That shit is fucked up. I'm on season 2 episode 19, and anyone who attempts to spoil this for me will be severely beaten in the mouth and anus.

d) worried about the kitten. I left him alone overnight for the very first time last night to go sleep at FauxHawk's. The Hawk has been sleeping at my place since I adopted the little terror, but he started his residency (a.k.a. same shit, new ID tag) this week and needs to be up nice and early so he can go poke around in gyna all day. So, making the difficult decision that Milo was big enough to be left alone overnight, I spent the night at chez Hawk to perform my girlfriend duties. I arrived home this morning to the pleasant sight of Milo attempting to eat one of two piles of his own vomit. The vet said that Milo is probably fine and that sometime kittens just get sick, but in my guilt-stricken state I am positive that the kitten is slowly dying from the shock and loneliness of being left alone. I am a bad kitten-mommy. FauxHawk might break up with me for saying the word "mommy".

e) feeling guilty about skipping work today and should probably go to sleep soon so that I make it in before 11am tomorrow. TheBoss is at a conference. I am a whore.

f) feeling guilty about skipping work today and using my found time to watch Lost and sleep instead of reading "Much Ado About Nothing" like I had planned. Lost is taking over my fucking life. I want to bite Sawyer in his pretty little face. And let him do me. While Jack watches, crying. I hate Jack. I find him condescending and cocky. It's probably not a coincidence that he's a doctor. It's probably also not a coincidence that Jack is FauxHawk's favourite character. Fecking doctors.

g) pretty tired from my night of lying next to Parky McTwitch and his jimmy-legs.

So I guess I'll get right to my point.

I am a master pimp. Move over, Yentyl - there's a new match-maker in town and, due to a lack of shame or soul, she's not afraid to p-i-m-p her own baby sister's booty. That's right, I got TigerCat laid this weekend. And I also got my friend laid(you may recall me mentioning the medium-sized midget, which in hindsight was a slight exaggeration...we shall call him CockDoc from now on). I got 2 great people laid and all it took was a day of drinking, smoking the pot, a gentle shove on my part ("dude, my sister totally wants to bang you") and an awkward 2 hours where FauxHawk and I sat in CockDoc's living room - high as kites - trying to formulate a stealth plan for exiting the apartment without interrupting their sex. I think we finally decided on leaving a note and running like hell.

Now TigerCat can know the joy of banging a doctor, which she already got a taste of when she had to leave his apartment first thing in the morning so he could get to the hospital. To look at cocks.

Our mom would be so proud! If there's anything she taught us, it's find the men with money and rope 'em in and eat their souls!!

I mean...I love you, FauxHawk.


ps - that last comment about our mom may have also been a slight exaggeration. Our mother certainly does eat her ex-husband's souls like fruitloops in the morning(point in case: it has been 20 years since she divorced my dad, and he still avoids women for fear of fire shooting out of their eyes), but she is not a gold-digger. CoorsLight actually stole money from us. And our grandparents.

pps - this was not the short blog I had hoped it would be.