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Congratulations to Misty Fowler and Laura for winning the Sorry Clementine giveaway. You bitches are going to look hot! I expect to see pictures of the shirts Suzanne makes for you.

“I can’t sell you this Sudafed.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have a barcode on your driver’s license.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m sorry; there’s nothing I can do. People make drugs out of this stuff.”

“Um, it already is a drug. One I need.”

“I can’t sell you full strength without proper state identification. You’re going to have to buy the regular strength.”

“Would it help if I cried?”

“No.”

“What if I tell you the elevator/airplane/vertigo diagnosis the Internet gave me. Would that help?”

“You’ve already told me twice and no, it won’t help.”

“Would it help if my panties fell out of my purse? It happened before you know.”

“Miss, I really need to help the other customers now.”

“Fine, but I really don’t think this is what they meant by crack ruins lives you know.”

I hate having my picture taken. I’m not naturally photogenic like some people. My eyes are always closed, or my mouth is hanging open. And sometimes? It’s both.

There’s nothing worse than stumbling across a horrid picture of yourself that should have been burned, or at least given to an ex-boyfriend so when his new girlfriend finds the photo she always feels hotter. Yeah, I live in a dream world where any future boyfriend will only have pictures of his ex-girlfriend that make me look even better. I’m shallow and insecure like that. I think it partly comes along with having a vagina.

Sure, I’ve had some great photos taken, but it’s a process AND by very talented photographers (@Calanan @Cottonsox I’m looking at you guys!).  For the most part, however, my experiences haven’t been good.

Whenever I’m out doing something and someone pulls out a camera I turn my head and avoid the shot. I try to be discreet about it, but there’s always someone that calls me out on it and I end up looking like a giant jerk. Which I’m totally used to, but it still sucks.

Last night at a get-together for In Utah a local photographer was taking pictures of everyone at the bar. Wanna guess what I did? Yup. I turned away and, of course, looked like a bitch. In fact a friend even called me one. I shook it off and changed the subject.

I think having my photo taken is  just going to be one of those things I always hate, like chicken. Don’t ask. It’s just gross.

Dear Jillian Michaels,

I hate, hate, HATE you! You’re the biggest ragbitchslutcuntwhore I’ve ever met. Only we’ve never met. I’d never even heard of you when I ordered your 30 Day Shred video. I’ve never seen “The Biggest Loser” so I had no idea what I was getting into. I saw an advertisement for your fitness DVD and thought it looked cool so I bought it.

Maybe you’re a lovely woman in your life outside of the gym. I’ll never know. What I do know is that you’re the damn devil. You’re the evil influence I need to stick to a workout program. My ass and thighs love you; I, on the other hand, want to punch you in the freaking face. And that’s just what I’m doing each time you have me doing 30 second intervals of punching. In my head I’m knocking your teeth out. It feels so damn good, so thanks for that part.

I’m only four days into the program and I can already see a difference. That doesn’t mean I hate you any less, it just means my ass looks way hotter. I thought you should know.

Regards,

Sarah

I took a much needed break from studying yesterday and drove to Park City. I’ve wanted to check out this cute little boutique for a while, so it was a perfect excuse to get out of SLC for a few hours. The adorable owner, Heather, sent home a present for Daisy.

Ignore my crazy lady dog voice in the video. I originally had music in the background so you didn’t have to hear it, but YouTube hates my guts and won’t overlook violating copyright laws. Pfff… bastards.

Daisy loves her new collar! I am slightly worried she thinks the collar is made out of cotton candy and celery the way she sniffed at it and licked her lips. As if I’d give that bitch cotton candy. Can you imagine cotton candy pug farts? I just dry-heaved thinking about it.

The past five years have been a blur of the same thing. I look around and see that my friends have moved forward. They have spouses, babies, mortgages, and careers.

I don’t.

And it hurts.

I feel like I’m in the exact same place I was five years ago. In fact I actually am in the same place I was five years ago. I live in the same apartment, wear the same favorite jeans, drive the same car, and even own the same coffee maker.

What’s wrong with me? Is personal growth unattainable? Or am I just stuck in a rut?

Or worse… is this my life?

Dear Costco,

I hate you. I know that sounds harsh, but I think we’ve been together long enough that I can express my feelings without the worry of offending you. Three years is a lifetime of commitment for me. During our honeymoon stage I thought you were the best thing ever. I always found comfort in your single bottle of pesto, and your cheap food court hot dogs. But now? Now I need more.

Let me rephrase that… now I need less.

I stopped in this afternoon to say hi and pick up some pesto sauce. I left with three pounds of spinach, four pounds of grapes, and two pound of blueberries. Do you see the problem? I live alone and I don’t bathe in fruit salad.

Unless you start selling families in bulk I’m going to have to do my shopping elsewhere.

Love,
Sarah

P.S. Please have someone swing by and drop off the pesto I forgot to pick up.

I decided to register for the Utah Clear the Air Challenge. The idea is to drive less and drive smarter. Fantastic because guess who hates to drive? Yup. Like I always say, “I don’t drive, I’m driven.”

This challenge is perfect for me right now because my car has been acting like a little bitch lately. First demanding a new water pump and now insisting on new spark plug wires. Also my jeans have been a little too tight lately and I could definitely stand to lose a few pounds. Walking two miles to work a couple times a week is just the thing I need.

I care about the air quality, but even more I care about being fat. It’s so on. Who’s in?

My purse doesn’t contain nearly enough antibacterial lotion to prevent chlamydia, so I won’t be riding the train ever again. I thought about looking on Craigslist for free rides, but realized those probably come with an STD, too. Looks like these legs will be walking all summer.

As a kid I always wanted to be able to fly. I’d like to think that’s why I pushed one of my brothers down the a flight of stairs when we were kids. I’m was such awesome big sister I wanted him to fly, too.

He didn’t.

There may or may not have been stitches involved.

Today I realized if given the choice of any super power I would NOT choose the ability to fly. Nope. I can do that with a freaking airplane. Instead I’d pick super metabolism. I could eat as much as I wanted and still look as hot as I wanted! The only time I would have to enter a gym would be to check out hot, sweaty men. And I so, so would. I would parade my skinny ass around that gym like I owned it.

It’s really the best super power ever. I’d trade my soul for super metabolism in a heartbeat. Or sleep with Super Man. Now, I just need to find that bastard. He’s been missing in action ever since I made fun of his spandex.