Hiatus?

You might have noticed I’ve been away for a while.

Look, I’m not gonna lie to you: I’ll probably have to–AS IN BEING FORCED!–to keep this hiatus.

The reason, you might ask? That BASTARD C.S. that’s what. She’s super busy with her freaking books and she has zero time to hang out with me these days.

Bitch left me to gather dust, plain and simple. AND IT SUCKS. No hoes before bros, not for that bastard.

I mean, have you seen the hunks in her stories?

boys

Yeeeeah. Thanks a lot, girlfriend.

I was like, “Come on, hook me up with James, dude!” And she was like, “No way, he’s Miriam’s.” And I’m like, “I’m in your fucking head, just turn me into Miriam or whatevs.”

Didn’t work.

So here’s to you, C. S. *raises whiskey glass* Hope you’re having a great time with your hunks and space exploration, and purgatory and shit. I’m fine right here, thank you very much.

F you by the way. F the fuckidy you.

Another Award, Yasssss!

There’s this awesome award going around called The Dragon’s Loyalty Award (I mean, dragon. I rest my case.) I’ve been nominated by the lovely Precarious Writer (The blog’s name alone should motivate you to check her out.)

So, I have to share seven different facts about myself (rules follow at the end of the post.) All right.

So, if this were C.S. she’d write a bunch of deep, interesting writerly stuff, and she’d probably mention Malala, because Malala is awesome and we need to help her change the world. 

But I’m crazy and superficial, so, without further adue:

 

1. I’m Batman. No, seriously, I am, and this lame assface here is Bruce Wayne.

2. I cannot stand Nicki Minaj. Or the Kardashians.

3. I wanna braid Brock O’Hurn’s hair.

4. Imagine Dragons is one of the best bands out there. Ah, look at that! Dragons again. I’m awesome.

5. My best friend looks a bit like Amy Schumer. But maybe that’s because she’s white and blond, and all white and blond people look the same to me.

6. Does anyone feel like nachos? I always feel like nachos.

7. Tina Fey is my spirit animal.

Now, I’m supposed to nominate 15 people. That’s a lot and I’m lazy, so here’s ten:

LUNA!

Mah POTAHTO!

DEAR MEN OF LA!

REBBIT 7!

THE OPENING SENTENCE!

THE PROFESSOR!

ANETTE!

DEARLILYJUNE!

GHOSTPUPPET!

PRAJAKTA!

 

Anyway, here’s more Brock for you.

So.Much.Hair…

Here are the rules for the award!

The Dragon’s Loyalty Award is meant to acknowledge those who regularly read and comment on your blog. The rules for it are pretty simple:
–Show off your achievement by displaying the award.
–Link back to the person who bestowed this award upon you.
–Nominate up to 15 of your regular readers (less than 15 is just fine, though).
–Let them know that they’ve been nominated.
–Share 7 interesting facts about yourself.

(I just wanted to be able to cross off all the items.)

The Art of Fart

I face farting as a lost art rather than a normal biological function. I’m constantly trying to improve myself in this field, and my husband is my biggest supporter.

Sometimes I lean over and stare deep within his eyes, and he obviously thinks I’m about to kiss him, but he’s so wrong, because yeah, I’m farting. It’s super romantic. Usually he farts back with triple the power and we laugh and laugh. It never gets old. This is how I know I married the right guy.

(Though one time his fart was so powerful that I tasted it, and it was disgusting as fuck, like a mix of rotten eggs and whatever comes out of Kim Kardashian’s plastic surgeries.)

I threw up a little back then, but at the same time, I was really proud of him.

During my fart trainings, I often focus on swiftness, though I’ll also work on the smell over noise ratio. It really depends on the social situation and how badly concentrated the gas is.

I can also echo-fart, which is a fart so ninja that people will hear it from the opposite side of the room and blame it on the fat guy standing there, when the truth is, the fart came from where they’d least expect.

I did that to my husband once, and his mother was all like, “Ferdinand, I did not raise you so badly!” It was awesome.

(PS: His name is not Ferdinand. I changed it for anonymity reasons, Keith Lemon style.)

Anyway, husband has been trying to get me back for that to this day. Whether he succeeds remains to be seen.

Have you ever tried echo-farting?

3 Days 3 Quotes Challenge

So, the wonderful Akhiz nominated me for this one, and I thought, “Yaaaasssssss!”

The rules of the quote challenge are:

Thank the person who nominated you.
Post a quote each day for 3 days.
Each day nominate 3 bloggers to take part.

All right. Since the life of a kick-ass princess is super hard (with all the kickassery pertained to the job role), I’ll share with you all three sentences right now instead of doing it in three consecutive days.

So here we go:

quote2

quote21

quote3

And the nominees are:

Cheerios peeps!

A Poem and a few Haiku

Haiku #1

The fart echoed in the room

And the smell followed,

the smell of doom.

Tadaaaa!

Okay, okay, now a serious one:

Poem # 1 (This one is more in C.S’ neighborhood, so you know it will be boring.)

She wrote the letter with a single tear

It escaped her eye,

tracked down her cheeks,

landed on her chin and stood there

Like a stalactite

waiting to fall

Aaaaand back to the kickassery:

Haiku#2

Monday sucks. Is it weekend yet?

I wish it was.

Don’t you?

My Haikus are the best.

Being Two Different People

You’re gonna be freaked out by this. *Don’t say I didn’t warn you with a creepy whispery voice*

Being Princess Kickass is awesome. It’s so much cooler than being C.S. Wilde.

C.S. Wilde has to think twice before she writes a post or makes a comment, because she’s supposed to be this serious author (well, as much as she can). You know, that whole “With great power comes great responsibility” yadda yadda, which SUCKS, by the way.

I wanna be free and say dumb shit and do whatever I freaking want. I wouldn’t be Princess Kickass if I didn’t.

In (my) our head, C.S. is talking about gaining a readership, and engaging with readers and marketing strategies, and John Braver and Santana Jones, and she’s talking about this emerald statue in a freaking church, and meanwhile, all I care about is having some sushi and watching Jon Snow’s gloriousness in Game of Thrones, wondering if Kit Harrington would EVER star in Magic Mike, cause it would be so awesome if he lost all that innocence to an older woman, like a cougar, and although I’m some ten years behind becoming a cougar, I’d put all the fake make-up necessary to get that part, and I promise you, JON SNOW WOULD KNOW STUFF WITH ME.

See?  Totally different goals.

Anyway, C.S. is asking me if I wouldn’t mind giving a shout out to her (lame) author blog, because she’s trying to gain a readership to make a living, and it turns out her writing is not thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat bad. Okay, it’s terrible. 

So if you have time, do check her out.

I also made a deal with her. I told her I want my memoirs published at some point in time. She said no, because her memoirs are my memoirs, and I get it, she’s shy, but boy, do we have enough material for a HYSTERICAL memoir.

So I cursed her crops, and her dog, and her cow, and she agreed to write the memoir as long as I lifted the curse. Which I did (and she doesn’t even have a cow, crops, or a dog! Stupid…)

But I can bring the curse back any time I freaking want (especially upon her non-existing cow).

Just needed to remind her of that.

So it’s official people, I ‘m getting my memoirs!

Letters To Myself Part 2: Chocolate

Dear Princess from the future,

Buy some chocolate. You always need chocolate. Trust me on this. Seriously.

Why is there no chocolate inspired superhero, by the way? Like Milkywayman, or Twix of Fate, Mars Attack, The Cruncher…the possibilities are endless here, people.

Anyway, buy some chocolate.

Yours Truly,

Princess from the past

Hairy Latinas (And Some Argentinians)

Do not google for “hairy latinas”. Seriously, in the name of everything you hold dear, do not google it. I’ve tried, and I’ll never forget what I saw, so this is me warning you: do not do it.

We cool?

Cool.

It’s a well known fact that Latinas such as myself are hairy EVERYWHERE: arms, legs, backs, eyebrows; you name it, we got hair for you.

*A tiny girl raises her hand at the back of the audience and says, “I’m actually Argentinian and I barely have hairs. Like, I only shave every three months.”*

First of all: shut your mouth, you hairless freak of nature, and second of all: suck my bratwurst, Argentina.

Hey, it’s not profanity if I don’t have a bratwurst, right? So, yeah, Argentina sucks my imaginary bratwurst.

No wait, it’s cool, it’s okay, I can say it because I’m from Brazil. Americans have the same relationship with Canada, only Canadians are super nice and Argentinians are the fruit of the devil.

See, even the Argentinian girl is all like, “It’s okay. We’re cool everyone, she’s Brazilian.”

Unfortunately, not all of us are as gifted as some Argentinians (when it comes to hairs, that is. When it comes to football, Pelé was obviously way better than Maradona. Take that, Argentina!). This means I have to wax constantly, like every month, seriously.

Okay, fine, it’s more like every three weeks at most. If I waited four weeks in between waxing, my pubic region would replace the Amazon rain-forest in the list of world heritage sites. (Too much information, anyone?)

I just wanted to say how much I hate being hairy, and waxing, and Argentinians. Okay, just kidding, Argentinians are cool. Hair in the wrong places, on the other hand, is not.

How about you? Care to share some experiences?