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? 

Jeremy’s Marvelous Junk

“Dude, how big is your penis?” Dave asked.

Jeremy stared at his friend, choking slightly with the pot-smoke going down his throat. “Dude! You can’t ask that to a bro!”

“Of course you can, come on.” Dave inhaled. “Bro to bro, man.”

Jeremy squinted at him. “Bro to bro?”

Dave exhaled a cloud of smoke. “It’s the code. A bro can request a view of his bro’s penis at any given time. I’m sure it’s written somewhere.”

After careful consideration, Jeremy shrugged. “All right, then. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

So Jeremy stood up and pulled down his pants.

The smoke stopped mid-way Dave’s throat and all he could mutter was, “You’re a freak of nature, bro.”

Jeremy chuckled as he zipped his pants. “That’s what she said,bro.” He gave Dave a high-five but his friend was flabbergasted and could barely move.

After a long while in silence, Dave said, “Bro.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gay.”

Jeremy stared at Dave in silence. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Not the first time it happens, bro.”

 

 

Follow or Unfollow

Last week, I received four notifications on new followers, and that was awesome. I’m always happy when I get new followers, it makes my day (almost as much as comments and likes, just throwing it out there, you know, just in case).

I average around eight new followers a week, so you might be wondering what made those four so special. Well, according to WordPress, I was already following them.

Let me connect the dots, if I may (This is gonna turn into a Harsh Reality type of post, isn’t it? Oh hell yes).

Dot 1) At some point in time, those four people followed me (or I followed them first, doesn’t really matter), and as always, that was awesome. We connected, we followed each other. Cue to more awesomeness.

Dot 2) Fast forward a few months/days, and I get a notification that those people, who were already following me, just started following me.

Hm.

Look, it’s fine to unfollow me. At some point, you thought what I had to say wasn’t cool, or interesting, or maybe you were offended. Hey, it happens. No one can please everyone. It’s life, and I’m super cool with that.

But if you didn’t like what I had to say and unfollowed me, why did you follow me back?

Oh wait, you’re adding people randomly and then unfollowing them to increase your followers/following rate, aren’t you?

Sorry, but this is not fucking Twitter. Your shitty social media gimmicks don’t work here. And I don’t tolerate this kind of shit.

So you just earned an eternal unfollow, assholes.

You’re welcome.

Letters to Myself – Part One

Dear Future Me,

This is you from the past. Obviously.

I hope you’re reading this as you sit by the pool in your mansion in Tuscany, while a shirtless Chris Hemsworth fans you with giant peacock plumes.

Oh, Future Me, I have so many questions…Has Facebook shared Myspace’s fate yet? Has Google taken over our souls, and most importantly, has Justin Bieber grown a beard?(Just kidding, we both know that one will never happen.)

By the way, no one has created a TV show about the adventures of a young Captain Jean-Luc Picard, have they?

Of course they haven’t.

jlp

Whyyyy?

Look, you need to write the series yourself, and it doesn’t matter that you don’t know how to write a script. It’s your problem, not mine. Unless… you have already done that, and this is why you have a mansion in Tuscany!

YES!

Waait. This means I should warn an earlier-future-version of myself, the one who decides to write about young Jean-Luc’s adventures in the first place. If she doesn’t write the script,  you’ll have no pool, no mansion, and no bare chested Chris Hemsworth, Future Me!

You should really start freaking out by now.

Anyway, I better go write to her and save both our asses.

You’re welcome.

xoxo,

Moi

PS: This post was inspired by Becky’s letters at HUMYN. You should really check Becky out, her writing is absolutely beautiful.

Literally, You Guys

Kimmy said, “When I kissed Chad, I literally saw stars!”

And Sissi was all like, “Wait. You kissed him while looking up to the sky? How did you bend your head that way?”

And all the girls gawked at Sissi, ’cause she was such a party popper, that nerd.

So Kimmy rolled her eyes and said, “OMG, can you be more weird, Sissi?”

The girls nodded and said, “Totes.”

Sissi couldn’t quite understand what was going on. “It’s not about being weird, you guys! It’s literally about the overuse of the word ‘literally’.”

Kimmy swooshed her long blond tresses as it they were a whip, and said in the most blasé of ways, “I literally can’t even, Sissi. Let’s go, girls.”

And that’s how Sissi got banned from the cheerleading squad.

She later married the guy who invented Google. Figuratively speaking. Because he must be like a thousand-year-old, you guys.