Blog Archives

Letters to Those Involved

My phone miraculously disappeared at some point on the night of Saturday 01/26/2013. It’s whereabouts were finally recovered at approximately 6:30 pm Monday night. After I wrote this post…

missingphone

Dear stranger and/or really bad friend who took my phone,

I hope you didn’t hack my Iphone security code, although it would have only taken you something like 15 million different guesses. I figure that you could have easily try 30 different combinations every minute, which means it would have only taken you a little less than a year to figure it out if the last number you guessed was the correct one. Obviously that doesn’t make any sense, even if it was correct math. But if you got lucky and gained access on your first try, there are things that you need to know:

I am not responsible for the last search in my internet browser. Any voice memos of singing are also a mystery and definitely not me. And, if you even try to tinker with my blog I will find you, and I will kill you. Got it?

Dear AT&T sales guy,

I do not usually look like a frantic homeless person. My hair was still pretty though, right? I was impressed.

I think it is ridiculous that you can not help me locate my Iphone using all of that technology stuff, but Facebook on the other hand, always knows precisely where I am and isn’t afraid to tell everyone without my discretion.

And just so you know, you probably made the easiest sale of your life Sunday morning. You can thank Jim Beam and the gay men of the Krewe of Apollo.

Dear Canes Chicken Fingers,

I have nothing bad to say about you. You were delicious, and for a brief moment while I was stuffing my face of you, I forgot about everything that I lost that day.

After writing such a dramatic post and finally finishing re-downloading all of my apps onto my new Iphone, I got the call that my phone was recovered. Shit happens.  

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Can Clowns Hire Clowns for Their Birthday Parties?

Or would that just get weird. Like a stripper hiring a stripper?

Le Clown, Eric, friend. Here is a haiku on your birthday, because Jack made me.

If Jack’s name was said

With a G instead of J

His name would be Gack

gack

So gangster

gak

Or more like this.

If you don’t know what actual Gak is, you should definitely scour E-bay for some. It is the ultimate birthday toy  to provide you with hours of good clean fun. Or dirty fun. Who am I to tell anyone what they should do with their Gak? I always enjoyed making fart noises with mine.

Le Clown, Eric, friend. On this very special birthday of yours, you seek to unlock a special post. You have done uncountable favors for me, La Becca, and never was it even close to being my birthday. So, for that I am forever indebted and will proudly help guide you to the next step in your journey.

Here are some hints about the blog that you seek next. I do not have cable, thus this gal’s blog keeps me up to date on important news like what is happening on The Bachelor. I don’t know how I would go on without the service she provides me, provides us. It took me an unacceptably long time to figure out that this particular blogger was actually a female. Once I did, I liked her blog all the more.

She is one of your top blogroll members, and she comes with a weird handsome sidekick torso thing.

Now go find the droids you were looking for. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVE!

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Let’s Make a Deal

Three orders of business today puppets:

1. A major thank you is due to Le Clown yet again for being my hero. He is the mastermind behind taking what started as a photography experiment and turning it into the outstanding piece of banner you see at the top of my page. What you see today is the final product of much work. And he did it through a drug haze. Let’s all show him extra love today.

2. Speaking of Le Clown, there is an important post today on his second blog Black Box Warnings. It’s important, because I wrote it. It is also important, because it was not easy. I struggled with how to write this post. I beat myself up for not being able to pull out the serious. I avoided it like it was an army of bullfrogs. If you don’t know I hate frogs, you do now. But I prevailed. So please, check it out. If you love me you will (said the abusive guilt tripping blogger).

3. More guilt tripping. If you missed my post and vlog yesterday, you need to stop slacking and go read/watch it, because I was kind of sort of maybe really definitely proud of it.

Enjoy!

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Lazy Mexican Chili

This one is for all of you foodies out there, ahem, Vyv (but read it anyway even if you are not a foodie, because I used jokes). I may not make cupcake Frankensteins, but I do treat my kitchen like a science lab on occasion. When I began blogging, I was on a serious cooking kick. I could bust out a stuffed chicken parme-something or a stuffed bell pepper without even looking at the recipe.

Lately? Not so much. I can barely find a clean cup to drink out of let alone put some Julia Child shit on the table. And, as I have mention before (in a post long ago), cooking for one can be … discouraging. So, how did I make it better? I experimented. Ultimately, Lazy Mexican Chili was born.

What you need:

1 lb ground beef
1 can sweet corn
1 package taco seasoning
H2O
Salsa
Sour cream
Mexican shredded cheese (not shredded by actual Mexicans)
Tortilla chips (optional)
A feline companion or Tequila

What to do with your junk (not your naughty junk):

Brown your ground meet. Drain it and try not to burn yourself with beef grease. Say beef grease out loud because it sounds hilarious. Say it louder so your neighbors and/or significant other can hear you and laugh too. If you have neither, tweet it to your internet friends.

Get back on track and warm up the corn in a separate pot. Put your pan with drained ground beef back on the stove and add in 2/3 cup water and the taco seasoning. Imagine your worst boss’s face in the bottom of the pan and have at it with a ladle or something. This will help break up the meat to allow for better chewing during the consuming process.

Give the beef about four minutes to get its taco on while you crumble some tortilla chips in a bowl. Once your beef is all seasoned up, put some in the bowl with the tortilla chips and start mixing in copious amounts of salsa, sour cream, corn, and cheese. Felicidades! You have made Lazy Mexican Chili. Put on a sombrero and eat it.

lazy mexican chili

If you did it right, you will look something like this and a cigar will manifest itself.

NOTE: It dawned on me after writing this that the title of my dish may sound as if I am implying that Mexicans are lazy. I am not. I am implying that this recipe is lazy. I’m lazy. I am not Mexican. Glad we settled that.

There is something different about 25toFly since yesterday. I wonder what it is?

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Life Glitch

Inexplicable things happen every day. Glitches in the matrix. Coincidences. Alien invasions. Call it what you will.

I recently experienced this very phenomenon. I have no certain explanation for the events that I am about to describe to you. Welcome to the twilight zone. The good one that doesn’t involve shimmery vegan vampires.

keanu with banana

Keanu with a banana phone. You can’t explain that.

It was Sunday, and rather than leaving myself winded from completing  tasks on my lengthy to-do list, I fucked off instead. Football was on. I don’t usually watch it unless the Saints are playing, but it was the perfect distraction on which to blame my lack of productivity. Plus, a friend of mine actually wanted to hang out. I thought I would give that a shot. Apparently, it is a popular thing to do among the internetless.

After a burger and a bloody mary, we were already in tears over attempting to sext a random number, which is actually quite a challenge. You can’t just start blurting out sexyness all over the place. You have to be mindful that four-year-olds have cell phones these days, and that some people simply do not appreciate a good sext. On top of that, you have to know how to properly woo your unsuspecting sextual partner. Don’t worry, chance sexting is not to be confused with full on text rape. But that’s enough of that.

Once I had been repeatedly shot down by what was probably a seventy year old woman, I slinked off home to face my to-do list, which now had an addendum that read: change telephone number.  Unfortunately for my to-do list, I caught wind of more friends (insanity!) at a different venue while driving to my apartment and veered off course yet again. This kind of shit just doesn’t happen every day. I had to take advantage.

Many waffle fries and not an ounce of shame later, I finally forced myself home. I walked into my room to spot my bare mattress and proceeded to throw a slight tantrum at the sight of it. I remember grabbing the sheet and pillow cases out of the dryer. I remember stuffing each pillow into its correct sham. I remember beating them smooth. I remember that the comforter was draped securely over the foot of my bed. I even remember laughing at Jack’s lack of disturbance by all of the dismantled bedding.

Then, nothing. No consciousness. No memory.

At some point, in what I assume was the early morning, I awoke. My clothes were on and I was laying backwards in my bed. My head was perfectly placed in the center of my pillow pile at the foot of the bed. I was half way underneath the sheet which never made it to its correctly tucked position. Jack was there,  oblivious as he slept. Groggy, I stood up feeling no sense of time. Where is my phone? Why are all of the lights on?

Then nothing again.

The next time I awoke, I was right side up in my bed with my cell phone neatly plugged into its charger on the dresser next to me but with no alarm set.

Luckily, I woke up naturally in time to dress for work, but the question still remains. What happened to me? I was not intoxicated, nor was I overly exhausted. I am also quite certain that I am not narcoleptic. Did I sleep walk? Did aliens abduct me for a while? Was I roofied by my friends? Where was Keanu? You tell me.

Thanks to everyone who contributed comments on the post in which I greedily begged for post ideas. Y’all are some deep thinking fools. Morpheus would be proud.  

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Oh Y’all

It’s Friday, which means come five o’clock, I will transition in to the non-virtual world. Kind of like when Ariel gets legs for a while at the price of losing her voice. I try to disconnect from the WWW on weekends to maintain my reputation as an actual human and not a robot.

becca ariel

Pretty much identical.

As you all know, I suffered through some writer’s block recently. What I realized today, is that it wasn’t a problem with letting the words flow or putting together entertaining sentences, but rather an issue of topic. My ideas are lost somewhere on an island talking to a volley ball. SOS. I need your  help. If you have any post ideas that you think I should explore, or anything you would like to hear my take on, please leave your suggestion(s) in the comments. I will of course give you credit for the idea should I use it. I will also write your name in my notepad with a heart around it.

Before I announce the winning comments from the past week… or three, or whatever, I would like to say thank you to two ladies. Firstly, thanks to Ms. Maddie Cochere. She drives a truck, rides motorcycles without a helmet, and apparently loves a gamble. She is basically a Bandito, but she still isn’t above blog awards and using the term “sweet”. Thank you for the compliment. I always wanted to be described like a candy bar. I don’t usually participate in the awards anymore, but sometimes I like to answer the questions that come along with them. This is one of those times:

Cookies or Cake?  I don’t like sweets. But I will fuck up some fortune cookies.
Chocolate or Vanilla?  Sounds racist.
What is your favorite sweet treat? Again, I don’t fancy sweets except for the fact that I usually drink my sugar with a dash of coffee.
When do you crave sweet things the most?  When I have a penis. That means never in case you are confused.
If you had a sweet nickname what would it be? Urban Dictionary says that sweet means, “something pretty awesome”. Since Urban Dictionary has not failed me in my life ever, I will use this definition. Someone called me “boots” once, and that was pretty sweet. 

I would also like to thank Ms. Marie for adding me to her Featured Posts this week on Good Morning Joe. There are a great variety of interesting reads over there. I give you permission to go visit, but be sure to look both ways when you cross the street.

And now for the comment winners…

Adam of My Right to Bitch on 10 Personal Post Secrets Revealed

right to bitch blog

John, aka Red, of Society Red on Shit Bloggers Do , because he was the  first one to recognize my hidden joke in the tags.

Society Red

And finally, Brother Jon on Who Are You Ty Ling?.

brother jon

Y’all are obviously clever, so get to typing more comments. Give me your ideas my pretties. Please and thank you. Oh, and have a good weekend too yo.

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A Girl and Her Rapper

In yesterday’s post, I revealed a secret about my disdain for sharing my music preferences with other drivers on the road, specifically at red lights. In the comments, there were a few others who expressed secrets involving music. Jillian was educating people at the same red lights, Amber was performing accidental serenades, and TBM revealed his faux music career. Sam also sings T-swift better than me, but that’s okay because much more people show interest in hearing me spit some Eminem.

Me and Slim go way back.

ginger kids love eminem

If I was a boy. Or a real ginger.

I vividly remember the period in my life when I was first introduced to the exquisitely crude lyrics of one of my favorite rappers. I can still smell my old 5th grade classroom and hear the sounds of me cracking pencils out of frustration over those logic puzzles. Isabella, Amy, Tony, and Michael can figure out their own damn class schedules or which gifts they gave to whom for Valentine’s Day. Shit.  But this isn’t about them. This is about my favorite rapper, Mr. Marshall Mathers himself. You will be okay with this once you understand our history.

When Eminem came out with My Name Is, I remember being scared and delighted all at the same time. Scared, because I knew if I got caught singing the lyrics, “I don’t give a fuck, god sent me to piss the world off” at the impressionable age of ten, I would surely be put in jail and condemned to hell. My delight came from Eminem being my first true taste of secret rebellion. It was a simple infatuation that I couldn’t fully understand. It wouldn’t be long, however, before I was able to start understanding and appreciating the verses I was performing for the hair ribbons and stuffed animals in my closet. Read the rest of this entry

10 Personal Post Secrets Revealed

I am borrowing an idea today. You may be familiar with the concept behind Post Secret. I discovered this trend via theBerry, and I can’t seem to get enough of the compilation post of anonymous secrets they publish on Fridays. I’ve been thinking of my own secret behaviors, and since I am being fearless these days, I will spill a few here today. But don’t go telling everyone on the internet or anything. I trust you.

post secret

And being me.

1. I listen to the music in my car at sound volumes reminiscent of the decibels that melted George McFly’s mind. When I pull up to a red light, any red light, I immediately turn it down to a respectable level. I wouldn’t want strangers I will never see again judging my taste in music. I also don’t want children to hear me spitting Eminem like a champ.

2. When I catch an auto corrected text message that turns out to be LOL material, I will send it anyway. Then I send a corrected text after. I feel obligated to do this but also oh so guilty.

3. Sometimes, I forget to stretch before I work out. This one absolutely can not leave this blog. It is too intimate, but it does feel nice to finally get it off of my chest.

4. I once stole a single Lemon Head candy from the grocery store. I’ve been on the run ever since.

5. When I clip Jack’s claws, I pretend I am doing a dire medical procedure. In that moment, I am Chief of Surgery. Sometimes I even put on scrubs.

doctor mask

Yes, it is on upside down. I call it the Becca Method.

6. My real name is not actually Becca. It’s Rebecca.

Should I stop this before I reach a point of no return?

7. My hair color is a lie. There, have we said it enough? Is everyone aware? Good. We wont bring it up again.

8. I try to kill bugs with hairspray. While pretending I am a giant.

9. My pillows on my bed are human. I cuddle with them. Sometimes, I even cuddle with two of them at the same time. The shame is unbearable.

10. My secrets are ridiculous, which really is no secret at all.

I feel naked now. So do me a solid by getting naked with me. Tell me, what is your post secret?

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