Sorry for partying.

It's a two post day... only because I really don't want to do anything productive tonight.  This one is dedicated to... well, me.  And my frands who celebrated my birthday with me this year.

I went to Smashville to celebrate with my main lovers.  It started innocently enough with margaritas and "dinner."  Dinner is in quotations marks because I consumed mainly lime wedges and tequila.  Woof.  So here we go.

I don't know why I blacked out.

Surprisingly normal.

Out come the peace signs. Probably starting to get grey...

Definitely at grey out right now.

Getting darker...

Andie and Shorty Bo Peep

Secksiiiiii

This last picture is Steve. Steve talks like a frog.  Steve loves Dale Earnhardt.  I fell in love SBP didn't approve but went along with my obsession.  It was my birthday, after all.  There are a shortage of pictures of me this night... mainly because I sloppy joe drunk and the garbage man eyes were out in full effect.  I wound up getting kicked out.  Of a bar.  ON my birthday.  Allegedly I wanted to take a nap.  I don't see why this was a problem.  I haven't been kicked out of a bar since I was caught drinking underage when I was 18.  Obviously turned 26 has catapulted me into adulthood.  {To explain garbage man eyes, see below}

Yup. Sloppy. Sloppy. Joe.

Moving on...  To say I was hungover the next day would be a horrible understatement.  Whoever said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day has never binge drank without eating a substantial dinner.  I barfed all day long.  Took not one, not two but THREE hangover showers.  Ate a plethora of popsicles and slept... a lot.  But the party had to keep on going.  SBP bought us tickets to see Jonny Lang at the Ryman that night.  He was wonderful and delicious.  The fans he brought out were better than anyone can ever imagine.  {Quick aside: I stopped yacking shortly before walking into the Ryman.}  Then we went to Paradise Park - a bar modeled after a trailer park? Yes, please.

Mr. Lang

My cowlick was out in full effect this weekend

I somehow managed to drink?

For future reference.

SBP & Nashville.

That's definitely fireball in her hand.

Hand over face = black out. Part two.

Nashville and Vanilla Thrilla. My faves.

Then there were the men that were attracted to me that night.  I tend to draw in real winners.  He's proof.

Hank, Jr.

This guy was homeless.  And got closer to me every 5 minutes.

Fact:  This guy had a rat tail.

There was one other fella that we didn't get a picture of and it broke my little heart.  He looked like Jesus.  His real name was Eddie but told me I could call him Jesus, quite the charmer, I know.  I decided I would call him Ian. Or girl.  He wasn't fond of either but it wasn't up to him.  Here's what happened during our first exchange:

Take away the beard and blonde hair.

{Real talk: I googled hot Jesus to find this picture.  I'm going to hell fo sho.}

Ian:  It's your birthday.  You know what you should do?  Have sex with me.
Me: Ha. No thanks, girl.
Ian: (looks at Nashville) You can join us, too.
Me: Um, that's my sister.
Ian: It's cool... she can still join us.

As we made our way back to the car I managed to thoroughly insult some Spaniards by asking if they were French... or German.  They can't take a joke so fuck em.

Sunday Funday started with breakfast at Cracker Barrel and napping.  Lots of napping by everyone but me.  I sat up and stared at them {true story} and sent them text messages trying to wake them up.

Hangovers hurt more when you're old.

This is the homeless times. True story.

I'm hold Boozeman hostage.

I found this on a trash can. I was getting into character.

Then I was excited I had a new toy

Then I was scared by the bald man.

Things quickly got out of hand.  Scottie Don't was hanging out with us for the first time all weekend and I truly enjoy emotionally abusing him.  I don't know why other than I can. So I do.  Here's proof:

The sign reads: "Blow jobs $50 Ask for Scottie"

There were a few men interested... they wanted to negotiate the price but Scottie stood firm.  Rage part three: the finale ended with wildly bad decisions, a bathroom mishap and more bad decisions.  It was a wild success.

SBP and I went and shot guns to round the weekend out but I'm saving those pictures for another time.

Hulkamania, brother.

I love manly men.  Southern manly men, to be exact.  {I don't think that there is anything manly about a man with overly plucked eyes brows and spray tans.}  I like to look at them.  I sometimes like to talk to them.  I like the way their little brains work {girls don't poo, really? who came up with this?}.  I like it they get horribly grossed out when I burp {sorry, father... I will never stop}.  I like it that they don't always smell nice.  I will always enjoy their vast knowledge on all things sports, beer, man things.  I like it when they like to go fishing and shoot guns and build man things with their man hands.  I. Love. Manly. Men.  I also am obsessed with gay men.  Like the gayer the better.  That being said there is a lot in the middle that I don't understand... the heterosexual men that insist upon sporting the murse, for instance.

The murse is a man purse.  Who invented this monstrosity? No one in America, that's for sure.  And they weren't intended for straight men.  They just weren't.  Gay men can wear them but gay men can get away with lots of things straight men can't.  It's ok.  You were born that way.  There are tons of different styles which blows my mind.  Most men who carry these things like to call them satchels or European something or others.  I have a two questions for you purse wearing fellas:

• What about the across the body bag you're wearing screams, "I'm a man?" Nothing. The answer is nothing.
• WHAT do you need to carry around so badly that won't fit in your pockets?  Would you like to know what I carry in my purse? Lipgloss, altoids, my wallet and tampons.  For my pa-chatch.  Do you carry around tampons?  Or are you more of a pad kinda guy?  Do you experience heavy flow?  You look like you have a wide set vagina.

Let it be known that my daddy-o, one of the manliest men that I know, has sported a fanny pack once or twice.  Now, he hasn't done this since I've been able to speak because I mocked him incessantly whenever he mentions bringing it back out.  His argument?  Hulk Hogan wears one.  Not ok, Rick.  Not ok.

In conclusion:  murses are gay.  As in, to only be worn by gay men.

It's not like riding a bicycle.

I need to start blogging again but it's so hard after I've been out of it for a while.  I can feel myself slowly going crazy when I don't.  I don't have another outlet to... um - express myself? (read: I refuse to pay for a therapist who won't appreciate my issues and won't find me funny in the least).

My life is incredibly dull.  All I do all day long is tweet and facebook.  Or think about twitter and facebook.  Or read twitter and facebook.    I text. More than is medically advised.  Or watch Real Housewives of (insert city here) or So You Think You Can Dance and/or The Voice... ooooooh my love for The Voice runs deep.  Really deep.  I've started live-tweeting this week so I'm sorry if you follow me... I get quite obsessed.  Here's why:

First and foremost, the judges.  Adam Levine is a complete douche.  He seems to take himself quite seriously and the only thing serious about him is how delicious he is.  I thoroughly enjoy looking at him.  Then there's Cee Lo.  While he's not as easy on the eyes, he is perfect in almost every other way.  I love his music.  I love his sunglasses.  Most importantly, I love his short little T-Rex arms.  The "star" out of the judges is Christina Aguilera or Xtina.  I don't know what she goes by now nor do I care.  Homegirl has hit a rough patch in her life.  She has either drank herself into believing that it's still 1999 and she's still musically relevant buuuut she's not.  Sure, she has a serious set of pipes but all she talks about is how she's been on tour and she's won awards and blah, blah, blah.  Last time I checked, your latest tour was cancelled indefinitely because no one cares about her  ???? I don't know.  I'm over her.  Then there was her hairstyle from this past week.  It was a hot fucking mess... let's just leave it at that.  My favorite judge is Blake Shelton.  He is, arguably, the man of my dreams.  He is perfect and neck as hell and insane.  And I love every second of him.

Then there is the talent.  No, I'm not taking a jab at the no talent ass clown of a host, Carson Daly.  I'm talking about the REAL talent.  Namely Xenia and Dia.  These girls are out of this world.  {They are on Team Blake... so laaaahuuuuuve him even more.}  Here's Dia's performance from this week.  Warning: It MAY be better than the original... sorry REM.

That's all for right now... I'm going to try to be better.  I really am.  But I won't make any promises.  OH! And if you watch any of the aforementioned shows AND tweet, follow me mylifeisdelish so we can discuss.

Sip, sip, sippin' on some sizzurp

It's Friday night and what am I doing?  Writing my obituary.  So not really but I am fairly certain that I'm dying. I've had a fever for what feels like six years {though has actually only been on and off for 24 hours}.  Every time I cough I can feel my lungs coming out of my esophagus.  And my nose is beyond raw thanks to all the stupid toilet paper I've been forced to use because my parents don't have any tissue paper.  {Side note: I don't even like wiping my ass with this toilet paper.  I've tried to instill the importance of a high quality TP but they also don't think that a high thread count in sheets is important. Was I adopted?}

I'm a lot like a man when I get sick.  I need want someone to take care of me throughout the duration of my illness.  Right now I have a stupid sinus infection and bronchitis.  Baaaaarf.  All I want is for my momma to fly home from Napa Valley {HA, yeah right} and make me a grilled cheese, pour me some ginger ale and bring me popsicles.  Since that's not going to happen, I'll have to settle for their whiney dogs staring at me and licking my face whenever I take a snooze. WAH.

Sick days have officially lost all of their appeal.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy midday naps and eating popsicles but for at LEAST the past five years I have always watched the Today Show, napped, caught up on my DVR then watched Oprah. Did you hear that Oprah quit.  Thanks bitch. But whatevs... I could have handled that BUT Meredith left too? Horrible. What is worse is her stupid replacement.  I. Hate. Ann. Curry.  This is an undeniable fact.  I don't know when it started. I don't know if I've blogged about this before.  But I do know why. She whisper talks.  She interrupts everyone she interviews and she's just dumb.  Why does NBC think she should be next to my Matty?  They won't have the witty banter because humor is completely lost on this betch.  I mean, she tries. And I think that's what makes it so fucking sad.

I must apologize if this makes me no sense. I'm surpassed my daily allotment of sizzurp and I just can't quit this shit.  I hate coughing and I like feeling like I'm tripping my balls off.  Shame. On. Me.

On a very serious note: when under the influence of sizzurp do not, I repeat DO NOT, under ANY circumstance watch ghost shows.  Right now I'm watching Ghost Adventures.  They are at Loretta Lynn's house.  That bitch creeps me out anyway.  How old is she?  Like 1000?  And she still has a slave cave?  What the fuck?  I'm literally about to have a seizure as I'm watching this.  I'm about to cry.  Have you noticed that it's only white people who do this shit? I've never seen a Samuel L Jackson looking mother fucker FOLLOWING a ghost that says he needs to kill 60?  Your ass is dumb.  Take your war songs/ dog whistle for spirits and fucking quit it.  Now you're playing like you're a Confederate soldier?  AND you tell them your friend is a Yank?  You're a real dick, ya know that.  Thanks for the nightmares.  I hate you.