... and to all a good night.

To the one who held me when I was a baby, and called me his yella rose.

                                                            Merry Christmas, I miss you.

To the one who makes me angry, but still has stories to tell me.

                                                            Merry Christmas, I love you.

To the one who still takes care of me, cause I’m his baby girl.

                                                            Merry Christmas, I love you, and I reply to texts when you aren’t being annoying.

To the one I yell at far too often,

                                                            Man the fuck up, it’s Christmas!

To the one who hides when things get hard.

                                                            I love you, I look up to you, and honesty is the best policy hun. Also, you missed beer Santa, that was me tonight.

To the one I tried to build a life with, but the blocks were all wrong.

                                                            Merry Christmas, I want to shake you future wife’s hand and kiss the foreheads of your future children. They will be awesome. I’m sorry.

To the ones in a place closer, but still far away.

                                                            It’s the same state; I’ll try harder if you do. And please, if you don’t want to be in my life, don’t lead me on.

To the one who always comes through when I need her, and sometimes when I don’t.

                                                            I love you, I am so proud of you. You will rock Mexico’s face off. Merry Christmas.

To the one I fought with, and still have a stupid amount of respect for.

                                                            I love you, we were meant to be sisters. Don’t fight so hard, we love you; we are all stupid brats though.

To the one who used to be the biggest brat in the world.

                                                            Nice looks good on you, you are growing into an amazing woman. I love you, Merry Christmas.

To the one I drank with tonight.

                                                            Do not put the moves on your wife when I am in bed with you. It’s gross and unless you are going to make me another niece or nephew, I don’t need to know about it. Also, I love you. And I look up to you a lot.


To the one who married my monkey butt brother.

                                                            Mad respect. You are a bad ass, you are also incredibly wise. So glad you are in my family, also glad you like me. I know I am hard to swallow. (raspberry) see what I did there?

To the one who learned more from me than I ever cared to teach.

                                                            You did good with me; I just didn’t like female authority. It was teenage angst. You are a wonderful person. Merry Christmas.

To the one who waited on me to move away before she ever got drunk.

                                                            It was probably for the best, we would’ve made out. I miss you, Merry Christmas.

To the ones that enriched my childhood.

                                                            Peer pressure is bad, we should drink again soon. I’ll try not to fall asleep on my face next time.

To the one who is learning about me.

                                                            I’m a brat, I’m irrational. But I’m funny and I will call you dude at the most unattractive times. Merry Christmas, we need to get smashed together. I’ll find a DD.

To the one who makes me sad and happy at the same time.

                                                            It’s not the same; I know that it never will be. You break my heart every time I see you. I love you, and I will be brave one day. I just hope I don’t wait too long. You have so many stories to tell me.

To the one that I can’t figure out, and I’m not sure if I want to.

                                                            I laugh to myself when I read your Facebook posts. You need to grow a pair and not be shady.

To the ones that read this every time I post.

                                                            You make me happy, if I could high five you I would. If you tell me in person that you read this, I will. Comment though. I like feedback. I will make this better if you tell me how. Merry Christmas.

To the ones that read this but don’t want to tell anyone.

                                                            I’m sorry, I would be ashamed too. Merry Christmas.

To the one(s) that read this and then judged me and talked about it with people I like to consider my friends.

                                                            You suck, and I hope you die in an AIDS fire.

To the one that lives, but I have yet to met, or to acknowledge, or realize.

                                                            I love you, and I want to spend every Christmas with you for the rest of my life. The rest starting after 24, I’m crazy and you wouldn’t love me right now.

Merry Christmas MOTHER FUCKERS!

Who is the white trash judge?

This is me coming to terms with the fact that I might be a little white trash. I mean, I smoke, I drink, and I am from Beggs. So it was almost an understood thing. But today, oh today, I discovered that I like press on nails. And I will wear lipstick to hide the fact that I haven’t washed my hair in a few days (damn hot water heater!)

I guess I’m more than okay with it, ok. That’s a lie; I might blog and know a lot of stuff about opera. And I might even be the “Ted Mosby” of my friends, but I still like country music, and cheap beer, and drinking outside around a fire. I feel like I am the most awkward medium of things. There is no happy medium; I have an alter ego that is a hardcore, white trash, ho. Wanna fight about it?

I may or may not be a tad bit drunk. Its been too long since I have had a drunken post. I feel like they are the most honest ones I come out with. The other ones are delicately censored. (Cue laughter) I keep getting distracted by things on the internet. I really shouldn’t its after midnight and nothing good ever happens on the internet after midnight.

Working the overnight shift has really fucked with my head. Its always awake when its dark. The good news is that I get to text good morning texts to everyone. I’m off all this week. I went grocery shopping today, getting my hurr did tomorrow, and cleaning. Then Wednesday I am cooking for boy and the roommate. BEEF STEW BITCHES!

There is no moral to this story, only ramblings… Nothing too interesting has happened this week. It’s been chill, but hell it’s Tuesday morning. Mondays suck anyway.

But really, do press on nails make me white trash?

Droppin' Bombs (of the F and Vegas variety)

Two days ago, I started the evening with plans to go to Buffalo Wild Wings with the sister and the boy. That in itself would have been a fantastic evening. But it was also karaoke night. And not just karaoke for fun, there was also a contest. Also, after 2 beers someone bought me a shot of Jim Beam. This night was on a fast track to awesome, and the conductor was just looking to start a fight.

So we get there, and I’m pretty excited about life. We hear a few people sing, I judge them mercilessly, and then I sign up. The ladies running the show ask me if I want to sign up for the contest, I could win $100, I do and I totally scoff at them offering me a warm up song.

Come back, sit down. Smoke about 3 cigarettes, drink a few beers. Take that awful shot of Jim Beam. The contest is about to start, they say they are going to do a few dance songs. This one rap song that I don’t know, but it has a pretty sweet line dance along with it, starts playing. Small group of young people get up to dance, and so does this one white-haired old woman. Like seriously in her 60’s, tacky Christmas sweater and all. Gets out there and endangers her health to get her groove on. I nearly pissed myself. So the contest starts. Few decent people sing. I start getting nervous. So I drink more, and I smoke more. Fast forward through mediocre singing, my little sister and this guy named John totally murdering “A Whole New World”. It’s the next to last song, they had flashed through the line up, so I knew I was last. Guy gets up there to sing “Sweet Caroline”, totally killed it, lots of crowd involvement with the “Bah Bah Bah’s” and the “So good’s”, he totally set me up to kill it.

Now keep in mind, most of the performers danced all around the bar. Totally trying to work the crowd. Props to them, I can see where they needed the extra help. So I get up there. Adjust the mic stand. And just stand perfectly still. Soft piano leads me in. “Turn around.” “Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you never come around.” The crowd goes a little bit crazy, but they don’t know what I’m going to do. It grows eerily quiet. “Turn around.” “Every now and then I get a little bit terrified, I see the FUCKING look in your eyes.” Everyone eats it up! I mean, I am obviously not modest about my vocal talents, if you were only good at one thing you wouldn’t be shy either. So between my bad ass vocal skills, the white person soul I am infusing this song with, and a fucking F-word, I think I put on a pretty good show. By the time “And I need you now tonight, I fuckin’ need you more than ever” rolls around I have left the mic stand and I’ve started to really get into it, because that’s just how you sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart”.

I mean seriously after it was over, people chanted. I have no idea what they were saying, but they were being loud and it felt awesome. I knew that cash was mine. So I work the crowd a little bit, I had seen a few people I went to high school with, so I talked to them. Accepted high fives and handshakes from a few fans.  They say they are going to play a few dance songs, then announce the winner. The judges were the ladies running the karaoke stand. From what my friend had told me, the contest was rigged, and they only pick their friends. I was still pretty confident that I was going to win.

Songs are over; they announce the 1^st place winner first, because they got the choice between $100 and tickets to a lame basketball game. “And the winner is…” Some bitch named Megan. I mean I know her, so she’s not really a bitch, but come on. Who sings “Broken Wing” at a fucking bar?! I’m sure there were at least 3 women who were beaten by drunken lovers after leaving that place. I didn’t win shit. I yelled, and cussed, and probably offended someone. I was UPSET! But then that same friend that told me it was rigged bought me a Vegas Bomb. I fucking love Vegas Bombs. So shot number 2 down the hatch. Few more beers, few more smokes.  Dance a little bit. Sing “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”, boy sings “Friends in Low Places” his friend sings “Chicken Fried” I am having a good time. Shot number 3 happens. I am really feeling good, and I’m getting sassy. I don’t remember specifics because that was two days ago, but I do remember yelling at someone for making a remark about Oklahoma being part of the south. “WE DID NOT SECEDE!!” So me and Shyann get up to sing “Don’t Stop Believing”, we are totally killing it, and the bitches cut us off! I have no idea why, they said something about the mics, but I flipped them both off and started running my mouth. Whiskey does mean things to me, so I was really actually ready to fight these bitches. I mean I love Adele as much as the next person, but how can anyone cut off a drunken performance of “Don’t Stop Believin” to do a shitty, soul-less rendition of “Rolling in the Deep”? I was fighting mad, and this is the first time I have ever met two of Boy’s friends. I’m smashed and I am talking all colors of trash to these women, not to their faces though, because I’m a lady.

So we leave before I start getting really belligerent, and also because I’ve realized that I have nearly smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. The moral of the story, is I am a sore loser, and shots are wonderful. Or awful, depending on who you are.

Dear Santa,

Things I would like for Christmas:

1.             A pair of black skinny jeans.

2.             A denim shirt.

3.             A decent pair of boots.

4.             Cute heels.

5.             Legs that looked good with heels.

6.             A nose ring.

7.             Endless good hair days.

8.             A dressy Christmas party to go to.

9.             A cute dress to wear to said party.

10.         A pair of long leather gloves.

11.         A working flat iron.

12.         One of those cute oversized berets.

13.         A new tattoo.

14.         To see my big sister. (I miss her so)

15.         At least 3 new pairs of flats

16.         Feet that don’t sweat so much.

17.         A real bed.

18.         To have the time and $ to decorate my room. Its real sad.

19.         A manicure.

20.         The cure to hangovers.

I really do love Christmas, I enjoy the giving part even. But I want things. It really bothers me when I see people I know with cute things. Hold on, let me fix that. I think everyone should have cute things, but when I see people who are in school and only work part time, with cute things, it makes me want to cry. I want cute things. I work real hard. And I’m always broke. I’m 21; my good looks are being wasted by my poverty. I’m going to be thick forever; I have made my peace with that. But can’t I just be adorable right now?

Please?

I will give you a big fat kiss, right on the lips.

A mild explanation of bitchiness

I am out of my element. I am at work, and its night time. It’s after 1 right now and I am working. WHAT THE EFF IS THIS SHIT!? I’m only kidding, I love my job, I just love sleep more.  This chair is really uncomfortable, it puts pressure on my hips and makes me feet go numb. And its warm back here, sleep…sleep…mouse…

So here is the deal, I live with my best friend. He is a boy, sometimes he makes me cry. Sometimes I make him mad. The other day we are arguing and I said to him “Cam, you are right we will never be even, you will always owe me something, but if you ever make me cry unwarranted, I will end you.” I feel like every woman functions like this. We all have our bitchy moments, and we all have semi-valid reasons for behaving is such an unattractive way. But on the RARE occasion that we are just mega-bitches and it seems really unprovoked, just remember that we are doing you a favor. By putting up with our shit, we know you really, really enjoy are company, when we are in our right minds. Also, we are kind of giving you a “get out of jail free” card. I mean, you snap at us, say something a little mean, forget you said you were going to do something, or do some other man thing that makes us cry. We will be super mad, and irrational. We will say mean things, but hold on… in that 3 seconds it takes us to process the fact that you used your rugged, manly ways for evil, we will be even. But only for that 3 seconds, once the retaliation starts. We are winning the bitch game.

Now I realize that I am by no means a normal girl. I think I might be on to something here though. Someone is keeping a tally here, and whether it’s him or her, or her, the best friend is keeping tabs on you and your bitch fits. If you aren’t putting up with their shit days, you are a bad friend. Unless you are one of those weird super nice ladies, the ones where you don’t have a bad thing to say about anyone, and you would never tell anyone that you are totally prettier than this one guys ex wife. When in reality, this bitch is uglier than sin, and potentially the Queen Troll of the ugly forest. But that is all beside the point. What I am trying to say here is that, girls need to be bitches sometimes, if only to make up for our abundance of emotions. If a guy makes us cry (only a little cry, he yells or hits you, GTFO) but we remember that we bitched at him for like 3 hours when he left his face pubes on the bathroom sink, it will take the sting out of things. Once the clouds of fiery rage part, and rational thought is restored. We will dry our tears, remember our bitchy ways, and balance will be restored. The wonderful balance, where the girl is a bitch and the boy doesn’t understand feelings.

Now here comes the parable where I explain how this thought came to be, I know I touched on it earlier, but there is more, lots more. So I like a boy, and Cameron knows this, he is fine with this, but if he hears giggles and movement coming from my bedroom, he is going to go sit in the garage, and I am going to feel like an ass/whore/bad-friend/skank-face. So me and boy go on a date, I come home completely blitzed. I walk in and Cam is awake. I ask if he is about to go to sleep, he says yes. I then say, in my most smart assed voice, “good, block out all noise for the next few hours.” Cam then proceeds to slam his door, and pout. I open the door, yell at him, and throw change at him until he tells me he loves me. I’m pretty sure other boy thinks I’m crazy, but then again, if drunken Leah’s smart mouth and New York accent hasn’t scared him off, I’m not sure what will. I mean really, I told this guy where he should cut me off, he goes to do so and I come back with a “Fuck you, you’re not my daddy!” and then I grab another free beer (ladies night, FTW.) I really am a hot mess, I have no idea why I have friends, or love interests… This is all a mystery to me.

So this started out as a post I was going to dedicate to Cameron Porter, and in a way I guess it is. You should all add him on Facebook, or if you know him, give him a hug. The boy lives with a crazy bitch, with an alcohol problem. He needs a cuddle and a cookie.