Thursday, July 5, 2012

So intense rainbow clouds and a lotta bit of Thor all up in my face

Before we go any further into this little reunion we've got going here, I guess I should give you the obligatory run-down of why M2 has been absent.

Truth is, I just wasn't feeling it anymore. I had nothing to say. I guess it was some form of writer's block, mixed with a bout of depression, mixed with I could hardly entertain myself, let alone you.

Also, back in October, I re-met this guy. We went to the same high school, had a few classes together, and hung out at a few of the same parties, but that was it. Even though he lived like a block away from my old childhood home.

We took it slow at first. I don't take my growing Chicken's surroundings lightly, and we dated and I kept her from meeting him like any good single mother should do when entering into a new relationship. Once a week hangouts turned into twice a week hangouts, and so-on and so-forth. In February, we made it official. BF/GF type stuff y'all.

He met the Chicken and fell in love. Long story, short...he's her Daddy, guys.

No not the Tranny. The was no reconciliation there, so RELAX. We've moved on from that mess.

So, I guess no inspiration, turned into me trying to move past the past, build my trust back up, figure out life's next moves, and all in all, grow the eff up.

No we're not gonna get all mushy and diary-re-re-ish up in here, but you're probably going to get to know a new kind of M2. I'm not really sure what kind of M2 you're going to get, but I know it may be a little different. Because I'm different.

I am gainfully employed as a personal assistant for a handful of completely groovy software developers. I get to work at home and take care of Chicken and cook every single day. (I bet you didn't know that about me. Cooking is one of my favorite things to do, and I happen to be quite good at it!)

Me and D (who we could also affectionately refer to as Thor for the very reason you think) and especially, Chicken, are completely happy and in love. In fact, you can credit him partially for my return to the blogosphere. I missed you guys and would talk about you all the time. Even in the shower. After sex. You know that's love.

With that being said, I'll be around now. And regaling you with stories about windmills and becoming used to air-raids at 4am. And when I say windmills, I mean the weird thing he can do with his penis that is probably more normal than wearing pantyhose for pleasure, but less normal than....

I don't know. You men are just fucked up individuals when it comes to you and your penises.

As long as mine isn't ace-bandaged and screaming for mercy inside a thong, I'll consider my blessings counted.

The really uncomfortable I'm going to masturbate but convince myself that you don't know I'm masturbating, masturbator

One of my exes, who shall remain nameless, although y'all have heard a lot about him on here already, so it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out, had an "addiction".

Not only to porn. No. I mean, it was bad enough that dude spent hours in the one bathroom we had, jerking it to YouPorn's lesbian genre, which I could handle, until I practically burst with bodily fluids (and not good ones), but he had an addiction to his own penis.

He always had his hand down his pants. Seriously. He'd be watching TV and I'd notice out of my peripheral vision some movement and look over and he's tugging at his two inches.

We'd be laying on the couch and he'd have one arm around me and the other with his hand cupping his balls.

But the weirdest thing about this ball handling, penis man?

When I'd wake up in the middle of the night thinking there was a motherfucking earthquake, y'all.

And it wasn't an earthquake. It was my bed shaking.

Because he was jerking off at 3AM. I mean, I'm all for a good self-satisfying session. However, comma, not only do I perform those session in private, but when you wake me up at 3AM jerking your dick, and then say "NO I WASN'T!" is just asking to for me to label you as a undercover rubber.

Bottom line: If you're going to wake me up at 3AM, it better be to have sex with me and not yourself...

Even if I could barely feel it.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

First, I threw up. Second, I emailed my tattoo artist. Third, I realized in the meantime I should probably bring sweatbands back

At least it wasn't his prison number. Because, I mean, *that* would be trashy.

My ex fiance and I were kind of sort of talking again and by talking, that is equal to him getting drunk, professing his love, and me talking him out of hanging himself off the nearest bridge.

(That would seriously put a damper on people's work commutes around here. You're welcome.)

According to the Holy Grail of Facebook, he's been in 3 relationships in just this past week alone. I don't know whether to be disgusted, envious, or proud. But the third time is apparently the charm and he saw it fit to commemorate the occasion by getting inked.

Because in Pennsyltucky, THAT is what we do, y'all.

Personally, I think it's adorable that he saw it fit to proudly display his affection right next to his half of OUR matching tattoos that were immortalized over 6 years ago, coincidentally, the night before old/new girl walked into the bedroom to say hi one prettyful summer's morning in where I was nowhere near the point of comprehension to fight with some ghetto raging psychopath, so I literally shrugged my shoulders and walked out of the house for him to deal with some wrathful words I couldn't decipher due to lack of caring at the time.

Also, I might have been hungover.

Anyhow, it's obvious that dude really takes his recycling seriously, because after the two new ones in just this past week that didn't keep his sinking boat afloat, and after I made it perfectly clear he was not making it into this cave of wonders even with a bigass magic lamp, he moved right on down the list to the girl with the huge schnoz from that fateful morning. (I really thought she had a cold the first few times I saw her, but that is clearly no longer the case unless her sinus infection is terminal.)

In the meantime, I've already contacted my own artist who's tattooing ability far surpasses that of Chicken's, and by far, Playboy's, and asked him for his help. Because this shit....has got to go.



Learn your lesson, kids. Don't be me. The end.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Times, they are a'changin'

Well hello there. You may have noticed that things are slightly different around here.

I got tired of the "Other One" riding my coattails and using my name to her famous advantage. I never really was good at sharing.

Actually, truth be told, trivial things such as $$ kept me from being able to renew therealmandymoore.com domain name on time. All of the sudden, it's now owned by Jessica Saenz of Santa Ana, CA. You can follow this link to write her nasty hate mail and to accuse her of drowning puppies and being that girl who pisses all over public bathroom toilets.

Seriously ladies? Get that one under control. You pee in the potty. Not on it. Chicken even gets that concept.

Anyhow, my Internet Gnome took it upon himself to write me one of his many awesome shit-glittering emails, and besides hooking me up with two complimentary Blink182 tickets, wrote down several ideas for a new domain name and slogan.

And here we are today. M2 = back in business.

As for the hot dog? I don't know really what to say about that except that a) I took the picture therefore cannot be sued for using it and b) It just felt right.

That's what she said.

So tell all your friends, because I'm severely lacking, and update your blogrolls because we're going to be doing some big things around here.

That's also what she said.


We're going from flip-flops to stilettos up in this bitch.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

An open letter to Jonathan Taylor Thomas

I'll admit it. I wasn't above covering my childhood bedroom walls with the heartthrobs of the 90's. I loved me some Andrew Keegan, Devon Sawa, and Ryder Strong. Especially JTT. Oh yes. JTT.

My heart just fluttered at the memory. As well as other parts, but since this happened, we don't act upon those desires anymore.

But see? That's the problem. He's a memory. It's like he fell into a volcano or something and no one cares. But I do Jonathan. I DO.

Look. I'm not going to go all crazy stalker on you, so no restraining order action will have to be taken. That's totally way too much work and I'm far too cool to pull that goo-goo-ga-ga girl celebrity crush BS (which probably sent you into hiding in the first place...). I get it, Jonathan. I do. It was totally our fault for making you run away. So I apologize for my fellow species for scarring you.

I just want to know that you are alive. I mean, if you're straight and single, I'd totally be down to grab some Olive Garden or glow bowl or whatever people do when they're actually, you know, asked out on dates. Or we could skip all that bullshit and just head right to the alter. I could pop out a few kids and you can show me what you learned from growing up with Tim the Toolman Taylor around our house. Just throwing that out there.

I'm legitimately worried about you JTT. I just want to know you aren't living on Skid Row with a permanent needle in your arm. I want to make sure you aren't BFF's with that hot mess, Jeremy Jackson. It's just too late for little Hobe.

I've decided what Hollywood needs is a Jonathan Taylor Thomas comeback a la Jaleel 'Steve Urkel' White in Megashark Vs. Crocosaurus.

This could be your moment, JTT. Don't let that little nerd in suspenders overshadow your success.

I believe in you, Jonathan. I BELIEVE IN YOU.

I'll be eagerly awaiting your Twitter account to become active and verified. Now grab that handle you deserve and get on this boat. It's 2011 and you need to emerge. Vacation over. Hop back on that red carpet and show Urkel what a real comeback is.


He puts Bieber to shame.