Somehow this got all screwed up whenever I copied and pasted it so… yeah, deal.
I dunno, Nanner. Your beautiful tits have made me lose the power of speech a time or two.
You were talking to Regan, weren’t you?
*stare some more*
Very funny, considering you and Aimee both make me look like I need serious help in the boob department.
Evil Twin’s Wife said,
I get stared at a lot too. I’ve often told friends who don’t believe me until we’re out somewhere together. I’m not attractive, nor am I hideous, so I start thinking perhaps I’ve grown a penis out my forehead when I get ogled like that.
You are very striking, ETW, with your vivid blue eyes, dark hair, and porcelain skin. That’s why they look.
It’s amazing what a pretty face and a great rack can do to a guy. i had to type this twice cause I kept stuttering. How bout now, you thinking about me now?
I’m totally thinking of you Trash. Totally.
Seriously, at the hospital, we get stared at a lot. I hate the room across from us, and the room next to it with the chair facing us. People think because we are on the clock that it isn’t rude or something. I’m a nurse, not a freak show. I sometimes stare right back, just as boldy as they do. Or I ask if there’s something they need, verrry nicely, of course!
I find though that I tend to stare at people I find visually interesting, for whatever reason. So I try to take it as a compliment, but some days I just can’t take it. Other days I feel like being crass, picking my nose, or scratching my butt when I’m stared at, so who knows.
Guess it’s better then being so ugly nobody can look you in the eyes ever!
I glance but attempt not to stare. Just stick your tongue into your nose, or someone elses, that normally cures it.
I used to get stared at a lot when I was your age, but no more. You DO have beautiful eyes and the rack doesn’t hurt, you know?
ETW, you are very attractive – so hush!
I work with whatever I got!
I don’t like being stared at either. It happens a lot though and like you, I wonder if there is something in my teeth.
Joys of being cute, I guess
Oh, I think you hit it, Lisa. the joys of being cute. LOL!
I think it is the eyes (and the gorgeous boobs in your case) because I get people who stare and lots of them swear they know me from somewhere. I’ve been told I have mesmerizing eyes (and you definitely do too) and people can’t help but stare. It’s almost like they are locked into a target and can’t look away. Weird Huh?
Yes, Boo-Boo, but can we hynoptize them to give us money? Yes, that is the true question… look deep into my eyes….
I would definately be one of your “Lothario” customers, but I’d be subtle about it. And I’d tip you well if the service was good.
Your beauty and your breasts would not cause me to lose the ability to speak in coherent sentences, but might result in totally shameless flattery of your famed beauty and the fact you couldn’t be older than 21.
My service is always good Vince. Oh, did you mean serving food? Yeah, I was talking about something else.
The guys just think you are hot! The pretentious, bitchy fatasses are just jealous that you are hot!
Then again maybe everyone in question is jealous because they see that “glow” that only they WISHED for!
I’ve been glowing a lot lately…
Anyone who has worked in the food service industry – has to agree with every word. At one time in my life, I think I must have waited on the same people. But from that Halloween picture – your eyes are captivating. That’s the first thing I notice on everyone.
I”m not sure what I notice about people first… probably their smile.
Jammie J. said,
Fruit??? You offer them fruit? I’d stare, too.
Oh I kid. Maybe they’d like to ask you if they could have a hug? You do have the best hugs ever. Or maybe they’re not staring at you at all… maybe it’s a vacant stare and they’re trying to work out the problems in their universe. Or maybe they are staring at you and you should just be glad it’s not a malovent stare.
Yes, I offer fruit. FRUIT! It could be they’re trying to figure out what planet I’m from Jammie. Yeah, that’s it.
It’s time for the burka.
They’ll still stare, but they won’t see much.
And assume you’re a muslim, and then probably make the illogical leap that you’re a terrorist.
So homeland security will be staring too.
Okay, forget the burka.
Maybe a Scuba suit?
Mikey, you want me to wear a scuba suit? *Blink* Yeah, that’s BEST way to hide these hooters. LOL!
Sheesh. If you’re fat and ugly you can still have charm. And that’s half the battle right there.
I know a lot of charming people, just wish I waited on more of them. Thanks for the offer of rescue, from you and Trash. It means a lot. However, I still know how to shoot a gun, so I think we’re all good.
Well, that was fun. I had some comments typed up and somehow they disappeared and then I was sick for three/four days with some weird stomach flu in which you can’t throw up, can’t shit, and your guts bloat up and cramp like hell. Its been lovely.
Then Jeff decided, despite all the knocking on wood I’ve done, to turn into a little bitch again. He’s not been mean to me, other than getting drunk and threatening to commit suicide, which just fucks with me. He told me this yesterday, telling me he just wanted to tell me good-bye and told me what to bury him in and how often he wanted fresh flowers on his grave, and tells me he’s either going to blow a hole in his head or step out in front of a train. I told him a lot of things but among them was, “Go to bed and call me in the morning.”
I offered today to take him to his psych hospital of choice which is about 45 minutes away from here. He just asked me to call the police on him. Um, no. I’m not calling the police. I’m not putting the men in blue in danger of his stupid ass walking outside with a gun and then committing suicide by cop because he’s too chicken shit to do it himself. Especially since that man in blue may have worked with him. What a fuckotomy that would be.
I’ll not have a good man have to question himself in the dead of the night as to whether or not he did the right thing.
I’ll not have a good man be relieved of his gun and badge while they investigate whether or not he did the right thing.
I’ll not have a good man have the stigma of killing another person follow him around for the rest of his life.
If Jeff wants to off himself, he will do so without anyone’s help. Especially mine. If he can call me, he can call his psychiatrist. He can call a crisis hotline. He can call the police himself. He can check himself into one of the three psychiatric facilities in our area, one less than two blocks from his house. I think the man is desperate for help and I think he’s even more desperate for someone to feel sorry for him and to have a pity party for him because his dad threatened to call the police on him. Yeah, they’re fed up with his shit too.
So, today, while Jeff was talking about how his ex-girlfriend is fucking with him I told him to stop fucking with me about killing himself. I told him to stop talking about how much better it would be use a .22 rather than a .357 because the hole is smaller. I told him I’ve seen what it looks like. I’ve seen someone shot execution style in the head with a .22. I also saw her the infant daughter she was 8 months pregnant with in the casket with her. Been there, done that, so stop fucking with me. I’ll put fresh flowers on your fucking grave, just shut the fuck up, take responsibility for yourself, and while you’re at it, get a job. Needless to say, he hung up.
Then, my friend Kevyn has been trying to reach me so he can whine about his life. Friends, I’m all full of compassion and empathy for my fellow man, but there comes a time when I will tell you to either do something about what you’re whining about or shut up about it. I’ve reached that point with him. When he couldn’t reach me last night because I was either talking to the only sane man in my life, Jace, or I was on a “crisis” call with Jeff, I’m sorry I couldn’t squeeze in or even want to squeeze in, a whine session with him. Take a number, get in line, or, wow, call your fucking psychiatrist because my guess is, he’s getting paid to listen to you, and SURPRISE, I DON’T!
I’m sorry your bulldog-faced, uppity, cold wife walked out on you after 26 years of marriage. I’m sorry she’s sleeping with another man, although YOU slept with other women outside of your marriage FIRST. DIVORCE. HER. MOVE. ON.
I’m also sorry you don’t have the balls to tell your 22 year old son to GET A FUCKING JOB ALREADY, stop smoking pot, stop shooting your veins full of nasties, stop snorting shit up your nose and be a productive member of society. I’m sorry you don’t have the balls to take his car away or report it stolen when he won’t bring it back, and I’m frightfully sorry that he still wants to have anything to do with your future ex-wife, who helps him fund all of the above behaviors. Take that up with HER.
My 12 year old has more sense than the three of you COMBINED! My 12 year old wishes he was old enough to work so he can buy his own toys! My 12 year old got his hair cut and hard labor when he decided he wanted to cop an attitude. Imagine what I’ll do when he’s 22 and acting like a spoiled brat. So, stop treating your son like he’s 12 and more like he’s 22 or maybe you should treat him like he’s 12, since that’s how old he’s acting. And while you’re at it, you can get a job too.
I have three days off but only so I can be rested to work four 10 hour shifts, including a double on my birthday. My new man has the weekend off, so I intend on soaking myself in his beautiful blue eyes, his goatee, his positive attitude, his wonderful kisses, and as much sex as I can get by with. Since I’m pulling my shingle in, I’ll leave you with some advice.
1. Your life is what you make it. If you need help, get it. Don’t wait for someone to do it for you.
2. Think about how often you whine about something. Fix or forget it. Do something about it or shut the fuck up.
3. Stand up to your kids. They’ll still love you. I’m living proof.
4. Get a job. If you have one, keep it. If you don’t like it, find another one.
Dr. Nanner has left the building. Take a number, get in line, I’ll be back Tuesday.