the world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away

So apparently when you cross the happiest place on earth with one inherently bitchy, eternally single-digit aged, hipster loving, elitist leaning valley girl, you get, well, an over the top kind of entertaining quip fest of witty proportions.

Co-pilot for this expedition? The boy, a usually forgiving soul that serves as quite the balance to my diabolical ways- but thank god he was in rare form spewing vitriol that put this filthy-mouthed and minded lass to shame (Yup- I’m in love).

Forget animatronic pirates, painted princesses, and swirling dinnerware, the real entertainment to be found at the mouse house is the mass of temporary inhabitants of the cotton-candy covered playground.

Because when you’re THISFUCKINGCLOSE to each other, it’s impossible not to notice just how vulgar the majority of the human race is.

And I type that with barely restrained glee.

Seriously. The beauty that was mounds of fleshy rolls escaping from faded-from-too many-washes- baby-tees, the bursting buttons and inches of ass crack escaping from acid washed, high waisted mom jeans, the misguided and entirely too permanent tattoos that serve as a social indicator that you are a fucking moron, the stuffed animal backpacks that I SWEAR TO GOD haven’t been seen since 1997, the girls that are entirely convinced that because they can push it up in a bra, that it’s hot… well, it was like a rubber braceleted, sparkly mass of French fry smelling and stroller spilling heaven.

Even typing that, I’m dizzy with the spell of so much lovely fail grouped together under the bright lights and fried food scent that permeates every fucking land and iteration of Disney.

A people watchers paradise, if you, like me love nothing more than to marinate in your own brand of bitchy sauce and stew until potent.

I barely remember a ride we rode. But I have no problem recalling the exact placement of the freckles on the neck of the girl far too close to us in line. Because her boyfriend Multiple times.

Holy shit. The amount of pseudo-fucking going on in lines, on benches, in bathrooms, and bushes, had me entirely fearful my barren womb would become somehow occupied by mere association with these face-sucking and eye fucking wankers.

Should probably pee on a stick.

But. Thankfully I’m little if not epically entertained by others’ ineptitudes. I revel in the animalistic, uncouth, repugnance that is an untamed society and snicker at the level of gross brought out by a few fried delicacies, moderately fast rides, and a sense of entitlement to do whatever the fuck you want because you paid nearly triple digits to frolic with costumed animals for an afternoon.

And because I’m some sort of all-sorts-of-wrong-whore, I can literally think of nothing more romantic than bonding with my boy over the entirely disgusting behavior and physiques of our not so noble peers.

Who the hell needs flowers and candy and jewelry when there is the beauty of sharpied on eyebrows, painfully exploding muffin tops, and our neighbors’ blossoming hickeys to enjoy together.

Thank God I’ve met my match, a man so entirely perfect for me he broke up with me thirty minutes into a ninety minute line in order to protest the amount of virtual consummation happening on all sides.

::le sigh::

He’s so dreamy.

And everyone else? Well, they’re just entertainment of my very favorite, sausage cased and stroller pushing  kind.

job of the day: Dance Instructor (not Olivia Newton John style, yo)


~ by rubylocks on February 16, 2010.

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