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Bennett and I text about stuffed animals.


Bennett and I text about stuffed animals.

call me when society has advanced to the point where it is possible for one reb to marry one picture. of one harrison ford ca. 1980. NUMMY.

call me when society has advanced to the point where it is possible for one reb to marry one picture. of one harrison ford ca. 1980. NUMMY.

(Source: awesomepeoplehangingouttogether)

"with your face, who cares."

ziiing. got to use that one twelve days ago. will continue counting the days until THE BUZZ OF MY SEARING CLEVERNESS wears off (see you in 5 THOUSAND BILLION A.D. BITCHES)


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand i had to restart my bastard computer because it doesn’t like opening tumblr and streaming toto on youtube at the same time. the window froze and the pinwheel thing stopped mid-spin (darkly foreboding, for all its smug colorfulness) and i heard myself think “omg reb, wouldn’t it be funny if you actually had to restart your bastard computer because like the universe was trying to spare everyone from your monologuing.”

UMMMMMMMMMUPDATE FROM THREE DAMN SECONDS LATER: significantly less funny than when merely a hypothetical. i hate restarting. hate it. the computer wigs out and gets all sputtery and heaves like a pregnant woman on a hot bus omgggggggggicouldcontinue.. and when the thing finally boots the hell back up, for whatever reason, mac always restores the default background. mac is all “lol aurora borealis is like, more spectacular than the above picture. which has been you background for EVS.” 
um. which is how long it has been TOTALLY KICKASS, and for how long it will continue to be. BET ON IT.
stupid problems. stupid fictional arguments with stupid computers. 


last week.
was taking a stroll with my boyfriend last week, just enjoying his company and the conversation and the charade of pretending i like taking strolls, when my left shoe grazed.. GRAZED.. the side of a huge brown nail.

motherfucks. devotees will recall, and indeed yearn to forget, the crippling repulsion experienced by yours truly when presented with snails. or slugs. shelled or shelless.. not picky, hate em all.. this stems back to a particularly morbid, horrifyingly crunchy episode in my late preteens on a family vacation to appalachia country.. long story short, what i assumed to be a supremely crisp autumn leaf trodden underfoot was too-soon discovered to be a former-slug/present-puddle-of-goo, identifiable only by those two little antennae things, which might actually be eyes, not sure, and it wouldnt matter anyway. barf with more barf on it. aghhhhhhhhhhkskksgjasdjkg. 
i would seriously give your left arm to forget the inch between pre-squish and post.. that millisecond where my sneaker hung ten before crashing down on NATURES BOOGER. i swear, the pop of exoskeleton and the splash of brown guts on the sidewalk was legit audible.


so i had a fly-by the other day. and launched into the whole story, rattling off my laundry-list of moments where snails have slithered their way into my life.. the climax being this summer, when i saw two of them getting in on hardcore in my garden (so filthy, there are no words). he just listened, not even really laughing at the funny parts. which i put in more for my own sake than his (to keep the tears away)..
betterve been because he hates snails too.

but. to the point.
was over at his place last night. itd been raining for a buttload of hours but his balcony is roofed-in, so we decided to sit out after dinner. and his first step out of the apartment is met with a CRACK that, i shit you not, echoed between the walls, glass, mountains in the distance (norway) for a solid bagillion seconds. it was COLOSSAL. he lifted his foot, slowly looked up at me with that expression like “please dont have seen that”, and watched me 180 and dive-roll under the blanket. spent the next five minutes piling every comforter and pillow in reaching distance on top of me and producing muffled screams of “gaaarooooooossssssssssss whygodwhy” from therebeneath.

in summation, snails is nasty.

and thats truth we can believe in.

at some poshy gelled-up club by the canals where they friggen make you pay 45kr for a heineken wtffffffff..

gorilla at the door: mmMRAAAAHGGHHghgh can i see some i.d.? (::beats chest to intimidate and establish dominance::)

reb: (::query eyes + not digging through purse::) ..i’m fucking twentysix, my dude.

ape: OMGYOUREKIDDING. what moisturizer do you use?!!

reb: ……………what kind of club is this.

ape: (::deadstare + not laughing::) i.d. please.


still don’t know which one of us thought the other was dumber. 


next time you’re conversating, let your gaze wander half an inch heavenward and allow your brain to be totally creeped by stripes of hair sticking all out of like, the middletop of somebody’s head, woof. and then make sure that disgust registers on your face so the conversant understands that he or she is gross.

2. a pair of my best friends got married last night.
as an intimate of the couple (sounds saucy, where can i score the dvd), i enjoyed free bar privileges at the wedding, the after party, and the afterafter party. 
long story short, i’m told my ass is on the hook for the bathroom sink which, post reb of thunder, was much less in the wall as it was out of the wall. and in pieces on the floor. 
yea, i isn’t paying for that. 

the narrative informing the series of events (..prefacing what i personally feel is a revealing portrait of my recently underutilized rock n’ roll side) is pretty awesome and wholly fucked in equal measure. not unlike reb herself.
yet, as i am still crippled under the weight of a hangover that can only be described as APOCALYPTIC, i will let the facts remain a mystery. i will also be denying the facts to anyone’s face, be it friend or cop, until my days’ end.
plus it’s tough to see the screen through the booze cloud i’ve been baking in for the last thirtytwo hours so typing that shit up is pretty much out. lettuce just leave it there..

..but not before mentioning that i friggen PUNISHED a chicken pita at seven a.m. on my way home and woke up with sour cream on my hair and schmashed into my floorboards. i asked myself: “self, what story is the sour cream trying to tell you about the purrticulurrs of your evening.” i responded to myself: “self, even your inside voice is splitting my skull, so STFU and ps who cares.” i felt an acute sense of pride at my maturity because life is too short to sweat the small stuff, you guys. then i elbow-crawled my limp, destroyed body to the couch because i guess i had fallen asleep on the floor, on top of a weird orgy of pillows. no idea how they got there. or who they belong to. seriously, i have really dumb problems.

3. i was at roskilde festival last week. 
having never been there before, the first order of business was naturally to strip down to my underwurrrs and get lost among like, a hundred thousand attendees, banking on the likelihood that a solid three thousand + were slammin’ hotties desperate for an introduction to YOURS TRULY.

on my way into the campground, i spied a gorgeous tower of a man wearing red all-stars. a voice from the sky said “behold! the next ex-mr. reb!” i threw a little extra swag on my strut, trying to pique his interest. only after did i realize that like, roskilde is muddy as fuck and i prolly looked like i was wearing a loaded diapey. which is about as charming as butterfly kisses with tara reid. luckily, no eye contact was established.. threw one up to the patron saint of disasters averted and continued my march..

..saw red shoes again on my way out of the campground some hours later and thought to myself: “self, that is now the second time you have seen that really hot guy.” (sidenote: i enjoy arranging clever, poignant little insights like that and lending them as subtitles-of-sorts to daily events. the constant monologuing helps me to stay focused and understand what the fuhhhk is going on in this big, crazy world. a handy little line that has saved me more than once: “self, you can’t take food off of strangers’ plates.” and the ever-popular, but a bit redundant of late, “self, your underwear is on backwards. and ps, do you remember going to college wtf.”)

a millie people there, and i see homeboy twice. that shit was fated, son. i was born to lay it on him but GOOD, in a way that would alter the course of both our lives forev. a beautiful, predestined, sexy as fudge way. the universe had spoken.
i responded in classic reb fashion by pussy-footing away and pretending to laugh at a hilarious joke on my phone. i imagined someone hot and popular was on the other end, and that i was both enjoying the joke and the attention of my hot, popular friend, whose existence confirms my own awesomeness, so as to make that crap seem as authentic as possible. it was at this moment that i realized his royal sessiness had noticed neither my coming nor my going, nor my ridiculous state of undress, nor the elaborate lengths to which i went to appear as though i hadn’t noticed him either. so. PRETTY MUCH NAILED IT.

ANNNNNNNYYYYYWAAAAAAAAAYZZZZZZZomggggggggg this is taking forevvver why am i still so DRUNK. weddings are stupid, dudes. don’t get married and invite your friends to that shit, it’s super mean, my face hurts like hellllllllo. i swear my forehead and eyeballs melted together and i look like i’ve been smelling farts for a lifetime. had to work tonight and got hella pissed at my boss because apparently waitresses at five star restaurants are not allowed to wear sunglasses indoors during the dinner rush just because, “the candles are too bright in here”. i swear he is just sore because last week i said michael buble blows and my boss is like, fan number ONE, sick. what a load.

so i didn’t see red shoes again for like, forty hours or some crap after close encounters one and two of the sexy kind. and that shit was pure, uncut foreplay, even without his awareness or participation. 
SO! one late afternoon, some forty hours later.. the clouds part and there he stands amidst a crowd of no less than twenty-thousand screaming idiots,every one of them back-drunk for days and unshowered, laid out on wet dirt and each other, pouring booze down their throats and passing joints, burgers and bottles of who knowz whut. THE AIR WAS THICK WITH ROMANCE. doesn’t need to be said amirite. 

i beelined over, shedding the swag for my normal amble, and piledrove some honesty on his ass. the content was more or less: “i saw you twice two days ago and was terrified because you were really hot, but it is approaching that hour of the late afternoon where i am drunk enough not to give a shit, so i’m reb, how ya livin.” ACES.

sixteen hours later, after a whirlwind tour (highlights include stealing a shit ton of beer, getting a shoulder ride at magnetic man, eating half a bagel during m.i.a., and having a total TEN of a boy interrupt himself in the middle of a story with “whatever, fuck it” and lay some tongue on me.. WINNING).. i am waking up on an air mattress equal in size to the one i had at sleep-away camp in junior high, in a tent big enough for “one and a half asians” (his words. cool guy). henrik (apparently) is outside attempting to drape a tarp over the minidome because the friggen heavens have cracked open and we are getting pounded with rain. mthrfkr.
i often awake still drunk and very confused, so i can hang.. but drunk, confused and soaking wet to my unds, with streaks of makeup down my cheeks and neck, my hair freaked all the fuck out, and kind of smelling like a musty garbage bag.

point of the story: isn’t one.
unless you count “just when you think you can’t get any less sexy, YOU DOES :(“ 

tried to morph the fuuuhhhk out of there with a pristine ninja dive-roll through the entrance of the tent, but he was having none. we needed to get a coffee, he said. so that we did. i sat across from him marvelling at the fact that the kid woke up looking like calvin klein.. while i woke up looking like calvin. he is legit owed an apology for the view.
remarkably, i still got a date out of it.
gonna see him this weekend.

what the hell am i supposed to wear to that.
and ps, will he even recognize me without chipping clumps of dry mud covering any exposed skin on my legs and arms, and fresh booze spilled all down my frontz.
unless he is into that kind of thing, like.. amazon freak types.. and he won’t like me once i’ve showered. in which case my outfit selection immediately becomes the least pressing of my problems.

am frankly too hungover to continue to detail them any further tonight. 
enough drunky rants with moi.

it brushes its teeth and gets the fuck to bed.
see you dorks later.

smooch and booty pinch,
the winner, who wins 

i’m not allowed to smoke in this apartment :(

just went outside to enjoy my ciggy snack and totally saw two snails getting it on in the rain.
would’ve almost been romantic had it not been utterly horrifying. for example: had they not been friggen enormous, like a pair of goddamn grey-brown cucumbers all rollin’ everywhere, caressing one another with the entire lengths of their bodies, sliming shit up, twisting around each other and throwing shells to the wind.
because it was for real like watching an after-hours discovery channel homage to “wicked game,” only notably absent one danish supermodel and notably present one hiccupy whimper track (mine) in the place of all that swanky croonin’. 

..not really sure where to begin processing the complicated feelings resulting therefrom.
because i heard my brains go, “do snails have more sex than me..” and then heard my brains reply “prolly yes”.. and yet somehow instead of gettin’ all despondent over THAT, i was instantly super disappointed with myself because i am srsly never just unselfishly happy for others, you guys.. 

jesus, these are dark days.
most depressing cigarette of my LIFE = FACT.

the other facts are glaringly obvious:
2. boomboompow has reached the effin’ opposite of critical mass. for me. not the snails :*(
i really hated those guys. 

i will watch this music video again, as i often do when i am downing to the max, and be cheered. the beat is catchy, the sweaters are seasonally ludicrous and the guys look like gay serial killers (0:37-0:41, pretty chilling crap).
what’s not to like. 

besides snailsex.
bcuz fuck that. 

losers, behold! the perfect post.


I’m in my cubicle and decide to take a little break from providing value to draw a picture of Boba Fett on my desk with a Sharpie. I’m not good at drawing hands or legs or feet or Boba Fett so I have him hiding in a dumpster, which I can sort of draw. As I ponder my art with avuncular fondness, I…

(Source: )

lexicon + explorations = lexplorations
as in: a journey through a rich labyrinth of words.

…and i realize you are meeting me more than halfway on that one.
but do You realize it is 6am in copenhizzie and i’ve been rolling all night on caffeine and cough suppressant.
i will politely implore the reader suspend any judgements of my wordmash skills and recreational pastimes. and i will suspend my judgements of your mom. perhaps.

now! to the beef!

a few hours ago, my new boytoy (not a creature of fiction, assfaces) enthusiastically suggested we have a “dumpling party” in the next week or two.

the context of this comment is irrelevant, in that it in no way informs the narrative, but also in that i cannot remember the context at all. our conversation played to the following tune:

him - (something something swanky smile omg omfg he is handsome like whoanelly)

me - (i know he’s talking and i should prolly be listening. but g-dayum, is he persistent with the handsomeness..)

him - (still going) (really handsome)

me - (..a break in the admiration of his determination and i definitely caught the word “party” up ins. channeling mental strength into a narrow focus like a goddamn laser beam of concentration!) 

him - …and maybe we should have a dumpling party in the next week or two! have you ever had a dumpling party?

me - a whatling whaty.
(fully alert, horribly confused. i can only imagine the accompanying facial expression - eyes the size of dinner plates scrunched together at the point where my forehead and nose meet in a paper fan of wrinkly skin-folds, WOOF - would fell even the burliest of lumberjacks..)

him - dumpling party? dumpling. party.

me - i.. what.

him - (explaining. something about making your own dumplings? different flavors? it’s totally wild and the crew goes all apeshit!)

me - (the mind has already left the building and is off listing different things a dumpling could be. like, beyond the food, doi…)

him - (funny anecdote about the triumph and the glory of past dumpling parties..) 

me - (a piece of trash that became self-aware and now lives among other self-aware pieces of trash in their junkyard commune? and they belong to the proud race of dumplings? a term of endearment for an ex? “thanks for signing me up to a manlove magazine using my office address and credit card, dumpling”..)

him - (the triumph! oh, the glory!)

me - (a baby poop? too easy.. a verb, if “to dumpl” was a thing?.. good gawwwd, where’s my mojo? i fear i am spiralling..)

him - hello.

me - (but seriously, who even names a food that? who friggen said, “i would hear the word ‘dumpling' and think 'that belongs in my mouth.'” ..the fuuuuck?!!)

him - YOseph. have you been listening at all.

me - i was lost at “dumpling.”

him - my mistake. should have learned that one when i explained my mandatory work duty.

me - mmhehyup. because, duty.

him - ..

me - (..thinking about duty)

him - stoppit.

me - (..thinking abo- 

him - Stop. or no dumpling party.

me - WHOAWHOA. WHOOOA. WHOA. PUMP THE BREAKS. THERE WILL BE A DUMPLING PARTY. because i can’t wait to brainstorm the shit out of those flyers.

him - an even trade. (smiles and resumes talking. i believe?)

me - (blissfully allowing attention span to simmer back down to its normal level of operation: that of a goldfish. who is kind of blazed. it’s nice here. things are simpler. all you have to do is float and stare. at the handsomeness. fish tank luxury..) 

the reader will note that the word “dumpling" has been given the honor of bold type.
this is because the eye is drawn to words in bold, and i think “dumpling" gets funnier every time i see it.

dumpling dumpling duummmpling dumpling

..ah. a gift from me, to me.

i cannot help but feel this is a dude who really gets me.
he also said my star wars t-shirt was banging.
in my head i was all OMGDATEME but out my face i was just “no shit, dummy.”
can’t make it too easy for them.
they don’t call me “liquid cool” for nothin.
they also don’t call me “liquid cool”.

it’s about that time of the late morning to pour myself into bed.
must say that crazy straw in my cough syrup looks pretty majestic in the glow of the early sun.
the power of fucking nature, man, i tell ya. humbling crap.

ps. part the twost will be better. maybe i’ll shrivel your feeble brains with a list of the weirdest, most horrifyingly literal words in the danish language. here’s a freebie while i’m thinking about it - modrekage: literally “mother cake”..and yet, somehow, it means “placenta.” WHO WANTS A SLICE.
just a sample, stay tuned.
pss. d to the umpling.

ten words that disgust me profoundly:

1. supple
2. yeilding
3. moist
4. swollen
5. clammy
6. …i will not be able to finish this post ohgodohgodblaagghhhhk

probably the twost best wake-up of 2011, second only to that one time i abandoned all caution and drowned my breakfast in delicious sweet and sour sauce. and that is LEGIT high praise, because eggs + sweet and sour sauce? friggin Magical, stud. toasty bread n’ cheese + sweet and sour sauce? morsels of the GODS, i am not even s-ing around. warm oatmeal + sweet and sour sauce? oj + sweet and sour sauce? perhaps my creativity should wait until after lunch, when the hangover has worn off and people in my apartment building are awake, in case i need to call for help.
…is really the lesson here.
still. pretty epic stuff. 

my ass is on the record as answering that redonk question about “with whooom would you have lunch if you could? name three fools, living or dead, 123GO!” in the following fashion:
"ayn rand, calvin and @fireland."

the already stupid conversation usually plays out as detailed below:

"who is @fireland?"
"@gokillyourself for not knowing that."
"and calvin is a cartoon."
"he’s real in my heart, asshole." 
…and then i weep silently to myself, wondering when everyone got all deadsies inside. and so spectacularly unfunny.

that ruled.