I have a tendency to bitch and complain. I try not to make this dominant in my personality; it’s punishing being around someone who complains all day. But sometimes I just have to let out my inner critic of all things bullshit.

When I was in college, I had an opinion column in the University newspaper that I wanted to entitle Piss and Vinegar. The Editor in Chief declined my request (prude) so I settled on In The Buff. Every week In The Buff was 500 words of, well, piss, vinegar and shit-stirring. I called out what I thought to be bullshit around campus, around the nation, and in general just laughed at all the toolbags in the world.

I’m in a 12-step program to become a reformed complainer, but today I’m regressing—I just gotta let out my pent-up moaner and groaner. These are a few things that just really annoy me.

1) Cotton Candy. Right?! Right?? Um, anyone? Cotton candy is un utterly duplicitous “treat.” And in my opinion, it narrowly beats out the marshmallowy devil-candy Circus Peanuts as the most disgusting food-stuff ever.

I remember the first time I ever had cotton candy. It was as big of a disappointment as each new Entourage episode. I was 7 years old, fresh off the commune, living in Reno, and a new friend invited me to the circus with her and her Mom (who we shall call Mrs. Cuntalot for purposes of anonymity). People, this was big time. I remember trying to act normal:

“Just be cool, Buffy, be cool. You’ve done this like a million times. No big—ahhhhh!!! What the fuck is that painted-face freak doing with that balloon?! Make it stop!”

The greatest show on earth? More like a portal to hell—what had I done to deserve this? And then it goes and gets worse. Mrs. Cuntalot buys us each our own cotton candy, oh yeah, reeeaal sweet of her. I chose pink and pretended that I had eaten these furball-things since I was a baby.

“I got this covered. Nothin’ to look at here folks.” I proceeded to pick off all the cotton and stick it under my seat until I just had a paper stick in my hand. “Wait, what-the?”

“Um, I’m sorry Ma’m, but they forgot my candy.” I showed Mrs. Cuntalot my candyless stick as proof, and prayed that she would get me a new one. I didn’t want to miss out on this experience—one step closer to being normal. She then proceeded, along with her daughter, to laugh at me. Laugh A LOT. Through their squeals and pointing and queefing and more laughter I pieced together that the cotton was the candy. And mine was now on the floor under my seat. She would not be buying me a new one.

In the years since, I have had the “opportunity” to eat cotton candy (without subsequent ridicule), though it’s allure escapes me. Perhaps it’s the awkward memory associated with it, but I have similar such memories with the first time I had McDonald’s and a Slurpee, amongst other things. And I like Slurpees, but cotton candy is barf-on-my-face disgusting. It’s like putting a giant wad of hair in your mouth, and then it melts. Nothing about that is enticing. If you’re going to brain-wash children into believing that cotton candy is a celebration, you might as well trick them into thinking that spinach is a treat and then at least you’d be doing the kid a favor. Fuck you cotton candy.

2) Mojitos. As a bartender, this goes without even saying. Ask any bartender and they’ll agree—mojitos are the devil disguised as a refreshing beverage. To all the non-bartenders out there, let me explain and hopefully convince you to never, NEVER order another motherfucking mojito ever again. (Do what you want at home—I’ll even give you instructions on how to make them, but for the love of every bartenders’ soul, please do not order one at a bar.)

First of all, when I’m old, I will have arthritis in my wrist from muddling mojitos for douche bags. To make a proper mojito you must muddle it and muddling to a bartender is synonymous with doing your taxes, pulling each finger nail back one by one, and being around groups of children.

Second, mojitos are contagious. Once one polo-shirted tourist asks, “Hey, you guys got mojitos here?” suddenly the plague has been spread and even typically cool customers turn into mojito zombies. Once the first one has been made, for the next five hours everyone who walks through the door has glazed over eyes and chants “Mojito. Mojito. Mojito.”

This lemming-like behavior never fails to make me lose even more hope in the human species. For the love of god, be original, don’t order a mojito. I don’t care how refreshing they are. And please don’t think you’re being cool while you’re ordering it, especially if you’re trying to say it with an accent. Guh-ross, Captain Dorkalot. Enough already.

3) Kabobs. Okay, so maybe I’m just pissed off at certain foods and the people who eat them. Fine. But would someone please explain to me the puppy-dog infatuation with kabobs? I believe the kabob obsession falls into the same wasteland part of the human brain as the mojito zombie effect.

Kabobs are terrible. Terrible! The meat is ALWAYS over cooked. The tomatoes are bombs of hot mush that you either a) burn your mouth trying to eat or b) have to wait till they cool down enough until they’re edible, and then they’re sloppy, cold lumps of glop. The bell peppers make me want to cry they’re so boring and I just love it when people throw on a giant chunk of onion. Mmm, delicious, a big, mouthwatering piece of unseasoned onion. NO.

The best part—and it’s a stretch—is when a kabob has pineapple, but the pineapple always ends up tasting like chicken or onion and I don’t know about you, but I like my pineapple to taste like pineapple, not pineapple breast meat. I wish kabobs and the frenzy they invoke would jump off the cliff with mojitos and cotton candy.

Piss and Vinegar, signing off.

Have you ever shot a gun? ‘Cause you need to. Especially if you’re angst and frustration ridden like I am. I just shot one for the first time and it’s one of those experiences that words just can’t define. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s burbling over into all aspects of my life. Like how Indian food stays with you for a few days, so does shooting a gun. But shooting a gun makes chicken vindaloo seem like vanilla pudding made by angels.

There’s a few words that flood out of my mouth when I’m trying to recount the experience to my friends. They include: 1) fucking amazing, 2) fucking intense, and 3) fucking awesome. None of which even begin to encompass pulling the trigger.

Walking into the range, I immediately notice that all the employees are packing heat. Oh how I wish I could do that at the bar.

“Oh you want to talk to my manager about my attitude, do ya? Well I want you to talk to my .45 about your ugly face.”

My daydreaming is interrupted by the paperwork I’m required to sign that states if I shoot myself, or if ANYONE ELSE SHOOTS ME, they are not liable. Suddenly the employees bearing arms is more than just cool flair and I’m now officially feeling nauseas. But I happen to look up and notice a signed photo of 50 Cent. I tell myself, “Buffy, if 50 can do this, you can do this.” Which makes absolutely no sense since he’s been shot 9 times and is totally gangsta, but as cheesy as it is, I love me some 50. It’s just the friendly peer pressure I need.

As I pick up the gun (a 38 revolver) I squeek and fart fairy dust, “Holy shit, it’s so heavy!” And then I immediately want to eat the words because I feel like an absolute rookie douche. The guy behind the counter squints at me. It’s like when people at the bar ask me if Grey Goose is a type of vodka. I just squint at them because they’re too ridiculous to deserve a reply. You can’t engage in questions like that because if you do, the rest of the night you’ll be explaining what air is and where babies come from.
But suddenly, roles are reversed and I’m that guy. So I decide to act like I’ve done this, “like a million times.” Loading, hand positions, firing, etc. and just hope that he doesn’t hear the pee trickling down my leg. Thank god Jon’s here and can later describe everything to me because I have no idea what’s going on. My brain’s taking a fear nap.

When we walk into the actual range I’m utterly horrified at how loud it is. It’s so loud your organs shake. For the first 30 seconds I was pretty convinced I was actually shot and had to run out and inspect for entry wounds. And yes, I’m wearing earplugs AND the protective earmuff things (told you, my brain took a wee nap), but this is the girl who is terrified of balloons popping. So actual multiple guns firing? Sweet Jesus. It was everything I could do not to simultaneously burst into tears and vomit.

I will myself back into the range and to our lane where Jon is waiting perplexed. At this point, I’m literally shaking. He’s only seen the Buffy who’s ready to toss a bitch at a moment’s notice, so this new Pansyasaurus side of me is a real treat for him. But I can’t stop thinking about that damn paper I signed. Why’d I sign it?! Anyone in here could just blow a sanity gasket and shoot us?! What the fuck am I doing here?! I could be watching Bravo! I suddenly like my life a whole hell of a lot more than I thought. Get me the hell out of here!

And then I see her. A bimbo in a titty shirt, a mini-skirt and 5-inch heels shooting a gun. I mean, who-da-fuck shoots guns in heels besides Angelina Jolie? And the worst part is her boyfriend who’s standing behind her, holding her hands around the gun, helping her shoot it. GUH-ROSS. And THEN he stops so he can take a picture of her POSING WITH IT—a loaded gun. Unfuckingreal. And it was in that moment that I decided that I must, for women everywhere (or at least my own pride), shoot this goddamn gun. And not with Jon standing behind me either. No, I will shoot this thing by myself, so help me 50 Cent.

Okay, now I’m loaded, in stance, trying not to shake and trying to breath, aiming at the target telling myself to pull the goddamn trigger already. Just do it! Come on, Buffy, pull the fucking trigger. Do it! And then, BAAAAM!!! (see, words are just lame here) Oh. My. Gawd. The noise and force that comes out of that thing—indescribable. I turn to Jon. I want to cry; I want to laugh; I want to poop my pants. But all I can say is, “Ho lee shit.”

I continue to shoot several rounds, having to give myself a major pep talk each time before pulling the trigger. And then we move on to the 9-millimeter semi-automatic. And I thought the revolver was scary? Oh hells no compared to the 9. (And yes, I do feel cool calling it “the 9.”) No one ever tells you that you actually smell the gunpowder and see fire when you shoot a gun! There’s an actual explosion at the end of your hands. That shit freaks me out. But I had to finish the rounds, for me, for women everywhere, and especially for 50.

I left feeling like I did about 10 horse-lines of coke. There was so much adrenaline running through my body that I wanted to run up a mountain, and then jump out of an airplane, and then have about 6 martinis. I felt like I could do anything and I wanted to do everything. First of all, just doing something that I’ve never done before, being shaken out of my comfy, boring routine was exhilarating. And the explosion of power and terror and adrenaline jolted me to consciousness. For those few moments, I was awake. Completely awake, and I was aware how so often I’m riding the snooze button. Hmm, I wonder how a shotgun will make me feel?

I recently quit my job of almost four years. I was a bartender at Ford’s Filling Station (owned by Ben Ford, Harrison Ford’s eldest son). When I quit, I had no plans, nothing lined up; I just needed to save my soul and get the F outta there.

On my last night of work I was rapping with two of my all-time favorite regulars and they asked me the question of the month:

“So what are you planning on doing after you quit?”

To which I replied, sounding like I have four brain cells, “Dunno!” as I threw my shoulders up to my ears like a Muppet.

Being that these two are cool as shit, they applauded my what otherwise could be construed as infantile recklessness. And then they gave me what could possibly be the weirdest (and thereby, the greatest) idea ever.

Okay, are you ready for this? (yeah, yeah, get to it already) Drum roll please…

I auctioned off my uniform on eBay. My unwashed, stained, pitted out, you-don’t-even-want-to-know-what-I’ve-done-in-this-thing uniform. INCLUDING: my pants, my shoes, my Ford’s shirt, my Ford’s sweatshirt, my socks, my bra, and my underwear that I ONLY wore to work. (I didn’t want to contaminate my nice undergarments by exposing them to my work environment.)

I know, it’s fucking weird. All of it.

This would be really pathetic (or, even more pathetic?) if it had been my idea. Completely conceited. I would hate myself if I actually thought up this scheme. But I didn’t, in fact, I needed some convincing, so I hope you don’t think I’m an ego-maniac. I really just have a lot of time on my hands now.

And truly, I can’t imagine who in the hell would want to buy the utter disgustingness that is my uniform. I literally keep my uniform (underwear, socks, bra, included) in my garage EVEN WHEN IT’S CLEAN because it repulses me. I was actually telling these two fab regulars how excited I was to BURN everything when they offered up the eBay auction suggestion. And what started off as a joke, escalated into a full-blown retirement plan.

I have to say, I was a little curious. Could there really be some lonely, housebound 400 lb man who’s seen the one Cold Case episode I’m in and has to have the socks that I wore for 3.5 years? Or maybe there’s a guy in Minnesota who likes to wear ladies’ brassieres and he’s obsessed with the shitty straight to DVD movies I’m in and wants to wear my threadbare bra under his suit? Or maybe a rich Japanese businessman who loves American blondes and wants my undies to use as a kerchief? Maaaaybe?

Or maybe a Harrison Ford fanatic who wants a Ford’s Filling Station shirt worn by an actual Ford’s employee who’s served Harrison on several occasions? More likely of a scenario, but it’s still a stretch.

But you know what? I went for it. Why not? I really saw no downside. Except, you know, if I ever do get my big break then that will be kind of weird.

On second thought, nah, I don’t give a shit. My theory was, if pigs fly and dinosaurs are reincarnated and someone really does buy my uniform or even just one item, I could really use the skrilla. After all, I have expensive taste in booze.

And I figured, more likely, when no one bids one cent on anything I can always resort back to Plan A: burn it.

So within a couple hours after posting my uniform and “etceteras” I got an email from a Mr. “gatekeeper” and I shit you not, he’s from Minnesota. And by the content of his email he could very well be that exact man I hypothesized about who wears ladies bras under his suits. His email was as follows:

“what sizes are the hoodie, shoes, bra and panty? can you describe what bra and panty look like? what colors are they? are they worn??”

Don’t you like how he tossed the hoodie and shoes into the mix? As IF he cares what sizes those items are.

At first I laughed and laughed and patted myself on the back, “bulls eye, sucka!” I thought to myself. And then I showed my boyfriend and he didn’t find it quite so hilarious. He looked at my listing, and pointed out that I put my full name in the description (at the time I thought it might be a selling point? Kinda-maybe-sorta?) And he reminded me that my info is all over the internet so really, if this bra-wearing-dude wanted to find me, it would be as easy as a google search. And so we both jumped on the freak-out train.

We immediately deleted my listing and then reposted it under a different user name. A couple of days later a sweet lady from Utah with an unhealthy crush on Indiana Jones bought my uniform. It paid for a large bottle of Grey Goose and a few mixers. God bless her.