Thursday, July 15, 2010


So....yeah. Hey-eeeyyy. Hii-iiiii. (George Michael in Superbad) :)

I took a 6 month break from the Tip. Judging by the comments from my last post, I think one, maybe two people noticed. Sorry you two! Email me and I’ll take you out for a drink (of poison, so you’ll never complain again).

I would love to say that I’ve been busy writing my first novel or saving Haitian children or, as one of you colourfully suggested, undergoing a sex change (trust – I have enough man in me already). But really I’ve just been busy not being a complete bitter asshole (somewhat / mostly untrue). The thing is, in the past 6 months I sort of fell in L (don’t call it that) and I’m gonna go ahead and totally blame my lack of Just the Tipping on that. I mean fuck. It’s hard to be a whiny bitch when you’re happy, you know? (I’m sure He Who Made Me Happy would highly disagree, but if he does, I know where his balls live).

Anygush, today I decided to fight through the sunshine and rainbows and kitten jizz and try to get back into it, despite the unfamiliar absence of that tangy bitter aftertaste that had become such a part of every observation my brilliant mind drank in.


Before you navigate away from this page forever (I assume it’s too late for 4 out of the 5 people reading this) at the hideous thought of a new JTT with a new cunt-free protagonist, fear not: there’s still plenty of hostility, irritation and dissatisfaction lurking in the depths of my soul. I’m a woman, after all.

Still, I might need a bit of time to really get back to my rage-filled roots, so bear with me on a couple of wrath-free posts, k? No? Go fuck yourself? k.

Moving on to today’s topic: I think I might have a ghost. Not in the biblical / Twilight sense. “Have” as in – I think one is haunting my house.

A few nights ago, I was tossing and turning from the wretched nightmares I was having. Side note: according to Wikipeeds, eating before bed, which triggers an increase in the body's metabolism and brain activity, is a potential stimulus for nightmares. So...what you’re saying is I probably shouldn’t have eaten that entire jar of pickled herring at 11:00 pm? Meh, that’s just one internet’s opinion. Anyterror, in the last ‘mare, circa 2:59 am, I kept falling off of a giant blue blow-up mattress and crashing to the ground (just suck a soft one, it was scary in the dream.). I was becoming increasingly annoyed and desperate in my parallel universe, when I awoke very suddenly to a loud “HISSSSSS” right in my face. It was not unlike the sound an angry cat-bear or lizard-ghost would make. Or, more probably, some sort of Paranormal Activity-esque demon which is probably trying to kill me. Yes.

I practically jumped out of bed! I was sweating (which is a remarkable feat for someone who never exercises) and my detached, normally-unused heart was beating with the fury of a well-executed hand job. “What the fuuuuuuuckin’ shit?” I whisper-yelled, confused, to no one in particular (other than the demon). I listened for further signs of my impending murder, but there were none. Eventually I fell back asleep 20 minutes before my alarm went off, because fuck my life.

Day 2. He Who Made Me Happy slept over. I didn’t tell him about the previous night’s incubus / volturi / invisible robot killing machine (all of the new possibilities after a day’s reflection). I told myself that I must have imagined the whole thing as we settled into bed. Yep, that’s over with, I thought smugly to myself. Goooood night.

Just before turning off the lights, I leaned over the side of the bed to grab something. My bed friend goes “did you just, like, hiss? Or breathe in really loudly?” at which point three things happened at once: my already cold blood turned to ice; I squirt-sharted in my boxers; and I mentally prepared to kill us both with the suicide knife I keep under my bed (see previous post re: Double Sundays) before the demon could get to us.

“No. I didn’t hiss. Shit cockin’ cock fuck!” I squealed while desperately checking every corner of the room with my eyes. I decided to tell him about my “dream” hiss from the night before, and to my immense relief he didn’t roll his eyes or tell me to “calm down” (every woman hates this. fact.) or laugh in my beautiful face. Instead, he assumed the role of my partner in panic and we spent the rest of the night scaring the shit out of each other and giggling like a couple of school girls practice-kissing their pillows at a slumber party (he was a manly school girl, of course).

Day 3. I’m in bed alone. First fail. Going to bed alone (in a black negligee, no less) in a possibly-haunted house is basically like painting a big red target on your pale succulent throat, or writing “knife goes in here!” on your chest with an arrow pointing to your heart. Yet, here I was.

I watched the Simpsons ( until my eye lids were as droopy as grandma’s labia and finally went to night-night-town (imag I actually called it that? she did.) around 2 am. At 3 am on the dot, BAM! I wake up to the sound of the loudest crash I’ve ever heard. So loud that I jumped out of bed and ran into the living room, cell phone in hand (having of course already dialled “9-1” a la Milhouse’s grandma) expecting to see the body that fell through our roof and lay rotting and twitching on the blood splattered hard wood floors. But... nothing. “CUNTS!” I yelled into the eerily silent room. I ran back to my room and assumed the fetal position under my covers and rocked back and forth thinking about my life and the list of people I wouldn’t get to destroy if it was taken away from me at such a young age. Then I became distracted by said list and it the plotting and conspiring comforted me and eventually I feel back asleep in my sweat-soaked sheets.

Day 4. You better fucking believe He Who Made Me Happy was sleeping over tonight. Blah blah, sextalkscareeachotherpassout. I was still pretty suspicious when we went to sleep, and didn’t dare open my eyes in the dark lest I see something like this

staring back at me. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep, and when I awoke at 3 am it was only because I had to pee. VICTORY. I slipped quietly out of bed so as not to wake the sleeping boy and robotically tip toed to my bedroom door half-asleep and with only one eye open. I walked out into the family room / hall which I have to pass through on the way to the bathroom. That’s when I saw them.

Two people, teenagers. Sitting side by side on the couch in the dark. Awake, staring straight ahead at the wall (their profiles to me). Not talking, not moving. Not smoking a joint, not watching a movie or looking at youtube videos. Not making out. JUST STARING STRAIGHT AHEAD IN SILENCE. I gasped and fell back against the wall, wrapping my arms around my shivering, naked, perfectly toned and tanned body (I sleep naked, and consequently make night-time bathroom trips naked as well. Super.).

“JESUS!” I finally yelled as I stumbled backwards.


I ran to the bathroom in about half a second and slammed the door behind me.

“This is it” I thought to myself while gasping for air and wrapping a towel around me. “It’s actually happening. The ghosts are here, and they’re waiting for you.”

I made sure not to go anywhere near the mirror (I’ve watched enough horror movies to know that looking in the mirror can only lead to death). I just stood there with my eyes closed, freaking out but also being mildly impressed that I hadn’t pissed all over myself. “Hmm” I thought, satisfied with my body’s coolness under pressure. That small realization gave me the 2 seconds of courage I needed to leave the bathroom. I took several deep breaths, opened my eyes, and opened the bathroom door.

I walked slowly back to the living room, half expecting them not to be there any more (don’t ghosts usually cock-tease you a bit before they make the kill? First the noises, then the revelation that they’re real, then the bloodbath? I mean everyone knows this, right?). To my slight relief, they were still there. In the same position, staring straight ahead and not moving or talking.

“Hel..hello?” I whimpered, failing to sound brave. Nothing.

Now I was getting annoyed. It’s one thing if I’m about to be sliced up like a Christmas ham, but I don’t need to be fucking ignored too. I lived through enough years of that before I got the gift of magnificent breasts in grade 11 (thanks God!).

“Hello??!” I said with a little more vigour this time.


“K,” I started, closing my eyes and then opening them and rubbing them (movies also taught me to do this to make sure I am not hallucinating), “there are two of you sitting on the couch, right? Like right there? I’m not just seeing this?”

Nothing for a solid 10 seconds. Then finally, so low I could barely hear it “... yeah.”

That’s all I needed to hear to make me bolt to my room faster than you can say “Girl, you in danger!” a la Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost. I dove into bed waking He Who Makes Me Happy and launched into an incomprehensible rant about two unbelievably high teenagers sitting on my couch like a couple of fucking zombies and what the fuck and what are they doing out there and can I kill them because they’re in my house? We discuss that murder is probably not good for my career, and I tell HWMMH to hold onto me like Lennie Small and I don’t even care if he crushes me because I’m already dead inside from fear. I snivelled in his arms until morning, going over my will in my head all night (Jordan, you can have the jars of urine).

In the morning, I got up to shower and the two ghost-teens were still there. But this time it was light out, and they were crumpled into a pile of American Apparel and ironic haircuts and party smell and were fast asleep. “Assholes” I muttered as I walked, CLOTHED, to the bathroom to shower. I realized at this point that these two “guests” of ours no doubt belonged to one of my roommates – the creepy 30-year-old one who likes to seduce teenagers. Yep, I’m calling you out right here in public. Because I know you don’t even read this. So you can suck on a ripe, 17-year-old dick for scaring the perfect tits off of me that night, you fucking perv-show!!! Ok. I feel better.

Since then I haven’t heard any more ghosts sounds. Cuts to... Anyway, next time I know who to call:

It’s good to be back.



  1. Ray Parker Junior isn't going to do shit for you. He's probably homeless.

  2. I'm so glad you're back (said by a stranger in the least creepy way possible).

  3. Flamingo SpidermanJuly 19, 2010 at 8:34 PM

    This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

  4. wilst I read through these sacred archives, as I often do, i can't help but wonder what ever happened to this "tips only" girl.

    did her vulgar innocence tear her apart? perhaps she has thrust past just the tip and into deeper adventures? maybe tip's roommate mistook her for one of his/her teenage delights, as per my own fantasy of being molestered by a gorgeous psychopath? maybe she IS the roommate?

    these questions are nearly too chilling to contemplate, but perhaps in the future an underfunded documentary discovering the truth and malice of such ideas will one day make it to hotdocs, or indie-kiddie porn, and allow her heavy heart (milky tits) finally rest.

    if you're out there tips give us a threat, a sign, an angry scream.

  5. I think it's highly irresponsible that you have stopped posting on this website. While you may have escaped the wrathy hell of the white tower (my personal version of Rapunzel) other have not. I demand entertainment!