April 15, 2009
as i was watching the nightly news, the domino pizza story came up. if you happen to be an uneducated dope, google that shit on youtube, you'll thank (?) me for a few reasons, as follows: 1. you won't look like a dumbass tomorrow around the ol' water cooler (omg, daria, get out of my damn cranium!) 2. you'll most likely lose 20 l-b-s immediately because you won't feel like eating for the rest of the week and will never order anything from domino's ever again. i'll give you a moment to watch and/and throw up.
ok, refocusing. i've seen alot of people (my parents) express sheer horror (understandable) and shock at this disgusting display of exactly what it means to be a simple-minded, mildly retarded (mentally handicapped . . . is that what we say in 2009? please advise, but know i don't care) american young adult.
now! back to the subject at hand . . . by hand i mean mouth, by which i mean body fluids (body fluids actually being the most disgusting phrase ever created, ty merriam-webster). at which point, i am reminded of my parents (enough) and their horror and shock at the above-mentioned occurrence. like i said earlier, i will allow a response to this video that resembles horror/disgust/terror/anger/etc., but to hear that the beings of absolute perfection that brought me into this world are surprised . . . really? i began to guffaw in peals of laughter until i realized this was no joke.
i mean thinking about it, its not like anyone working their way through johns hopkins is doing so at domino's fucking pizza. these youths didn't develop their friendship and shared love for italian cuisine (pizza?) over long afternoons spent with oil pastels, longfellow (lit/fig), and silent film on the banks of the damn seine river. outlandish! give me a break! the offenders didn't cross paths in any semblance of class concerned with literature/art history/elementary-level mathematics or basic history at any accredited school offering associate's degrees or even a local trade school. being a mere 2 hours from the location in question, i know the exact community college these idiots dropped out of.
realistically, you've gotta look at those who are really affected by this tragedy: the american institution of domino's pizza; not to mention the faithful, safe, licensed and insured, drivers delivering a smile along with warm pies of delight (and well . . . you fill it in), to each and every dallas cowboyz fan (those bastards fucking l-u-v domino's, or so i've heard). its obvi a vicious cycle, ignorance feeding ignorance.
in summation, sure! i'll hold your hair back as you react to this story, i'll wipe your tears as you wonder how you're going to eat on any given day ending in 'y'. i will be the shoulder to cry upon as you see your future (even though it was just a "potentially part-time backup" to support someone's raging meth habit in this forlorn economy) flash before your eyes. but if you dare to disrespect me by feigning surprise, gazing at youtube or charles gibson's reports with wide eyes, expect me to come across your face with the back of my hand or a pair of gloves with rocks hidden inside.
to start off, wikipedia might as well have been written by some hapless bozo (my dad's favorite insult) who took a break from 'dungeons and dragons' and/and cybering to write something with an academic flair. poor bastard couldn't even make it to the free version of microsoft's encarta (don't even act like you would have gotten through 6th grade without that bitch), but, let's be honest, not my problem.
i decided to look at other blogs . . . i wanted to get right down to the nitty-gritty and see people entertaining/enlightening/enriching lives with their written word, albeit electronic, and . . . free.
welp. let me start this paragraph off with a huge 'you are so welcome' . . . i briefly looked at probably about a million different blog examples and found that pretty much (the 'pretty much in this instance is silent) everything is far less entertaining/enlightening/enriching than the this chronicle you read as we speak. . . and i'm new at that! astounding. for example, a blogger, who i thankfully haven't had the misfortune of accidentally meeting, uses entire posts about jesus (and this is abso fine, in fact, on this note i will give homegirl a resounding 'you go girl!') and daily events. now, i know, i know, this is what blogging is supposed to be, right? but, isn't that what a diary with a lock and key and/or your head is for? forgive me if i'm wrong, but day-um.
for example today she writes:
after one lousy mishap over a year ago, i always double check the label on my container of yogurt now on the mornings the flavor is strawberry cheesecake, just to be sure that's what it really is & NOT strawberry banana, before i take a bite. ditto for french vanilla to be sure it isn't a sneaky banana creme.
that motherfucking banana creme! always fucking up my mornings!
i know! listen, i get my active cultures every 24 hours, too. her whole blog is like this. really? i ask you all . . . really? for realz? is that what a 'blog' looks like to most people (who probably look like carmine gotti). . . ? sickening. there's not even a lax understanding of basic grammar. i immediately was sick after finishing two posts.
even re-reading that, i'm starting to feel nauseous. what an amazing bulimia aid . . . so following suit pretty much everyone else's blog (just like most people in general) bore the absolute fuck out of me, or make me feel sick . . . either way its not good. and i guess that's what i get for tyring not to judge people strictly by their physical attributes. trust me, the blogger quoted above had numerous misfortunes, a six-head being the least of them.
i'll be leaving work today (after spending 9 hours . . . overtime included . . . reorganizing the one drawer i use to house envelopes and fat free graham crackers) knowing that yet again the scorecard remains: mother theresa: 0 & saint me: 1.
if judging these idiots makes them unlovable and is thereby wrong (process that a time or two) then fuck it, lock me up and throw me in jail, 'cause i don't wanna be right.
(and, yes, you're welcome for the poor man's english in that last clause.)
April 8, 2009
In wanting to take some initiative on behalf of my own dreamz (see previous post), after my two hour lunch, I tried jotting down ideas outside the office, in my Anne Frank-esque (minus the annex and lack of a round brush) journal, but was getting ugly (worse than his normal face) looks from the homeless (?) man (again, ?) that tries to lure our office cat into his Saturn every-fucking-day. [We all know Tyrone should just (1) offer that feline some candy; (2) tell it that his puppy is lost and he needs help finding it; or (3) alert the cat that its parents were just in a freak accident and he's supposed to pick him up-- any one of those will get whoever right into your backseat, or so I've heard]
Anyway, that leaves me (us), here, living & breathing this two-part question:
1. Do I invite Raven to my birthday weekend gala blowout rager? Yes, no question! But . . .
2. How in the name of Jesus am I supposed to get Raven-Symone Pearlman to come to my birthday party when we haven't gotten our weaves tightened together or teamed up for soulja boy in the club?
I ask you, in the very gravest seriousness, how do I get to be best friends with my future best friend? And let me also be quite plain-- I am not a Paula Abdul fan, nor have I ever been . . . so don't even think of being the asshole that tells me to dress in monochromatic hot pink and overdose on pills outside her palatial estate. I don't even have an exact address, plus that's obvi a last resort. But how is Raven ever going to know, you know, how really super adorable and majorly funny and smart and a good shopper I am? Its not my fault she's the perfect role model and someone that would be so good to take endless CosmoGirl! quizzes with! I certainly can't have Raven realizing we don't know each other upon looking at my note and tossing it aside like a message from some commoner or some obsessed pre-teen fan! That thought makes me physically ill.
I'm left with little recourse. I always get what I want, I mean really and truly want (not like "Monopoly" want, more about that later) so I'm going to have to really put this Mensa-certified grey matter (if you will, and I did) to work.
And before you even say it, unlike Raven, I'm not psychic . . . so that rules out sending her a message osmotically! . . . nor am I American Indian (no offense, but thank God for small favors), therefore I can't use smoke signals, any type of animal transport, and we all know that declaring a war on "her people" for stealing "my land" is way too overdone . . . plus I doubt I even have the plums to really scalp anyone!
Maybe a hymnal . . . I'll research that (like five minutes ago.) "Sing low sweet chariot"-- yes? Don't tell me I was that stoned for the entire four years of high school history. For the time being, I'll have to change my M.O. to WWHTD? [For those without little sisters to read you history books aloud in an English accent, that obvi stands for What Would Harriet Tubman Do?]
That's it! It came to me before I even finished tying this 'kerchief on my head!
Underground tunnels with friendly stops along the way! Hello cakewalk!
Now, I'm not sure if I'll have the time or faculties (I won't even pretend that I know where the North Star is . . .) to embark on such a journey; plus, I hate any activity in which I can't lay back and criticize with a glass of Crystal Light/Rum. Furthermore, I gave up menial labor for Lent (which is why I'm blogging when I should be working).
Bottom line? Good start-- no . . . great start, but keep 'em coming, Harriet.
Hello! And a very good morning to you, my dear friend! I told you I’d be talking to you again soon-- here, on day 2 of the "blogging" me,I am coming to you with countless amazing, ground-breaking entry topics swimming in my head. So many that I am finding myself almost overwhelmed deciding exactly which to dedicate this last Wednesday of Lent to expand upon . . .
I have decided to do a series, in part, about what I think I most need in my life right now . . . and by “I” naturally I mean all of us. While you go through the short list I’m sure you have in your head, I’ll give you a moment. Fiancé? nope. more Yurman? Well, not at this juncture, my wrists are heavy enough with what I’ve got, duh.
Really, the only thing besides a professional lotion-er (more about this at another time) is, wait for it . . . a celebrity feud. Yes, I know-- I’m so right. This topic will have to be expanded over the course of numerous posts. Why? Because surprisingly, I will have to do a little research. First off, I am (unfortunately . . . or fortunately for some) not a celebrity in the sense most people think of. Secondly, everyone loves me or is too afraid to challenge me. No, seriously, scoff if you want, but its true.
Ever since I got in my first fight , I have intimidated the shit out of people -- and I had a boy's haircut then-- so it couldn't have been the mind-blowing natural body and volume in my locks.
To quickly give you the heads up, my first fight went a little something like this: ‘twas a cool April day in 1995-- for the hell of it, lets say it was fourteen years ago this very day. Now, growing up, the only thing my mother ever told me was that I was never allowed to throw the first punch-- in anything, metaphorically, physically, mentally, literally, you name it, I was always told to wait for an attack (however it took shape) and then beat the fucking shit out of my challenger. My mother at the time dressed my plump frame in sweat suit coordinates featuring her very own ice cream cone puff-paint designs!
She probably knew I would get a slew of comments from those too jealous (or lacking the persistence) to finish every single bite of every single meal, or those not brave enough to resemble a cueball but still don a swimsuit and win state championships in backstroke every year. Now that you are equipped with the background of my elementary life, you can imagine how I was a force to be reckoned with.
It was on this particular afternoon that a neighbor of mine (who's own sexuality was questionable, even back then, but not because you couldn’t tell if she was male or female . . . again, I apologize for the digression . . . ) followed me closely off the bus and purposefully stepped on the back of my new, white, lace-up Keds. I immediately stopped the bus line, turned around, looked down (I was also blessed to be tall for my age) and gave this bitch the most menacing look I could manage. After we hopped onto the sidewalk and I bent down to re-tie my now smudged sneaks I saw her imitation Keds step right in front of me and hear her shrill voice yell "Hey! Get your ass off my property!"
Now, small readers from heaven, I'll be totally honest with you. Her house was at least .3 of a mile away. Initially I worried that this bitch was crazy, therefore I questioned if the matter was even worth a response. Naturally, I decided to assess further. Standing up to my full five foot five inches of intimidating bulk, I looked her in the eye (okay, really, the top of the head, this was prior to her contracting lice, thank heavens) and said so very slowly-- "What did you just say to me?" Thinking this would be enough to scare this ho away, thereby saving my new kicks from any further damage, I start to turn and walk away. I had fixed my shoes and re-scrunched my socks and was going to head home for five to six servings of Oreo's. She, however, had other plans. Homegirl gets in my face, standing on her tip-toes and repeats her initial statement, this time however, I could feel the challenge in her voice. Now, many of you wouldn’t have been offended with such language, but, I had just received my first holy communion a year or two prior to this incident, and a fifth grader using profanity--especially at me, was not something I felt comfortable with. I threw down my Eastpak and reminded her that the 'property' we were standing on was not anywhere near hers, after which, I balled my fists and raised them in fight position (thanks for that lesson, Mom!). This silly bitch continues to stand in front of me for a minute, trying to size up the fact that I was a good . . . 80 pounds heavier than her, and that my balled-up fist was literally (I kid you not) the size of her small, mousy, unattractive face. I continue to taunt her with the invitation for her to "put her dukes up." Poor thing, she must not have remembered that, having won medals in swimming (truly surprising, given my shape), I was fast in and out of water. I liken my stealth to be like that of an alligator . . . outlandishly speedy in water, but also capable of death, destruction and 35 miles an hour on land. She attempts to a swing at me--thereby throwing the first punch. And a poor punch at that! In not allowing myself to be the aggressor, she really did have a good shot of hitting me square in the jaw--of course, as her cause was ridiculous and unjust, she missed. After which, to make a long story short, I grabbed her fists, pushed her on the ground and spent a good 5 minutes kicking her and stepping on her head. Done and done. Thank the good Lord Joan had seen the entire thing and swung by to give me a high five and a ride home in our Dodge Caravan. I wasn't used to this praise from my mother, but-- I'll be honest, it felt good, damn good. High fives for straight A’s or reading at a 12th grade level in 5th grade? Never! But for beating the shit out of some hoodrat? Your girl got treated to ice cream. Anyway, from that point on, its always been the same. I hate to sound cocky (no, I actually don't hate to sound cocky) but, you know, I'll take it. Now, back to the mission at hand.
In pondering my quest for a celebrity “match of wits,” and, to be serious for a moment, I worry, at this juncture, that I will not be able to find anyone famous enough to waste my time with. I need someone I can get on television with and call a "silly ho" or "worthless bozo" or something good/creative like that. I also want to sleep with their boyfriend, therefore a woman is a must. Girls are better fighters anyway. The millions of men I have encountered have been so struck by my response 'jab' they bow out soon after . . . unless you tell them you're pregnant, at which point they just sob. Not. Worth. It.
In summation, I like how this goal is taking shape. I will spend the next few days thinking, contemplating, pondering and considering potential candidates. This will not be easy, but together, I know this will make all of our lives happier, healthier and far more complete.
April 7, 2009
i am having a self-mandated slow day at the office today, ahhh thank you. and no, jackass, i don't use a ghostwriter. (see the last entry about never finding anyone quite as good as me . . . wasn't that a trina or incubus song? please advise.)
either way, i've read that hemingway and jason schwartzmann (jewish spelling so it doesn't count) used to carry little notebooks to jot down ideas so they could remember to address them (i'm sure you're all going to tell me how your favorite indie deadbeat elliot smith wanna-be does it too, but i only concern myself with greatness here, thus the references above). it probably comes as no surprise to you, dear readers, that as i become more and more prolific, intelligent, and hilarious in my writing that i am experiencing the same thing occurring in my day-to-day (you can throw a big 'thank you' to jesus on that one) so i have decided to jot in blog form, as often as possible. am i comparing myself to hemingway and wes anderson's image of 'max fischer'. . . ? would i be so brazen? abso-fucking-lutely, except i have better hair, am not a closeted homosexual and therefore have no odd desire to never provide you with any type of ending and am not jewish--whew, so, in a way, i'm better.
speaking of better, and chris brown in general, allow me to regale you with the story of last saturday night's adventures. i know you're thinking there is no way any raleigh story will be as funny as this is about to be, but, shut the fuck up, and continue hanging on to my every word. i decided to go out, meet up with an absolute favorite of mine . . . complete with porcelain skin and a bitchin' (yes, i said it) wardrobe along with a friend of hers from asspen (typo and it stays, TYMK) . . . (by asspen, i later found out that meant 'south carolina'). ill cut right through our encounter with the carolina fan who went to appalachain (that occurrence is the same the world over, and does not need to be given another thought, although, i will say, homeboy . . . who of course was wearing a carolina blue lacoste, did almost get in my face to question my alma mater[a public ivy, to be specific] after i initially questioned his 'tried and true' fandom. sadly, to his dismay, i did not attend the school he was hoping--what seemed to be some twangy version of the words 'central carolina community college' --nor was it my fault that he felt like an idiot after claiming he worked at mellow mushroom and brought home $70,000 a year. someone needs to learn their numbers . . . but, if the above facts are true, hook me up with a job at MM . . . i'll even not shower and smoke 'reefer' to look the part. LMK, my resume will be waiting) --truth.
so, the three of us, who are, i (do not) hate to say, totally adorable travel throughout the capital city. the scene at the bar where we ended up (after an unsuccessful attempt to scheme cover fees) . . . we quickly scanned, got dranks and after seeing the "array" on the dance floor, settled into a cozy booth to plan our next move, if any. it is a constant battle being so dynamic in a town like so totally the opposite. the town is great, but i mean, how many times can one truly 'blame it on the alcohol' before running into someone you've already danced with and/or went to elementary school with? exactly. not long. that being said, i will continue.
the conversation is animated, lively, eye-opening and attractive . . . a complete contrast to the surroundings. the first fellow we encountered was what my co-worker continually repeats (applicable or not), an "enigma wrapped in a riddle." (first off, that saying sounds so yes homo its not even funny and second, i mean, just say homeboy was odd, but, alas . . . ) the gentleman, with whom i did not speak, was about 8 feet tall, substantially built, in a beautiful seersucker (you could tell it was either brand new or freshly pressed) blazer, african american and alone.
now, theres your first red flag, my small little delights of fluffy white clouds. trust me, no guy comes to a bar alone unless he's bad news. you know who went to bars alone? jeffrey dahmer, that's who. regardless of if that is true, you don't want to have to question if someone is alone doesn't have any friends because they are all hanging as skin coats in his hall closet. anyway, he was nice enough to talk to, i suppose, but here is where my interaction with him ends. no, not because i was blackout drunk, but because i was . . . dared . . . questioned . . . inquired out of a slight tinge of boredom . . . (?) to go have a seat with a table of what appeared to be nicely dressed handsome young men. the allure of candlelight and free shots lures me, plus the fact that i needed to give magic johnson (or whomever the tallest, most impeccably dressed black man is these days--k. fed? barack obama? michelle obama? whatever, haters--) my side of the both to stretch out and continue to bore the shit out of my friends.
i saunter over (this is starting to sound like erotic fiction, but, don't get mixed up, it's not (yet) . . . aha!) sit down, and see what i'm working with. not to channel cher horowitz, but mother of heavens above, i am encountered with a total group of five monets. decent from far, but a disaster up close. i didn't know that it was possible to compile a group like this, and one had just left to get drinks-- six monets in one grouping-- it seemed too easy! being the saint of raleigh that i am, however, and continually trying to be the best person people expect me to be, i decided to stay and at the very minimum talk about myself and hear how good looking i am. while that part never disappoints, these boys/children did. i'm not even joking calling them children . . . literally, two were nineteen and had snuck in to the shittiest bar in raleigh. i mean, dont get me wrong, i like the thrill of illegally being places as much as the next idiot, but, damn, sneak into something worth it . . . like, for example stool pigeons or lucky b's or, if you're feeling especially gutsy, the bassment. whatever-- different strokes. right?
i come to find out that these boys are from elon-- a very sub-par school for people that want to get out of raleigh, can afford an extremely overpriced private, 'christian-based' education (should education be in sarcastic quotes, too?) but couldn't get into unc/state/duke/ecu, whatever. i shouldn't judge, at least they will (hopefully) have a degree after they're finished, which is a requirement of mine, as we all know. either way, the most 'notable' of the group were the following three, which i will describe in list form, as to make the most of the online format of this entry.
1. the "friend" of my friends. you all know 'that guy' i'm talking about. he went to high school in raleigh (?) and knows all your good friends, except, you. what's worse this boy was a total, idk how to describe it, it was so odd. normal looking neck and face matched with the body of john candy. i was so fooled and . . . stunned. if i wasn't in a guinness record fight for most grouped monets in one sitting, then surely i could have won with this outlandish body/proportion/mistake that was trying to impress me with tales of my friends i knew weren't true. how did i know they were tall tales? simple, i asked them throughout our conversation. this boy literally, it was like, idk even how i can go on, in drama club but wearing stripes and trying to be trendy, all of which were discounted because of the at the bar he was at, the group he was with, etc. i just don't get it. please tell me if any of you have ever run into him before, i would say 'know someone like him' but i really can say with complete certainty he is the only kind of person like that in existence.
2. the chin. i use this moniker because i can honestly not remember much else, nor have i seen anyone like this not on late night television before. you all know the type. totally looks like he rolled out of foster's, or would desperately like to roll in but can't. he's with a group of monets, and is, in fact, the most unattractive of them all. oh, don't get me wrong. he's totes got the manchild, itb attitude which i love to hate/hate to love, and the lacoste, and the khaki shorts and sperry's but . . . after all he's a recent elon graduate. idk, i just feel like that totally keeps you from ever being cool. if i'm wrong, please LMK. anyway, i didn't interact much with him . . . i let my friends take care of that, but apparently he got a little snippy about being a high school graduate (keep in mind, if you didn't know, he's twenty-six and still lamenting the fact he didn't get some shitty social chair position of an even shittier fraternity at his alma mater, so he tries to relive it in raleigh on a nightly basis) from bishop england/english/i don't fucking care, in charleston. i hate to break it to him, i could give a fuck where you went to high school. do i go around telling everyone that i was voted funnest/funniest ever? ok, probably not a good example, because i do, only when i'm drunk (shut up). anyway, he was just generally unimpressive.
3. the raleigh chris brown; by raleigh, i mean elon. i have dubbed him as such because he was african american, kind of adorable (in a 'i want to nurse you and cradle you to sleep' kind of way . . . he was 19) and looked like he could crip walk and might even beat me. whatever. totes fine and welcome. now, as i began to talk to this child more and more i realize the following: (a) he has just been dumped by his girlfriend of three years who was cheating on him while she was at UVA; (b) he has never tasted the delicious nectar known as jager; (c) he's waiting for 'the one' in the biblical sense; and (d) he hasn't read "the shack"-- and those are not listed in order of importance. i will further this outline style and respond to these points below:
(a) okay, let's get to the obvious. homegirl got smart. he's at elon and she's at uva. high school sweethearts? kewl! damn. thomas jefferson started uva, right? correct me if i'm wrong on this one. who started elon? obvi they weren't in love so don't yell at me for being a heartless bitch. all i'm saying to homegirl is this: 'you go on,' and i'm sure she will . . . unless maybe he was at elon on a basketball or track scholarship or something, either way, move on. second, i'm sorry that she got caught--and thereby ruined this young man's life. and why was his life ruined? because he had a group of throwbacks trying to get him laid by sitting in the back bar of a cougar hangout with seventies music while drinking bud light. great idea! (this is when you find new friends).
(b) no jager? i obviously fixed that immediately. i knew this young, innocent lad would never be the same after having a sip of jager but i couldn't help myself. if it turns out that he becomes a raging alcoholic because of that one jagerbomb, then he was headed there anyway, right? do we agree? it was embarrassing how he took literally 4 minutes to drink it, but, baby steps, baby steps.
(c) virgin? can he drive? i hate to bring up clueless again but no way do you allow your friends to rag on you about this. be proud. wear a cross, put a promise ring on a chain, tell me you're a eunuch, or thinking about devoting your life to god but do not, under pain of death, let john candy make fun of you for this personal choice. i mean really, john candy? with his small cameo in home alone 2? bitch please. he should have pistol-whipped that idiot. now that would have been hot.
(d) "the shack," being the most amazing book ever, is one of my favorite things to talk about post-jager. if i can help you see your life is not that shitty and that you should yes, buy me another drink because it's all a part of the plan, then fine, so be it. you're welcome.
in rehashing the night, and as soon as it turned 1:45 (and the fact that my favorite friend had to remind me its not always a good idea to have afterparties . . . so sue me! i'm an r. kelly fan through and through) we hit the road, jack. literally. chris brown thanked me profusely and started crying, it was amazing. if that wasn't a calling to continue my charity work (but not sleep with it) then i don't know what is. for now, raleigh will still have the saint that is me, and you're welcome.
1. yes, i know it was bad. i don't need anyone else asking me for clarification (i.e. did i really mean to type abercrombie and hollister?) the short answer is yes. i should have taken the fact that he lamented not being able to fit in their clothes anymore as a red flag, but alas, l-u-v is blind, right? i tried to get him to shop at nordstrom's or even aeropostale [kidding?] but even i can not work miracles all day/every day. i take comfort in hoping that one day homeboy will realize that the reason those clothes are not made in his size is because everyone who shops there is (a) a 'tween; (b) manorexic; or (c) doing blow in the dressing room to maintain their svelte figure.) alas, i digress. i never used to do anything nice, let alone outright charity work, because people either wouldn't see it or wouldn't acknowledge how amazing it is for someone with hair like mine to mingle amongst the commoners, converse with the very peasants that make our great american society work (and not just hispanic migrant laborers, either). because . . . after all, that is why people volunteer? right? self-serving reasons; and i am totally okay with that.
2. i apologize (so far as me typing that) if yesterday's entry was not what some expected from me. apparently some were surprised that i have feelings and that my tear ducts really do function. alas, i am human like all of you, so gmafb if i show a moment of weakness. in the grand scheme of life, i will not be remembered for that bullshit, but for this blog, ousting chelsea handler from her 'top spot' on E! . . . and writing hilarious non-fiction about my badass existence . . . oh, and maybe curing aids/cancer/the common cold, whichever is easiest. i will say that there may be more posts with emotion in the future. its very weird, little ones. now that i no longer smoke, drink to excess on a nightly basis and/or find love in all the wrong places, i am actually having to experience these . . . feelings. its a hard pill to swallow, and i know hard for you all to see. do not worry, today's entry promises to be a true delight.
3. raven had a post just like that on her blog. except for the fact that hers was written in all caps and littered with countless grammar/spelling/general english syntax mishaps (kind of like most of my exes). i can't blame her though, she'd just been cheated on. i shudder to think the level of 'crazy fucking bitch' i would reach if anyone truly tried to cross me. (that sounded like i should be grabbing my sword from the leather sheath slung round my hips, didn't it . . . ?) any time i question whether or not i should do something, i pretty much think of raven and ask myself one simple question: WWRSD? coined by a very close friend of mine, 'what would raven symone do?" has not led me astray, ever and i doubt it ever will.
that is the end of me addressing yesterday's post, and the comments it garnered. but as they say, the present is a gift, and as potter says (or jk rowling or jesus or whoever you want to credit) . . . it doesn't do well to dwell on the past and forget to live each day (maybe it was lincoln or eleanor roosevelt, idk, nor do i care). while we're on eleanor (and, from what i've read lately in the non-fiction section at my local public library, everyone was) didn't she also say "do one thing everyday that scares you" . . . ? using those wise words of wisdom (after all, wasn't she the first lady that . . . oh THAT'S RIGHT, she did little, except entertain ladies, if you know what i mean, and i think you do), i have further confirmed (in my nightly devotional time) that i will try to blog daily, and before you even say it, you're welcome and i prefer gifts that match my cerulean blue eyes. occasionally, this blog and blogging in general, scares me. initially i go through the whole 'what if its not funny enough?' period; after that 30 seconds passes, i get scared because i am essentially too funny and likable and lovable and precious.
literally, i think things like "what if i am destined to be like john nash, the main character in 'a beautiful mind' who is so smart and weird (as smart and weird as i am witty and adorable) that eventually the sheer power of the gifts he has been given lead to him going fucking crazy?" i mean, tell me if i'm wrong (i know i'm not, however) but i meet millions of people a day, i have yet to find one person who is me. i'm not saying all of my thousands of friends aren't comparable in one aspect or another, but, lets be honest, i lead the pack; and that's fine. its a gift/curse i have finally accepted, you can relax.
as always, you're welcome.
April 6, 2009
first of all, let me get out that i have been having dreams that i am mormon. and that my legs detach . . . i've tried to analyze this, but surprisingly the 'american girl's guide to dreams' has nothing on either topic in its 50 wonderfully illustrated pages. i went to barnes and noble and ended up in the new age section . . . OR SO I THOUGHT, but turned to my left and saw what appeared to be the yin and yang of asian lady couples (too many images put into one phrase?). anyway, they were looking in the new age section too, and upon having flashes of what their dreams probably look like, i decided i'd just deal with the mormon/fake legs business on my own and got the hell out of there, as i would expect anyone to do.
ergo, thank you. i had to get that off my chest. i highly doubt my roommates would know what to do with that kind of confession, so, i leave it with you. you're welcome. now, i figure i should start from the beginning.. so, january 30th-- if my memory serves me correctly (i actually have no memory left, so lets just pick up at february 2nd, groundhog's day, which, coincidentally, happens to be my 5th favorite holiday). as i embark on this entry, i am not quite sure i am in a good enough spot to realize the hilarity of all situations which occur in the day to day that is my life, but, for the sake of all of us, and a prime time spot on a network better than the Entertainment! Channel, let's have a go.
im going to start out by saying that it is truly miraculous to be alive in this day and age. technology is making advances in ways i could have never imagined, well, i guess that's it-- i can't really go on about the economy or the state of conflict in the world. whatevs, i'm not currently fighting with any short, unattractive dictators, so things actually, are looking up in comparison to my presidential counterpart (can i use that word? oh well, i just did). one of the many reasons that i love that 2009 is what it is is because there really is no excuse for someone not to be absolutely perfect . . . and if they aren't, fucking fix it. yes, really. like, get a self-help book (you don't think steve harvey's "act like a lady think like a man" just fell on my doorstep do you?), get a doctor (when obama took office, didn't like everyone automatically get free health/vision/dental care? right, they did, i saw him sign all those bills, gmab) OR turn on oprah. that shit isn't even on cable. there is no excuse. that all being said, i consider myself to be pretty close to perfect. sure, i have like a half of one thing i don't abso love about myself, but, i mean, come on, you'd never know it. for all intents and purposes, i'm way happy with me, and being a thinking human, i am continually evolving. the same goes for those i love and surround myself with . . . however, unfortunately, idiots, i have no time for. seriously, 99% of my friends are adorable, funny, cute and witty. and those of you that aren't, well, i suppose this is the time to tell you that you won't be getting a christmas card this year (not that you did last year but, well, lets save this awkwardness) . . .
so. when it comes to my engagement and hopeful marriage, i really like to not have a 'type', obvi you have to have a pair of jorts SOMEWHERE but other than that, if you're pretty cute, i'll give you a try (lit/fig). this all being said, man this is hard to admit. . . i willingly went slumming. slumming for sport, i suppose. and i know some of you out there are saying "omg! she is so saying that because she got jacked" . . . which, this would be true if homeboy wasn't . . i mean he wasn't even jack on the titanic, not even fabrizio for god's sake, or that irish man that got shot trying to get through the gate . . idk if his health (read: dental) clearance even would have allowed him on the steamer, so i won't classify yet (although i already have judged). all of these events are, in my heart of hearts i know, hilarious. hi-fucking-larious. and i took each on pretty much knowing that, really, i'll end up with someone with straight teeth, two tattoos max (one being of my face, the other probably being a chinese character of some sort) and a dog that can speak proper english.
this most recent homeboy, idk, he wasn't that person. i thought he had the potential to be, but, that old adage of not being able to turn a ho into a housewife . . . ? yes, insert here. to continue, i boo'ed up, long distance boo'ed up (thereby allowing myself to still go out and have my birthday every thursday through wednesday nights and etc. etc. -- everything that goes with being blackout drunk . . . don't judge me). so check it. we boo up-- he's a family friend, which, i will say, unless you're joey and fucking dawson (well even then, look what she did with pacey!) don't do it-- just don't. find someone you can text inappropriately that went to college and didn't go to the same high school as your roommate/momz. for realz y'all. basically, this is not as hilarious as i imagined it being, but, as i digress, i am healing, so either skim the rest or love it-- i reel this sucker in, and normally, the normal me would take a look, kind of examine his gills and scales and coloring and maturity and age and if he could speak with a cockney english accent and depending on me getting all "yes" answers, i'd keep him.
so, as i normally do, i inspect, over a period of months, find that most of my requirements get submitted and come back with unpolished "no" answers, unbeknown to him, but, around this time, i had just finished "the shack" and wanting to be a truly good person and not the typical shallow bitch that i may have been like once before, i figure, "ehh, we are meant to be, FOR NOW"-- this is where the fatal mistake was made. when oprah told me to make a list of my standards back in october of '04, she didn't say to include things that you'd let slide. for example, if, say, one of your qualifications is that your significant other (and/or late night holodex connection) knows how many countries make up the continent of africa and when asked they reply: "africa is the country." (ouch, my nearly perfect SAT score took a hit with that one) you have to nix that bitch and move on. but no, i thought i'd let feelings take the wheel, or jesus-- didn't carrie underwood sing that?
after this experience i found out a lot about myself and the following i just cant let slide: not being born perfect (or relatively close), not using your dental insurance to the full extent you're allowed, not enrolling in college, and having an unhealthy obsession with someone that isn't me or raven-symone. i feel like i should totally quote a lady gaga line right now, but, to be honest, i'm wearing pants, and i know that would make her unhappy . . . which is the last thing i would ever want to do.
anyway, long story a little shorter, my ass gets punk'd. and over what! a twenty seven year old that still shops at hollister and abercrombie but doesn't really fit into any of their clothes (so awkward, cue yours truly until i got hot) . . . ? a lad that doesn't know the difference between you're and your (which was cute until, okay! fine, it never was, fuck) truly. i felt like j. timberland sitting on his curb crying (which i did, maybe, but they weren't real tears-- people with stone hearts can't truly cry) i know jesus is up there trying to soften me and make me a true adult & independent woman (cue destiny's child) but, man, this will do nothing but make me an even pickier bitch looking for the ultimate . . . or at least someone that knows what the fuck seersucker looks like. gracious me! its all unacceptable.
rather than continue to emotionally exhaust myself acting like he was the prize i was missing, rather than just the fact that i fucking hate losing . . . especially to poor (i know y'all, i know) white (questionable, i didn't get far enough to see a family tree) trash (not debatable judging by the fact his room was dusty and he used PERT PLUS) i totally unfriended. omfg. love it. love the people that made me do it. do not love the fact i played rose for all intents and purposes and didn't even get to float in mexican waters or have my picture drawn 'like one of your french girls, jack' (cue kate winslet's fake english accent now) . . . okay, i think i'm done.
mark this down ya'll, i am bowing out of this fight and (i think this is where the influence of jesus and my growing maturity comes in) there were no verbal blowouts, mysterious deflated tires on his MITSUBISHI LANCER (manual, of course), or any type of correspondence informing him that i'll be connected to him for the next 18 years and nine months, if you get my drift.
no, no. your little girl's all grown up.