Daily Archives: July 22, 2011
Tomorrow is my birthday, and it has been looming over me for the last three weeks, like an oncoming herpes break out. I am depressed, bloated, and seriously constipated with thoughts of suicide. Not really. I just wanted to use the word constipated without a feces visual.
I am depressed, bloated, and currently contracting West Nile virus on the patio attached to my new apartment. I wish pasty legs had the same effect on single, witty, SBGs (Sexy Bearded Gents, see: previous post) as they do on blood sucking insects. If I had this many men biting my knee caps at 9:30 at night, I’d be in heaven or some sort of state-funded free clinic. But a girl takes what she can get.
The point is, I have 1 hour left until my 23rd birthday. Since moving to Tennessee, I have been pondering how I will spend this wretched day. I know, and I mean this in all seriousness, three people in this state. Yeah. That’s right. THREE PEOPLE. My yet to be conceived unborn child knows more than three people here. How much of a social train wreck am I that in three weeks of residency, I have only been in the company of three people? This fact alone makes me want to shave off my eyebrows.
But I need not get discouraged. I need to look at this as a character building experience. Sure, all of my family, friends, and random but familiar town hobos, are 900 miles away. But who cares? No big deal. I have my roommate’s Roku and an individually sized chocolate birthday cake my mother had delivered to my apartment today. Upon receiving the cake, I gave her cellular device a ring, just to thank her for the thought. The conversation went something like this.
Me: I got the cake, thank you! It looks amazing.
Mom: Are you sure?
Me: Yeah, I love it. Thank you.
Mom: I was really debating getting it. I didn’t want the fact that you have no one to share it with to depress you.
Me: Oh. Yeah. I actually didn’t think about that until you said it.
Me: Now I’m depressed.
Mom: Have you thought about going to a singles club?
This, ladies and gentlemen, was the single most depressing moment of my life, beating out last Valentine’s Day and the time in 6th grade social studies class when I got my period all over my desk chair. My mind immediately flashed to visions of glitter body cream, Lady Gaga remixes, and roofied vodka red bulls. Is fauxlitely pretending to be seduced by southern townies the way any young woman, on the cusp of fabricated break out stardom, should spend her birthday? I think not.
So instead of canoodling with a “good ole boy” in a Confederate flag wife beater stained with sweat and Natural Light, I have decided to ring in my birthday by creating a list of 22 things I accomplished while being 22.
- I learned how to spell the word “ulterior.”
- I lost 63 pounds.
- I wrote 75 pages of a novel.
- I sold a couch on Craigslist.
- I attended five concerts:
- Ramblin’ Jack Elliot
- Dave Matthews Band
- Bob Dylan
- Goo Goo Dolls (sucked)
- Ray LaMontagne
- I fell out of love with someone who was wrong for me.
- I quit my job and moved to Tennessee on my own.
- I casually dated 5-10 different losers, but who’s counting?
- I started this blog.
- I realized I have a pretty singing voice and should probably not be so shy about it.
- I learned how to shovel snow with a dust pan.
- I survived the coldest winter of my life without using heat.
- I realized its ok to cry over people who don’t deserve it.
- I flirted my way out of paying New York tolls and driving tickets.
- I made fantastic commission at a job where I did barely any work.
- I kissed and I told.
- I only overdrew my account once.
- I survived a painful divorce.
- I found a bra that fits.
- I grew my hair 7 inches.
- I realized for the first time in my life, that I’m kinda, sorta, pretty…once in awhile.
- I found an excellent recipe for Sangria.
So there you have it. My 22nd year, wrapped up in one verbose blog entry. I think tomorrow I’ll go to a local beach, or possibly a bluegrass festival nearby. Or maybe I’ll stay home, watch Roku and eat birthday cake, before putting on cowboy boots and heading to a local honky tonk in search of some good old fashioned birthday lovin’.
I am open to suggestions, recommendations, and redneck-produced death threats.
The girl who is almost 23
I can’t write. No seriously. Everything that I type has the overwhelming stench of failure permeating around it. I’m not used to this. Normally I write things of biblical showmanship and long term importance. Not today. Today is like the Old Testament, washed up and irrelevant, not to mention a serious downer. Lighten up, peeps. Check it.
I’m thinking perhaps it is the venue at which I am “writing.” Back in Pennsylvania there is this bistro, (please note: “bistro” is actually in the name of the business. I am not enough of a hipster to use that word on my own, and I’m not cultured enough to know what it means) that has free Wi-Fi and really fantastic kettle-cooked chips. I frequented it regularly, composing soul-seducing prose of global significance. Or flirtatious haikus for my online boyfriends. Whatever. Point is, that was an excellent location for me to get my freak on, from a literary stand point.
Now that I have moved to Tennessee I have been on the hunt for a similar location. For awhile I was spending time at this independent coffee house called Jozlaowerokjaskdljfkjwsw, or some J-word I can’t spell. But I was tired of paying $2.50 for a coffee just to use their sub par internet service. So I have come to use Panera Bread, where I can surf for free and make imaginary love to all the bearded men that spend time there.
Things started out great. I was dazzled by the low-fat smoothies and perfectly reliable appearance of Sexy Bearded Gents (SBG). But today, while sitting in the PB I find myself dumbfounded, unable to produce a single sentence worthy of my 3.5 daily readers.
What has happened to my charming wit and non-cliché turn of phrase? I fear I may have driven away my own creative thoughts by watching too many episodes of “Ice Loves Coco” and binge eating orange freeze pops. I am going to ponder this for the next 22 minutes, allowing time for the ovulation of my creativity to hopefully result in something as entertaining as watching two dragonflies get jiggy with it while hovering over the driver’s door handle of my car. I waited a good 2 ½ minutes before swatting them away. In my experience, that is more than enough time.
The girl who in a past life was a dragon fly