Monthly Archives: December 2011
WARNING: On July 15, 2011, I stepped out of my comfort zone and wrote a blog post that was only mildly self-deprecating with an overall positive tone, entitled ““Losing a Baby Panda in Weight: The Lifetime Original Movie”.” It covered topics of my weight loss success and uncanny ability to invent clever compound words. This is not one of those blog posts.
I used to be fat. Correction: I’m still fat. But, I used to be really fat. Crazy fat. Jessica Simpson high-waist jeans fat. Crane lifting me out of my house fat. Six men rolling my flabby body onto a tarp and pulling me through the house to a stretcher outside, kind of fat. Ya’ll catch my drift. Then I had an epiphany accompanied by the realization that ima either die or never have sex again. So I started a diet.
For a year I maintained a 50 pound weight loss. Then I moved to Tennessee and lost an additional 13 pounds over the summer, bringing my total weight loss to 63 pounds and prompting the annoyingly motivated blog post linked above. I was feeling good. Happy. Still fat, but less lumpy. All the fatties reading know what I mean. I was at my lowest weight since freshmen year of college (that ole freshman 70 at it again!).
I still wanted and needed to lose more and had every intention to, but like any addict, I found myself constantly overwhelmed by my lust for Pad Thai delivery and frozen caffeinated beverages. I also lost all motivation to cook healthy meals, and by the time I was getting ready to move back to Pennsylvania, was eating a diet consisting solely of salsa, tortilla chips, and Nutella. I gained back five pounds, but I was comfortable with that. I knew it was a temporary setback and being that it was only five pounds more than I could bench press, I wasn’t concerned.
Then, I moved in with my mom. Now, my mom is a very healthy eater. Everything in her house has words like “soy” or “lentil” or “gross” on its packaging. I was confident that this environment would promote healthy eating habits and a successful weight loss. However, here we are, 2 ½ months later and I have gained a whopping, yes, whopping
I know. No, really. I know. When I weighed myself this morning, first discovering this, I wanted to jab a disposable razor in my eye. How could this happen? HOW could I maintain a 50 pound loss for a year, and then gain nearly half of it back in 2 ½ months? And no, I’m not pregnant, though at this point I’d rather anything than look at my disgusting self in the mirror; my reflection proof of my bloated figure and addictive-behavior.
My exact reaction anytime I get an All Recipes pop-up ad:
So today at a family gathering, as I double-dipped Ritz crackers into Spinach dip and ignored the sharp pains in my chest, I pondered about my weight gain. Though I’ve spent my life as a beacon of childhood obesity I have always known that my weight is entirely within my control. Though I was born a massive 9 pound blob, earning me the self-proclaimed title of “vagina destroyer” which I used, happily, until puberty when I realized that is a nickname best reserved for black men, I have been in control of what I eat and how much since about 15 years old. Needless to say, there is only so long I can continue to bitch about my own life choices.
The only factor I can equate this weight gain to is my holiday cookie operation. Throughout the month of December I made $650 selling cookie trays, and thus was forced to gain an incomprehensible amount of pure fat poundage. It doesn’t help that at the same time, I got hired at the local coffee/donut shop I referenced in one of my previous entries, where I am allowed to eat as much as I want for free. Kill me. Oh, wait, I’m already doing that. Anyway.
Tonight I’m at work, painfully resisting the consumption of anything made with flour or sugar. It hasn’t been easy, but fortunately I have a terrible cold/flu/never-ending mucus condition right now that makes it difficult to smell or taste anything. On top of that, I am sucking on Halls Vitamin C supplement drops like some disease-fighting hooker, if you could get behind such an oxymoron. While it is easily preventing me from eating, and helping me grow my tips with the raspy “Live Links” voice I’ve acquired from a week-long coughing fit, a cold is not the type of illness you get, but are sort of happy about, like a stomach flu, since as much as you may hate throwing up, the added bonus of weight loss makes it sorta awesome. So far all I’ve gotten with this cold, aside from an excuse to resist donut temptation, is several sleepless nights, followed by 4 a.m. Google Image searches of throat phlegm. You’d be surprised how many tumblr accounts are accompanied by phlegmy throat pics. Charming.
Nevertheless, my morning weigh-in coupled with workplace boredom has helped to motivate me. Tomorrow I will be restarting my diet and with 19 pounds of very good reason. After all, 19 pounds is nothing to sneeze at. That’s like a car tire, my sister’s cat, or a hefty set of conjoined twins. Scary stuff.
I’m sure I will blog about this again, since I have after all dedicated an entire category to talking about being fat, but for now I’ll lay it to rest. I have to close up shop and prepare myself for the first day of self-starvation and mood swings. At least I’ll be getting exercise.
The girl who feigns pregnancy for better parking spots. JK. Not really.
How to Handle Your Ex-Husband Having a Baby with the Girl He Got Pregnant While You Were Still Married: A Survival Guide
There comes a day in every woman’s life, when she wakes up and says to herself “today is the day my ex-husband’s new girlfriend is giving birth to the baby he impregnated her with while we were separated.” In fact studies show that women are more likely to get killed by a terrorist than NOT experience this exact situation before the age of 40. Have I blown your mind with this disturbingly specific statistic? Yeah, I thought so.
On said inevitable day, these women will become flustered by mixed feelings of jealousy, resentment, and inexplicable craving for Texas toast garlic bread, and will brutally penetrate the depths of their souls with record-breaking levels of masochism so frightening Kurt Cobain will begin to look like a totally balanced human being. They will find a way, while family members are distracted by conversations of GOP candidates and the real purpose of Craigslist’s Missed Connections, to retreat to a private place in the house, alone, with the stealth of a cat and the self- mutilation of a child actor, and seek information from the Oriole of Petty Truth (OPT) known as Facebook.
For those unfamiliar, the OPT is an effective tool that can assist people of all ages in finding socially relevant information about their friends and family, (birthdays, relationship status, sexuality confirmations of the suspiciously flamboyant, etc.). But, it also doubles as a source for the unhealthy – the sick – the self-loathing, sad, sorry, sons-o-bitches that need Facebook profile proof of the painful suspicians they carry, to find information they really shouldn’t have access to in the first place.
Needless to say, the OPT is the only option to confirm the suspected birth of the ex’s love child. Upon confirmation, these women will experience an outbreak of tears, stress-induced gas, and an emotional collapse bound to involve shaved heads and lipstick tattoos. Think this is too specific to not be based on my own sorry existence? Ha! Fooled you again, silly readers. Why, I never have and never will discuss my personal problems and impending emotional downfall on this joyous and uplifting blog…
Eh, hem. Anyway.
Since I take the Taylor Swift approach to relationships (ie. throw myself into them whole-heartedly and once they are over bash my ex through some subtle, but so totally cute, self-expression) I really don’t care that blogging about this is sort of over the top in the TMI department. Also, I asked my mom if she thought it was ok and she responded with a silent fist bump. So, I had my answer.
So last night, after skillfully maneuvering my way through Facebook and finding proof of my excellent birth prediction skills, I nestled into my seldom-washed bedding, and stared at the plastic-glo star stickers pasted to the ceiling of my bedroom by the previous owner’s children and cried like a bitch. Through a fetal-positioned, tearful rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” I thought about the progress of my life thus far and the unfortunate disaster of marrying someone with addiction issues and highly active sperm. I thought to myself, there must be other people who have experienced something similar to my unwanted, but totally necessary separation, followed by a brief discussion of reconciliation, that was shot down by the unexpected pregnancy of the woman the ex started dating five months into the separation. There has to be someone else out there experiencing a similar need to dry-heave an abundance of confused emotion and Texas toast all over herself in hopes of making herself feel better. It for the presumed existence of those people, that I write this post.
There is nothing worse than feeling like you’ve been screwed over by someone you loved, only to have them have a seemingly happier life than you. But since it is the unfortunate reality of my life and every ousted Rock of Love contestant, I have devised a way to deal with this type of wretched occurrence. Here is my four-step system to dealing with your sadness and avoiding the nearest bridge.
- Let yourself feel hurt – You can’t pretend to be emotionally bionic just because you’re tired of having puffy eyes and no dignity. You have to let yourself feel whatever you are feeling if you are going to get past it. I’ve learned that most things get a little better after a good night’s sleep and a few hours allotted for sadness. Once you wake up and the hours have passed, it’s time to get over it.
- Remind yourself of why this is a good thing for you – While he may be naming his new baby the same name you discussed naming the one you’d have together, you are free to pursue new life experiences and new relationships, baby-free. You are not with a person who doesn’t respect you, you are not with a person who doesn’t value you, and most importantly you are not with a person just because pulling out is an unreliable method of birth control and everyone knows it but you. You have a lot going for you, despite your emotional baggage and unfortunate amount of stretch marks.
- Accept that everything happens the way it is meant to – If you two hadn’t met, married, and separated, he would have never met the woman he got pregnant. Whether you believe in fate, God, or just really unfair coincidences, it is clear that things happen as they are meant to. You can’t f*** around with the universe, you can only hope it doesn’t f*** around with you.
- If all else fails, have cyber-sex with a hot foreigner. It’s anonymously slutty and doesn’t require a condom. Can you say score?
All cleverness aside, the situation for myself and all the fictional women I referred to, sucks. Whether or not you take these steps, won’t change the temporary shittyness you feel. All you can do is suck it up, let it go, and remember pregnancy causes stretch marks too.
The girl who shuns Mark Zuckerberg for his dangerous creation, despite her intense crush on Jesse Eisenburg in the film, (startling wit meets asshole tendencies? Swooooooon)
WARNING: This blog post contains graphic depictions of my wasted youth that in no way reflects on the other members of the 99%, but rather leeches off of their popularity in hopes that the mere mention of the 99% will illicit further readership.
In the international social system, the people are represented by two separate but not equally important groups: the destitute 99%, who don’t like to bathe; and the unreasonably r*ch 1%, who never have to wear the same pair of underwear two days in a row. These are their stories.
December 14, 2011
After a lengthy evening of bedside reading and late-night cyber intercourse, I startled myself this morning when I awoke prior to the nine o’clock hour. As I stretched my limbs, I was greeted by the heavenly sun. I gazed in wonder at its blossoming rays, remembering the words, of that guy, in that one Youtube video, who said the sun is one of few things left that is still virtuous and uncorrupted, knowing not of class warfare, Katy Perry, or my attempted tax evasion. I paraphrase of course.
The two family shih tzus, Sam and Molly Bean, greeted me and helped me to dress. As Molly tied a ribbon in my hair, I cradled Sam, softly humming the melody of “Sing Sweet Nightingale,” a song so beautiful, I nearly forgot about my dwindling credit score and non-existent retirement options.
I travelled to the house’s single washroom, where I bathed with toilet water and Comet. I proceeded to brush my teeth with such vigor and disdain, my toothbrush shattered, dramatically, in my hand, splitting into two pieces. This was the first red letter moment of the day.
After bidding farewell to the defective remains of the Crest corporation mouthpiece, I spent several hours baking Christmas
cookies. An activity formerly reserved for the bottom-feeders of society, unable to afford fancy Wal-Mart bakery goods, has at once turned profitable! This holiday season, I am selling cookie trays as a supplemental, unreported, income. I cackle in victory every time I deposit the virginal checks into my credit union, unmolested by the greedy, corporate, government, Wall Street, fat cats, gobbledygook.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon, indulging in the performing arts, single-handedly choreographing and performing a dazzling rendition of “Proud Mary” for the dogs. They validated my efforts with a sneeze and a yawn. I was touched.
By the evening I was off to work at the local coffee and donut establishment where lack of customers and professionalism, allowed me to blast Bob Dylan, write on my laptop, and obnoxiously consume three large coffees in six hours. One customer tipped me $1 for serving a $1.75 cup of coffee. I smiled and thanked him, but spat at the ground where he stood, as soon as he exited, scoffing at his condescending gesture. Surely he was one of “they who must not be named”….the 1%.
…I just named them
After work, I journeyed yonder across town, weathering the elements on my two mile drive….
I can’t lie. I’m writing this from work. I’m bored. There are no customers, except one creepy pregnant chick sitting in the corner, eating a McFlurry and staring at me, and some old dude who keeps talking about how he sleeps in the nude. I worked here in high school. A few years later here I am again, with a college degree on my wall, a certificate of divorce in my desk, and nearly three years of seriously professional work experience, with salaries, commissions, paid vacation, and health insurance to validate it. At least I have this blog…right?…RIGHT? Shoot me.
Just as I was writing this the pregnant chick came up to me and showed me a text of her daughter-to-be’s name. Then she told me about her G.E.D. test and her problems with her cheating boyfriend, who says he loves her, even though he’s broken up with her four times since she got pregnant. She makes me sad. Like a three-legged puppy or a pageant baby. I want to adopt her.
Now I’m going to go mop the floor, wipe the counters, and run into a knife.
Thanks for reading.
The girl who despite harsh sarcasm, actually supports the Occupy Movement
Yahoo is a website known for its hard-hitting journalism. Why, just this morning I learned that askmen.com named Jennifer Aniston the “Hottest Woman of All Time,” and that Kris Humphries squirmed in some inconsequential interview during his reality divorce media tour, which is sure to come to a close as soon as people decide they don’t care about any “marriage” between two strangers’ that was shorter than my last menstrual cycle. Nevertheless, while browsing the momentous headlines Yahoo promotes with gripping, front-page appearances, (implying to those less observant that these stories are actually relevant to our sheep-like existence) I came across a rare and delightful story about classy, put-together, screen legend-to-be, Lindsay Lohan.
I was instantly mesmerized by the enticing, yet informative headline:
With a dead-behind-the-eyes need for conformity, I clicked on this link and read with peeked interest, as my buttocks slowly began to slip from the edge of my seat.
“The talented but troubled Lindsay Lohan will appear in the altogether in an upcoming issue of Playboy. Earlier this week, the cover of the magazine was leaked. The photo showed Lohan in a provocative pose, with certain areas obscured by the magazine’s bunny logo…”
O.M.G. this IS interesting! But with a lack of commitment necessary to read a full news story, I channeled the rest of the population with a fruit-fly attention span and quickly darted my eyes to the lower half of the article (dirty!).
“It’s a very male-dominated world,” Lohan said. “So knowing yourself and being comfortable with your body is an important thing for me as a woman. Everyone entitled to their opinion, but that’s mine.”
This quote, promptly stirred me from my pop culture stupor. Yes, Lindsay. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion…unless it’s stupid. I know calling myself a feminist isn’t exactly a popular label these days, but like, I can’t afford Gucci, so ima stick wit it.
This quote makes me die inside. Now I know Lindsay’s opinions pretty much mean nothing to anyone now that she’s cemented her trashiness in print after years of just promoting it in action. I know there are no stable little girls/ignorant teens that look up to her anymore, so I don’t have to worry about the direct consequences of her statements. But I am still going to deconstruct them, if for no other reason than the fact that I think it’s fun to make fun of drug-riddled hussies.
This phony female empowerment argument has been made since the beginning of time (or since the early 1980s, no big diff) to counteract any backlash toward unadulterated sluttiness. While I do believe, strongly, that female sexuality does need a revolution of sorts, I hardly believe the avenue for that is a men’s pornography magazine.
There is a certain irony in pretending that finding comfort with your body on the pages of Playboy is counteractive to the “male-dominated world” we live in. I’m pretty sure that by using a male-dominated (in terms of creation and purchasing power) publication to advocate your lack of body issues, you are directly feeding into that male-dominated world. Stripping down, undergoing several hours of makeup and hair styling, posing in sexually submissive positions, and having your body airbrushed to the supposed male expectations of perfection, won’t exactly incite another fist pump from Rosie the Riveter.
Playboy exists solely for the sexual gratification of males, with the force-fed insecurity of females an unfortunate consequence. Playboy does not promote female sexuality, but rather the sexuality that men supposedly want from females. To be honest, I don’t really care if Playboy exists. I just care that women feed into it under the ignorant notion that it has anything to do with female empowerment. I know somebody has to spread their legs in the crease of a centerfold if we don’t want the world as we know it to spontaneously combust, but c’mon, Lindsay. Really? REALLY?
This whole, “let’s take our tops off and make out on top of the bar so guys can high-five each other while they watch” female culture we live in is getting old. Why does this type of so-called female sexuality only come about in response to the male desire for it? It is so painfully pathetic to grow up in a world where girls post Facebook kissy-face pictures of themselves in underwear to see how many guys reply with a “wow ur so butiful,” without ever looking at her face.
Men hardly even try to be appealing to women, proven solely by the startling number of prospective male companions who have openly farted in front of me before laughing about it. Why do females get so caught up in it? As much as Marilyn Monroe fascinates me, she isn’t exactly a beacon of true female sexuality, since her whole game was to play into the shameless, innocence of it. If women have to emulate a sex symbol, I wish instead that it was someone like Mae West who was powerful, unapologetic, and totally in it because she wanted to be, and she believed in the importance of her own needs, not just that of her partner. That is female empowerment, Linds.
I’m not saying Lindsay Lohan ever claimed to be a feminist, but by acknowledging the male domination in our world, she is indicating her understanding of the worldwide need for female empowerment. Had she just smacked her gums and blown a bubble giggling something like, “I just forgot to wear underwear that day, haha” I’d find her trivial and embarrassing to womankind, but I wouldn’t write a blog about it.
Ok, rant done. Enjoy the rest of your day and for God’s sake keep your clothes on, shawties.
The girl who is proud to be a modern-day, bra-wearing feminist
PS: In less headline-worthy news, three women were also honored with the Nobel Peace Prize today, go figure.
It goes without saying that my blog has become a staple in contemporary American culture. Late night talk shows reference it, MSNBC counts on it for breaking opinionated headlines, and E! is currently working on a reality show entitled “The Girlwiththeblog Next Door to Kim and Kourtney Taking Kendra to Khloe and Lamar to Buy Some Dirty Soap.” One does not get this sort of pop culture recognition without a certain level of mind-numbing dedication.
While my weekends are spent watching Netflix with my mother and singing a capella church hymns in my best “1960’s African American Baptist Choir voice,” my weekdays are spent, hour after hour, drooling into a coffee mug, staring at the computer screen, refreshing the “site stats” page of my blog, monitoring how many views it gets per day. Haha, jk. Not really. Anyway. I realized long ago, that on this same page there is a breakdown of not only how many views per day, but how I got said views, (facebook, google, pornhub, etc.). Furthermore, the “big brother” tendencies of WordPress allow me to see the search terms used to bring all you strange, desperate folk to the land of beards and belly rubs. I’ve never written about belly rubs. I just felt like writing that.
Nevertheless, during one lazy-eyed, drool-inducing afternoon, I took a gander at these terms. Upon browsing them, I was shocked. Nauseous. Over-reactive? Maybe. But seriously, my mind could not formulate a connection between Google searches like “sex with cocoa puffs” and “walmart redneck woman holding child by leg” and my wholesome,
YA-rated blog. I was befuddled. Then I realized, wait! Just, wait a second here. These cocoa puff redneck fetish freaks don’t want to find my blog and are most likely sad in the pants when they do. They are searching for something else. Something more “appropriate” for their needs. Something like:
“Sex with cocoa puffs” search result:
Ok, I admit. I was a tad disappointed when the most exciting thing I saw upon searching “sex with cocoa puffs” was a picture of this lone, potato. But after seconds of digging I realized, there’s like, a book about sex and cocoa puffs, written by Chuck Klosterman. A man who evidently, not only has highly impressive facial hair, but also the same Sun Records t-shirt as me and every other white kid who digs 1950s rock-a-billy. This search has not only helped me to further understand the audience that seeks my love and affection, but also inspired my next writing project. Literotica fan fiction about Chuck Klosterman. Swoon.
So, in an effort to be the blog with the best customer service, I am going to do yo’ asses a favor. I am going to use my readers’ search terms and take a stab at finding what they were truly looking for. To make this less boring, I am going to limit my search to Google Images. Sorry, Bing. No one likes you anyway.
Search Results of Terms Most Likely Used In An Effort To Find Something Other Than This Blog:
1. “Gingerbread Man Sightings”
I’m not exactly sure what a gingerbread man sighting is, but I imagine it something similar to that of a Sasquatch; most commonly taking place on Western Oregon mountain tops and in Republican Senators’ hotel rooms.
2. “Fat Chick On Toilet”
And honestly, I know some people may find the picture to the right offensive. But let’s be honest. Every time I pee, Smucker’s Grape Jelly comes out. Just keepin’ it real.
3. “A Pie Chart for Forced Marriage”
“Dude, like, what marriage isn’t forced, am I right, bro? High five, motha-lovas, hang ten, yo.” -me as a man afraid of commitment. And a tool.
Honestly, I haven’t a clue what these peeps were looking for. I imagine their search was quite frustrating, as I could not find any pie charts related to forced matrimony, in the 72 seconds I looked. But to fulfill my obligation, I chose two images related to love. Ideally, if you are reading this, you are just happy to find something that acknowledges your search efforts. And then you will subscribe, share my blog with all your friends, and marry me under the the pollution clouds of New York City.
4. “Penis Chart By Height of Girl”
Ok, um, this may be a tad presumptuous, but I think it is safe to say, the dude on the left probably doesn’t even have a penis visible to the naked eye. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But it’s sort of along the lines of how only horrifically, unattractive girls wear shirts that say “2 Hawt 4 U” and “Don’t Hate Me Because You’re Ugly.” O.Henry would so dig that irony.
And is it just me, or is kinda creepy that a pie chart of the favorite colors of three year old girls shows up on the first page of a penis-related search? Hmm, let’s think about that.
5. “Hot 19 year old male”
Call me crazy, but I actually thought when I searched this I would get some pictures of hot 19 year old males. Silly me. I should have known I’d instead get a debonair version of Mr. Peanut and an Olympic athlete of the most homo-erotic sport known to man. Seriously, who finds male gymnasts hot, aside from other male gymnasts? Not to be P.I.C, but the only thing that would make this guy gayer would be if he was wearing a rhinestone sweatband.
6. “Quotes about ungrateful people”
I don’t think I could have found a better image than this one, since it is in fact true that only ungrateful bitches and insensitive assholes drive. But in the spirit of trying to find something more appropriate to the search, I give you this. The one profound thing ever to be found on this blog:
“I have learned silence from the talkative, tolerance from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strangely, I am ungrateful to these teachers.” – Kahlil Gibran
And I have learned to stop writing from those who have said it better. So, yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
Since I get, oh so many views per day, from oh so many disturbing search terms, I could squander years of my life, writing this entry. However in an effort to get offline and actually do something with my existence, I am going to condense the rest. Here is a sample list of other entertaining terms used to find this here blog:
“I’m a woman with a beard”
“Fat woman empty wallet”
“Hide the sausage”
“Pie chart of election of 1860 electoral votes of candidates” (I know, like so totally academic)
“He left hickies on my boobs”
“Professional + Girl + Promiscuous”
I know. WOW. I keep one classy blog.
I hope this helped all you twisted, psychos, looking for results to your mostly unsettling searches. Keep searching, keep reading, and keep contacting me. Even with hate mail. Call me names, threaten my womanhood, offer your Peanut Butter to my Smucker’s Jelly. Maybe we can make Goober together.
I swear I’m not high.
The girl who, by herself, once ate an entire jar of Goober Grape in less than 48 hours.