Monthly Archives: February 2012
I don’t have time to write this blog.
In fact, I might quit writing it altogether.
Don’t get me wrong. I love this blog. If it could impregnate me, I’d let it. But it is becoming an uncomfortably large distraction in my daily life, like watching makeup tutorial Youtube videos by French Canadian teenagers. Whenever I’m not blogging I’m thinking of how I should be, and whenever I am blogging I’m thinking about how no one cares. It’s an abusive cycle. My blog wears the wife-beater, I wear the beer gut.
But I don’t know how to quit, and since the severity of my narcissism has truly reached a breaking point, likely to result in either my spontaneous combustion or a strong empathy for Donald Trump, I have decided to leave the country.
All because of this blog.
Actually, I’m lying. I just needed a creative way to say I’m leaving the country and sadly for you, my mind is too tired to come up with something funnier. In TBS censorship lingo, this week has been a clusterscrew, exhausting me to the point of having nothing to write about. I briefly considered publishing a post about the insignificant things that happened this week. Like the disturbing discovery that my underwear drawer smells like peanuts or how when asked to plan a date, the best I came up with was a nude sketch class followed by a local ACLU meeting. Hawt.
But luckily for you, between starting a new job and preparing for AAA club-hopping, I haven’t had time to write that. So instead of bogging you down with further unnecessary text, I’ll just bid you farewell.
Tomorrow morning I am flying to the Dominican Republic for a week-long jaunt of volunteering and feeling guilty about being born in America. My Grandfather is organizing this trip because he is a retired minister and among the best people I know, and has gone to the Dominican to volunteer over 15 times, as well as over half the countries in the world. I wish I could be that good of a person. But alas, I have a soft spot for Britney Spears which pretty much negates any good dead I could do.
Needless to say I am going to be “disconnected” for the next week. No internet access, cell phones, or Kourtney and Kim reruns. I’ve never been to a third-world country before, but since I weep nightly while watching the news and write letters for Amnesty International, there is a very good chance I am going to have an emotional break-down. But I have been warned not to act this way, so I am going to do my best to remain the calm, cool, heartlessly self-important American Mitt Romney would want me to be.
I shall make an effort to blog about this experience in the least soul-crushing way possible. I will probably update again sometime around March 5 or 6, so check back if you want in on that cry-fest.
Until then be good people but better lovers. I don’t know what that means.
The girl whose skin burns just from the thought of her upcoming proximity to the equator.
Valentine’s Day is the festering sore of non-religious holidays. I’m not just saying this because I am single this year (correction: that is the only reason I am saying this) but rather because Valentine’s Day is the one holiday everyone sort of wishes didn’t exist, but still has to acknowledge. Kind of like herpes. That’s it. Valentine’s Day is like the herpes of non-religious holidays; you can pretend it doesn’t exist, but at the end of the day, you still have scabs on your nether region.
For whatever reason, women take this holiday very VERY seriously. I’m not excluding myself from this. Before I was a used-up, jaded, old hag, V-Day held a special place in my heart, now reserved for Arlo Guthrie vinyl records and that green cake icing that comes in a tube. Each year, on February 13, my sister and I would sit on my bed in our nightgowns, braiding each other’s hair and harmonizing to “When You Wish Upon a Star,” discussing the love we were bound to discover the coming day, through some romantic, male-orchestrated gesture involving skywriting and the performance of a Lifehouse song. Actually that never happened. But for those who don’t know, Lifehouse songs really f***ed me up.
Needless to say, VDay is very important to most women. It’s not so much because we actually think it’s an important holiday but more because there will always be that one guy dating that one girl we secretly hate, who very openly shares how romantic her boyfriend is
on Facebook, posting pictures of the hand-sewn teddy bear given to her for Valentine’s Day. Forget the fact that over-the-top Valentine’s Day gestures are generally compensation for sub-par bed play and yet-to-be disclosed homosexuality, on February 14th all that truly matters is how big the gesture is and how many people know about it.
So to help all the fellas and ladies (I don’t judge) who have a demanding, over-bearing woman expecting something grand for this worthless consumerist holiday, I am going to provide five romantic ideas to woo your gal.
1. Write her a poem. Here’s an example.
Rubies are red,
I can’t afford either,
When I’m paying for you.
OH YEAH. Girls eat that shit up. I should know. I’m a girl, despite what you may read.
Just kidding. There are no transvestite rumors about me.
Use this. She’ll dig it.
You don’t have to mean it. No one ever does. If you really want to blow her mind, do it with a tattoo! Nothing says “I love you” like a permanently emblazoned question, personal enough to result in divorce, impersonal enough to be used next year on someone else.
3. Get a love tattoo
Along the lines of the creepy proposal, you can’t put a price on an even creepier love tattoo, except maybe your dignity. You could go for the traditional first name tattoo if you want to be a pussy about it, but if you really want to make an impression go for the ultra-intense portrait or first name acronym tat. For example, if a man were going to get a tattoo of my name, I would suggest the following:
L – usciously
E – ndowed
N – oble
A – ssociate
Associate? That’s right. Anything else would be too big a commitment.
4. Cook her dinner
Ok, I know what you must be thinking. “Damn, bitch, now I gotta cook for this skank-ass honey?” and to that I say, “you’re white, stop talking like that.” Yes, you have to cook for her. I know this is an overwhelming prospect since she will inevitably find out that you know how to cook and therefore may expect it to happen more often. If that idea frightens you than I suggest that you cook something so inedible she will be hospitalized. Not only will that ensure you will never have to cook again, but hospitals are filled with unaccounted for flower bouquets waiting to be seized by you.
5. Break up with her…then take it back
For all you stingy SOBs out there, this is the cheapest, easiest option, requiring little effort, and excessive cruelty. Convince her it’s over. You’re tired of “Dancing With the Stars” and sharing a toothbrush. You don’t need a man cave you need a man grave if you’re going to stay one more day with her! (use that line, it’s golden!) Once she is a blubbering mess, cradle her in your arms and tell her you will take her back. She will be so happy to have a boyfriend again, she won’t even care that you didn’t get her anything for Valentine’s Day. If the plan backfires and she ends it with you, at least you don’t have her name tattooed on your ass.
If you don’t like any of these ideas, that’s probably a sign that you’re a decent human being. Whatever.
Good night and good luck.
Happy Valentine’s Day all you happy people doomed for divorce and alimony payments.
The girl who just wants somebody to love, Jefferson Airplane style.
Today has proven to be a sippy cup of useless knowledge.
THIS MORNING: While talking with my mother I learned that not everyone dreams about food. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “Soooooo… you know when you have one of those dreams where you’re surrounded by food, you eat until you throw up, and then struggle to hang yourself?”
Mom: “No, that’s never happened to me.”
Me: “Really? I mean, I’m pretty sure everyone has that dream at least once a week.”
Mom: “That hasn’t happened in my lifetime.”
Me: “Oh, haha. Me either.”
THIS AFTERNOON: While applying streetwalker makeup for my coffee pouring job, I learned/realized that by repeatedly stabbing my eyeballs with a mascara wand on a daily basis, I am no doubt responsible for my bloodshot soul windows and future blindness. Well, that and all the meth.
THIS EVENING: While “working” I browsed Facebook headlines, which, much like legitimate news sources, left me anxious for a story that did not involve cute puppies or fat people eating burritos. Much to my surprise in the evening hours I began to see a “trending topic” involving Republicans, Planned Parenthood, and abortion.
While I, and all other liberals, view abortion as an everyday recreational activity, much like tennis or Magic the Gathering, apparently Republicans aren’t so big on it. Who knew? What with all the blood thirsty legislation passed in this country, one would think Republicans ate fetuses for breakfast. But I am here to tell you, that is not the case. They’re more of an eggs benedict party.
As an avid fan of abortion and the murder of all children, I have to say all this uproar about Planned Parenthood and its abortion services is a little silly. First of all, if there is anyone who SHOULD be angry it should be people like me – advocates of fetal destruction. Do you know how many abortions Planned Parenthood has prevented, simply by providing inexpensive birth control options to women? I’d venture a guess at thousands to a Gazillion. You just can’t mess with statistical fact.
But even a Gazillion prevented abortions doesn’t make up for the fact that a whopping 3% of Planned Parenthood provided services are abortions. I know. Disgustingly low. Where are all the pregnant Democrats getting their inevitable abortions – back alleys in Tijuana? Mexicans really are taking all of our jobs.
But Republicans seem to think that 35% of services related to contraception, 35% related to STD treatment and prevention, and 16% related to Cancer screenings are simply not enough to make up for that tiny, wittle, 3%. Which is why several Planned Parenthood locations around the country have lost or are at risk of losing funding. To the everyday, logical person, this may not make sense. But when you keep in mind this famous Republican mantra, it’s a little clearer:
“Babies born no matter what
Then have them killed in war
Increase all military spending
Stop funding all the whores.”
Brings a tear to my eye every time.
Unfortunately, government funding isn’t the only hit Planned Parenthood is taking. One of the other reasons my peeps are all a-Twitter is that apparently the Susan G. Komen Foundation has cut funding to Planned Parenthood. What a slap in the uterus. What kind of women’s health organization de-funds another women’s health organization? Whatever happened to hoes before embryos? Kinda effed up, SGKF. Just sayin’.
So after much thought and coffee, I have developed a solution to this problem.
Republicans. Let us keep our American based Planned Parenthood locations. Let us continue providing low income women with contraception, cancer testing, STD testing and treatments, and all general gynecology services we women get and you men don’t want to hear about. In return, we will help advocate the building of Planned Parenthood locations in the Middle East. Why? The more contraception available to Middle Eastern women, the less terrorists in the world! YES! Oh, and get this. Since torture is pretty much a staple of American diplomacy and the prevention of war crimes, why not enforce some mandatory abortions of the future jihadists being conceived each day! Because, just keeping it real, we all know all this self-righteous morality disappears faster than Bin Laden’s corpse (eh hem…I call bullshit) when it comes to the war on terror. Keep it in mind.
Looking out for America, always.
The girl who, like 99% of liberals hates abortion but advocates the right to choose