Monthly Archives: May 2012
Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have achieved the impossible. It is May 31, 2012, the official end of my May Blogging Challenge and I am proud to say I have actually accomplished my goal to blog every day. This is a big deal. It is the first time I have achieved a goal I have set for myself since dropping my high school shoplifting habit.
Needless to say, I’m feeling rather pleased with myself. During the month of May I explored the parasitic aspects of my mother’s relationship, established the “Sunday Night Round Up” which is basically my way of saying ‘I’m too lazy to write a real blog and you people will read anything (suckers),’ diminished Twitter for the 47th time which has shockingly had little effect on people’s decision to use it, revealed six more characteristics of my future ex-husband, diagrammed the woes of my crack den apartment, honored Bob Dylan with a creepy yet serious birthday shout out, explored all of the ways and reasons I suck at being a young person, and most recently revealed to a shocked internet audience that real women have confidence in addition to their curves, muscle tone, and everything in between. It’s been an interesting month; a fulfilling month. But I am exhausted and I need a break that does not include me blogging about needing a break. You feel me? I know you do.
So I am going on a brief hiatus, that will likely last anywhere from 12-? hours, while I figure out how to approach my blogging schedule in the future. While I don’t plan to continue the daily blogging, I do hope to establish some sort of consistency, as I know you will be waiting, uncomfortably on the edge of your seat until my next post.
Any feedback or suggestions on blogging schedule preferences, hit me up in some fashion, via comment, email, or midnight knocks on my door. I won’t answer, but I will call the police and relish the thought of your incarceration.
In the meantime, check out the last 31 blog entries. I promise, I worked semi-hard on them.
The girl who hasn’t changed contacts since 1978
It’s no secret that I’m an overweight, pale, blonde girl. I wear double digit clothing sizes, makeup that is literally labeled “translucent” and have hair so light I would appear to have lesser eyebrows than Whoopi Goldberg. In other words I could moonlight as a beer wench at Oktoberfest any day of the week.
Yet my entire life people have treated me as if I were somehow unaware of my appearance. Phrases like “the South Beach Diet would work perfect for you!” and “OMG, like, what’s with your skin?” have been thrown at me since I was five and a girl on the playground told me I looked like an apple, a body type label that has stuck with me throughout adulthood.
In high school I spent many nights lying awake in my bed thinking about every part of my body that was flawed. My hair was too thick, my brow bone too strong, cheeks too chubby, arms too flabby, boobs too big, boobs too small, skin too broken out, stomach too big, thighs too thick, legs too short, skin too pale, hips too wide, butt too small, feet too arched, etc. Every part of my appearance was a disappointment to me and the constant reminder via CW dramas, flawless high school peers, and thoughtless family members and strangers, that there was a better alternative to me and all of my imperfections, that I could never and would never physically attain, made me ache inside to see a reflection that was no reflection of me. It was this kind of mindset which made me value being told I was “pretty” as a greater compliment than being told I was “smart, funny, kind, talented, creative,” etc.
It has been six years since high school graduation but I have only in the last two started to feel like I am not some kind of mangled rawhide, covered in slobber and dog hair, lying on the floor of an illegal puppy mill in Idaho. Vivid, I know. But perception evolves with the passage of time and what I couldn’t see when I was in high school is that I am actually pretty. Not to everyone of course, but to myself.
But my reason for writing this has nothing to do with how gorgeous I think my hair is now or how classy I think my pale skin is, and how even though I need to lose some weight for health purposes, I no longer want to be thin. I’m writing this because I think the biggest problem with the issue of beauty is that beauty doesn’t actually exist. Beauty is an intangible perception of something else that cannot be proven, but merely argued. Which leads me to my next point: the sickness of comparative beauty.
There’s a strange movement right now in our culture. On one hand, models look more emaciated than ever, and on the other women like Christina Hendricks are garnering mad attention for their naturally curvy bodies. Pictures like this are being passed around the internet:
While I can grasp that this is trying to send a positive message that thicker girls are just as sexy, if not sexier to some than skinny girls, I hate the fact that we need to tear one group down to lift up another. I also hate that the definition of female beauty is being dictated by the men who date them, designers who dress them, and people like Perez Hilton. I also hate that instead of rebelling against this system, we women allow it and promote it by being competitive with other women, diminishing each other for our differences. And lastly I hate that in a world of increased eating disorders, skin cancer rates, and deaths related to cosmetic surgery, we live in a culture that still promotes the constant alteration of our bodies. Viewing our faces and our bodies as blank slates for culture to imprint all over is a recipe for self-destruction.
Forget the fact that a few centuries ago artists would have had a throw down over who gets to paint me naked, in today’s society, I and so many other girls are not considered the “ideal” for one reason or another. But the fact is, that even despite the after-school special undertones of what I’m about to say, everyone is beautiful to someone, in their own way. Blonde or brunette, curvy or thin, fair, or tan or black, or whatever other generalized term we can create to label ourselves, everyone is beautiful because they are different. Because there are no two people EXACTLY alike. Because no person will ever be duplicated. Everyone is the master copy of themselves, which makes us each pretty undeniably special. And sometimes being special is actually better than being just like everything else.
So before you tan your skin to make it look more like someone else’s, or dye your hair to fit in with the trends, just think about the fact that you are the only person in the world with that skin color and that hair, and by choosing to make it some other color, you are choosing to say goodbye to one of the things that makes you unique. Let’s all learn to accept each other and ourselves for who we are so we can all live together in fat, skinny, ugly, pretty, peace.
And remember, real women have confidence, and sometimes that’s all we needs.
The girl still working on the confidence thing
This is a rather disjointed blog post. So I’ve decided to think of this blog post as a Pinterest page representing my life. However I don’t understand Pinterest or enjoy it so there’s a very good chance it will just read like a really poorly constructed blog entry. Boo.
My vocabulary has gotten exponentially better since watching Dawson’s Creek. It’s like how I get wittier after watching Gilmore Girls and sluttier after watching Gossip Girl. Well, that’s only partially true.
I couldn’t possibly get wittier.
“My boobs feel like caves”
-something I just said out loud.
Tonight with my friend, Collin
fendercollin 11:45 pm
back a year ago or so you told me that I reminded you of a turtle!
fendercollin 11:45 pm
we were just talking!
and then I told you that you reminded me of a cherub and you got all mad
Last night at the concert I heard some girl say she was going to “snort a line of Molly.” I thought she was talking about my mother’s dog.
Sometimes I stare at my work purse for a really long time and feel guilty about the fact that it is leather and that some animal had to die so I could have this purse to fill with tampon wrappers and chewed gum. But then I remember they don’t sell real leather at Old Navy and my guilt just comes from being born an American.
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Tonight I am going to a Dave Matthews Band concert. If you go on his website, look at his tour dates, find out where I live, and come murder me right there on the lawn, you can. But that wouldn’t be my preference.
Happy Memorial Day, ya’ll. Or something else more jam bandy.
The girl with a little bit of heaven and a little bit of “hell yeah!”
There are insects pitching tents in my apartment. Not in the dirty way ; though considering the vast population, probably in the dirty way too. They are setting up camp in various locations from the bathroom ceiling to the living room doorway, tormenting me with their presence, while no doubt researching rates for the increasingly popular window-front properties in my bedroom. I know deep down they don’t mean to pummel my existence, but that is just what they have done. They have pummeled my existence.
It’s been total insect anarchy since the bug on my toothbrushincident of last week. They just keep showing up and they won’t go away. There like a bunch of Occupy protestors. They accomplish nothing while making life a little more unpleasant for all who come into their company. Like last night when my bedroom was commandeered by a spider and some variation of a mosquito and I was forced to relocate to my living room for sleep, just to have my living room attacked by another spider and a stinkbug.
After several hours spent in the presence of savage wildlife I didn’t have the heart or testicles to kill, I managed to accumulate 2 hours of sleep. So today, along with my usual emotional instability, I am struggling with undiagnosed narcolepsy. I’m like Harriet Tubman, only slightly less historically relevant.
This week has been a gold mine of search terms used to find my blog. I invite you to feast on these 10 glorious representations of the maximum capacity of human intellectualism, that continue to fill me with great hope for the future of humanity.
Here is Our Top 10
- Women are bad at parking because they are always lied to about 8 inches
- Physical characteristics of inbred people.
- Girl with blond hair bob blog ß(THIS IS ME!!!!)
- I gave your girlfriend a dictionary
- How long do meth addicts live?
- Orangutan boobs
- Ted Bundy dating game
- Does soul mate = gold digger?
- Human soul pie chart
- Biggest rack of 2012
The girl who thinks “Cheerio!” as a farewell is SO April 2012
Tomorrow is my day off. My first day off since May 6th. It’s like, a totally big deal. Among other things, I am going to attempt to do the following:
- Sew pillows for my couch Learn how to sew
- Break my sewing machine
- Cut myself Shave my legs
- Write something good decent
- Clean my car Generate an excuse for why I can’t clean my car
As you can see, I have rad plans for a bitchin’ existence.
Diving headfirst into my day off with some mad productivity, I have captured screen shots from my favorite parts of the music video for Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me With Science”; the best song and video ever created by man or highly-skilled therapy dogs. I imagine they are the only other mammal with video recording capabilities.
I can’t quite explain how this represents mad productivity. But I also can’t explain how Ron Jeremy was a sex symbol. The world is a mysterious place.
Thomas Dolby – She Blinded Me With Science (Screenshots)
You need to watch this video. I predict it will rank in the top 10 great experiences of your life, after seeing Shakira bellydance live, before winning a watermelon seed spitting contest.
I also predict Thomas Dolby to be the next L. Ron Hubbard with irrelevant celebrities like Bam Margera and Niki Hilton leading the way in development of a new
cult religion. One that will blind them with science.
The girl who hopes to enter a serious relationship in the next 3 hours so she can make legitimate plans with a significant other that do not leave her feeling empty inside.
As of today I have officially been blogging for one year. I have posted 70 blog entries, 22 of which were published this month, meaning a third of one year’s worth of blogging took place in one month. It’s like that birth control that makes you only have 4 periods a year, only BETTER!!!! And nothing like that.
So all night I’ve been trying to figure out how to commemorate such an anniversary. I had intentions of writing some sort of passionate, forlorn tale about seeking love and approval of the internet masses but still feeling dead inside…however if you know anything about me, you know my intentions hold less value than a State of the Union address, so that didn’t get very far. Distractions set in, tragedy struck, and all I can begin to entertain (?) you with tonight is this literary work of unparalleled genius:
The Girl With the Bug On Her Tooth Brush:
She was born a regular girl,
Never a looker,
Always a bore,
Almost a lush,
But became much more,
The girl with the bug on her tooth brush.
In an apartment on the top of a hill
With youth to kill,
A six legged creature betrayed her trust
And she lost all will
The girl with the bug on her tooth brush
She let it survive for days before
Saying good morn
What else rhymes with brush
This poem doesn’t make sense anymore
The girl with a bug on her tooth brush
Enough of that shit. Here’s what went down, yo.
Two days ago I discovered a gargantuan specimen hanging loose all over the wall above my closet. I wasn’t feeling it. But I made a conscious decision to ignore it and let it settle into its new space. Peace, love, cohabitation. I can dig that concept. I’m pretty sure Squanto wouldn’t chuck a bug from his tee-pee and if there is any one historical figure I model my daily life after, it’s Squanto, motherf***er.
This morning I stumbled into my bathroom, pretending to be drunk, but really just bloated from eating too much marshmallow fluff the night before. And there it was. Squanto , the bug, chillaxin’ all over my bathroom mirror. Not cool, Squantsy. But I decided to let it go. I was running late for work and rapidly decreasing gas prices were screaming my name.
So after a long day, I came home prepared to blow the blogosphere away with my brilliant commemorative posting. But when I reached the bathroom to remove my contacts I saw this:
There was definitely a brief Janet Leigh scream that expelled from my mouth.
No big deal.
So after approximately 1 hour of uninterrupted panic, I finally mustered the courage, a word not used lightly here, to pick up the toothbrush, carry it to the apartment door and throw it out into the rain. I felt a momentary rush of exhilaration before sheer embarrassment set in that I am a 23 year old adult woman who took over an hour to garner the bravery to carry a toothbrush twelve feet across an apartment. This embarrassment was of course followed up by frustration with myself for wasting precious minutes of my existence worried about something as arbitrary as a bug on my toothbrush when I should have been doing something more productive, like writing a blog entry or learning how to count.
So after a rollercoaster of mixed emotions and near death, bug-related experiences, I have determined that the best possible way to commemorate my year of blog writing, is to not commemorate it at all, and simply be the neurotic side show freak anyone reading has come to expect.
Good night and good luck.
The girl with a bug on her toothbrush