Monthly Archives: July 2012
Sometimes I worry about how much I have in common with Octomom.
Both attention seekers, rippled with stretch marks, pretending that the Internet’s validation of our existence isn’t the glue holding our very feeble lives together. The resemblance is uncanny.
But having my most recent blog post Freshly Pressed was a deeply disarming occurrence in my life. Don’t get me wrong. It may just be the best thing that has ever happened to me – which I would hope either makes you feel really happy for me, really depressed, or slightly aroused. The latter for the sake of my ego. Both foreign and domestic Internet pervs complete me.
Nevertheless, being Freshly Pressed did result in some fine things happening to me and my blog. Like this:
But mostly this:
I realize the everyday pretentious blogger may scoff at 167 subscribers, but the everyday pretentious blogger also doesn’t require his/her subscribers to admit to “wanting to be a sucker” before subscribing. Plus this is 104 more subscribers than I had last week.
So I was thinking since I have 104 new people to become acquainted with before they inevitably decide they can’t tolerate me, I will take this opportunity to further introduce myself and my blog and hopefully alienate only a handful of you. Here we go “little suckers” – or something more affectionate and less creepy.
http://www.thegirlwiththeblog.com – A Guided Tour
You are good honest people and I’m not going to lie to you. I write a lot of crap. This isn’t me being cute and self-deprecating. This is me keeping it real like Dr. Phil. I’d like to tell you that everything written prior to the day you subscribed is a gold mine of wit and exuberant talent, but in May I wrote an entire blog entry about the song “She Blinded Me With Science.” So really, I’m mostly a hack.
To help you filter through my literary feces I’m going to point you in the direction of some of my blog entries that I wish had been Freshly Pressed, or acknowledged by anyone other than disapproving family members.
…I’m over this. I have roughly 90 posts. Read them. Or don’t. Whatever.
So in addition to the above links, as a new subscriber to TGWTB there are some things you should know
1. I am the asshole boyfriend of the WordPress blogosphere. I don’t write regularly, in fact sometimes I don’t write at all. For weeks. Months even. You send emails, I shrug you off. You start to forget about me. You think to yourself “this f***wad doesn’t deserve my body or my time.” Then BAM. I am blogging every day the month of May, confusing you, annoying you, seducing you with my melodrama before once again vanishing for weeks at a time for the length of the summer. I’m like Rip Van Winkle, without the good excuse.
2. I’m only 5’4 so I stand on a lot of soap boxes. I hope you dig it.
3. Receiving email notifications about blog comments, likes, and new subscribers brings me greater pleasure than any man or instant pudding mix ever could.
The Girl – The Abridged Version
Pretty much everything there is to know about me can be found in the “About the Girl” section of this blog. But to avoid this post coming off as one mother of a pimp fest for my blog (although, I mean…yeah…) I provide you with the following insights into my psyche:
1. At least 3 times a week I eat something with mold on it, only to lie awake in bed at night wondering if I’m going to die because I am allergic to penicillin and wasn’t penicillin discovered through mold on an orange? Or was that something else? Why did I have to listen to Dashboard Confessional and cry during high school Chemistry?
2. I hate people with really narrow feet. More than I should. More than anyone should hate anyone.
3. While sitting at my desk in a bra and shorts, I determined that the real reason clothes were invented is to distract fat people from how gross they look naked. I’m fat. I’m allowed to say this. And I’m not that fake fat blogger who only talks about being fat to appeal to lonely people in Idaho. I’m genuinely fat. So much to the point that I had to put on clothing so I could concentrate on something other than my fatness. Like writing this blog that ends with me talking about being fat. Awesome.
So please old readers, new readers, and Vietnamese pedophiles who somehow find my blog, please read me, write me, and call me, maybe. But most importantly, share 3 things about you that make you as effed up as me. Then we can freeze each other’s bras and practice french kissing.
Happy to have you 🙂
The girl who only feels entitled to call herself female for the one hour directly following leg shaving
On this day, last year, I reluctantly turned 23. I welcomed my inevitable aging with 2 bottles of Arbor Mist and FX reruns of Superbad, followed by fits of crying and my now infamous Waffle House date. I wasn’t going into 23 with dignity if I could avoid it. Well, ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to tell you that after 365 days of fighting against this change, I have prevailed. As of today, I am no longer 23.
I’m not going to lie to you; 24 doesn’t feel all that different, aside from my overwhelming desire to kick back in some orthopedic shoes and watch my programs for a few hours. I’m actually feeling relatively decent about getting older. My biggest bitch is knowing that I am slowly inching my way toward an age where I will be too old to get away with my lack of life plan on account of being “young and exploring options.” That alone upsets me more than death or any amount of Rhianna remixes.
So to avoid that penetrating reality one more day, this is my plan:
- Wash dishes
- Walk downtown and buy a scone
- Feel bad about buying a scone
- Eat the scone anyway
- Consider bulimia
- Go to my mom’s house where she, my sister, and brother will be hanging out for an obscenely long period of time because we are way too close and somewhat unhealthy
- Weep tears of gratitude for each present I receive because I’m emotionally unstable and incredibly charming
- Compose a mental list of goals to be completed while 24, knowing full well that no matter how much I do, the very idea of turning 25 makes me want to use my small intestine as a noose
- Go to bed happy
If anyone’s got his/her shit together, it would be me.
Now, last year in order to commemorate blossoming into my new age, I reflected on my 22nd year and compiled a list of 22 accomplishments. Using that logic, one might expect a list of 23 accomplishments, however being that I was kind of lazy and unmotivated this year, there’s a good chance it will stop at 6. Let’s see how far I can get:
- Started www.thegirlwiththeblog.com; which really, barely counts as an accomplishment if we’re being honest.
- Volunteered in the Dominican Republic
- Made $800 selling Christmas cookies
- Gained 15 pounds eating Christmas cookies
- Lived with my mom for 7 months
- Spent 24 hours on the courthouse steps for Occupy Nashville
- Gained an appreciation for the 40 hour work week through periods of unemployment and current over-employment
- Met one of the best friends ever from Murfreesboro, Tennessee 🙂
- Increased my credit score despite consistently late student loan payments
- Watched every Republican Presidential Debate
- Moved into my own apartment again
- Doubled my record collection
- Discovered Breaking Bad, Mad Men, and Parenthood. I should probably be embarrassed by watching this much TV
- Like a fat Samantha Brick, been unjustifiably hit on more in my life than ever before
- Saw Titanic in 3D
- Developed an obsession with tights and stockings
- Reached 150 pages in my novel
- Realized an emphatic hatred for touch screen technology
- Was traumatized by my New Year’s Day horoscope that said I will struggle in love for the next 14 years
- Have become significantly happier since last year
- If my blog viewing stats page is correctly, hopefully made 30,000 people laugh. Or at least 12
- Most recently, met someone pretty awesome 🙂
- Came up with 23 quasi-accomplishments for this stupid list
That took way too long. Next year I’m using some form of intellectual Ex-lax to speed up this process. Or maybe I should just do more cool shit. Whatever.
The girl who is now 24 and still childishly obsessed with birthdays
I can’t write standing up. I’ve been trying for about 20 minutes now and it’s just not happening. I know what you must be thinking:
Ok, well not that. I meant this:
I knew that was in there somewhere!
But despite your cruel thoughts I insist that sitting down is not an option. I am currently at the hotel, where I work front desk part time. While I do enjoy this job, I have to say I have never been winked at so many times in my life. I’m half inclined to ask our manager if there is something going on with the ventilation system, as there seems to be an abhorrent amount of eye twitching going down in this joint.
I’m all like, ““What is this? A casting call for “Tour Ettes on a Budget?”
And he’s all like, “That’s not a movie, yo.”
And I’m all like, “Oh yeah.”
That wasn’t funny.
Anyway. I’ve determined all of these sexually aggressive ocular spasms cannot possibly be related to air flow because that really wouldn’t explain all the times I’ve been asked if I could perform private massage services…
…or if I wanted to see the inside of a king suite
…or if I’d like to try some all-natural cocoa dusted almonds
Word must’ve gotten around that I’m a sucker for chocolate nuts. Just a regular Wednesday.
Back to my point.
I cannot sit down because the computers are way too attached to the desk (like, totes insecure!) plus I have no chair. So yeah. I can’t sit down, so I can’t write. Not really. I mean, I can compose really poorly developed Tourettes jokes and hope you don’t unsubscribe from this blog. But that’s about it.
So in lieu of writing some super kick ass blog entry I know deep down I am capable of despite what I generally publish, I’m just going to tell you about a nightmare I had last night. Because you are reading this and by default you have to pretend to care.
SO the nightmare, or as I like to call it “Le Dream Noir” (that’s not real French), was deeply disturbing and some kind of omen I think. Here’s what went down:
I was sitting in an all-white room on a chair with a mirror in front of me. Pretty normal right? WRONG! I was wearing some sort of non-descript frock and…
The torment could have ended there and it still would have been one of the worst fictional moments of my life. My hair is more important to me than my kidneys, so the thought of having it all choppy and gross like some abused orphan was not cool.
And my chin…
And not a few unsightly hairs, but a full on, Spencer Pratt beard. I kept trying to yank out the beard in tufts of stubble but as soon as I would it would grow back, like Tim Allen in the Santa Clause or any Italian woman.
Soooooo, yeah. That was pretty much it. My hair chopped off and a beard growing on my face. I’ve been trying to look back and figure out what caused these cataclysmic events in my psyche and I can trace it back to one thing. This Facebook conversation with my friend, Jason:
I feel like my subconscious is trying to tell me something along the lines of “chillax you psychopath, beards do not make the man and emasculating men whenever you have the opportunity does not make you any more feminine!!!!!!” Or maybe I just spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about beards and this is what happens. Or maybe I feel hypocritical since, much to my dismay, very few of the men that I date ever have beards. Whatever the reason, I do think this conversation was a direct lead into that nightmare. Mystery solved. Or something.
I’m home now, finishing this blog entry, feeling like a fraud. Just a regular Thursday.
The girl who has a soft spot for the centipede family residing in her bathroom
When I was a little girl, I used to dream of growing up and becoming a drug addict. I’m not sure where this ambition came from. My family consists of strict non-addicts and all I watched as a child was Nick at Nite, Wishbone, and neighborhood children running from my house in terror. I was somewhat violent. No big deal.
But my desire for drug addiction was not as self-destructive as it may sound. I only sought it for the cinematic aspects – the shaking, the sweating, the twitching, the crying, the screaming, the gay bathroom sex…ok, so The Basketball Diaries
is my only frame of reference for drug addiction. Whatever. My point is, my desire for the dramatics of a life-ruining sickness led to many preteen hours spent over a sink, splashing water onto my face, slapping my cheeks and staring intensely at my own reflection before screaming and throwing a handful of loose Smarties at the mirror, only to panic and immediately grasp them all, shoving them into my mouth and swigging down a glass of water before collapsing onto the floor in tears of self-hatred. Yes, I have parents. Yes, they are great.
The disturbing part is that I never really grew out of this. Recently I’ve been drinking alone, not because I’m unhappy (although…I mean…yeahhhh) but because I like to cradle a wine glass in my hand as I tremble, ever-so-slightly, twirling long strands of pearls around my fingers, weeping silent tears, streaking puffy cheeks with mascara, as I sip from my glass and wonder where I went wrong in my career now that I am an aging alcoholic starlet. I vary the storyline from time to time, becoming energetic, flirtatious, and underwear clad as I traipse around my apartment with fake eye lashes, splashing wine all over myself, pretending to be Edie Sedgwick. I have yet to graduate to amphetamines. It’s only a matter of time.
But these are not lies. I actually do these things. I also have most conversations with my sister pretending to be a black pimp, conversations with my brother pretending to be a soul-less slightly retarded sorority girl, and conversations with myself pretending to be perfectly sane. Clearly I am none of these things.
I have found that my behavior is increasingly erratic when I live alone. When I live alone I am nothing short of a complete and utter mess, literally and psychologically. Last night I skipped back and forth down my hallway several times around 2:00 am. I’d love to know why. I really would.
I’d also like to know why I find this:
So much more attractive than this:
Any thoughts on the subject would be greatly appreciated.
The girl who still doesn’t understand how magnets work, despite her many attempts to find out