Monthly Archives: February 2013
When I was 8 years old I went to Washington D.C. for the first time. My only memories of the trip were $3 bottles of water, huge Lincoln knees, and first-time thigh chafing. Obviously, it made quite the impact.
Despite my love/hate relationship with politics I have never returned to D.C. as an adult. This weekend I have a great reason.
Sunday, February 17, 2013 will be the largest climate rally in history. Thousands of protesters around the country are joining together in downtown Washington to protest the Keystone XL Pipeline currently awaiting final legislation from President Obama. The Keystone XL Pipeline is a project designed by Trans-Canada to transfer crude oil throughout Canada and the United States all the way down to the Southern border. This damages the global environment not only by the increased use of oil, but it will threaten the very need and development of renewable clean energy that could help reduce green house gasses and global warming. But on a local level it is equally frightening, with water sources poisoned during pipe leaks, causing disease and death in thousands of individuals affected by the seizing of land by government and private corporations to force this project through.
But rather than preach to you about the pros and cons of the pipeline, I invite you to read up on it, learn about it, and decide for yourself what to believe. Should you determine for yourself that corporate interests are not worth continued destruction of the environment join me at the rally! I will be there with my able-bearded bodied man along with thousands of other people. If you are so inclined, send me an email firstname.lastname@example.org
The girl who hopes to see you there
Links to check out!
“All I get are dicks. Nobody needs this many dicks in their life.”
-This is something I just said out loud. A nice reminder that the world is better when not taken literally.
Today while at work I reviewed the contents of two 5 year old flashdrives and one 4 year old external hard drive. Because I need something to do between people hanging up on me and hexing my first born. Along with a plethora of rhyme-heavy wrist-cutting poetry, pictures of Penelope Cruz (?), and tear-filled letters to my ex-husband I found three photographs that perfectly depict my clumsy transition into adulthood, ages 16-18.
1. (age 16, summer before senior year)
I was very into looking homeless, when I was in high school.
Like a homeless hunchbacked hippy.
With a huge rack.
2. Age 17 (Senior week, Ocean City, MD)
I…I can’t even talk about this.
3. 18 (Alternative Spring Break – Assateague Island, Maryland)
This is how I spent my freshman spring break. While my peers were doing body shots off of each other’s herpes scabs, I was logrolling down a sand dune. That’s me in the green. Don’t worry. I’m not pregnant. I just look that way sometimes.
That’s all I have to offer you right now. I’m in a funk de misery (not real French) with zero energy or desire to do anything but sit and stew in my own lack of motivation. It could have something to do with the mammoth storm pummeling the east coast and the fact that I work at the only school in a 4,000 mile radius of the storm that isn’t closing (not real figures). Or maybe that for the first time in my life, I referred to someone younger than me as “dear” during a phone call.
Either way I’m getting old. So old. We all are. All of us 80’s babies. These pictures coupled with this pop culture conversation prove how irrelevent we all are:
Me: But you do know who the Spice Girls are, right?
Him: Yeah. Beyonce and those two other chicks.
Even our memories are going. It’s sad. So so sad.
The girl no one believes when she tells them about her rape whistle. But it’s real. Very, very real.
After 3 hours of Intervention, half of The Big Lebowski, and 2 more hours of Intervention, I fell asleep last night at 10:30, face down in the free Red Cross t-shirt I got for attempting to donate blood they ultimately rejected, as my able-bearded bodied man (who desperately needs a nickname less than 7 syllables) sat alone in the other room, likely asking himself why he ever bothered to move in. I personally believe he did, so I could have early morning conversations like this:
Me: (waking up, panicked) What time is it?
Him: (startled, disoriented) It’s 4 hours for each plant.
Me: (checks phone) It’s 6:53
I definitely find this funnier than it actually is.
Kind of like how he feels about The Big Lebowski.
The girl with the Dragon Tales tattoo