Category Archives: life lessons I never wanted to learn
Dear erratic possibly-possessed, asshole who called me today at work just to scream at me for 20 minutes (also known as Tom Johnston),
Thank you. I have been waiting for a reason to cry at work for months now, but I could never find one. I don’t know what I would have had to do if you hadn’t been transferred to my desk to interrupt my pleasant mood with your ill-conceived attempt at being a human being. Thrown myself down a flight of stairs? Stapled my face? Nope. Didn’t have to. Your phone call made tears possible without self-mutilation, and I thank you for that.
I want you to know, that I appreciate all that you bring to the world. Your problems are my fault, really. I’m sorry I ever doubted the role I played in your 46 years of misery on this planet. Clearly if I could sacrifice my entire existence for one moment of your happiness, I would, but I am certain it would never be enough. So I’d like to apologize to you for your life.
I’m sorry. Truly I am. I am sorry that a GED has only earned you $150,000 working on Wall Street, (although a terrible fate for a high school drop-out, this could explain a lot about the downfall of the American economy). I am sorry that your son, the consumer of my company’s product, could not talk to you openly about his decision to purchase it. You are after all, such a warm and sensitive man. Any child would be poorly lacking without you in their life.
But mostly, sir, I feel sorry for you. There, I said it. Because after I stopped crying and your intrusive phone call stopped replaying in my head, I went back to being me, and you are stuck being you, an overpaid, nasty, rapid baboon of a person, whose personal life is so out of reach your only solace is to interject 20 minutes of unprecedented rudeness into another person’s life, via telephone calls. I may make a quarter of what you make, with double the education, but I’m far better off than you’ll ever be.
Plus you’re a raging c***.
The girl too stubborn to hang up, too sensitive to brush it off
By now I think it is clear that I am not doing a post-a-day October. I lied to you all. I didn’t even try.
This very fact, coupled with the rest of my life, has reminded me that I am sort of an asshole. I am not saying this to be adorable or self deprecating, like when I talk about how fat I am or my confusion about how anyone can love me. I’m being straight with you. Like Anderson Cooper. Until he wasn’t.
See, I have been struggling with my asshole tendencies for years. When I was in 4thgrade my family relocated to a new school. As I hugged my old friends goodbye, taking pictures on a disposable camera I would never develop, they gave me their phone numbers and cried and asked that we keep in touch, to which I enthusiastically agreed. But as we embraced, the thought quite distinctly crossed my mind, “I will never talk to you again. Have a nice life. I want my troll ring back.”
Now don’t get me wrong. I have made strides to cushion my assholeness. I have mastered the great first impression; smiling a lot, listening well, wearing clothing that deemphasizes my love handles. But therein lies the problem! I may seem like your regular socially gifted, well-endowed, appropriately humored (sometimes), master of all would-be awkward things were I not so fantastic at being alive, but in reality I am a socially-awkward fat kid, disguising my flaws as endearing qualities in order to make people like me, until I am certain they do and can officially stop talking to them. Again, not being self-deprecating. Just keeping it real. Like JLo. Until she wasn’t.
But it seems the older I get, the bigger asshole I become. For example. One day about 9 months ago I logged into Facebook to find that 10-15 people were celebrating their birthdays. Ridiculous. After mulling over each person’s name and determining that I just don’t care enough, I proceeded to incinerate that mental note with my red hot laziness and go back to cyber stalking the elementary school classmates I never put the effort into speaking to again. This was almost a year ago, but has now become a habit. A bad habit. Now I don’t even say Happy Birthday to people I actually want to say Happy Birthday to. It’s like, I’m afraid if I do, people will know I am capable of doing it and will therefore take it personally when I ultimately determine that they are not worth the time. So I instead choose to ignore everyone so no one can take it personally, but everyone can think I’m an asshole.
I wish this was only limited to empty Facebook interactions, but it’s not. I don’t email people back. I ignore text messages, tweets, voicemails, BLOG COMMENTS. I don’t deserve the attention. I don’t deserve the affection or the friendship. But I will continue to take it until you stop wanting to give it. Then I will ninja my way back into your life and make you love me, or miss me, or need me in some way, before vanishing once again into the abyss of social networking that ironically decreases my ability to be social or network.
So I just wanted to write this blog entry so every one of my blog readers, Facebook stalkers, and disappointed relatives can have some form of validation from me and know that despite my actions, I DO care about you. I DO appreciate when you take the time to contact me. My actions may not prove it, but my words verify it. And we all know that shit’s real.
The girl who calls her boyfriend “button”
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
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.
So I’m thinking I might detonate my cell phone. Every time I wear clothing without pockets and realize I have nowhere to put my cell phone, I feel incredibly unsettled with my person hood. As if I grew a third arm between my tits that I suddenly have to find a way to manage. That’s how I feel when I have a cell phone and no pockets. Like I have an arm between my tits. Awkward, lumpy, displaced. I end up thinking to myself, “why don’t I just cut off this tit arm? It’s ugly and a liability while driving. No one needs this kind of tit arm upset in their life!” I think it. I acknowledge it. Yet each night, when I go to bed I have to be careful not to crush my tit arm.
But even on my most pocketed of days, I often find myself wondering how much happier I would be without a cell phone. A cell phone is a stress-inducing parasite. It is an obnoxious, embarrassing, unpredictable force residing deep within our pockets, like a Fran Drescher gnome, always waiting to explode into a fit of noise so unbearable we have no choice but to interrupt all other activities to make it stop. And after minimal conditioning where we accept the presence of “the nanny in our pants” we become obsessed with it. We hear phantom ringtones, feel phantom vibrations, checking our cell phones whenever we go more than 30 minutes without receiving a call or text. “Maybe it’s malfunctioning? Maybe I don’t have good service. Oh, wait it’s probably just on silent!”
Because what are cell phones aside from the constant reminder that yes, we are connected with the world and no, no one in the world cares? When you have a cell phone, you are available all day every day. So when you go a few hours without receiving a phone call or a text message you start to evaluate your worth as a human being and long-term relevance to the universe. It’s only natural. If you were sitting in a room with another person and that other person wasn’t talking to you, you’d be offended. Same goes with cell phones. If you know someone has the ability to talk to you but is choosing not to, it starts to diminish your feelings of self-importance. Because the (very) unfortunate truth is that cell phones are the umbilical cord between insecure people and the rest of the world, constantly feeding the need for love and attention by allowing meaningless interaction with others, while ironically, diminishing the actual connection between those very people.
Text messages are like the one night stands of communication. They are quick, easy, and allow two people to maintain some sort of “relationship” without ever having to actually speak to one another. They require such a minimal level of effort, that even someone you would not otherwise maintain any type of communication with, can suddenly become your soul mate. It increases the quantity of contact, but diminishes the quality. As the saying goes “picture messages of baby squirrels playing in a courtyard, does not a relationship make.”
But then you have the flipside where it is undeniable that texting is easy and convenient. Everyone knows this. Therefore when you are not receiving a text from someone, you can’t help but assume they don’t care to talk to you. Text messaging not only increases expectation, but it actually creates expectation where expectations otherwise wouldn’t exist.
This is one of many miniscule problems in my life along with maintaining a weekly budget and trying to decide which side of the Q-tip I should use first. It’s not a real problem. I don’t need advice on how to handle it. I know what I need to do.
If I ever want a legitimate relationship, with a real live voice on the other end of the phone, I need to stop high-fiving my tit arm and accept the fact that feeding into the trends of modern communication never helped anyone.
Not even Roosevelt.
The girl overwhelmed with desire to hibernate
This isn’t a real blog entry. I just have something that must be said.
Today while frittering away my youth on the Internet I came to a profound realization. Every time I decide I want to browse ads for free Beagle puppies and hand jobs, I go to Craigslist. Every time I do this I type www.craigslist.com into the browser box. It never disappoints.
But today as I pounded each letter of the URL into the browser box in deliberate slow motion I had a thought:
ORG. Short for orgy or chemical-free fruit. Unsettling enough, my next thought was even worse:
“I don’t care.”
Click. Boom. The website soon appeared with its .com fraudulency and I was left feeling pretty pleased with myself. Take that Craig. I just made you my bitch.
But then I realized that somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew .com wasn’t right. I knew I was openly defying Craig and I kept doing it anyway.
Then I got depressed.
What kind of pathetic human being intentionally uses standard domain redirecting to make themselves feel powerful?
“Powerful,” you ask? Yes, powerful.
I felt like Napolean minus the complex; Achilles minus the heel, Tara Reid minus the shitty boob job.
Moral of the story:
I need more to do at work
The girl with an ass that quits