Category Archives: life lessons I never wanted to learn

No Facebook February

February 2013 is “No Facebook February.” Or so I have declared it.

I have been using Facebook to replace real friendships since the spring of 2006, as a senior in high school.

It followed me to college where I be-”friended” the entire University baseball team and weird Renaissance Club kids I never had any actual interest in talking to but was too nice and desperate for a larger friend count, to deny.

I graduated from college and recorded the downfall of my “too-young-and-too-stupid-to-tell-the-difference-between-first-love-and-husband-material” marriage for two years; posting wedding photos, deleting wedding photos, quoting Bob Dylan lyrics, and depression-weight loss pictures.

Following up on that stellar life decision, I moved to Tennessee and used Facebook to screen romantic prospects, which didn’t help much when I was sitting in my living room with a drug addict musician whose only criteria for passing my Facebook screening was “liking” The Allman Brothers, revealed his recent release from a mental institution.

Moving back to Pennsylvania, Facebook kept me company as I bummed it on my mother’s couch for two months before getting a part-time job. It also continued to remind me of the incredible failure I am to the social advancements of the human race, with my lack of interest in interacting with anyone outside of a 2×2, blue and white chatbox.

It kept me relevant in random bar friendships, cultivated from my singular bar outing in 2012, when I moved to a new apartment, in a new town, where I had no friends, and no life plan beyond online dating and drinking alone.

But it lost its relevance when I fell in love with my able-bearded bodied man whose presence helped remind me of the value that could be contrived from life when real relationships were a larger focus than 2-dimensional cyber stalking.

Still it’s taken 7 months for me to stronghold the desire to break my Facebook habit, for me to actually do it. And even now I can only commit to a No Facebook February and not a No Facebook Life. I can only explain it with haphazard math that probably means nothing, but has to mean something, if you really think about it.

I have been on Facebook almost every single day for 7 years. I visit Facebook, admittedly, more than I visit my father, mother, brother, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, or toilet, combined, each day. If I’m keeping it real, maybe 15 times a day, adding up to approximately 3 hours each day, give or take a few. Now here’s the (estimated) math that gives me ulcers:

7 years x 365 = 2,555 days on Facebook
2,555 days x 15 visits to Facebook per day = 38,325 visits since I started



Which ultimately means:
2,555 days x 3 hours a day = 7,665 hours on Facebook

Which further means that over my last 7 years of life, I have spent 319 days on Facebook, which is easily the most depressing, stupidest decision, I have ever made in my life. And the worst part is?

I have NOTHING to show for it.




For the naysayers, the nonbelievers, the bored readers who tuned out when I started doing math. If you are a Facebook user, I encourage you to do the math on your own Facebook life.
I then invite you to take the No Facebook February Challenge with me.

Drink the Kool-Aid. Drink it down.

Drink the Kool-Aid. Drink it down.

I started 4 hours ago and it’s been interesting. I have already had to deny myself Facebook log-in three time. It’s been brutal.

So to entertain myself I’ve been coming up with band names for the indie/punk/emo/folk-rock group I’m starting as soon as I get fired and learn to play the ukulele. This is what I’ve got:


Stench of Saliva
Ted Bundy’s Mother
The Waffle House Whores
Asian Impregnation
Chest Day Motivational

Rock n’ Roll.


The girl who maintains that the world would be a better place if candles were edible

“Why I Hate Answering the Phone”: A Story About Work

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.36jq6y

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


Overcoming those “brown streaks of greasy lard hardened to the bottom of my crock pot” People in Life

A few months ago my sink was leaking. I asked my landlord to fix it, but he was too busy not replacing the bathroom door that is too big for the frame and fooling the zoning board into believing my apartment is large enough for safe occupancy, to get to it. So I ignored the problem and stuck the ceramic insert of my crock pot underneath the leak.

This was months ago.

The leak has since been fixed by the able-bodied, bearded man who lives there 3 days a week. But the crock pot remains, surrounded by discarded by plastic shopping bags and kitchen utensils the crack-dealing tenant who previously inhabited my apartment left behind, and I never threw away, out of either respect or laziness but probably apathy. That’s how unsanitary I am.

So now the watery animal fat residue that once filled the pot has evaporated leaving nothing but a few brown streaks of greasy lard, hardened to the bottom of the formerly useful cookware, that has since been condemned.

It’s magnificent.1204122132


There are moments in life when I feel like humanity, at its best, is no better than the brown streaks of greasy lard hardened to the bottom of my crock pot, resting peacefully beneath the sink. Like when media-induced pregnancy terms (see what I did there?) turn trendy, and fully-functioning intelligent people start saying things like “preggers” and “baby bump.” Like when children dress like hookers prowling stage corners in Southern gymnasiums waiting to be judged by a panel of adults and a near empty room and TLC broadcasts it calling it “reality” TV. Like when I’m met with the realization that there might be people like this that actually exist.


I think you get my point.

Today at work, the able-bodied, bearded man sent me a link of an article on Huffington Post about  New York Post’s most recent cover story, and I was reminded of these feelings.  If you aren’t completely dead inside, you may want to cover your eyes:


Being that I’m not dead inside, looking at this completely horrified me.

The very existence of this photograph, not to mention its publication seems to prove my previous statement to be completely true. Humanity is no better than the brown streaks of greasy lard hardened to the bottom of my crock pot.

1. How could a person(among others) stand by long enough to take a photograph and not stop to help the man in need?

2. How could a person use this photograph of someone else’s last moments to further themselves by having it printed by a major publication?

3. How can enough editors at that major publication come to the joint conclusion that printing this is acceptable?

I don’t get why we as a race feed on the destruction of our own. I used to believe this resulted from some sort of conditioning we undergo by exposure to the ultra violent mainstream media that closer resembles Quentin Tarantino storyboards than legitimate journalism. But from the Colosseum, to public hangings, to CNN video clips of soldiers being beheaded, the only thing I can conclude is that this sickening voyeuristic need humans have to continue diminishing the value of their own lives by diminishing the valviolenceue of others, is somehow natural. Though it has been tempered by Western culture, it is prevalent enough to allow individuals privileged enough to land jobs at major publications, to collectively agree that this sort of thing is ok.

So, is it okay?

No. At least I don’t think so. Although history has proven that it is somehow common for humans to behave this way, I still believe it is only natural to some people. Like drug addiction or bad taste in music.

Even so, the rest of us are very stupid creatures. We continue to find shock value in the same things. We continue to reinvent political correctness instead of questioning why we have to reinvent it at all. In the case of this story, I know there will be backlash and anger and New York Magazine may lose sponsors or pull copies, who knows. But in the age of the Internet, what good will that do? The story is out there. The picture is out there. And as long as it’s there, we will bring attention to it. Like I am right now.

What we need to do is redirect our attention from the scum-sucking backwash of failed humanity, to the astounding ways humanity has and will continue to flourish. We need to forcibly detach ourselves from the things and people no better than the brown streaks of greasy lard hardened to the bottom of my crock pot, and do good. Be good. Promote good in ourselves and in each other. It won’t change things. Bad things will always happen and those people will always be their to exploit them. But they don’t have to exploit us.


The girl who means everything she says, despite the fact that she has no intentions of cleaning her crock pot.

At all.

***Though I could write a book on how strongly she detests the New Yorker after this but would rather try to keep it short and divert your attention to this.


Memoirs of an A-Hole

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.”

Stylin’ yo

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”


“Give Me a Wink and an Abused Orphan”: A Recollection of Work Nights and Nightmares

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:

“Stupid bitch…”

Ok, well not that. I meant this:

I have no idea why I put this in a scroll…


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.”

I’m sorry.

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…

my hair…


cut off!!!!

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.

Google search: Orphans with bad hair


But then something much worse happened. I was looking closely at my face…

And my chin…

Was growing…

A beard!!!

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.

So yeah.

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

Why I Suck At Being a Young Person

I suck at being a young person.

Today I tried. Here’s what happened.  

This afternoon I went shopping. I needed to buy a lot of really important things with exactly ZERO dollars.  Soooooo I went to the record store. The record store I am referring to is a phenomenally well-priced, well-stocked, used media pawn shop version of heaven where I hope to conceive my future children. Going there is not why I suck at being a young person.

There were a lot of young people there. Mostly boys with checkered shoes and stupid haircuts looking at used cds and video games. But I, the only female that has probably ever been within 100 yards of the building, spent my entire 30 minutes there hunched in the corner of the room next to a 60 year old man with a pony tail and flannel shirt, scouring folk and blues vinyl records no one else will probably buy. This is why I suck at being a young person. It’s just like how every time I attend a concert alone because no one I know listens to the music I like, I end up befriending some elderly person with liver spots, who I have more in common with than 90% of my peers. This is not a real statistic. I made it up. Don’t hate.

This entire concept makes me very uncomfortable

So after spending $56 of the $100 I had actually set aside for clothing, I left and went to the mall where I could simultaneously buy cheap dresses and have my soul physically extracted by means of consumerist-driven centrifugal force. JK, I LOVE SHOPPING!!!!!!!!!!!!

Did I mention that I also suck at being a female? No? Ok.

So here’s another reason I suck at being young and at being female. The shopping itself went fine. Things that made me look fat, I put back. Things that made me look less fat, I bought. I’m not sure why girls need a horde of acquaintances to figure this out. If a dress makes you look like you could prevent a plane from takeoff, you probably shouldn’t buy it. Anyway. After buying some clothing, I went to Sephora determined to buy something that proved my youthful femaleness once and for all. But after twenty minutes of searching and physically rejecting the prices by way of dry heaves, I left, disgusted and happy I spent $56 on records instead of on one bottle of shampoo. This is not an exaggeration. I did not make this up.

I spent the rest of the night in my apartment, cleaning, listening to records, and growing increasingly aware of my lack of friends. It’s not like I’m completely friendless. I’m not Heidi Montag. I just don’t have a great amount of friends in a local proximity who I have much in common with.  So I decided instead of shimmying alone to John Lee Hooker and chatting with distant friends online, I should attempt to go out. This is where I really suck at being a young person.

I have no idea how to “go out.” I’m not even sure what that means. I’m pretty sure it involves bars and shitty music and body shots, but since my only understanding of contemporary social gatherings comes from watching Jersey Shore alone, I’m probably wrong. Nevertheless, the entire concept of going out intimidates me for the following reasons:

  1. I don’t know how to order a drink. I once tried to order a glass of wine at a restaurant and when the waiter asked me what kind I wanted my exact reply was, “like, I don’t know. Red?” Then he proceeded to card me and remind me that 17 year olds aren’t old enough to buy alcohol. So if I were to go out and drink, the only way I would even have a drink in my hand is if someone else ordered it for me. And if someone else ordered it for me, I’d absolutely assume it was roofied.
  2. I don’t know how to dress. I always think I do, but I don’t. Then I start judging everyone else for dressing badly, when really I’m the one who should not be wearing tights in 80 degree weather.
  3. I get neurotically focused on knowing where the bathroom is. Like, I can’t enter an establishment and just start socializing like a normal person. My first thought is that I must find out where the bathroom is, because frankly I’d rather spend the evening completely alone than get lost on my way to the bathroom and end up in the backseat of some guys van.
  4. I know I won’t enjoy myself. I realize this is not the mindset I should have going into going out, but it’s true. Because honestly, even though I am a very open-minded person, my greatest idea of a good time is sitting on my living room floor with a few friends and acquaintances, listening to records, doing absolutely NOTHING illegal, and talking about how it makes us feel. So if I’m with people who would rather be out than doing that, then I’m not going to enjoy myself.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I suck at being a young person.


The girl who “wants to be bad but doesn’t know how”

She Blinded Me With Science!!!…and a Day Off

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:

  1. Sew pillows for my couch  Learn how to sew
  2. Break my sewing machine
  3.  Cut myself   Shave my legs
  4. Write something good decent
  5.  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)

An absolutely understandable reaction to an old man screaming “science”

An absolutely acceptable reaction to scoring in croquet

An absolutely normal group of old men dancing with canes for no reasons

An absolutely fantastic way to end a video: pushing an old man in a wheelchair into a lake

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.

No Furniture, Internet, or Dignity in this Apartment!!!

It’s unbelievable the lengths I will go to for this blog. It’s like, I’m the guy in “Oops I did it again” who was so into Britney that he “went down and got it for her” in a surprisingly non-dirty act of romance. But instead of a dude swimming to the bottom of the Atlantic to retrieve a piece of gaudy costume jewelry, I’m a girl who doesn’t have the internet and had to go to a local grocery store to pick up Wi-Fi. So you can see the resemblance.

“It’s Britney, Bitch”

I moved into my apartment today. So far it’s been a train wreck. Well, not a train wreck. More like a plane landing on the Hudson, only slightly less heroic. Mostly because I have no furniture, but 19 posters of Bob Dylan. I’m making it work.

To give you some perspective on what I’m dealing with here, I have generously included 2 diagrammed pictures of my current living situation:




Ok, so it was a slight exaggeration to say I have NO furniture, but the furniture I do have is barely relevant to survival so really I might as well have not have any.

Nevertheless, this is my life. My internet-less, cable-less, often window-less life, and I am digging it like whoa to be perfectly honest. Now, since the only thing I’ve consumed for the last several hours has been Fanta Orange Juice and pretzel rods, I am going to buy some groceries. Then I’m going to go to Wal-Mart and try not to hang myself. Then I’m going to go back to my apartment and continue tacking flat double-bed sheets to my walls in lieu of tapestries.

Yeah, that’s right. Be jealous…

No one else is :/


The girl who did NOT have sexual relations with that woman!!!

…to her recollection…

“Me and My Tit Arm”: A Story of Cell Phone Abuse

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 the worst. Particularly in romance.

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

Craig’s Gonna List My Power Trip

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 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:

“It’s Craigslist.ORG”

ORG. Short for orgy or chemical-free fruit. Unsettling enough, my next thought was even worse:

A completely unrelated image to highlight the purposelessness of this entry

“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