Category Archives: literary works of unparalleled genius
I know you think I lied to you. I know this is how you feel.
But it hasn’t been seven years. It’s been 2 weeks. Plus I wrote you every day for a month. So there’s that. Can we suck face now? Ok.
I’ve been at work for 1 hour and 44 minutes and all I have done so far is search for local you-pick blueberry farms (please note: as a lazy American there is a very good chance I will never follow through with doing this, but will instead spend December complaining about the fact that I can’t make a frozen blueberry smoothies or locate the United States on a map….whaaaaaatt????) and watch elephants taking baths on YouTube. I could feel bad about this, but seeing as my boss is painting her nails and watching Arrested Development on Netflix, I only feel like a slightfailure of the educational system. Plus nothing is more badass than an elephant taking a bath.
But I’ve had trouble with motivation lately. Perhaps it’s my 65 hour work week or the fact that the only thing that truly motivates me in life is my inner drive which apparently died the day I purchased a Roku, but I actually have a lot “in the works” I just can’t bring myself to do anything about it. For example, I am scheduled to take the GRE (graduate school admission test) in August and have received all of my study materials in the mail. But aside from rereading the flashcard for the word “apocryphal” and trying to determine which Dawson’s Creek episode I heard it in, I haven’t done so much as breathe in the same vicinity of my math tutoring book since purchasing it, which really is a problem since I can’t correctly do math even with a calculator. This is not an exaggeration.
I need to foster some creative energy. The good thing about the May Blogging Challenge was that I had to be borderline creative at least some point every day and since I am very much a deadline-driven person, the challenge of the challenge was actually quite fulfilling. But then June came and I catapulted into a feeling of depression and lack of life purpose like, if I’m not blogging about bugs crawling on my toothbrush, WHO AM I???, and WHERE DO I BELONG?, and WHAT COLOR IS MY PARACHUTE?
It’s been an existential crisis.
So I’m thinking in order to stronghold my creative potential I will have to develop a new project. I’ve been interested in establishing a greeting card line where I can capitalize not only on my deep understanding of human emotion, but also my strength as a phrasologist (not a real word).
Here is what I’ve come up with so far:
…cause Jews don’t celebrate Christmas.
IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE IRONIC!
I think I need to work on this.
Have a great day, lovebirds and otherwise unhappy single people of the world.
The girl contractually obligated to get a dragon tattoo
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
But things are changing rapidly and I’m still trying to figure out who the f*** moved my cheese. Human Resources professional in the house, yo!
I just lost half of my readers.
I would like to tell you all about my recent life changes, but I am 99% sure no one cares except for my parents who, by default can only get through about half of each blog entry before the obligation to remind me of how much of a disappointment I am kicks in. Haha, JK! (not really)
So instead I will sum it all up with this haiku, written with phrases taken verbatim from Google search terms used to find my blog:
The Girl with the Blog
Fat Woman Empty Wallet
Now let’s watch baby wood ducks bounce on their bellies!!!!!!
Aren’t you glad you read this blog?
The girl who abuses the first amendment
I once had a date at a Waffle House. I know what you’re thinking. Waffle House is the perfect mixture of class and trash, with the type of dreamy atmosphere only a true romantic like Scott Peterson could appreciate. Nevertheless, I was living in Tennessee where I knew few people and was somewhat desperate for any peer-to-peer interaction, outside of the confines of my apartment complex’s laundry room. I had been up all night, solitarily working through a bottle of wine and watching “Superbad” on FX for the second time in a row. So when “he”, we’ll call him Bernard , contacted me to see if I wanted to go out, my slightly inebriated self, agreed. We texted for awhile and determined that there are not many reputable establishments still open at 4am. So he suggested Waffle House.
We met around 4:30, where I had a single order of hash browns, and he a sausage concoction with a yellow substance, hardly recognizable as eggs. We laughed, we talked, he told me I was sassy, I told him he talked funny. Great times. But when the bill came, things got…awkward.
Discount-Dining with Bernard A Dramatic Scene
Stunningly, beautiful twenty-something woman, LENA sits at a booth, with below-average twenty-something man, BERNARD. They are laughing and flirting, enjoying their spontaneous date. STEREOTYPICAL SOUTHERN WAITRESS approaches.
STEREOTYPICAL SOUTHERN WAITRESS: Ya’ll best be payin’ this here bill. Ya’ll holler at me when ya’ll got ya’ll money ready, ya’ll.
In all of his Southern manliness, BERNARD grasps the bill. LENA begins to dramatically shuffle through her purse, making evident her lack of gold digger intentions, while pretending to search for her wallet.
LENA: How much is it?
LENA: Now that’s a cheap meal!
BERNARD, LENA, and CHORUS: Hahahahahahahahaha
Taking notice of BERNARD’s concentrated stare, LENA stops her phony search.
BERNARD: You got this right?
LENA: The bill?
LENA: Are you serious?
BERNARD: I don’t have any money on me.
BERNARD shrugs, as if on cue for a sitcom laugh track. But no laugh track comes, and the CHORUS is unresponsive.
LENA: What do you mean you don’t have any money?
BERNARD: I left my wallet in the car.
LENA: So you didn’t have to pay?
LENA visibly ponders her next move, scratching her chin, and squinting her eyes.
LENA: You said it’s in the car?
BERNARD: Yeah, but…
LENA: I’ll wait.
LENA crosses her arms and leans back in the booth. BERNARD stares at her, forehead wrinkled in shock. Awkward silence prevails, and LENA, in her lack of shame, allows it to continue in the direction of discomfort.
BERNARD: You have money right here. You really want me to go get it?
After another minute of increasingly uncomfortable eye contact, BERNARD sighs, angrily, and exits the restaurant. A minute later he returns and pays the bill. As BERNARD and LENA part ways he said he would call, she laughs, and they never speak again.
Now, to clarify. I am not the type of girl, who thinks a man always has to pay, though I do appreciate the tradition. I am however, the type of girl, who thinks a man who intentionally goes out of his way to avoid paying, is the type of man who should. I have never gone on a date without my wallet, with the assumption that the man will pay. But let’s face it, he always does. In fact, unless I insist on splitting it, I don’t think I have ever gone on a date where the guy didn’t insist on paying. My brother, a man, once told me to “take advantage of being a girl and enjoy free meals.” This is what I, and many girls, generally do.
However, today while sitting at a local bistro drinking a self-purchased coffee, I scoured a Yahoo Article about a woman who used match.com to secure enough dates, to pay for her meals for a month. My initial reaction was something like “damnnnn gurl, straight up trippin!” But after fifteen seconds of consideration, I was more like “dammn &*%$@#, straight up &*%$@#!!!!”
According to the article, the “woman” is receiving both praise and criticism for her sleazy, backhanded approach to personal finance. While as a woman, I can see the appeal of doing this, as a feminist who also happens to love men to a fault, I find it obnoxious and totally arrogant for the following reasons:
- Tradition is not an opportunity for freeloading. When a man pays for dinner, he is gambling on getting something in return, whether it be sex or just a second date. While you don’t necessarily owe him this just because he paid for dinner, it is understood that he isn’t paying so you can maintain your generic, twenty-something female lifestyle of weekly spray tanning and daily $8 Starbucks purchases.
- Tradition is not an opportunity to pay off debt. According to the article, this woman was a twenty-three year old New York City resident, with credit card debt and high rent. She developed this plan so she did not have to pay for meals and could pay off her debt sooner. While I appreciate her reasoning, I don’t appreciate the fact that she is leeching off of other people to do it. Though I have no qualms with actual prostitution (work it girl), I find this approach unapologetically scum-sucking. They are your bills. If you can’t pay your bills, get a second job. Don’t just give them in Olive Garden parking lots.
- Don’t use dating as a guise for your dinner whoredom. Call it what it is. If you are looking for a “sugar daddy” just say that. Don’t pretend you are dating. Don’t drag other people into it, with their baggage, financial troubles, and evident desperation for actually wanting to date you.
When it comes to dating, there aren’t many advantages of being a woman. Women are expected to look good all the time, with razor burn and waxed eyebrows, while pretending the biological clocks in our heads are not bombastically ticking in our ears anytime we have a decent conversation with a single man. It’s exhausting. Why must certain women deteriorate the only perk we still have? Nobody, without a serious fetish, enjoys being used. When women use men for money or free meals, it is no better than men using women for sex. You can’t praise one and criticize the other. The more men think they are being used for money, the less they are going to spend on us. This is a growing epidemic.
So ladies, before you start filling out excel spreadsheets of the poor suckers you plan to stealthily rip off, I ask you to consider this. What if it was your brother, friend, or funny uncle attempting to woo a woman who was only in it for the free breadsticks? Think about that.
The girl who wants more than free breadstricks
“If it weren’t for beards I’d probably be a lesbian.” -Lena aka the girl with the blog (November 2011)
Beards. What is there to say about beards that has not already been said by me in a previous blog entry? Plenty. So today I am devoting the English language and my blogging efforts to beards. Why? Because I’m bored, unemployed, and considering taking testosterone injections just to have my own to play with. Join me on a journey of love, lust, and rabid devotion to the beard; the single characteristic responsible for my checkered past of dating Republicans.
In order to prepare you, dear readers, for the stimulating voyage of beard worship, I am going to share a few of my own, creative writings about beards, featured in my upcoming self-published literary debut “Strip down, you’re rocking a beard,” available now in my imagination.
I will start with two Insightful Acronyms Marking Profound Appreciation Toward Helping Erotic Traits Indefinitely Continue (IAMPATHETIC)
Right, right? Not even a little creepy that I wrote these…eh hem.
I shall continue now with two traditional Haikus:
Whiskers in the Wind
Scratchy facial pubes
Bushy sexy jawlines please
Destroy all razors now
I’m in Stubble
Boring dates with nice goatees
Poor romantic choices
Now that I have sufficiently roused your shared passion of beards and frightened you to your core, I shall move on. Let’s take a look at:
Famously, Fabulous Beards Throughout History:
No one rocked a beard better than humanity’s common perception of early man. With that ravenous, facial frock, it’s no wonder cavemen and women hardly kept their clothes on.
Jesus didn’t ‘eff around when it came to his beard. His constant access to fruity alcohol beverages wasn’t the only reason he was known as the LL Cool J of Nazarath.
(Ladies Love Cool Jesus, suckers!)
It wasn’t just his tall frame and “come hither” stare that drove the 1860 Electoral delegates into a passionate frenzy. It is a little known fact that after Abe’s 1865 assassination, Congress organized two memorial services in his honor; one for him, one for the beard.
Often referred to as”the quiet Beatle” George Harrison and his beard are the main reason I refer to him as “the sexiest Beatle.” I am so into his “Concert of Bangladesh” look, I found myself *gasp* waiting for Bob Dylan’s part to end, just to indulge on more of Georgie boy’s luscious facial locks. Myyyy Sweeeeet Lord!
Tom Hanks knows how to sport a beard. He does a lot, frequently when vying for an Oscar. All I can say is this: Forest was a mentally challenged running enthusiast who scored a slutty chick like Jenny. One might question, how he could pull off such a feat? Exhibit A: Bearding out all over the place. And then we have Cast Away. Don’t know the character’s name, don’t care. What I do care about is his ability to manifest a loving relationship with an inanimate object. That takes a lot of finesse. A lot of skill. You know what else? A lot of beard.
Hope for a Bearded Future
As you can see, beards, both modest and unruly, have been a constant feature sexyifying men since the beginning of time. But as a young woman in 2011, I fear for the future of beards. With the constant feminizing of men, with chest waxing, mani-pedi specials, and bathing, I fear that men will rapidly decrease their beard harboring. Frankly I don’t know if I want to bring my children into a world of baby-faced men, and if I can’t find an impressive enough beard, I probably won’t have the opportunity to!
So as a last stitch effort to promote the importance of beards, I ask all of you readers, who support my unhealthy obsession, to stand up now. If we are going to put an end to the fading popularity of the beard, everyone needs to chip in. Start by sharing this blog post with all of the non-believers of the world, promoting the conservation of the beard. If you know beardless men, particularly young ones in their 20’s, belittle their bare-face until they cry, followed by mockery of their tears and the reassurance that only growing a beard can secure their manhood once again. Do your part. I will do mine. And we can ring in 2012 with hairy faces and happy hearts.
The girl in need of psychiatric evaluation
Who: Me, starring as a carefree party animal of today and classy professional woman of tomorrow
Where: Hip/young apartment complex in middle Tennessee
When: Standing still, if only for a moment while I live my young life to the fullest – eh hem, night
With fervor for life and a carefully composed “sext” in draft waiting to be sent to my puka-shell wearing love interest Brett, I jaunted through the door of the on-site laundry facilities at my hip/young apartment complex, and out into my oyster world. Mesh pop-up hamper in hand, because I’m far too youthful to be dragged down by some dowdy wicker basket, I was met by the overwhelming certainty that it is only when you are young and borderline-attractive, that life is worth living.
Just as my mental focus shifted from thoughts of gin body shots to how to get the perfect Snooky poof, the scent of Downy April Fresh dryer sheets permeated by nostrils. Overwhelming to my senses, I feared I might trip over my toe ring and scrape my fresh spray tan on the hip/young pavement outside the building. Utilizing chic yoga breathing methods I regained my
balance. Carefree and reckless, I shrugged the incident off with a giggling sigh. Silly, me. Just enjoying my youth too much!
As I skipped back to my apartment, limber in limbs and life, I felt a slight tickling sensation in my left nostril. The scent of Downy had not run away with my dreams and wild imagination, but had instead initiated some sort of Rave in my nose. Always ready for a party, I welcomed the sensation with a double-handed finger heart formation, and began to think of all the positive, life-affirming tweets I could send to my peeps when I finally returned to my iPad.
But as I took my first step onto the
sidewalk outside of my building, the Downy took over me like the recreational line of coke I did earlier with my friend, Bella. Suddenly my body was in the hands of God, my muscles tensing, and my eyes closing, unable to avoid the inevitable.
What just happened?
I stood still on the pavement in a silent terror, the only sound my Katy Perry ringtone indicating the start of the newest episode of Jersey Shore. But I could focus on “the shore” no more. There was wetness. A minimal, miniscule, barely noticeable feeling of wetness. Had I…? I looked down at my terry cloth shorts. I couldn’t have…
Anxious, I rushed into my apartment, dropping my keys and running to the bathroom. I pulled my leopard-print thong down to my knees, revealing not only my stunning bikini wax, but a slight trace of urine on the white padding of my panties.
“Well, ‘you’re-in’ trouble now, generic Generation Y-er,” I whispered, dramatically to myself. “Today you are, as they say, 23 going on 90.”
The girl who wants to dance with no pants on, Holla!
I can’t write. No seriously. Everything that I type has the overwhelming stench of failure permeating around it. I’m not used to this. Normally I write things of biblical showmanship and long term importance. Not today. Today is like the Old Testament, washed up and irrelevant, not to mention a serious downer. Lighten up, peeps. Check it.
I’m thinking perhaps it is the venue at which I am “writing.” Back in Pennsylvania there is this bistro, (please note: “bistro” is actually in the name of the business. I am not enough of a hipster to use that word on my own, and I’m not cultured enough to know what it means) that has free Wi-Fi and really fantastic kettle-cooked chips. I frequented it regularly, composing soul-seducing prose of global significance. Or flirtatious haikus for my online boyfriends. Whatever. Point is, that was an excellent location for me to get my freak on, from a literary stand point.
Now that I have moved to Tennessee I have been on the hunt for a similar location. For awhile I was spending time at this independent coffee house called Jozlaowerokjaskdljfkjwsw, or some J-word I can’t spell. But I was tired of paying $2.50 for a coffee just to use their sub par internet service. So I have come to use Panera Bread, where I can surf for free and make imaginary love to all the bearded men that spend time there.
Things started out great. I was dazzled by the low-fat smoothies and perfectly reliable appearance of Sexy Bearded Gents (SBG). But today, while sitting in the PB I find myself dumbfounded, unable to produce a single sentence worthy of my 3.5 daily readers.
What has happened to my charming wit and non-cliché turn of phrase? I fear I may have driven away my own creative thoughts by watching too many episodes of “Ice Loves Coco” and binge eating orange freeze pops. I am going to ponder this for the next 22 minutes, allowing time for the ovulation of my creativity to hopefully result in something as entertaining as watching two dragonflies get jiggy with it while hovering over the driver’s door handle of my car. I waited a good 2 ½ minutes before swatting them away. In my experience, that is more than enough time.
The girl who in a past life was a dragon fly
I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. Pennsylvania is basically the deep south of the north. For this reason, one would assume my recent relocation to Tennessee would be as easy a transition as switching from regular to lite mayonnaise. But since I am alone in my insistence that regular mayonnaise is the only mayonnaise option and lite tastes like ground up rat testicles, I will also insist, that this transition has not been easy.
The move has been a welcoming experience at best, and a padlocked, electric fenced sauna at worst. Everyone here is nice. All the time. No really, ALL the time. Milfy grandmother types come out of the woodwork while I’m walking down the street just to compliment my outfit. Children say “sir” and “ma’am” to anyone over 3 feet tall. But most importantly, I have yet to see one of those hanging rubber ball sacks so many of my male peers attach to their rear bumpers, in their chivalrous attempts to attract wife material and settle down. Though I do expect a sighting any day now.
Gas prices are lower and Sabra Hummus is cheaper ($2.99/container, suck on that Mason Dixon Line!), so I’m sure you are wondering what could possibly be the problem with my newfound Utopian lifestyle. Allow me to explain.
Mosquitoes are a summertime staple, I get that. But in my first week in Tennessee I counted 726 separate Mosquitoes bites on my mangled body. Or something more realistic. The exact amount is unimportant. What matters it that it was an all around bad time. I itched, I scratched, I took steel wool to the calf, but nothing. There was no relief to be had. But on the upside my painful itching was met by adorable gingerbread-man shaped scabs. Could they be friendlier? Well sure. But more charming? I think not!
Aside from my new skin-dwelling companions, my only major issue has been dealing with the heat. The air is thick, the heat is palpable. There is no escape from the 100+ degree weather I am being so rudely subjected to. These conditions have inspired angst, suicidal thoughts, and the following poem.
Burning: My Fiery Displeasure with the Tennessee Heat
By: The girl with sweat stained undergarments
I am burning
Every inch of my skin
Shriveled and red
From my three minute mailbox excursion
I am burning
Like the unfiltered urine
Of an actress in porn
After filming a twelve person orgy
I am burning
With the intense loathing I feel
For a heat no less brutal
Than a botched medieval abortion
I am burning
This seat buckle branding
Leaves permanent scars
I answer now only to “Ford”
I am burning
Leaving deep pools of sweat
On the leather car seats
Only Southern swamp ass destroys
I am burning
With regret as painful
And discomfort far exceeding
The chafed privates of a twelve year old boy
Despite my irrational sentiments, I have faith that over time either one of two things will happen. I will either:
A. Grow accustomed to these extreme conditions and later refer to this experience as a character-building tool much akin to walking 20 miles in the snow to get to school, or spending an afternoon watching Mob Wives.
Here’s hoping for option A.
The girl with evaporated tears