Posted by thegirlwiththeblog
It is January 27 and I still have yet to start any of my New Year’s Resolutions. I’d like to say it’s because I am too busy, which I often feel I am, but since I managed to devote 15 minutes today trying to learn how to finger whistle, and over an hour researching strange facts about cows, my argument is sort of beat to shit, for lack of a better term.
Therefore I have decided to restart 2012 on February 1. I’d like to commemorate 2011 and all its 13 months of glory, with a blog entry depicting its brilliance with photographs taken throughout the year. Since I can’t own an electronic without breaking it in a very dramatic and embarrassing fashion, my cell phone has been my primary photographic tool. Aside from countless pictures of my butt, in various pairs of pants, my cell phone is actually filled with some photographic gems. So I have decided to use a sampling of those and can only hope by the end of this read, family, friends, and internet bullies alike, will still find something endearing about me.
In 2011, my cubicle, like my existence, was a train wreck. While the Ansel Adams’ photography, saliva-scented water bottles, and countless piles of garbage may be only slight windows into my growing psychosis, the off-camera stacks of magazines, drawers filled with oatmeal, and affectionate snapshots of Bob Dylan pasted on pieces of construction paper outlined with heart doodles, show a young woman on the brink of “exhaustion” (I feel you Demi, I feel you).
(also) January 2011
Umm…yeah, so…I was REALLY lonely in 2011. I know locking myself in my apartment, crying while drawing pictures of Bob Dylan didn’t add much to my social life, but its better than getting date raped at a Scranton bar.
So I like, totally wrote this poem. I know. BE Jealous.
Sometimes it snows in Pennsylvania…no big deal. Of course one might assume that if someone were to grow up in Pennsylvania, they would be adequately prepared to deal with this gigantic dump bird shit. However, I am not as bright as this blog so consistently implies, so I had to use a dustpan and an old Swiffer to dig my car out. It was so fetch.
So apparently nothing in life was worth photographing during
I know. Sad. Pathetic. You can feel sorry for me, I get it. I would too. Except I’m lying. I took lots of boring, unbloggable pictures during these months. So let’s just forget they ever existed, k?
I was quite the tortured artist in Tennessee. So tortured, I painted these sunflowers on my wall and drifted into a life of hard drugs and street hopscotch.
This is one Bad Ass Motha-Fucka. Had he a beard, we probably would have been betrothed on the spot, and today I’d be found living under a bridge next to Willie Nelson.
I was like, so important. See that bag of carrot sticks sitting in front of the computer? All mine, baby. All mine. You can look but you can’t touch it. IF you touch it, I’ma start some drama.
And you don’t want NO drama.
No, no, Drama.
No, no, no, no, drama.
I hate the Black-Eyed Peas.
I lived in Tennessee for 4 1/2 months and for 8 weeks I dated a very nice gentleman, we’ll call him Andre. (In respect to “Andre” let me say, he was not as gay as this fictional name would imply. Far from it, if you catch my drift…this is getting weird) Anyway, one day in September Andre took me to a beautiful state park, a few hours into the Tennessee countryside, filled with beautiful waterfalls and vigorous hiking trails. Quite the panty-dropping experience. Or it would have been, had he not suffered several allergy attacks. Upon hiking to the bottom of a waterfall, Andre was overcome with a coughing/sneezing fit, and hacked up this lovely wad of saliva. Enthusiastically entertained by everything, I took a picture with my cell phone, much to the displeasure of Andre who had been trying to overcome his condition for hours to make the trip romantic. While he scoured the rock formations in search of the perfect heart-shaped stone to give me, I took pictures of his spit and made him help me clean up garbage people had left at the bottom of the waterfall. Is it any wonder why I am single?
One of the greatest mysteries of 2011 took place one September morning when I tried to put in my contacts. I walked to the bathroom like any other day, half-dressed and ready to defecate, when I decided to put in my contacts first. I opened the case, anxious to regain my man-made vision, when I saw what appeared to be two globs of toothpaste in lieu of my contacts. I was perplexed. My roommate was gone for the weekend and I had spent the night alone, leaving no room for foul-play. Utilizing the safety precautions learned in high school Chemistry, I jammed my fingers into the unknown substance, anxious to determine what it was. The gritty texture did not feel like toothpaste, nor did it smell like anything that could reduce bad breath. After much deliberation, I decided that my contacts somehow disintegrated overnight, turning back into their liquid form, which is evidently, toothpaste-colored gobbledygook.
During one of my bi-weekly grocery trips, I spotted this painfully obnoxious vehicle. My first instinct was to throw a shopping cart through the window and run away screaming, but I decided taking a picture would be less illegal and unfortunately less awesome.
So, apparently all I did in September was take really stupid pictures, of really stupid things. This is another. While living in Tennessee, my fictional ADD was in high gear. One afternoon I found myself aimlessly driving around the outskirts of Nashville and nearly flipped my car, (by calmly pulling over) when I saw this sign. The Band is probably my favorite band, and the song “Up On Cripple Creek” validates my existence.
Not only is this the 3rd reference to Bob Dylan made in this blog post; as the text of this fake tattoo is a Bob Dylan song title. But it is also quite possibly the lamest picture ever taken in this history of photographic technology. In October I was packing my belongings, readying myself to move back to Pennsylvania. Since I’m the most bad ass 23 year old alive, I thought it’d be totally bitchin’ to draw a fake tattoo on my arm with black liquid eye liner, then take a picture of it to commemorate how cool it was. I almost want to stuff myself in a locker, for this.
Trying to make something love me, that doesn’t, is the tagline of my life. Exhibit A, taking a picture with Molly as she violently squirms out of my arms, desperate to free herself from my overbearing grip. And I had only been home for three days. Where is the love?
I still hate the Black-Eyed Peas
Right next to the organic orange juice, a brown paper bag of meal worms. This is what happens when your mom is a high school biology teacher. Or a fisherman.
In December my stepmother had non-invasive brain surgery that required her head to be restrained with this mask, which highly resembles a Medieval torture device. Needless to say, she was into it. So she showed us her mask and while my head was too fat and sassy to fit, my sister excitedly shoved her face into it, allowing for this Samsung moment.
Yes, my family has problems.
So that was all kinds of fun, huh? No? Screw you.
Bring on 2012…er…again!
The girl who learned today that the average cow produces 25 gallons of saliva each day, while simultaneously bringing sexy back.