I don’t have time to write this blog.
In fact, I might quit writing it altogether.
Don’t get me wrong. I love this blog. If it could impregnate me, I’d let it. But it is becoming an uncomfortably large distraction in my daily life, like watching makeup tutorial Youtube videos by French Canadian teenagers. Whenever I’m not blogging I’m thinking of how I should be, and whenever I am blogging I’m thinking about how no one cares. It’s an abusive cycle. My blog wears the wife-beater, I wear the beer gut.
But I don’t know how to quit, and since the severity of my narcissism has truly reached a breaking point, likely to result in either my spontaneous combustion or a strong empathy for Donald Trump, I have decided to leave the country.
All because of this blog.
Actually, I’m lying. I just needed a creative way to say I’m leaving the country and sadly for you, my mind is too tired to come up with something funnier. In TBS censorship lingo, this week has been a clusterscrew, exhausting me to the point of having nothing to write about. I briefly considered publishing a post about the insignificant things that happened this week. Like the disturbing discovery that my underwear drawer smells like peanuts or how when asked to plan a date, the best I came up with was a nude sketch class followed by a local ACLU meeting. Hawt.
But luckily for you, between starting a new job and preparing for AAA club-hopping, I haven’t had time to write that. So instead of bogging you down with further unnecessary text, I’ll just bid you farewell.
Tomorrow morning I am flying to the Dominican Republic for a week-long jaunt of volunteering and feeling guilty about being born in America. My Grandfather is organizing this trip because he is a retired minister and among the best people I know, and has gone to the Dominican to volunteer over 15 times, as well as over half the countries in the world. I wish I could be that good of a person. But alas, I have a soft spot for Britney Spears which pretty much negates any good dead I could do.
Needless to say I am going to be “disconnected” for the next week. No internet access, cell phones, or Kourtney and Kim reruns. I’ve never been to a third-world country before, but since I weep nightly while watching the news and write letters for Amnesty International, there is a very good chance I am going to have an emotional break-down. But I have been warned not to act this way, so I am going to do my best to remain the calm, cool, heartlessly self-important American Mitt Romney would want me to be.
I shall make an effort to blog about this experience in the least soul-crushing way possible. I will probably update again sometime around March 5 or 6, so check back if you want in on that cry-fest.
Until then be good people but better lovers. I don’t know what that means.
The girl whose skin burns just from the thought of her upcoming proximity to the equator.