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
I have no friends. I have no IRAs. I have no access to medical marijuana.
I have nothing.
Nothing but this blog. It may not help me pick out clothes, give me hope for a stable retirement, or force me to hallucinate about totem poles carved out of watermelon, but it is there. It is there when I need it and more often when I don’t. The problem is, no one reads it.
Ok, fine. That’s a lie.
A lot of people read it. At least there are more people who read it than there are people I know. Which isn’t saying much when you consider I know 4 people. But nevertheless, it is not enough.
In my old age, I’ve become grubby and selfish and even needier than usual. I WANT MORE READERS! And why not? This blog is a comprehensive publication! One day I might blog about governmental affairs of the Obama administration, the next about the impressive size of my bladder. Say, whaaaaat? It ain’t no big thang.
That is why I am asking you, committed readers, to please pimp my blog. Pimp her all night long until she is sore and miserable and in need of topical ointments. She wants to be read.
Email a post, tweet a quote, tattoo my name on your face. These are all great ideas that will not only validate me emotionally but also bring further readership to my blog. Which is an international issue I am sure you are all incredibly committed to.
For those of you who are new to this, allow me to remind you of the true depth of investigative blogging I do here at thegirlwiththeblog.com
Like for instance, sometimes I talk about beards:
Other times I write about politics:
And occasionally pop culture
Plus 59 other blog entries for your and no one else’s enjoyment! So please, PIMP MY BLOG, bitches!
Then listen to this song. It’s great.
The girl who knows there’s no success like failure and that failure is no success at all.
“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
So apparently, Panera Bread attracts a large population of well-bearded men. All but one of the five men in my line of sight have beautiful, manly, tuggable beards that I want to play with until the wee hours of dawn.
Sitting on a laptop, hoping no one has noticed that I am drinking a coffee from somewhere else and never actually made a PB purchase, I can’t help but wonder why I am always being confronted by these sightings of manly beards that will never be mine to enjoy. I also have to wonder why all of these men are always at a minimum of ten years older than me, and when I will see a man in my dating age bracket that will satisfy my facial hair needs.
I’m pretty sure #48 has something to do with the fact that I am a 22 year old woman, picking my gingerbread man scab in the corner of a food service location.
Bring on the cats.
F*** that. I want an iguana.
The girl with a translucent farmer’s tan