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My Photographic Journey Through 2012

 

Last year I posted a blog entry at the end of January to depict my photographic journey of 2011 , and while no one read it including myself, there was something gratifying about commemorating all of the non-moments in my life at once. So I’ve decided to do it again for New Year’s Eve.

I can only hope you have found a better way to spend New Year’s than reading amateur WordPress blogs. But on the off chance that your life is as uneventful as mine, enjoy! Or at least pretend to.

January 2012

 

jan

 

At some point in January I decided that cleaning my purse was easier than dealing with arthritis in my shoulder the rest of my life. I photographed my efforts and now have concrete evidence that at any given time I can be found carrying items ranging in unimportance from detached bra under wires to opened and unusable tampons.

Oh. And that’s my foot in the corner. Not typically found in my purse.

 

February 2012

 

feb

While this photograph mostly represents my narcissism, I am including it because it also represents the beginning of a long and disappointing journey known as “Lena’s 2012 employment history.” In 2012 I held 4 different jobs ranging from coffee shop waitress/concubine, receptionist in an administrative office at a college, front desk receptionist at a hotel, and admissions representative at a tech school. Who says college is a waste of time?

March 2012

march

During the last week of February and first week of March, I volunteered in the Dominican Republic. I can’t make this funny. It was one of the most profound, fulfilling experiences of my life and I feel extremely lucky to have had it. Plus I got hit on a lot there…score?

 

April 2012

april

After convincing everyone in my office to buy raffle tickets from a student organization trying to save a sick llama, the universe had my back and helped me win this wine basket.

This is without question the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. Or at least that is what I told the student who brought it to our office.

June 2012

may

“This looks like a whore house.”

My mother, as I dried my clothes in her kitchen.

 

June 2012

july

This was my Bob Dylan vinyl collection back in June. I have since added five more. For Dylan geeks the total includes: Times They Are A-Changin, Another Side of Bob Dylan, Bringing it All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, John Wesley Harding, Greatest Hits Vol 1&2, Nashville Skyline, New Morning, Before the Flood, Blood on the Tracks, Desire, At Budokan, Street Legal, Empire Burlesque, Real Live, Modern Times, Bootleg Series Vol. 4 (Live in 1966), and a VERY rare bootleg recording from the mid 60’s.

Bad ass.

July 2012

july 2

In July I was Freshly Pressed and it brought me greater pride than any other accomplishment of my life, including birth and learning how to read.

September 2012

september

I’m not sure if you heard, but there was this thing called Hurricane Sandy. Because I’m unbalanced and deeply afraid of heavy wind, despite the relative mildness of the conditions in my area, I thought it necessary to relocate my mattress into the living room where there are no windows, but quite prevalent feelings of being locked in a dungeon. Don’t even tell me this was overkill!

October 2012

 

october 3

I am a high/existential bee. I also throw great parties and enjoy practicing calligraphy in my free time.

October 2012

october 2

She was drunk again, smiling and laughing in his orange face. He was contemplating a murder-suicide.

Pumpkin love between me and my boo.

Pun INTENDED. Hehehe.

Someone take away my blog.

October 2012

october

My boyfriend and I are in some ways the same person, hold the genitals, or however I can more discretely put that. Nevertheless we are into things like all natural soap-making and even more into talking about how it makes us better than everyone. This is an example of how.

November 2012

november

So we sort of like each other.

“Do you love me even when I’m crazy?”

“I love you especially when you’re crazy.”

I can dig that.

 

December 2012

dec 4

Both of our tongues are sticking out. Need I say more?

December 2012

dec 2

Being better than everyone we meet is exhausting, as evidenced in this handmade “basket” of handmade products given to our families for Christmas. Soap, lip balm, air fresheners, jam, and inconceivable arrogance.

December 2012

december 5

I…I don’t know what is wrong with me.

December 2012

december

You know you’re 1/4 Italian when after a lifetime of cooking a traditional Christmas Eve family recipe you still have no idea how to spell what you are making. You know your mother is 1/2 Italian when she tells you she will disown you if you share the recipe.

December 2012

dec 1

“I can’t see the TV, there are too many presents in the way!”

…First world problems?

December 2012

december 6

There is currently a gigantic ice sickle in my freezer. I think I will keep it and use it as a weapon when a heroin addict inevitably returns to my apartment in search of the former tenant.

 

So long, 2012! Howdy, East Orange.

 

Love,

The girl with no (public) resolutions, but many (private) disappointments

 

“How I Came to Love Bob Dylan”

WARNING: This post will probably not be very funny. In fact, this post will not be funny at all. If you want funny, go to Yahoo News. They’re terrible reporters. It’s a hoot.

For those of you who have read this blog before, you have probably detected my slight obsession with Bob Dylan. By slight obsession I mean borderline psychotic feelings of love for him, comparable to that which a mother feels for her child or Hugh Hefner feels for implants.

He’s so cool

 

But as a 23 year old woman who admittedly listened to complete and utter garbage until the age of 18, you may be asking yourself “How Lena did you get from Dashboard Confessional suicide tracks and Nelly remixes to Bob Dylan”? I know. The anticipation is ruining you.

So I thought to myself, what better day to answer this question than Bob Dylan’s 71st birthday.

 

Here is the true, very unfunny story:

 

In the fall of 2007 I was a sophomore at a mid-sized college in Pennsylvania; a rural setting settled between two small, somewhat ghetto fabulous cities. Despite this, the college town and campus were relatively safe places for clueless, lightweight 19 year olds such as me to roam alone at all hours of the night and even for the occasional tryst to class.

 

But just two weeks into the fall semester things drastically changed.  On the streets of our small town a student was brutally murdered by a group of non-students visiting a downtown bar. The story went that the student was leaving his brother’s house in town and walking back to the campus, alone, around 2:30am when a group of men he did not know attacked him in a completely random act of violence, beating him to death and leaving him to die on the street.

 

The crime shook the campus. What always felt like a safe place suddenly felt extremely unsafe. Charges were filed and the men in custody were rung through the legal system with too much leniency in my opinion. In the week following his death, those who chose to pay attention learned a great deal about the student through University newspaper articles and press releases. Apparently he was a cute, 19 year old history major, who wrote poetry, hated pop culture, and loved Bob Dylan.

 

Reading about this boy, reading his poetry in a book the school published in his memory, made me feel extremely connected to him, despite the fact that we had never met. Every day following his death I read his Facebook wall; the heartbroken posts from friends, family members, his girlfriend, all asking the same questions and mourning the same loss of one person who was victimized by brutality that had nothing to do with him.

 

On the one week anniversary of his death, word got around that the school was organizing a candlelight vigil for him at the time and site of his death. I was determined to attend and after talking to my roommate she agreed to go along. We left around 2:00 am to walk downtown to the site, after gathering a few more reluctant girls from our dorm reminding them that if this was their brother or sister or friend, they would want as many people as possible to show.

 

Small groups of students filtered out of their dorms and off campus apartments, dressed in hoodies and pajama bottoms, some holding candles, others only holding back tears. Most of us didn’t know the boy who was killed, but that didn’t seem to matter. At the site there were police barricades, hundreds of students, and soft pools of candlelight filtering through the night air, as we encircled the spot of pavement, still stained with his blood and freshly blotted with tears.

 

I took a candle from someone passing them out and stood quietly in place. For the distance of the street, students continued in crowds in an act of solidarity I didn’t expect to exist. Some representatives of the University spoke, thanking us for our attendance and offering emotional condolences to the family and friends of the boy.

 

His brother stepped up and thanked us all saying he never imagined so many people would come. He said his brother was one of a kind, a free-spirit, a loving, creative, energetic force, who believed in the powers of love and imagination. He said a few days earlier, at his brother’s funeral, as they lowered him into the ground they heard a train whistle in the distance and all collectively felt that this was his way of saying goodbye. He said that if there was anything his brother would want it would be for all of us to be kinder to one another, to stop watching TV, to step outside and enjoy the wind and the rain, and read a book, and fall asleep under a tree. And then he said, after a few seconds of silence, “just listen to Bob Dylan.”

 

I’m not sure why, but I heard this in a very real way. After his sister and his girlfriend cried together, they announced that they were going to play his favorite Bob Dylan song and they asked anyone who knew the song to sing along.

 

I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back I think it was either “Girl From the North Country” or “Boots of Spanish Leather.” Either way it was the first time I ever heard the song. After it ended, we all returned to our rooms and the warmth of our beds. Days passed and conversations resumed to topics discussed before this tragedy, but I couldn’t forget about the boy who died and I couldn’t forget about his brother’s words to “just listen to Bob Dylan.”

 

After a few months of Dylan discovery I began to understand and five years later as a passionately enlightened fan I fully do.

 

Bob Dylan is more than just a musician or Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductee. He is more than the songs played on classic rock stations and the influence for every singer-songwriter with untraditional singing voices. Bob Dylan is a human being who has been able to transcend generations, genders, races, religions, and political ideologies with his unique ability to capture the collective feelings of failure and success in the human experience. His words inspire in his fans to live and to be a certain way that has nothing to do with fulfilling expectations of others or herding with the masses, but rather to be true deep down in the soul of our individualism, to who we are and what we believe in separate from societal pressures. He captures the raw ugliness of human emotion and flaw and makes it something beautiful. Bob Dylan manages through his words and his music to connect so deeply with his fans that at a candlelight vigil to honor an untimely death of a young man, his music is that which is played and his influence is that which is mentioned.

So I’d like to take a moment to wish Bob Dylan a Happy 71st Birthday and remind him that I would still pay to have his babies. Anytime, Bob. Anytime.

 

Love,

 

The girl who will be funny again tomorrow. Or not. Whatever.

One of the best versions of one of the best Bob Dylan songs EVER

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 :/

Love,

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

…to her recollection…

International Pimp My Blog Day

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:

Reason #49 Why I Will Always Be Alone: No Man In His 20s Can Satisfy My Facial Hair Needs

Bearding Out All over the Place: A One Woman Effort For Beard Conservation

Other times I write about politics:

See Ya Later, Ambien: How Obama and the Indefinite Detention of U.S. Citizens Will Help Me Sleep At Night

The Great Plights of Humanity: Four Issues Untouched During the Latest Republican Debate

And occasionally pop culture

Lindsay Lohan’s Playboy Comments Make Me Want to Die: A Discussion of Phony Female Empowerment

Pregnancy and Media Whores: A Lesson in Abstinence Training

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.

Love,

The girl who knows there’s no success like failure and that failure is no success at all.

“The Power of the Male Compliment”: The Story of a Shamed Feminist

I’m a terrible feminist.

Tonight I was all prepared to write something really scathing about the poor self-image the media inflicts upon young girls, and how a woman’s self-worth should not be determined by the opinions of a man.  I was so dedicated to this topic I didn’t even take off my bra before lighting it on fire.

BUT THEN…a customer came in.

And now after our exchange, all my measly weak-minded girly self can give you is this:

 

The Power of the Male Compliment: A Dramatic Scene

Female (LENA), early 20’s, understated, ravishing beauty sits behind the counter of a coffee shop, listening to Bob Dylan and wasting her youth. She’s feeling rather pensive and existential, whilst debating her attraction to Keira Knightley. NAMELESS MALE walks in, early 20’s, tall, kind of cute wearing  a pea coat that mildly resembles Bob Dylan’s on the cover of Blonde on Blonde, a fact she chooses to  withhold as no one ever cares when she tells them things like that. She stands up and walks to the center counter to greet him, wondering if he is a Bob Dylan fan and whether or not he has enough body hair to satisfy her.

LENA: (cheerily) Hey!

NAMELESS MALE: Hi…

LENA: What can I get for you?

NAMELESS MALE: Two chocolate donuts.

LENA: Ok. (turns around to reach for donuts, placing them into bag) Anything else?

NAMELESS MALE: Peanut.

LENA: Ok. (turns around, places one into bag) Anything else?

NAMELESS MALE: And coconut.

LENA briefly wonders if NAMELESS MALE continues asking her for donuts so he can ogle her goodies when she turns around to retrieve them, but determines, as she has less ass than a dolphin, he is simply hungry and indecisive.

 

LENA: Here you go. (hands the bag to him and he smiles at her holding out his money) Thanks.

NAMELESS MALE: You’re welcome…so, how is your night going?

LENA: (hands him his change) Oh you know, it’s not too bad. How is yours?

NAMELESS MALE: That’s good. It’s good…It’s okay.

LENA: (laughs) Good.

NAMELESS MALE: Well, thanks.

LENA: You’re welcome. Have a good night.

NAMELESS MALE: Thank you.

NAMELESS MALE begins to walk out, but as he opens the door, yells out

 

NAMELESS MALE: You’re very pretty!

LENA: (laughs) What? Oh, thanks!

As NAMELESS MALE gets into his vehicle outside, LENA trips over a plastic coffee stirrer on her way back to her computer, beaming with the giddiness only seen in “principal offices” on pornography sets.

END SCENE

 

There you have it.

No feminist thoughts. No well-written accusatory tone.

I have nothing worthwhile to say. I have lost all feminist energy, solely because some young man wearing a Bob Dylan-like pea coat told me I was pretty.

It’s like, such a huge problem, I just…

You know what? Why am I even trying to explain? As if any of you uggos will understand…

I need to talk to Samantha Brick.

Love,

The girl blogging under the influence of EXTRA Dessert Delights sugarfree gum (you don’t know me!)

 

My Cell Phone’s Photographic Journey Through 2011

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.

January  2011

My Old Cubicle

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

My drawing of Bob Dylan

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.

February 2011

Sales Material for My Old Job

So I like, totally wrote this poem. I know. BE Jealous.

March 2011

Mah ve-hic-le gettin' effed up by a snow storm

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

April 2011

or

May 2011

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?

June 2011

Wall painting at my Tennessee Apartment

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.

July 2011

Nashville Street Musician

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.

August 2011

Private Office at my Tennessee Job

 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.

September 2011

Saliva of my Tennesse "boyfriend"

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?

September 2011

Toothpaste in my contact case!

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.

September 2011

Everything that's wrong with America...or something less dramatic

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.

September 2011

Road Sign Outside of Nashville

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.

October 2011

A fake tattoo that only made me look cool in the mirror and my imagination

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.

October 2011

Puppy Hate

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?

…The love

…The love

I still hate the Black-Eyed Peas

November 2011

Meal worms...in the fridge...yeah

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.

December 2011

This is my sister, isn't she pretty?

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!

Love,

The girl who learned today that the average cow produces 25 gallons of saliva each day, while simultaneously bringing sexy back.

Those who are victims of intense unrequited celebrity love AND Those who are not

Today is the best day of my life. It marks the anniversary of an event that would result in the most intense, passionate, wild-eyed, manic depressive sort of love I would never actually experience in life.

Today is Bob Dylan’s 70th birthday.

In the past week, amateurish publications like Time, Newsweek, and Rolling Stone have demonstrated their ignorance of Bob Dylan. They pretend to understand the clout of his God-like perfection when “honoring” him with their long-winded articles about his “prophetic lyrical genius” and “legendary presence” in the music industry.

In my spare time, I draw pictures he will never see! *giggle* Isn’t he cute?

They are fools.

Naïve in their feeble attempts to encompass Bob Dylan.

Pathetic in their ignorance of the fact that no matter how many pages and words they use to write a tribute to him, they will fail. Yes, fail to do him justice. You want to know why?

Because I am in love with Bob Dylan.

None of them understand him the way I do! None of them feel their heart flutter when they overhear a co-worker mention her grandson Dylan and his recurring toe fungus. None of them spent hours researching home made bomb recipes when Nick Jonas said that Bob Dylan can’t sing on national television. They do not know my Bobbykins, and they do not know love the way that I do.

Some of you – many of you – most of you are probably checking Craigslist Classifieds and Casual Encounters right now for a used but sanitary straight jacket to put me in. You will tell me I am sick, perverted, psychologically disturbed for wanting to bone a 70 year old man. But, there is a select population that will understand the intensity I feel in my heart and in my loins. Which brings me to our next category:

People who are victims of intense, unrequited, celebrity love and those who are not.

Many consider this sort of severe infatuation a cute phase that a young girl goes through during a segmented period of her life. A time when no real boy wants her and the only way she can feel emotionally and sexually satisfied is by making out with the back of her hand and imagining David Cassidy’s lips on hers. I am here to tell you, that is just a lie.

Ladies and gentlemen, stalker-like celebrity obsession is a prevalent part of regular adult life. Look around you and I guarantee you will find at least one, highly functioning adult who lives among the rest of us, struggling with this debilitating frustration of the heart.

This is not something a person simply “grows out” of! If anything it becomes worse overtime. What starts as an 11 year old girl’s cute habit of doodling Mrs. Justin Bieber all over her underwear, will turn into a 17 year old girl getting her boyfriend Sid’s name tattooed on her nether regions. This is a serious matter the divides the population of the world, person by delusional person.

Take a look at this future “16 and Pregnant” star!

Of course, not all individuals will experience such emotional turmoil. I am the only one of

my siblings who has ever experienced this. For years

Was THIS worth international public humiliation? WAS IT?

I felt alone… scared…helpless in my pursuit of real, live, human love that could replace the feelings I have for my little Bobsters. It wasn’t until I saw  this chick, a desperate, pathetic excuse for a human being, sobbing over infamous American Idol contestant, Sanjaya, that I realized I am not alone.

take a look at this freak!

Recent studies by a team of vague and unspecified researchers indicate that 1 in 5 adults suffer from what is known as Compulsive Celebrity Infatuation Disorder (CCID). Symptoms include manic and irrational behavior (as seen above), isolation from friends and family members who do not appreciate or understand the depth of your pain,  and the occasional loss of bowels, though that has yet to be backed by any legitimate research.

As a long time sufferer of CCID, I have struggled with my attempts to connect with those who have not been cursed with this condition. I have joined bowling leagues, established knitting circles, and participated in Calligraphy workshops, only to be ridiculed and looked down upon by the other sort. The sort that mocks, judges, and belittles my love. The sort who has never, and will never experience this kind of duress.

So today I ask all CCID sufferers to stand tall and stand proud. YOU ARE NOT ALONE! Remember, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. You are one blog comment away from a potentially normal life full of unhealthy, emotionally damaging relationships.*

Today is not only the most important day in human history.

But it is also the first day, of the rest of your life.

I love you all, you sick, twisted, psycho freaks.

Love,

The girl you want to be reincarnated as

*OKAY…let’s be honest. Commenting on this blog won’t help you. You will always be a puss-filled sore on the lip of society whose pathetic obsession with the unattainable will continue to be mocked and disparaged for years to come. You are probably better off sticking with your sick delusions than facing the fact that you are entirely undesirable and no one loves you. Just so we have that clear.

I still appreciate comments though!