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.
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.
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?
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?
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.
“This looks like a whore house.”
My mother, as I dried my clothes in her kitchen.
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.
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.
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!
I am a high/existential bee. I also throw great parties and enjoy practicing calligraphy in my free time.
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.
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.
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.
Both of our tongues are sticking out. Need I say more?
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.
I…I don’t know what is wrong with me.
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.
“I can’t see the TV, there are too many presents in the way!”
…First world problems?
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.
The girl with no (public) resolutions, but many (private) disappointments
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.
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.
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.
The girl blogging under the influence of EXTRA Dessert Delights sugarfree gum (you don’t know me!)