“All I get are dicks. Nobody needs this many dicks in their life.”
-This is something I just said out loud. A nice reminder that the world is better when not taken literally.
Today while at work I reviewed the contents of two 5 year old flashdrives and one 4 year old external hard drive. Because I need something to do between people hanging up on me and hexing my first born. Along with a plethora of rhyme-heavy wrist-cutting poetry, pictures of Penelope Cruz (?), and tear-filled letters to my ex-husband I found three photographs that perfectly depict my clumsy transition into adulthood, ages 16-18.
1. (age 16, summer before senior year)
I was very into looking homeless, when I was in high school.
Like a homeless hunchbacked hippy.
With a huge rack.
2. Age 17 (Senior week, Ocean City, MD)
I…I can’t even talk about this.
3. 18 (Alternative Spring Break – Assateague Island, Maryland)
This is how I spent my freshman spring break. While my peers were doing body shots off of each other’s herpes scabs, I was logrolling down a sand dune. That’s me in the green. Don’t worry. I’m not pregnant. I just look that way sometimes.
That’s all I have to offer you right now. I’m in a funk de misery (not real French) with zero energy or desire to do anything but sit and stew in my own lack of motivation. It could have something to do with the mammoth storm pummeling the east coast and the fact that I work at the only school in a 4,000 mile radius of the storm that isn’t closing (not real figures). Or maybe that for the first time in my life, I referred to someone younger than me as “dear” during a phone call.
Either way I’m getting old. So old. We all are. All of us 80’s babies. These pictures coupled with this pop culture conversation prove how irrelevent we all are:
Me: But you do know who the Spice Girls are, right?
Him: Yeah. Beyonce and those two other chicks.
Even our memories are going. It’s sad. So so sad.
The girl no one believes when she tells them about her rape whistle. But it’s real. Very, very real.
After 3 hours of Intervention, half of The Big Lebowski, and 2 more hours of Intervention, I fell asleep last night at 10:30, face down in the free Red Cross t-shirt I got for attempting to donate blood they ultimately rejected, as my able-bearded bodied man (who desperately needs a nickname less than 7 syllables) sat alone in the other room, likely asking himself why he ever bothered to move in. I personally believe he did, so I could have early morning conversations like this:
Me: (waking up, panicked) What time is it?
Him: (startled, disoriented) It’s 4 hours for each plant.
Me: (checks phone) It’s 6:53
I definitely find this funnier than it actually is.
Kind of like how he feels about The Big Lebowski.
The girl with the Dragon Tales tattoo
Today I have done everything a sick person shouldn’t do including shoveling snow in a pair of shorts and eating undercooked chicken. But before that I was at work researching menstrual cups. Yes, menstrual cups. I’m not ashamed. If looking at menstrual cups online at work is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
I left work early because they made me, but also because I wanted to. Because I’m sick and it was snowing and since Pennsylvania likes to pretend it’s a southern state both politically and geographically, no one remembered to salt the roads in advance. So I drove 20 miles an hour the entire way home and as people passed me, I began to resent them for driving faster than me, having more reliable cars than me, and liking their jobs enough to not shop for menstrual cups while they are supposed to be working.
Because I don’t have a legitimate parking space at my crackden apartment, I parked in a neighboring bank lot and proceeded to spend ten minutes cleaning off the cars of strangers who wouldn’t do it for me if the situation were reversed. At the time this made me feel like a good person, but now I just feel like a sucker. A sucker without a winter coat, boots, or any redeemable qualities to speak of.
Later in the night I caught up with an old friend via Facebook and discussed all of my life goals, including writing a best-selling novel, which will ultimately get adapted into a movie, with a television spinoff. When asked who I would cast as the lead female, this conversation took place:
Me: “I’d like a relatively unknown woman to fill the part of the lead. I think that would give it more authenticity. Like in Juno.”
Ryan: “Very wise. Just don’t put Michael Cera in it. Please.”
Me: “Oh no. The love interest in my book is highly attractive and confident and doesn’t look like a chicken dressed as a human”
Then I remembered how bad it feels to contribute nothing of value to the world. So I ate several handfuls of chocolate covered peanuts and determined it will never get better than this.
The girl who would sell her soul to have soft knee caps, but the market is down and no one wants it
Everytime I begin to think I can be one of those strong, confident, sexy women, who can run in heels and wink without it being creepy, I do something like this:
Yes, that is a hair tie around my leg underneath my tights.
No, I don’t know how it got there.
Yes, it took my 6 hours to notice.
No, I don’t have kankles….
It’s an unflattering angle!
…No one looks good at work.
But this is proof that I will never be one of those women. Along with having hairties places they shouldn’t be (dirty!) and the inability to sit cross-legged without looking constipated, I am not self-involved enough to be put together. This is not to say that every woman who is put together is self-involved (although, come on) but rather that I am such a mess already, that it would take such grandiose effort for me to be put together, that I would be forced to abandon all other facets of my personality and focus solely on my appearance in order to achieve this. Like Kim Kardashian, or Ryan Seacrest.
I’d rather run into a knife.
The girl with knives too dull to penetrate (dirty!) (ouch) (ew)
PS: I would like to reach 200 followers by the new year. It’s the only validation I get outside of watching people fatter than me exercise. If you read this blog and do not follow it, please do.
They say that you know you’re gaining weight when black guys start hitting on you.
I’m not sure if anyone says this.
But I know I am gaining weight because aside from black guys hitting on me and the self-abusive conversation I have with myself each morning about the progression of my third trimester (I’m not pregnant), I recently got a speeding ticket. I know that is not a measurable factor here, but I have never been ticketed in the past. This is typically what happens when I get pulled over:
I lean out the window and ask, frantic and alarmed:
“IS EVERYTHING OKAY?!?!?!”
As if I am being pulled over to counsel him on marital troubles or American Idol voting techniques. He replies something about a child chasing a ball, and no crossing guard around, and federal imprisonment. I sigh, relieved, and hand him my license, unable to find my insurance or car registration.
After about 12 minutes of probing questions, among other things 😉 I am asked to avoid schools zones and any properties containing live, white children, and detour through the ghetto anytime I want to drive recklessly.
But unfortunately that only works when your body is not protruding past the restraint of your seat belt and your eyes aren’t being forced back into their sockets by pounds of cheek and eyebrow fat. Therefore I maintain that the only explanation for my receiving a ticket is the blubber effect. Definitely not the driving 53 in a 25. No. That can’t be it.
I’m blaming my weight gain on a number of factors, most of which I will not have the time or patience to tell you about. Here are three I can stomach. Hehehe. I’m so clever.
1. My ever increasing American guilt. Perhaps it is my preference to radical liberal politics over false patriotic conservative politics that results in the inordinate amount of time I spend each day mourning Middle Eastern people I will never meet. Not just because they’re dead. But mostly because they’re dead. This leaves me depressed and anxious and forced to resort to binging on food no Middle Eastern person would ever eat. Not just because they’re dead. But, really, mostly because they’re dead.
2. Sushi. When eaten by Japanese people or bulimic teenagers, sushi can be very healthy. But when eaten by an American woman at a Chinese buffet 10 minutes away from her house, once a weekend, sometimes twice, depending on how much she hates herself that day, it is not good. It is embarrassing. Not quite a “legitimate rape” comment, but definitely a “binders full of women.”
3. Co-workers birthdays and other work-related food-oriented events. Every day in my office someone is either turning 50, hitting menopause, or inviting a politician to tour the school, all of which are equally disgraceful and handled with mass quantities of food. Even when I am trying to eat healthy I am bombarded with oatmeal cookies, or cheddar cheese slices, or Halloween candy hoarded away in my desk drawer. There is no escape!
I realize this doesn’t sound like a Thanksgiving Day post yet, but allow me to explain. My obsession with my weight sounds a little insecure. But I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m grateful that I am insecure and in a constant state of emotional anguish. Why? It keeps me from being a dick.
If you know anything about me, you know that the leading cause in my life is asshole prevention. If I lost weight and became confident and hot, I’d become even more self-involved and arrogant than I already am, and before you know it I’d be someone really evil like Kourtney Kardashian.
So to sum this whole thing up, this Thanksgiving I am grateful for many things.I am grateful for insecurities that keep me grounded. I am grateful for police officers that don’t tase me. I am grateful for the black guys who hit on me. I am grateful for my sister who is a registered dietician who will help me lose weight again. I am grateful for my boyfriend who I never talk about but exists quite fully in my life. I am grateful for the new wiper blades on my car. But lastly I am grateful for this, taken from the Facebook page of a person I actually know:
Doesn’t get much better than that.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody! I hope you are all grateful for something (me).
The girl who last year was thankful for assholes, but this year is thankful for mouths. Ew.
By now I think it is clear that I am not doing a post-a-day October. I lied to you all. I didn’t even try.
This very fact, coupled with the rest of my life, has reminded me that I am sort of an asshole. I am not saying this to be adorable or self deprecating, like when I talk about how fat I am or my confusion about how anyone can love me. I’m being straight with you. Like Anderson Cooper. Until he wasn’t.
See, I have been struggling with my asshole tendencies for years. When I was in 4thgrade my family relocated to a new school. As I hugged my old friends goodbye, taking pictures on a disposable camera I would never develop, they gave me their phone numbers and cried and asked that we keep in touch, to which I enthusiastically agreed. But as we embraced, the thought quite distinctly crossed my mind, “I will never talk to you again. Have a nice life. I want my troll ring back.”
Now don’t get me wrong. I have made strides to cushion my assholeness. I have mastered the great first impression; smiling a lot, listening well, wearing clothing that deemphasizes my love handles. But therein lies the problem! I may seem like your regular socially gifted, well-endowed, appropriately humored (sometimes), master of all would-be awkward things were I not so fantastic at being alive, but in reality I am a socially-awkward fat kid, disguising my flaws as endearing qualities in order to make people like me, until I am certain they do and can officially stop talking to them. Again, not being self-deprecating. Just keeping it real. Like JLo. Until she wasn’t.
But it seems the older I get, the bigger asshole I become. For example. One day about 9 months ago I logged into Facebook to find that 10-15 people were celebrating their birthdays. Ridiculous. After mulling over each person’s name and determining that I just don’t care enough, I proceeded to incinerate that mental note with my red hot laziness and go back to cyber stalking the elementary school classmates I never put the effort into speaking to again. This was almost a year ago, but has now become a habit. A bad habit. Now I don’t even say Happy Birthday to people I actually want to say Happy Birthday to. It’s like, I’m afraid if I do, people will know I am capable of doing it and will therefore take it personally when I ultimately determine that they are not worth the time. So I instead choose to ignore everyone so no one can take it personally, but everyone can think I’m an asshole.
I wish this was only limited to empty Facebook interactions, but it’s not. I don’t email people back. I ignore text messages, tweets, voicemails, BLOG COMMENTS. I don’t deserve the attention. I don’t deserve the affection or the friendship. But I will continue to take it until you stop wanting to give it. Then I will ninja my way back into your life and make you love me, or miss me, or need me in some way, before vanishing once again into the abyss of social networking that ironically decreases my ability to be social or network.
So I just wanted to write this blog entry so every one of my blog readers, Facebook stalkers, and disappointed relatives can have some form of validation from me and know that despite my actions, I DO care about you. I DO appreciate when you take the time to contact me. My actions may not prove it, but my words verify it. And we all know that shit’s real.
The girl who calls her boyfriend “button”
I recently fell asleep on the toilet.
I’m not going to say where I was or how it happened, but I will tell you I was getting paid at the time and it wasn’t an accident. While I admit I am slightly ashamed of my inappropriate slumber, overall I feel pretty okay about it. After all, some people shower with kids at their jobs. I just fell asleep. Lena – 1, Penn State Staff – 0.
Still this has me slightly concerned. Not just about my evident narcolepsy but the fact that I am so un-stimulated at my current employment that I can disappear to the bathroom for ten minutes and nap without anyone in my three-person office noticing. Really makes one feel a sense of value in the American workforce.
Nevertheless, I have decided that I can’t let this happen again. If I’m going to disappear for ten minutes, unnoticed, I’d rather it be to do something really important like read US Weekly in the bookstore or talk to Butch, the new janitor who likes to wink at me while stroking his mop. Just kidding. I stroke it for him.
Nothing in the last paragraph is true.
Anyway. Today while driving home from work I started to think, which was a strange adjustment after five hours of not thinking at all, about all of the other people in the world who are as un-stimulated by their work as I am, and wondering how they handle it. It didn’t take a great deal of brain power to determine the answer to all of life’s inevitably dull moments.
Now, everyone knows that I have a special place in my heart reserved for people who Google ridiculous things, because more often than not they end up at my blog. I’m not sure how it happens. I’m not sure how the search phrase “sometimes I feel sad and then I remember I have a nice big round ass” brings someone to my blog. But it does and it makes me happy.
So when I got home I decided to review all of the Google search terms that brought people to my blog in the past month, and much to my irrational level of happiness, I discovered that many a lost soul has reached my blog through deep, heart-wrenching, questions entered in the Google search box, only to be lost in the abyss of porn and pictures of cats that make up 96% of the content of the Internet.
Because of this, I have decided that I will take this time to respond to only the most imperative of questions my blog was formerly unable to answer. Here we go.
1. How tall is Kris Jenner?
Kris Jenner is 5 feet of unfortunate fertility and 6 inches of erectile dysfunction.
2. What are the worst things for a man to say to woman?
Woman: “Do these jeans make me look fat?”
Man: “Not as much as the ones you wore yesterday.”
Man: “It’s a lucky man that gets her pregnant.”
Woman: “That’s our daughter you’re talking about!”
3. Do Italians like skinny or curvy women?
Italians aren’t selective. They love women. All women. In fact, Italian men love women so much that by default, one gay Italian man will have more heterosexual sex in one month than four straight Jewish men will in their entire lives. I didn’t just make this up.
But realistically, every woman will have sex with at least one Italian man in her life. If she doesn’t she might be a lesbian, but is probably just a Mormon. In which case she will have lots of unsatisfying arranged sex with a much older man she is possibly related to, enough times that she will decide she hates all men, including Italians.
PS: Sorry, Mormons.
4. Why is it that that other woman has big legs?
An evolutionary defense against short Italians. And all Mormons.
5. Why is my urine very orange?
There are only three reasons urine is ever orange.
A. You have liver disease. Good luck with that
B. You eat too many carrots. F*** you.
C. You live in New Jersey. All of the above
6. Who is that tattooed man drinking coffee and wearing a pea coat?
It’s difficult to say without seeing the man in question, but nine times out of ten, it’s Taylor Lautner pretending to be straight.
7. How can I tell if a girl is wearing a butt pad?
Her butt cheeks are disproportionate to her desperation.
8. Are meth addicts proud of their addiction?
9. Why do I curse so much?
Because socially forbidden words are more satisfying to use than academically impressive ones.
And you know once you’re old it will be really funny.
10. What is it like to live alone with a pet dog?
Depressing. No one else you ever live with will love you so much they will hold their pee for 9 hours until they see you. It’s all downhill from there.
That’s all for now.
The girl with tan shoes and pink shoelaces