Blog Archives

Why I will Never Be A Strong, Confident, Sexy Woman

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.

42+ Days Since My Last Blog Post – Where for Art Thou Readers, Bitches?

Dear Literate Citizens of First World Countries,

The time has come for me to address you. I think it is safe to say I have lost all of the fans/organ donors I once had as result of this blog. It’s been a month and a half since I have posted something new and frankly I don’t blame anyone for jumping ship at my shoddy attempt at blogosphere stardom. I have let myself, my country, and my libido down.

I will not attempt to explain away my neglectful inaction; for there are no words sufficient in definition, or multisyllabic enough in pretentiousness to appease the disillusioned cries of my reader(s). I will instead use a method of defense learned only from experiencing the deeply trenched heartache of an abusive relationship: I will pretend that it never happened.

…So anyway, these past six weeks have been like, so totally, epic. I mean FAIL! What???? Oh no! Like everyone else I seem to have forgotten what those words meant before social media subculture belittled their worth and true definition. Are you lost? Get ready, suckers. I haven’t updated in 42+ days. Not much is going to make sense tonight.

It is November, for which I must say I am pleased. September and October were straight up bitches, headed for the must kill shelter. Here are just a few things that went down:

-I quit my job. Yeah, that’s right. The one I formerly bragged about with my great salary, private office, and increasing self importance. I quit. Why? Because when you live in a nation with a 10% unemployment rate, and you move 900 miles away from home and find a well-paying, professional job in three weeks, the only logical thing to do is quit without finding another one first.

this girl is clearly just a ho

-I left Tennessee and moved back to Pennsylvania. Yeah, that’s right. I threw in the towel on my Southern adventure right in time for winter. Why? Because when you live in one of the warmest regions of the country, the only logical thing to do is leave the everyday sunshine of a 70 degree fall

climate and move back to the north; the place responsible for your semi-annual contraction of bronchitis and daily weather-related depression. My tongue sticks to everything during a Pennsylvania winter and not just because I’m promiscuous, wink, wink ;)…sizzle.

-I found God in Kentucky. Yeah, that’s right. God resides in Kentucky and let me tell you, he is busy at work. Not only did he arrange to have several billboards of the Ten Commandments erected along the h I cross into Ohio

ighway, but like the great debater he is, also followed up with a reminder of what is to come if we do not follow said commands with 10×10 billboard images of Hell and a “Welcome to Ohio” sign.

-I drove through Ohio. Yeah, that’s right. ALL of Ohio. First night I stayed in Cincinnati. Oh, Cincy. What can be said about thee? Cincinnati is like my waist: bigger than you would expect, but not something anyone is going to enjoy. Next stop Cleveland. For those of you who are not well-versed on Ohio geography, Cincinnati is in the southwestern corner of Ohio, directly diagonal to Cleveland in the northeastern part of the state. I had to drive five depressing, rainy, hours through Ohio, because I insisted on visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Now when I say I “insisted” I am lying. I didn’t insist. There was no one to insist to! I was alone, as I often am in life, love, and the bedroom…. FAIL! Lolz. What? Anyway. I arrived at the Hall o’ Fame, or “the hall” as the locals call it (no locals call it that). I spent 3 ½ hours there only to find an entire hallway dedicated to Jimi Hendrix and not a single window display for Bob Dylan. I am still composing a strongly worded letter to this so-called “establishment,” hoping to disembowel them of their title. Now don’t get me wrong, I like Jimi Hendrix. His seven minute career was very impressive. But Bob Dylan has penetrated the holes in my heart, impregnating my soul with his words. No person has ever loved another as much as I love him, not even Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries. Fail!

Edie Sedgwick

-I have started to wear leggings, tights, or as I like to refer to them “fat highlighters.” Yeah, that’s right. I am “trendy.” However, before the unfashionable tar and feathering occurs, let me explain. I like to wear dresses. I wear them all the time, along with pearls, leopard print shoes, and 74 coats of mascara, so I can walk around pretending I’m a fat Edie Sedgwick. But during the winter months, my pasty legs can’t handle the elements. So I did the only logical thing – bought black tights! After all, nothing is more Edie than black tights, aside from highly toxic amphetamines and Lou Reed’s penis; both of which I am yearning to acquire.

As for the other 42+ days I was not writing, I can only account for some of them with the following activities:

-30 hours spent at Occupy Nashville

-2 hours spent watching “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding.”

-14 hours spent watching reruns of “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding.”

-Undocumented amount of hours spent smoking hallucinogen

-15 hours driving to Pennsylvania

-30 minutes eating a gas station taco salad in Cleveland.

-1 ½ hours a day watching Judge Judy with my mother.

-Infinite amount of hours regretting my TV watching and wondering how anyone could find me lovable.

But now that it is November, things are bound to change. I am applying to graduate school for next fall, have joined a gym, have rejoined the local writer’s group I rely on as my sole social outlet, am attempting to finish my novel before the year’s end, and spend my afternoon’s crying to reruns of One Tree Hill.

Still unbalanced, still writing, still the girl with the blog.


The girl with the blog that is never updated because the girl happens to be a lazy a**hole.

Taking a Bath With Kim Kardashian and Choking on a Tomato(e)

Last week I had a brief encounter with death.  I was standing at my kitchen counter slicing a recently purchased farmer’s market tomato. The kind that is shaped like the skull of a malnourished orphan and weighs more than an NBA player’s testicles.  I had two slices of 35 calorie bread prepared on a plate that my laziness was choosing to pass as clean. Distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, I carelessly slathered a mound of mayonnaise on a single slice of the slimy red fruit and shoved it into my mouth. My haphazard multitasking of chewing and slicing came to a halt when suddenly…

The sly tomato slipped through the confines of my molars.  Resourceful, as all tomatoes are, it used mayonnaise and my panic as lubrication and took a suicidal plunge down my throat, lodging itself mid-journey.  I couldn’t breathe. Visions of my impending death overtook my mind. My oxygen-deprived body would slide onto the kitchen floor, twitching

for some reason that I don’t think is scientifically possible, perfectly positioning me on my back. My lifeless eyes would stare at the ceiling; my limbs sprawled about in the form of a chalk outline with an unexplainable pool of blood seeping out from under me. Who would find me, my roommate? If she was not making a freezer pop run to the kitchen, it was likely to be days. Who would tell my mom? Would she drive to Tennessee for a funeral or fly my corpse back to Pennsylvania? Would my sister take off work? Would my brother leave his apartment? Would my father clear time in his social calendar? Would it be reported as an accident or a suicide? Would they curl or straighten my casket hair?

Swallow. The tomato easily moved from my throat to my stomach as I continued to stand and slice, distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacies and ways I can get through life without ever working again, when I realized:

I am in the midst of an existentialist crisis. This is why I fear tomato-related death and haven’t written in two weeks.

Not to say I haven’t tried. I have four different blog postings half-written, all too sub par to continue the effort. Instead of using the three free nights I had this week to write as I normally would, I sat in bed watching movies on Netflix, passing out at 10:00 waking up at 1:30, and staying up the rest of the night, tossing and turning while picking kernels of popcorn out of my hair.

Just last night I had intentions of coming home from work and writing until midnight. Those were my intentions. But the reality of my recent behavior involved watching reruns of Sex and the City and falling asleep on the futon with a half eaten bowl of popcorn and a completely eaten box of chocolates to keep me company. I slipped in and out of consciousness for a few hours but finally awoke around 3:30 after having a dream about taking a bath with Kim Kardashian, while meeting with an attorney about making Wen the only hair product available in the United States.

This morning I awoke as the only 23 year old in the world dealing with a morning after headache from eating too much sugar. A friend of mine asked me to join him tailgating at the local college football game this afternoon. It is hardly my scene but I am considering it since it involves free food and liquor.

All of my innocent self destructive behavior and thoughts of death come down to my exhaustion from being in an eternal state of not knowing what I’m doing with my existence. I realize this is a problem that only plagues fat citizens of first world countries and I really deserve to contract Malaria for the pettiness of my concerns, but I simply cannot help it. As I have described in a previous blog entry, I feel like I am 23 going on 90.

Maybe I just need to drink.

Thoughts, criticisms, and general cruelty is encouraged. Thank you.


The girl who every time misspells tomato, “tomatoe” before cursing and backspacing