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Thoughts and Experiences of My life at 11:30 PM on a Tuesday

This is a rather disjointed blog post. So I’ve decided to think of this blog post as a Pinterest page representing my life. However I don’t understand Pinterest or enjoy it so there’s a very good chance it will just read like a really poorly constructed blog entry. Boo.



My vocabulary has gotten exponentially better since watching Dawson’s Creek. It’s like how I get wittier after watching Gilmore Girls and sluttier after watching Gossip Girl. Well, that’s only partially true.

I couldn’t possibly get wittier.



“My boobs feel like caves”

-something I just said out loud.



Tonight with my friend, Collin

fendercollin 11:45 pm
back a year ago or so you told me that I reminded you of a turtle!

fendercollin 11:45 pm
we were just talking!
and then I told you that you reminded me of a cherub and you got all mad



Last night at the concert I heard some girl say she was going to “snort a line of Molly.” I thought she was talking about my mother’s dog.


Self Realizations:

Sometimes I stare at my work purse for a really long time and feel guilty about the fact that it is leather and that some animal had to die so I could have this purse to fill with tampon wrappers and chewed gum. But then I remember they don’t sell real leather at Old Navy and my guilt just comes from being born an American.

That’s all.


The girl with kaleidoscope eyes

Why I Suck At Being a Young Person

I suck at being a young person.

Today I tried. Here’s what happened.  

This afternoon I went shopping. I needed to buy a lot of really important things with exactly ZERO dollars.  Soooooo I went to the record store. The record store I am referring to is a phenomenally well-priced, well-stocked, used media pawn shop version of heaven where I hope to conceive my future children. Going there is not why I suck at being a young person.

There were a lot of young people there. Mostly boys with checkered shoes and stupid haircuts looking at used cds and video games. But I, the only female that has probably ever been within 100 yards of the building, spent my entire 30 minutes there hunched in the corner of the room next to a 60 year old man with a pony tail and flannel shirt, scouring folk and blues vinyl records no one else will probably buy. This is why I suck at being a young person. It’s just like how every time I attend a concert alone because no one I know listens to the music I like, I end up befriending some elderly person with liver spots, who I have more in common with than 90% of my peers. This is not a real statistic. I made it up. Don’t hate.

This entire concept makes me very uncomfortable

So after spending $56 of the $100 I had actually set aside for clothing, I left and went to the mall where I could simultaneously buy cheap dresses and have my soul physically extracted by means of consumerist-driven centrifugal force. JK, I LOVE SHOPPING!!!!!!!!!!!!

Did I mention that I also suck at being a female? No? Ok.

So here’s another reason I suck at being young and at being female. The shopping itself went fine. Things that made me look fat, I put back. Things that made me look less fat, I bought. I’m not sure why girls need a horde of acquaintances to figure this out. If a dress makes you look like you could prevent a plane from takeoff, you probably shouldn’t buy it. Anyway. After buying some clothing, I went to Sephora determined to buy something that proved my youthful femaleness once and for all. But after twenty minutes of searching and physically rejecting the prices by way of dry heaves, I left, disgusted and happy I spent $56 on records instead of on one bottle of shampoo. This is not an exaggeration. I did not make this up.

I spent the rest of the night in my apartment, cleaning, listening to records, and growing increasingly aware of my lack of friends. It’s not like I’m completely friendless. I’m not Heidi Montag. I just don’t have a great amount of friends in a local proximity who I have much in common with.  So I decided instead of shimmying alone to John Lee Hooker and chatting with distant friends online, I should attempt to go out. This is where I really suck at being a young person.

I have no idea how to “go out.” I’m not even sure what that means. I’m pretty sure it involves bars and shitty music and body shots, but since my only understanding of contemporary social gatherings comes from watching Jersey Shore alone, I’m probably wrong. Nevertheless, the entire concept of going out intimidates me for the following reasons:

  1. I don’t know how to order a drink. I once tried to order a glass of wine at a restaurant and when the waiter asked me what kind I wanted my exact reply was, “like, I don’t know. Red?” Then he proceeded to card me and remind me that 17 year olds aren’t old enough to buy alcohol. So if I were to go out and drink, the only way I would even have a drink in my hand is if someone else ordered it for me. And if someone else ordered it for me, I’d absolutely assume it was roofied.
  2. I don’t know how to dress. I always think I do, but I don’t. Then I start judging everyone else for dressing badly, when really I’m the one who should not be wearing tights in 80 degree weather.
  3. I get neurotically focused on knowing where the bathroom is. Like, I can’t enter an establishment and just start socializing like a normal person. My first thought is that I must find out where the bathroom is, because frankly I’d rather spend the evening completely alone than get lost on my way to the bathroom and end up in the backseat of some guys van.
  4. I know I won’t enjoy myself. I realize this is not the mindset I should have going into going out, but it’s true. Because honestly, even though I am a very open-minded person, my greatest idea of a good time is sitting on my living room floor with a few friends and acquaintances, listening to records, doing absolutely NOTHING illegal, and talking about how it makes us feel. So if I’m with people who would rather be out than doing that, then I’m not going to enjoy myself.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I suck at being a young person.


The girl who “wants to be bad but doesn’t know how”

She Blinded Me With Science!!!…and a Day Off

Tomorrow is my day off. My first day off since May 6th. It’s like, a totally big deal. Among other things, I am going to attempt to do the following:

  1. Sew pillows for my couch  Learn how to sew
  2. Break my sewing machine
  3.  Cut myself   Shave my legs
  4. Write something good decent
  5.  Clean my car Generate an excuse for why I can’t clean my car

As you can see, I have rad plans for a bitchin’ existence.

Diving headfirst into my day off with some mad productivity, I have captured screen shots from my favorite parts of the music video for Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me With Science”; the best song and video ever created by man or highly-skilled therapy dogs. I imagine they are the only other mammal with video recording capabilities.

I can’t quite explain how this represents mad productivity. But I also can’t explain how Ron Jeremy was a sex symbol. The world is a mysterious place.

Thomas Dolby – She Blinded Me With Science (Screenshots)

An absolutely understandable reaction to an old man screaming “science”

An absolutely acceptable reaction to scoring in croquet

An absolutely normal group of old men dancing with canes for no reasons

An absolutely fantastic way to end a video: pushing an old man in a wheelchair into a lake

You need to watch this video. I predict it will rank in the top 10 great experiences of your life, after seeing Shakira bellydance live, before winning a watermelon seed spitting contest.


I also predict Thomas Dolby to be the next L. Ron Hubbard with irrelevant celebrities like Bam Margera and Niki Hilton leading the way in development of a new cult religion. One that will blind them with science.


The girl who hopes to enter a serious relationship in the next 3 hours so she can make legitimate plans with a significant other that do not leave her feeling empty inside.

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 :/


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

…to her recollection…

This Blog is Stupid (Don’t Read It)

My life is spiraling out of control!!!!


Not really.

But things are changing rapidly and I’m still trying to figure out who the f*** moved my cheese. Human Resources professional in the house, yo!

I just lost half of my readers.


I would like to tell you all about my recent life changes, but I am 99% sure no one cares except for my parents who, by default can only get through about half of each blog entry before the obligation to remind me of how much of a disappointment I am kicks in. Haha, JK! (not really)

So instead I will sum it all up with this haiku, written with phrases taken verbatim from Google search terms used to find my blog:

The Girl with the Blog

Fat Woman Empty Wallet

Statistical Mess

That pretty much tells you everything you need to know about me and my life.

Now let’s watch baby wood ducks bounce on their bellies!!!!!!

Aren’t you glad you read this blog?


The girl who abuses the first amendment

Craig’s Gonna List My Power Trip

This isn’t a real blog entry. I just have something that must be said.

Today while frittering away my youth on the Internet I came to a profound realization. Every time I decide I want to browse ads for free Beagle puppies and hand jobs, I go to Craigslist. Every time I do this I type into the browser box. It never disappoints.

But today as I pounded each letter of the URL into the browser box in deliberate slow motion I had a thought:

“It’s Craigslist.ORG”

ORG. Short for orgy or chemical-free fruit. Unsettling enough, my next thought was even worse:

A completely unrelated image to highlight the purposelessness of this entry

“I don’t care.”

Click. Boom.  The website soon appeared with its .com fraudulency and I was left feeling pretty pleased with myself. Take that Craig. I just made you my bitch.

But then I realized that somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew .com wasn’t right. I knew I was openly defying Craig and I kept doing it anyway.

Then I got depressed.

What kind of pathetic human being intentionally uses standard domain redirecting to make themselves feel powerful?

“Powerful,” you ask? Yes, powerful.

I felt like Napolean minus the complex; Achilles minus the heel, Tara Reid minus the shitty boob job.

Moral of the story:

I need more to do at work


The girl with an ass that quits



Bitch + Prick = Samantha Brick, yo

Arrogance is the laxative of humanity. It brings out all of the shit in people.

I believe, deep in my heart, that a truly conceited person is nothing short of despicable, a phrase I formerly reserved for Robin Williams alone. But today I realized that if I were arrested by Bob Dylan’s security team and stuffed into a windowless 10×10 room I’d rather 77 furry and infuriating Robin Williamssssssssss to keep me company than ONE of this twat:

Samantha Brick

Sure, on the surface she looks like any other woman suffering from serious constipation. But like I said before, arrogance is the laxative of humanity. So if one thing’s for sure, constipation is not her problem and her pants are likely filled with feces. But I digress.

I’m not simply railing on this woman because it’s fun, although let’s face it. It’s phenomenal. But in all seriousness, Samantha Brick, the woman, the writer, the revolutionary force behind “beautiful” women everywhere recently published an article entitled, no lie, “’There Are Downsides to Looking This Pretty:’ Why Women Hate Me For Being Beautiful.”

I know. Just, I know.

Now, obviously anyone reading this is more curious about what this poor woman looks like, than anything she actually has to say. Kind of like how people mute Jennifer Lopez music videos. So, much to the disappointment and satisfaction of every reader, it is somewhat surprising when the woman writing the “I’m so pretty I should just die” article is actually, kinda, sorta, undeniably average. A whaaaaaat???

If you read my blog you know I’m somewhat of a lesbian. Not really. But there’s about 17 women I’d go gay for in a second if given the opportunity. Emma Stone, Amanda Seyfried, Sophia Bush, SHAKIRA, Dear Jesus, I can barely continue typing…

Point is, I have never in my life hated a woman for being beautiful. I typically end up idolizing them to an unhealthy degree before accepting that face transplants are only reserved for burn victims or people like Jocelyn Wildenstein.

So when a lady starts spouting off about how irresistibly boneable she is, I expect big things and am horrendously disappointed when all I get is a bony, blond, constipation face. Straight trippin.’ But to be honest there should be less focus on her looks because no matter how good looking she is, no one should be in such serious self-denial to think that their looks are so astonishing that an entire gender has collectively decided to hate them. No. The focus of all ridicule should be on the fact that, deep down inside where it actually MATTERS, this woman is utterly hideous. Here’s how:

I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to being pretty — the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely looks.”

“I’m not smug and I’m no flirt, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually talk to me, a sudden chill would descend on the room.”

“And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be her bridesmaid.”

“You’d think we women would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances. I work at mine — I don’t drink or smoke, I work out, even when I don’t feel like it, and very rarely succumb to chocolate. Unfortunately women find nothing more annoying than someone else being the most attractive girl in a room.”

I can’t even finish this article without laughing hysterically. I mean, honestly, it sounds like either one of two things.

1. A parody, a joke, satirical non-humor, or something more believable than someone actually being this much of an asshole.


2. An EXTREMELY insecure woman whose mother once told her that the only reason people made fun of her constipation face was because they were jealous that they did not look    as constipated as her, and therefore for the rest of her life had to tell herself that every time people decided they didn’t like her shitty personality it was because they were jealous.

While I initially assumed, it HAD to be number 1, I was indescribably delighted when she wrote a follow up article confirming that it was number 2, shit and all.

 “While I’ve been shocked and hurt by the global condemnation, I have just this to say: my detractors have simply proved my point. Their level of anger only underlines that no one in this world is more reviled than a pretty woman.”

“If Brad Pitt were to say: ‘Yes, I’m a good-looking fella,’ then the world would nod sagely in agreement. But if Angelina Jolie uttered something along those lines, she’d be subject to the same foaming-at-the-mouth onslaught hurled at me yesterday.”

It’s like conceited **** comedy hour up in herrrrre (use your imagination to decide what word I starred out). I CANNOT get through this woman’s writing without taking a leak all over myself, metaphorically speaking.

While everything in this piece is pure gold, my favorite part is probably when she compares herself to Angeline Jolie.

See anything different about these two women? Anything at all? I know, like, how totally uggo is Angelina.

Let’s cut the shit, this woman’s inflated ego, ie. Insecure desperation to figure out why everyone she’s ever met hates her, says it all. But I’d like to say one last thing. Here it goes:



Dear Samantha,

H-h-h-h-h-i, I’m-m-m-m L-L-Lena. Sorry, I’m just stuttering because I can’t handle how beautiful you are.

Ok, I’m over it.

I know the last 24 hours have been difficult for you. You not only plastered pictures of yourself all over the internet for people to judge and ridicule, (tough break, girl) but you also let the entire world know, at once, how much your personality sucks. Now that’s a total bummer.

Because let’s face it, woman to woman. Even if you were the super bionic attractive specimen of sex personified you seem to think you are, in the vapid culture you believe yourself to flourish in, looks fade with time. And when you finally look as haggard as all the women who just don’t understand how difficult your life is, you won’t have a great personality to fall back on. All you will have is pictures of your younger self and soon-to-be embarrassing globally consumed publications of vanity to prove, that even when you looked your best, you still were so intolerable as a person, that not a single woman wanted to be friends with you and all men valued you for were your looks. Because if there is anything women know, it’s that it doesn’t take much more than having a pulse to get a man to hit on you. But it takes being a decent human being to establish real friendships.

In addition, it goes without saying, that if you want to write an article about how tough life is, you might want to focus it on something other than being beautiful. Last time I checked, the global economy has collapsed, kids are being murdered in third world countries, and Two and a Half Men is still on the air.

That’s all.

Peace out, ya’ll.


The girl with a personality to fall back on.

Things I Brag About That No One Should Brag About — Part I.

I’m weirdly arrogant. You might assume with all of my self-deprecating hate speak I am a licensed wrist cutter, but no. I actually suffer from crippling arrogance. I might be upset about it if I wasn’t so busy blogging about it. Thank God for the Internet. And Bill Nye. That’s unrelated.

what up, bitch

Anyway, here are a few things I brag about, that no one should brag about.


My weird relationship with body hair.

I have a weird relationship with body hair. People don’t get it. I don’t get it.

It’s like, I want to find it disgusting, but I can’t. Like how I feel about Russel Brand or used Q-tips. Unhygienic and riddled with bodily fluids, I’d still let them penetrate my ears. The Q-tips, not Russel Brand. Katy Perry sucks.

But, it’s hard to explain my attraction to body hair.

It’s like…


On the body…


When I think of guys with body hair I think of two things:

1. Shaving the Superman logo onto his chest and

Superchest Man


2. That in the right lighting, I would probably have sex with an orangutan.

Skeet, skeet, mothaf***a


Instead of acknowledging this as a fetish with a 1987 expiration date, I brag about it. People just don’t get it the way I do. Which leaves me no other option but to belittle those who disagree with me, accusing the women of being lesbians, and the men of being mid-transition transsexuals. Like Khloe Kardashian.

Jk, Khlo! *Kisses*

Not really.


How Infrequently I Urinate

I was born with a massive bladder. At least that’s what I tell people. While this sort of statement may not impress in the same way as, say a vestigial tail or second vagina, I still find the words “internal fanny pack” escaping my lips whenever I participate in long road trips or conversations involving Chuck Norris.

Such an asset leads to an excess of useless conversation. At least once every 72 hours, I say one of the following things:

  1. I’ve only peed once since Thursday.
  2. Wow, I haven’t peed since 6:00 am.
  3. Some people really pee a lot. I don’t pee a lot.
  4. Use the bathroom? Girl, please.
  5. You can get pregnant from that?!

Eh hem, yeah. You can.


Reasons I Have Ended Relationships

The 2011 family reunion

Much like an early 20th century Appalachian family, every time mine convenes we spend our time entertaining one another with folk tales of the crazy ass bitches we recently dumped. Since I’m like, so totally unhinged, I tend to lead these conversations.

I like to open with my story of Bernard, the Waffle House casa nova, follow up with Jehovah the 5’6 cuddle monster, and close with Pedro, the divorced –er, I mean separated, whoops – I mean separated but still living together, yikes – I mean married with an open relationship, damn –I mean married and talking kids, dude I briefly considered.

I pantomime this humiliation, the crowds go wild, and I am left feeling proud and in serious denial of how pathetic my life has truly been.


Man alive, I’m on top of the world. I better do something to knock myself off of this high horse.

Oh, wait. I woke up today. Done.


The girl with hips that lie

10 Things I Hate Today (Because I Have Nothing Better to Write about While I Wait For My Film to Develop)

OK, so after being home from the Dominican Republic for a week, one might assume I would be packing some serious literary heat, blogging about my life-altering experience before any other arbitrary topic. However, since myself and middle-aged male teachers from California are the only people left on the planet who still get our film developed, I am waiting until I have adequate visual aids to pleasure you all with my tales from down under. Or whatever.

In the meantime I am going to pleasure you with minimal enthusiasm and a loose grip on reality. So if you have nothing better to do, which you evidently do not since you are still reading, I invite you to squander a few more precious minutes of your lackluster existence and join me as I divulge 10 things I realized I hate today.

  1. Pregnant chicks who smoke. I hope you realize what people think when they see you: Foul tasting breast milk.

Oh, and selfish b****.

2.  People named Christian. Enough said.

3.  When I have used the same water bottle so many times it emits a palpable stench of saliva and backwash.

4.  Rick Santorum. That’s a lie. I realized this upon conception. He may love the unborn, but it sure ain’t mutual.

You know, cause they aren’t alive.

5.  Finding three week old oranges on the bottom of my purse.

6. Finding four week old bananas under my car seat.

7.  Waking up with the theme song for “Braceface” stuck in my head.

8.  Kesha was featured on VH1s Greatest Female Artists of the Last 20 Years. And not as a PSA for inbreeding.

9.  The fact that transsexual women don’t get periods.

10.  The smell of napalm in the morning.


what a hottie

This is the lamest post I’ve ever written. I should be ashamed. I’m embarrassing myself and loved ones. Like one of those people who go on Dr. Phil to admit they have adult baby fetish.

I never saw that on Dr. Phil. My mom told me about it. She thinks he’s hot. Dr. Phil. Not the adult baby man. Benjamin Button freaked her out.

I’ll write something better soon. Or soon I’ll write better. Whatever you are more inclined to believe.


Gossip Girl

The girl with the boring blog

Leaving America and Not Coming Back!!!…until next weekend

I don’t have time to write this blog.

In fact, I might quit writing it altogether.

My blog is more threatening than this guy

Don’t get me wrong. I love this blog. If it could impregnate me, I’d let it. But it is becoming an uncomfortably large distraction in my daily life, like watching makeup tutorial Youtube videos by French Canadian teenagers.  Whenever I’m not blogging I’m thinking of how I should be, and whenever I am blogging I’m thinking about how no one cares. It’s an abusive cycle. My blog wears the wife-beater, I wear the beer gut.

But I don’t know how to quit, and since the severity of my narcissism has truly reached a breaking point, likely to result in either my spontaneous combustion or a strong empathy for Donald Trump, I have decided to leave the country.

All because of this blog.

Actually, I’m lying. I just needed a creative way to say I’m leaving the country and sadly for you, my mind is too tired to come up with something funnier. In TBS censorship lingo, this week has been a clusterscrew, exhausting me to the point of having nothing to write about. I briefly considered publishing a post about the insignificant things that happened this week. Like the disturbing discovery that my underwear drawer smells like peanuts or how when asked to plan a date, the best I came up with was a nude sketch class followed by a local ACLU meeting. Hawt.

But luckily for you, between starting a new job and preparing for AAA club-hopping, I haven’t had time to write that. So instead of bogging you down with further unnecessary text, I’ll just bid you farewell.

Tomorrow morning I am flying to the Dominican Republic for a week-long jaunt of volunteering and feeling guilty about being born in America. My Grandfather is organizing this trip because he is a retired minister and among the best people I know, and has gone to the Dominican to volunteer over 15 times, as well as over half the countries in the world. I wish I could be that good of a person. But alas, I have a soft spot for Britney Spears which pretty much negates any good dead I could do.

Needless to say I am going to be “disconnected” for the next week. No internet access, cell phones, or Kourtney and Kim reruns. I’ve never been to a third-world country before, but since I weep nightly while watching the news and write letters for Amnesty International, there is a very good chance I am going to have an emotional break-down. But I have been warned not to act this way, so I am going to do my best to remain the calm, cool, heartlessly self-important American Mitt Romney would want me to be.

I shall make an effort to blog about this experience in the least soul-crushing way possible. I will probably update again sometime around March 5 or 6, so check back if you want in on that cry-fest.

Until then be good people but better lovers. I don’t know what that means.


The girl whose skin burns just from the thought of her upcoming proximity to the equator.