I know you think I lied to you. I know this is how you feel.
But it hasn’t been seven years. It’s been 2 weeks. Plus I wrote you every day for a month. So there’s that. Can we suck face now? Ok.
I’ve been at work for 1 hour and 44 minutes and all I have done so far is search for local you-pick blueberry farms (please note: as a lazy American there is a very good chance I will never follow through with doing this, but will instead spend December complaining about the fact that I can’t make a frozen blueberry smoothies or locate the United States on a map….whaaaaaatt????) and watch elephants taking baths on YouTube. I could feel bad about this, but seeing as my boss is painting her nails and watching Arrested Development on Netflix, I only feel like a slightfailure of the educational system. Plus nothing is more badass than an elephant taking a bath.
But I’ve had trouble with motivation lately. Perhaps it’s my 65 hour work week or the fact that the only thing that truly motivates me in life is my inner drive which apparently died the day I purchased a Roku, but I actually have a lot “in the works” I just can’t bring myself to do anything about it. For example, I am scheduled to take the GRE (graduate school admission test) in August and have received all of my study materials in the mail. But aside from rereading the flashcard for the word “apocryphal” and trying to determine which Dawson’s Creek episode I heard it in, I haven’t done so much as breathe in the same vicinity of my math tutoring book since purchasing it, which really is a problem since I can’t correctly do math even with a calculator. This is not an exaggeration.
I need to foster some creative energy. The good thing about the May Blogging Challenge was that I had to be borderline creative at least some point every day and since I am very much a deadline-driven person, the challenge of the challenge was actually quite fulfilling. But then June came and I catapulted into a feeling of depression and lack of life purpose like, if I’m not blogging about bugs crawling on my toothbrush, WHO AM I???, and WHERE DO I BELONG?, and WHAT COLOR IS MY PARACHUTE?
It’s been an existential crisis.
So I’m thinking in order to stronghold my creative potential I will have to develop a new project. I’ve been interested in establishing a greeting card line where I can capitalize not only on my deep understanding of human emotion, but also my strength as a phrasologist (not a real word).
Here is what I’ve come up with so far:
…cause Jews don’t celebrate Christmas.
IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE IRONIC!
I think I need to work on this.
Have a great day, lovebirds and otherwise unhappy single people of the world.
The girl contractually obligated to get a dragon tattoo
WARNING: This blog contains serious bitterness regarding love. If you are recently betrothed or awaiting a wedding day, I advise you go back to doodling “Mrs. ______” on your notebook, before you go f*** yourself.
At some point in every woman’s life, she begins to formulate an image of her ideal man. For several pre teen years, my ideal mate was a healthy blend of Milo Ventimiglia and Eminem. I was happy skating through middle school with these expectations, imagining that some day when I was really old, like 17, I would meet Eminemilo waiting in line at some hip downtown club and would woo him with my intellect, wit, and overly developed breasts. Realistic and classy.
It was around this time that my dreams and expectations were shattered. SHATTERED. For this was 2001 when the band Lifehouse first got radio play. Enter: “Hanging By a Moment.”
“I’m falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I’ve held onto….
….And I don’t know what I’m diving into
Just hanging by a moment here with you”
That bullshit f***ed me up more than my parent’s divorce and the time the church Santa Clause called me fat. WTF Jason Wade? Your phony lyrics, equivalent to the creepy poetry exchanged by teenage lesbians, completely obliterated all realistic expectations I had of love. I remember my sister and I lying on our beds in our shared bedroom at my father’s house, talking about how “cute” the lyrics were, how “sweet” the singer must be and about how “sexy” his voice was. Because at that time all it took for a man to be “sexy” was a body weight of 120+ pounds and the ability to profess his undying love to teenage girls through radio waves.
As if those stirrings of emotional confusion were not enough, Lifehouse released yet ANOTHER song containing even greater fabrications about relationships. Enter “Breathing”.
“I am hanging on every word you say
And even if you don’t want to speak tonight
That’s alright, alright with me
‘Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside Heaven’s door and listen to you breathing
Is where I want to be”
What? NO ONE FEELS THAT WAY! You can’t drill these thoughts into a little girl’s head, using pop melodies sang/whispered by pretty boy front men through four foot speakers at middle school dances, where the only person without a dancing partner is the chubby blond girl in the corner reading “Pride and Prejudice” because she’s “different.” NO! It’s worse than sexting! This causes permanent damage to the maturity of whatever part of the brain controls our ideas about romance.
But time passed and while I never did get over these fantasies about love, songs by Nelly and 50 Cent evened the curve by teaching me that some men just want to see you “shake it so they can see your thong.” This, as degrading and objectifying as it is, is actually realistic.
But then came 2004, my sophomore year of high school. Fifteen, spritely with a D cup, I had it all! Except my one true love. Enter: Ryan Gosling.
Ryan Gosling. What is there to say about Ryan Gosling that hasn’t already been said? Vision of perfection? Sure. Symbol of truth and romance all men should aspire to? Maybe. I could shower this man with accolades and relentless affection for the rest of my life and it would still not be enough. Why? Noah mother-f***in Calhoun!
Ok, so maybe Ryan Gosling didn’t personally ruin my life. But his portrayal of Noah in the “The Notebook” is single-handedly the most unrealistic, unattainable, fantasy any woman could ever hope for. He wrote her every day for a year? WHAT? He rebuilt the house just to win her back? NO ONE DOES THAT! He can’t give his whole heart to the sad widow because he is too broken? THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN!
Ryan Gosling, Noah, and this movie are complete false advertising and here is why:
- The boy you fall in love with at 17 doesn’t look like that.
- At 24, the boy you fell in love with at 17 doesn’t look like that.
- No man will ever love you that much.
You don’t believe me? Well ask yourself this. Where are these men? I am 23 years old and all I have is an addiction-prone ex husband and 50 pounds of baggage in the form of belly fat and cellulite hanging off my stumpy body. I don’t have any love letters or lakefront homes with private porches where I can paint in the nude. No. All I have is a slew of insecurities about the male speed of response to a text message and whether or not I am more attractive to the male population with straight or curly hair.
But it is not all men’s fault. I am, admittedly, an emotional train wreck that makes Octo-mom look like a perfectly functioning member of society. I either have zero feelings for men who really like me or explosive feelings for men who really don’t. So I think if it is any one’s fault it is Lifehouse and the Ryan Gosling/Nicholas Sparks team. My formative teen years were not spent learning that men use emotional manipulation tactics to sleep with you or that if they really like you they will contact you, regardless of how many days it has been since you last met. They were spent as a sponge, soaking up the lies about love and romance we are fed to make us believe that one day Ryan Gosling will sing to you while you dance in the middle of the street and that he won’t know why he can’t take his eyes off of you.
All I can say is this. Be wary ladies and gay men. Be wary of Lifehouse songs and Ryan Gosling.
The girl with intentions of adopting a baby and becoming a lesbian