|I had an editor for the Temple News read this site and offer me a column of my own. I've been working for school newspapers since I was in elementary school...writing semi-coherently is my only marketable skill, other than tongue tricks...so something like this is one of the few things that holds the ability to make me downright giddy. Yet still, the prissy girl side of my brain (normally reserved for comparing overpriced perfumes and talking behind people's backs) came bursting out, leaving my thought process reduced to "You're going to be the next Carrie Bradshaw!!!" Ugh. I immediately slapped this initial reaction away, instead choosing to pick Joel Stein as the next victim of my vicarious pipe dream.|
It wouldn't work out anyway. I'm totally a Miranda.
Being the misanthrope and subway troll that I am, my assignment of, "making witty observations about people on the train" wasn't terribly difficult. However, what I failed to realize was that as a young, white female, I only have slightly more right than my grandmother in typing a single line of ebonics into the article. Although I make fun of every group of people equally and undeservedly, my column was taken away based on the grounds that it may be misconstrued as "offensive towards the community." I had a hard time defending myself against racist allegations, but managed to refrain from overexplaining the mixed demographics of my hometown, my desire for an afro, and how the love of my life from sixth to seventh grade was a beautiful black kid named Pierre. I just told the editor that although I understand, "chances" have to be taken at some point in "journalism." However, I'm still going to attempt to write for them, sans column.
I also got robbed a couple weeks ago and spent a Friday night at the police station, waiting with a man who referred to himself only as "Mr. J's friend." He told me about his wife's lingerie collection, what it was like to teach in an inner city school, and confessed his man-crush for, "that funny motherfucker, Chris Tucker."
So look out for my face on a fake ID near you!
Also, the hot water has mysteriously been turned off for the past couple of days. As I wait for water to boil so I can give myself a geriatric sponge bath, I decided to take five minutes out of my day to passive-aggressively let my roommate know that I refuse to take out the trash again.
Getting a bigger garbage can is obviously not an option.
|Dear Fellow Motorists of 95 South,|
Your cringing faces said everything. I just realized I was one of those people. You know, the ones who decide to eat their greasy McMeals on the ride home, because they JUST CAN'T WAIT to sit down at a table with a fork in hand and their dignity intact. I'm so sorry.
Dear New Digs,
I love you. I don't care if about the mice running around in the ceiling or the thermostat's inability to go above 59 degrees or the mismatching floor tiles. You're perfect.
You only exist when automatic door openers for the handicapped are present. Thank you to all the kind gentleman, who go miles out of their way and make the grueling effort to push it.
Dear Favorite Pants,
You're getting ridiculous. I'm holding out as long as I can so I don't have to go through those arduous, depressing dressing room sessions whose only purpose is to enlighten me about my awkward proportions. But, really...the well-placed tear right under my crotch has grown to a noticeable size. I could birth a child without taking my pants off. Maybe not a child, but a four month old fetus would totally fit through.
Dear Shia Labeouf,
Let's take a moment to remember where you came from before you became attractive to the masses. You played the mascot on Freaks and Geeks. A giant viking mascot. I mean, this is still more than I will probably amount to in my life, but let's not get to cocky.
Dear Michael Shea,
I heard you got a motorcycle (which I hate). With a sidecar (WHICH I LOVE). Let's make this a reality:
P.S. I doubt I can get back into the hang of this.
For starters, I'm worried about my browsing history on Amazon.com. I'm usually exceedingly cheap and buy nothing for myself, but I know the next time I'm sad I'll probably buy one of the objects pictured below. I feel like throwing up at the thought of spending $250 on a set of DVDs.
I've already bought a complete kitchen set consisting of a wrought iron table with two chairs and bench upholstered in yellow vinyl. Considering the 9' x 12' dining space I occupy while whipping up gourmet meals of beefaroni, this may not have been the most practical item to get. Justifying this expense to people with, "It is me in furniture form" only makes me sound crazier. Personification doesn't make you too many friends.
I just spent the past two hours attempting to find the best deal on plane tickets to Kentucky. All I wanted to do was to eat comfort food in complete solitude. For some reason, my thought process chooses to zero in on "The only way to get a bowl filled with calories and delicious, delicious gravy is to travel to Kentucky. Lexington, specifically." Luckily, the crippling effect hotel sheets has on me spared my credit card the $150. I have no clue why my brain registers the most inconvenient solution rather than "Go to KFC."
Unfortunately, the most recent thing I bought had no germ barricades to discourage it from being left alone. I leapt into pretention with my latest purchase: a Macbook. My current computer's sound has barely worked since I bought it, and the only thing I wanted to do upon getting home from work was listen to Positive K's "I Got a Man." I have simple needs. Realizing I couldn't do this, I decided to ignore my two year warranty and just start over. Genius!
Oh, and I got a five foot inflatable orange slice from my job. I'm not quite sure what to do with it other than be less hot than Gwen Stefani.
Even though it may dispel the common misconception that I'm Jewish, I really don't have enough money left to be buying unnecessary things.
Okay, so Fruit Slice Island was totally called for.
Should I put that in quotes? I never knew the words to that song, other than half of that first line. You know the one. It's always on those awful classic rock stations. "They're oldies, but goldies!" Now really, you people could have spent a bit more time thinking about that catchphrase. For the sake of Mungo Jerry's "Summertime," if nothing else.
Things I've done thus far:
-Explained what a hymen was to a 14 year old boy.
-Was outcast from every group of people I associate with for not understanding the appeal of Harry Potter.
-Cleaned out part of my car. Findings included: NWA cassette tape, the Pocahontas Soundtrack, rotting oranges, a full tea set, and two chia pets...one of which had sprouted long ago.
-Saw Hall & Oates for free. AWESOME. (Er, my kind of awesome...) Even better? Seeing the cops in charge of the show wearing clear vinyl ponchos. Riding Segway Scooters. Dancing on said scooters.
-Looked in my text messaging outbox to find things like the following: "Working overtime on a possible poop explosion. It's 5 a.m. and things are grand." Ugh. I'm so tired I don't even try anymore. Don't ever be my friend, because, at this rate, I'll probably be reaching into my "diarrhea joke" bag within days of meeting you.
A few noble goals:
-Get over fears of spider veins, sharks, mayonnaise.
masterbating masterbaiting masturbating incorrectly.
-Cash in that winning $1 scratch-off lottery ticket.
-Stop mourning the untimely death of Charles Nelson Reilly.
-Learn the words to "It's the End of the World as We Know It." Shouting the "Leonard Bernstein!" part does not count as knowing the whole song.
-Learn words in sign language other than "turtle," "king," and "lesbian."
-Form a mutiny at my place of work with my manager (appropriately named Pound, as shown below). This may or may not include blinding people with muriatic acid, stealing the overpriced Nerf Guns we sell, and high fives/fist pounds to cement the bond between overqualified yet underpaid workers such as ourselves:
With a boss known as Little Hitler, streams of lonely male customers making sexual innuendoes, and a paycheck so low I don't even get taxes back, what's not to love?
I'm not meant for this weather.
I just finished spending an unnecessary amount of time trying to find pictures of Rosario Dawson's breasts. A debate arose among friends concerning matters of silicone, and I am a total tit crusader if I feel there are wrongful accusations being thrown around.
There are several matters upon which I will not bend:
The pure, unadulterated joy of attending my cousin's graduation/family festivities a week or so ago was only surpassed by finding the love of my life. Most of my time in Jersey was spent either discussing the golden child, or reminding people that a) as much as I appreciate the, "birthday wishes for the big 1-4" in case you don't see me again before then, I should probably let on to the fact that I am currently enrolled in college and closer to my twenties than you may think and b) I am indeed still single...yes, just like the last time you saw me. Feigned surprise is unnecessary. Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's been established that I tend to watch a lot of both Jeopardy! and any documentary I can get my hands on. Whether this coincides with the amount of friends I have is currently an untested theorem, but I think conclusions can be drawn. So, in an attempt to avoid family dramatics, I finally watched "Wordplay," the fast-paced thriller about the national crossword puzzle competition that takes place in Connecticut every year.
- I know good breasts when I see them (Sidenote: hello to the various family members reading this. I'm still not that lesbian daughter/cousin/niece you all seem to think I have so much potential to become. Stay tuned for next week's entry, though! Cliffhanger!)
- Knock-off food brands are superior to the originals. (Tuxedos>Oreos, Mountain Lion>Mountain Dew, et al.).
- Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" gets better every time you listen to it. (Another sidenote: I should probably be working at Hallmark).
- And, most importantly...redheads should be ruling the earth.
And there he was. The youngest winner of the competition.
Red headed, dictionary-wielding, twenty year old Tyler Hinman.
Oh, Baby. You had me at one across. Ugh. Bad jokes happen, people.
I have a long-standing affinity towards redheads. I'm sort of a bastard, so my efforts in befriending them are usually unsuccessful, but I'll continue to try in vain. I'm hypnotized into loving them, really. It's gotten to the point where I find Kathy Griffin hilarious. Not only am I probably the only fan of hers who is not a gay male, but I also think she's quite pretty. Let me repeat...I honestly find Kathy Griffin attractive. I know it's wrong, but that pasty skin skews the thought process. And let's just ignore the fact that not only is Danny Bonaduce a ginger, but so are the rest of his family members. Dear God. Nothing is better than that VH1 show.
Is this dedication a result of low self esteem? I don't think so...I just think they represent an underappreciated recessive gene that deserves attention. Hemophilia is also linked to recessive genes, but, you know...that sexy little trait is slightly less appealing.
Regardless, this March I'm traveling to Brooklyn, the new location of the competition, to see these people (redheaded or not) in all their glory. Is that dedication a result of low self esteem? Quite possibly.