OK. I need to tell you something. I can do this. Just do it like a band-aid Meg, just do it like a band-aid...Here we go...I went to The Maryland Renaissance Festival over the weekend. WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! DON'T GO! Here me out: a.) I didn't go in costume. (Obviously.) b.) It was Becca's idea. And my sister could be like, "I'm going to skip stones down by the river" and I'd be all, "COOL!!!!! CAN I COME?!?!" Although she didn't really have to spend much time convincing me to go. She had me at "whimsical hair braiding." c.) Delicious fried foods on sticks. d.) Endless beer. e.) There was a two-headed turtle freak show. I mean. Please. f.) It was the Olympic Games of people watching. A visual all-you-can-eat buffet of sexually active Theater Geeks and weirdos! To which I say, yes and please!
I would be a whore and a liar if I said it wasn't awesome. Maybe the best part of my entire Summer. Yeah, I know, strong statement. But I mean, honestly! It was a free pass to get drunk at 10 o'clock in the morning and observe Meeks in their natural habitat! And they were corseted and chain-mailed Meeks, none-the-less! I had a digital camera, a liver full of Sam Adams Oktoberfest and zero inhibitions. It. Was. Awesome.
A FURRY! I couldn't even contain my excitement.
(That's what she said.)
Raver Furry. He had "pierced ears" and punk pants. I just...I can't.
Screw Gym-Crush Kyle. This is my new imaginary boyfriend.
At ye olde Cod-Piecery.
It must suck to work on your dragon costume all year and then show up on opening day in 95-degree weather with no breeze and immediately regret that decision.
I didn't know they had Real Dolls in the Renaissance...
I kind of hope I get reincarnated into the wench who gets to spend the end of her summer wandering around Ren Fest shouting, "SWEET NUTS! WHO WANTS A TASTE OF MY SWEET NUTS?!"
Heaving bosoms you guys. Heaving bosoms and bees all over the fuckin' place.
A beeswax candle of a dolphin. Because of course it is.
TWO TURTLES IN ONE?! The only thing that could be cuter is if they both raped a shoe.
Seriously...cod pieces and heaving bosoms as far as the eye could see.
Mmm...Oktoberfest, fried foods and Meek-hunting.
Uh, HBO Real Sex on Pony Play anyone?!
"THE KING IS AT O'SHUCK'S!!!" - Becca
I was peer-pressured into buying red nymph ears. Here they are. I don't know. In my defense when I bought these I had reached a point where body was comprised of equal parts beer to sweat and I probably would have done anything anyone told me to do. Plus they opened the door to endless "is the maiden horny??" jokes from gentle sirs passing by.
Before we get to the results of The Great Juno Debate, I would like to take a moment and tell you about my traumatic morning. At 8 o'clock this morning I dragged myself out of bed feeling all Groggy Town U.S.A., stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower, adjusted the water temperature, looked down and realized that my left foot was three inches away from the biggest fucking cockroach I have ever seen not confined to the Amazonia section of the National Zoo: I am NOT okay. Nothing in my life will ever be okay again.
I didn't even know how to remedy the situation. It was too early in the morning to deal with. I just stood there staring at it in disbelief. Then the fact that it was real and breathing and had it's own zip code finally sunk in and I Super Bowl Shuffled my way out of that bathroom so fast his little cockroach top hat spun. I had no idea how to kill him. There was no fucking way I was going to "get him" with a piece of toilet paper as if he were your average spider. I mean look at that thing! I'd bend down and he'd roundhouse kick me in the face and steal my TV! I ended up throwing my commemorative Michael Jackson issue of GQ on top of him and promptly ran away screaming like a small child. That situation is still there right now. I know I just have to fold up the bathmat and put it in a trash bag and throw it out, but I don't know if I can handle it. I think instead I'm just going to move out and go live with my parents again where the only thing that size in the bathroom not paying rent is Evie.
My skin seriously has not stopped crawling all morning. I keep obsessively scratching myself like a meth addict. You should have seen me in the shower after I killed it. It was like the god damn Crying Game. I fucking hate cockroaches. I would rather a mouse or rat the size of a mini-cooper show up with a monocle and cane all "Ello Govna! I'm bunking with you, I am I am!" than one single cockroach scuttle through my bathroom. Although I should say I have a bizarre thing for mice and rats. I just think they're so effing adorable. When I was a wee little Meglet, I had a giant plastic squeaky rat that I carried around everywhere with me named after Templeton, the rat in Charlotte's Web. (Although I couldn't say Templeton so I called him Tem-Tem-Tem...god I was adorable.)
One night Co-Blogger Chris and I found the most adorable little mouse under the fridge in our Brooklyn apartment: I coaxed her into a shoebox, fed her granola and named her Heidi Mousetag (GET IT?! Like Heidi Montag?! BAHAHA!) I begged Chris to let me keep her and he reluctantly agreed for all of five minutes before taking her to Prospect Park to set her free. Which I still frequently bring it up with him and remind him of how bitter I am. Sigh...
Anyway, pestilence aside, here are the results of The Great Juno Debate:
Via comments:
Meg: 41 votes Andrew: 35 votes
Via Online Poll:
Meg: 66.95% Andrew: 33.05%
Before we go celebrating my victory, reader Jen referred me to an interview Jason Bateman did with NPR where he basically reveals that neither he nor the director really knew the answer to this question. Which is irritating because if it's meant to be ambiguous than how am I supposed to finally one-up Andrew? I mean, sure more people agree with me but we'll never really know which one of us is right. And that's horseshit. Andrew and I tried to contact Diablo Cody for the answer via Twitter, but she never got back to us. Which is irritating, but Andrew emailed me to specifically ask that I not "go Meghan McCain on her." Ugh...fine.
I'm tempted to take the win, but officially, the results of The Great Juno Debate are inconclusive. So fuck me. I wonder if the cockroach voted. Lord knows he has the opposable thumbs to do it...
I was going to go with Juno for today's drinking game, but it seems that quite a large number of you aren't crazy about it, and you know I fear your wrath. I tried to think of a cockroach related movie but that just made me obsessively scratch myself more. I asked Chris what a good cockroach movie was and he made the completely valid suggestion of the 1996 Jerry O'Connell movie Joe's Apartment. However, neither of us have ever seen it. So I call this The Well Fuck Me Drinking Game:
Rules: Drink When: - Your favorite blogger gets physically assaulted by a cockroach.
Well good now we're all drunk.
Have a fabulous weekend. I'm pretty sure I'm homeless, so if I could bunk with you at a certain point, that would be swell. Has snark; will travel.
There’s a lot of things in this world that scare me: plane crashes, the Thriller music video, global warming, Kimberly’s scar on Melrose Place, falling down stairs, fupas, violent ghosts, episodes of SVU based on a true story, testicular twisting, Mickey Rourke’s new face, cancer, and eHarmony. Just to name a few (what can I say, I’ve got nerves of cardboard). But I’d be hard pressed to name one thing that scares me more than STIs.
Seriously. That shit is scary. Because you never know who has one until it’s too late and you go to the doctor and whoops, someone’s got a lifelong case of herpes. No thank you. We all know how those things go. The itching and the burning. The swelling and the oozing. Might as well just slap a “Caution Biohazard” belt on, because your genitals are unsightly and hazardous to e’eryone’s health. Kthnx keep your diseases in your pants, not mine.
What could be worse than an STI? Until now, you probably thought nothing. Welp, have you ever thought about sexually transmitted syndromes (STSs, if you will). I’m sure you haven’t, because I just made that name up. But if you’re familiar with 30 Rock (how would I live without Tina Fey/Liz Lemon), then you’ve heard of sexually transmitted Crazy Mouth (CraM, as I intend to call it) a sexually transmitted syndrome where sex leads you to spout crazy nonsense about one’s partner. But that’s not the only STS we’re all susceptible to. Just take a look at this pamphlet I recently made up found on the internet a respectable medical website.
STSs and their Treatment
Ynocall (Pronounced “why no call”).This can be contracted at any time, by anyone, although it is most prevalent after one night stands. Symptoms can present themselves as early as the inevitable walk of shame home and can persist up to several weeks after the incident. Symptoms include: constant presence of cell phone on or near person, vocalization about lack of phone calls, and irritability. Luckily, this affliction will fade in time, but for a quick remedy one can: nut up and be the first one to make a move or move on to another one-night stand. The latter option, however, has the added risk of perpetuating the cycle of illness.
Crazy Finger Syndrome. On the opposite end of the spectrum from Ynocall, one can contract CFS, or Crazy Finger Syndrome. This STS is the most common and usually occurs in relationship for the first few months, but can reappear much later in these same relationships. Symptoms include: strained/sprained finger joints from overtexting, anxiety over price of phone bills, and verbal diarrhea. A famous recent case of CFS involves two amorous twenty-somethings who sent a whopping 2,000 text messages back and forth to each other in a matter of 2 weeks, most of which consisted of an “I love you more” battle (which remains unresolved, as each claims to love the other more). Treatment can be self-administered, one need to simply put down the cell phone, turn off the Gchat and wait to talk in person. If this proves too difficult, seek professional help immediately.
Communicable Miscommunication (Comisco). Similar to ynocall, everyone is susceptible to this syndrome and its symptoms can become apparent at anytime. However, this syndrome does not limit itself to any one type of sexual encounter. Symptoms of this include: confusion regarding the meaning of once familiar words (“He just said ‘you too’ after I said ‘I love you’, what does that mean?”), disorientation especially regarding one’s relationship, anger, and erratic behavior. Can co-present with Ynocall. Direct treatment is the best solution for this: use your knowledge of letters to form words which convey your confusion and talk it out. If that does not work, a Mad Max style Thunderdome can be made available to you for a reasonable fee to “work out” your differences.
Psychosomatic Visual Impairment (PVI). This syndrome is most common in long-term relationships and is known more familiarly as being “dickmatized” or “pussy-whipped.” Subjects presenting this illness possess adequate visual and logical capacities, but lack the ability to combine these two processes. In layman’s terms, the sex is too good that you ignore obvious shortcomings in your partner. Symptoms include: loss of common sense and proper decision making skills, inability to remain vertical in the presence of partner, and loss of sense of self. Doctors will generally only give out prescriptions to the afflicted party’s close friends, which can be filled at the local bar/strip club/watering hole. Treatment must include alcohol and a heavy dose of solid facts. If all else fails, a Saving Silverman approach is preferred.
Amorous Fallacious. This is not to be confused with the non-STS “Amorous Phallus” which is an overwhelming love of the male reproductive organ. Amorous Fallacious is a serious STS that many virgins are prone to immediately following their first sexual encounter. Symptoms include: clouded field of vision regarding the person of interest, appearance of birds when person is near, affinity for sappy love songs, and loss of anything of interest to say to others. After many years of extensive research, scientists have concluded that the rushing of blood in the body can be responsible for many false perceptions, such as sensation of pins and needles or vertigo. Recently, love has been added to this list, as those afflicted with AF mistake the rushing of blood to their genitals during their first sexual encounter as overwhelming feelings of love. While these two events are not mutually exclusive, one must always remember being physically inside of someone is different than being emotionally inside of someone. However, doctors have yet to develop an acceptable litmus test for true love versus AF.
Munchausen’s Conjoinment. Unlike many other STSs, this syndrome is only present in persons in a steady relationship. Symptoms have been presented as follows: isolation from other friends, penchant for similar clothing options, abandonment of individual ideals and goals, and in extreme cases, multiple personalities. This STS also unlike other STSs, in that it is present in both parties, similar to an STI. Most often, both persons in a relationship will be reported to display Munchausen’s Conjoinment Syndrome. This is not so with other STSs discussed herein. Unfortunately, a proper treatment for this ailment has yet to be determined. Often, it is best to allow this syndrome run its natural course, as mortality rates for forced separation of Munchausen’s conjoined couples are similar to those seen in the separation of conjoined twins. However, this syndrome may have deleterious effects on one’s other relationships, if left untreated.
If one is capable of practicing safe sex and preventing the contraction of an STI, then one can very well be capable of avoiding an equally devastating STS as well. As G.I. Joe would say, knowing is half the battle. Be as aware of one’s symptoms as possible, and if you feel you may be displaying the early warning signs of any of the above, seek help as soon as possible. Be safe out there.
That's how this episode opens. A close-up of waffles being drenched in butter and syrup. Lest we forget these hogs are fatties who like to eat. Thank you Fox. Thank you for that gentle reminder. I just...I just don't know if I can do it anymore. And I mean the universal IT. I'm just not feelin' it this morning. Ted Kennedy's dead, Hello Cupcake ran out of free cupcakes and closed right before we got there last night, I have still yet to figure out how to change the light bulb behind the bar's back splash, my new haircut isn't conducive to the god-awful heat and humidity...some days it's like, what's the point, you know? And then I look into Krazyface Kristian's eyes and I see a beacon of hope. Because as long as we can laugh, we can go on to face another day, right? Right. And considering in this episode K.Face Krissy compares her body dancing the salsa to "two pigs fighting under a blanket," perhaps I can even go on for another week.
Our episode opens with waffles, of course, but then moves on to the arbitrary handing out of the first date. Honestly, everything about this show is so random. There's no reason or rhyme to who gets to go on which date or who gets more face time with Luke or anything. I mean, is a good old-fashioned hot dog eating contest too much to ask for? Anyway, the Gods that be decide Mandy and Kristian will be going on the first date with Luke to learn how to salsa dance. Obviously Kristian shits her pants with excitement because she's clinically insane and has a little Luke Conley Real Doll that she lugs around the house having tea parties and practice make out sessions with. Not really. Well who knows, I wouldn't put it past her.
Mandy irritates me for two reasons: 1.) She has Huckleberry Hound eyes: and 2.) She's blatantly not overweight! If there were a convention for completely normal body types, she would be a keynote speaker. I just don't get how she's classified as "overweight." Unless "overweight" you mean "needs a supportive bra." Then I get it.
Each girl gets a mini salsa dancing lesson and then some alone time with Luke. Luke chooses to get his alone time with Kristian out of the way first and I get it. It's like ripping a band-aid off. However, this decision sends Mandy into a tailspin of emotion. Because remember, fat people have emotions. And a penchant for waffles. Waffles and emotions. And no date to prom. Proving once and for all that he's a giant creepy weirdo, Luke makes out with Kristian during their alone time—RIGHT AS MANDY ROUNDS THE CORNER! She totally sees the whole thing, runs to the bathroom and cries her face off.
Now, I can understand seeing that and being like "what puh fuck?!" but I don't understand her decision to run away and cry. Because she wastes her entire alone time with Luke having him coddle her and be like, "You're special, you're beautiful, make outs mean nothing, blickity blah blah blah" instead of utilizing that time to actually make out with him herself. I mean come on! What is this amateur hour?! I hate to bring everything back to Rock of Love, and yet I don't hate to at all because that show was genius. Many, many a time, a girl would round the corner to find Bret and a Token Ho making out and instead of being a Needy Nellie about it, she would handle it like a pro. Which make senses because that girl probably was a professional, but still! If Lacey from Rock of Love taught me anything it's that when you see your man making out with another girl on a group date, you walk over confidentaly, say something like, "Oooh, looks like we're having fun over here, mind if I cut in?" which he won't, because what's better than making out with one girl? Two girls. So the girl he was making out will get up (not before saying something catty, probably involving the phrase "sloppy seconds,") walk way and that's your cue to sit down and pick up where she left off. The beauty of this is that you're make out session will be fresh in his mind whereas hers is but a distant memory. BAM! That's how you whore yourself out on national television! Always ask yourself: WWROLD?
The next day Malissa is arbitrarily picked for an alone date. They go on a helicopter ride to a vineyard and go wine tasting. The date pretty much follows the same boring and creepy arc established in every other episode: couple sits somewhere beautiful -> marvel at how beautiful the scenery is -> Oh PS you look beautiful too -> but I'm fat! -> but you're still beautiful! -> make out -> uncorking wine/champagne bottle ejaculation joke.
Luke's date with Malissa does have the added bonus of a botched tandem bicycle ride, however. They go on the queerest bicycle ride ever. As they ride through the vineyard, they pass a herd of zebras. Honest to god zebras. The fuck? I've been to Napa Valley and I did not see one zebra the entire time. And things even more mystical and coked out when they BREAK THE BIKE. Their overweight bodies break the tandem bicycle. Personally, I don't believe it. I think the producers tampered with it beforehand because yes, Luke and Malissa aren't exactly the Olsen Twins, but they are in no way offensively overweight enough to break a Huffy in half. I refuse to believe it.
When Malissa comes back from the date, she tells the rest of the girls in the house that she thinks she's in love with Luke. And bring out the waffles and Aunt Jemima because this causes a HAIL STORM of emotion. Kristian goes crazy because (she's crazy and) she's been in love with Luke since her first casting video. Kirstian in her confessional pops a vein in her eye as she shouts, "WELL HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU LOVE HIM? WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU LOVE HIM?" Umm, I don't know psychopath. Probably the same reason you're in love with him after only a handful of group dates: because it's a competition and winning things is super fun. Then Heather starts crying because (fat people have emotions and) she's not in love with Luke yet and feels behind. "What's wrong with me?" she sobs, "Why am I not feeling this?" To which Laura and I both shouted at the television in perfect synchronization: "BECAUSE YOU'RE NORMAL!!!!!!" Which is why it's better to watch this show with a friend or a spotter.
The next day, Luke takes Anna, Heather and The Tranny on a group date to the beach. It's awkward...Luke complains later in his confessional that he's sick of the girls relying on him to direct the conversation all of the time. Yeah. Us too. Because Luke decides to direct the conversation towards man boobs and suntan lotion. Really makes a girl miss the awkward silence. During Luke's one-on-one time with Heather, she tells him that she's starting to get jealous of the other girls and this does not make Luke happy. Luke thought Heather would have more confidence in their connection and this insecurity is a real turn-off. Which is kind of odd considering Luke has a raging insecurity fetish. I thought he'd be coming in his pants during this conversation, but no. Luke Conley: you surprise me.
The next night at the pre-elimination mixer, Mandy utilizes this time to have a heart-to-heart with Luke about how she used to have an eating disorder. Wamp, wamp...Things continue down Awkward Avenue when Kristian tells Luke that she's in love with him. In three different languages. And then in English. Just so there's no lingering confusion. Luke says he's "touched." Now, ideally when you tell someone that you love them, you want to hear it back. Luke saying that he was touched was very kind of him, but sort of a red flag to Kristian that homeboy is not so much in love with her back. Instead of picking up on that flag, Kristian floats back to the other girls, cries and gushes about how in love she is and how he tooooootalllllyyyyy loves her too. This causes The Tranny to reach into her boxers, grab her balls by the scruff and find Luke to tell him that she's "not comfortable developing feelings for the man that Kristian loves, so maybe she shouldn't be in the picture." OOOO! TRANNY TIME! Luke tells Tranny not to pay attention to anything the other girls are saying in the house (read: "WOAH WOAH WOAH, Kristian said what now?! I love her like I love a sturdy dining room table or ample closet space!") and follow her heart. Well played Tranny...well played indeed.
At elimination, Luke chooses Anna first, which is bizarre and shocking because she's gotten the least face and also has Huckleberry Hound eyes. Again, arbitrary decisions 2009. In the end it comes down to Kristian, Heather or The Tranny. This is the same point when Teresa and Dave showed up at my place to find me and Laura clutching each other on the couch screaming "IT'S GOT TO BE HEATHER!!!" over and over again at the TV. BUT! HE PICKS THE TRANNY and sends home Krazyface Kristian and Homegirl Heather! OIJF293F09J2FOIFfijwoei! Arbitrary, horrible decisions that make no sense. After sending the girls off, Luke runs after Kristian because "she needs a little more explanation and a little more time with me." I wish he hadn't done that, because then we get to see her break down in Luke's arms and it feels border-line inappropriate to watch. She does that cry where you can't catch your breath and your.words.are.all.short.and.choppy.like.this and snot's uncontrollably flying out of your nose...we weren't meant to see that. Poor little bird. I almost feel badly for exclusively referring to her as Krazyface Kristian. Almost...
Cry Count: 9...... +50 for Kristian's breakdown. So, 59.
Next week: The four remaining ladies go on their last one-on-one date with Luke and SURPRISE! Their families are there!
My friend Andrew is one of my all-time favorite people ever. One of the things I enjoy most about him is that I'm able to be 100% unabashedly stupid around him and (to my knowledge) he doesn't think any less of me. And I don't mean stupid in a HAHA jokey jokey kind of way, I mean stupid in the most literal definition of the word: not intelligent. I come to Andrew not knowing about something and he talks to me like I'm simple country folk and breaks things down in a way that I can understand. He's like a walking _____ For Dummies book. If anybody else were to talk to me like this, I'd find it patronizing and offensive and probably deliver a swift kick to the groin. But for some reason when Andrew does it, I appreciate it and find it really, really soothing. So much of my day is spent pretending that I know what I'm talking about to save face at the office, so it's almost liberating to have someone that I can go to and be like, "I 'dun get it. Explain it to me all slow-like. GO!" and not feel stupid about it.
The other night Andrew and I were eating Greek, drinking some wine and watching Juno, as you do, when we got into a disagreement over the nature of Juno and Mark's relationship. Specifically whether or not Mark had concrete plans to bang out Juno after leaving Vanessa. I understand that their relationship is supposed to be innapropriate either way you look at it, but I don't think that Mark had any real intentions of crossing that line with Juno. I think Juno symbolizes the life that Mark used to have and the compromises he made to be with Vanessa, so flirting with her is like flirting with the idea of regaining his individuality. But he's not explicitly attracted to Juno in a bang-around-the-clock kind of way.
Andrew, however, thinks that it's implied that Jason Bateman is sexually attracted to Juno and given the opportunity would have sex with her. And that's why he leaves his wife. To bang Juno. It's cut and dry. Jason Bateman + Juno = Bang Party '07.
There are two scenes that support Andrew's theory: 1.) When Juno comes over to the Loring's house, she asks if Vanessa's home and Mark replies, "no, "we're safe." 2.) Juno freaks out when Mark tells her that he's leaving Vanessa and Mark asks, "what exactly did you think was going on here?" or something to that effect.
I can see how these scenes would support Andrew's theory, however, I still think I'm right. 1.) I think he means "we're safe" in the sense that Vanessa's not home so they're safe to be their wacky, out-there selves, not safe to get up with the get down. Kind of like when my bosses aren't here I'm safe in the sense that I can shamelessly watch episodes of My So-Called Life and play Snood all day without having to pretend I'm actually doing work. 2.) Ok, yeah, that's sort of an incriminating line. However, I think Mark is just being like, "You always call me out for being a sell out. So I left my wife. And now you're shocked. What did you think was going to happen?" Right...?
Normally when Andrew tells me I'm wrong about something, I'm completely willing to accept it at face-value and assume he's right, but in this case, I kind of think that I'm right. I've been polling people on this issue for a few days now and I can't get a clear consensus. Everyone is torn. Thus, I thought I would poll you fine people. Kindly go here and vote. (You don't have to sign up for anything, I swear.*)
(*EDIT: Well fuck me, you do have to sign in. Feel free to leave your vote as a comment. That's what I get for trying to be all tech-savvy.)
Ahhh...it's been too long around here since our last Great Debate. You have until Wednesday at midnight to vote. (And creating that poll was a giant pain in the ass, so kindly take the time to vote. Kthnxbyeeee!)
I had an odd experience last Monday night. As per any Monday night, I spent the evening watching Intervention and then feeling restless, went to meet Lara for a drink in Adams Morgan at approximately 9 o'clock. Now, I live in arguably one of the safer areas of DC. I literally live one block away from busy Dupont Circle in a well lit building. I don't feel nervous in the slightest walking to the metro at 9 o'clock at night. Swimming after a burrito is probably a riskier action.
That being said, as I walked out of my building I saw a sketchy looking character loomin' around out front. Not a huge deal. I didn't make eye contact and continued on my way. I took about two steps until he shouted at me, "Excuse me miss! You dropped something!" Now normally I wouldn't believe this character, but I happened to be carrying my circa 1991 Olney Elementary tote bag that I insist on wearing ironically, despite the fact that there's a sizable hole in the bottom. I stopped, turned around and walked back. "Oops, did I?" I asked. "Yep—YOUR SMILE!" God damnit.
I gave him the old "HAHAHA, YOU!" smile and turned to walk away, when he grabbed my upper arm. He didn't grab it in a way that made me panic, but it was with enough force that I was detained. I would say he gingerly grabbed my arm. I've lived in various major cities for a while now and I'd like to think that I have pretty good Are-You-Going-to-Shank-Me? radar. This guy was only a minor blip on the screen. I mean, I wouldn't let him house sit, but he seemed relatively harmless, so I decided not to bust out my aerobic kickboxing moves and box step-box step-uppercut-jab my way out of the situation. I thought I'd let him say his little schpeal, explain I had no money (true) and go on my merry way.
No dice.
"Young lady, I couldn't help but notice you leaving your hotel [blatant apartment] with your makeup on and your hair done up nice [Burt's Bees and a pony tail] and I thought I just had to talk to this young woman."
Frankly, this is the nicest thing anyone of the opposite sex has said to me in a while, so he earned a few points there. However, he was a little slurry and homelessy and drinking out of a blatant red solo cup in the street, so I couldn't exactly take him home to meet mom and dad. He continued to go on and on about god knows what and I decided to stick around for the following reasons: 1.) He still and a firm, yet ginger graspon my arm and 2.) I was just watching a very touching episode of Intervention about an alcoholic man who was a middle-class father and husband forced to panhandle for change in the street to feed his addiction. So sad. Addiction is a horrible thing. "—Now I see you tensing up a bit, but don't worry! I'm not gonna hurt you none."
Blllaalright...no matter how ginger your hold may be, assuring me that you won't hurt me is the verbal equivalent of showing me your shiv. And I don't see Candy Finnigan or Jeff Van Vonderen hiding in any of the bushes. Perhaps it was time to high-tail it out of there.
I started to pull away from him and made desperate eye contact with people walking by, hoping someone would come to my aid. But nobody did. And what the fuck, DC?! I've always had your back and in my moment of need, you don't have mine?! Uncool! I know people don't want to "interrupt" or "overstep their bounds," but I assure you the homeless man carrying a solo cup grabbing my arm isn't my boyfriend. That's a look of fear in my eyes, not love. Feel free to step on in there anytime.
The man continued, "—Because I would never hurt a woman! My momma taught me to never, ever hit a woman. In fact, I do some freelance bodyguard work down at Camelot." Camelot is the strip club around the corner. The concept of doing "freelance bodyguard work" at a strip club is hee-fucking-larious to me. Because that is the classiest way in the entire world to say, "I lurk around strip clubs and beat people up." I would let this guy re-write my resume any day of the week.
"—I was just at Camelot the other day, and there was this sick motherfucker stalking one of the girls! I mean STALKING! So I walk up to him and I say, 'If she wanted to be with you, she'd be with you, motherfucker!' And that motherfucker told me to mind my own business! So you know what I did? I BROKE HIS FUCKING JAW!" Now what in the sick hell am I supposed to say to that? Kudos? I went with an awkward, "Ah" and decided to hail down a passing cab and get out of this situation.
"OH YOU TRYIN' TO HAIL A CAB?! I'll get a cab for you! You're my girl, so I get the cab for you." He let go of my arm, walked a bit into the street and started to wave at passing cabs. I decided to peace the fuck out. I started walking away and he started running after me, "WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! Don't go! I'll get you a cab!" "Yeeeahhh...that's ok...I really don't need you to—" "DON'T EVEN MENTION IT! You're my girl!" And that's when he started rapping a little diddy that I can only assume is entitled, "High Class Bitch," for the most memorable lyric was:
"Yo baby girl, want you to scratch my itch/ But I can tell you won't, cuz you'z a high class bitch."
Frankly, for assuming I was a high-class anything he was back on my good side.
Still, I was now desperately trying to get a cab to stop for me, but cabs tend not to stop for people accompanied by clearly drunk homeless people. I couldn't walk away because every time I did, he followed me. "Look baby, I haven't eaten in four days. I'm hungry. I just need a little money." Truthfully, I did have $20 for emergency I-Need-a-Cab situations like this one. And I only need like $7 to get to Adams Morgan, but I didn't think it was appropriate to ask the homeless man if he had change for a 20 in the middle of a recession.
I was no longer amused by this situation. I would take a step, he'd take a step. I hailed a cab, he'd try to hail the cab. Plenty of people were walking by, not one person stopped to help. I looked as frustrated as I felt. "Don't worry baby, I'll get you a cab!" He then proceeded to throw his solo cup to the ground, walk into the middle of the street and jump in front of a random Dodge Stratus, which came screeching to a halt. He then pointed to the man driving, looked back at me and said, "This guy's white—you know him??"
...I genuinely didn't know if I should laugh, cry, or just get in the Stratus. The concept of all white people knowing each other is a hilarious gross generalization. Like how all Asians look the same. Or when you're abroad and you meet someone who goes to UVA you're all, "NO SHIT! Do you Jason Rosenthal class of '05?!?!?!" despite the fact that over 13,000 people go there.
In the end I chose to scuttle away like a scared crab while Whitie belligerently honked at my new boyfriend.
What I've learned from this situation is: 1.) Washington, DC residents are not good Samaritans 2.) I'm a high-class bitch (!) 3.) Although Intervention is touching, I should not trust every drunk person I meet 4.) All white people know each other
If you follow me on Twitter, you already know that I've been having a personal My So-Called Life marathon for the past week, courtesy of Hulu. If you don't follow me on Twitter―FYI: I've been having a personal My So-Called Life marathon for the past week, courtesy of Hulu. And it has been magical.
When people ask me what's going on in my life, the first thing I say is that I've been watching a lot of My So-Called Life recently (which is kind of sad and pathetic in it's own right). 80% of people I tell this to have never seen a single episode. That statistic shocks me. Because My So-Called Life is such an important show. And it's not just important to me (although it really is,) it's important to the greater pop-culture landscape as a whole. I believe that MSCL is the most authentic and relatable teen drama that has ever been on television. When explaining it to someone who's never seen it before, I'm quick to compare it to Degrassi, because MSCL also goes there. But really that's an unfair comparison, because MSCL is so much more relatable than Degrassi. Maybe that's because I've only seen Degrassi Junior High and I'm not a Canadian middle schooler in 1987, but still, I argue that MSCL has a leg-up on any other teen drama for the following reasons:
1.) The language. Winnie Holzman's writing is brilliant for so many reasons, and her use of language is key. If you took a shot for every time someone said "like" on the show, your veins would run a river of Jack Daniel's. Which is perfect, because when real people talk, they tend to say things like "like" and "um." Real people also tend to think about weird stuff and ramble. Ergo when Angela says stuff like,
"I couldn't stop thinking about it. The, like, fact that - that people - had sex. That they just *had* it, like sex was this thing people - *had*, like a rash. Or a - a Rottweiler. Everything started to seem like, pornographic or something. Like, Mrs. Krysanowski has sex. So does Mr. Katimsky. They both have sex. They could - have sex together. Like right now."
it's so perfectly perfect.
2.) The characters manage to be archetypal while not becoming parodies of themselves. Which happens so quickly on other shows. Let's take Gossip Girl for example. Chuck Bass is the rich, sociopath, womanizing character of the show, right? Well that's all good and fun to watch until Season 2 when the writers have exhausted every semi-incestual sexual relationship between the characters, so they make Chuck move on to an elite Eyes Wide Shut style sex club where members have to wear masks and have secret matching tattoos. Because frankly, what the fuck? I understand womanizing the entire Senior class and maybe some of the help, but an elite masked sex club? Really? It was at this moment that I came to the sad, sad realization that Gossip Girl had jumped the shark. The archetypes on MSCL never got out of hand. Sure Rayanne was The Drunk, but she only needed her stomach pumped once, and who hasn't been there? Relatable. She didn't shank a hooker, steal a car, drive to the Anheuser-Bush factory and drown in a vat of Budweiser.
3.) The show explored both major and minor teenage issues. Sure it tackled drug abuse, child abuse, sex, infidelity, depression, sexuality and homelessness (to name a few,) but more importantly, it also showed those small, universally relatable stupid teen moments that we all had. Like when Angela wakes up and realizes she's finally over Jordan Catalano and dances around her room in her boxers blasting Jane's Addiction Violent Femmes. Everyone has that moment where they're like, "Holy shit. I'm so over you. THIS IS AWESOME!" Hell, I had that moment this morning! Why do you think I was late for work? It took me a few minutes to download "Blister in the Sun" and clear the crap off my couch so I could jump up and down on it, but I did! And it felt great!
4.) The show's Nihilistic attitude towards conflict resolution. This is probably my favorite thing about the entire show. Nothing ever gets resolved. And it's perfect. Let's go back to the Gossip Girl comparison again. Blair and Serena get in this huge fight and spend the first half of Season 1 trying to destroy each other's lives, right? Then they have one teary conversation, hug it out and are instantly biffles^max again? That's really not how it works. At all. Because you and your friend can have that make-up conversation and chalk it up to miscommunication and cry about how much you missed each other and hug and sob and giggle, but things never really go back to the way they were. Because as much as it sucks, you can never really forget what happened. And it's going to be awkward and weird for a while. That's why I appreciate that Rayanne and Angela, although technically past their teary conversation/hug it out moment, weren't really on speaking terms for the last third of the series. And that in and of itself is never really resolved! It's just accepted that their relationship has changed and things are different. Every time their characters interact, it's only in a "Hey...Yeah...This is awkward. Welp! Good to see you!" kind of way. Because that's how it is in life.
Likewise other major issues are explored but never really resolved. Like Ricky's homelessness. He gets beat up, disowned and subsequently has to bounce around staying with various friends. And that's that. His long-lost grandmother from Puerto Rico never shows up to adopt him. Because although that would close out that plot line nicely, what are the odds of that really happening? Or the fact that Jordan Catalano also sort of has a drinking problem and comes from an abusive home. That fact is presented, but never resolved. It's just sort of accepted that he's the trashy kid from the townhouses down the street. So there's that. Or Rayanne's drinking. Yes, she drinks too much and overdoses on X one night, and sure she goes to some counseling, but soon she's right back to drinking. And the show sort of treats that like, "Ooof...that's probably going to suck down the road one day...Oh swells!" and that's that. There's no tender, touching, Hallmark THIS IS FIXED, LET'S NEVER SPEAK OF IT AGAIN moment (Cough, Blair's bulimia problem, cough). Because in life, not everything can be fixed. There are just some shitty things that will always be shitty because that's the way the cookie crumbles. Like Danielle! She's Angela's annoying younger sister, a character I can relate to in a big way. She's bored and left-out and desperate for attention, but guess what? That's just the way it is. There's never an episode where Angela and Danielle talk their issues out and decide to make a conscious effort to make Danielle feel more included. Because that would never happen. She's going to feel lame and left-out for a while, but then she'll get older and things will get better. Because that's just how it works. And I respect the show for recognizing that and not forcing convenient, yet completely unrealistic resolutions.
So that's why I love My So-Called Life. That and the fact that Jordan Catalano couldn't read. Which is endlessly funny to me for some sick and twisted reason.
So lace up your Doc Marten's, tie a flannel jacket around your waist and get ready to share your emotions―it's time for The Ultimate My So-Called Life Drinking Game!
Rules: Drink When: - Music from any of the following bands is played: Violent Femmes, Stone Temple Pilots, Rage Against the Machine, Soundgarden, The Cranberries, Radiohead or Jane's Addiction - A character refers to another character by their last name only (ie: Catalano, Krakow, Chase or Cherski) - Jordan Catalano struggles to read (LOLZ!) - Jordan Catalano calls Brian "Brain" because he has dyslexia (DOUBLE LOLZ!) - Rayanne takes a drink - Rayanne overdoses - Rayanne gets stage fright - Rayanne's mom calls her "Raynie" - Angela cries - Mr. and Mrs. Chase have sex - Patty Chase wears a blouse buttoned to the very top button - Graham Chase cooks something - Danielle interrupts the conversation with a non-sequitor - Tino is referenced - Sharon organizes something school-related (ie: World Happiness Dance or the Christmas Eve Suicide Hotline) - Sharon and Kyle make out - Angela and Jordan make out - Jordan pressures Angela to have sex - Brian Krakow is called to save the day - The soap dispenser in the girl's bathroom is out of soap - Hallie Lowenthal inappropriately flirts with Graham - Something supernatural happens (ie: angels or time travel) - The band breaks up - One of Angela's friends turn to her mom for help or advice - Ricky doesn't have anywhere to stay (WAMP, WAMP) - Jared Leto sings a non 30 Seconds to Mars related song
As always, thank you so much for reading and spreading the 2b1b word via twitter, facebook and yourvotes! Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!
- The unreasonably nice Katie from WeLoveDC did an interview with me that is available here. I emailed it to my dad under the subject line: BE PROUD OF YOUR DAUGHTER. Instead of being proud, this happened:
From: Dad To: Me do you really think that Bret Michaels is anything but disgustingly sleazy?
From: Me To: Dad I think that Bret Michaels is an innovator who's donated thousands of dollars to juvenile diabetes (pronounced: die-uh-beet-us) charities around the world. What have you done lately?
From: Dad To: Me I'll tell you what I haven't done. Hung out with a bunch of skanky redneck chicks who have such frog belly low self-esteem that they would hook themselves to a has-been third tier rock star (the rock version of Screech) for a chance to be on a really, really, really bad reality show.
Wait, that actually doesn't sound all that bad.
I stopped responding after that.
- I would just like to explain the following ridiculousness that just transpired: Our company has a new product that I need to order a bunch of brochures for to give to our sales people. Normally when I need something, I email Pat in the Mail Room and he (she? he-she? What's that? It's Pat!) fills my order (that's what he/she/he-she said) and sends it to me. Yesterday I got a snippy little email from Pat being like, "In the future can you please use our website for literature requests? That's what it was made for." A little snippy, yes, but blokay, I can handle that. I went on our website this morning and submitted my order, per Pat's request. A window popped up that said, "Thank you for your request, a sales representative will be contacting you shortly." Then, not 5 minutes ago, Boss #1 called from the road to say she was forwarding me an email from someone in our area who's requested literature and could I fill it? I said yes. She then proceeded to forward me my own literature request that I sent earlier in the morning. For me to fill. For myself. With the literature that I don't have. Which is why I requested it in the first place. So, Pat, that is why I prefer to email you directly instead of using with the website, you gender-ambiguous A-fuck.
- During one of my recent anxiety induced bouts of insomnia, I googled "I can't sleep," because I trust two things in this world: Google and _____ for Dummies books. The first result was an article entitled "Can't Sleep? 15 Tips You Can Try for Insomnia." Tip #7 is: 7. Don't count sheep if you find that counting is stimulating for you.That's like the fucking funniest sentence in the entire world to me. Because it was awfully considerate of them to include a tip that only applies to The Count from Sesame Street, a fictional puppet-based character.
- Ever since I failed to find my quest to find a pair of adequately Dynasty-esque nude-colored pumps to revive, I've moved on to stick pins. I don't know why I chose stick pins, I just know they're back and bigger than ever (in my mind and my mind only.) I won three on ebay last week and they arrived at my door Friday afternoon. In a moment of sheer excitement, I (alone in my apartment) unpacked them from their box and sang (out loud and to the tune of Justin Timberlake's SexyBack): "I'm bringin' stick pins back! Yeah! You other accessories don't know how to act! Yeah! Get your stick pins on get your stick pins on!" Immediately after that, the pendent on my favorite one broke off and rolled under the refrigerator. I'd like to think that's god's way of gently telling me to stop being such a douche bag.
Last night's episode of More to Love was mediocre at best. Like a bowl of Fettuccine Alfredo you'd get at a restaurant that serves primarily Mexican food. It's a giant bowl of pasta and cheese so you can't go wrong and yet...it just doesn't hit the spot. That was last night's episode.
Episode 4 of More to Love opens with Luke kvetching that he needs a woman's perspective on things, so Emme rounds up the cattle and each girl is given a sign with "good wife" on one side and "bad wife" on the other. Each girl then takes turns standing before the others as they each decide whether she'd be a good wife or bad wife for Luke. This scene was really all about establishing Lauren as the new bitch in town. Lauren, Lauren, Lauren...what are we gonna do with you? Lauren is on the wrong reality show. Lauren belongs on Bridezillas with the rest of the homely mean girls. This show is for homely low-self esteem girls, not homely mean girls. Walk past Fox, take a left at Oxygen, follow the signs for WE and go straight on 'til morning.
I do give Lauren some credit though for calling out old Krazyface Kristian for being a wee bit too Misery for my liking. She sits Kristian down and tells her she's a nice girl and all, but she would be a bad wife because she's "emotionally unstable." Then Kristian bursts into tears. Yep. Stable as a table...
In the end, Melissa B is voted worst wife and Heather wins best wife. And of course she does! Because how cute is she?! (Although she was definitely wearing a skin-tight t-shirt with slashes cut about the bosom in this scene: ...It's hard for me to be on your team when you make conscious fashion decisions to look like you just got felt up by Freddy Krueger. I'm going to let this go with a warning. Kindly remember you're not Kat Von D in the future.)
As the winner, Heather gets a solo date with Luke, but! so does Melissa B., lest we not forget this show is all about "celebrating losers." Lauren basically throws a shit fit that Heather won, screaming, "They only voted her best wife cuz she's fun! FUN, FUN, FUN! I'm just sitting there being like, everybody voted you best wife cuz you're fun? What the fuck does being fun have to do with being a good wife?!" Yes Lauren. Because I know if I had the option, I'd take the mean fattie with a boob tattoo over the fun girl any day of the week.
Melissa B is the first to go on a date with Luke. They go to a Moroccan restaurant and she is super shy, which is super boring. Although at one point, Luke offers Mel B a legit pearl of wisdom: "You know, it's possible to by shy and confident." Hmm...good point. Too good a point. In fact, things are getting too comfortable in here. I haven't wanted to crawl out of my skin in a solid 30 seconds...Send in the belly dancers! Yyyyep! Right when Melissa was starting to feel good about herself, two skinny Moroccan bitches show up to teach her how to move that giant roll of hers in sync with the beat. Basically to take part in this "belly dancing lesson," Melissa simply has to sway a handkerchief in the air and shimmy back and forth a little bit. Which is obviously too much for her to handle. White men can't jump and fat girls can't dance. At one point she literally shrieks, "I can't do this! My hips don't move like that!!!" Oh Melissa. I bet you're a tiger in the sack.
Heather's solo date goes considerably better than Melissa's. Luke decides to give Heather "The Royal Treatment." In this case, The Royal Treatment means putting Heather in another spangly prom dress and taking her to the lawn of what looks like the set of a porno movie set in a castle . A porno I shall call, "Medieval Hog Fuckers IV". Luke ushers Heather to a gazebo and they gaze out at the view together. "I can't get over this view," he says. "I know. It's so pretty," our fair maiden replies. "...I was talking about you." And then I vomited mead and mutton all over ye olde sofa and pissed thy pantaloons laughing, for that shit doth be lolzfactor^maxpower.
Things then get downright awkward when Luke grills Heather about whether or not she wants to continue working when she has children. She says she does and you can tell Luke isn't tickled about it. Because his mom was a stay-at-home mom, dontcha know. Then Luke drops a bomb on Heather—he has three children. Heather's face drops and you can tell she's eyeing the exits and figuring out the quickest way to get over the moat. Luke looks at Heather. Heather looks at Luke. And then SIKE! Bahahaha, Luke's just kidding. He doesn't have any kids. He just thought the conversation was getting too tense. Isn't he a doll? Then the most hardcore post-prank make out session that you will ever see happens. And I'm talking hardcore. I'm talkin' about an open-mouth, closed eyes, cheek-grazing, bicep clutching, legs touching, filthy, disgusting, all-American make-out session. I'd tell you more, but I'm a Christian woman. As they're making out, Luke pops a champagne bottle he's clutching between his thighs and Heather craaaacks up. Because even fat people love a good ejaculation joke.
The next day the rest of the girls go on their group date to the spa at the St. Regis Hotel. Luke just wants the girls to "let go of the stress and anxiety of being a plus size woman." PSHHH! I'll cram a few sandwiches in my mouth if it means I get a spa day! I got stress! I got anxiety! It's has little to do with my weight and more to do with my boss, but still! This was the worst group date yet. Last week was a cock tease; there was no below-the-belt hook-up. There was, however, a lot of sensual rubbing. Shudder, shudder.Mandy gets all offended that Luke keeps making out with everyone and she doesn't feel special. Mandy, have you ever seen a reality dating competition before? I suggest you rent Rock of Love seasons 1 and 2 and be prepared to take a lot of notes. There's no real classy way to say this, so I'm just going to say it: if other girls are getting more play than you and you aren't feeling special, I suggest you getsta blowin'. You gotta step up your game. She already blew him? It's time to put out. She already banged him? Welp! Then I suggest you turn around and get creative. Love is a battlefield and you gotta explore all the weapons available to you. Don't just whine about how you don't feel special. You're fat; we know you have feelings. Give us something new and exciting. Christ.
My only notes for the pre-elimination mixer are: "This is boring. Emotions. Emotions. Emotions."
In the end, two must go home. Heather gets called first because she's my homegirl. The Tranny gets called second because she's just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania. It comes down to Melissa B, Anna and Lauren. I predicted Lauren and Anna would go home; Lauren because she's about as pleasant as a pap smear and Anna because she never got any face time. BUT NO! Luke sends home Lauren and Melissa B! I was shocked you guys, shocked! Then I had to sit through Melissa B crying her face off because she thought this was her one and only shot at love and now she just might as well jump off a cliff and retire her genitals. Not necessarily in that order.
Cry Count: 14
Next Week: Nobody feels special (WAMP, WAMP!), Kristian goes off the krazy train and the Tranny might walk!
Being a celebrity today is a lot harder than it used to be. I say this as though I have experience in a) being a celebrity and b) living back in the day. I have neither of those experiences. However, I feel like in order to be a celebrity today you have to either be really talented at one thing or pretend to be talented at lots of different things.
If you are in the first class of persons, generating publicity for a movie takes about as much effort as breathing. Tom Hanks, for instance, can literally film himself taking a crap and it will most likely generate some Oscar buzz.
For the second class of celebs, it can be a little bit tougher. What do you do to get people to get out and see your new mediocre movie or listen to your new tepid album or whatever subpar activity you’ve decided to try your hand at? You could hit the talk show circuit aggressively, but as you’re a lukewarm personality, people will most likely not be amped about tuning in to hear you plug your latest venture at 1:30 AM on a work night. What you can do is what millions (maybe not millions…tens? twenties?) of celebrities before you have done. Hit the internet. With your camera. And your naked body.
What brings this to mind currently is the latest nekkid photo to hit the interwebs that of Mr. Jamie Foxx. I’m shocked by this for a variety of reasons. First and foremost being, goddamn he should change his name to Jamie Foxxx and look into a career in porn. Secondly, no more than 5 years ago, Jamie Foxx had an Oscar in his hand. But come to think of it, I haven’t heard much from Jamie Foxx since “Blame It” came out back in February. But considering that video shows Jamie palling around with Forest Whitaker, Jake Gyllenhaal, Samuel L. Jackson, and Ron Howard, I’m surprised he feels he has to lower himself by lowers his pants. Though I suppose The Soloist has already come and gone from movie theaters with not as much hype as was expected. But Wikipedia tells me that Mr. Foxx has another movie due out in October. While it is only August, it’s never too early to generate some excitement for a movie. And with the image of Jamie Foxx’s wang seared into your retina (and at the top of most Google searches) for the next few weeks, Law Abiding Citizen may scrape some dough together from the box office.
An even better example involves a repeat offender of these publicity generating tactics, Ms. Vanessa Anne Hudgens. I’m sure everyone saw Baby V’s lopsided bush when it first leaked to the internet back in September of 2007. You’d think she would have learned her lesson and stop taking naked pictures of herself slash delete any pre-existing pictures of herself. That’d be a big NOPE, because more pictures leaked to the internet earlier this month. And in a strange “coincidence” V.Hudge has a movie which came out over the weekend. A movie in which she plays a character named “Sa5m” where the 5 is silent. Clearly, the producers of this movie realize people are going to need an extra push to go see this piece of garbage.
Surely two instances do not make a standard. Well for you fine people, I combed through the annals of celebrity scandals to find some correlations. Let’s see. Colin Farrell’s sex tape was leaked in early 2006, a year in which he released Miami Vice (with none other than Jamie Foxx! Twist!), a movie with much hype, but not a lot of results. Pam Anderson’s sex tape started hitting the old interweb right around the time Barb Wire was set to hit the silver screen. As iff Leighton Meester couldn’t simply let her collabo with Cobra Starship on “Good Girls Go Bad” hype up her forthcoming album, her foot-job sex tape leaked roughly at the same time. Likewise, Kristen Davis let Charlotte York’s good girl image go bad soon before Sex and the City hit theaters with an alleged sex tape of her own.
Let’s say that all of the above instances are really publicity stunts and not Revenge of the Ex (a la Mya) although there’s something kinda hot about revenge on a famous ex via public naked humiliation or maybe it’s just me. I would kill to be a fly on the wall when the conversation between a star and their publicist turns to getting naked. “Listen, Vanessa, V, Baby V. We’ve got a bit of a problemo here. The numbers for your new movie just aren’t where we want them to be. I Googled you last night and it wasn’t pretty. You were the #9 hit. #9! Nickelback got more hits than you! I’d love to see you at #1, and there’s one way I can think of to make that happen. Still with me? This is a cameraphone. I’m going to step out of the room and if you happen to take some intimate pictures of yourself, so be it. And I can promise you that I won’t not accidentally leak them to Perez. Now drop trou, I’ll be back in ten. Love you babe!”
If it does actually work and a naked photo scandal does increase publicity (the litmus test for this will be whether Bandslam is in theaters for more than a month), then please expect pictures of my raw dong to be floating around the internet faster than you can say “More like 2balls1blog!” If not, maybe keep the celeb naked photo shoots to a minimum. However, I heard Jake Gyllenhaal has a movie coming out soon, and if he needs to increase publicity, then by all means.
Yea. I'm alive. Sorry about that. I received a few concerned direct messages this afternoon regarding something I tweeted last night. It was My So-Called Life quote. Specifically, "There's something about Sunday night that just makes you want to kill yourself." - Angela Chase. I can see how that, added with the fact that I didn't write a post today, go to work or explain any of this, could be interpreted as slightly suicidal. It was an appropriate enough quote though, considering I'm in the midst of a personal MSCL marathon and it was Sunday night and I was totally depressed. But not depressed in like a I'm-going-to-kill-myself-and-post-it-on-Twitter kind of way. More in like a I-can't-fall-asleep-so-I'm-going-to-tweet-this-delightfully-appropriate-My So-Called-Life-quote kind of way. Although if I were going to kill myself, I would totally want to go out on a MSCL quote. That seems sort of perfectly emotional and ironic.
But yea, I'm fine. I'm sitting in a Starbucks actually. Just kickin' it. Enjoying the air conditioning and a hot latte. Watching a man who looks suspiciously like Murray from Flight of the Conchords drink a frappachino. Trying not to stare too hard at this smokin' hot guy who just walked in and interpret the fact that my ipod shuffle just landed on The Pixies "Here Comes Your Man" as a sign that he's my one special someone. I've pretty much never been better.
Last night was fucking rough though. Boss #2 comes back from vacation today and I couldn't stop thinking about how hard that's going to suck. Because she's so obviously going to spend her first day back passive-aggressively blaming me for everything that went wrong while she was away. And these will be things that I had abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with. And this is all just too much time spent courtesy-smiling and fighting the urge to be snarky, all the while wishing she'd leave faster so I can get back to my MSCL marathon because the next episode is when Rayanne betrays Angela and has sex with Jordan Catalano. ANDOHMYGIGGLES!
Mostly as I layed in bed last night night, I couldn't stop thinking about the burned-out light bulb behind the backsplash of the wetbar. I have no idea how to change it, nor do I know who to contact about getting it changed. I only noticed it Friday afternoon as I was getting ready to leave, but was all Oh Swells! TGIF! about it and figured I'd get to it sometime this week. I should have emailed someone about it then and there. Because now Boss #2 is going to find it and ask me if I noticed it was out. And I'm going to have to be all, "Oh! I didn't see that! Hah..." and feel completely fucking stupid while she stands there staring at it for 20 minutes shaking her head slowly wondering what exactly it is that I do all day long. Damnit. I should have fucking emailed someone. I hate myself.
And this kept me up until 4:30ish. Tossing and turning. But not killing myself. Sorry about that.
One time Senior year, my roommate Danielle very seriously thought I had killed myself. Again, I can see how it looked that way. I had been in the design lab all weekend struggling with a project and just generally hating life when I finally came home to take a nap. The problem with trying to keep your body up for long periods of time by pumping it with adrenaline, coffee, glue fumes and god knows what else you can get your hands on, is that when you finally do have time to sleep, you can't. It's a sick, sick joke. But, I came home, went into my room, turned off the lights, lit one of my Jesus candles, turned on my "Super Duper Relaxing" playlist, put a pillow over my head to block out the light coming in from the blinds and finally dozed off.
A little later, Danielle (who knew I was going through "a time,") came in and discovered this scene: me laying on my bed with a pillow over my head, arms stretched lifelessly out to the side, in a pitch-black room with only a creepy and ominous Jesus candle lit and The Smith's "Sing Me to Sleep" coming from my computer. And Lord knows I'm not the most stable table on the showroom floor, so I can see how this might have been slightly upsetting. I woke up to her standing directly above me, eyes as big as dinner plates:
Danielle: ...........Hey. Me: ...Hey. Danielle: ......................How are you? Me: Pretty good thanks...you? Danielle: ...............................Fine. Me: So...what's up? Danielle: Um. It sort of completely looks like you tried to kill yourself. Me: [Surveys current state of affairs] Point taken.
Co-Blogger Chris came home one night when we lived together to a similar scene. It was a Friday night and I decided to be lame and stay in. I got Thai food, baked a cake and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (my go-to cry movie). I don't care how Aspie's this is going to sound, but that night was fucking awesome. Chris came home later and found me in the dark, curled up on the couch, hysterically crying. If I recall correctly, he turned on a light, stared at me for a few seconds and deadpanned, "Uh...Do I need to call a Suicide Hotline or something?" That boy is a saint.
So again, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern. I woke up this morning after 45 minutes of sleep and decided to take the day off. I just can't deal with that angry little Mexican when I haven't had my eight-hours. Please don't judge me.
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