what i need most in my life right now is someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me to stop being such a dumb idiot.
okay, so, i don’t like seeing the wonder years anymore. if i wanted to hang out with the kids who go see the wonder years, i’d just go hang out at the local middle school. i mean, i know they’re good dudes & shit, but their fans kind of turn me off to their music.
i go through these spurts where i’ll listen to the wonder years a lot, then i go to one of their shows and get yelled at by little 15 year olds after my size 10.5 vans authentic leaves a patented vans tread on their face from stage diving, or i’ll be dancing and “accidentally” almost decapitate someone who looks like they belong in the lollipop guild and then some 16 year old tries to fight me.
it’s just fucking retarded.
every pop punk show. sad.
back row, last person on the left. not that any of us even look different from each other anyway! @kelciam this answer is for you, too!
‘hate is baggage. life is too short to be pissed off all the time.’
french toast is vegan.
I think I’m going to kill myself today. I know that sounds rash, but I’ve been turning it over in my head all morning and now it just seems like I’d be foolish to not stick my head in an oven (I haven’t yet decided on the method of how I’ll go. The oven is just a placeholder for now.). Since I woke up today, I’ve been compiling a list of all the sound and logical reasons to not wake up tomorrow, and I must say, the evidence against my case for continuing to breathe is rather convincing.
First of all, it is a Tuesday. This realization came upon me immediately this morning because (a) it is in fact Terrible Twosday on the morning show I watch (This is when families come on and talk about all the crazy shit their toddlers have done. It isn’t as funny as you might think.), and (b) yesterday was Monday. I’ve always felt that Tuesday was the saddest day of the week, which is why I’ve always thought it was odd that the depressed little girl on The Addam’s Family was named Wednesday. See, everyone hates Mondays and everyone loves Fridays. Some people claim to not follow this blueprint. Those people are liars. They just want to feel like they’re separating themselves from the pack with their differing opinions. Face it; Mondays are awful and Fridays are not-so-awful. Most people are somewhat fond of Thursdays as they are almost Fridays, and Wednesday always seems to play host to the best primtime TV, but Tuesday has nothing. It is a forgotten day, and I feel like if I were Tuesday, I’d rather be hated like Monday than entirely forgotten. We all want to be remembered for something, even if that something isn’t all that great, like primetime TV on Wednesdays on church on Sundays.
This isn’t just an Tuesday either. Today is Tuesday the 12th, which means that my bills are due at the end of this week, and although I have never actually tried this before, I feel like being dead is an acceptable excuse for not paying them. Only a heartless bastard would charge rent to a corpse, and my landlady has always been rather nice, which is why I have decided against shooting myself. She would have to repaint all of the walls before a new tenant could move in and I don’t want to cost her the expense of all that interior paint.
I have not been looking forward to paying my cell phone bill this month. I’ve gone way over my allotted minutes as was recommended to me in a self-help article I found called “Eat Better. Sleep More. Beat Depression.” Although it didn’t specifically state that I should use up all of my airtime, I feel like it was implied, which is why I’m also starting to suspect that the cell phone industry secretly sponsored the article. See, it said I should be getting more sleep and so I have been going to be at exactly nine o’clock and admittedly, falling asleep this early was, at first, a daunting task, but I recently discovered my love-affair with Nyquil and this problem has since dissipated. Now, this is where the issue with my phone begins. Being in bed at nine means I lose the opportunity to take advantage of my free nights, which in turn means that instead of spending all night on the phone calling all of the lonely people I know will talk to me for as long as I so desire, I have to spend the daytime calling all of the lonely people I know will talk to me for as long as I so desire, which is, in fact, murder on my anytime minutes.
The same article from the subway also recommended that I start eating better which is why I’m sure that if the paper wasn’t sponsored by the cell phone corporations, then it must be sponsored by the food industry, because, as it turns out, eating healthy is decidedly more expensive than eating shit. I discovered this by wandering into an organic grocery and doing my weekly shopping there. I usually go shopping every week, but this food has lasted an extra few days because most it tastes strikingly similar to chalk and has curbed my desire to ingest it. Maybe this is why it costs more. This is all important to note because today, after preparing myself a somewhat chalky breakfast, I am officially out of organic food, meaning I would need to go purchase more. This is a dilemma because, as I mentioned earlier, this food is both very expensive and very disgusting, and I would prefer to not have to purchase more of it. However, the article from the subway insisted that if I don’t eat well, I will be depressed and I don’t want to be depressed. Caught between a rock and a hard place, I’ve come to realize that dead people don’t need to eat so I would escape another awful week and two days of health food. This is also very convenient because with an empty fridge, my family won’t have to clean up any spoiled food products while sorting my affairs. That is, unless condiments spoil, in which case there would be bad mustard, jelly, and lemon juice. Mental note: throw out condiments.
As I got out of bed today, I came to discover a tear in the crotch of my favorite (and only) pair of sweatpants. I have since been having a series of paranoid episodes in which I envision all of the embarrassing thigns that this tear could lead to because I’m sure that, if looked at from the correct angle, the tear would aptly display my penis to the world. The worst of these nightmare scenarios came when I realized that there are often small children that ride the bus into town with me. These children pose a series of threats. As I have learned from watching Terrible Twosday, toddlers have very little, if any, tact. If one were to catch my sweatpants from the right trajectory, a debacle would ensue. They would loudly announce to the public that they had seen my private business. This would cause an immediate uproar on the bus. I would be severely embarrassed, abut that would soon be the very least of my problems. Eventually, a member of the disgusted crowd would yell out that I was purposefully exposing myself to children, which is just not true. However, the mob mentality would take over and by the time the bus stopped, the police would be waiting to take me to prison where I would sit in despair and await my sentencing, which will most likely be death by lethal injection because I don’t think they still do the electric chair in this state. While I don’t necessarily want to live, I’d prefer to die with some dignity, which brings up the point that I should probably change into jeans or slacks before offing myself. Being found dead in sweatpants is one thing, but being found dead in sweatpants with a hole in the crotch?
I’d also like to note that even my favorite forms of media have cast their votes against my continuing existence. I’ve spent the last few weeks listening to almost nothing but this punk rock band that shall remain nameless. Their songs are upbeat and hopefully and lyrics give me a small sense of perseverance. This morning, I awoke to the announcement that the band broke up. The issued statement from the singer read something the effect of (and I’m paraphrasing this so don’t quote me here), “It’s hard to keep singing songs about being positive when you don’t believe the words that are coming out of your mouth anymore.” If that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.
I’ve been reading excerpts from Charles Bukowski’s appropriately title collection of poetry “You Get So Alone At Times it just makes Sense,” in which he writes about the hopelessness of the human condition. There’s a poem that I find particularly interesting called “Beasts Bounding through Time.” In said poem, he lists a series of great writers and poets and authors and humans and discusses all of their lowest moments (“Van Gogh writing his brother for paitns/Hemingway testing his shotgun”). He keeps repeating the phrase “the impossibility of being human.” I read his biography once, and his grave stone includes his name, date of birth and death, and the simple and direct quote “Don’t Try.” Mental note: Write Bukowski’s descendants a thank you letter for the advice.
You see, all of this, coupled with the all-encompassing and violent feeling of despair that leaves me waking up every morning saying “Really life? Again?” has me out of options and I know, I know, “there’s always light at the end of the tunnel,” but I don’t have the patience to wait for someone to turn it on. So, Universe, unless you’ve got a match that I can borrow, you’ll have to excuse me, because Tuesday is winding down, and if I don’t find the most efficient way to kill myself by 9 o’clock, then I’ll have to go to bed, and if I have to go to bed, then, I’ll have to wake up tomorrow, and I can’t kill myself on a Wednesday because I have to see what happens on Prime Time TV. Then, it’ll be Thursday and they aren’t all that bad, and I can’t kill myself on the weekend because it’ll ruin everyone’s fun and they work hard all week and deserve a break. By the time, it’ll be Monday and I have to be around Monday to hate the day with every other rational member of society. At this juncture, I will have had to have purchased more over-priced and under-flavored groceries and I won’t be able to choke them all down by Tuesday, so the whole cycle will start over again. Nope, it has to be today. It could be months before an opportunity like this presents itself again.
Soupy is slowly moving past Mark on my list of favorite poeple
have you ever spent an entire day alternating between standing on people’s porches delivering their pizzas during a heatwave and sitting in the kitchen at the pizza place you work at and it’s 100 degrees in there for real and you kind of just want to rage all over everyone because you feel so gross and tired? if so, i can totally relate.
- Whiskey. I get to drink whiskey and I don’t give a shit if it ‘looks awesome’ or ‘is so tough’ because it’s not, it’s just delicious and I will drink too much of it and I will burp in your face and then order a taco. Screw you, that’s what I do.
- I don’t have to wear heels, but I can if I want to. Heels make me look taller. If I feel like tricking people into thinking I look taller by wearing tiny pencils on the bottoms of my shoes, so be it. For the most part, I have flat feet and I trip everywhere and I can wear some weird-ass ankle sandals and so be it. But sometimes I wear heels if I want to sound like a tap-dancer when I walk.
- Girls don’t really ever have to wear pants if they don’t want to. Skirt? Sure. Leggings? Fuck it. Most of the time, I can go months and years without wearing pants and I don’t give a crap-o who knows it. I haven’t worn pants since 1994. I’m not wearing pants now. I’m wearing shorts, which are like cut off pants who didn’t go to a 4-year college, they went to a community and still made a fucking name for themselves without the extra buttload of loans.
- I can ask a guy out. I can just go up to a guy and say ‘yo, you wanna eat a slice of pizza and then kind of go to a smoky bar where I play Psycho Killer on the jukebox and then we make out? Because I don’t need to wait for you to ask me. As you can see, I’m doing that asking now.’ Sure, maybe I don’t ALWAYS ( or ever) go up to a guy and do that, but you can always text the girl or guy you like and that’s kind of the passive-aggressive way way out of things. And a lady is entitled to take the easy way out, if she so chooses.
- I get to be all independent and shit. Focus on a career? Why, I have these ovaries that are exploding inside me! I have to pop babies out of them! Oh, wait, I’m 22. I can tell my ovaries to shut the fuck up and stop annoying me while I become a multi-millionaire or become a business person or do whatever else the hell I want. And then I can lead from there.
- When I get my period, I bleed and it sucks! Nope, it sort of doesn’t. It doesn’t because I can roll around and eat all the nachos and all the food things and whine and bitch and watch movies and most people are SO SCARED TO FIGHT ME. Well, sometimes it hurts. But that’s just a side effect from all the pasta I’m eating.
- I get to put all this colorful makeup shit on my face, kind of like war paint, and it looks awesome. I go out on a Friday night and I’m basically like Braveheart. Braveheart wore makeup, right?
- I can shave my legs and they feel like two Zen stones that you find in the Zen garden where you take a tiny rake to all the sand. Or I can not shave them and see how crazy hairy my legs can get. Am I Bigfoot? No, I’m not nearly as tall, though I do have the tendency to run through the woods naked.
- If I want to wear ruffly shit and some crazy ass necklaces, I can. Well, you can do that as a boy, too, but you’d look a little less like you were in a period piece. Same goes for dresses! I like looking like a flowy piece of shit sometimes, at least when I’m going to a barbecue.
- I get to spray all this freesia scented perfume on me in truckloads, and when guys do that they kind of smell like The Jersey shore. And then I get to smell bad sometimes, because sometimes I don’t want bugs to eat me alive and get all the ‘amber romance’ in my mouth when I spray it. Although my deodorant gets to smell like BABY POWDER!
- I don’t really care if you’re looking at my boobs, but I get to wear a Victoria’s Secret sack for said boobs and when I run they bob up and down, like two friends who are very excited to see me.
- Nail polish is nice! I love seeing the progress of how much I have bitten my nails today because of how much polish has chipped off at the end of the day.
- Ladiezzzz night! Let’s all put a bunch of hairspray shit in our hair and try to hit on people but mostly instead just find an excuse to eat something unhealthy late nights and wait on line in the bathroom and talk about all the sex we are not having or are having.
- My crotch shoots fireworks! No, I’m kidding. It doesn’t, but at least I don’t have my genitals on the outside. That sounds a little bit daunting, especially because sometimes those things have a life of their own.
- I can truly enjoy not relating to Cathy Comics or The Bachelorette.
- I get to be extra proud of women like Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, and my mama tearing it the hell up.
- I get to fantasize about my wedding, or not give a shit about it at all. Sometimes I think a soulmate would be really romantic, most of the time I think that movies and my best friends and Gruyere are said soulmates. Who cares? I’m pretty intent on owning my own dog, so fuck it.
- I can eat a whole lot of food, and I don’t give a crap who knows it. Sure, I might be expected to ‘wear a bra on the beach’ but mostly I don’t give a hoot about that because sand between my toes feels like little ticks all over my skin.
- Guys think I’m so weak? Well what if I punch you in the face, or you know, get a better job than you. That’ll show you.
- Totally allowed to vote SO I DO! Thanks Susan B Anthony, for giving us that shit and also for bringing back the bun hairstyle.
- If I wanna carry a baby in my tummy? I can. If I don’t want to, I don’t gotta. And if I wanna cry at some fucking sappy movie I can do that too. If I wanna enjoy the romantic comedy, or make fun of it, that’s my business. I don’t have to own a ruffly apron or know how to bake cookies unless if I’m under the influence and want to. And if I want to tattoo Rosie the Riveter on my ass, I’ll so do so. Tattoos last forever though, y’all.
- I curse a lot. That’s not so much ‘being a girl’ as ‘being an awesome human with a limited way of expressing herself’ but that’s fine, too.
- I want to do ‘girly’ stuff like Google celebrities and tweeze my eyebrows but I read lots of books and stuff and all of these things I take pleasure in.
- Shopppppppppping is both an activity I love and despise. This has nothing to do with being a girl, except sometimes I can stare a lot at a rack of bracelets without getting very bored.
- I understand the movie Mean Girls a lot, and that is awesome, because high school sort of sucked for a lot of us. Except now I can’t wear a denim pleated skirt, which is something I imagine I have to really live with.
- I can shake my booty at a bar and give you my number, but most likely I PROBABLY WON’T.
- Well, I mean, I can buy face masks and Lean Cuisines and pints and pints of ice cream or chamomile tea and just be like ‘so what, I’m wearing a cool pleather jacket I’m one icy and progressive bitch.’
- Nobody needs to buy me flowers. They just need to know I won’t put up with any kind of nonsense, that I can beat them at Jeopardy, and that holding doors is nice, but holding my own is better.
- Other girls are the best. Girls who stand their ground. Girls who wear red lipstick. Girls who don’t. Girls who inspire me to want to do better and hang out and talk about how our hair looks good in this conditioner and how we might take over the world someday. I get to be very, very proud of the progress we’ve made. Very Beyonce of me. I also get to smugly dance to Beyonce a lot.
- I can do what I want, and fuck you if you don’t like it. Be your own definition of what a girl is, I don’t give a honk. I’m sorry for being aggressive! Oh wait, no I’m not.
I know that I have big boobs and that some part of you is programmed to look at them. I’ve come to accept that. I can only do so much when it comes to keeping them hidden. But can you try to be, like, more sneaky about doing this? I get skeezed out when I catch you staring below my neck or trying to look down my shirt. Especially when I don’t even know you. Take me on a few dates and then maybe we can talk about obvious boob staring privileges.
WHY CAN’T I QUIT YOU?