*9:22 PM May 23, 2010
You know summer's coming when the subway starts to smell like--
*Sigh* I'm sorry, world. I couldn't finish that joke because I cannot concentrate due to the fact that my sister is skyping with her boyfriend in the living room. And jokes do not come easily when my gag reflex is being triggered this much.
Anyways...
You know what I love about old people? All they want to do is talk for an hour with us youngsters and tell us a story that usually begins with "Back in the day when I was a lad..." And even though the story is really boring and useless, it makes them so happy that you listened. And to all those jerks who think that they're crazy, I say: Yes, they are crazy, and yes they're weird, and yes they drool on themselves a little bit, but they are going to die soon and you'd be selfish not to listen and make them feel like they haven't shared a great deal of wisdom with you.
I say this because I recently was stopped on the street by an old Jewish man when he commented on my (awesome) Monty Are I t-shirt. And even though the conversation disjointedly jumped from the topics of Walt Whitman, soul mates existing, and the fact that Sandra Bullock used to be his neighbor, I was really glad he stopped me. Because after 20 minutes of standing in the cold, he shook my hand and left me with the cliche message of "Follow your heart."
Seeing as my birthday is around the corner, and I am about to turn the useless age of 19, this message hit home. I'm freaking out! Tuesday will mark the start of the last year I'm allowed to be stupid and reckless. In other words, the end of my life! Think about it first before you call me dramatic. What does the future hold for us? Full time jobs (ugh), debt (the worst), marriage (ew), monogamy (doubtful) , and kids (shoot me in the ovaries)!
What I'm trying to say, world, is to live your life so you have some stories to tell random kids when you're old and wearing diapers again.
Goodbye, world. See you when I'm 19.
Love, Me
I didn't want to miss my deadline again...
*11:38 PM May 16, 2010
I am sorry to say that I lack inspiration this week. But I am an artist, and artists can't force art. Especially not such great art as mine. Yes, making fun of you, world, takes skill. It takes heart. And even though you all never stop being morons, it takes effort.
But I used to be one of you. I used to be stupid and selfish and lame. But I prevailed! (You all should think about following my lead.) And now that I've grown up to be this extraordinary woman/ artist/ knitter, I am starting to feel the weight of the guilt. So for this reason (and for the fact that I have nothing else to write about this week), I have decided to apologize:
I am sorry for leaving my sister's ipod in the car where it got stolen.
I am sorry for not visiting my grandma more often.
I am sorry I wasted my money on that dress that makes my ass look big.
I am sorry I lead you on.
I am sorry I forgot about you.
I am sorry I stole those string beans from the Fruital Farm.
I am sorry I didn't kiss you when I had the chance.
I am sorry I kissed you at all.
I am sorry that you apparently had no idea where my mouth was.
I am sorry I didn't drink coffee as a child. I did not know it stunts your growth.
I am sorry for not having a job.
I am sorry for this lame blog post.
I am sorry for hurting and disrespecting you.
I am sorry for not saving a bunch of money on my car insurance by switching to Geico.
I am sorry I crashed my car.
I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face.
I am sorry for lying.
And I am sorry for not being more mean, more blunt, more harsh, more honest and more of a bitch to you, world.
Someone has to do it.
Love, Me
I am sorry to say that I lack inspiration this week. But I am an artist, and artists can't force art. Especially not such great art as mine. Yes, making fun of you, world, takes skill. It takes heart. And even though you all never stop being morons, it takes effort.
But I used to be one of you. I used to be stupid and selfish and lame. But I prevailed! (You all should think about following my lead.) And now that I've grown up to be this extraordinary woman/ artist/ knitter, I am starting to feel the weight of the guilt. So for this reason (and for the fact that I have nothing else to write about this week), I have decided to apologize:
I am sorry for leaving my sister's ipod in the car where it got stolen.
I am sorry for not visiting my grandma more often.
I am sorry I wasted my money on that dress that makes my ass look big.
I am sorry I lead you on.
I am sorry I forgot about you.
I am sorry I stole those string beans from the Fruital Farm.
I am sorry I didn't kiss you when I had the chance.
I am sorry I kissed you at all.
I am sorry that you apparently had no idea where my mouth was.
I am sorry I didn't drink coffee as a child. I did not know it stunts your growth.
I am sorry for not having a job.
I am sorry for this lame blog post.
I am sorry for hurting and disrespecting you.
I am sorry for not saving a bunch of money on my car insurance by switching to Geico.
I am sorry I crashed my car.
I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face.
I am sorry for lying.
And I am sorry for not being more mean, more blunt, more harsh, more honest and more of a bitch to you, world.
Someone has to do it.
Love, Me
WELL I FINALLY GOT SOME INSPIRATION! (World, you should read this title and hopefully feel the rage from it.)
*1:27 AM May 12, 2010
Hey world. Sorry I'm late but I had a wee bit of writer's block. Luckily for you (said with big cheesy smile), my horrible room mates woke my ass up giving me nothing else to do at this late hour except make fun of their jerk ways. They should feel so special being a subject to my blog. Not too much seeing as I don't have enough respect for them to mention their names. Because let's face it world, none of you are worthy of that.
I have, however, given them code names for easy story telling. Room mate #1: Tall, blonde, and selfish who is IN NO WAY RELATED TO ME WHATSOEVER (except by blood), shall be named "Bitch." Room mate #2: Short, clueless, and dresses like a 14 year old, shall be named "Baby." Room mate #3: Tall, loud, and homosexual, shall be named "Butt." Notice how I so cleverly made their names insulting.
Our story begins in our one bedroom apartment. Our living room stopped being a living room when Bitch invited Baby and Butt to come live with us. Oh how we giggled with glee as we played house together. Who could have foretold that... dun dun DUUUN... we'd all get pissed off at each other's inconsiderate ways.
Let's start with Bitch. Bitch's spontaneous boyfriend whisks her away on a romantic vacation to Vegas where the gays' idols, Celine Dion and Cher, roam. Gorgeous hotel room! (ka-ching) Four spectacular shows! (ka-ching) Alcohol! (ka-ching) "Don't worry baby, I know you're broke as a joke and could never afford this trip. I shall pay for you!.. and you can pay me back in installments (wink) with interest." Okay maybe that's not exactly how the conversation went down... but you get the picture. "Oh baby, you're just the greatest! I love you! Here are all of my paychecks! Thank goodness for my gorgeous, humorous, supportive sister who will pay for my meals, magazines, and Dunkin Donuts! She doesn't mind sitting at home alone not being able to afford to go out and have fun." ... If it wasn't clear world, that last part isn't true.
Just a free tip, from me to you, world: DON'T GO ON VACATION WHEN YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO SUPPORT YOURSELF. That should be easy to remember I think... common sense usually is.
Except when it comes to Baby. Baby thinks those little pieces of paper the police leave on your windshield are love notes saying "I love your Hello Kitty seat cover!" The rest of us know them as parking tickets. Well, Baby conveniently ignored those little love notes in her glove compartment just long enough for her car to be towed where she then owed twice the cost of the parking tickets. Sorry Baby, your see-through tank top and cheek revealing skirt won't get you out of this one. Uncle Sam is a fictional character that doesn't have a penis to think with.
But Butt does (hee hee)! Butt, I love you and the food you cook for me, but we do not have the luxury of four walls like Bitch and Baby. So when I'm trying to sleep and all I can hear is your drunk self violently throwing up Svedka and delicious pasta salad, I'm going to want to slap you silly. And trust me I was going to, but the fact that you were completely naked when I discovered you, made me let it go.
So after all this on top of my sleepless night, I do not want to be woken up at 1am on a Wednesday morning because Bitch, Baby, and Butt are stupid enough to think that the living room is still a living room. Especially when the fourth wall (A CURTAIN) dividing my bedroom (former dining room) from the living room is not sound proof! I do not want to hear about the fun that I couldn't partake in because I'm too poor and have to do stupid homework for my stupid education (that Bitch, Baby, and Butt lack and need).
Thanks to them, it has now become 3am, and I'm sitting in my dark room wide awake writing about these unimportant people. I would just like to add last minute annoyances: Bitch, If you can pay the boyfriend you've known for 6 months back, you can pay me back. Baby, I just spoke with the 90's and they're kicking you out. Butt, the Real World called, they want to put you and your dysfunctional relationship on television.
I am now thinking about what I have just written. I look at the reflection in the picture frame across from me of my face that is aglow from my computer screen. I smile that evil smile of mine, and click "publish post."
Love, Me
Hey world. Sorry I'm late but I had a wee bit of writer's block. Luckily for you (said with big cheesy smile), my horrible room mates woke my ass up giving me nothing else to do at this late hour except make fun of their jerk ways. They should feel so special being a subject to my blog. Not too much seeing as I don't have enough respect for them to mention their names. Because let's face it world, none of you are worthy of that.
I have, however, given them code names for easy story telling. Room mate #1: Tall, blonde, and selfish who is IN NO WAY RELATED TO ME WHATSOEVER (except by blood), shall be named "Bitch." Room mate #2: Short, clueless, and dresses like a 14 year old, shall be named "Baby." Room mate #3: Tall, loud, and homosexual, shall be named "Butt." Notice how I so cleverly made their names insulting.
Our story begins in our one bedroom apartment. Our living room stopped being a living room when Bitch invited Baby and Butt to come live with us. Oh how we giggled with glee as we played house together. Who could have foretold that... dun dun DUUUN... we'd all get pissed off at each other's inconsiderate ways.
Let's start with Bitch. Bitch's spontaneous boyfriend whisks her away on a romantic vacation to Vegas where the gays' idols, Celine Dion and Cher, roam. Gorgeous hotel room! (ka-ching) Four spectacular shows! (ka-ching) Alcohol! (ka-ching) "Don't worry baby, I know you're broke as a joke and could never afford this trip. I shall pay for you!.. and you can pay me back in installments (wink) with interest." Okay maybe that's not exactly how the conversation went down... but you get the picture. "Oh baby, you're just the greatest! I love you! Here are all of my paychecks! Thank goodness for my gorgeous, humorous, supportive sister who will pay for my meals, magazines, and Dunkin Donuts! She doesn't mind sitting at home alone not being able to afford to go out and have fun." ... If it wasn't clear world, that last part isn't true.
Just a free tip, from me to you, world: DON'T GO ON VACATION WHEN YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO SUPPORT YOURSELF. That should be easy to remember I think... common sense usually is.
Except when it comes to Baby. Baby thinks those little pieces of paper the police leave on your windshield are love notes saying "I love your Hello Kitty seat cover!" The rest of us know them as parking tickets. Well, Baby conveniently ignored those little love notes in her glove compartment just long enough for her car to be towed where she then owed twice the cost of the parking tickets. Sorry Baby, your see-through tank top and cheek revealing skirt won't get you out of this one. Uncle Sam is a fictional character that doesn't have a penis to think with.
But Butt does (hee hee)! Butt, I love you and the food you cook for me, but we do not have the luxury of four walls like Bitch and Baby. So when I'm trying to sleep and all I can hear is your drunk self violently throwing up Svedka and delicious pasta salad, I'm going to want to slap you silly. And trust me I was going to, but the fact that you were completely naked when I discovered you, made me let it go.
So after all this on top of my sleepless night, I do not want to be woken up at 1am on a Wednesday morning because Bitch, Baby, and Butt are stupid enough to think that the living room is still a living room. Especially when the fourth wall (A CURTAIN) dividing my bedroom (former dining room) from the living room is not sound proof! I do not want to hear about the fun that I couldn't partake in because I'm too poor and have to do stupid homework for my stupid education (that Bitch, Baby, and Butt lack and need).
Thanks to them, it has now become 3am, and I'm sitting in my dark room wide awake writing about these unimportant people. I would just like to add last minute annoyances: Bitch, If you can pay the boyfriend you've known for 6 months back, you can pay me back. Baby, I just spoke with the 90's and they're kicking you out. Butt, the Real World called, they want to put you and your dysfunctional relationship on television.
I am now thinking about what I have just written. I look at the reflection in the picture frame across from me of my face that is aglow from my computer screen. I smile that evil smile of mine, and click "publish post."
Love, Me
Mirror, Mirror On The Wall, Who's The Tallest Of Them All?
*8:47 PM May 2, 2010
Sorry for the heat today, world. Hell froze over and it's my fault. You see... I attended a party instead of throwing one myself. It'll never happen again. So you can all rest easy knowing you can still rely (torture) me for a good time.
What I am about to discuss (not so much discuss because you can't really talk back to me when shamefully reading this when no one's looking) is not a new discovery. At the "party" on Saturday, I was just so overwhelmed by this... what can I call it?.. unfamiliar wildlife, that I had one of those light-bulb-turning-on-above-the-head moments.
While backpacking through third world civilizations (ghetto ass Queens), I had a chance to commence my research on the male species. To my dismay, I realized that bros speak another language, whether they're guito, ghetto, scene or prep. This language is basically the English language, only they leave out multiple letters in their sentences, remove complete syllables from words, and will use a word in a context where it doesn't belong.
Now ladies, one would think it wouldn't be difficult to understand the ignorant language. Wrong! It's hard (tee hee)! I wish I had my English to Idiot translator book to help me get through the conversation at this "party." Some examples that personally made me wish my head would implode included: "That was mad O.D." and "Yea, I peeped that." I refuse to tell you the meaning of those phrases in order to keep you B+ and higher minds from harm. Oh, and one phrase they couldn't leave out of any sentence was "my nigga" (ugh, it hurt to type that). For the record, I hate that word even if it doesn't have the "-er."
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the tallest of them all? Now, seeing as you're all beneath, let's leave the language creating to me. Totes see you next week world.
One more thing... Y-O-U-'-R-E MEANS "YOU ARE!" Y-O-U-R MEANS "YOUR!"
Love, Me
Sorry for the heat today, world. Hell froze over and it's my fault. You see... I attended a party instead of throwing one myself. It'll never happen again. So you can all rest easy knowing you can still rely (torture) me for a good time.
What I am about to discuss (not so much discuss because you can't really talk back to me when shamefully reading this when no one's looking) is not a new discovery. At the "party" on Saturday, I was just so overwhelmed by this... what can I call it?.. unfamiliar wildlife, that I had one of those light-bulb-turning-on-above-the-head moments.
While backpacking through third world civilizations (ghetto ass Queens), I had a chance to commence my research on the male species. To my dismay, I realized that bros speak another language, whether they're guito, ghetto, scene or prep. This language is basically the English language, only they leave out multiple letters in their sentences, remove complete syllables from words, and will use a word in a context where it doesn't belong.
Now ladies, one would think it wouldn't be difficult to understand the ignorant language. Wrong! It's hard (tee hee)! I wish I had my English to Idiot translator book to help me get through the conversation at this "party." Some examples that personally made me wish my head would implode included: "That was mad O.D." and "Yea, I peeped that." I refuse to tell you the meaning of those phrases in order to keep you B+ and higher minds from harm. Oh, and one phrase they couldn't leave out of any sentence was "my nigga" (ugh, it hurt to type that). For the record, I hate that word even if it doesn't have the "-er."
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the tallest of them all? Now, seeing as you're all beneath, let's leave the language creating to me. Totes see you next week world.
One more thing... Y-O-U-'-R-E MEANS "YOU ARE!" Y-O-U-R MEANS "YOUR!"
Love, Me
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