Old Years Eve

Boy, do I hate New Years! Forced revelry and anti-climactic moments abound. I am the New Years Eve scrooge, but I can't say I care. As I told Allie, January 20th will be my evening of celebration, as I do think that we (the World at Large) are about to turn a corner. Anyway, enough of my political stumping and grumbling about mandated holidays. I just want to wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year (you know, in case you celebrate today). May 2009 be a year of health, happiness, fewer drops in the Dow, and love and peace and all that other shit. A special thanks to all four of my blog readers--thanks! Next year I promise to write more.

Now if you will excuse me, I must go consume a bottle of champagne, bake and then eat 2 dozen cookies, and watch terrible television before my 2009 health resolution takes effect.

Please, Santa!

My Christmas Wish List- Recession Edition:

1. A "Single Ladies" leotard
2. To know everything

Express Train to Bitterville

It's been forever. Believe me, it is never my intention to go so long without blogging- it just sort of happens. I feel like in order to write a decent post, I have to be silly-angry. Lately, I've just been angry-angry and in no mood to bitch about the ways I feel I have been wronged on the interweb. Those complaints are best saved for face-to-face meetings, where my tears and angst can be appreciated to their fullest extent. Nor I am about to just blog for the sake of writing something. I'm hardly interested in my own daily happenings, a sentiment I imagine you, solitary reader, share. So, profound apologies.

A few things have been on my mind lately, thoughts ranging from the nominally serious to those with no importance or consequence whatsoever. And so, An Abbreviated List of the Things I Thought About This Month (in No Particular Order):

I. Green peas have no place in a salad.
The same goes for mandarin oranges. Nothing says "this salad will be disgusting" more than baby mandarin orange slices popping up behind intolerably large pieces of iceberg lettuce. In fact, calling mandarin oranges fruit is on par with calling a dust bunny a pet. Let's start labeling the cans appropriately- "Mushy Orange Shit (in heavy syrup)."

II. If you fart in an empty office and no one is around to hear you, does it make a sound?

III. Moving.
I saw a map of Denver, my place of origin, at the bookstore today and found myself getting surprisingly weepy and nostalgic. I am not taking this as one of those cinematic Signs From Above, but it is certainly weighing on my mind. In trying to navigate this post-collegiate haze of bill paying and general disenfranchisement, I wonder if I am not better suited for a quieter life back in that square state.

I miss the ease of driving a car, of not having to share a seat with large, sweaty men or girls dry heaving after a night of overpriced cocktails. That said, I do not miss the actual act of driving one bit, as my absentmindedness on the road would make that deep-voiced StateFarm man weep. (It's not my fault I only have two hands and a cell phone, a cup of coffee, and radio that all demand attention.) I miss the quiet that comes with urban sprawl, businesses that close at 7, and the peace after a good snowfall. Here, my ears are filled with the sounds of 8 million self-involved pricks scratching their way to the top. We live practically on top of one another, and there is no peace to be had after a good snow. No sir, there's nothing but gray slush and a collective bitch from those same 8 million about delayed trains. Colorado rarely made me angry, just sleepy from a general lack of things to do (unless you count beer drinking, mutton busting, and more beer drinking).

Walking in New York is fine, save for when it is infuriating. Fifty percent of my days are without major issue. Thirty percent of my days are with only a few minor issues. The other twenty percent make me want to take up sharpshooting. I stomp around with a dreadful scowl, continually ignoring the voice in my head that reminds me that such expressions cause wrinkles (and who wants those?). I can barely breathe without screaming, let alone form words and sentences. My head is filled with a noise that can best be described as what cutting the alphabet in half and letting the two sides beat the shit out of each other would sound like. It's unpleasant, distressing, and just plain annoying.

Speaking of sounds, I am afraid I must cut this little rant short. The leaping gazelles that live above me have begun their nightly romp, reminding me that it is almost midnight and I have to go to work in the morning. To be continued.

Udder shock and dismay

I am really excited for the new Of Montreal album, and decided to head to YouTube and watch a video for the first single. Perfectly harmless. What happened next has disturbed me in such a way that I have no choice but to blog about it.

When the song ended, the YouTube suggestion box popped up to alert me to videos I may want to watch next. I don't know how, nor do I know why, but at the top of the suggestion list was a video entitled "Breast feeding at 8 years-old." What a weird joke, pre-traumatized Me thought. My natural curiosity guided the mouse to the link, where I expected to find some sort of comedy routine, or maybe a puppy being cute. You know, normal YouTube fodder.

Wrong!

The video is exactly what the title states- a very large child, whose age is approaching the double digits, latched on to her mother's boob like a barnacle on the side of a ship. I thought my eyeballs were going to fall out of my head. I wasn't raised in the most prudent of households, but ohmygod! The Milkmaid's 2 children not only converse about the flavor of the milk, but also the shape, feeling, and milk out-put of their mother's breasts. At one point, the girls show off the pictures they have drawn of the breasts and the feedings. Let's just say they are very detail-oriented children.

What bothers me the most is the teeth. These kids have teeth capable of masticating the toughest of steaks, crunching Jolly Ranchers, and biting siblings foolish enough to pull hair and taunt. (Should something ever happen to my younger brother, God forbid, I have his dental records on my ankle, the result of my poor decision to kick him in slow motion.) One errant move or angry moment, and suddenly mom is without one of the many things that should always come in pairs (although this would solve the weaning issue in short order). I would sooner mix an 8 year-old a vodka tonic than let it near my chest. And how about the mother? Isn't she tired of playing Betsy the Cow to those kids? Someone should alert her to the modern parenting wonder that is the Happy Meal. The kids would be sated and entertained with a toy, thus distracting them from their portraiture.

I just don't get it. Or, I didn't until the end of the video, when the family says their own version of grace over a meal (Mom has her top on, so I guess the kids eat solid food, too). The moon, sun, and a few other celestial bodies receive their due gratitude as the family breaks bread.

A-ha! Light bulb! Stephen Hawking!

THESE PEOPLE ARE HIPPIES! Hippies! I knew there was an explanation for letting a child with fangs near the nips. Had I seen the program in its entirety, I am sure I would have seen the family tending to their beet crop, sewing new hemp pants, and packing a family bowl. Hippies!

I encourage you to watch the video, although perhaps not at work. And then, if you have time, check out the new Of Montreal song, because that's pretty good, too.

Where the hell have you been?

The short answer? Florida. I lounged by the pool, ate Cheez-Its and cookies, and just generally loafed about. I guess that is a perk of being half-employed: vacations when I say, for as long as I deem necessary. Just another way I exact my passive revenge on my abusive boss. I am almost entirely adjusted to the idea of my folks living in Florida, although there are still many reminders that their house is definitely, well, theirs.

When my parents moved in, "my" room became a dumping ground of sorts for the odd pieces of furniture they did not want to part with- but also decided they did not want to look at on a daily basis. It's ugly, and smells a bit like the dead relatives that bequeathed a majority of the aforementioned furniture. Given it's proximity to the laundry room, there are almost always carefully sorted piles of clothes heaped on the bed. Adding to the mix is my father's decision to put any photo or portrait they own of me in my room. I have often tried to convince him that it makes the room feel like a memorial to a departed one. Going home means sleeping in a creepy shrine that smells like Grandma Rose and Tide. I also try not to answer the phone while home. If I do, I am nearly always asked to speak my name slowly and clearly, and then explain my relationship to the known occupants of the home. I am the Narnia of the three children- very few know I exist, and the rest just don't buy it.

All in all, it was a very pleasant trip home. I did a fair amount of shopping, but mainly for boring things at stores frequented by Young Republicans. I discovered that Neiman Marcus is the best place to be when having a down day. The salespeople quite literally trip over themselves to get to you first so they may have the privilege of showering you with compliments and agreeing with you. If I told the saleswoman that I thought she was ugly and her perfume smelled like cat pee, her response would have been nothing but praise for my selection of the "Purple Vamp" eyeshadow and my flawless, dewy complexion.

I supposed that's the news for now. I'm back in New York, bored, a little sad, and eating peanut butter straight from the jar using carrot sticks. Apologies to James for not writing on Thursday, as promised. Perhaps I will make it up to you by coming to Savannah soon.

Unless there are bugs there. I don't do bugs.

rotten apple

I am a terrible person. I think this a lot, mostly as a result of the genetic Jewish guilt that makes me feel bad for simply existing.

But this time, I really mean it.

I work next door to Unicef, an organization that makes celebrities look good helps kids. Yes they do wonderful things, but all of their admirable charity work aside, Unicef won my heart for something far better: the cheapest lunch in New York City. It's not unusual to go out for lunch here, order a turkey sandwich, and be presented with a bill for almost twenty bucks. For a turkey fucking sandwich. Sure, the turkey is organic, hand-fed, and comes with a guarantee that the bird was loved from womb to table (the same most likely cannot be said for the New Yorkers eating the sandwich). No matter how great the deli meat and fancy bread, it's just a sandwich. Pre-Unicef, I probably spent more per week on lunch than clothes. (This probably explains why I look like a well-fed dumpster.) Unicef is a different story, though. A giant, delicious sandwich, with a drink and chips if you are feeling fancy, is roughly $5. I feel like I pay for my food while enveloped in an ethereal cloud.

Now to the part that makes me feel like the most worthless person on the planet. (Additional background info: next to all the food is a little condiment bar with all the usual dining accessories- sugar, hot sauce, ketchup, utensils, etc.) May I present to you a short internal monologue:

12:31 pm, at desk: Yogurt! I love you! I can't wait to eat you!
12:32: NO SPOON! WHY GOD WHY?! I hate you, yogurt! I guess I will have to go to Unicef to get a spoon
12:36, in Unicef Cafeteria: One spoon, in my bag. One yogurt, on its way to tummyland. I should probably grab a few more spoons for next time. And some knives. Probably some forks, too. Chopsticks? Eh, why not. (grabs fistfuls of plastic utensils, shoves them in bag)
12:37: I wonder if they have anything else that will go with my lunch. I already have carrots at work. Oh, but some dressing...What if I just put some dressing in a little container? They won't mind. (Goes to salad bar, pours dressing in little container, sticks it in bag along with utensils)
12:38: Those crackers look good, too. How about it! (Stuffs 12 packets of ritz on top of other pilfered goods)
12:39: Some backup Splenda packets, a refill on my waterbottle, and I am back to work! Yogurt, you will be mine!

It was I was riding the wave of stolen-goods euphoria on my way back to the office when the magnitude of what I had done hit me. I just stole from Unicef. UNICEF! As if their stuff is not cheap enough, I have to go and take a picnic's-worth of utensils, salad dressing, and crackers from them. COULD I BE A BIGGER ASSHOLE? Why don't I just go to Africa, find a hungry child, and pull the bread out of his mouth so I have something else to go with my meal? I am singlehandedly undoing years of trick-or-treating with those little boxes. Now you know where your nickels are going, folks: me.

So how does it feel to fleece a children's charity? Not that great! I am a terrible person.

bah hamburger

Three cheers for not having to start school on Tuesday!
Zero cheers for having absolutely no plans for the discernible future.

I've reasoned that it is time for an update, with this being the eve of a new month and the end of the summer season. The weather is changing here, right along with my disposition; both are growing a bit more frigid and ominous every day. With wrecked job plans, transient income, and an increasing penchant for 3-dollar Trader Joe's wine, autumn is not holding a lot of promise. And please, no more seemingly cordial advice on keeping a winning attitude, optimism, and other such nonsense. Those things join God, political reform, ghosts, and liposuction in the "crap people believe but are actually products of socio-cultural fear-mongering" category.

I seem to have tripped on the threshold between childhood and functioning adulthood.

It's in our blood

Update! I may have a coffee date this weekend with a guy who appears to be semi-normal, or at least able to carry on a conversation. Please note the severe skepticism clouding that statement. Given my luck this summer, romantic and otherwise, I am not inclined to put a lot of stock in planned social engagements with the opposite sex. This is only natural though; I contend that men are lousy at making/keeping plans and have been since the dawn of time. I can picture it clearly - Early Man and Early Lady going on a mammoth-hunting expedition, having a lovely, prehistoric time. The evening ends with Early Man knocking three rocks together, the pre-lingual way of saying "this was great! Let's do it again sometime." But he never stops by her dwelling again, and is soon spotted gifting a deer pelt to another lady. You can bet that the next village bonfire was pretty awkward for everyone.

My point being, if nothing happens this weekend, I do not think I will be the least bit surprised. In the meantime, I will continue to accept messages from other potential suitors. I like calling them suitors, as it makes the process seem fancy and dignified. One gentleman in particular keeps trying to initiate a conversation, but is about as attractive to me as a lard sandwich. He is definitely one of the computer-game-parents'-basement types. I admire his fortitude, as day after day there is a little note from him or something of the like. It makes me wish the website had a "Never In a Million Years" rejection button.

I told my father about joining the dating site, and he seemed pleased...until he learned that it's not J-Date. I am pretty sure I heard his heart sink over the phone. But really, who has 40 bucks to spend on a dating site? Let me pay you for the pleasure of feeling socially inept! Besides, I can still do this site and use the $40 to go to a bar and meet even more suitors. Logic, people, pure and simple. Anyway, Dad lectured me on the virtues of dating Jewish men, and then told me I should be getting serious about finding a husband in the next "two or so years". Apparently, once I turn 24, the other shoe will drop and I will officially turn into a tired, old hag.

Something to look forward to, I guess.

Exercises in social propriety

Or, "How I Learned to Stop Judging Myself, Instead Letting Others Do It For Me."

And if those titles aren't enough, how about "I Joined an Online Dating Site"?

I was in the shower and noticed remnants of a bruise and a fresh scar on my right calf. It was from that day at the gym well over a month ago, when I accidentally walked into an ab machine and gave myself a huge welt with a nice gash to seal the deal. I also rendered myself incapable to walk for a few minutes, much to the amusement of the other gym patrons, of that I am sure. It was the day before I met Kris at the coffee shop. He called me his girlfriend on our third(ish) date, and then he just didn't call me at all. He was not long for my life, but the evidence of my uncoordinated behavior decided to stick around. I guess you could call a bruise outlasting a boy the final straw.

Thus, I decided to try my hand at online dating. I like to think of the entire situation as a modern interpretation of Lazarus- we the huddled masses, the web our Mother of Exiles. I went in with an open mind, which has since closed ever-so-slightly, partly due to realizing the following: I certainly do attract a particular crowd. A slightly literate, video game-playing, basement-dwelling, baby daddy crowd. I do not want to play mom to you and your three year-old (in New Jersey, no less). I do not want to eat meatloaf with your parents while you are waiting for your online friends to come home from school in Japan so you can continue your "Call of Duty 4" gaming. And above all, I do not want to date someone who calls me "sexi mami" and offers to send me a picture of his "hOTtTt bod."

I am not throwing in the towel just yet, but if things don't get better, I am quitting. Then, my bruises and scars and I will all go for a lovely meal. Alone.

Stages of Unemployment

Stage 1: Joy
I have nothing to do! All day, every day! I can go shopping, exploring, to the museums, to the movies...the list goes on! I can stare at my feet all day if I want to! Why? Because I am F-R-E-E FREE. Released from the confines of answering to The Man, I do/think/wear whatever I want! Take that, Banana Republic business casual! Enjoy the back of my closet along with the rest of the shit I don't like. FREEDOM! Oh, the possibilities of spare time! Praised be the person who came up with this concept!

Stage 2: Muted Joy
Good news - I got to do all of the things I wanted to do! Bad news - it took me two days. Boredom is batting his pretty eyes at me, as I spend more time sleeping and less time celebrating the fact that I no longer need to use words like "meeting" and "memo." Still, the novelty of beginning my day at 12 noon has yet to wear off. For the first time in almost a decade, I am well-rested! I am also discovering another perk of being unemployed - grocery shopping during the day, while everyone else is working, means no lines for me! I can now buy my food in peace, right alongside the rest of the price-conscious jobless folk.

Stage 3: A Visit From the Concerned Fairy
The initial thrill accompanying no longer having to wear nice clothes every day has morphed into wearing the same ratty jeans and t-shirt four days in a row. I have been sleeping upwards of 14 hours a day, for lack of anything to better to do. I am not unhappy, but perhaps not as chipper as before. A notice from the bank indicates that all of those fun and games (see: Joy) come at a price, and that this carefree time may not be able to continue forever. "Real-life" issues like health insurance and bills start to enter my stream of thought on a regular basis. This is ok, because I am starting to become irritable. Luckily, this irritability has motivated me to apply to a few jobs. Given my stunning employment history, terrific education, and winning personality, I expect to have a job in no time at all! In the mean time, I will continue to take advantage of my schedule-less life and shiny television.

Stage 4: The Beginning of the End, Part 1 (Present state of being)
My job search has yielded no results, fostering a growing sense of rejection, along with its good friend frustration. Apparently, no one wants to hire me. I choose to blame my crap employment history, lousy education, and grouchy disposition. Wearing the same jeans and t-shirt has devolved into wearing the same pajamas day after day, as leaving the house no longer has the same appeal. The highlight of my day arrives at 3 p.m, when "Dr. Phil" airs. There is simple pleasure to be found in watching fat people from the Midwest complain about their kids/spouse/in-laws/pets/neighbors/local Wal-Mart/etc. I feel smart and accomplished when I watch. I am also starting to think that Dr. Phil is more of a miracle-worker than people give him credit for. By the end of the hour, I am lulled to sleep by their nasal voices and white skin. After napping for two hours (give or take two hours), I wake up in time for "Wheel of Fortune," where I watch another group of fat Midwesterners wave their arms and try to remember the alphabet ("I'd like to buy a vowel...F!"). Actual accomplishments have been replaced with "I got out of bed before the sun set" and "I pooped today." I may or may not be getting pressure sores on my ass.

A job cannot come soon enough, even if I have to dust off those sweater sets and skirts.

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in forever. Sorry! But, I do have reasons, so there's that. I moved to Queens yesterday, which was a production and a half, but it's all over and done with. I hate moving. I am planning on living in this apartment until I die, because that is how much I hate moving. The new place is nice and pretty clean, which is a huge plus. The only downside is that none of the windows have blinds or anything, which has made indulging in my favorite hobbies (naked strutting, naked yoga, naked writing, etc) a little awkward. I have got to get blinds soon. It's been two days and I am already feeling repressed. I like to think that this move to Queens signifies a new period in my life. Like, in my biography, it will be the title of a new chapter called "The Queens Years". I like that. I am sorry this post is so fucking boring. I am in the Apple store and I would write more if my legs weren't starting to hurt and I didn't have to poop. Later gators.

Something new and different

It's 4 a.m. and I am still awake. And drunk. I just ate a bunch of Indian food to help me stomach some of the massive quantities of alcohol I consumed, but something tells me that was an ill-conceived idea. Let's talk about my night, shall we? Allie and I went to a bar and did some necessary catching up...which would have been even lovelier, had the roommate of a guy I slept with last summer not been at the bar. Of all places, right? I am so glad he took the time to interrupt giving me the stink-eye to gesture to his friend and go "She slept with...," jerking his entire body toward me. Thanks, asshole. Because I don't feel bad about myself as it is, I have you to reinforce it. Also, I was in my sky-high hooker heels and short shorts, an outfit eerily reminiscent of the one I wore whilst seducing his roommate. He probably thinks that all of my clothes totaled equal a singular yard of fabric. He probably thinks I shop exclusively at Fantasy World. I don't know why seeing him bothered/bothers me so much. I think it's a reminder that I will never, ever be able to escape my past. Especially when that past involves booze, scorned lovers, and curry.

What a worthless post. I do feel compelled, however, to point out that while leaving the bar, I ran into a woman who worked in the cube next to me, who was so beyond drunk that I felt the need to pity her instead of myself. This is a woman whose job is to declare winners in elections for the tv network.

No wonder Bush won. Twice.

Greetings from Sunny Florida!

More like "Torrential Downpours Alternating with Scorching Heat" Florida. Seriously- the weather patterns here are pretty stupid. If it's not the surface of the sun, it's a storm of Biblical proportions. I did get to see a rainbow after one of the storms, but I couldn't look at it too long, or the sun was going to burn holes in my eyeballs. I like being home, if for nothing else than the full fridge, nice gym, and free laundry. Hanging out with my parents isn't half-bad either. And when my little turd of a brother isn't feeling so, well, turd-like, it's actually fun! They keep asking me whether or not I am moving here. (Granted, I am not allowed to move in with them, but must rather rent some sort of habitat near them.) Today while getting manicures, my mom predicted to the nail lady* that I will be living here by the time I am 30, "or even sooner, depending on when she gets pregnant." Wait...not only do I have to produce children, but I have to move them to her? Me thinks not. Although, all that free babysitting would be nice...

I don't even know why I am thinking about this! Let's count the number of months that have passed since I have been on a proper date. If that embarrassingly large number says anything, it's that I am more likely to own a unicorn farm than get married and help populate the earth.

*As soon as we left, my mother told me she had a hard time keeping a straight face while getting her nails done, because the manicurist "had teeth like mah jongg tiles. How can she close her mouth?!"

Now you know what kind of tree cultivated my tendency to be a mean little apple.

Funemployment!

What a busy week for this girl! Exclamation point! I cleaned my room, returned a ton of books, and ate an entire jar of peanut butter.

Oh yeah, and graduated from college.

Granted, the above activities took about twenty minutes (plus four years). And now, I am fresh out of things to do. I spent my first task-less day as an unemployed, hyper-educated semi-adult eating sorbet in my underwear while watching a show on Redwood trees and napping. Four hours of that and I was sad and lonely, thus prompting a right-quick escape to Connecticut to love Jessico. I've been back in the city for about 8 hours, and am getting ready to leave again for a sojourn into the Land People Under 70 Forgot. I should probably be packing, but that won't take long; I am just throwing all of my dirty clothes in a bag. I always hope that TSA doesn't go through my stuff, because boy, will I be embarrassed when they see all of my dirty clothing! But, then I remind myself that people so grossly violating my personal rights deserve nothing more than a suitcase full of dirty clothes.*

I am half-watching The Bachelorette while I write this. She is about to eliminate the first round of boys, and has some "really hard choices" to make (cue violins). Let me get this straight- I am supposed to feel sorry for this skinny, gorgeous girl because she has to choose between 25 different men that all want to boink marry her? I am having issues mustering up sympathy for this girl (despite the teaser clip of her crying in front of her mansion). They are now showing interviews with the men who didn't get picked for the chance to woo her. One man is talking about how he quit his job, sold his condo, and moved across the country, only to get rejected immediately. I have two things to say about that:

1. Dummy!
2. Is the state of modern American romance? No wonder I am left to choose from the old ones and the ones in committed relationships with their cousins.

I'm sorry if this was a very boring post for you to read. I think you ought to get used to it, though. My post-collegiate life is not exactly off to an exciting start.

*They also deserve a bunch of dog shit, but I am not about to pack that.

'Splainin

So, I had a preeeetttttty intense anxiety attack at about 3 a.m. last night, which is one of the reasons this blog is now private. I also deleted about 60 Facebook "friends." Then, I rearranged my underwear drawer.

I think that is what happens when you spend all day trying to write about urban toilets and contemplating that graduation is rapidly approaching. Sigh.

I have run out of the following:

...cereal (I ate an entire box of Kashi fiber hearts in three days. Oh, and a bag of dried fruit. And a few bowls of spinach. And a box of Altoids. I disgust myself, but my colon has never been happier)
...sleeping pills ("Becker" is mighty funny at 4 am)
...certainty about my future (Is Barnes & Noble hiring?)
...hair gel ( No, I am not related to Diana Ross)
...wit (Seriously, I got nuthin')
...creative inspiration (Is this the most boring blog or what?)
...shoes that don't smell like city feet (It's bordering on offensive)
...things to do instead of my actual work (Stop blogging, you say? Get back to writing your scripts and essays so you can graduate from college? Be a productive human being? Alright!)

Stupid York City

Either I have the great misfortune of running into a lot of dumb people, or this city is home to a special collective of the intelligence-challenged. My displeasure the life on this island comes at a very inopportune time, as I am supposed to write an essay within the next week, rhapsodizing about the brilliance of Manhattan. If anyone has any ideas on how to tackle this, I'm all ears.

Keys and Parrots

I don't really have much to say, but I want to avoid doing my work for as long as possible. So far, I have done laundry (ugh), read half of a book (smartypants), gone to the gym (must! lose! weight!) showered (eh), painted my nails (vamp), watched an hour of "the office"(hilarity), eaten everything in my house (must! gain! weight!), and picked the fuzz out of my hairbrush (OCD). I bet I will find more things to do after I finish writing this.

Let's see. I have two job interviews on Thursday, and I am not the least bit sorry for being proud of myself. I am so nervous, but also quite excited to have some prospects. I am also PMS-ing, which means after the interviews, I will either laugh, cry, or get arrested. I would love to get this job, as it has been my dream since I burst forth from my mother's womb.* I often wonder where my love of television comes from. Is it from all of those hours spent watching PBS while the parental units were in the hospital with Seth? Am I too much of a loser/loner/smelly kid to hang out with real people? I'm not sure. What I can tell you is that television is something that never fails to satisfy. I have complete control over it, turning it on and off, from topic to topic at will. Find me someone who is as satisfying and easy to be with as My Television, and I will happily re-enter society

I guess that's all for now. I should go do some homework. And by homework, I mean picking the bubble gum off of my nose, where it is now stuck following a colossal bubble.

*Actually, there was no bursting. I refused to exit, and the doctors had to grab my face with what have been described to me as giant salad tongs. They squished my face in the process, which is why one of my eyes is always more closed than the other (it gets worse when I am tired, which is why I look like am winking at everyone between the hours of 11pm-9am). It was also later revealed that the doctor that did this to Fetus Me was stoned out of his gourd at the time, popping pain pills like they were Nerds until the state finally yanked his license. Last we heard, he was enjoying some R&R with Betty Ford.

My latest project!

Hi muffins. Here it is, my latest attempt to be a journalist. Enjoy!

A handy relationship chart for your edification

Subject	Month 1	Month 3	Month 5
Sprained ankle	“Oh my god, are you ok? What can I do for you?”	“Wow that sucks. I’m sorry.”	“Walk it off”
Making plans	“I am busy until 12, but I will see if I can leave at 11:45. I really want to see you!”	“I’ll call you, but it will be late.”	“Can’t. Busy. Sorry.”
Where to eat	“What do YOU like?”	“That’s fine.”	“How many times do I have to tell you? Tuesday night is pizza night. Jesus.”
His career	“He’s a musician!”	“He waits tables, but he is also in a band.”	“He’s poor.”
Friends	“Can’t wait to meet them! They sound so fun!”	“They are okay, just a little crude.”	“Tell the fat pervert to shut his trap.”
Phones	“I am so sorry I missed your call!”	“Sorry, I think my phone was on silent.”	“No, it works, but CSI was on.”
How was your day?	“Great!”	“Okay. The usual.”	“I’m sorry…were you speaking to me?”

Important Lesson #6746

Never, ever eat a large Indian meal, composed of spicy curry and lentils (plus a host of other items) then go exercise. This is definitely one for the "My Bad Ideas" file. Oh, the nausea! I waited a good forty minutes after eating enough food to feed a moderately-sized village before enthusiastically getting on the elliptical. Apparently, this was not an adequate amount of time. I spent the entire duration of my workout waging holy war with my stomach and making vomit contingency plans. You know exactly the plan I'm talking about, too- the "I-am-going-to- barf-in-this-very-public-place-how-can-I-do-this-discreetly" plan. First, you scope out the locations of all of the trash cans, estimating how much time you have to get to each one. Just in case you have the great misfortune of speedy puke and not-so-speedy legs, you decide on an alternative barfing option (hands, water bottle, etc). It's like that fuzzy piece of gum at the bottom of your bag: you hope you don't have to chew it, but in a pinch, it's there.

In other news, I just spent the last minute trying to adjust the volume on my computer with my tv remote. And when I say minute, I do mean a full 60 seconds were devoted to this endeavor. My mental capacities are clearly quite limited at the moment, so I suppose spring break has arrived just in time.

At least I didn't marry K-Fed

I think I need to start putting myself together a bit more. I don't mean more showers, although that couldn't hurt the cause. I mean doing things to, you know, make myself look sparkly-perky-cute. On the whole, I consider anything more than brushing my teeth a total nuisance. Even then, some days are Listerine days. I promise I am not gross, just incredibly lazy.* I put on the business-wear for the job. But if you think those pants have ever been washed, you are sorely mistaken (I do wash my sweaters and shirts with regularity). I rarely fix my hair, instead opting for bobby pins/headbands/rubber bands/pencils to do the work for me. I just don't care! Sure, I feel a little bad next to people who bother to look presentable, but hey, I got an extra 30 minutes of sleep while you were busy being prissy! (That still doesn't help the dark circles under my eyes, though, which I refuse to cover with makeup.) Nevertheless, I think I need to start making an effort.

So I am sure you are wondering what caused this revelation. Or not. But I am going to tell you anyway! I was standing in line at Walgreens, waiting for the lady to fill my order of crazy pills. As I waited, I picked up a copy of People so that I may avail myself of the current issues plaguing the world. On the cover was the incomparably nutty Britney Spears. The gentleman next to me, who appeared to have several open sores and half as many teeth, tapped the cover of the magazine. "She's almost as cute as you," he whispered. So, why do I need to putting a little more effort into my looks?



That's why.


*I should petition the university to graduate me in May with a Bachelor of Arts in Completing the Bare Minimum Yet Still Managing To Succeed (Sort Of).

It sucks to be me!

Let's take this moment to discuss a few things currently occupying my brain and subsequently preventing real thought from taking place. First and foremost, I would like NYU students to do me a favor. Clear your schedules for five minutes each and every day. Then use that time to go fuck yourselves. Seriously. I was trying to get a few sound bites from people on the street today for a story on Facebook and the elections. Innocent and easy enough, right? Wrong! The only person who agreed to talk to me was a non-NYU student. The rest were just too darn busy adjusting their ironic flannel shirts. I am not going to pretend I haven't done my fair share of ignoring people on the street. However, I didn't want them to save the children/trees/whales/Democrats/endangered Peruvian slugs. I just wanted a goddamn minute to talk. I know they are on Facebook. Who else would send me those dumbfuck "What Disney Princess Are You" invites and asking me to join the "RIP HEATHxoxoxoxo" groups?

Moving on- I tried to be a good person today. A friend-type told me (half in jest) that I have a heart made out of lead. If it even exists, that is. So, coming up the stairs of my building, I noticed someone had left their keys in their door. I knocked on the door for what seemed like a lifetime, only to have the woman open the door, grab her keys, and shut the door without even so much as a mumbled "thanks." I really hope she caught sight of me flipping her the bird as she hastily slammed the door. I also hope that should I ever feel the need to vomit in the stairwell, I choose to hurl in front of 4C.

And finally, as I prepare for sleep, I would like to ask my brain to come up with some more interesting dreams. Last night I had a dream about getting cheese from a deli. The night before that it was buying paper towels at Duane Reade.*

I give up.

*I think I know what this is about. I went to bed angry that one of my roommates uses all of the paper towels and never, ever buys more. Ever. I am not saying he should adopt the Brawny Man as his god, but if you are going to use 4000000 a day, fucking buy more, ok? Thanks.

Welcome back, Kotter

I took a little vacation from life about a month ago. I relaxed with other members of the over-fed, white upper-middle class on a cruise ship. It was nice.

Then I came back to New York and resumed my 9-6, which was like sticking my soul back in the freezer. School starts again in four days, and I am obviously thrilled. I love nothing more than doing work to appease someone who doesn't even take the time to learn my name.

I am bookending my days with panic attacks about my future and what I want to do with my life. On the bright side, I make sure to set aside time every day to stop worrying about my future. I use that free hour to live in the past and/or hate my current life. All in all, things are just as I left them one month ago.