A Zuckerberg Roast: “Like” for a good time

Today is day 9 of having cut my credit card into little pieces and tossing it into my work waste basket in a clear-cut (no pun intended) case of pure unadulterated insanity.

At the time of the incident, I had absolute rock-solid reasoning behind my decision. I am spending too much money. My credit card is like materialistic crack. I had just spent 55 dollars on a body pillow. I had hit some twilight zone form of superficial bizarre rock bottom. (Who reaches rock bottom after buying a body pillow you may be asking yourself. ME TOO, friends, ME TOO.)

Which is why I’d like to also note, I don’t even really need a body pillow. (who honestly NEEDS a body pillow you may be asking yourself. Again.. me too.) I mean yes, I have spent the past three mornings waking up to myself completely straddling such object like it was my giant cotton fiber filled boyfriend (which is both slightly sad and disturbing) but honestly, it is random and completely unnecessary decisions such as impulsive body pillow purchases that lead me to Tuesday morning around 11 AM with a pair scissors in my hand as I ceremoniously cut my baby credit card into at least 15 pieces straight into the waste can receptacle.

And at the time? I felt liberated. I am free from this madness! I can finally be financially independent and save money and become a stockbroker and understand what bonds and dividends are and invest in things like crocs and google+. Fongoul credit card ball and chain! That’s right interest. I got yo number. I am coming for you.

…3 days later…

..

WHY DID I DO THAT!!?!?!?!?

Come back little plastic piece of joy. I am having withdrawals similar to that one episode of Touched by an Angel where that drug addict is recovering as Monica the Angel stands by and makes sure he doesn’t die through all his creepy sweating, hallucinations and stanky leg movements.

(On that note: I used to LOVE that show. Who’s with me? I see a marathon in our future but anyway)

I’m not going to go into the details with you all about my financial hardships. Let’s just say my daily coffee runs and impulsive breakfast burritos (sorry for partying, Vogue magazine) decisions have been funded by my dear friend VISA for quite some time. It is tragic that this relationship has ended so quickly. Also, I really want to go to the Bieber concert. And Taylor Swift’s new CD. GAH WHY MUST GROWING UP BE SO EXPENSIVE!?

Dad, I miss you.

Just kidding. (….I actually really do miss my dad guys. Hi Dad.)

But seriously what is up with everything costing money? I think there are some things in society that should be just naturally free.

For instance– deodorant and toothpaste. IMAGINE how much better homeless people would look and smell with those two commodities comped. Actually forget homeless people, there are probably hundreds of actually employed 22-27 year old MEN boys who would benefit tremendously from this economic societal solid.

Or what about something simple. Like cheese. What if cheese were free.

….

Sadly, this will never be the case.

Sad cheese.

So beyond the fact that I just publicly asked for a removal of fees on cheese as well as openly discussed my new relationship with my impulsively bought body pillow, what I am about to write is probably going to just go ahead and hammer the nail on the head of my already dignity stripped day.

….

So anyway, I was on Facebook the other day–

(…who am I kidding. I’m on Facebook all day everyday. But I just chopped up my credit card guys. Let’s focus on pointing out one social crutch at a time here.)

And I realized that I have yet to really critique my favorite social media source of constant procrastination. And there are some things that need to be addressed. Because come on.. you know you’re thinking it too.

(Disclaimer: Feel free to de-friend me on Facebook and real life after how much I’m probably about to make myself look like a petty, pathetic creepy freak. I can’t help that I am the voice of my generation. And that I constantly suffer from #FirstWorldProblems, as they say Twitter.)

So without further ado,

a roast on behalf of our favorite little multi-billionaire asshole philanthropist…..

Dear Mr. Zuckerberg–

Hi. Huge fan  addict of yours right here.  I thought as one of your biggest supporters  enablers, you might benefit from some positive constructive criticism on behalf of your site, FACEBOOK.COM.  Some things that I think are hurting my (everyone’s) overall social media experience.

Basically… you’ve ruined my life asshole. I’m being force-fed my own social inadequacies while having my personal insecurities brought to light all while being subjected to possibly the biggest waste of time since puzzles and beanie babies were invented.

How do we fix this?

Well, in regards to my above recent credit card death—

Feel free to cut (pun intended) me a check for 2 billion dollars. For the obvious emotional and intellectual damage you have caused me.. irreparably. Also, if you could introduce me to your friend Justin Timberlake so that we may finally cement our inevitable real-life love-request and live a beautiful socially awkward life together in dorky holy matrimony.. I think that should probably cover it.

Oh yeah. Hey babe.

….In the meantime while I humbly await your response, here are my thoughts. Feel free to “dislike” them. But there isn’t a button for that, so I’ll probably assume you accept my request.

My sucks to zuck List:

5. Facebook friend requests suck.

Things you never hear:

Ughhhh. Who’s this random totally cute guy asking to be my friend on Facebook again?! This is like the third time this week. Omg like sooo annoying!

Right.. And why?? Because that never freaking happens.

First of all, I seem to only get friend requests from my parents friends. Or my grandpa. Or some random girl I met in line for the bathroom at some bar I didn’t even like and the only reason I talked her ear off was because I had had several whiskey waters at this point and if I didn’t focus on talking I would have probably peed my pants. Like who is this bitch? Oh right. THAT girl. Dammit, she found me.

And furthermore, when I do meet a really cute boy and we like SO hit it off and it’s pretty much wedding bells ALL UP on this news feed and then for days I’m like wait. Do I ask him to be my friend? Or do I wait? Do I ask him? .. OR do I wait? What is this! Some retarded virtual flower pedal removing version of he loves me, he loves me not?! Aren’t we already friends? What have you done to me Zuckerberg?

So then I decide, you know what? It’s the new frontier. I’m not some 50’s poodle skirt wearing Sandy from Grease freak waiting by the corded non-caller id phone for my one and only to say he’s hopelessly devoted to me. Nope. I am my own woman and I am going to friend request MYSELF. Yep, doin’ it.

Click.

Take that.

Done.

Boom.

….Except then, somehow I am Sandy. And instead of the phone waiting, I’m refreshing my Facebook and waiting for a notification. And then I realize what I’m doing, and internally cry and go make a sandwich for all the men in my office and pretend I can’t vote. Or own land. And I come with a cow dowry. And wear a bonnet.

BECAUSE THAT IS  WHAT FACEBOOK FRIEND REQUESTS HAVE DONE FOR THE WOMEN’S RIGHTS MOVEMENT, LADIES.

Deep breath.

Oh! He accepted! Yay! This is so so so so so so so so exciting!

Except wait, no it’s not.

Because you know what usually happens then?

Oh, just NOTHING.

Most anti-climatic experience pretty much ever. It’s like some huge present at Christmas that you wait for WEEKS to open and then when you do it’s towels from your Aunt. And you’re like WHAT!? Who gives towels at christmas? Go back to your home on Planet Practical, Aunt Failure. I am so not sending you a wedding invite to me and Bieber’s wedding. ..It’s the same with a Facebook friend acceptance. You go to their page and everything is blocked except that they like The Who and their favorite quote is “Everybody wang chung tonight” and you’re like I waited for hours/days/ a week and a half for this bullshit!? You have no depth. I hate you. Total letdown. You boring waste of Facebook space. Oh. 42 profile pictures? Don’t mind if I do..

4. Facebook chat’s new little “seen @ insert time of guilt here”.

Damn you Zuckerberg. Now, I can’t just outright ignore someone’s message and then blame the ambiguity of the uncertainty of the internet as to why I never responded. You’ve basically forced me to either be blatantly rude, or have to acknowledge messages I would have otherwise ignored if there wasn’t that stupid time stamp. On the other hand, the door swings both ways, so don’t even try to not respond to my message Trang Pak. I know what you what you were doing with Coach Carr in the projection room above the auditorium.

3. Unnecessary news-feed anxiety

Why do certain people pop up on my news feed Zuckerturd? I don’t trust their presence. Are they completely random? Or are they people who secretly stalk me? If that’s the case.. I’m so screwed. Yes it’s true, Alex Stamos. I still look through your pictures. I JUST MISS YOU OK!!!!! But seriously. I’m suspicious/ internally terrified that Facebook secretly works like LinkedIn and one day they are just going to make a big blanket announcement that you can see who viewed people’s profiles and all of a sudden, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for still gazing longingly at profile picture 25 of my personal Great White Buffalo.

2. You’ve turned me into a walking, talking, mouse-clicking paradox of a person.

You’ve made me feel old. And single. Usually at the same time. All of a sudden, this little “so and so” got engaged to “so and so” is at the top right of my screen. Where did this come from? What makes you think I want to know about this!? It was enough when it was just birthdays up there and I was like oh great I missed brother’s birthday.. again. But now, you’re not only shoving my flakey memory down my own throat but also my endless walk of singledom as well? Good morning couple getting engaged on top of a mountain! Oh me?  I woke up cuddling my body pillow this morning. Yes, we’re very happy together. Sob.

And I was fine five minutes ago, but now I see with increasing frequency this little virtual refrigerator engagement announcement popping up on my screen without any of my say and all of a sudden I’m a 23 years old and my closest relationship is with a life-size rectangle stuffed with cotton and I’m insecure about it ok? Just love me.

However, at the same EFFING time, I see all these drunk college photo uploads and I’m like ermygawwwd, I miss when it was completely socially acceptable to drink jumbo-sized margaritas at noon on a Tuesday and then head to Psychology 101. Sigh. The drunk is wasted on the youth.

So in conclusion, here I am with some weird internal clock ticking combined with my need to drink as much alcohol as physically possible to maintain my youthful glow. And it occurs to me.. maybe I have found the inspiration to Britney Spear’s major motion picture hit, “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman“. Just a thought.

Look at the time.

So the number one way you’ve ruined my life Zuckerberg?

That you haven’t ruined it at all. God dammit. You’ve improved it. Ten fold.

And here’s why:

It is the single greatest reconnecting, connecting, meeting, greeting, all around incredible social tool that has ever graced the planet. It is a moving, breathing, 24-hour, around the clock, party. It’s a platform that supports freedom of speech, a chance to promote new ideas, a way to experience others cultures. It’s people’s lives on a screen. I no longer have to lose touch with my high school friends for no reason.

Nope. I will do it purposefully after I see their 250 thousand posts about being a vegan. Or playing farmville. Or their new rotund ginger baby playing with dirt.

You’ve given me a choice to keep in or lose touch. It makes relationships more meaningful because for those who really use it, it gives depth to their lives from where you left off talking. Sure, some may call it creeping, but me? I call it catching up without talking. I’m saving us both time! You could tell me about your family reunion or I could look at the ten thousand pictures you posted of your great-uncle ted playing shotput while mindlessly zoning during my lunch hour. We could talk about your new-found passion for saving the endangered monkeys in Iraq or you could invite me to 7 different virtual events that I systematically decline on a continuous reel.

Gosh, catching up is fun. Let’s do this again soon.

Anyway, that’s it for now. Got a big 3-day weekend to post this upcoming next few days so I’ll catch you all on the flip side.

Oh and Mark. Markie. Marka-marka-marksalot zuckerberg?

I can take that check in cash form too. Girls who cut up their credit cards aren’t picky.

Ok.. I’m “like” outta here

M

Advertisements

some song by the doors

You know that feeling when you know something is finally over?

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment when things started coming to a close. Maybe it was last Tuesday around 4 PM or maybe it’s been slowly losing stability for weeks and you just now caught on that it’s your turn in some sad real life board game that no matter which way you spin it, you’re about to grab the piece that’s the game-ender.

Really though.

It eats away at you. Like this little creepy creature that sits, lurking in some unfortunate dark waiting room in the back of your mind that whenever you grow idle, you’re forced to dwell on. Like oh right. There that terrible truth is. The raw reality. That things aren’t what they used to be. Come on in. Take a load off. Make yourself at home.

And you fall into a routine. Trying desperately to get back to some previous existence. You weakly attempt to not dwell on your own sadness. To focus only on forward thinking, the positives, the good things that are taking place in your life.

But there it sits. The beast of what used to be. The grim reaper of reality. Tick. Tock. Just hanging out. Kicking in the door of your present with the reality that your past can’t be a part of your future.

You push it aside. Again. And again. And again. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Fake plastic smile. Canned imitation laughter. Cross your legs, bat your eyes and then….

Sometimes you  just get to a level where your reality is so scripted that you wake up one day and don’t know what you actually feel and what you just make everyone believe you feel. And you just.. can’t. Anymore. Today is the day  where you let it just eat you alive. You are only so strong for so long. You let it engulf you entirely with sadness and anger and confusion. You let the beast win. You become the beast. You sit on a throne of your own belligerent misery. No one touch me. Talk to me. Make me feel better. I just want to be fucking miserable dammit.

And the funny thing about doing this is that it’s the only way to truly move forward. You have to let the sad beast destroy you. You have to accept misery before you can move on to happiness. It’s Acceptance. That it’s over. That now, after being weaker than you’ve ever been, you are stronger than you ever were. The dawning new realization that if you never leave the waiting room, you’ll be stuck in some kind limbo of what used to be for the rest of forever.

And, screw that.

You’re better for it.

But you’ll never know until you say it’s over. It’s done. Pull off the band-aid. Grit your teeth. Close the book. Seal the envelope. Set it on fire! Answer the door.

Say it.

Now.

….And mean it.

Goodbye.

\\

“Never wonder what the hell went wrong–
Your second chance may never come along.”

Right?

m

10 things I hate about et cetera: a therapeutical blog chick flick starring yours truly

Guys.

Hi.

I’m sorry. 

I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I literally could not bring myself to write anymore on the archaic beast that used to be my beloved laptop. First of all, I’m absolutely positive it was slowly giving me cancer. At the very minimum– 3rd degree burns. Also, it sounded like a jet engine was taking off and I was legitimately afraid it was going to blow up sometimes when I was done typing. Like I was writing my last will and testament on the thing that was going to end my life when I finished writing. The sad irony is not lost on me.

In short, my fossilized computer was trying to do me in. And I am way too young, interesting and important to society to go out that easy.

So that is why I’ve been away. Biding my time. Until today.

Because today is my first day on my brand new beautiful, fast, sleek, non-jet engine sounding, non-cancer spreading (as far as I know) computer.

I kid you not, that as soon as it arrived- I opened it up and it took everything in my power to not hug it in the same fashion that Andy hugged Woody in Toy Story the first. Which sadly I couldn’t find a picture of. So, we’ll have to settle for the little girl (Bonnie?) who Andy gives Woody to in the 3rd movie below:

Yeah. Like that.

I suppose you could say that this pure unadulterated materialistic love started at a young age for me. I had a tradition at Christmas where I stacked everything I received in a pile and would hoard it like some kind of rabied coked out squirrel. My theory was as such: Even though I know I knew exactly what was in the pile, if I only really acknowledged one thing for however many consecutive days it took to make the pile disappear, it was kind of like having a miniature Christmas for 2 straight weeks. Other 8 year olds grew tired of their new possessions by New Years but in my innovative  albeit delusional little mind, I was still going strong on Christmas number 6.

I think this is also where my desire to be Jewish stems from. 8 straight days of gifts? Holla for that Menorah baby. I’m just saying the Jews do it right, gift-wise. Who doesn’t agree the saddest feeling is the last gift discovery under the tree? To this day, that sadness is right up there with Harry Potter ending and rolling over and realizing it’s Monday. Eff that shit, I’m all about making the good times–or things in this case– last for as long as physically possible.

I’m easy going. I’m chill.  I have few complaints about the cards I’m dealt. I like to complain sometimes, but mostly it’s because I like to hear myself talk because I think I’m hysterical and brilliant and mostly because, most importantly, I think I am right most of the time.  I have few requests of those around me. I know and appreciate I have to work for things. I don’t think my dreams are going to just going to be handed to me. Nor do I think they should. I think memorable stories come from interesting plot lines and interesting plot lines have to have an overcoming of crisis. So, in my opinion, all my problems are just leverage to a happier ending.

I guess in summary I believe my life should follow the plot line of a an ABC family original movie with constant splashes of the scenes that make Nicholas Sparks film adaptions R-Rated. I don’t think this is too much to ask. And I also think that so far, I’m doing alright in that regard.

I have the basis for a really good story. I’ve laid the plotline, I got a solid stock of characters, I’m like the freaking poster-child for the quirky, awkward- but in a charming way -chick flick lead (at least I tell myself this. It helps me sleep. Otherwise, I’m just really weird.) I have a constant steady flow of sometimes painful, sometimes useful, always interesting life lessons pretty consistently being thrown in my path by some higher power.

And despite the fact that most romantic comedies are 90 minute cliche yawn fests, I’ll take that last rom-com nugget if you guys don’t want it. Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen vomitateously sweet ride off into the sunset with a cute boyman Emile Hirsh on a scooter  in a Lexus, is perfectly fine by me. I don’t care if my life is a cliche if that means I get the hot guy in the end and my dream job and live out the rest of my days traveling the world as a cultured, rich, hippie sex goddess. Bring it on critics. That kind of hot air balloon fantasy is the basis for something that girls get off to more than any 50 shades sentence ever made. It’s called a happy ending. It’s the American girl dream.

And it’s my future, haters.

So bite me.

As you can tell, I’m feeling slightly feisty today. It could be that I spent last night, feeling like I lived in a fraternity on a Friday night (if you don’t know.. don’t ask.) or that I had a day filled with small talk and having surface level, non-descript, vague, uninterested conversations always put me on edge. Who wants to go through life never really knowing the people around them? I’m an open book. I genuinely want to hear about people’s lives.  I suppose it’s wrong for me to assume others will follow suit but I can only have so many “how-was-your-weekend-good-oh-thats-nice” conversations before I start considering inter-officing banana peels to complete strangers just to get a real human reaction in here.

Sigh. Being a starving social genius can be so unrewarding sometimes.

I guess I can go to bed tonight with the knowledge the sun will come out tomorrow. Right Annie?

On that note, I thought I’d get all my complaints out on the table. Have a little buffet of my life lately frustrations so I can get back to ground zen- zero and remember that I live on the beach and my life is an adventure. And it is finally Thursday. So let’s Top 10 shall we?

10 Things I hate about things

(or my biggest pet peeves, complaints, frustrations, concerns 
about A-Z life as as Meg)--

Honorable mentions go out to:

  • Unnecessary hand directions
  • micromanagement
  • that satellite radio isn’t available in parking garages
  • when radios censor my favorite parts of songs and I sing along like normal and then look like a uncivilized pirate
  • when people talk over my favorite song (ok hello, me making it louder? It’s your cue to Shut up.)
  •  Miley Cyrus’s new haircut 
  • and of course, the fact that Justin Bieber has YET to tweet me back….

(thank you all for being my priest, it has been one month since my last confession…)

10. People who own fast cars and drive like ninja turtles.

Recently, I’ve developed more road rage than in years passed. I think it’s safe to say that LA traffic has played a major role in this but regardless,there is NOTHING that pisses me off more in traffic related pet peevery than some hot little car with a driver behind the wheel that acts like they just pulled off the asian drivers ed lot. (As a female driver, who’s constantly -and occasionally rightfully- stereotyped for my driving, I feel it gives me the right to also throw stereotypes right back. Politically incorrect? I don’t care. Today is my bitch.)

Example:

Me, following a red sports car. very expensive. pretty rims, assumingly fast as shit. 40 something man with receding hairline. Douchebag vibe. As you were sir.

And you would think this left turn would be a breeze with this sweet little number in front of me. But no. Because for the love of God man, this isn’t an instant replay, could you make this turn any slower?  Hello? Earth to Charlie Sheen! I’m directly behind you and incoming traffic is going to crush me because you’re busy playing pretty boy mcgee for everyone in the left lane and Oh my god! MOVE-ASSHOLE, I’M-GOING-TO-DIE!

Who’s been there? Yeah. Terrifying. I’ve lost years of life because of these types of people.

… Listen, if you’re going to own a Lexus, a BMW, a freaking convertible Escalade, in consideration to the rest of us, please drive like you own one. Otherwise, get yourself a double wide mini-van, pull up your mom pants, and  continue driving like the little prissy bitch your current motor skills are displaying because you don’t deserve to be behind the wheel of something that cool, Mr. 5 mph Pussies-Are-Us.  Yeah, I said it. I drive an orange Honda Element. Come at me Bro.

9. People who ask for donations outside of supermarkets.

“Hello ma’am. Do you have a few minutes to listen how we can save the premature deaf sea turtle babies who live in the frozen food section?”

I’m sorry.

This is going to make me sound like a huge bitch but NO.

No, I don’t.

I never have time at the grocery store. I don’t go to grocery stores with the mindset: “Hmm. I wonder who’s standing outside of Trader Joes today who is going to attempt to trick me into giving a monthly donation of 10.99$ to save cursive from going extinct? Man, I have a whole hour to kill! I’m going to go to every grocery store in a 2 mile radius and just get effing JAZZED about signing petitions, and reciting oaths and handing out my life savings to complete strangers. Yeah! Man. I love that shit! Free bumper sticker? Where do I sign this bitch? God, I love clipboards.”

No.

No one does that.

Well maybe some people do. But they probably are very lonely. And rich. Or really do have a lot of time. Kudos to them.

I’ll tell you what the real issue is here. It’s not the time thing. Because I’m really not a soul-less evil selfish person. At least on most days. I get that most organizations that stand outside have legitimate and reasonable and even occasionally inspiring causes to raise awareness and money for. And you know what? Sure. I do have a couple minutes to spare sometimes. BUT. I know this game. You don’t really want my time. Because I’ve fallen into these conversation “couple minute” traps. It always, always, ALWAYS ends with a donation. And then, I’m like LIAR! You don’t really want my time. You want my money. I don’t care about sea turtles anymore. You have deceived me.

And furthermore, if I want to donate to a cause? I’m not going to do it outside a grocery store. I am going to do it on my own time while watching that idiotic heartbreaking Sarah McLachlan commercial about dogs that always makes me tear up while signing zeros on my checkbook. Yeah, hear that crazy lesbian girl who stands outside the Trader Joes and assaults people about some law that I can’t even vote for because I am not a California citizen? Maybe you’d have more luck if you played Celine Dion’s greatest hits while showing pictures of puppies. Just an idea.

Anyway, in the meantime, I’m going to take this opportunity to pretend to call my Mom so I don’t have to “give you a few minutes of my time.” Because you are a misleading philanthropic trickster. And I do not trust you. Or your clipboard. Humph.

8. I hate everyone’s feet. Including my own. 

I would have been a terrible Jesus. Washing people’s feet? No freaking thank you. Disciple pledges, you’re all on foot duty. For like the entire new testament. I will put all focus on turning water into wine. And then tasting it to make sure it’s ready. Hit a messiah back up around the book of Revelation. TTYL, lolz.

Ok sacriligious joking aside—

….On a serious note,  something that plagues me old testament style is my fear that I’ll end up with someone I really love and care about but who also has a foot fetish. How absolutely terrifying. The idea of footsie with someone who is not wearing socks makes me slightly nauseous. And the word toenail gives me goosebumps. Even typing it. Ok, I can’t even write about this anymore. Moving on.

7. People who say “to state the obvious” or actually state the obvious. 

Give me some credit here. I’ve made it this far in life without being formally arrested, outright fired, or socially ostracized. I’m an intelligent person. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to some things but I also think what I lack in certain skills, I make up  for with my substantially large vocabulary and extensive grammatical repertoire. So there is nothing I abhor more (which to state the NOT obvious, means hate) than being treated like an idiot. When people say “to state the obvious” it’s pretty much the equivalent to me of someone yelling in my face that they are yelling. Stating that you’re going to state the obvious is like announcing to someone you are a pompous prick who likes to hear themselves speak. I realize sometimes people just say this and it really is no reflection of their overall personality. I’m reasonable. I forgive those who make that mistake and I know are legitimate non-prickish people.

My point is, stating the obvious, obviously, isn’t necessary. Stating you’re about to state the obvious? Double not necessary. Double idiotic. This seems obvious to me.

6. The fact that speed bumps exist. 

Wow. I don’t know where this hatred comes from but  I seriously detest speed bumps. I want to hit them going mach 5 and flatten them in the concrete. If I could punch one inanimate object in the face, it would be a speed bump. Or a fax machine. Because I think they’re archaic and unnecessary. Or gaucho pants. Because gross. Ugliest fashion trend ever. Whoever decided that pants that make it look like your crotch is sagging was trendy should probably also be punched in the face. Also, Kristen Stewart. I totally called her out for her vampwhore habits pre-cheating scandal, and not to toot my own horn but also to totally toot my own horn because I mean…

WHAT A TRAMPIRE.

Right Robby??

Yeah. Agreed. You can call me if you want.

I don’t look like a crack baby but hey, that didn’t go so well the first time now did it?

5. People who think their shit don’t stink. 

ASkfjklwdjseru()&*(&%^#)(#()!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sorry. I can’t speak too much on this. You’ll never stop reading.

Instead, I’ll let my boy Outkast do the talking for me…

4. The awkward morning after car ride conversation

You know the one I’m talking about.

It’s the “We’re going to pretend I’m not wearing last night clothes and look (and probably smell) like vodka as I sit in the passenger side of your car and slowly will the once-in-a-lifetime chance of a lightning bolt striking my brain and turning me into a vegetable so I don’t have to endure the mental stress this 15 minute car ride is causing me”

And then? (And I love this part) it’s the “Ok… well I’ll call you later or find you on Facebook or something.”

Ok first of all, what? Please hold as I internally laugh until I can’t breathe. Yeah! PLEASE find me on Facebook or something. And then please text the number that I never gave you later. How exactly are you going to go about “calling me later” brainiac when you never asked for my number to begin with? Can you read minds? Are you going to contact me with carrier pigeons? Listen, let’s call a spade a spade here. If you aren’t going to call, have no intention of calling and/or never plan on asking for a girls number– don’t try to fill in the awkward silence by trying to be a last-minute gentleman because I think we can all agree it’s a little bit late for that.

And girls? Let’s stop referring to that guy who never called you after you took a few baseball related laps on the first night as a douchebag. Honestly, what did you expect to come from this? Real life (with the exception of my own) isn’t a rom-com. In romantic comedies, the guy calls every Carrie in the phone book (64 total) because he believes in fate and serendipity and chases down a speeding runaway tow truck just to get on one knee and beg a girl to kiss him.

In real life, no one uses a freaking phone book and the girl gets dropped off, orders a large pepperoni pizza and watches several hours of a Pregnant in Heels marathon (shameless self promotion) before passing out into a large food coma all while checking her phone like a cracked out personal assistant waiting to make a lunch reservation at an impossibly overbooked restaurant. Sorry Charlie. You aren’t the 64th Carrie. Your name isn’t even Carrie. It’s Karen, and you’re a douchebag too.You are pepperoni pizza girl.

Be a grownup and finally realize that about .002% of random hookups actually turn into full blown relationships. You should consider yourself the exception to the rule if you get a measly Facebook friend request. And honestly? He’s doing you a favor. I’m not saying your romantic comedy fantasy will come true, but I am saying you can probably do a little better than some guy who gave you 4 hickies, didn’t even bother getting your phone number and then tried to pretend he cared with a last ditch effort of making an uncomfortable situation even more awkward by lying about something he was never going to do to your face. Tell him to save his morning breath and call you maybe never.  Or you can wait for him to call.

And wait.

and wait.

and wait…

All I’m saying is you have the rare opportunity to be the player or the dealer here. Either way you’ll probably pull the same suit, so why not do it on your own terms?

Enough gambling metaphors. You get my point.

3. People who unintentionally (or intentionally!)  make the gym into a soft-core porno. 

This not only aggravating for me, but also, super uncomfortable. Especially when I am physically put in a position that I literally can not look away.

For example:

I take a rowing class on a occasion and we divide seats in half and so we face eachother. Without fail, every time I go to this class this little old lady sits across from me. As the music starts, my cheeks burn. I KID YOU NOT, This 70-something woman rows like she’s having an orgasmic heart attack. I don’t know whether I’m watching her final moments on this planet, or some really twisted elderly porno. And I can’t stop staring. It’s like a car accident. I literally can not will my eyeballs to look away. I’m both disturbed and fascinated and mostly just annoyed. Why the hell would you make a face like that at the gym? I have a hard enough time trying to look put together at the gym for myself than to also be self-conscious for someone else. Your creepy exercise facade habits are impeding on my cardiovascular experience lady. Pull yourself together.

People are always trying to sex up the gym. Stop it. Please. Don’t awkwardly grunt or pant heavily or make creepy post-coitus type facial expressions. Stop wearing next to nothing. Leave something to the imagination! Gahhhh, Just work out. This isn’t hard.

(To state the obvious, that was an easy “that’s what she said” I just threw in there)

2.  Spare wet hair. 

You know, that long string of wet hair that gets interlocked between your fingers and you’re in the shower at your gym and realize its blonde and you have brown hair and so you squeal like a small farm animal because you immediately assume it belongs to a creepy greasy lice infested homeless man even though you go to a gym that costs your first child to be a member of and it probably actually belongs to some lady with fake boobs and an awesome ass but you aren’t thinking rationally because it’s 7 am and you just ran 3 miles and you drank 3 cups of coffee and your brain is literally misfiring and so you try to remove it and somehow it gets stuck on your face and you  smack yourself trying to get it off and nearly blind your left eye with shampoo and  finally  after removing it from your body a good 30 seconds (but feels like 5 minutes) later you come to your senses start to think really how do I have friends at all?

…Is that just me?

Never mind.

And the number one thing that just drives me absolutely crazy and makes me want scream!?

1.. Refusing to consider ANY view but your own. 

I get that you’re religious.

I get that you’re political.

I get that you think YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT NO MATTER WHAT.

…And Maybe you are right.  But maybe.. (and you’ll stop listening here but can’t say I didn’t try) You aren’t.

The one thing I’ve learned in this world that I can say without absolute certainty is that people are going to believe what they want to believe and there is very little you can do either way to change that.

So, with that in mind….

Here’s what I think:

I think I don’t know anything. Maybe this religion is true, maybe that one is.

I think abortion is really sad, but I don’t think it’s anyone’s decision but the girl who’s in that position to decide what she wants to do. And then it’s her burden to bear. Not the catholic church, not the picketers outside the abortion clinic.. hers.

I think gay marriage is wonderful. I think love is love is love. And in a world filled with so much evil, I think we should do everything in our power to celebrate something as pure as two people who genuinely care about eachother, regardless of gender. I still don’t want to see two hot gay guys make out on tv. Not because I don’t think they should be able to make out. But rather because it makes me sad they aren’t straight and making out with me instead.

I think murder is wrong but I respect and appreciate beyond words those who have given their lives believing war is necessary to keep peace.

It worries me how easy people can get guns. I agree guns don’t pull their own triggers, but at the same time, I don’t think it should be so easy for certain people to be able to have the ability to do so.

I’ll try anything once. Except certain drugs (like meth. WTF people? Why would you ever….. never mind.) and things that I’m pretty sure have a high death rate percentage. Like bunge jumping. And sword swallowing.

I think the amount of political scandals we’ve had, from blowjobs in the white house to US representatives tweeting pictures of their crotch.. is solid proof that clearly the people we are electing are just 50 year old frat boys with really good hair and excellent dental work. And I think that should scare the shit out of us?

I think horrible catchy repetitive pop music is good first thing in the morning and while I’m getting ready to go out. I think on repeat at work makes me want to slowly slit my wrists. I love a good country song any time.  I also think I have an impeccable and refined musical taste.

I think long-distance relationships are a long-shot. I think love at first sight is nothing more than an first impression intense physical attraction. I think people and situations could come along in my life to change my opinions on these things. And I sincerely hope they do.

I think being a “slut” is a relative term saved for people who aren’t your friends. I think people forget that the phrase “if you keep doing what you’ve always done, you’ll keep getting what you’ve always gotten”– is especially applicable to relationships and diets.

I think people take themselves too seriously sometimes. I think there’s something to be said about the humbling experience of  singing along at decibel 2,000 to the Lion King’s Hakuna Matata (as both Timon AND Pumba) for your fellow traffic jammed neighbors.

I think a lot of things. I think all the time. But these are MY opinions. These are MY thoughts. I’m not asking you to agree or disagree or even read this. You have yours and I have mine and so, my biggest complaint in this world is the unappreciation that these are two seperate entities.

To each his own right? Where have I heard that? 

Ok.

Deep breath.

Woooza.

I feel better.

I have given myself a blog meditational yoga cleansing.

Because you know what they say….

And I would know. 

So, back to work everyone!

May your weekend be filled with zero dead cell-zones, free shots from strangers, lots of impulsive disney sing-a-longs and no one peeing in your bed…

M