(She’s got leggings on there. And a whole stupid Pinterest board with cute ideas. Fucking bitch…)
I’m pretty sure I’ve only really been in love once. Depending on how you define it, I believe real love is being able to put someone else’s needs before your own. That’s how I know I’ve only felt that for one person. It sounds terribly selfish, but I feel like I’ll never want to fold a person’s t-shirts (store-style) ever again. Or wake up at 4:00am to drive someone to work when they stupidly lost their driver’s license.
It’s actually really weird to care about another person that hard. (I can barely do my own laundry.)
Like, how else would I have known that my ex’s child is due to be born in February? Or that his new girlfriend is planning to breastfeed? These are crucial pieces of knowledge, people. It’s as easy as “One, two, type that bitch’s name into Google.”
But lucky for me, I’ve “gone through” enough men to calm the crippling roar of my feelings into a faint growl. I’m pretty sure I’m over him. However, being over someone and wanting to know what they’re doing are not mutually exclusive. I still even creep on my middle/high school crush sometimes. (He seems happy, too… jerk.)
However, I can sufficiently say I am over my ex. I can wish him luck honestly and look back fondly on our time together with no regrets. We really did have fun together. :)
Granted, I’ll never feel totally comfortable seeing him or his family and I’ll probably (subconsciously) hate the tiny life form he produced. I’ll never shop at Five Below because I know I’ll see his baby mamma there. But… hold up…
Good Lord, there’s ANOTHER parade going down my street. It must be the local high school’s homecoming because there’s girls with crowns sitting on the back of convertibles (which, by the way, never seemed terribly safe to me). I didn’t go to my homecoming. (Too hungover.) I forgot how loud this shit is, though. Drumlines are no joke.
Anyways, in the spirit of letting go things from my past, I say “Bon Voyage” to all. I wish everyone all the best. I may even buy something off the registry for Zach and his upcoming child. Perhaps some tiny hats?
(I realize that he’s already dead, but he was basically dead for like 30 years before he died. If I had to do a stand-up routine right now, it’d just be bitching about everything/everyone in a raspy old voice and I’d be wearing all black.)
So my uncle died a few months ago, but he was pretty important I guess so he’s being buried in November in Arlington National Cemetery. I personally think it’s a little weird to keep a body around for so long (3 months and counting), but Arlington is like a super exclusive club for dead people and there’s a waiting list and even bouncers (military guys). My uncle’s name was Carlton Sherwood and he was a famous journalist guy and won a Pulitzer Prize. He was really cool and nice to me, even though I only knew him for maybe the last 10 years of his life, but he helped me out when my stupid local newspaper tried to anally rape me in my freshman year of high school (2nd paragraph). (Click that. I wrote the 2nd paragraph myself, bahaha.) UPDATE: They removed my shit except for the quote. But that’s life I suppose. Wikipedia is a dick too.
Anyways, his funeral is gonna be all exclusive and whatever and you actually have to register your name. (I think so that the C.I.A. or something can background-check you, just in case you would try to kamikaze a funeral. Although, it wouldn’t make much sense considering the person is already dead. Now I’m rambling.) But his best friend was Tom Ridge (former governor or Pennsylvania, U.S. Representative, and first Secretary of Homeland Security), so he’ll probably be there. I should have met him once but my mom and step dad didn’t invite me to their wedding… dicks. Also, there is an actual real-life possibility that George W. Bush might be there. By the transitive property, there is an actual real-life possibility that I might die of excitement/awe. He is my hero.
So all this started making me think about my own funeral and death (especially since meeting George W. Bush would pretty much trump everything on my bucket list and I could die happily). I started listing my final wishes to [my boyfriend], and it began to sound like a George Carlin stand-up routine. Slightly less bitter, though. I always thought it would be funny to make a themed funeral entitled “Putting the ‘FUN‘ Back in ‘FUN-ERAL‘”.
NOBODY STEAL THAT. SERIOUSLY. I WILL COME TO YOUR FUNERAL, BRING YOU BACK TO LIFE, AND KILL YOU ALL OVER AGAIN. Then I’d kick your grandchildren in their tiny faces.
I’d put it in my will that people can only talk about awesome shit I did (which will be a lot, possibly), and that they could only play fun upbeat music of my own choosing. Also, I was gonna say no open casket, but then I thought about how funny it would be if I had a “Weekend at Bernie’s” setup where I’m sitting up in a wheelchair wearing sunglasses and maybe a string around my wrist so you could pull on it and I’d wave.
I don’t actually own anything, except my car, so I figure everybody can just have what they want. First come, first serve. But if I ever become a famous writer, I want all my journals to be locked in a golden chest with my favorite drinking cup and one of my giant pill bottles a la Ark of the Covenant. (Don’t quote me on that. My history might be a little off.)
(On a total side note, the other morning I was sleeping and someone kept knocking on my door for what felt like an hour and eventually, I got so frustrated that I got out of bed, started yelling about how if someone hasn’t opened their door after you knock like 50 billion times then they probably don’t want to answer the goddamn door, and after I angrily stomped down the stairs, I opened the door and a state police lady was standing there. I was so shocked, all I could say was ,”Oh.” Turned out she was looking for somebody else, but I felt really bad and tried to apologize but she was all, “Sorry for bothering you,” in a really nice way and left.)
Regardless, we can all take a little life/death advice from George Carlin:
(“Sir, I am too old to learn.” Said Kent in William Shakespeare’s King Lear. I am inclined to agree.)
Of course, today was excruciatingly hot outside. Perfect conditions for classroom swamp-ass. All the freshmen were hopping around in excitement, unaware that the next 4 years of their lives will be shitty.
On the bright side, we got new planners for this year that feature pictures of the student body (weird, but whatever) and I am totally in there! It’s hilarious!
In sophomore year, the housing people got confused and put me in the freshmen dorms. It was really fun because they were so cute at first and looked up to me like I was their queen. There were a lot of kids from India and they would call my name (“Ah-lah-na!”) and it would instantly bring a smile to my face. The only bad thing was when I rejected the advances of my R.A., he got all weird and accused me of keying and kicking his car.
(As though I EVER owned a pair of Vans sneakers… how rude.)
Although I did in fact draw a penis on his official R.A. picture on the first day there, but he didn’t even notice until like a month into school. Then when he replaced it with another one, I drew two penises. Haha :P
It was a good year. I met the love of my life that year ([my boyfriend]), and had a great group of friends who could’ve made up the cast of a multi-cam sitcom. Then a couple of them joined a fraternity (ughh), and some others left our campus or graduated. Now I’m in my “senior year” (I put that in quotes because I’ll definitely be making up credits for the rest of my life), and I’d like to share some quotes about college as well as some general wisdom:
1. “I imagine that one of the biggest troubles with colleges is there are too many distractions, too much panty-raiding, fraternities, and boola-boola and all of that.” -Malcom X
So true. Fraternities are evil and partying is the reason I do great on tests/papers but have bad grades because I’m too hungover to show up. I can’t say I do this myself, but the successful kids are able to prioritize and keep self-discipline.
2. “You can’t learn to write in college. It’s a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do—and they don’t.” -Ray Bradbury
Also very true. But sometimes not. Sometimes, the teachers do know more than you do. That can mean one of two things: either you’re still learning and developing your voice/style, or you’re just a bad writer. If the latter is true, I’m sorry. Maybe you can write textbooks or for your local newspaper. However, if you’re counted among the former, don’t listen to people who tell you you’re shit or give you bad grades. Sometimes you have to write the bullshit that your professor will like rather than what is actually good. I had a class last year where the teacher knocked off points for happy fucking endings. (?) It’s all nonsense.
3. “I’m a man of leisure. That’s because I have an English degree and can’t get a job.” -Jarod Kintz
It sounds stupid, but despite the current job market, just pick a major you’re going to enjoy. I probably should have been pre-law, but I also would have jumped off a building by now. Even though I’m a slacker, I enjoy my classes. It makes college a million times easier.
4. “I mean that they (students) should not play life, or study it merely, while the community supports them at this expensive game, but earnestly live it from beginning to end. How could youths better learn to live than by at once trying the experiment of living? Methinks this would exercise their minds as much as mathematics.” -Henry David Thoreau
Oh, hey, that’d be great, Thoreau! Unfortunately we live in the real world and chilling on a pond for a while (and going home to mommy every weekend, by the way, which he totally did) doesn’t put a degree in your hand. Even though college sucks, it’s good for you. Like going to church or eating your vegetables. But if you do go to college, still live your life. It often feels like you’re in a waiting room filled with drunk children for 4 years, but if you step outside, take a walk, and remember this is still your life, things won’t be so bad.
5. “In your temporary failure there is no evidence that you may not yet be a better scholar, and a more successful man in the great struggle of life, than many others, who have entered college more easily.” -Abraham Lincoln
Just because you didn’t get into a top school (or even a university) or you’re having trouble with classes or WHATEVER, doesn’t mean you’re stupid. You rock. You’re smart. Fuck the admissions people and your professor who thinks Nietzsche is the only philosopher worth paying attention to and gave you a “D” on your paper glorifying Aristotle. Dumbasses get into Harvard and geniuses have gone to community college. As long as you try, that’s all that matters.
6. “Thought and knowledge are natures in which apparatus and pretension avail nothing. Gowns, and pecuniary foundations, though of towns of gold, can never countervail the least sentence or syllable of wit. Forget this, and out American colleges will recede in their public importance whilst they grow richer every year.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
Again, it doesn’t matter where you go. An education is an education, and all the fanfare of major colleges is bullshit. The only thing that matters is your own thirst for knowledge and how you choose to implement the information you’re receiving. College is supposed to breed curiosity, not pageantry.
Well, that’s all I have to say on the matter. A lot of the quotes I found were stupid or redundant, so this is what I have. Make all the mistakes, drink all the beer, have as much (safe) sex as you can. Enjoy that shit.
Also, I started a store on Zazzle, so check it out. I’ve only made like 2 things so far but you can customize your own merchandise and create your own store for free! it’s mad cool.
(Don’t worry, it wasn’t heroin like my other post. Just Valium made for cats. And possibly marijuana.)
I went to bed yesterday morning at 5:30 am and didn’t wake up until today at noon. At first glance, everything in my mother’s room (where I passed out) seemed fine. Then I rolled out of bed, my legs buckling under me, and the giant bruises all over my body yelling at me for trying to move.
There needs to be a “Do Not Serve” sign with a picture of me in every liquor and beer store in America. Perhaps the world.
So, [my boyfriend] and I had the best intentions. (The assumed joke here is how they pave the road to Hell, but I won’t underestimate your intelligence by explaining that. I’m just hungover.)
We bought some cheap vodka and made screwdrivers, and then started a relaxing bonfire for the evening to celebrate his 2 days off after 13 straight days of work. After a couple hours and 2 drinks (for him. I was on number 5 or 6, I always forget to count), he suddenly gets sick and has to go inside. Here’s where things get bad because I should never be left alone with alcohol and fire. That’s just common sense.
Instead of being a good girlfriend and nursing him back to health, I called some friends to come hang out with me and finish the liquor. (Except that’s never how it goes because once more than 2 people get together, shit. pops. off.) I finally got a few people to come over, only after lying to the question, “Are you sure you’re not gonna be wasted already when we get there?”
“Of course not!” lying through my goddamn teeth. “Maybe a bit tipsy, but I’ve only had like half a drink!” So my friend Crystal came over with her girlfriend (she’s a lesbian, but that’s just for background info) and also with 2 other girls who just graduated high school. I usually don’t hang out with children, but you can’t help who your friends bring over. Then my friend Ben came over with a couple guys and since it was raining, we all hung out on my patio drinking.
Crystal likes to play drinking games, so before I knew it, my mom’s glass table was in front of me covered in solo cups and I was bringing home my team in flip cup.
(I am the queen of drinking games. I will destroy everyone.)
Jump to next scene: more beer, more people, more solo cups. We’re all in my basement and I have my stepdad’s $3,000 acoustic, stumbling into everyone and playing “American Pie”. I’m making up my own lyrics in place of the ones I’ve forgotten and I make the mistake of noting how the one girl is winning beer pong because of her distracting boobs.
Suddenly, she and some other girls are taking off their shirts and my basement has become a weird, homemade version of “Girls Gone Wild”. (With the music of Don McLean in the background and everyone is smoking cigarettes.) I’ve never seen so many boobs in one place. At this point, I’m now more self-conscious than ever.
Later, we’re all outside dancing around the bonfire pit, after I’ve taken apart the actual woodbox and used the planks for fire wood. (I’m gonna get in SO MUCH TROUBLE.) People have sparklers and now I’m playing “Piano Man” on my keyboard (we brought it outside) with my stepdad’s guitar on my back, and occasionally pulling out his harmonica for those parts. People are smashing beer bottles against my siding.
Again… So. Much. Trouble.
That’s all I remember, but the scene from this morning tells the rest of the story. The bag of kitty-Valium treats is open on the kitchen floor and almost empty. The cats seem fine, but who really knows?
My house is a fucking mess, though. As usual, my alcoholism has gotten me in a jam, but hopefully more alcohol is the solution. (Also, I think the planks from the woodbox are pressure treated so I might have arsenic poisoning. My parents can’t be mad at me if I’m dead.)
(Is the word “flip flop” supposed to be hyphenated? The English language is annoying.)
This whole week has been like stepping on nails and misspelling words. (Note: I just misspelled the word “misspelling”. Exactly.) It’s been the kind of week filled with sadnosity and the quasi-suicidal-ness that only comes with being over dramatic.
Today for instance, I didn’t realize my pants were inside out until someone at the grocery store asked if I was really a size 7. I wanted to ask why they were reading my pants, but I’m nice so I said yes, and then proceeded to discuss the price of chicken for what felt like an hour.
Then yesterday, I had a “First Blood”-esque fight/manhunt with a spider that might literally have been the size of Sylvester Stallone. I hid in a corner for 30 minutes armed with a fly swatter and piece of cardboard that I made into a shield. Eventually, [my boyfriend] just came over and hit it with his shoe and then asked me to clean up the fort I made out of sheets and boxes because it was blocking his office area.
I reluctantly said yes, but Vietnam changes a man. That spider could have pursued me for weeks.
Then I found out that my ex boyfriend/first love got his girlfriend pregnant and I totally freaked. I realize I have no right to be upset, but we were gonna have a baby too and I lost it. (Pity me and I’ll stab you. Don’t make this blog sad.) Mostly, I’m pissed that everyone I’ve ever loved or been best friends with has replaced me with a fat and less-attractive redhead.
Seriously, even my best friend all through middle school and high school dropped me for another redhead who was just a poop version of me.
(I bet Lindsay Lohan deals with this sort of thing all the time.)
So all in all, the nail-in-the-flip-flop-thing wasn’t so bad. Things could always be worse, like being hunted by a large spider or wearing inside-out pants to church.