When a blogger feels scorned, she has a big decision to
make.Either she can write a novel-long
post documenting all the gory, intimate details that led up to her curling up
in the shower with a bottle of bourbon last week (ensuring that everybody knows
it’s HER that’s the most hurt in all this, not HIM…a classic victim power move,
if you ask me), or she can spare the readers’ eyeballs by not disclosing the play-by-play of one of the worst experiences of
her life, and just focus on writing about things that make her happy.I chose the former first, and typed around 4,000
words that basically made no sense at all….repeating “I WAS WRONGED” a hundred
and fifty times doesn’t exactly create a literary theme.Bad writing aside, I was still prepared to
dole out some Raggle-style justice, so I added in a couple more ‘douchebags’
and ‘assholes’ to the post, and got my gnarly, little Golem finger ready to hit
‘Update’……..but then didn’t.
On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d said my maturity level is at
about a 2 every time I see Jane Seymour’s “Open Hearts” commercial, because all
I think about is how her design is basically just a pair of butts on a chain.Although the ad looks like it’s targeting
women to buy the pendant for themselves (probably since Kay Jewelers knows how
fucking disappointed a chick would be if she got it from someone else), I’ll
vouch for any fella that hurriedly tosses this monster in the cart while Christmas/grocery shopping at Smith's Marketplace. This has only been common knowledge to a certain few for the last five years, but flipping the judge from The Wall upside down and hanging it
around a woman's neck makes her cum sooner. Jane Seymour knows this.
Speaking of The Wall,
if you’re a single guy who is fond of that movie, give me your number, hottie!Haha. No, just kidding.You do make me wonder though.Sometimes I wonder if you really exist
anymore - the guy who’s thirty-something, with felt Zeppelin posters
illuminated by black lights above your bed.I think most of you are in the shadows now since hippies are so mocked
these days.Maybe instead of poster art
and nag champa burning away in your living room, you’ve grown up a little; next to your airplane pillow in the closet, you own a gun that you secretly
named Jerry Bear. Ay, dios mio, you know?…sometimes
I wonder if I’d turn into a total genius the same way George Costanza did when he
gave up sex.Maybe if I stopped taking a
finger up the ass from guys with awful taste in movies, I could wake up one
morning in a few months and find that I know Spanish fluently or something.Revirginize, so to speak - to remove the
clouds from my eyes.
Anyways, I’m back, it’s been awhile, yada, yada, yada.I plugged my blog in a magazine I’m currently
writing for (Revolv!), so I figured I
better get back to it.Plus, I’m ready
to tell stories again.Here’s two:
1. I shit my pants when a German shepherd attacked me in first
grade.No, no, that’s not even
true.I was wearing a skirt and tights,
and I only realized what I’d done after I saw a mysterious pebble had made its
way down my leg.My mom ended up
spanking the hell out of me because she assumed I un-potty-trained myself
deliberately rather than actually getting the shit scared out of me by a dog
that looked like this:
2. Last week, a guy asked me to go shoot some bows and arrows
with him.I said no.Now I feel like this:
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go shopping for a pendant that looks like this:
I'm too lazy to create another Microsoft Paint pic, but after I already un-friended this guy from Facebook, he went for broke and told me, "YOU CAN EAT IT OFF MY NUTS."
Twenty-first century love is the best love, don't you think?
If
there’s one article that came out a year a half ago that I’m still floored by
(but have just gotten around to writing about now), it is Lawrence Wright’s
brilliant piece in the New Yorker about Scientology viewed through the exhausted
lens of Hollywood screenwriter Paul Haggis.No matter how insurmountable my hatred may be for some of his movies (he
fucking wrote and directed Crash, a film that made me feel less like a
human, and more like a bleeding pile of ears and eyes), Haggis’s depiction of
life as a Scientologist-turned-defector left me whispering to myself, “this is
astounding” and “something strange is afoot at the Gold Base”.
“I treat humans like what they are, garbage.” (After
claiming to kick a female junkie until he
was barely able to breathe. From Eye Scream)
“Stoned / Cowards / Living death / Men of action turned into
weak pieces of shit / They could get my respect again / If they shot themselves
in the head” (A line from the poem Black Sabbath from Bang!)
“I could fall in love with a cruel desert that kills without
passion, a canyon full of scorpions, one thousand blinding arctic storms, a
century sealed in a cave, a river of molten salt flowing down my throat. But never with you.” (Goin’ off and talkin’ about girls again in Solipsist.)
Hmmm. Let me start
off by saying it hasn’t really been lost on me as to what kind of horrible
place this world is, and I suppose it’s alright to hold someone to a certain
level of esteem when they examine the trust of humankind as a whole with a somnolent
eye, but let’s cut the shit and stop pretending that we’re not all stuck here
together for the rest of our waking lives, so we may as well not have complete
apathy and disdain for one another, shall we?
Happy Fourth of July, everybody! Yaaaaaay, America! The founding fathers may have actually signed
that fucking sweet document on the
second of July, but that shit wasn’t finally ratified until the fourth, so burn
down your goddamn roofs with fireworks tonight cuz America is so hot right now!
However. I love our
nicer, colder, Canadensian neighbors to the north just as much as our
beer-burping, government-eschewing Tea Partiers on Medicaid here in the states,
so I took it upon myself to pay them a derisory tribute today:
(If you didn't know, which would be sad because that means you have no familiarity with the show, the troupe from Kids in the Hall all hail from Canada. So there's that.) Tonight, in lieu of celebrating, I will be alone…in a dark cave…with the bears (they
don’t count as company if they want to eat me), but if you want to try out some pretty incredible pick-up lines on the fly
honeys at the barbeque tonight, I jotted a few down from the skit above for you
as a gift of love...
"I guess I’ve just been touchy about things…since birth.
I guess you’ll have to make it up to me by, ha,
sleeping with me then."
"Uh, the lady will have…a bowl of gin, no ice. We don’t have time for it to melt. And I’ll have a rum and rye, and could you
garnish that with a couple of Tums?"
"Yes, I’m having such strong feelings about you
that I’m having trouble…with my gat."
"I have something to tell you. I know I’ve only known you an hour, but…I love you. I love
you. Wow, the words felt so purifying. I’ve never uttered them to anyone
before...well, before noon."
"What’s with the third degree!? Ooh, sorry.
My emotions are making me testy! Listen, I just don’t wanna be alone
tonight. Although, I do want to be alone
when I wake up, if you know what I’m saying."
"What? I paid for your
bus fare! You owe me! Come on, baby, one ride deserves another!"
"Helga, I could just live between your
breasts. And I don’t mean that in a
sexist way!"
So, rock on American dating world! I'm back, you know! And I just can't wait to meet all those cabbage heads out there that are gonna treat me like a special lady while trying to get at the heart of my vagina! Whoo hoo! You probably won't even care that while you're wining and dining me straight into Fuckville, the whole time I'll be thinking that romantically, there is nothing more horrible
than hooking up with a great friend, falling completely in love him in an short span of time, scaring the shit out of yourself when you realize how much your
commitment issues from a marriage that ended four years still dictate your
life these days, deciding to end things abruptly because you’re so frightened
of what the future will hold (despite the fact that you’ve been unofficially
accepted into his amazing family that you never, ever want to lose contact
with, but ultimately will because that’s how things go with the type of
scenario I’m describing here), losing all trust in yourself, and then finally,
within three weeks of breaking up, seeing your great friendship – the one that you
care about more than anything else in the world – and true love for each other
tossed into a bargain bin filled with forlorn, quasi-teary side
glances, anger, and utter melancholy.
Sorry for the crabbiness, you guys. I haven't eaten much lately and I lost my best friend. But, you're right that it's still important to shout U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! tonight. You are right.
