Friday, December 31, 2010

let's have a toast for the douchebags

Good riddance 2010!

here's to all the resolutions I didn't follow through on, all the boys I never kissed and all the chances I didn't take!

Yes I'm posting this photo everywhere. Validate me, internet
Tonight I'm going to wear a shirt made entirely of sequins (see above), drink until I can't feel things and probably cry off my false lashes and foundation into the depths of Mordor or Azkaban. Probably Azkaban.

Let 2011 be filled with karaoke, more blog comments and less chocolate because I don't want diabetes.

according to Britney Spears living in sin is the new thing, and she's a reliable source of advice so I say take it and run like the wind. all the colors of the wind. do Pocahontas proud. Pocahontas is difficult to spell, thank you baby Jesus for spell check

I'm going to regret this post in the morning but aren't we all

Happy 2011 I love you all!

Friday, December 17, 2010

this could be a sweet dream, or a beautiful nightmare

Can this be true? Tell me, can this be real? How can I put into words what I feel? Well, I can't, which is why I needed to start this post off with Nsync lyrics.

In case you've been living in an underground sewer fending off herds of mole people over the past week or so, it appears celebrities everywhere have traded in their Fiji water bottles for Break Up Before the Holidays water...bottles.... I don't think that made much sense, but I haven't been in school in 7 months cut me some slack.

It's not even the obvious couples like Jake Gyllenhaal and Taylor Swift (I mean really... what the fuck is that pairing). It's mostly couples I don't care about like Ryan Reynolds and Scarjo or David Thewlis and Anna Friel (not that I dislike them; I just always forget they were ever together in the first place aka zzzzzz).

but then something terrifying/magical happened: Hollywood's Latest Golden Couple (move over Brangelina... or actually don't since they're done I guess) called it quits. That's right ladies and other ladies reading this, Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens said Bye Bye Bye to their 4 year relationship.

the fence in this photo signifies the emotional barrier that is probably what ultimately destroyed their relationship
It's one of those things that makes my inner 15 year old explode with optimism and hope, tears of joy brimming over a cup of never ending happiness. I'm finally free to imagine myself wooing Zac Efron and eventually producing children with him who possess all of his features and none of my own, creating the most stunning celebrity offspring known to man since Liv Tyler and Suri Cruise, where we would all exist in a Utopian Society - free from corruption, humidity and Bruno Mars. Unicorn tears would turn into gumdrops and caramels; the unicorns would always be crying from overwhelming joy and love. They would be that happy. because Zac will have resurrected them from past lives, but not in a creepy Harry-Potter-Resurrection-Stone way that would leave a thin veil of unhappiness between us and the unicorns forever. No, it would be pure and snowing, but not cold. also Zac and I would have lots of sex. Everything would just be so kick ass is what I'm saying.

but then my shame starts to seep in and I realize that Zac and Vanessa are actually people beyond their celeb status and they're probably pretty torn up about the break up, at least a little, and while I'd settle for being Zac's rebound girl (I've seriously thought this all through), it is kind of sad to see Zanessa Gone.

this is probably all Justin Timberlake's fault
The thought of Zac Efron with another girl who isn't me is unfathomable at this point because he's never been linked to anyone else in the 4 years he's been famous. I actually find the two of them to be a cute couple and the fact that they lasted so long without any scandal or separation really allowed me to believe that true love does exist (in Hollywood). I got used to them and was looking forward to either their potentially stunning or horrifyingly hideous children (who could know the outcome). but now that hope is lost.

Once my initial shock wore off, and my delusions of unicorn utopias faded into the recesses of my troubled mind, the panic started to sink in. I remembered how my plan was to get famous (somehow; plenty of people without talent are doing it, why not me) by the time they broke up and then swoop in with tissues and hair extensions, descending upon Zac Efron like a ravenous vulture. I thought I'd have a few more years before they ended things, but of course not, the universe is out to get me and make sure I never get my goddamn well deserved Disney Prince.

the photo proves he is every bit as heroic and charming as the media wants me to believe
Shortly after reality sunk in and I started to worry myself with my really creepy fantasies, curiosity got the better of me. What the fuck happened!? Who broke up with who? Was it really mutual? If I were Vanessa Hudgens I would throw all dignity out the window and cling to Zac Efron the way Madonna clings to her faded youth.  I mean, odds are pretty likely Vanessa Hudgens will never date someone as stunningly beautiful and flawless as Zac Efron ever again, unless she travels backwards in time and manages to bag Titanic-Era Leonardo DiCaprio (aka pre-bloat). and let's be real, Zac Efron will never date someone with hair as good as Vanessa's (unless he dates me).  It's a cruel world we live in where two gorgeous, seemingly nice human beings can't make it in a relationship in Hollywood. Maybe Zac wants to date someone whose level of talent matches his own. Maybe Vanessa wants to date someone.... else. The world may never know (though it probably will because the internet eventually exposes all).

I have to admit I'm impressed with how well they're publicly handling the break-up. Confirmation of the rumor, and that's it. It's probably because their love is so pure and all that shit. The timing just wasn't right; the relationship ran its course; Zac Efron realized I'm here waiting, etc.

I know there are plenty of people out there judging me for thinking these thoughts because it's like who cares! celebrities are just people! I'm so cool and unaffected! I don't even own a television what's the internet!! but whatever I am the first person to admit I am not above celebrity gossip (have you read my blog?). and I will never be above Zefron related gossip, news, movies or music.

because dammit Zac Efron, God really did spend a little more time on you.

Friday, December 10, 2010

pour some sugar on me (the real kind though)

I fucking love chocolate.

Whenever I get the sense that real feelings are bubbling just beneath the surface of my tear-ducts or fingernails, dangerously near eruption, I eat a piece of dark chocolate. It's the only thing that makes the pain go away for a little while. I eventually get more upset and consume the entire King Size bar through raging tears, but for 30 minutes or so, things are okay. Unlike successful dieters, I am not the type of person who can stop at "just a bite." I think this is a crazy and bullshit thing to tell people for the most part, because a forkful of chocolate cake isn't going to satisfy my sweet tooth; it's going to make me crave more cake. and I'm usually going to eat the cake because I have no sense of shame or impulse control.

pictured: impulse control
When I was about 10 years old, I would dream of a magical cheesecake which, the more you ate of it, the more weight you would lose. It was ten pounds per piece (I was a very lazy child. ha ha was...). It consumed my thoughts daily for a good few months. I'm surprised they haven't concocted something like it by now. Giant metal boxes can fly through the sky running solely on jet fuel/magic, but we have yet to develop an enchanted cheesecake that helps you lose weight?? What century are we in, again? Do I need to bake the tapeworms in there myself?

I also used to fantasize about a remote control that would let me go back in time, forward in time, pause things, etc. To my dismay, it never materialized and I was forced to face my mistakes and problems.

this might be why I hate Adam Sandler so much
At this time my dad used to bring cheesecakes home every few weeks from Veniero's bakery before they started sucking (he then switched to De Roberti's and eventually to no treats ever). I blame my sweet tooth on him. You may remember a photo I posted a few blog posts ago:

pictured: the problem and solution to all of life's problems
When I first saw this episode of the Simpsons, I wondered when they'd decided to use my dad as inspiration for Homer Simpson's character. but back to sugar and spice and liquor and lard aka everything that fills those giant voids.

I don't only eat or drink this stuff when I'm feeling bad, don't get me wrong. I mean, I love sweets because they taste good and sometimes you just want to throw a party for your taste buds. but when I say I love sweets, I don't mean "Yes, occasionally I enjoy half a square of Ghirardelli Peppermint Bark and a glass of Chianti Classico" NO I mean, "Give me that giant cookie from Uno's with ice cream and whipped cream on top and 4 shots of well-Tequila." (When did I start talking about liquor?) Whenever someone says, "Ugh this is way too sweet" or "Aghhh this drink is way too strong!!" I stare at them in disbelief and amazement: my mouth partially open, chocolate sauce and alcohol dribbling down the sides. How can anything be too sweet?? Can puppies be too sweet? No, they cannot. People can be, I mean no one is nice all the time without some ulterior motive. I can't trust people, but surely I can trust ice cream. How can anything that makes me feel good immediately and terrible later be too sweet or too alcoholic?? Answer: it can't.

pictured: me in 5 minutes
Who needs vegetables and fruit when I have sugar and lard and alcohol that I just started writing about for some reason but is totally appropriate anyway? This is America dammit. Bottoms up, losers.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

An Open Letter to Jesse McCartney

Jesse McCartney, why do you do this to me? Why do you make it so difficult to publicly defend you and proclaim my unwavering love for all that you do? Would you guys like to see my plays? because I don't care here they are:


Do you see that? Number 7 Top Artist of all time!! of all time! Not Taylor Swift, not Beyonce. Jesse McCartney. and I only have two of his albums on my computer because I deleted one of them by mistake.

Dream Street was so two thousand and late for me, but I remember when "Beautiful Soul" first came out. It was one of those songs I openly hated but secretly loved and recorded off the radio with my cassette player, just like everything the All American Rejects did. God, I miss the early 2000's. The battle of the boy bands (if you prefer BSB over Nsync you are dead to me), popstars were truly at their finest then because they were all trying to be Michael Jackson. It was a beautiful time.

you just know Justin was shitting all over himself at this point
Remember Summerland? Me neither.

Just kidding, i remember it. I remember thinking Jesse was going to be eternally hot and that other kid was going to be some gap-toothed reject for all of his life.

I'd rather be rejected by Zac Efron than pursued by Jesse McCartney's pit stains
By 2004, when Jesse's solo career was exploding, I was hiding behind my Nirvana albums, pretending like his whiny little ferret voice didn't sing the songs of my soul. Okay his vocals are not ferret-like, but his voice is pretty high pitched. I like it, though. I love it. I love him. I would hit it in a heartbeat even though I'm really not sexually attracted to him. I feel like we are soul mates because he's into beautiful souls, and mine is truly magnificent. He believes the beauty on the inside transcends the beauty on the outside, and I need a man like that in my life. So thoughtful, so caring. He would grow old with me and hold my hand and not look at me but look past me, beyond me and really see me. I, in part, have taken on his philosophy. I love Jesse for the beauty within.

the beauty within...
I have defended him through so much because he's actually talented (i'm serious). His Leonardo DiCaprio-like bloating, his indie-flick, Keith (WHICH IS ACTUALLY GOOD), even the time he forgot the words to the National Anthem. but then he goes and makes this stupid ass video for his latest single, "Shake," (which is a masterpiece removed from the offensive video) and disappoints me. That is some low budget shit right there. I've seen better student films come out of Emerson College (go..lions...right?). The song will, no doubt, be a hit because he's obviously good at writing them (hello Leavin.. Body Language... everything else ever in his back catalog), but the video.. stop. I would've liked it better if Jesse were one of the video vixens. God. what is wrong with music videos today? why can't we go back 10 years? Why am I so obsessed with Zac Efron??

You're not invincible yet, Jesse. A living legend? Yes. Of course. No question. but the world isn't ready for shadowed ladies to throw their panties at you. Not now. Not ever. Take it down a notch. Why am I still writing this post

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

fine fresh fierce

THIS is the best candy corn in the history of corn syrup.  Brach's candy corn is made with honey, though, which makes it healthy so it's okay that I eat an average of 47 (big) bags per Halloween season. Now that Halloween is over, it's pretty much shelved until next September, making it a rare and elusive treat, much like a smile on Eminem's face.

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It incorporates all of the best things of which I am either an expert or huge fan of: creepy stuff, sugar and cold weather.  I have over 50 scarves and in order to make the greatest use of them, I start wearing them as soon as the temperature drops below 70 degrees. but then it gets too cold and I start complaining and longing for summer.. until it gets to be too hot and humid again and I start melting into the sidewalk and my soul pours out my eyes in an eternal struggle against the oppressive heat. Endless cycle. I am the world's greatest complainer.
"No" was actually my first word
Anyway, for Halloween I had to throw together a last minute costume because of my last minute decision to actually attempt a social life this past weekend. I wound up at a bar in NYC's meatpacking district, shoved up against a sweaty guy in a suit (if his costume was 'douchebag,' mission accomplished) until my friends and I made our way to a table in the back.

Oops, I forgot this isn't a livejournal entry. No one cares; sorry.

I went as a half-assed Katy Perry. All that candy corn consumption made it impossible for me to wear daisy dukes and a bikini on top so my costume was more pathetic than my love life (jk nothing is more pathetic than that). I did buy a blue wig and drink Gin and juice all night, though. Only one person guessed who I was. Someone else told me it was okay that the rest of my outfit sucked because I actually looked like Katy Perry in the face, so good job anyway. This is not remotely true unless he meant I look like Katy Perry after some disfiguring accident at a nuclear power plant. It felt like a backhanded compliment anyway. 

It was a struggle to get all my hair underneath that wig, but I award myself an A+ for effort.

I spent too much money on that wig to use it for just one night, so I'm going to have to think of another costume that isn't a smurf that calls for a blue wig next year. It sucks that Halloween is now over and I totally forgot to buy giant bags of candy (half off) to wallow in for weeks to come (more like days, who am I kidding). I can't justify buying a huge bag of Snickers now.... just kidding I'll find a way. I always do.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

dancing with tears in my eyes

You know when your whole life feels like the worst hair day ever? Your hair - source of confidence and swagger - usually looks great (and it has to, because you have nothing else going for you in the looks department let's be real) but for some reason the universe decided to take a giant shit all over the one thing that provides a steady source of comfort and joy in your life (which is now full of misery and woe).  Your hair is flat, it's frizzy, you are essentially a caveman with a better vocabulary. and the worst part is that people try and tell you it looks fine. Fine. We all know what fine means. Fine means average, oftentimes below. Leonardo DiCaprio wouldn't even be able to convince me otherwise. and if he can't do it, no one can.

he is our generation's greatest cryer
It doesn't just stop at a bad hair day, though. You start to notice the little things like the close placement of your eyes on your face (when the fuck did that happen) and that tiny bump on the bridge of your nose that must have popped up overnight. Your hands are meatier than ever and your fucking eyebrows are uneven. Your outlook on your appearance, your accomplishments, on life itself, has shifted.  No longer rose colored glasses, instead you're wearing those light-sensitive prescription shades your grandma wore after she got that eye operation. You are now sensitive to happiness and joy. You are me when I was 16.

Also, Lady Gaga is practically the same age as you but she's about five billion times more successful and weird and interesting than you will ever be. Even Ke$ha found a way to make that party girl lifestyle work in her favor but you could never pull that off anyway because you're not tall, thin and blonde. Also because the smell of tequila brings back memories of that time you got a little too friendly with your bff's new roommate at that party 2 years ago. Then you remember that you totally ignored that guy even though there was nothing essentially wrong with him because you are constantly self sabotaging and never really think you deserve to get what you want (the Rolling Stones told us we can't always get it; but sometimes that's our own fucking fault, Mick Jagger). Then you projectile vomit everywhere. So since your fear of failure gets in the way of just about EVERYTHING, alll you can do is sit on the internet for hours and forget what real sunshine looks like because the only time you ever see it is in pictures on Tumblr taken by someone with a life and a job and true love and happiness. and then you wind up crying into your cat at night because he's the softest, warmest body in close proximity and you will die just like that.

your cat will grow to loathe and resent you
Yeah, I understand. I get it. Because you're me.

You need a change. I need a change. I crave a change. I crave change; I am broke. I am bored. but I can be vibrant!

Stop cynicism! Conan told you so. Believe in yourself!  Conjure up a sudden burst of motivation that's been seriously lacking lately, but was always bubbling right beneath the surface, just like in the movies! Take all your cues from fictional characters and situations! Life is yours to seize! Win it Twist it Pull it Bop It

But it's not like the movies (thanks Katy Perry), it's never that easy. but it's time to do something about it. Because comparing yourself to Lady Gaga or Janis Joplin or Bar Refaeli or that bitch you always hated who's actually doing pretty fucking well for herself (sometimes they don't peak in high school), is never going to accomplish anything.  Pretending to be hot shit has never worked in my favor due to crippling self doubt and lack of grace, so it's time to start full on believing it.

Or maybe just chug some vodka and fake it with some liquid confidence until you have truckloads of glitter and a record deal.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

fear factor

Motherfucking sidewalk grates. It's like they know when you haven't shaved above your knees because that's when they choose to blow your skirt straight up; they live on a diet of small valuables and Stiletto heels (why are you walking around in Stilettos? take a fucking cab), and beneath their cold, metal exterior lies only darkness. All signs point to sinister, so I find it safe to assume this pitch blackness probably leads straight to the bowels of Hell itself.

Satan gonna grab you
I hate those things.  By hate I mean I am terrified of them. To put this into perspective for you: I am also terrified of butterflies and moths. All three are seemingly harmless, nothing antagonistic about them (you would think that). Except my idea of Hell is being pelted with angry bees, stinger side up, all the while moths and butterflies emerge from cocoons and flutter around me in a raging swirl as I plummet down an endless, dark shaft, that Taylor Swift song on repeat in the background. Forever. The one where she sings about fairytales and boys. Oh right, that's all of them.

My fear of moths blossomed when I was on a family vacation in the Caribbean. One night, I was walking back to our hotel room with my brother, when a gigantic moth the size of my 11 year old hands (they were big; I was pudgy) exploded onto the scene, materializing out of thin air/evil.  Rather than remain calm (no one remains calm) and ignore the erratic, flying monstrosity blocking my way, I elbowed my brother in the side, leaving him behind (bait) to fend for himself against the gargantuan mutant created by Satan's underlings. I ran the rest of the way to our hotel room, passing what I remember were hundreds of moths adorning hotel walls - their eyes and antennae followed me (I had offended their master, their king, and I would pay) - and bolted myself shut inside.  My poor brother arrived moments later, but I refused to open the door until I was certain he posed no threat to me (bitten by a radioactive moth perhaps? Moth Man prophecies?? Reincarnation of MOTHRA???).

artistic rendering: looking into the face of evil
For the longest time, I was certain this was the moment that began my lifelong (so far) fear of moths. Recently, however, an event that took place days before emerged from my memory.  After a long day of swimming and eating (always eating), I waddled back to our hotel room with my family. Once inside, my father, lover of windows and balconies alike, pulled across the curtain covering the window/door that lead to the outside. To my absolute horror, hundreds of moths swarmed the balcony light my parents had (mistakenly) left on the entire day.

I now associate this fear with my father, because if he had never pushed back that goddamn curtain, I never would've held witness to hundreds of fluttering wings.  Even though this fear probably would have developed one way or another on that trip (considering I was fucking surrounded by them almost the entire time), I prefer to blame my father for it because isn't that what parents are for?

Because my mom was competent enough for the both of them, and stressed all of the normal parental advice (don't eat dirt; never talk to strangers etc), my dad took liberties in the truths he relayed to his children. He told me they kept the dead bodies inside the pews in Church so I wouldn't act up. He told me his secret ingredient in everything was saliva.  His interests include gardening, eating and sugar.

my dad is a lot like Homer Simpson
But my favorite bit of advice from my dad has to do with sidewalk grates (Hallelujah everything is cyclical).  We were walking over one of them at the time. He looked down at me, saw I was focused on all that I couldn't see beneath me and said, "If these things ever break and you start to fall, make sure you stick your arms all the way out.  You'll break your arms, but you won't break your neck because you won't fall all the way down. Hopefully."

Then he cackled a little, the way dads do when they stress out their children in psychologically damaging ways.

My logical mind - the tiny, whispered voice in my head - is usually smothered by hyperbole and exaggerated thought.  I sit still in Church. I walk around (not on, NEVER ON) sidewalk grates.  I cover my ears, close my eyes and take off at a running start when a moth flies near me. This is their world. I'm only living in it.

the future: December 21, 2012

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

i am creepy; grass is green

I love love. I love being in love. I don't care what it does to me. Just kidding, those are lyrics by The Format. I've never been in love and that's probably because I'm really creepy.

I don't know if I'm creepier than the average loser but I am at least on par with her.  This one time, I found a kid from my class on facebook, looked through all his tagged photos, somehow came across his (unlisted) blog and read it from start to finish (to my credit it wasn't very long; he seemed something of a quitter).  I figured out his favorite band and, after determining precisely the right moment, weeks later, referred to them casually in conversation. I wasn't actually talking to him (NEVER), but to some girl who I used in my ploy to win this boy's heart. After naming the band a little too loudly, the boy's ears perked up and we exchanged a few glorious snippets of dialogue. A few days later, he told me I had 'rockstar hair.'  I almost pissed myself.
i imagine this is what our interaction looked like to outsiders
That was as much as we ever spoke.  He's 3 years younger than me, a few inches shorter than me and, let's be real, not cute enough for how hard I tried. Oh yeah, and his favorite band at the time was Fall Out Boy.

I can't help it.  The internet lends itself to full on sketch-fests.  All that information just waiting to be internalized.. memorized.. rehearsed.. brought out at just the right moment.. around just the right eligible bachelor:

been dying to see that
new movie? I had NO IDEA you were at the midnight screening, too!!  
got a favorite song? What's that about my ringtone? You like this song too? No way!
you posted your class schedule online? Why, yes, I did just transfer into your Film I class even though I'm majoring in political science!
you don't have a facebook?
That's okay, I'll find you.

Don't tell me you don't do it, too, because you're lying (...or have a life).  It's not like I hide in the bushes outside some guy's house, sit with binoculars and look through the windows. He'll never see me if I do that; I sit in a cafe across from his building at the same time every day.  Just kidding, I don't really do that (yet), but maybe I go to the same events he 'attends' (thanks Facebook).  How do I know the host of this housewarming party that's actually 50 miles out of the way from my apartment? and I don't drive?? Um... friend of a friend.. where's the vodka?

I probably sound worse than I actually am; it's not like I'm creating shrines or hurting anyone.
I admire Helga's dedication
Facebook is amazing, but I was obsessive well before the internet was cited as a stalker enabling tool.  In the 6th grade I had this huge crush on the only marginally attractive boy in my grade, Jose. He was nice to me because, like all my fellow classmates, he wanted to copy my homework.  I remained single and unpopular because I never let him, or anyone, take credit for my work (also because I was awkward and hideous). Thankfully, no one teased me because my mom is Puerto Rican fierce with a side of whoopass and those little bastards knew it.

Anyway, I have pages in my old diaries where I practiced my future surname (his). I volunteered to stay after school and help clean up the classroom whenever he had detention, on the off chance I'd sneak a glance at him (always), or that he would speak to me (never).  I also really liked sponging down the blackboard.  My favorite method of attack, though, was snapping photos of my fellow classmates just so I had an excuse to own photos of Jose (always lurking somewhere in the background since I could never work up the nerve to take one of just him). Things didn't work out between us.
Once myspace and, later, facebook were popularized, I had no need for my little picture trick anymore. But after so many years and even more photos, that creepy habit diverged into a true passion for photography, which I've actually kept up. It's like when inmates learn a new language in prison - a good thing can sometimes blossom from illegal activity.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

my life is an avril lavigne song

I am not inherently cool. I have a blog. I write posts about my cat. I listen to top 40 radio. I cried when I saw Lady Gaga in concert. None of it bothers me enough to better myself, though. I am mostly shameless now because it's too much work to hide this stuff. I used to be way cooler.

Like many teenagers, there was a brief window of time where I really tried to be liked.

High school is usually the place where you change yourself to impress all the assholes who will never really care about you because they're too busy caring about themselves. Why are 'popular' kids so publicly revered when they're actually violently feared and secretly loathed?

Upon entering my freshman year, I decided others would perceive me as the weirdo: someone shy, reserved, misunderstood, insert Fall Out Boy lyrics here. but I wasn't creepy or determined enough to be much of an outcast, so I chose instead to relate to my fellow classmates in painstakingly transparent fashion.

I started showering daily and stopped being a social recluse. I feigned apathy, began swearing and stopped carrying my Hello Kitty CD player with me. I downloaded "good" music and shunned pop. I started wearing eyeliner. I applied it, in true 16 year old fashion, very poorly and resembled an angry panda for a few months, all the while thinking I looked totally badass, so rock n' roll, Joan Jett would be proud. Kurt Cobain was suddenly the coolest dude I'd never met and I lived my life by the book of Jimi Hendrix.

I genuinely fell in love with plenty of rock, grunge and classic rock, but I also faked interest in way too many bands I just didn't like. I still have Jane's Addiction and The Smiths in my iTunes from when I pretended to like them. It is so painful to pretend to like a band especially when you are me. I was dedicated to the lie on the off chance I could impress a boy, which meant listening to their entire discographies, constantly. I'm talking b-sides, Japan-only releases, live recordings. I used to be creepily determined to get what I wanted, despite much failure.

I also knew who I was supposed to be to make it more believable. I couldn't care about fashion, babies, books, joy, etc. What was my favorite color? Black. My favorite time of day? Night. My favorite season? Winter. Favorite emotion? Death.

so disaffected, so sad, so hip
Of course none of it worked, so I abandoned it all in frustration. Who cares if I listen to the All American Rejects? They have perfected the art of catchy pop punk and I am no longer ashamed. I aired out my dirty little secret, you're not the only who needs to know.

It is rare that I get embarrassed over stuff I like anymore. Justin Bieber is one of the few exceptions to that. I know everyone in the universe and my life thinks it's creepy because I'm like 8 years older than him and probably 8 inches taller, but if putting "My World 2.0" on repeat during finals week is wrong, then baby I don't want to be right. It is not entirely without shame, though, - the first time I downloaded "Baby" I immediately changed the artist to "The Beatles ft Ludacris" so my wouldn't out me to the world as a 22 year old Belieber.

Once it was discovered that I wasn't listening to a mashup of The Beatles and Ludacris, I just had to own it. I'm not hip enough to like things ironically. Besides, nobody really likes anything ironically anyway.  You listen to Miley Cyrus as a joke? No you don't.  Go ahead, put your hands up, they're playing your song. You know you're gonna be okay. It's a party in the USA

Friday, September 17, 2010


this is Suzie

so cute (on the outside)

Suzie is the asshole cat who was in my grandfather's possession when he passed away. From what I remember of the first ten years of her life, she was meek, terrified and obese. Whenever I went to my grandfather's apartment to visit, she either hid, ran away or ate in the kitchen (about to run away), behaviors I, too, partake in when confronted with visitors every now and always.  Currently, however, she does none of those things. She struts all over our apartment like her name is on the lease and intimidates even the most seasoned pet lover (i.e. me). Her favorite activities include shitting all over my handbags (and literally rubbing it in with her grimy little kitty paws), peeing all over my door frame, terrorizing our other cat, Romeo, and chasing ribbon. She hates me.

i am not making this up


Just look at her in the header - floating down a river of apathy; she does what she wants. Which is wonderful and cool for her life because she's crazy and bitter like old ladies, but every time I hear the pitter patter of her little feet stalking down the hallway, my heart pauses into near cardiac arrest. She whips her head around at me and stares into the windows of my soul, her brow furrowed, her eyes daring me to just try and touch her. PET ME she taunts. So I do. So she lunges. So I bleed.

She hates when I touch her. Unless she is itchy, but I don't ever know if she's itchy because it's not like she communicates these feelings to me like a normal creature. Sometimes she'll rub under my foot which I (MISTAKENLY, ALWAYS MISTAKENLY) figure is an invitation for petting, but it is really an invitation for her to scratch the shit out of my hand once it gets even remotely close to her fuzzy little body. A bottle of peroxide is out chillin on my bathroom sink forevermore.

no for real this is her default face whenever i am around

I'm sure it seems like I'm exaggerating, or that I'm being too hard on her when it sounds like there was some emotional trauma/neglect/abuse going on (there wasn't). But here's the thing: she is in love with my brother. It makes me sick (with jealousy), because while I'm busy turning on the bathroom sink so she can lap at the faucet or carefully unspooling and untangling her favorite ribbon so she can play in peace, she cozies up to him, and glares at me all the while. She won't let anyone else hold her, pet her, hug her or love her.


This is a blow to my ego. Cats love me!! Dogs love me!! Gerbils love me!! Who needs friends!!

My problem with Suzie isn't that she's a douchebag in cat form, or that my bedroom reeks of that ammonia stench, or that I have essentially become my cat's bitch. I mean I guess those are all parts of the problem.. but the worst is that my brother has won. I'm a very sore loser, a sorry sport, there may be no I in team but there is certainly a "me," and admitting defeat is as painful to me as acid raining down from the sky.

Yet I have no choice but to mop up the piss and let my brother gloat.  In the end, I guess Suzie is the loser, here.  She's really just depriving herself of one of the greatest gifts of all: me.