Tuesday, December 20, 2011


The holidays always remind me of what a bitch my grandma is. It was two years ago on a snowy Chicago day that my grandma fucked me over by epic proportions, and I will never forgive her for her shrewishness.

I had spent the night at my friend Reggie’s house and my car got towed. Technically, it was my parents’ car. Mimi and Jim Royer love to make me feel like a child and when I called to tell them the good news, they said brilliant things like, "we just don't think you understand the ramifications of your actions" and "money doesn't grow on trees ya know." Yes assholes, I do know. Because I'm 30. And I have a job. How. Fucking. Dare. You.

Needless to say, my day was not off to a good start. To make matters worse, Reggie was hysterically laughing at me because I had gotten the mini-van towed and couldn’t stop screaming about how I was 30 and had a job.

On this particular day, I was scheduled to meet Mimi and Jim at the white-trash nursing home where my grandma was stowed. But first, I had to hightail it to the dirty Westside to rescue the mini-van out of the tow lot. This was a harrowing experience solely because I don’t like to travel west of Damen, yet here I stood in the middle of the ghetto holding $300 cash. What makes it worse is that with all the drug dealers around there it took everything in me to spend that money on getting the mini-van back and not on an eight ball.

I remained strong and eventually made it to the white-trash nursing home and I was pissed off. Upon arrival I looked for an activity that would keep me busy as I knew I was looking at about an hour of my grandma screaming at my dad and I needed a distraction. Enter Elaine. Elaine was probably someone else's grandma but on that particular day I adopted her as my grandma based on the fact that she let me borrow her coloring book and crayons, she liked to hug, and she smiled a lot. Needless to say, my “Actual Grandma” wasn't real thrilled when I introduced my new adopted grandma to everyone but I didn't care because now I had a coloring book. For the next hour or so my Actual Grandma played right into her stereotype. She told my dad she wished she had put him up for adoption. She asked my mom what she ever saw in my father despite the fact that they have been married for 37 years. And of course, she claimed to be dying, which she'd been claiming for years. Yet... there she sat.

After a few hours of this song and dance I had to make my way back to the city. I was coming into Chicago from the north side which ultimately means I sat in the mini-van for two and a half hours with a dick up my ass. I had forgotten how wretched the north side was and, eventually, this return venture had me in tears.

Ironically, I was trying to make it back to the city to attend a sort of self-help group I had frequented when I actually lived in Chicago. I saw this as the silver lining. The format of this particular self-help group was that people in the group were randomly asked to share their stories and I knew they were going to call on me since I was visiting from out of town. This made me very happy because I had had the worst day ever and I knew everyone was going to feel so sorry for me. Finally, I could get some relief.

This is when God bitch slapped me with the story of Charlie. I'd never seen Charlie before, so I had to imagine he was new to this group. He got called on and when he got up he said the following, "My mom died today. And I've been so upset all day but you guys have given me a place to go in good times and bad. I didn't know what to do after I found out so I just came here to be with you...my family………”

FUCK YOU CHARLIE!!!! You have got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously? Your mom died?! Well that's reeeeeaaal convenient, isn't it? You couldn't have been called on after me Charlie? Of course not, you had to get up there and take a shit on my one opportunity to elicit any sympathy from my peers. You've got a lot of nerve, assclown.

Of course, I get called on next and I mumble something about how proud I am of Charlie and what a great example he is to me, but really all I'm thinking is that my parents hate me, the mini-van is my own personal jail cell and my grandma's a bitch.

After Charlie’s escapade, I drove back to my parents’ house and, after a good night's sleep, I woke up feeling refreshed. I'm always grateful for the opportunity to start anew. As I was sipping my morning coffee, the phone rang. My grandma died in her sleep the night before. The room was quiet for a minute and then I broke down. Of course. Of course she couldn't have died a few hours earlier so that I could have talked about it at that God damn meeting. I have to believe that she held out just long enough for me to get my ass handed to me by Charlie. Couldn't have helped me out on that last one G-ma? Of course not. You bitch.

Friday, December 2, 2011


I begin a lot of sentences by talking about jamming a dildo into my asshole and lately this behavior has garnered a slew of sideway glances and jaw-dropping horror from my lady friends. It’s possible that this has always been the case but it took me a while to notice it. It’s hard to give things your full attention when you’re eating a delicious plate of cheeseburgers. (Mmmm….cheeseburgers). Anyway, it got me thinking. What is a lady? This mystical creature that men seem to pine for. I’ve heard a lot about them and decided to put some effort into being one. I have zero ideas as to what being a lady actually entails. All I know is that I’m not doing it. I can tell because I’ve seen a lady before and men always treat them differently. The most common thing a man ever says to me is, “What’s your friend’s name?” Or, “Um…there’s mustard on your eyebrow.” Or, “How can you be sure it’s my baby?” Not exactly lady material. So I googled the word “lady” to see if perhaps I could change my ways.


Dress Nicely-Easy, pal.... Let’s not try to changes things all at once. I was thinking this would be more of a baby steps situation. It is fairly standard for me to realize, half-way through my work day, that I’ve got a hole in some part of my clothing. I’m known for dressing in rags and honestly, who has time to keep up with the Hollywood trends? Have you encountered a feather extension recently? It’s literally a feather that’s like stapled to your head or something. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I’ve found discarded animal parts in my hair but is that considered fashionable? Nooooo…… Apparently it’s only cool if you paid money for it and no animals were harmed in the process. I could never pull that shit off. Nor can I pull off A-line dresses or anything made out of silk. Or pants. Obviously. Pants and I have never gotten along. If being a lady involves wearing pants, you can count me out. It’s physically impossible

Look Good, Smell Good-I usually smell like cigs and look like hot garbage. There’s a period of about 8 minutes between the time I wake up and the time I’m in my Daewoo. I can’t be expected to wake up 8 minutes earlier just to push my way into the lady category. I have a mullet and have had it for years and no matter what I try to do to get rid of it, it remains. Also, in order to combat my cig smell, I’ve attempted to use anti-bacterical gel which ultimately just has me smelling like alcohol, yet it lacks the alluring charisma that comes from me being actually drunk.

Choose Your Words-How about you suck ma dick?

Ugh, that’s enough. Acting like a lady isn’t for me. Everybody knows that. When I was watching football, at the bar on Sunday, I was screaming at the television and shoveling fries into my mouth when my friend Brian leaned over and said, “You should teach a class on how to never get picked up by men.” He’s right. Listen, does my body size dictate that I’ll never find love in this world? Yes. Do I consider a bucket of fries a meal? Absolutely. (Mmmmm…..fries) Do I buy pregnancy tests in bulk in order to cut costs? Of course I do. Do people think of me as a lady? Certainly not. But at least I can find solace in the fact that I live in a world where pie is always for breakfast and the only reason I smell like alcohol is because I’ve been shotgunning beer for breakfast. And if considering beer as a breakfast item makes me less of a lady and more of a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous, that’s perfectly fine with me. Lady this, bitch.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

A Rock and 2 Mexicans

I’ve never been very lucky where love is concerned but I AM familiar with matters of the heart. I would even go so far as to call myself a romantic. I believe it is this dreamy romanticism that has always gotten me into trouble. Despite the horrible behavior of several men, I have a knack for glomming on to minutia and storing it away into the “He Loves Me” box. And while I have always been horribly wrong, my misperceptions have often protected me when the truth could not.

Peter and I had been friends for years. We were so close, in fact, that when my boyfriend at the time came home with a cat and I refused to house it, I gave it to Peter. Years later, Peter asked me to watch said cat while he was out of town. Somewhere in there, we made-out.

As usual, I immediately fell in love with Peter and I was sure he was in love with me.

My Perception:

We had already been friends for years so clearly we had a deep, emotional connection.

He asked me to watch his cat which meant that he trusted me.

We made-out which meant he was deeply attracted to me.

The Truth:

People are friends sometimes.

Watching someone’s cat is a bullshit job and most people would gladly have a stranger do it.

Zillions of people make-out with people they don’t know or like, literally every day.

Sadly, I was caught up in my perception and unable to see the truth at that moment. After talking to some girlfriends, they orchestrated a test in which I would be able to precisely determine whether or not Peter was in love with me. I was to invite him to my birthday party and see what he did.

So I did. I threw a bbq that began at 11am. At around 10pm, two Mexican women showed up looking for Peter.

My Perception:

Peter wants me to meet his friends!

The Truth:

Peter likes to bang Mexicans.

My friends were not impressed and tried to point out to me the unreasonableness of the situation but I would not be deterred. At 11pm, Peter showed up...wasted…WITH A PRESENT!!! I was glowing and giggling and could not wait to see what he got me. As I opened the gift, leaves fell out…I dug deeper, and some twigs fell out…then I got to a chocolate bar…and then at the very bottom, I found a pile of rocks. I was laughing hysterically as I thought this was the funniest gift I had ever received and that Peter, who was clearly in love with me, got it specifically for me cause he knew I would understand the hilarity of it all. Cause we just get each other.

Sadly, this didn’t fly with my friends. My friend John pulled me aside and said, “Alison, I know you’re thinking that this is great because he got you a rock and two Mexicans…but he got you A ROCK and TWO MEXICANS.” The way he slowed it down the second time, while holding my arm and glaring at me, made me understand that this was not a good sign. Ultimately, Peter and I never got beyond our first make-out session. He’s married now and last I heard he still has my cat.

Perceptions are tricky. They’re certainly nice to rely on when you don’t want to get bad news from your friends but in the end, it was better to know the truth. Peter stole my cat and he’s a racist.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

I work at a law firm. There is a common misconception floating around that a law firm job is a serious matter to be treated with the utmost respect and dignity. Someone should tell this to my bosses who I am certain are trying to kill me. This knowledge doesn't minimize my utter astonishment when, each day, these men berate and degrade me. One of my boss' favorite things to do is come out of his office, demand I get him coffee and scream, "you're fired!" He then laughs as though this is the funniest thing that's ever happened. I am the victim in this scenario and despite my repeated attempts to survive the daily barrage of insults and death threats, I continually fall into their traps.

The other day, as I was heading out of the office for my 40th cig break of the day, I ran into my boss. It should be noted that I'm a legal assistant so basically everyone is my boss. I am on the bottom of the totem pole evident by the constant verbal abuse and demands that are hurled my way.

My Boss: What are you doing?

Me: Attempting to smoke.

My Boss: You're gonna die. Come get a flu shot.

So I did. Cause the terror inflicted upon me by these men coupled by my inability to not wander off, always has me saying yes to scenarios that I should likely avoid. On any given day, I find myself meandering around aimlessly and next thing ya know I'm getting man-handled by a stranger. Enter Elva.

I'm not sure if roughing up randos is Elva's actual job but upon my arrival on the 12th floor of the U.S. Bank Building, Elva seemed eager to jam a needle in my arm. Understanding that this would cause me great pain, my boss pulled out his video camera as I'm certain he wanted to be able to watch me suffer outside of the designated 8 hrs we’re already obligated to spend together each day. As you can see from said video, it was a God damn blood bath.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Finding True Love

True love is hard to find. Every year, desperate single people spend thousands of dollars on dating sites, at the gym, and going to bars, all in an attempt to meet that perfect someone. I'm known for my impatience and what some people consider to be a defect, I consider to be a great skill. I have the uncanny ability to detect a man from miles away, who I believe will be the perfect one-night-stand. And while none of these episodes have ever resulted in marriage (dodged the bullet) or children (I'm on 70 forms of birth control), they have always been wildly successful where love is concerned.

It was a Sunday afternoon and I was watching the Pats game in Boston when an aggressively attractive man leaned over and said, "I think we should kiss." He fit all of my criteria perfectly. Hot body, just dumb enough to immediately ask for a makeout session, young, attractive with the perfect degree of drunken swagger. Upon further review, I found out he was a minor-league pitcher. This fact cinched it for me and far be it from me to deny a burgeoning athlete a smooch, however, I was with a gaggle of married people and wasn't ready to be fully ex-communicated so I tried to act like a lady and responded, "How about I write my number on your arm and we bang later instead?" This worked wonderfully.

A few hours later this drunken savage showed up at my apartment. Sex happened, it was life-changing. Turns out inebriated sportsmen don't mince words. He had little to say but we agreed that we had a lot in common as we both liked to be naked and we both liked The Postal Service. It was meant to be. The next morning he flew back to Kansas City or Pittsburgh or wherever he was from. We sexted for a few months but in the end, our time together was brief. But, like a gentleman, he left me with something that would keep me remembering him for years.

After a few days, I realized I wasn't feeling so hot. I had a fever and my back hurt so badly that it was becoming impossible to sext the minor-league pitcher pictures of my breasts. I knew I had to do something so I waited until I was basically unable to walk and then I went to the doctor. (Such an idiot.)

Ultimately I was diagnosed with a kidney infection.

Me: Am I dying?

Dr: No, you have a kidney infection.

Me: How did I get it?

Dr: Have you been sexually active recently?

Me: Ya, it's been great. I had sex with a stranger that I met in a bar on a Sunday. Could that have done it?

Dr: *literally just throwing condoms at me*

Me: I gotta go.

Unfortunately there was a bit of a mix-up at said doctor's. It took a while for them to prescribe the right antibiotic and then they lost one of my urine samples leaving me with a 104 degree temperature for over a week. Finally, I was forced to go on short-term disability because I had missed so much work. And each night, as my friends stopped by to cover me with ice or feed me broth, I couldn't help but think that maybe the minor-league pitcher and I really had something. I never told him about my kidney infection but I'm sure he was concerned when the sexts slowed down. That's the fantastic thing about anonymous sex with strangers. You don't have to talk a lot. I had no explaining to do for my lack in communication. We never did see each other again. But I would gladly contract another crippling disease if it meant we could, once again, be together. I don't claim to know a lot about relationships but I'm pretty sure that's what true love is.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

A Conversation With Phil Collins

Musicians write songs for people; people they love, people they hate, and people they may never see again. They write down the words they couldn’t find in the moment, set those words to music and then offer them up for the world to hear. And unless you’re participating in an East Coast/West Coast rap battle, you rarely get a chance to respond.

I like to imagine that Phil Collins wrote his epic love ballad, Against All Odds, just for me. Mr. Collins, I have a few things to say…

Phil Collins: How can I just let you walk away, just let you leave without a trace?

Me: Without a trace? Take it easy pal, I said you could keep the couch.

PC: When I stand here taking every breath with you, ooh.

Me: Excuse me?

PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.

Me: Phil, you’re being dramatic. Tons of people “get” you.

PC: How can you just walk away from me, when all I can do is watch you leave?

Me: An excellent question. Why don’t you do me a solid and get the door.

PC: Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears.

Me: I’d say it was mostly the tears that I wasn’t really in to.

PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.

Me: I feel like we just did this.

PC: So take a look at me now.

Me: Seriously?

PC: Cause there's just an empty space.

Me: Phil, you’re dead inside.

PC: And there's nothing left here to remind me, just the memory of your face.

Me: And the couch! My grandma gave me that couch and I am giving it to you. You’re welcome.

PC: Take a look at me now.

Me: Good grief, Phil.

PC: Cause there's just an empty space.

Me: *blank staring*

PC: And you coming back to me is against all odds and that's what I've got to face.

Me: Listen Phil, it’s been great but I should really…

PC: I wish I could just make you turn around.

Me: Are we not done here?

PC: Turn around and see me cry.

Me: Again with the crying?

PC: There's so much I need to say to you.

Me: More? You have been babbling since I walked in the door.

PC: So many reasons why.

Me: I have reasons too. You’re short, you’re not interesting, you never wake up to take the dog out and sometimes you drool when you talk.

PC: You're the only one who really knew me at all.

Me: You’re doing it. It’s just a little bit of drool that seeps out of the side of your mouth. Super gross.

PC: So take a look at me now.

Me: I hate this.

PC: Cause there's just an empty space

Me: Ya know what? I’m leaving. This is crazy.

PC: And there's nothing left here to remind me, just the memory of your face.

Me: Fine. I’ll leave the picture of us at Space Mountain.

PC: Take a look at me now.

Me: I literally wish I was blind.

PC: Cause there's just an empty space

Me: You’re right. I’m taking the couch. You don’t deserve it.

PC: But to wait for you, well that's all I can do and that's what I've got to face

Me: Bye Phil. You really blew it.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011


This morning a fucking midget pulled me over at 8am while I was on my way to work. He gave me a ticket for a broken tail light.

Cop: License and registration please.

Me: *stunned silence from behind sunglasses*

Cop: Have you sent in your check for your new registration?

Me: (In my head, "Of course I did you fucking asshole. Do I look like a homeless person to you? I see you're judging my Daewoo and all the dents and scratches it has but perhaps you should judge me by my fucking business outfit which I'm wearing because I HAVE A JOB!!!!”) Yep.

Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?

Me: (In my head: "Because your dick is small and you have a thing for little boys despite the fact that you're married and giving tickets to people while they're on their way to work makes you feel like you've gained some semblance of control over your tiny life?") No.

Cop: Your brake light is out.

Me: (In my head: "YOUR brake light is out.") What's a brake light?

Cop: Stay here.

Me: (In my head: "Obviously. Do you think I'm going to make the great escape by speeding off in the bumper to bumper traffic you fucking minion?")

Eventually he came back and gave me a ticket. Naturally, I immediately burst into tears and then pouted until he was done talking. Soooooooopper white girl of me but I was caught off guard and very frustrated.

Turns out I only pull out the big guns when I'm totally inebriated. When I was 18 yrs old, most of my outfits were accessorized with a tie-dyed cast. The cast was the result of a bottle of Jagermeister. The bottle of Jagermeister was the result of my friend Ryan dying. Ryan's death was the result of heroin. Needless to say, it had been a tough year and I was long overdue for a break that did not fall into the leg category. One night, I was casually driving home from a night of debauchery when I noticed cherries in my rear view mirror. I immediately pulled over so that the dutiful police officers could catch the outlaw they were after. Turns out the outlaw was me. I was a mere block away from my parents' house and eager to get home, yet I was inconveniently deterred. These cops were then faced with a drunken teenager with a broken leg and a trunk full of beer. A transcript:

Cop: Have you been drinking.

Me: Of course not, that's illegal.

Cop: Do you mind stepping out of the car?

Me: No problem.

Cop: What happened to your leg?

Me: I'm bad at walking.

Cop: Do you have any alcohol in your car?

Me: Unclear

Cop: Stay here.

(I always regretted not running at this point since I wasn't in handcuffs yet but I probably wouldn't have gotten very far seeing as I was wasted and one-legged.)

Cop: You have beer in your trunk.

Me: Weird.

(I also had a hit of acid in my purse so I sort of felt like I was getting off easy so far.)

Cop: Put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest.

Me: Whoa, whoa. Easy buddy. How about you just give me a warning? My house is literally a block away.

Cop: My wife and kids are driving on these roads.

Me: I assure you your wife and kids are not driving on this block right now. We'd be able to see them.

Cop: Hands behind your back.

Me: Ugh.

When we got to the police station, I was allowed one phone call. I had just turned 18 and was so excited that I didn't have to call my parents. Instead I called my drug dealer friend, Marc. The good news was that Marc was awake. The bad news is that he too had been arrested by these particular cops. My brilliance came when they asked me to take the breathalyzer. When you hang out with drug addicts and alcoholics, you get a lot of awesome advice. My friend Zac once told me never to take the breathalyzer because then they'll never have proof that you were drunk. I fucking nailed that shit. Ultimately, they could never charge me with a D.U.I. If you don't take the breathalyzer, you immediately lose your license for 6 months which was fine with me because that way I could guarantee that I wouldn't drive drunk. Problem. Solved.

When Marc dropped me off at my house that night, I slurked into bed only to be awoken mere hours later by Mimi knocking on my bedroom door.

Mimi: Alison, where's your car? (When she says "your" car she means "her" car because I never actually owned my own car until I moved to L.A.)

Me: I don't know but I think I got a D.U.I.

Mimi was not impressed. This is likely because we had had a very similar conversation a few weeks earlier.

Mimi: Alison, where's your car?

Me: I don't know but I think my leg is broken.

I think I'm being punished for the D.U.I. I maneuvered my way out of 13 years ago. I have been getting a full-on dick up the ass from the L.A.P.D. ever since I moved to Los Angeles. I have a flare for the dramatic and every time I'm faced with anything I find to be unjust, I can't help but wonder...why me? What did I do to deserve this? I work hard. I pay my taxes. I send barrels of water to Ecuador. Why do I keep getting my ass handed to me by Los Angeles' finest? Perhaps it's because I spent my adolescence bitch slapping police officers. I once got pulled over by a Chicago cop who merely stopped me to tell me he'd literally never seen a worse driver in his life. I spent a lot of time drunkenly bumper carring side-mirrors off every car parked on the side streets. I often called the Chicago police in the mornings because I thought my car was stolen, only to find out I had gotten wasted and left it somewhere (at least I wasn't driving drunk!). At the end of the day, I'd say I've had this coming for a while. But your time is almost up L.A.P.D. I'd say my karma circle has just about been completed. I've got my eye on you L.A.P.D. Watch your back. If you cross me again, we both know what will happen...I will silently cry behind sunglasses and then move on with my day. Ugh...I should start drinking again. I was way more macho.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

A Conversation With My Father

Dad: I’m racist now.

Me: Excuse me?

D: Yep. I hate how black people are treated differently.

M: Dad, that’s basically the opposite of racism.

D: No, no, no. I’m telling you. I’m super racist.

M: Ok, give me an example of your racism.

D: I just think everyone should be seen as equal.

M: Right. Not racist.

D: You listen to me! I! Am racist!

M: Dad, I’ve literally never heard you say anything racist.

D: I totally do. Like the other day I heard a black guy yelling at his daughter in public and I told him to stop it.

M: Not racist.

D: But then he told me to mind my own business.

M: Not racist.

D: I think he thought I was racist.

M: But you just said that you are.

D: Exactly.

Saturday, August 6, 2011


You’re probably all thinking that I haven’t posted an entry lately because I don’t know how to use a computer (totally accurate) but it’s also due to the fact that I’m suffering from a serious depression. If you’ve never experienced such a thing, you’re a robot. Either that or you’re totally happy with your life and its surroundings in which case, shame on you. Typically my downward spiral into a deep depression is totally ridiculous and unwarranted. My friend Lauren and I call this state, “Fake Depressed” because at the end of the day, nothing is wrong. It’s typically the result of a heap of white person problems that ultimately overwhelm my pea sized brain.

My most recent depression was precipitated by a dress not fitting. This seems like a fairly quick fix, i.e. stop eating hot dogs for breakfast, however, for me, this plight seemed incredibly overwhelming. I’m a solution oriented person so I chose to check in with a few of my friends about my supposed problem. I then received a hoard of information that I found to be totally useless. If you’re ever talking to a “fake depressed” person, do not remind them about the children in Africa. Do not point out how lucky they are to have legs. Steer clear of helpful suggestions like, “just be glad you have a job right now.”

When in the midst of my fake depressions, I become incredibly unreasonable. There is nothing you could possibly say to make me feel better. I will have a quick rebuttal for all the things you believe I should be grateful for. A few examples:

Children in Africa-“Chances are, they’d fit into this dress. Fuck them.”

My Legs-“If I didn’t have legs, I wouldn’t be forced to drive in soul-crushing traffic everyday. Where do I sign up?”

My Job-“Stop it. I’d give just about anything to not have to enter that God damn torture chamber ever again.”

When in a more reasonable state of mind, I can see how, perhaps, these responses are ill-conceived. As I said, these depressions lead to erratic behaviors that, at the time, seem totally sensible. My solutions to said depressions seem sensible as well, however, much like all my ideas, they only cause more damage.

Solutions for Depression:

Eat Chinese food until you pass out

Immediately sleep with the first person you see

Openly cry while driving on the freeway

Tell your boss what you really think of him

Drink copious amounts of alcohol

Try on pants

After 30 years in the business of trying to fix my life, you’d think I would have realized that my ideas are terrible. Unfortunately, each time I’m faced with a problem, I begin to think I have the perfect fix. One of my friends from high school and I used to get wasted and poke each other with a cattle prod. In retrospect, I think we were really onto something. Sometimes I just need a swift kick in the ass to bring me back to reality. So, in summation, the cure for depression? A cattle prod. You’re welcome. My ideas work.

Monday, July 11, 2011


Here's the thing about Los Angeles that's a real dick up the ass. Even seemingly positive accomplishments are torn to shreds by the City of Angels. This commercial poses as an excellent example of how this city clearly wants me dead.

For starters, the day I booked this commercial I also received a letter, from the DMV, which claimed my license was going to be suspended if I didn't fork over a shit ton of cash. Reeeaaallll convenient, DMV. It's as if they waited for me to come into any kind of income so that they could immediately pounce. When all was said and done, I made zero dollars off this commercial. The city of Los Angeles, however, made $1,200. I'm certain they used that money on prostitutes and drugs. I know what you're thinking. I must have done SOMETHING for the DMV to start barking up my tree. Well I did. I ran a red light….TRYING TO GET TO THIS AUDITION!!!! Ugh, insert dick into ass.

DMV aside, I was ready to begin the process of being a famous, non-union, internet-commercial actress. I was brimming over with self-confidence…until I got to the fitting and had to try on pants. So basically I had high self-esteem for like 30 minutes. It was awesome. But if faded due to the pants issue. Each time I re-entered the wardrobe room I heard things like, “Oh, that’s too bad. We really liked those pants before,” and “That won’t work. She looks so lumpy.” LUMPY!? Am I actually lumpy? Of course I am. But I didn’t need to drive all the way to Santa Monica to figure that out and I certainly don’t like being called lumpy as if I'm not even there. If there’s a lumpy person in the room, please pay them some respect.

To make matters worse, the guy I was shooting this commercial with (you see the Adonis draped to the wall?) WAS A MODEL! How dare you cast a model beside me to steal all my glory. Luckily everyone on set found me to be a HILARIOUS fat person meaning I wasn’t actually acting at all. I should also mention that they were all real adamant about that hand gesture to denote that I was hot. “It’s hot.” is my actual line and I think we can all agree that you never would have known what I meant had it not been for the strategically placed hand movements that backed up my theory.

At the end of my 8 hours of work, I basically blacked out. I was tired, still poor and as always, my pants didn’t fit.

Sunday, July 10, 2011


In honor of the 405 shutting down this weekend, what follows is my inner-monologue while navigating the perplexing and horrifying streets of Los Angeles. As we all know, I'm the only good driver in this God forsaken town.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Oh good, an ambulance. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Oh look at you! You're turning left! Congratulations you fucking asshole. Oh, yep. Just a little slower now. Make sure you've really got it. Hooray! I hate you. Fuck you. I hate you. Fuck you. SERIOUSLY?! A CAR ATTACHED TO A TRUCK ON SUNSET?! Awesome. Ya know what you could use more of? Lights, yellow tape, and billowing black exhaust. Ugh. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead. Calm down everyone, it's just a movie premiere. Let's all try to focus up and continue on. UGH!!!! Pedestrians are the devil. Pedestrians are the devil. Pedestrians are the devil. Seriously bicyclist?! Who do you think you're helping? Get a fucking car you shitshow. You dirty hipster. You're not saving the environment. You're only increasing the homicide rate. USE THE SIDEWALK! Ideally you'll take out a few pedestrians in the process. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. My life lacks meaning. CONSTRUCTION!!!? Oh sure, now's a good time to work on the 101. 5pm on a Friday. Excellent choice, city of Los Angeles. You son of a bitch. There is no God. There is no God. There is no God. There is no God. What the fuck are you doing lady? Oh I get it, you're doing your makeup while reading to your child, OBVIOUSLY. You suck! You are so stupid! This time should be dedicated to DRIVING!!!! AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Friday, June 24, 2011

My Friday Night

I think we all know I had zero to do with the mass accomplishment of uploading a video onto my blog. We have Amanda McFarland to thank for that. She can often be seen hacking my Twitter and Facebook pages. She is a rebel and a leader. Much like these animal people below, she is a wildabeast. Hope you enjoy. She asked me to put on a play including the animal crackers she bought and far be it from me to deny a lady a request.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Happy Birthday

I’m supposed to go to Mexico for my birthday, Puerto Vallarta, to be exact. I have meticulously planned this trip and have set aside the necessary funds in order to embark upon this journey in a responsible way. Then I accidentally watched a documentary entitled Crude. This movie has ruined my life.

Crude tells the heartbreaking story of how Texaco-Chevron basically destroyed the country of Ecuador (Is Ecuador a country? It doesn’t matter. There are indigenous people there and they are God damn adorable.) Basically there’s something there called “The Amazon.” This place looks terrifying to begin with. Pour a shit ton of oil on top of it and you can bet your ass I’ll never be visiting. Yet as this documentary unfolded, I was taken. Set aside the fact that these people are dumb enough to live in the jungle. Why not a studio apartment? Believe me people, it’s no picnic but I have to imagine it’s better than living in a tree. So whatever, I get it. Born in a tree, start a family in a tree, grow old in a tree. It’s tradition. God bless. I’m willing to chalk this all up to idiocy and move on with my life. So far, this documentary is boring.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop there. Turns out the fine people of Texaco accidentally spilled a ka-jillion gallons of oil all over the fine city of Ecuador (maybe it’s a city?). All these tree people are dying because they have nothing to drink but oil water. This is where I start to lose it. It turns out drinking and bathing in oil water causes ferocious cancer and the horrible man that made this film was sure to cover it all. There was this little girl with rashes all over her body, and then some 16 yr old who had to take a bus 18 hrs to get cancer treatment, and then a dad who lost both of his sons. And then Sting’s wife, that vixen Trudie Styler joined in and before you know it I’m jumping off the couch, cheetos are flying everywhere, I have a total breakdown of senses AND I BUY A $500 WATER CONTAINER FOR THE PEOPLE LIVING IN THE PROVINCE OF ECUADOR.

You have got to be fucking joking me. This is not ok. I don’t have $500. I DRIVE A DAEWOO! But how could I just sit here and watch that 16 yr old jungle person take the bus for 18 hrs? She should be awarded $500 just for having to take a jalopy in that heat! And who knows what supposed cancer treatment she’s even getting? For all I know, she just took a bus, probably got a staph infection in the process, and was awarded an Advil on the other end and told it was chemotherapy. Stop it.

It seems I have a soft spot for tree people. I love them, in fact. So fine, I can’t afford to go to Mexico now because I have no more money. And sure, my parents are going to murder me once they hear about the kinds of choices I make on my own. And yes, Rob Schaefer is going to never speak to me again because I made him change all his plans around so I could visit his condo in Puerto Vallarta and instead I chose to provide water to a part of the world I can’t even be really sure exists. Essentially, I’ve lost everything. I guess the good news is a) I have clean water, b) I don’t sleep in a tree and c) I have 4,000 new Ecuadorian friends that owe me, big time.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


I drive a 2001 Daewoo. Daewoo is a company committed to manufacturing an array of items ranging from toasters to cars. Many people ask me a) what the fuck is a Daewoo and b) why the fuck are you driving one.

I moved to Los Angeles sans car. As a matter of fact, I had never purchased a car nor had I driven in several years. A friend of mine knew of a car rental dodge that would occasionally sell a car or two. Listen, I’m not sure how it works but I do know he took me there. I had initially become devoted to buying a car in a rational and conservative way, however, after 5 days in LA without transportation (don’t talk to me about the bus, that’s unreasonable) I became desperate. On a Saturday afternoon, David and I arrived at the rental place, and I had a short but assertive conversation with the woman behind the counter.

Me: Hello, my name is Alison Royer and I’d like to buy a car now.

Car Person: Um…

Me: You heard me.

CP: Unfortunately the man who usually sells car is out until Monday.

Me: Not interested, gimmie a car.

CP: I’m not even sure which ones are for sale.

Me: Try harder lady.

CP: I think that one’s available (as she points to the Daewoo)

Me: I’ll take it. Do you take debit?

And she did, and that’s how I bought my first car. She wasn’t lying about being ill-equipped to finish this transaction. She didn’t even have the key to the safe that held the title to my brand new (old and decrepit) Daewoo but I wasn’t gonna let that stop me. And let me tell you, this broad did everything in her power to keep me from buying that car.

Me: Seriously, give it to me.

CP: Do you want to test drive it?

Me: *blank stare*

CP: Would you like to start a payment plan?

Me: You want me to mail you 50 cents a month for a year lady?

This is when Mimi got involved. The awkward car person continued to pepper me with a slew of ridiculous questions that I did not understand so eventually I just called my mother and handed the woman my phone.

At the end of our transaction, I entered my pin number and drove off with a brand new (10 yr old) Daewoo that I could smoke in although nothing could eradicate the smell of oppression and failure that already lingered. It reminded me of every other memory from my adult life.

I love my car. It was cheap, it makes me happy, and when pregnant women back into it (happened) I don’t mind at all.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

A Love Letter

Dear Poop:

I am so sorry! I had no idea you were up there buddy. I feel horrible. Why didn’t you say something? Oh my God poop, I am so embarrassed. There was so much of you. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. Cramped, uncomfortable, no room to breath; how did I not know? This is my fault poop. I haven’t been paying enough attention to you. I got busy and I forgot about you. This is a relationship and I recognize that sometimes I need to put you first but today I just got distracted. I thought I noticed you after dinner but I was busy talking and then I had to rush to the gym and I didn’t think to get back to you until now. Poop, will you ever forgive me? It wasn’t my intention to keep you locked away like a slave. I cherish you and all you do for me. I would literally die without you and I want you to know that I will never treat you this way again. You deserve better than that poop. I want to start over. I want to work you into my schedule in a way that makes you feel important. I want you to feel that you can be yourself. You don’t have to be afraid to speak up. We are in this together poop. I love you.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Things That Bother Me #547


I work in the US Bank Building. It strikes me as a fairly non-threatening commercial building, however, each day I attempt to enter this Goliath, I am put through aggressive security procedures. It strikes me as fairly unreasonable to have to scan my badge literally every 5 feet. Recently I forgot my badge at home (consider it the downfall of switching purses which I will never do again). The members of the security team in my building, treated me like a terrorist that day. Somehow, they managed to conveniently forget that they see me EVERY DAY. I had to do everything short of giving blood, merely to attend a job that I don’t like. It was oppressing.

And let me just tell you, when I say I see these tyrants EVERY DAY, I mean it. Believe me, I would love to move through my day without 50 strangers greeting me repeatedly throughout the process. The worst part here is that I smoke, so I’m apt to be walking in and out of this death spiral several times each day. Let’s face it, being a security guard has got to be the most boring job in America. Your job is to stand there like an asshole while the rest of us ignore you. I recognize that there are people out there who want to befriend these security people, I am not one of them. I like to pretend they’re statues. It’s fairly hard to do this when they keep talking to me! What’s more, they make outlandish assumptions about where I may be heading which makes it increasingly awkward when I come back 3 minutes later. Also, I’ve worked here for 2 years and you’d think these imbeciles could figure out that I’m in and out a lot, kind of like The Terminator. OH MY GOD I NAILED IT!

Sorry, moving on. Let me give you an example. I typically go for a cig at 4:30pm. I leave work at 5:30pm. Yesterday, I walked downstairs and some know-it-all security man said this to me, “Have a great night!” You can imagine the pain that I felt, knowing that I had another hour to complete at my wretched day job before I could be released into the wild. He then added insult to injury, after I scowled at him, by saying, “Smile!” If you want to be murdered by me, you should ask me to smile. If you want to be murdered by me and shipped to your parents, you should tell me that smoking is bad for me. Needless to say, that particular security guard is dead.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Things That Bother Me #847

Other people’s voicemails

For starters, I find it to be highly unreasonable when people claim they could only be doing one of two things which is why they’re not answering their phone.

“Hi! This is Claire, I’m either on the other line or I’m in a meeting.”

I doubt that Claire. Are you suggesting that you never poop? What if you just ate lunch and now you’re pooping. You failed to mention that, didn’t you Claire? Our relationship is built on a lie Claire. I can think of 4 zillion things that would keep me from answering my phone yet you’ve only listed 2. You’re a liar Claire. I will never call you again.

I also dislike when people tell me what to do in their voicemail.

“Hi, this is Mimi. Please leave your name and your number and I’ll call you back.”

Mimi, I’m your daughter. I’m fairly certain that you have my number. Also, I’m your only daughter so you should be able to decipher who’s calling sans the mentioning of my name. Mimi’s not the only one who demands I offer up my first and last name, time I called, and what my call is regarding. How about this everyone? I’ll leave whatever information I god damn well please and you can either call me back or go fuck yourself. I promise you, if I really have something to tell you, I will find you and scream it in your face. I will then tattoo my phone number onto your arm to be sure you have it.

Finally, automated voicemails that leave me a slew of unreasonable options that no one, anywhere would ever use, enrage me.

“After the beep, please leave a message. When you are finished recording, please press pound. If you’d like to send a fax, please press 3. If this is an emergency, hang up an call 911.”

What asshole tries to send a fax to a cell phone? That can’t possibly be a thing. Furthermore, does anyone even send faxes anymore? I doubt it. And this might come as a shock to you, wretched automated message, but if this was actually an emergency, I’d likely be dead by the time I got through all your options. 911 you say? Ah, brilliant. See, I thought it was the 9 digit number that I had at my disposal. Thank god I waited for 30 minutes to hear of this 911 you speak of. I hate you.

Friday, May 20, 2011

The Rules

I want to start by preemptively congratulating myself on uploading a picture. I write this without the knowledge as to whether or not I’ve succeeded but nonetheless, hooray for me. If my picture didn’t actually upload, I’ll need to tell you that there is a book entitled The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right and it is utterly bewildering. It seems cliché that a single woman would be annoyed by a self help book about getting a husband but I should tell you, I have tried The Rules and instead of capturing the heart of Mr. Right I captured the heart of Mr. STD and Mr. Accidentally Pregnant. I want my money back. In order to save other women from capturing the heart of Mr. Oops, I’m Already Married and Mr. I Think I Might Be Gay, I’m taking an opportunity to clarify a few of the rules that struck me as confusing.

Rule #1: Be a “Creature” Unlike Any Other

See now, I read “creature” as “slut” and I got into a little bit of trouble. Had I finished reading the rules, I would have gotten to Rule #15: Don't Rush into Sex, Wait at Least Three Dates. I believe Rule #1 should be-Read All the Rules. God damn prudish girls are always out to get me.

Rule # 20: Be Honest but Mysterious

I botched this one as well. I think what they meant to say was lie. I took it to mean go ahead and mention you’ve been arrested but don’t reveal why. Or admit that you’ve had sex with someone else in the last 24 hours but refuse to divulge who that person is. Had I fully omitted these initial facts, I feel I would have been far better off. So I believe Rule #20 should read: Don’t Say Words. To be fair, Rule #3 is Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much but I’m pretty sure that in my case the no speaking rule is the only way to go.

Rule #13: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week

I totally nailed this Rule and was so proud of myself until I realized that I was more than nailing it. I was seeing him zero times a week which means that in 10 out of 10 cases I just never spoke to any men ever again. I can’t imagine that this is what this rule was intended to do. Rule #13 should be: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week and If You See Him Zero You’re Doing a Bad Job.

Rule #16: Don't Tell Him What to Do

What am I? Wonderwoman!? Don’t tell him what to do? What if he’s doing everything poorly? I can’t stomach playing lap dog to a guy who refuses to take side streets when traffic is bad. Or what if he takes me to a movie but doesn’t get popcorn?! I almost had a meltdown once when I was with a guy at a party and he mixed Maker’s Mark with coke. YOU DON’T MIX MAKER’S MARK YOU ANIMAL!!! IT IS A DELICIOUS WHISKEY THAT STANDS ALONE AND PUTTING ANY OTHER SUBSTANCE ANYWHERE NEAR IT IS OFFENSIVE. STOP DRINKING LIKE A WOMAN!!!

I digress. Needless to say, The Rules and I did not get along. Come to think of it, it’s been virtually impossible for me to follow any Rules over the years. Examples include, “don’t jump out of a moving vehicle” and “stop when your nose is bleeding”. My new Rule is going to be Don’t Follow Anyone’s Bullshit Rules. To The Rules, this means I’ll be single and alone. To me, it means I’ll be leaving the refrigerator door open, wearing a tutu to work, and keeping the assholes of the world from destroying a delicious Kentucky whiskey.

Saturday, May 7, 2011


Today, I was unable to get out bed in order to go to my job. Some people would call this depression, I call it Tuesday. I had one of those days when I come to the horrifying realization that everything’s wrong. Nothing is making me happy and I am determined to sift through my bag of tricks in order to come up with a solution. Solution #1: call my mother.

Me: Hi, mom, it’s me. I’m dead inside and have lost the willingness to participate in life.

Mimi: What do you do for fun?

Me: Laundry?

Mimi: Well are you dating anyone?

Me: *muffled sobs*

Honey, you need to get a social life.

That bitch. How dare she question my social activities. I was furious so I decided to take a nice relaxing bath to calm my nerves. Two weeks later, I still have an ear infection from this process. I don’t know what kind of asshole it takes to harm themselves in a bathtub but these are the sorts of instances that haunt my existence. The next morning, when I noticed water in my ear, it should have been a clue that my ideas never work. I was furious, unable to hear and late for a haircut so I jumped in my Daewoo and furiously drove to meet my big, gay hairdresser who I knew would make me feel better. After he kissed me on the lips upon arrival (West Hollywood, classic), we discussed my new haircut.

Big Gay Hairdresser: What do you want to do?

Me: I don’t care.

BGH: Shorter?

Me: There is no God.

BGH: Color?

Me: Can I smoke in here?

BGH: Don’t worry, we’ll do something fun.

Apparently fun to a Big Gay Hairdresser translates to Mark Twain characters because now I look like Tom Sawyer. What’s worse is that I look like a breed of Tom Sawyer who never saw the sun and let me just tell you this haircut did nothing to boost my self-esteem, despite the swarm of gay men who hit on me the rest of the day.
In order to offset the horrifying, cry-for-help haircut I had just received, I swung by the tanning beds. I hadn’t been in a tanning bed since I was in high school and the prospect of looking young again thrilled me. After about an hour of lathering up with some horrid lotion and then laying on plastic for 10 minutes, I came out looking like an orange checker board. I’m not even sure how this is possible. Streaking is typically something that happens when you spray tan but as my life goes, I was the one in a million who suffered these consequences in a legit tanning bed. I suppose this is what I get for requesting the full dose of cancer.

Seeing as none of my wretched solutions were working, I attempted to take my mother’s advice and get a social life. On Friday, as I began to execute this plan, I suffered a minor set back by accidentally taking a nap. I awoke around 8pm, desperate to create my social life. I started by calling my friend Julie.

Julie: What’s up?

Me: My mom says I need a social life.

Julie: I’m babysitting. Wanna hang out on Sunday?

Me: That seems aggressive. The problem with making plans is that then the day finally comes along and I’m forced to do something.

Julie: You’re a terrible person. *click*

After my call with Julie, I realized that in order to have a social life I would have to a) leave my house, b) drive somewhere or c) hang out with people. I’m good at none of those things so instead I ate ice cream, which I am excellent at.

I’m not sure what the cure for depression is, but I’m like 90% sure it’s not calling your mother, tanning or getting a haircut. Every time I try to fix something, I end up breaking it even more. Perhaps, in my case, the best action is to take no action at all. This thought brought me so much peace that I was finally able to let it all go. That night, I slept like I baby. I laid my head on my pillow, forgot about the days’ events and thought for a minute that I could actually hear the ocean. And then I remembered, it wasn’t the ocean at all, it was a god damn ear infection.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Eat Pie Instead

Exercise. What a heaping pile of shit this idea turned out to be. Certainly I have the wherewithal to recognize that any sort of physical activity is good for me. If nothing else, it's my attempt to counteract the heap of cigs I scarf down each day. What really bothers me are the cretins that pretend they're having the time of their lives, merely by exercising. When did we all start pretending that grueling exercise is a super fun time for all involved? In addition, each of these creeps have glommed on to their favorite exercise and they then spend the rest of their free time telling fatties like me how great it is.

"Have you heard about running? Oh ya, it's so freeing. I played running in college but I'm into this new thing where I don't wear shoes when I run and it's really changed my life."

Hey running enthusiast, you're an asshole. I get that there's an entire magazine dedicated to you and everything but stop trying to pretend that this is a new religion that we're all missing out on. You're simply going nowhere at an accelerated pace. That doesn't strike me as all that profound. Did you know that running was essentially invented in the process of hunting animals? Yet you continue to come back from your runs empty handed. You're doing a bad job runner. It's just exercise. Take it easy.

"I'm not religious, I'm spiritual. You know, like yoga."

Um....what? Just because you can suck your own dick, doesn't mean you're now a spiritual guru. While I do appreciate that yoga classes usually end with "Shavasana" also known as "Sleeping," I find the majority of their so-called "poses" to be a real slap in the face. I also don't appreciate how calm everybody seems to be while suggesting that I rest my entire body on my forearms and then touch my toes to my ears. What kind of freak show is this? And why are we all chanting? I get that we're in West Hollywood but not every activity has to incorporate a song and dance. So take your little sleeping bag or magic carpet or whatever you call it and calm the fuck down. I get it, you're enlightened AND you've been to India. I didn't come here for a pep talk. I just want my ass to be smaller.

"Oh you HAVE to come to my spin class. You burn SO many calories."

I mean...probably but you're also forced to torture your nuts or vagina for 50 minutes while someone screams at you, to the tune of Lady Gaga. Has anyone realized yet that spinning is riding a one-wheeled bike? You basically took a totally functional piece of machinery, made it immobile, and called it exercise. It's actually worse than running because at the end of the class you unicycled in place for an hour and probably gave yourself a Urinary Tract Infection in the process.

Its fine everyone! Exercise is a thing that helps people, hooray! But ya know what else helps people? Root canals, insulin and chemotherapy. But when was the last time you heard a diabetic talking about the awesome new syringe he got? Never. Because sometimes things that are good for you are actually terrible. You are living a lie exercise aficionados. Exercise is horrible. It hurts, it's time-consuming and sometimes it threatens to rip away at your private parts. Pretending to like exercise is like pretending that the man who beats you is misunderstood. Well he's not. He's a horrible person and exercise is a terrible torture chamber that we all participate in begrudgingly. I just wish we could be honest about it. I'd rather be doing anything other than using any of my muscles at any time. If I could spend the rest of my life eating buckets of chicken in bed, I would. And I am no longer going to sit idly by while the rest of you feign excitement each time you approach the treadmill. So the next time you ask me how my workout was I will answer honestly, "It was God damn terrible. I hated everything about it and all the people there. Save yourself and never participate in soul-crushing exercise. Eat pie instead."

Thursday, April 7, 2011


I'll do just about anything to fit in. As a result, upon arriving in sunny California, I became obsessed with the idea of seeking therapy. I didn't necessarily believe that I needed therapy, but every man that I've ever dated felt differently. Regardless, I knew that having a therapist was a super cool thing to do in LA, just like being a Scientologist or battling a drug addiction. I had a feeling that the mere addition of a therapist to my life would rocket me into the inner-world of Hollywood. I was sure it would be a direct connection to celebrities but I could not have anticipated how true this theory would turn out to be.

After a few weeks of aggressively seeking a therapist, I began to panic. It hadn't occurred to me that this process would be at all challenging. I hit immediate roadblocks, all of which I was determined to overcome. For starters, everyone I called asked the same stupid question, "What problems would you like to discuss with the doctor?" First of all, Doctor? Take it easy. That's a bit bold, don't you think? I get that you went to therapy school or whatever but let's try to scale back the doctor claims, shall we? Second of all, I was only calling the doctor so that I could advance my acting career, but I had an innate sense that this was not a good enough reason. Instead I chose to tap into any real problems that I found to be lingering. It went a little something like this:

Me: Hi, I'd like to schedule an appointment to see the doctor.

Dr.: Ok, what's wrong with you?

Me: *hysterical crying*

Dr.: We're booked. *click*

Can you believe it?! Every single one of those clowns claimed to be booked! Listen, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, "supposed doctors", but perhaps you should reveal your scheduling issues prior to opening the vault which is my inner-child. I was getting fed up with the entire process and it was becoming clear that literally everyone in L.A. had gotten on the therapy bandwagon long before I had arrived. I was upset and outraged. I needed therapy just to help me work through the fact that I couldn't find a therapist. I had never felt so alone and I began to do what I often do when the world becomes overwhelming, I pretended that I was Brenda Walsh from the critically acclaimed 90's classic television show, Beverly Hills 90210.

Man, that bitch had it so good. Perfect parents, bomb house, incredible bangs. Not a Wednesday at 7pm went by, during my adolescence, when I wasn't saddled up to the television, carefully following the trials and tribulations of that chunky Midwestern girl from Minnesota who found herself in the throes of Beverly Hills. I bet Brenda Walsh never had a problem finding a therapist. She didn't even need one! She had supportive parents, a hot brother, and slew of available, rich, potential boyfriends. As I settled into my Brenda Walsh fantasy, the phone rang. FINALLY!!!! There was one, lone therapist who was covered by my insurance and could meet on a Saturday. I didn't remember calling her, I didn't recognize her name, I knew zero about her but I could tell she was the one.

On the day of our first appointment, I was elated. I had finally arrived. I had moved to Los Angeles to be an actor and had officially employed a therapist. Things were looking up. When my new therapist/life coach entered the room I was overwhelmed. I KNEW this broad. I couldn't place her but I was certain we had met before.

Me: God you look so familiar.

Life Coach: Oh, you probably saw my picture on the website.

Me: No, but I mean, I feel like I know you.

LC: Well....have you ever watched the show Beverly Hills 90210?

Me: *astonished* You shut the fuck up lady.

LC: I played Brenda's mom, Cindy Walsh.

Dear God. I should have known that my answer would come in the form of the matriarchal figure from my favorite T.V. show. I all but attacked my newly found therapist after that. As it turns out, her name is Carol Potter and she got into therapy after working with the quacks on Beverly Hills. I suppose she had incredible practice. Clearly I continue to meet with her every week. How could I not? While she remains extremely professional, I can't help but hope that someday I'll walk in and have to fill out a sheet describing which Beverly Hills character I most identify with as an exercise for her to determine my general mood. I long to inquire about Dylan’s whereabouts, but I don't want to come off as desperate (seriously, where is he?). For now, I find solace in the fact that I grew up with my therapist. She already knows everything about me. She is the mom I've always wanted, the best friend I've never had. We even have the same agent! Therapy is working in ways I could never have imagined. The simple knowledge that I have a therapist makes me feel better. It solidifies a belief I had in high school, "No matter where you are or what you're going through, Cindy Walsh will always be there and she will always understand." Da na na na, Da na na na *clap* *clap*

Thursday, March 31, 2011


Hey Kale,

Fuck you. Oh you think you're so clever, trying to pass yourself off as a snack. But you're not a snack, Kale. You, are an impostor. I had Chick-fil-A today, Kale. And it was delicious. You're nothing more then an upgrade of seaweed, Kale. SEAWEED!!! Again, not a snack. A horrible smack in the face. You are a lifeless sea creature. You, are cabbage. You know what I love about cabbage? Nothing, Kale! Zero! It's like eating green water you sick fuck. There is a version of you called Rape Kale. Reeeeallll convenient Kale. You are disgusting. I pity you, Kale. You take advantage of people who don't know any better. All the hipsters at Whole Foods are confused by your unsubstantiated claims of being a chip. You're not a chip, Kale! Ya know what makes great chips?! POTATOES!!! They've been doing it for years and then you slither in here with your deceptive green and leafy ways. You dirty scoundrel. You are delusional. I've seen pictures of you pretending to be a salad but I know better, Kale. What the fuck are you, Kale?! A flower? Don't think I haven't noticed you trying to pretend you're a flower, Kale. I hate you. I cannot stand you, Kale. Get out of my soup! You are literally stalking me, Kale. What's so great about you?! What do you have that collard greens don't have, Kale? I was perfectly fine before you waltzed in here, wreaking havoc on the vegetable world. You don't belong here, Kale! You sneaky devil. Get lost, Kale! You gutless monster. You are the worst thing that's ever happened to me, Kale. You're an animal. A psychopath. A threat. Scram, Kale. Watch your back. Watch. Your. Back. You God damn son of a bitch.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

I'm Bad At This

Someone asked me today how often I update my blog. I responded, “Literally every day.” He then went to my blog and pointed out how horribly untrue my reply was. It was then that I realized that not only do I have no concept of time, but I’m also a terrible blogger. Let me walk you through a few things that are holding me back.

#1 Somehow I broke my wireless internet connection. I think we both know that I barely have a grasp of what the internet is and I certainly have no skill set for how to make its magical wonder reappear in my apartment. I did manage to put the cable in my lap top but I hate sitting at my desk so I basically just stopped updating my blog. Today I realized that you don’t need to write the blog on the internet, you just need to post it there. That entire process and then realization lasted about two weeks hence my lack of updates.

#2 As I said, I have no concept of time but I think it goes beyond that. I’m bad with numbers. I don’t really know the time period in which I broke and then slightly fixed my internet problem. I also have no idea what time it is right now, how much money I have in my checking account, what I spent on dinner or how old I am. I believe that numbers are holding us down and I refuse to participate in them. If I say I update my blog every day then I do God damnit!

#3 I’m afraid of computers. I don’t know what they do and when I begin to contemplate their possibilities I become terrified. My friend Mike recently suggested I add pictures and a background design to my blog and then slapped me in the face by sending me a sample of his blog which contained all sorts of things that enraged and confused me. I tried to explain to him that the only thing I know how to do is type. I’ve wanted to post pictures but I don’t own a camera nor do I have any awareness around where to get one or how to use it. Even if I did, I couldn’t possibly fathom the next step required to put those pictures on a computer, or as I call it, the technological death trap. Every time I want to do something on my blog, I gchat whoever I think is smart and tell them what I want.

I think that’s everything. I want you to know I’m going to try to do better. How about I just give my password to one of you and you make my blog better. Actually, if you can guess my password, the first picture I put up will be of you.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011


Being friends with me isn’t fun for anyone. I’m loud, aggressive, unruly, and have spent the majority of my life in a blackout. It’s shocking that I have any friends at all…yet I do…loads of them…ok 7…minus my parents…5. I have 5 friends. No but seriously, I have a lot of friends. And I ask you, what is wrong with these people? Initially, I thought I’d take this opportunity to thank all of them for dealing with my constant insubordination but upon further review, I’m actually deeply concerned with their choices in comrades. Specifically, I’m concerned about my friend, Reggie. Reggie has known me for about 10 years and he has suffered a myriad of consequences, as a result. I recently screamed at Reggie for not reminding me that it was his birthday and he suggested that I write an entire story about him as his birthday gift. As you can see, Reggie is intensely selfish. Nonetheless, Reggie, this is for you.

I first met Reggie when I was living with 3 boys in Chicago. Like most formidable moments in my life, I remember none of this, however, Reggie claims he was in my bathroom one day and that I walked in and said, “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?” Seeing as Reggie didn’t live there, I find that to be a fair question but apparently he was dumbfounded. As noted earlier, he made the horrible decision to seek me out and be friends with me. Based on my hostile greeting, we can only assume that Reggie has deep-seeded emotional issues. There’s no other explanation for why he would continue to pursue a wretched shrew like me. Let’s all say it together…daddy issues.

I don’t fully recall the 2nd time I met Reggie. I just know he started dating my friend Josh and then he was around all the time. And he was constantly yelling at me for things I didn’t remember. Apparently, he had been stranded on the side of the road one day with my roommate Julius and when Julius called me for help I denied him and went back to the very serious business of making pot brownies. Again, this strikes me as perfectly reasonable. Why should I let these damn cookies burn because you forgot to put gas in your car? And furthermore, I didn’t even know Reggie yet but not a hangover went by that didn’t consist of Reggie screaming at me for leaving him on the side of the road like a brute.

As the years went on, Reggie tricked me into liking him. He’s crass, vulgar and judgmental which, are all the qualities I admire in a person. I liked Reggie so much that I would often call him in a blackout and invite him over to my house only to be fully passed out by the time he arrived forcing him to break into my apartments by way of neighbors, roommates and drug dealers, all of whom had keys to my abode.

The final blow was on one of my birthdays. I was very drunk and everyone knows that when I get loaded I start acting unreasonably. I maintain that everyone should have known better than to have my birthday party at my coke dealer's bar but those God damn clowns were relentless. On this particular night, I was feeling decidedly playful and opted to participate in one of my favorite drunken games entitled, “Circus Tricks.” Circus Tricks is a game where I get drunk and beat people up. On the night of my birthday party, it involved me running and jumping on Reggie only to catapult him in and through a glass table. Being the sneaky devil that I am, I lithely pounced away without being noticed, leaving Reggie alone in a pile of glass.

Somehow, this was not the end of our friendship. I suppose he had compassion for me as Circus Tricks typically results in me getting hurt as well. Literally all of my Circus Tricks have resulted in major injuries. Examples include fighting a newspaper stand and bruising my entire body, falling through a glass table and getting stitches, and jumping over a railroad track and breaking my leg. All of these incidents were precipitated by me attempting to run and jump on someone. It always struck me as hilarious at the time and no one ever complained because I was already in shambles. Did I ever tell you about the time I had a tie-dyed cast? It was awesome.

So on my birthday, as I stood in the corner laughing and barefoot for some reason, Reggie didn’t yell at me. He didn’t throw a drink in my face. He merely got up, shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the bar.

Overall, Reggie is a moron. Look at what I’ve put him through. As my final birthday wish, I hope you can get a grip on whatever demons you’re haunted by that lead you to pursue this tumultuous companionship. I love you Reggie and unless you’ve secretly been getting money this entire time from some non-profit that focuses on befriending drunken women, you’ve got real problems. Either way, happy birthday….you sicko.

Thursday, March 10, 2011


Ya know those posters or books that claim that everything we needed to learn we learned in kindergarten? While I don't find those claims to be so far off, I never learned the things you're supposed to learn in kindergarten. Or rather, I heard these rules, ignored them, and quickly moved on with my life -- a life where I don't share, I don't play fair, I've been known to hit people and mostly, I talk to strangers. All the time. This has always struck me as a pretty unreasonable rule. For starters, there's the obvious fact that if we didn't talk to strangers, none of us would have friends. Don’t most deep, long-lasting friendships begin with two strangers talking? And what about dating? I took this rule a step farther by not only talking to strangers, I went on to sleep with strangers. Loads of them. While sleeping with strangers typically backfired with a slew of STDs and pregnancy scares, talking with strangers has predominantly worked out for me.

One of my earliest memories with a “Stranger” was at a time when my well-intentioned parents took me to serve food at a homeless shelter. Even as an adorable 12 year old, I was willing to take things a step further than my parents could have ever anticipated. Not only did I want to serve food to these turkeys, I wanted to hang out for a while, share a meal, and possibly take them to a movie later. I believe this was a church outing, one of the few I've ever attended in my life. We drove from the predominately white, crispy clean suburbs, all the way to Joliet where we could find ourselves some hungry homeless people. This is one of those things that white people do to feel better about themselves. They drive to a homeless shelter that's not too far away so that they can still have time to come home and garden. They smile and nod at the homeless people. They shake hands through a plastic glove. Then, they all jump back into the church van and talk about how grateful they are to be white and have homes. Well, I wasn't buyin' it. I wanted in on this homeless organization and I wasn't going to leave until I could really figure these people out.

Luckily, I found myself a very eager and willing teacher named, "The Candyman." The Candyman was this HUGE black guy with the biggest, most crooked smile I had ever seen. If I remember correctly, his teeth looked like Chiclets, he wore huge 1980's plastic glasses and he walked with a cane. Oh, and he always had candy on him.... obviously, cause he was The Candyman. We were doing bits and I had never felt more comfortable. By the time my parents dragged me out of there and tried to explain to everyone why I was acting so peculiar, I started in on them. Why is it bad to hang out with The Candyman? Weren't we going there to help people? What do you mean dangerous? We were scooping gravy in a church basement, how bad could it be? The hypocrisy of all the church-goers really rawed my hide and it became evident that all future gatherings with strangers, like most other things in my life, were going to have to be done behind my parents’ backs. This was the day that my parents and I entered into a silent “don't ask, don't tell” policy and that policy has been in place ever since.

More recently, I came home from work to find a man in my dumpster. This is pretty standard in my neighborhood. We have an unlocked gate into our parking lot and at the back of our little driveway lies a dumpster. This is a treasure trove for homeless people. After I got out of my car, I realized that this man was full-on, inside the dumpster and when he saw me coming he queried, "Can you believe it’s going to be Christmas next week?" Now I was still trying to get my bearings cause I wasn't sure what this clown was up to and I had to be sure before we could chat. When I replied that no I couldn't believe that Christmas was next week he went on, "Well I guess it doesn't matter cause my whole family is dead." Well, now I was hooked. Partly because I wanted to know why his whole family was dead, partly because he sounded so chipper but mostly because I wanted to know what the happiest man in America was doing digging through my dumpster.

As it turns out, Anthony has been homeless for 2 years. He's addicted to crystal meth and he's shooting it but remains HIV negative... supposedly. He told me that he was digging through trash because his "aunt" is really hard up for money. Oddly, I believed this story. I believed that meth-head Anthony wants to recycle a few plastic bottles so he can give his aunt the 35 cents. Also, Anthony really had me because if there's one breed of person that I love more than strangers, it drug-addicted strangers. They are my favorite people. There is nothing more predictable in the world than the behavior of a drug addict but they always think they're being so clever. At the end of my conversation with Anthony, I had given him my phone number, a roll of quarters to call me and a pack of cigs. Obviously, Anthony never called. Worst case scenario, he used my $10 worth of quarters to buy drugs, best case scenario he used it to get an HIV test.

On my ride home from work the other day, I saw Anthony crossing the street. I wanted to stop to say something but now that we actually knew each other, it was kind of awkward. I knew just enough about him now for him to feel judged whereas before, when I knew nothing, he was just a perfectly normal guy, digging through my trash. I guess that's the thing that I like about strangers. They're the perfect person at the perfect moment and they teach you something and then go away. In Anthony’s case, he taught me that if you shoot crystal meth you’ll end up living in a dumpster. What if all the homeless people are angels? It seems unlikely that angels would be meth heads, and big scary men named The Candyman. But what if our horrible kindergarten teachers got it wrong? What if we're supposed to be talking to strangers? I'll tell you what. If I ever end up balls deep in a trash can, I'd want you to talk to me.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Poverty Is Boring...

It should be noted that my trip to Thailand and the story that followed are what precipitated my desire to have a blog. I think it's only fair to share that story here. Good luck.
Many of you were doubtful when I announced that I’d be visiting Thailand and Cambodia. In this case, you’ll be shocked to know that I write this note from Pattaya, Thailand. I have not, nor will I make it to Cambodia. I attribute this to Josh’s understanding that I would have likely died there. Truth be told, I’m not doing all that well adjusting to Thailand. I forced Josh to let me eat at Sizzler today. It was delicious.

I knew very little about Thailand when I boarded my flight at LAX mere days ago. Actually, I had never done any research at all. As I settled into my Cathay Pacific flight, I heard the pilot announce that our trip to Hong Kong alone would be 15 hours. This was a real slap in the face. I had never put any actual thought into how long my flight would take but I did know that this sounded aggressive. I looked around the plane waiting to identify some other white person who was just as horrified as I was by this news. Instead, I was faced with a sea of Asians and crying babies. This would become a theme on my journey. I was often confused and people around me seemed to think that everything was perfectly reasonable.

For instance, when I landed in Hong Kong I ordered a cappuccino and then received a bill for $55. I was outraged. After like 45 minutes, I realized they meant 55 Hong Kong dollars. I still had no idea what that meant and opted to just hand the cashier my wallet so that she could grab what she needed. I did this a lot. I still have no idea how much anything is or how much I’m spending which quite frankly isn’t all that different from me in LA.

When I arrived in Bangkok, Josh was not at the gate and I had zero back up plan. I just assumed he’d be there to greet me. I froze there for a while until some man in a uniform asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. That seemed like a pretty reasonable solution so I did that for a while, an hour to be exact. Luckily, it did eventually occur to me that I still hadn’t found Josh and that I was in Bangkok. I finally decided to walk about 50 feet further than where I was and that is where I found Josh who had been there the entire time but hadn’t been able to get through security.

With Josh on my arm, I quickly got used to people assuming we were married. It seems that if you check into hotels and resorts with a man and a king bed, people jump to conclusions. I thought about explaining that Josh was my gay best friend and that we like to cuddle but it was pretty clear that no one spoke enough English to understand full sentences which eventually led to me just screaming words and pointing at things. It was a big game of charades. Check! Marlboro Reds! Gay! Even the ATMs don’t speak English. My options for whether or not I wanted a receipt were Want or No Want. Idiots.

Sidenote: All the cig packages here have horrifying pictures on them. Face growths and yellow teeth decorate each pack. I finally found one that wasn’t as upsetting to me and I took to asking for a pack of Marlb Reds with the picture of the man blowing smoke into a baby’s face.

The first night, we went to the most expensive restaurant in the city and I began to think that slumming it wasn’t so bad. Little did I know that this would not be the norm. Josh is real hip to eating street food and I took to eating bread only. It was terrifying. Unless the restaurant had a white table cloth, I was not having it. Bangkok streets smell horrible and I couldn’t understand why you would want to eat like a homeless person. That is until I understood that literally everyone is homeless...or poor...Whatever, I hated it.

I was totally trusting of Josh on this trip which often led to me almost dying. Like the time he tricked me into eating street food that he said he got from a restaurant we had been to. Or the time he allowed a stranger to drive us to a sex show which ended up being a few prostitutes at a VFW. Or the time he had us following some gangster looking Thai man down a dark alley. Or last night when he said we were going on a cruise but it ended up being a non-moving, roach infested wagon in the middle of the sea. Of course I never learned my lesson yet somehow I’m still alive.

It’s very hard to be VIP here. The bus which I typically consider to be homeless fare is literally just a pick up truck with 2 benches in the back. My other options for transport would be a tuk tuk (wagon) a moto (death trap) or a supposedly regular taxi (they’re pink and they smell like curry). Last night I rode on a cart attached to a motorcycle that was covered with blue x-mas lights.

Everyone bows here which I find to be alarming. Each time someone bows at me I find that I’m holding something or lighting a cig and I’ve taken to doing a one handed bow which I’m pretty sure everyone hates. Its not my fault that they keep catching me off guard.

Also, there are a ton of massage places here but when I asked for a mani/pedi these Asians had a total meltdown. They wanted the business but they weren’t sure what I was asking. It took 2 of these geniuses to finally get my nails painted and they ended up essentially tearing my toe nails off in the process. At the end of the day, I considered it a wash cause they were eating something that looked delicious and I found out it was street food. As usual I couldn’t communicate so I eventually just pointed and said, “gimmie it” and they did. I had knowingly eaten street food and I felt pretty accomplished. I did manage to get a massage in. In Thailand, a massage basically consists of some Asian broad crawling all over you for an hour and then they tell you to shower. Not all that different from every sexual experience I’ve ever had except replace the Asian woman with a frightened man and add crying.

Oh by the way, I keep getting bitten by mosquitoes which means I probably have malaria. No big deal.

Pattaya is crawling with prostitutes, which I chose to avoid. I did get some action each night when Josh would attack me in his sleep. By the 3rd day, we built a pillow barrier so that he would leave me alone. He claims he’s doing it on accident but I’m pretty sure he’s into me.

Thailand is not good for the ego if you’re a chubby white American. All these men want are Asians and they’re willing to pay up to $8 to get it. Its horrifying and I’ve taken to refusing to leave our resort which in the end didn’t really work. I was in the pool today and a 4 yr old Asian boy was playing near the water. He threw a ball in, I went to throw it back, and he started screaming bloody murder. Josh has taken to calling me the Big Scary Sea Monster. It’s lovely. The one night Josh and I tried to go out and score some action, I found myself at a Russian Hookah bar. Everyone was so wasted and Josh kept pointing out potentially cute guys. I felt dirty just looking and eventually resolved to eliminate the nightly pillow barrier between Josh and I.

Josh is currently napping which we do every day. When he wakes up, I’ll try to trick him into ordering room service and he’ll try to trick me into eating street food. We have big plans to walk down the beach tonight, ride elephants tomorrow and then go back to Bangkok. Basically, if I make it through the next 48 hrs, I will have successfully completed my first trip to Southeast Asia. I plan to never come beaeeacck.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

What If Everyone Was Right? #5

What if Jesus was the son of God? I don't really have anything to add to this. I'm just saying. Wouldn't that be weird?

What If Everyone Was Right? #4

What if we're really only here to procreate? What if my only job in life is to get pregnant, have children, raise them, and die? Wouldn't it be ironic that the only thing I've managed to do successfully aka not get pregnant is the one thing I've been sent here to accomplish. That would be just like me. I can just see me entering the pearly gates of heaven to have God say to me, "What the hell happened down there?" To which I would respond, "What do you mean? I didn't get knocked up once! I did it!" I'm sure he'd end up just rolling his eyes and handing me a baby. Nightmare. Now that I think of it, that's exactly what will happen. I will have avoided the silver bullet in my human form just to be chained to a newborn in heaven. It’s official. God hates me.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Dear Homeless People Everywhere:

Couple of pointers, I get that you’re super homeless and everything but may I suggest you put some energy into your vocation? Maybe take a voice class. Professionals everywhere often take to attending classes in order to hone their skills and I don't think you’re taking your job of homelessness very seriously. If I can't hear what you’re mumbling at me how am I supposed to decipher which demand it is that you’re barking in my general direction? Articulate and project! I barely have time to stop and give you anything in the first place (Oh...cause I have a JOB to get to) and I certainly don't have the time to stop in an attempt to ascertain what the hell it is you’re blubbering at me. Furthermore, I have zero desire to be any nearer to the smell of urine than I already am. If I liked the smell of pee I’d visit my Nana in the nursing home. And if basking in the stench of hot garbage and humiliation sounded fun to me, I'd put some energy into figuring out what a bus is and how to ride it (ugh...poor people are the worst).

Why not pick up a talent? Juggle or something. If there's one thing worse than a needy, vocally challenged homeless person, it’s one who offers nothing. This is a business transaction and you are bringing no cards to the table. You could stand to take a few pointers from my friend Stan. Stan is my favorite kind of homeless person. I see him every time I go down for a smoke. I give him a cigarette and he tells jokes. Stan is making an effort and as a result, he’s constantly smoking. These are the kinds of gifts you could look forward to if only you had the initiative.

Let me tell you what’s not working for you, digging through the trash. Last I checked recycling was not as lucrative as you’re all pretending it to be. Five cents a can is not going to get you a home…idiot. Also, it’s going to perpetuate the garbage smell that lingers each time you approach a stranger making it far less likely for some passerby to offer you anything other than some anti-bacterial gel and a kick in the ass.

Listen homeless person, I am rooting for you! I want desperately to give you a dollar but you’re not making it easy. Who knows what could come of some hard work and diligence on your part. The more impressed I am, the more likely I am to help you achieve your dreams of shooting up before noon. I want you to have all the things you’re driving for in this world. Whether it be a sandwich that doesn’t consist of coffee grounds and cardboard or a new grocery cart, these are your goals and I want to help to guide you on your road to freedom instead of the road that you sleep on. Meet me halfway homeless person. Let’s get you to a point where instead of sleeping in a tent on skid row, you’re sleeping in your car in the parking lot of a Ross Dress for Less. You can do it!!! Look at Stan! Is he homeless? Absolutely. Is he ever going to have a job? Certainly not. But while you’re adjusting your newspaper pillow, Stan is basking in the glory of his achievements. He’s taking it all in. One Marlboro Red at a time.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The Fat Doctor

I can’t remember what atrocious life event initially compelled me to seek a general practitioner. It was likely the horror of turning thirty coupled by an inability to breathe effectively due to years of smoking. I do know that what followed was a string of horrifying visits to a myriad of physicians in Los Angeles, all of whom I believe are trying to kill me.

A transcript of my first visit to the doctor:

Doctor: Hello

Me: Hello

Doctor: So…you’re clearly overweight.

Me: Ummm?

Doctor: Lose 20 lbs.

Me: I haven’t even gotten on the scale yet.

Your cholesterol is high.

Me: How can you tell?

Doctor: I’m a doctor.

Me: Ok well I’m actually here because I have a bump on my arm.

Doctor: Stop making excuses.

Me: I’m not, I just…

Doctor: Get out.

I wish that any of that was a joke but I promise you I had a tape recorder in my pocket and that’s exactly how it went down. Truth be told, I actually did have a bump on my arm and that horrible woman, who I now refer to as The Fat Doctor, sent me to a surgeon to have it removed. Luckily the surgeon was very nice. Unluckily, he only had one arm. An Edward Doctor Hands, if you will. After my experience with The Fat Doctor, I was so bewitched by Edward’s kindness that I didn’t have the heart to refuse him the opportunity to perform a one-armed surgery.

On the day of my surgery with Edward Doctor Hands, I brought my friend Farnaz. In Farnaz’s defense, she valiantly opposed my procedure but I could not be talked down. I needed a surgery and this man, hand or not, was the man to do it. I could tell. It was all very minor and it took place during my lunch hour. Afterwards, I was impressed and by impressed I mean drunk. I didn’t remember anything which in my mind means everything went well. Mission accomplished.

For Farnaz, it was appalling. She later told me that Edward Doctor Hands seemed sedated through most of the procedure. She described how he unprofessionally answered a call during the process and was so reckless in his operations that at one point the cyst from my arm flew across the room and hit a nurse in the face causing Farnaz to pass out. What a wimp. For me, it was just like every other lunch break in that I spent the entire hour taking a nap in a strange place.

Last week I was sick, yet again, and had no other choice but to go back to The Fat Doctor. I needed a Zpac and I needed it bad. As usual, our visit was flabbergasting. She started by pretending she didn’t know me (puhleeease). She then opened my chart, acted surprised and said, “You’re super fat.” I was not going to fall for it this time.

A Transcript:

Me: Listen lady, I need a Zpac.

Fat Doctor: You’re sick a lot.

I know.

Fat Doctor: What do you think’s wrong with you?

Me: I don’t know! That’s why I’m at the doctor!

Fat Doctor: Did you know the swine flu is going around?

Me: Alright…

Fat Doctor: Someone just died.

Me: Ok, take it easy. Just give me the Zpac.

Fat Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.

Me: God! Damnit!

Fat Doctor: Do you have a temperature?


Fat Doctor: Ya know what you should get?


Fat Doctor: A Zpac.


During this process, she actually did try to take my temperature, at one point, but when she went to remove the thermometer, it fell on the ground and then she just sort of shrugged and wandered off.

I mean…I’m not even sure what to say here. I constantly complain that I’m in the process of dying and it’d be nice to know that a) anyone cares and b) my doctors are not the cause of these bereaving feelings. Clearly I can never go to the doctor again. I told you how I went to the dentist once and that animal told me I had eight cavities didn’t I? Well…never again. In my opinion, no one in the medical field can be trusted. I’m going back to self-diagnosing myself and buying medication off the street or stealing it from my Nana. Ya know what’s great about Nana? Two. Arms.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

What If Everyone Was Right? #3

What if drinking to excess isn't the responsible choice? Is it possible, hold on, this hurts, is it possible that drinking to blackout proportions is wrong? How could that be? Every time I've drank heavily, amazing things have happened! For starters, I've made friends with strangers across the country. That's a beautiful thing, yes? We may not remember one another the next time we meet, hell, I may have stolen from you, but for one moment, we shared something. In a world where people are continually too busy to even say hello when passing each other on the street, isn't it nice to know you can get liquored up and share a laugh? Doesn't drinking take courage? Each time I've run from the cops or refused to rat out a friend, I was fueled by alcohol. Every time I start to drink, I have no idea what's going to happen. Doesn't that take trust? Don't I want to be a trustworthy person? Isn't consistency something we find lacking in young people these days? Well I have been consistently drunk through most major life experiences. Isn't that worth anything? Isn't alcohol teaching me to be social? To talk to people? To give people rides home? To run? Ya know what? It does. I refuse to let this one go.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

What If Everyone Was Right? #2

What if smoking is actually bad for you? I can't possibly fathom this. I view cigs as binkies for adults. They're comforting, they're warm, and they make whoever's got one in their mouth look adorable....right? Throughout my life, I have continually succeeded through nerve-wracking situations by simply putting something in my mouth. It’s inconceivable to think that this is not the solution. Through breakups, car accidents, depressions, wedding, funerals, cigarettes have always been there, ready to calm me with their hypnotic warmth and assurance. I am instantly relieved by the sound of a lighter and that first puff of the smoky unraveling of all my ailments. What could possibly be bad about this? Threats of cancer and heart disease can't possibly terrorize me to desert my beloved. Everything causes cancer. Each year, the ever-growing list is updated to reveal more causes. Cell phones, chocolate, and wine have all made the list. Then there is, of course, exercise, lack of exercise, Kleenex, microwaves, anything that's been within 15 feet of plastic, cotton, deodorant, brushing your teeth. No one expects us to dodge all of these conspirators so why should I have to avoid cigarettes? No one asks you to not use your cell phone outside so why can't I smoke outside? P.S. This is the fucking dumbest rule I've ever witnessed. No smoking outside? Oh, ok that makes sense. Why don't you just keep supplying me with chemicals and then scream at me for smoking them. Also, if you've ever walked anywhere near me and then coughed in an attempt to remind me that what I'm doing is killing myself and possibly you then I'd like to make a suggestion. Suck ma dick. If I ever see you do it again, I'll mount you and blow smoke in your mouth with your nose pinned. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine. Don't think I won't do it.