Kale

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.

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.

Reggie

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.

Strangers

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.

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.
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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.

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.