Sunday, August 25, 2013

The Bitch Is Back

I’ve recently removed myself from society, evidenced by my lack of posts.  Two Valentine’s Day’s ago, I was diagnosed with something called Ankylosing Spondylitis.  You’ve never heard of it because it’s a bullshit, made-up disease that’s predominantly found in men.  After a ten day stint in Cedar’s Sinai, I determined that I am, in fact, a baby boy.  For the last year and a half, I’ve been fighting an obscure disease.  It doesn’t have a ribbon, no one runs a marathon to support it and unless I use the Google machine, I’m not even entirely certain how to spell it.  I am an enigma.

I’m basically terrible at getting diseases.  For starters, it would have been nice if I had contracted a disease that anyone had ever heard of.  Cancer, HIV, Hepatitis – those seem like palatable and interesting diseases.  They’re also life-threatening which adds to their allure.  Ankylosing Spondylitis is also known as bamboo spine which means your entire spine eventually just fuses together.  It’s not going to kill me, it’s just going to make me less attractive.  I suppose the silver lining is that I might get a wheelchair. 

Most recently, I’ve had some problems with the treatment of my unreasonable disease.  I’m not trying to brag or anything, but it’s incurable.  The best I can do is treat it which requires me to give myself a shot.  I’ve talked to my doctor about getting some medicine that’s snortable but he seems wholly uninterested and more so horrified.   

So for the last three months, I’ve been receiving a shot called Simponi.  Obviously, I am unable to do it myself and often enlist strangers to administer this wretched thing.  As usual, I ran into some trouble.  My last doctor’s appointment went something like this:

Dr: How are you?

Me: This disease is boring.

Dr: You’re very lucky.  You should be grateful you don’t have Cancer.

Me: At least they have a marathon.

Dr: How are you feeling?

Me: I sleep 16 hours a day and don’t have enough energy to watch Netflix.

Dr: Right.  Well we ran some blood work and I have some bad news.

Me: Oh boy…

Dr: We’ve only seen this happen in about 140 people nationwide.  But it seems the shot you’re on has inadvertently given you a second auto-immune disorder.

Me: Is this a joke?

Dr: I’m afraid not.

Me: What’s the auto-immune disorder?

Dr: Well…I don’t want to scare you.  But are you familiar with Lupus?

Me: Does it have a ribbon?

Dr: It does actually.

Me: Yesssss.

Dr: But you don’t actually have Lupus. 

Me: Damnit!

Dr: You should be happy.  Lupus is a serious disease.

Me: Does it have an awareness month?

Dr: Once you stop taking the Simponi, the Lupus will go away.  We need to start you on a new shot.

Me: Will it accidentally give me another disease?

Dr. Unclear.

Me: You’re a terrible doctor.

I mean…I don’t even know what to say.  For the last three months my biggest symptom has been “tired.”  It’s nearly impossible to illicit sympathy when your biggest ailment is being lazy.  The shot makes my hair fall out but it’s not enough to justify a full shave and afro wig.  It also gives me bruises all over my legs which only makes me look like a weirdo who wears pants in the summer.  It makes my skin break out which has me looking like a pre-pubescent teenager.  So ultimately, I look like a thin haired, thirteen-year-old who doesn’t understand when it’s appropriate to wear pants.

Everything’s wrong.  I’m terrible at getting diseases.  I tried drinking as a kid and wound up with alcoholism.  I tried walking around as an adult and was left with Ankylosing Spondylitis.  I have a boyfriend now and I’m sure he’s going to try to impregnate me.  I can’t imagine that going very well.  Luckily, he’s pretty determined to marry me.  I suppose I’m lucky to have someone who will push my wheelchair for the rest of my life.  Do they let invalids do marathons?  I hope so. 

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

The Writer

I’m in love right now and it’s completely confusing.  I always thought love was supposed to feel like a knife was getting jammed into your heart and that you were crying blood.  Is that not right?  Love with Boyfriend is carefree and easy.  It makes me wonder if all those other loves I had before him were somehow wrong.

When I was in college, I fell in love with a writer.  He was magical and mysterious.  Also, he wasn’t technically a writer – he was a college student.  But I knew he had great potential and I was completely enamored.  We spent many nights trying to make sense of the world over a bottle or two of wine.  The most baffling thing about The Writer was that he refused to sleep with me.  I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and before I knew it we were entangled in a deep emotional affair.

Due to his enigmatic demeanor, I was one of the few people who deeply understood The Writer.  His handwriting was atrocious but I could read it, because of our deep spiritual bind, so I often typed up his papers for him.  He asked me to do it because he trusted me so much.  Also, I prepared most of his meals for him since no one else knew how he liked things.  We would go for walks through the city, stumble into some quaint pub, get wasted and then go back to the dorms where I would try to sleep with him, to no avail.  IT WAS MADDENING! 

After college, I lived with him and two other men.  I figured that if we were sleeping in the same apartment every night, it would only be a matter of time before we were actually sleeping with each other.  Well this mother fucker would not budge and I couldn’t wait around forever so I started to switch tactics.  Instead of throwing all of my attention his way, I decided to show him I was desired by other men.  Thus began a parade of one-night-stands through our shared apartment.  As always, I had done it wrong.  I mean…he already knew I was slutty.  Ultimately, I had proved nothing. 

I switched tactics again and started seriously dating another man who I then moved in with!  Hooray!  Success!  I had shown The Writer that I was a responsible woman who wanted to settle down!  The problem, I later realized, is that I had inadvertently settled down with the wrong man while simultaneously moving myself out of the apartment where the man I actually wanted to sleep with resided.  DAMNIT!

At this point, I just decided to get sober.  I wasn’t thinking clearly and needed to get off the booze.  In the process of sobering up, I realized two things: 1) I did not enjoy the man I had decided to move in with and 2) The Writer had moved to Wisconsin!  So far, sobriety had turned out to be an epic fail.

I was defeated.  I knew The Writer was into me!  I knew that, if given a chance, I could show him that I was the one he wanted!  I could be responsible, and I could help to foster his extraordinary writing ability, and I could do all his typing. AND WE COULD FINALLY HAVE SEX!  But alas, the ship had sailed.  I moved on with my life and suspected he had moved on with his.  You can imagine my surprise when he called me a few years later and invited me to Wisconsin TO CELEBRATE MY BIRTHDAY!

This was it!  I could feel it.  He had bided his time like the brooding savage he was.  I should have guessed!  Of course he cared about me so much that he had waited in the wings while I got my life in order so he could swoop in and claim me as his own as soon as the most opportunistic moment arose.  IT WAS ALL HAPPENING!

I drove to see The Writer and I was glowing.  I met him at the restaurant where he was working while he waited for his writing career to take off.  Once I arrived, he immediately introduced me to all his co-worker, waitperson friends.  He was showing me off and I was in all my glory.  IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!  And he didn’t want me spending it with anyone other than him.  I regaled his co-workers with college anecdotes of The Writer and me.  I looked at the other women there and thought how sad for them that I had won.  Here was this dashing artist before them and he had chosen me.  There was one small Mexican waitress in the corner who looked particularly bereft and I thought to myself that I hoped she would find love someday…like I had.

After a while, The Writer and I left to go to our romantic dinner.  I knew we were in for a long chat and that he was going to finally tell me what he had been thinking all of those years.  He’d share that he was deeply in love with me but never thought the moment was right and that he had wanted for us to be on different footing before we started our lives together.  Before he opened his lips to speak, I was already taken.  I was going to sleep with The Writer.  He was going to tell me he loved me.  And then I was going to have ferocious sex with him.  I couldn’t wait.

He began to speak and I was beaming.

The Writer: Ali?

Me: Yes?

The Writer: I have to tell you something.

(OMG, here it comes.)

Me: Yes?

The Writer: Ya know that woman you met back at the bar?

(The weirdo Mexican woman?  Yea, what’s your point?)

Me: I think so.

The Writer: Well she’s my girlfriend.  And she’s pregnant.  I’m going to be a father.

Rage is a lot like taking a drink.  It dominates everything around me and I can’t be expected to remember anything that happens once it overcomes me.  Here’s what was happening in my head:


That’s what was going on in my head.  In all actuality, I burst into tears, paid for dinner, smoked a carton of cigarettes and made up a story about how I was immediately needed in Chicago.

I have no idea whatever happened to his horrible girlfriend and baby.  For all I know, he wrote a sweeping novel about how they both died during childbirth.  That would be just my luck.  Then I’d have to live with the knowledge that I could have been the dead wife who had created a masterpiece.   

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Pants Are My Nemesis

I very rarely experience success, so I should have know better than to get excited recently when after three torturous years of demoralizing auditions, I finally booked a commercial.  At this rate, I’m bringing in about $500 a year as an actor.  I think we can all agree that I’ve made it.

When my agent called to tell me the good news, I was elated for about 30 seconds.  This elation was quickly replaced by dread when I realized that booking a commercial means scheduling a fitting.  Scheduling a fitting means pants.  I hate pants.  I have so many problems with pants that I recently became anorexic.  As I walked into the fitting last Friday, I prayed that my anorexia had done the trick.  Like all of my efforts to do the right thing and be a functioning woman of 32, anorexia let me down as well.

A fitting is my worst nightmare.  It involves trying on cheap clothes in front of a group of strangers.  To make matters worse, my brother was in town, so I had spent the previous evening housing short ribs and chocolate lava cake.  Clearly I lack the wherewithal to make sacrifices for my craft.  Needless to say, the fitting was an epic fail.  As soon as I walked in, I was chastised for being obese.  I then tried on a litany of pants – each more devastatingly ill-fitting than the last.  As usual, they eventually just started wrapping pieces of cloth around my body and calling it an outfit.  I had been defeated. 

On Monday I was called in for a second fitting since the first had gone so horribly awry.  At this point I was reeling from being forced to attend so many pants events.  It was then that I reached a new level of embarrassment and desperation.  The production company was insisting that I am clearly grossly overweight yet seemingly unaware of my girth.  I had to submit my sizes before the fitting and I gave my weight, height and pant size.  It’s been many years since I’ve been forced to wear pants, so I had to dig through my wardrobe of discarded dreams and find the pants that I have since abandoned.  I concluded that I am an 8-10.  The production company disagreed, and sent my agent this email:

Just got some information from the stylist that I wanted to pass on…the fitting did not go well on Friday because Alison had herself as a size 8 on her size card, (also confirmed on the phone with the stylist prior to the fitting,) when in fact she is a size 16.  They did not have clothes that fit her because of this large discrepancy… 

Listen…we are all beautiful at any size.  BUT I AM NOT A SIZE 16 YOU FUCKING HORRIBLE WENCH!  I knew so little about this supposed pant size that I had to Google that shit.  Ya know who’s a size 16?!  ADELE!  In order to combat these lies, I started literally sexting my agent pictures of myself.  Here’s a Craigslist-style picture of me sans head and here’s a picture of Adele:

I mean…we’re basically twins.  In the interest of full disclosure, wardrobe did, in fact, put me in a pair of size 16 pants.  Because of my monstrous ass, I was able to keep these pants up if I didn’t walk or move in any other way.  I did not need to unbutton or unzip these pants to get them on or off.  I guess that means I’m a size 16?  The point here is that my heftiness – the same heftiness that has already ruined my love life and social life – has now insidiously seeped its way into my professional life of making $41.66 a month as an actor.  I wish I was dead.

In a stunning act of courage, I was able to turn this fucking pants nightmare around.  The commercial I was shooting required me to bend over, thereby exposing my naked asshole to everyone on set, if I were forced to wear the gargantuan size 16 pants that supposedly fit me.  I was not going to let myself be brutalized by pants any longer, so I turned to the friend who has never let me down.  Other than delicious Jack Daniels and decadent Marlboro Reds, I have had only one ally in the world – leggings.

As evidenced by the headless horseman picture of me above, I put on my tightest clothes on the day of my shoot and then proceeded to just walk around hoping that someone would notice me.  And someone did.  Eventually, I was vindicated and allowed to wear all my own clothes for the shoot.  Because of my dear friend, leggings, Project Pants ended up being a huge success.

It’s disheartening to think that even with my awkwardly low self-esteem and abysmal self-image, I’m still missing the mark on how horribly flabby others find me to be.  Ultimately, I still have no idea what size pants I wear and I hope to never have to encounter pants again.  They are trying to kill me.  They ruined my life and I think they should be eradicated from fashion forever.  In the meantime, two companies are still fighting about how fat I am and frankly, I’ve completely thrown in the towel on attractiveness as an option for me.  My self-esteem has plummeted to excruciating levels.  I guess the good news is we’re all gonna die someday.  With my luck, they’d end up having a closed casket because no one would be able to find a pair of pants that fit me.  Ugh…note to self: you want to be cremated.   

Monday, April 1, 2013


I mean…I’m basically full-blown anorexic over here and literally no one cares.

I recently visited yet another medical professional who spent a considerable amount of time pointing out my epic obesity.  This medical observation cost me $400.  Seriously?  Literal blind people are able to quickly assess that I have an out of control weight problem, yet I just paid some horrid Beverly Hills “nutritionist” (that can’t be a real thing) to mock me while at the same time taking all of my money.  I feel great about myself…obviously.

Regardless, it’s clearly time to pull in the reins.  I assumed this would be a fairly easy process.  After my first appointment with the wildly rude and more so egregiously expensive "nutritionist", she demanded that I write down everything I eat and email it to her.  She then spent about an hour describing to me, in detail, what fruits and vegetables are.  Needless to say, this woman is horrible and I wish she was dead…or at least fat.  If nothing else, that would soften the blow. 

The first thing I did after seeing the “nutritionist” was get in my car, hysterically cry, call Angel and force him to repeatedly tell me how attractive I am.  This was an exercise in futility because obviously I can’t believe a word my boyfriend says to me.  He’s mesmerized by my Armenianisms and cannot be trusted.  After this charade, I went to work and Googled vegetables.  I was horrified.  I can’t live in a word where pasta isn’t served at every meal but I also can’t live in a world where people are paid handsomely to call me fat – I had reached an impasse and decided to take the plunge.  I…began…to diet.  So far, it’s been terrifying. 

Here’s what my daily food intake used to look like:

Breakfast: Breakfast burrito
Snack: Candy
Lunch: Regular burrito
Snack: Candy
Dinner: Macaroni and Cheese sandwich
Dessert: BBQ Pork

I find that to be balanced and reasonable.  Here’s what my new starvation diet looks like:

Breakfast: Oatmeal
Snack: Cigarette
Lunch: White fish with sautéed spinach
Snack: Cigarette
Dinner: Banana mixed with peanut butter and honey
Dessert: Cigarette


I thought for sure that once I emailed my new anorexic diary to my "nutritionist" she’d say something like, “Ok, so it seems like you’ve taken what I’ve said a little out of context.  You’re accidentally starving yourself.  Feel free to eat food sometimes.”  I would have considered that to be an appropriate response.  Instead, that bitch sent me an email.  AN ENCRYPTED EMAIL!!!  WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO SET UP PASSWORD PROTECTION JUST TO ENTER A SECRET EMAIL VORTEX WHERE YOU CALL ME FAT YOU STUPID GOD DAMN WHORE!?

First of all, this fucking wang-job put all of her comments in caps which I found to be pretty aggressive.  It looked like this:

Breakfast: Oatmeal GOOD!
Lunch: White fish with sautéed spinach HOW WAS THE FISH COOKED?  STAY AWAY FROM SAUTEED, RAW IS BETTER!
Dinner: Banana mixed with peanut butter and honey MAKE SURE IT’S NATURAL PEANUT BUTTER!

I mean…is this a joke?  She actually suggested that I could do better by eating less than literally nothing.  You’re probably wondering if I’ve lost any weight.  OBVIOUSLY!!!  I’M LEGITIMATELY ANOREXIC!

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.  I’m certainly not about to stop smoking as nicotine is about the only nutrient I’m getting these days.  I can’t see this working out.  I’m either going to die of starvation or cancer.  According to my “nutritionist” and everyone else in Los Angeles, this is preferable to being fat.  If anyone is reading this, I beg you…please make sure they serve bratwurst at my funeral.  If you really love me, you’ll bury me with a brat.  I hope they serve sausage in heaven.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013


I’ve not been particularly lucky in life evidenced by this.  Nor have I been lucky in love evidenced by this So it is with great joy that I report to you that I have found the one.

I first met the man of my dreams at a keg party…obviously.  At the time, I had a broken leg and a D.U.I. and was ready for a big night out on the town.  I was walking into a party – held in a Midwestern garage – when I saw him.  He was fast asleep (passed out) next to the keg and I thought, “You are the man of my dreams.”  And he was.  I spent the rest of the night saddled up next to him.  He slept like an angel.  I wasn’t going to let his slumbered state deter me from making a connection.  I had some nail polish in my purse so I painted his pinky nail fire engine red as he dozed.  I reasoned that once he woke up, whenever that may be, he would be sure to seek out the woman who had marked him.  Just to be sure, I also stamped my name on his hand (because I was carrying around an Alison stamp that I had come across at a Phish show…naturally).  

A few weeks later my moment arrived.  I was off to another garage party when I came across the angel from that other night.

Angel: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Angel: Have we met?

Me: Ya, I painted your nail at a party.

Angel: Are you Alison?

Me: Ya.

Angel: Dude, you really freaked me out that night.  I woke up in the morning with my nail painted and a stamp on my hand and thought I had been raped.

Me: I love you.

As usual, I had made a stellar first impression.  Luckily, his weariness wore off as we partook in several beers, a bag of weed and a fifth of whiskey.  By the end of the night he was clearly smitten and, lucky for me, I had a D.U.I. and needed a ride home.  Thus began our torrid love affair.

I was only 18 when I met the Angel but it was clear that our love with real.  We spent romantic nights in his parents’ basement, we devoted countless evenings to road-loading on the most mystical of country roads, and we constructed every object found along the way into a pot-smoking apparatus.  It was beyond romantic.

When I was 24, I quit drinking and moved to Boston – putting an end to our love affair.  For the next few years, we talked on occasion but our lives took us in opposite directions… until last week.

After 8 torturous years apart, he quit drinking too and we decided to rekindle the old flame.  I was uncertain whether or not we could truly reconstruct the heartfelt feelings of our youth but was willing to give it a try.  I asked God to send me a sign so that I could be sure that this was the one.  For once, God came through.

The Angel and I spent 10 glorious days together in beautiful Los Angeles.  On our last night, we watched the sunset.  It was heavenly.  We spent the evening, arms wrapped around each other, standing on the lip of the Santa Monica pier.  In the distance, we could hear a street musician’s smoky voice singing Simon and Garfunkel tunes.  The sound of the waves hitting the sand had me in a meditative trance and I was perfectly at ease.  Eventually, the Angel and I meandered down to the beach.  As we walked along the shore, he put his arm around me and said, “This is perfect.”  It was at that moment that a seagull shit all over his head and all down the back of his shirt.  And it was at that moment that I knew – this was the man for me.   

Love is a funny thing.  For years I thought I needed a man who would fix me.  Instead, I’ve found a man who is just as broken.  Instead of being in a perfect relationship, I get to be one half of an imperfect couple.  I imagine our life together will be fraught with vandalized Daewoos and numerous burn holes.  We’ll likely always get lost when we’re in a hurry and I doubt we’ll be able to cook dinner without breaking a plate.  But I find great comfort in the fact that my imperfections are mirrored by his.  After that seagull shit all over Angel, we walked back to the car and I realized I had a hole in my pants.  Angel didn’t judge me.  He smiled.  And as I wiped away the bird shit from his head, we embraced, and I knew what love was.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

God Hates Me

I mean…it’s not a big deal or anything I just think we should acknowledge that he literally hates me.  For like 30 seconds I got confused and thought maybe he liked me.  I had just spent 10 glorious days in Chicago where my mother, Mimi Royer, doted on me and every meal included country fried steak.  I returned to Los Angeles fresh and renewed.  I felt confident that I was on the precipice of greatness.  Over the holiday break, I had taken the time to remove all the dicks that had been inserted into my asshole previous to my departure and was confident that they would stay gone for good.  Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that God put those dicks there for a reason and by removing them I had inadvertently pissed him off.

The night I returned to Los Angeles I was committed to finishing season 2 of Homeland which had unequivocally changed my life.  I became obsessed with it (deep-rooted addiction problems) while I was at home and was anxious to get back to it.  Unfortunately, when I sat down to fire up my super trendy Dell Inspiron, the screen literally just started spewing an array of numbers and letters indicating to me that perhaps it was not working.  I don’t know a lot about computers so I just turned it on and off 40 times, to no avail.  Day one in LA = non-functioning laptop.  Insert dick into ass.

I reasoned that this was a slight annoyance, nothing to be alarmed about.  I have a tech guy at work and I’m certain that his sole job is to accommodate my needs.  While my ass was slightly sore from this minor setback, I would not be deterred.  People in Africa are dying of AIDS, my laptop doesn’t work.  No big deal. 

The next day my email was hacked and I sent what I have to imagine was a virus to about 400 of my closest friends.  The day after that, my Blackberry (I get it…I should get a new phone.  I’M NOT GOOD WITH TECHNOLOGY!!!) stopped sending and receiving emails.  In the interim, I realized that I was freezing to death every night only to find out that my heat was broken.  I’m not sure if you’re following but this is now several dicks.  I hadn’t even been home for a week and there were so many dicks in my ass I could hardly see straight.    

I was beginning to crack but I would not break.  NO BIG DEAL GOD!  I’VE GOT EVERYTHING UNDER CONTROL!  YOU WON’T WIN THIS ROUND YOU SON OF A BITCH!  But God would not be deterred.  It was obvious he would not be happy until my ass was brimming with dicks.  At around 10:30pm last Friday, I had just completed a 3 and a half hour improv class and was exhausted from a long day of being a legal assistant and pretending to be an actor.  I was walking with a friend, back to my car, when I noticed that my back window had writing on it.  I turned to my friend Allie and said, “Um…does my back window say asshole?”  Well ladies and gentleman, it did…obviously.  Luckily there were several helpful messages written with wax all over my windows.  After the asshole message, which was uninformative at best – creatively lacking at worst, the next message read, “Die.  Never park here.”  I looked around to see if maybe I parked in a driveway or if there were any signs suggesting that I had done something wrong.  No, on both counts.  I read on, “Turn off your fucking alarm.”  Now that struck me as interesting BECAUSE I DRIVE A 2001 DAEWOO!  WHY THE FUCK WOULD I HAVE AN ALARM?!  Right then, the alarm went off.  An alarm that I had not encountered in the 3 years that I’ve owned that wretched car.  Apparently the fucking Daewoo has a secret alarm that goes off when it’s parked in front of a house inhabited by psychos. 

So I got in my car and drove home.  I drove through the streets of West Hollywood in a 2001 Daewoo that had been vandalized to the extreme, every window accounted for, expletives galore and I headed back to my tiny, freezing studio where dreams find a place to die.

The thing is, I believe that God exists.  It’s just obvious that he literally wishes I was dead.  At least he didn’t impregnate me with his stupid son.  If I was Mary, I would’ve been pissed.  He must have really hated her.  In the end, I ended up kidnapping my friend Allie and we spent the next two hours dousing my car with vinegar and trying to get that fucking wax off.  The next day I went to work, attempted to get a cup of coffee and instead, immediately broke the espresso machine.  I barely have time to take one dick out of my ass before another one gets jammed up there.  For a moment I thought the silver lining was that my IT guy fixed my laptop.  This was until I noticed that when I open the stupid thing, my name is visible with a cat next to it.  A CAT!  I fucking hate cats.  And of course I have no idea how to change it.  So now every time I open my laptop I remember that a) cats are stupid, b) I am West Hollywood’s bitch c) God fucking hates me and wants me to die.  My ass runneth over.    

Friday, January 4, 2013

Belated Christmas Post

I love Christmas.  I realize it's politically correct to call this time of year "the holidays" but I think we can all agree that's just code for Christmas.  I don’t claim to know a lot about this Jesus character that everyone’s always talking about but I appreciate the fact that I receive gifts on his birthday.  I believe we should all follow Jesus’ lead, which would allow me to receive gifts on literally everyone’s birthday.  So Christmas it is.  All remaining holidays are subpar.  Don't think I don’t notice them trying to sneak themselves into the fray.  Each year, I enter the lobby of my office building where a glorious Christmas tree is illuminated in all its glory while somewhere nearby a menorah tries to inch its way in.  I call bullshit, menorah.  You're just a candelabra in disguise.  Stop trying to steal Christmas' thunder.  Hanukah isn't the only culprit.  Each year, more and more fake holidays try to take center stage.

Let's start with the most obvious fake holiday – Hanukkah.  This fake holiday is also known as the festival of lights.  I'm pretty sure that's the deal with all the candelabras.  I want you to know that I did extensive research on Hanukkah and I still have no idea what it is.  (It should be noted that "extensive research" entailed G-chatting my friend Orit who I'm pretty sure gave me an exact definition but in Hebrew so quite frankly, I'm still lost.)  Anyway, I think it's just the celebration of wax candles…lame.

Black people.  That's my only point of reference on Kwanzaa.  Apparently it was made up in 1966.  Made up…literally.  It was created (made up) by a man named Maulana Karenga (fake name, fake holiday…makes sense) who said that Jesus was psychotic and that Christianity was a white religion that black people should shun…oh boy.  Simmer down Maulana…Jesus was a hero who gave everyone a gift on his birthday.  The only gift you've ever given is a fake holiday with too many consonants.  I see you've taken a page from our friends the Jews.  I'm not impressed.

Quite frankly, New Year's Eve is a holiday I can get behind solely because it's ripe with drinking and debauchery.  Sadly, I have an out of control drinking problem, therefore, this "holiday" no longer applies to me.  Furthermore, the only gifts I've ever received on New Year's Eve have been D.U.I.s, S.T.D.s and a lost car.  I lose my car a lot when I'm drinking.  I used to have a close relationship with the Chicago Police Department because my first assumption was always that my car had been stolen.  After a thorough wake-and-bake, I would then trick a friend into driving me around the city until I found whatever piece of shit car I was driving at the time.  As you can see, NYE is a lot of work.  It often results in several different blood tests, a pregnancy scare, and about an eighth of weed.  Not for me. Not anymore. Fuck you, New Year's Eve -- Plan B is expensive and frankly, I don't appreciate your attitude. 

The one thing I like about New Years is the resolutions part.  As I look forward to holidays ahead, I resolve to find out who Jesus is.  I resolve to not be racist.  I resolve to know the whereabouts of my car at all times.  Most of all, I resolve to accepts the gifts the world gives me.  In the name of Jesus Christ, that wonderful man who bought me a Burberry bag last year, Amen.