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 15, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Daewoo
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.
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.
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
Security
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.
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.
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.
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
Solutions
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*
Mimi: 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.
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*
Mimi: 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.
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