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, November 1, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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
L.A.P.D.
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.
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.
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
Depression
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.
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.
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