What If Everyone Was Right? #1

What if the only way to happiness is through money, success and beauty. Let's be honest folks, if this is the case, I'm fucked. Once in a blue moon, I build some confidence and waltz right down Melrose and into the nearest trendy boutique and think, "today is the day that I access the mystifying and elusive world of leggings." 30 minutes later, after the sales woman has me draped in scarves, gold heels, and peacock feather earrings, I take a look at myself and still only see some Midwestern broad in overalls, then I switch to, "Oh Christ, what's the point" and I start actively seeking chocolate. Isn't it possible that skinny jeans and I will never get along? I have to believe that if that's the truth, I will still be able to thrive in this world. Do you have any idea what it’s like to valet your 2001 Daewoo at The W? Well its beyond distressing. I can't do it all people. If I'm going to eat at The W then you're going to have to accept my horrible car. You're also going to have to accept the fact that I bought this outfit at Target. And yes, these are boot cut jeans....deal with it. You're not better than me.

Stupid Questions

There are a couple of horribly inane questions that I’m bothered with on a daily basis. This is particularly true on my horrible days which breaks down to literally every day. And seeing as February 8, 2011, has somehow managed to trump all other recent, soul crushing days, I’m taking it as an opportunity to inform you of things you should never ask me unless you want a dick slapped across your face. (I don’t care if I don’t have a dick. I’ll find one and slap you with it.)

The first inane question is the most obvious. How was your day? It was fucking terrible. It always is. I started by waking up. Strike 1. This was followed by a trip down to my car where I was faced with the horrifying realization that I drive a Daewoo. Next I participated in a telephone call with a Russian landlord who made me cry. After that I called my Dad, seeking solace, and all he did was talk about wall paper the whole time. Finally I got to work which reminded me that I moved thousands of miles away from Chicago to be a legal assistant. Luckily, on the elevator ride up to my office, I had time to remove my Russian landlord’s dick from my ass, just in time for my boss to ram his up there.

Second stupid fucking question. How are you? What is wrong with you? Seriously? Why would you ask me that? I’m horrid. Obvie. Literally everyone knows that. Your question is like a slap in the face. How am I? Honestly. Why do you hate me? Only someone who hates me would ask me that. The only way to answer that question is “aggressively overweight.” That’s how I am and I resent your inability to be a little kinder to the fat people around you. Do you think I want my butt to be this big? Well I don’t. But these are the cards I’ve been dealt…by God…who also hates me. I have proof. #1 The Packers are the superbowl champions. Bullshit. #2 He’s made me allergic to alcohol which is the only thing that brings me joy. #3 He made cigarettes bad for you which doesn’t make sense cause they’re delicious. #4 He invented pregnancy thereby taking a lot of the fun out of irresponsible sex with strangers. I could go on but I’m bored. Cause your questions are stupid.

Final stupid question of the day. Are you dating anyone? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??!!! WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT?!! Of course I’m not dating anyone you animal. Look at me! I’m completely unstable! I’m making unsubstantiated claims that the Czar of the Universe specifically hates ME and that that’s why he invented pregnancy. Be reasonable. The only person who would be able to tolerate my constant antics has got to be a deaf/blind person but he hasn’t been able to find me BECAUSE HE CAN’T SEE OR HEAR ANYTHING. God, you are such an IDIOT!

Ugh, anyway, everything’s wrong. Luckily Oprah taught me to see the silver lining. Ok. I guess the good news is that I’ve been booking a lot of acting work (totally untrue). Also, I make a ton of money at my day job for all the hard work I do (no I don’t). And my apartment has rooms (no it doesn’t). Plus I’m an amazing cook and always get to come home to deliciously cooked meals (all I eat is cereal). And I’ve always been a morning person so I get to wake up each day and go to the gym (upon waking up I’m in a murderous rage and I’ve always thought that “gym” was code for “hamburger factory”). I guess I do have a lot to be grateful for (only if I get hit by a bus). I’m really lucky to be supported by such amazing friends (not true. My friends are all drunks). I’m just going to slow down and focus on getting married (I hate weddings) and having kids (I’d rather drag razor blades over my retinas). At the end of the day you just have to put things into perspective. Things could be a lot worse (prove it). When I think about all the starving children in Africa (I’d kill to be that thin) or nations at war (I wish I had a gun), I’m always reminded of how lucky I really am to be me. Super. Fat.

Sick

I'd like to start by saying I've been sick for days which should explain why I've been behind on my postings. It should also explain why I’ve been late to work, dressed in rags, and balls deep in a bucket of carbs at any given moment. Sadly, it does not. Everything I just described is me on a daily basis. Nonetheless, there are certain happenings that indicate I’m suffering from a severe self-diagnosed illness. When I get sick, my brain shuts down. It’s one of my symptoms. I spend a lot of time diagnosing and treating myself when I’m under the weather. I like to listen to my body, attempt to decipher what it needs and then act accordingly. Today it wanted salt and pepper chips and some orange juice. Yesterday it demanded a fried chicken dinner. I'm not sure why my debilitated body requires these things but I'll be damned if I'm going to deny my fragile frame loads of salt and buckets of fat when that's clearly what it's calling for.

In addition to unreasonable food requirements, when ill, my body tends to hanker for medicine...obviously. Recently, I've been treating my self-proclaimed head cold with crystal meth and alcohol also known as Sudafed and NyQuil. I had to show an ID and give blood just to get my hands on that fucking Sudafed. I'd have an easier time getting an eight ball at a nursing home then I did trying to buy some God damn medicine. Ugh…I don't drink anymore but it's always nice to line up a few shots of NyQuil and reminisce about the good old days. Once a month I always get real excited because I get to take Midol. I usually just chop it up at my desk and snort it. Is that bad?

I've also been able to catch up on some TV which is quite a luxury for me. I don't have cable, or any working channels on my television for that matter, but I am privy to a DVD player which has dramatically changed my life. One of my friends introduced me to The Wire. Despite being a spoiled, white, Midwestern girl whose biggest problems growing up involved trying to find a ride to The Gap, I deeply empathize with the fine people of West Baltimore. I'm like 90% sure I'd be an awesome gang member. My gang colors would be a floral print.

Ultimately, being sick just gives me justified reason to do all the things I want to be doing all the time anyway. If I confess to having spent the last 5 nights eating macaroni and cheese, shot gunning Nyquil, not showering and refusing to answer the phone, I’m a fat asshole. If I maintain that all of this behavior was the result of a tumultuous ailment, all is forgiven. For the most part, the general public has yet to get on board with the majority of my remedies but it’s just a matter of time. In my mind, food, dormancy, and isolation are all elixirs to all diseases. I also contend that sex cures the common cold and while I’ve yet to find any willing participants, I will continue to hack, cough and wheeze my way into the arms of a lover. Doctor’s orders.

Women

Being a woman tends to negatively affect my life. This is because most women do stupid shit and seeing as I am a woman, I suffer the consequences.

I tend to hate the majority of things that women, as a whole, do. Some examples include dieting, shopping and waiting three dates to sleep with a man. You may argue that this makes me a poorly-dressed, overweight slut but I see myself more as a sexually evolved, regular-sized person who has a propensity to wear leggings at all social gatherings.

I also find women to be rather judgmental whereas I am gracious, open-minded and understanding. For instance, when I went to Hooters last night, I did not judge our overly made-up waitress when she pointed to the shrimp I was eating and asked how my chicken wings were. I didn’t point out that perhaps she should save some of the money she’s spending on flesh-colored pantyhose to purchase a book that includes names and pictures of farm animals in an attempt to get her finger on the pulse of what exactly it is that she does for a living.

And today, when I was watching football, I didn’t judge the girls who rolled in wearing mini-skirts and false eyelashes. Hey, if your idea of a good time is coming to a sports bar on a Sunday morning to give H.J.s to a guy in an Ed Hardy t-shirt over in the corner booth, more power to you. I love scantily-clad women and feel their presence is required at all sporting events. But please don’t pretend that you know anything about a football other than the fact that you can fit one in your mouth.

I guess the thing I hate most about women is the crying. Why are they always crying? I want to bond with my fellow females but it’s hard. They love cats and they constantly demand that I decipher cryptic texts from the men they’re dating like, “don’t call me anymore.” Overall, I find that I have nothing in common with them.

All of this was racing through my head this afternoon while I was masculinely watching football….until my team lost…and the worst thing that could ever happen to me in public happened…I started bawling. And while the rest of the men in the bar rolled their eyes and pounded drinks, the tallest, blondest girl I had ever seen walked over to me, batted her eyelashes and gave me a hug. And for just a minute, I was glad to be a broad.

Gluten

Are you familiar with Gluten? This is typically the first question I ask people when they want to know what it’s like to live in LA. Gluten is a mysterious substance that anorexic women everywhere are crazy about. No one knows what it is yet thin women contend it’s in everything making it easier for them to refuse all forms of food. Brilliant. What’s more, they don’t merely claim that it’s bad for you. They assert that upon eating supposed Gluten, they suffer a severe allergic reaction. When prodded about the symptoms of this alleged allergy, most women will tell you that it, “makes their belly hurt.”

Now, I’m not a doctor, but I have a cousin with a shellfish allergy and once, after eating half a shrimp, that kid shit his brains out, yakked everywhere and had to be rushed to the hospital. I highly doubt that leggy blonde women are carrying EpiPens around in case they have a run-in with a piece of pizza.

Furthermore, there seems to be a new trend sweeping the nation in which skeletal women refuse dairy. All the waifish women in Hollywood have banded together and declared dairy an absolute no-no. Really ladies? You’ve decided that an ENTIRE FOOD GROUP just isn’t cutting it for you? I’m sure the Got Milk campaign isn’t real thrilled with your antics.

No but seriously, what the fuck is Gluten? You could contend that this is all a ruse by a chubby, Midwestern girl to get her finger on the pulse of a dietary breakthrough but at the end of the day I just want to know what it is! Is it bigger than a breadbox? Can I not say the word bread around you because of your life-threatening allergy?

In an unprecedented move, I’m proclaiming that Gluten doesn’t exist and I’m no longer going to tolerate its terrorist threats. From what I understand it can be found in pasta, cake, cookies and all forms of sandwiches. If I could get my pudgy little hands on this purported Gluten I would…and then I would eat the shit out of it.

The Dildo Theory

Living in Los Angeles is a real dick up the ass. I say this as a woman who does not enjoy a dick up her ass. At least I don't think I do. I've never had one up there but it sounds wretched. So wretched in fact that I've built an entire survival approach around this potential happening. I like to call it The Dildo Theory.

As I wake up each day in sunny California, I feel rejuvenated and refreshed. This is likely because, like a goldfish, I have a pea sized brain and short term memory loss. If only I could remember the pain from the day before. Whether it be a 9 month pregnant woman bashing into my car (that happened), my agent sending me a breakdown looking for fat people and concluding that I'm perfect for it (happened) or some new man who’s refusing to sleep with me (this one’s a constant) I always find myself in some horrid altercation that is painful, uncomfortable, and embarrassing.

I'm a solution oriented person so I began to conjure up ways to feel slightly better as each day passes. There's nothing worse than brimming over with positivity only to be jacked around by the human race. I started to believe that there had to be a way to ease the horrifying pain which is my life.

Much like a man who beats his brow against a wall to alleviate a headache, I’ve concluded that if I start each day by ramming a dildo up my ass, things won't be so unbearably painful later on. Just hear me out. Each day in Los Angeles, I am attacked by people, places and things who are seemingly trying to kill me. Los Angeles is a torture chamber and positive thinking has gotten me nowhere. As a matter of fact, I believe its positive thinking that is making it worse. I firmly believe that if I start each day by jamming a dildo up my asshole I won’t be so angry, hurt or surprised later, since I had already begun my day in a manner that insisted things could only get better. So tomorrow morning, when I go to the dentist and find out I have 8 cavities (happened), or I’m diagnosed with a bacterial infection (gross but yes) or I find out my apartment is swarming with bed bugs (I don’t want to talk about it) I’ll find solace in the fact that nothing could be as excruciating as the giant dildo that I drove into my anal cavity that morning, right before I got a burn hole in my skirt on the way to work.