Muslims?

So here's what happened.  I got hired to write for this website and it has been taking up all of my time.  In case you care about Muslims or any other things political, you should check it out.  If you click on the tab called Shit People Say, you will see several posts by yours truly.  

As we all know, I care deeply about the Muslims world...YOU GUYS THAT'S A LIE!!!!  I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK A MUSLIM IS!  It was clear that this job would require some research.  To be fair, I had heard about Muslims before and was certain I knew at least a few things about them  – I mean, I'm not totally stupid.

#1 Muslims Hate Jesus.  I was sure of this but decided to research it because I take my job seriously.  You will never believe this but Muslims don’t hate Jesus!  They actually regard him as a prophet.  They just think Muhammad was smarter or something.  I’m gonna be honest.  I stopped reading.  Once I found out that Muslims didn’t hate Jesus I was perplexed because it blew a lot of holes into my next theory.

#2 Muslims Hate Me And Are Trying To Kill Me.  I ran into a lot of trouble on this one because, as it turns out, there is more than one kind of Muslim.  I guess this makes sense seeing as there is more than one kind of Christian but honestly, my mind was blown.  Now I had to categorize the Muslims into a) Muslims that hate me and are trying to kill me and b) other.

#3 My Religion Is Superior To The Muslim Religion.  I was super sure of this one and fully ready to extrapolate when I came to the horrifying realization that I have no idea what religion I am.  I went to call my Grandma and then remembered that she died like three years ago rendering that bitch useless.  Of course then I started to feel bad because I don’t even know if I believe in Heaven or Hell meaning I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE MY DEAD GRANDMA IS!

Ugh…religion is confusing.  I’m determined to find out what a Muslim is.  As of right now I can tell you, unequivocally, that they don’t hate Jesus and they may or may not be with my dead grandma right now.

So anyway, apparently there's an entire section of the world called "The Middle East" and I'm determined to learn more about it.  If you too would like to know why some bitch zillions of miles away is covering herself with a blanket every day, pop over to the other blog.  If blankets scare you but you're dying to know if I'll ever fit into pants, stay right here.  I deeply love everyone.  Thanks for reading!

Eggs

Most women my age are getting to the point where they’re concerned about their eggs.  I’m not sure what it is about female thirty-somethings and eggs but most of the women I know are obsessed with them.  I’ve never put a lot of thought into my eggs.  Mostly the mentioning of them, by other women, just makes me feel bad that I’ve not pondered eggs at all…unless they’re in omelet form…which I think about a lot…because omelets are delicious.  Anyway, what I’m driving at here are children and the possibility of one crawling its way out of my vagina in the future.  Seeing as I’m a thirty-something, it’s probably time for me to figure this out.

I love babies.  Wait…that came out wrong.  What I meant to say is that babies terrify me.  Nope, also inaccurate.  Herein lies my problem.  I don’t know anything about babies.  People seem to have them a lot – I see the pictures on Facebook.  Listen, I’m not trying to be a baby racist or anything but all those mother fuckers look the same.  I’m starting to get concerned because I thought I’d have baby-feelings by now.  Also, from what I understand, babies typically follow a marriage and I’m not having marriage-feelings either.  Instead of being depressed because I’m not married and I’m not filled with baby, I’m depressed because my indifference to such matters makes me feel like less of a woman.

You may be familiar with the American Dream.  Typically it consists of a house, a husband and children.  This all seems lovely, but as of right now my biggest goals are to figure out what Gluten is and to not get holes in my pants.  These goals may not seem particularly lofty to you but I assure you, they’re taking up all of my time.  Today by about noon I was experiencing high self-esteem based on the fact that I didn’t have any holes in my pants.  Moments later, I went to smoke a cig only to realize my pants were see-through.  I CAN’T WIN!  Based on this information, it seems unlikely that a) anyone other than the homeless vagrants downtown would want to marry me and b) I have any of the necessary tools to keep another human being alive.

A friend sent me a plant recently – I killed it.  I haven’t had toilet paper in my apartment for several months.  I view walking without falling down to be a challenge.  Do you believe in God?  I believe he exists but that he is trying to kill me.  With all of these quandaries to sift through, I haven’t had time to mourn my loss of eggs – and lost they are.  I can’t keep a pair of sunglasses for more than three weeks.  God only knows where the fuck my eggs have managed to run off to. 

My point here is that I’m going to try harder to want babies.  My lack of concern surrounding this issue is alienating me from other women – that and my propensity for banging other people’s significant others (Sorry girls!).  I am a woman God damnit!  I should want a baby!  What better way to right all the terrible wrongs I’ve experienced in my life.  My baby is going to be the shit!  My baby will fit into pants!  My baby will be responsible!  My baby will live in an apartment that has rooms!  My baby won’t drive a car manufactured by a company that also makes toasters!  My baby won’t have road rage!  My baby won’t kill plants!  MY BABY WILL BE THE QUARTERBACK FOR THE CHICAGO BEARS!!!!!!!!  Shit…my baby isn’t going to like me at all.

Bathtub Diving

Many years ago, I lived with three men in an apartment that had one bathroom.  In that bathroom was an oversized bathtub.  I believe it was this bathtub that led to the most successful relationship I’ve been party to, thus far.  Enveloped by a sea of bubbles I fell in love – with a couple.   

I like to get drunk and go swimming.  You may view this as a safety hazard – I view it as quirky.  A decade ago, when I still believed in love and the whiskey flowed like cocaine, I used to get drunk and invite people back to my house to “go swimming.”  There were a slew of problems with this scenario.  For starters, I didn’t have a swimming pool.  I did, however, have an oversized bathtub which I found to be wildly exciting and avant-garde.  Furthermore, this bathtub was connected to my roommate’s bedroom and I liked to burst through his room while running and jumping into the tub – “Bathtub Diving,” if you will.   

One evening I invited my co-workers, John and Natasha, to participate in the diving festivities.  We all worked at a nightclub together and had already gotten off of work and closed down a 4am bar.  John and Natasha lived together and had been dating for a while.  They were one of my favorite couples because they never made me feel like a third wheel.  Several hours later, we were swimming in my bathtub.  Several hours after that, I was navigating my way around a vagina.  OH BIG DEAL!  GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE!  Fine, John, Natasha and I had participated in a threesome but I’ll be damned if I let you cheapen this beautiful love story with your sick lesbian fantasies.  WE WERE IN LOVE OK?!  CAN I CONTINUE PLEASE?!  UGH…ANYWAY…

The next morning, John went to work and Natasha and I spent the day chain smoking and watching Lifetime movies.  We had so much fun that we opted to rerun the same scenario that very night…and the night after that…and the night after that.  After a few months, I found myself to be desperately in love with John and Natasha and stopped dating all other people.  If I were at a bar and a man asked for my number, which used to happen ALL THE TIME, I would decline and inform the man that I was in a relationship.  I was monogamous except for the times when I was banging two people simultaneously.  OH PUH-LEASE WOULD YOU LET IT GO?!  YES, I HAVE THREESOMES SOMETIMES.  THAT DOESN’T MEAN YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME!  

The problem with me and booze is that I can’t always control what’s going to happen to me after I’ve downed a few Budweiser Tallboys.  A few months into dating John and Natasha, I found myself in a bar (shocking) and I accidentally slept with a stranger.  This was not unlike me, although it did mark the first time I’d cheated on a couple.  The morning after, as I was gathering my belongings, the strange man handed me a key and said, “You live here now.”  I was hesitant but that bed sure was comfortable and if I were actually living there I wouldn’t have to get up – so I didn’t.  Thus began a new relationship.  I broke up with John and Natasha and ended up living with the mystery man for over a year.  (He was nice.  I wonder what ever happened to him…)

In the years since, I’ve never been able to recreate the deep emotional connection that I had with John and Natasha.  The other night I was feeling nostalgic and decided to take a bath.  It was terrible.  For starters, there were no other people in it.  Secondly, it wasn’t positioned in a way that would lend itself to Bathtub Diving.  And thirdly, it didn’t result in me dating a couple – a couple that strived to make love to me concurrently while I waded through bubbles.  WOULD YOU LET IT GO YOU SICK FUCK?!

What Is Wrong With You?

This is a question I’m forced to answer more often than I’d care to admit.  I’ve heard it said that we are often victims of our upbringing and I’ve had to dig deep to remember when it all started.  As I’ve reflected on my childhood, I’ve not been surprised to see that everyone has always been against me since the beginning – specifically my parents and more so my brother…Mitchell Royer…he’s trying to kill me.

It all started when that tyrant was born.  Even as a toddler, I remember thinking that this would not stand.  My parents, Mimi and Jim Royer, kept talking about the new kid who’d be coming around and I was not impressed.  HOW DARE THEY!  I was certain they were replacing me and on the day my mom went into labor, I was shipped off to my grandparents’ house.  REAL FUCKING COOL MIMI!  I SEE THERE’S A NEW ROYER IN TOWN!  I was clearly being banished so I figured I might as well get comfortable.  Out with the old, in with the mother fucking new.

You can imagine my surprise when I was picked up and taken to the hospital to meet my new brother, Mitchell.  What a bullshit name.  My eyes squinted, upon arrival, in an attempt to intimidate the wretched offspring.  He was god damn adorable.  So this is the monster they chose to replace me and now they’re gloating by showing him off?  It was heartless. 

Mimi and Jim Royer, and their master trickery, have always managed to outsmart me.  I’m pretty sure this is called MANIPULATION!  HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW MOTHER FUCKERS?!  GUESS WHO’S BEEN TO THERAPY!?  Ugh…anyway, after a moment of being in the hospital room, I was presented with a gift from the newest and least impressive Royer.  He had gotten me a doll.  I was suspicious but accepted this gift.  Mimi, that sneaky little devil, went on to tell me what a big responsibility being a big sister would be.  She informed me that I would be attending Big Sister classes at The Park District so I could fully come to terms with what my duties were to be.  AH HA!  OH SURE, THIS KID GETS TO LIE AROUND ALL DAY AND BE BREAST-FED AND I HAVE TO GO TO SOME CLASS JUST TO KEEP HIM ALIVE?!  I was furious.  This was worse than being pushed out but what was I supposed to do?!  I had to move forward seeing as I was now single-handedly responsible for this ankle-biting brute. 

As you can see, my parents tricked me and then forced me to raise the only child they’ve ever loved.  It was the beginning of a series of circumstances in which I was royally fucked over by the world-at-large, starting with the people who were supposed to be protecting me.  After Mitchell was born, I was relegated to serfdom.  I would never be able to outshine that masculine son-of-a-bitch.  My grandmother had given birth to three women and when she got a look at Mitchell’s wang she regarded it as a king’s scepter.  I didn’t have a dick and I knew this meant trouble.  What was I to do?  Mitchell was the first male born to a family of bitches and the last thing they were going to be impressed by was my flimsy jaydge.  I was cursed with a vagina.  I had heard that sex denoted power so I attempted to assert this power as soon as I had a chance…in high school…with anyone who was willing.

My four years at Lincoln-Way were debaucherous.  I had been misled!  Abandoned!  Beguiled!  Mitchell was three years younger than me but quick on my heels.  I was a senior when he was a freshman and I was quickly overtaken.  At that point, my high school career consisted of terminal one-night-stands that often resulted in aggressive gossip and pregnancy scares.  Big dick Mitchell rolled in and was immediately Homecoming King as well as a star football player.  My biggest claim to fame had been the etching of my name into several of the boys’ bathrooms.  In my final days of school, I was almost expelled after a dean had found drugs in my purse.  AND GUESS WHOSE DRUGS THEY WERE?!  MITCHELL MOTHER FUCKING ROYER’S! 

To be fair, I was also partaking but I doubt I would have gotten in trouble had I not been forced to carry around a bizzaro bowl that had been crafted out of some sort of extravagant bamboo.  This thing was out-of-control and Mitchell had received it as a gift from one of his many worshipers.  I tried to explain to the deans that this was my brother’s doing but they were not having it.  The real problem here is that I was trying to be masculine, cause clearly that was the solution, but some of my hare-brained girlfriends had forced me to start carrying a purse.  I was able to grasp the idea that you where supposed to fill it with stuff but couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that it then needed to be taken with you everywhere.  I had filled it with my belongings (cigarettes, weed, obscurely constructed bowl) but had forgotten to actually take it with me past the high school commons.  Ultimately, the deans took pity on me seeing as my mother was the principal at a neighboring school.  I was able to graduate but Mimi and Jim thought it was probably time for me to move the fuck out.

They were really fucking tricky about that shit.

Mimi: Honey, we think it’s so great that you want to be an actress.  You should immediately move out.

Me: Um…I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I have a D.U.I. making it virtually impossible for me to actually go anywhere.

Mimi: If you move to the city, you won’t need to drive.

Me: But my leg is broken.  It’s not real easy for me to walk.

Mimi: We’ll buy you some crutches.

Me: It’s just that…

Mimi: Ok love you bye!

That was it.  I got kicked to the curb and Mitchell was left to rule over his people.  If you go into my parents’ house there’s an entire wall dedicated to Mitchell’s football achievements.  It’s covered with ribbons and awards and blown-up pictures of him, in his jersey, on a snowy day, tackling someone less advantaged than him.  In the far corner of this room is a picture of me as an infant.  It represents a time when the world was still filled with hope and possibilities.  I didn’t yet know about penises or alcohol or the necessity to carry a handbag.  I was docile and hopeful and if you look closely…it truly seems…like nothing is wrong with me.      

Fashion

Well I just got my ass handed to me.  I started my day off in fairly high spirits.  I made it to yoga and was feeling pretty good about myself.  So good, in fact, that I opted to rock my cream sundress, which I purchased in the Macy’s junior’s department.  I am not a junior.  I have no business being in any junior’s department – anywhere.  I certainly shouldn’t be purchasing clothes from these establishments, but I’m bad at fashion and often shop alone -- despite my better judgment.  I concluded that all of these characteristics made me perfectly suited to review a clothing store which is what I just spent the last hour doing. 

For those of you that don’t know (literally everyone), I write for a website called LifeinLA.com.  My job responsibilities include reviewing different events around the city.  I get to pick what I review and, again, against my better judgment, I chose to review a boutique this morning.  It was worse than anything I could have possibly imagined.

I was nervous while preparing for today’s interview, but also excited.  I felt very confident wearing my $20 sundress to this high-end shop, just outside of Beverly Hills.  Once I got there I was greeted by Carla, the store’s stylist.  Carla is classic Los Angeles.  Blond, plastic surgery, older than my mother, and thinner than I’ll ever be.  Carla was rocking a fedora as she sized me up.  Carla knew I was writing a review so she was basically forced to be nice to me but I could tell she was unimpressed.

Me: Carla, pick out some clothes for me.  I’m bad at shopping.

Carla: Ok, well would you be comfortable in something a little longer?

(Strike 1 – Carla just called me a slut.)

Me: Carla, I bought this dress in the junior’s department at Macy’s.  Would you say that was a bad idea?

Carla: I just think you may want something a little more mature.

(Strike 2 – Carla just called me old.)

Me (Holding up a dress): What about this?

Carla: I’m not sure that we have that in your size.

(Strike 3 – Carla just called me fat.)

What a whore.  We were off to a real rocky start and I’m not sure if you know this but I’m a lippy mother fucker and I had a few things I wanted to say to old-woman Carla, but I refrained.  I had planned to walk out of that place with bags of clothes and so far, we had reached a stalemate.  In addition, I had initially been thrilled when the owner told me, “We don’t carry pants here.”  That was excellent news for me as I’ve recently decided that I’m too fat to wear pants.  I’ve completely extradited them from my wardrobe.  Pants or no pants, I was already in a tough spot but had to bounce back as I had an article to write.

Me: Alright Carla, bring me some clothes.  I’ll be in the dressing room.

Do you know what that bitch brought me?!  LONG DRESSES!!!  Carla, this is a God damn slap in the face.  Have you seen me?  Do I look like someone who can wear a long pencil skirt, you soulless monster?  I HAVEN’T HAD LIPOSUCTION CARLA!  I am a woman!  A woman with hips and a macaroni-and-cheese-gut.  I’M FROM CHICAGO CARLA!  Do you know what a diet is for me Carla?  It means boiling my brats in water instead of beer, you sick fuck.  I hate you Carla.  I should take a piss in your fedora Carla BUT I CAN’T, BECAUSE I DON’T DRINK WATER!!!!

This is not how I anticipated spending my Sunday.  After trying on those torturous long dresses, Carla completely gave up and just started bringing me pieces of cloth that she claimed I could wrap around my body and fasten with a belt.  I’m fucking on to you Carla.  You think I can’t tell that this isn’t an outfit?  Gimmie back my junior’s dress.

Needless to say, I left the shop empty handed and dead inside.  I realize I’m often dead inside but I was more dead than usual.  I had planned to grocery shop afterwards but now I was paranoid about my short skirt and instead came home to eat pad thai while shot-gunning diet cokes.  (YOU HEAR ME CARLA?!  I SAID DIET COKE!)

Anyway, I want to kill myself.  No big deal.  I will not be writing for anymore fashion stores.  (Ugh…look at me.  Fashion store?  Is that even a thing?)  I was ill-prepared for today’s events and quite frankly, I should have known better.  For now, I will go back to my wardrobe of Target smocks and leggings.  Carla may be better looking than me, she may be thin enough to wear pants, and she probably has the luxury of going home at night to a living environment that has rooms…but I have youth on my side.  I am young and vibrant and I give a great blow job – without having to remove my dentures.  Watch your back Carla… I’m comin’ for ya.

Happiness

My friend Amanda is mad with power. She recently celebrated a birthday and then got up on her high horse and demanded that I write a blog post of her choosing. Her request? Happiness. That’s right. Turns out my blog has been depressing poor Amanda and she asked me the following, horrifying question, “what makes you happy?”

Amanda asked me this and I was stunned. Clearly, she's a soulless monster. I was also in traffic, chain-smoking and swearing a lot, so she had caught me in a vulnerable moment. The fact that I couldn’t immediately think of anything that brings me joy ultimately depressed me, proving that Amanda is a witch. Regardless, she had me stumped and I could not shake the question. I then did what I always do when I’m trying to work something out in mind – I went home, watched several episodes of Glee, openly sobbed and ordered a delicious bowl of carbs from my local Italian eatery. This was, as usual, a recipe for success. After a considerable amount of television chased by numerous Marlboro reds, I finally came up with a few things that thrill me.

#1 Musicals. Any time I’m sick and have to call-in to work, I become secretly elated. I always spend this time watching old musicals. No amount of whiskey or promiscuous sex could bring me the deep-seeded joy that watching Gene Kelly slide across a dance-floor brings me. This is a deep, dark secret of mine and, upon further consideration, it is possible that Amanda does not want me to be happy so much as she wants to embarrass me at a public level. I am so overwhelmed with joy by thoughts of Liza Minnelli Fossying her way through Berlin in "Cabaret," nothing can get me down -- not even the burgeoning Nazi regime aspect of the movie.

#2 Football. I was inconsolable this evening while watching an episode of Glee that included a state championship football game. Somehow the stars aligned and brought together three things I love dearly: men banging into each other at incredible speeds, a series of choreographed dances and cheerleaders.

#3 Cheerleaders. I fucking love cheerleaders. Had I spent less time at buffets growing up, it’s possible I could have been one. (mmmmm….buffets) I particularly love adult cheerleaders. There is nothing more pathetically amazing to me then watching an NFL game and seeing grown women on the sidelines with face-paint and pom poms. It does not pay well to be a professional cheerleader, which means that those broads work their day jobs all week, run to the salon to get their grays touched up and then roll in on game day. That is conviction, and I salute it.

#4 NAPS!!!!!!!!!!!!

#5 Things That Are Funny. I really like making people laugh. I like making people laugh so much that I absolutely don’t mind if they’re laughing at me. My co-worker Mike turned to me the other day and said, “Alison, I love your blog because once I’m done reading it, I’m just so glad I’m not you.” That was basically one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. If Mike can laugh at my HORRIBLY PAINFUL LIFE, then I have made him happy and my job feels complete.

My friend Nikki got diagnosed with Leukemia last year, and I went to visit her in the hospital. I went into that hospital room with guns blazing. I was loud, and obnoxious, and talking about L.A. and all the ridiculous men I had been stalking and my terrible acting career. And of course all my other friends were there, and they were ripping on me, and teasing me, and then Nikki glared right at me and said, “Honestly Alison, drinking Drano is less abrasive than you.” And then…she laughed. That bitched laughed right in my face. She was so proud of herself and it was at my expense. And I couldn’t have been more delighted. Nikki passed away last Christmas. I won’t go into the horribleness that we all went through and I wish her story would have ended a different way. But I like to believe that maybe I was able to offer her a little bit of relief when she was in incredible pain.

So Amanda, you horrible monster, you killed my friend Nikki.

Ok, you didn’t, but you have brought her up and that was heartless. If I have to spend the rest of my life breaking my legs in blackouts, dating men who are wrong for me and getting admitted into the hospital, I’ll do it. As long as it makes you smile. Happy birthday, you shrew.

50 Shades of Suicide City

I’m thinking about taking 800 aspirin.  One of my friends tried it once and while she didn’t manage to kill herself, she claims she hasn’t had a headache since.  I blame my newfound suicidal tendencies on every trilogy I’ve ever read – the most recent being Fifty Shades of Grey.

You guys…seriously?  How am I supposed to keep up?!  After reading Twilight I learned that if you’re a virgin, you’re going to meet a hot, rich man and then he’ll bite you (cause he’s a vampire…obviously) and you’ll get to live forever.  In Fifty Shades of Grey I learned that if you’re a virgin, you’re going to meet a hot, rich man whose only goal in life is to make you happy, buy you clothes and occasionally gag you.

Spoiler alert: I’m not a virgin.  While every other woman in America is at home right now furiously masturbating to Fifty Shades of Grey, I am freaking out! Listen, I lost my virginity a long time ago.  If someone would have explained to me how important my chastity was going to be, it’s possible that I would have paid more attention to where it went.  It’s sort of like when you’re in line at a fast-food restaurant and right after you order they give you that little ticket with the number on it.  If you’re me, you find yourself sitting in a booth, five minutes later, wondering why the fuck you’re holding garbage.  After that, people start screaming numbers at you and you realize that the little piece of paper was wildly important.  Now you’re accidentally eating a kid’s meal when you could have had a Whopper.

Also, how do both the women in these books get men to aggressively stalk them?  Is it the virgin thing?  I can’t even get a guy to pick me up from my apartment.  These books are making me feel inadequate!  You think I haven’t tried to get men to stalk me?  I once told a diabetic that I live in a candy store and do you think that mother fucker ever stopped by?  Ugh….

In Fifty Shades of Grey, Anastasia spends all her free time eating pancakes and bacon yet a constant theme of the book is how she’s super thin and can’t put on any weight.  IN WHAT WORLD?!  When I was in high school I caught anorexia from a friend and I weighed 130 lbs.  That means that with full-blown anorexia I remained a regular sized person.  In the meantime, my show-off friend only weighed 89 lbs and kept getting called into the principal’s office.  Cut to me in detention where my teacher is screaming, “Yo Royer, you look great.  Don’t stop doing what you’re doing.”  Oh you mean continue to not eat food?!  Real nice detention teacher.  I can’t even do an eating disorder correctly.  I wish I was dead.

Listen, I have enough reasons to feel sorry for myself. I’m dying, I have an out-of-control drug addiction and I drive a Daewoo.  Isn’t it possible that an overweight Midwestern girl can still find love in this world?  I am young (31), attractive (boy haircut) and single (desperate).  I should be enjoying myself! Instead I spend my free time Googling “How to become a vampire” and “Is macaroni and cheese a carb?”  I hate everyone.  I hate vampires.  I hate flashy CEOs who have a panache for S&M.  And I hate men who can’t give me a simple reason to file a restraining order against them.  As soon as I can figure out how many bottles it takes to make 800 aspirin, I’m outta here.