What?

You ever go to those foot massage places? You know the ones where they do the massage while your feet soak in a tub of bleach? I can hardly blame them for doing that by the way, who wants to touch someone’s disgusting feet without bleaching the hell out of ‘em first? I don’t wanna touch someone’s feet, period.

I’m not sure I wanna touch someone’s body unless it’s been bleached first.

Well my friend and I went the other day and… what? Yes, of course I have friends… what a stupid question to ask! Anyway, we went to one of those massage places on the boulevard because we needed some stress reduction, and since both of us are currently single, and not the types to pick up strange men in bars, this was our next best option. Actually, I shouldn’t say that; I really can’t vouch for my friend not being a slutty whore, I’m only assuming she isn’t. There is something about the way she dresses that screams “whore” though, now that I think about it.

Anyway I have mixed feelings about these places; on the one hand, you can’t beat the price, it’s the cheapest thrill in town (it’s the only thrill in town), but on the other hand, you have to tolerate the slightly annoying language barrier; I can’t understand a word anyone says. I try. I try to understand what they’re saying by using my best deciphering skills, but I only understand about 15%… maybe. When I called to make our appointment the owner answered the phone and I had to ask her several times to repeat herself. It was kinda my fault because I went too far; I asked for something specific, when really all I should’ve done was just state what time we wanted our massages. Instead, I asked for a female masseuse since I prefer being touched by a woman over a man.

Hmm, does that sound right?

It’s just that the men I’ve had in the past do it too hard.

Ahem.

Anyway, when she responded, I had to ask her to repeat herself, but I still couldn’t understand her, so I asked her to say it again and she did, but nope… nothing. So then I just pretended to understand her by responding with a “sure”, not being sure at all because I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

Have you ever done that? Pretended to understand what someone was saying, just so you could slowly back yourself out of the awkwardness of the situation? Well that’s what I attempted to do, but noooo… she wouldn’t let me off the hook, the pushy broad. She asked me if I understood what she had just said, and the only reason I understood that part, was because she only used two words: you understand? No, I’m not asking you if you understand, those were the two words she used that I understood. Understand?

Anyway, I gave up and admitted that no, I could not understand her, and then she got really aggressive with me. Yeah, it was amazing! In her irritation and broken English, I got the sense she could bust some serious balls. You don’t have to speak a foreign language to know when someone’s a ball breaker! Admittedly, I got a little scared. I don’t know why, it’s not like I have balls or anything.

When we arrived, all the masseuseseses… ahem, practitioners… were busy, so guess who ended up being my masseuse? Yep, The ball-breaker. She was really nice to me though, which totally threw me off, because when someone’s really nice just after being really irritated, they come off a little crazy, know what I mean? I kept waiting for her to challenge me to a sword fight, which is something I certainly wouldn’t be prepared for, she probably has a huge sword!

I told her I like it really soft… you know, the massage… so when she first started to do it, it felt great, but then out of nowhere, she started digging her fingers deep into my flesh, twisting and turning, so I said “Whoa, Siamese Samurai, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” She leaned into my face, flexed her bicep and touched her muscle, then muttered something about being too strong to do soft massage. At least, that’s what I thought she said. So I told the bone-crusher I needed to have another masseuse because I wouldn’t be able to walk out of there alive if she kept at it. Since no women were available, I ended up getting a male masseuse, and you know what? He was really good. He didn’t do it too hard and he didn’t smell, so I dunno, maybe I need to rethink that whole woman thing.

It’s Bananas

I live in the suburbs in a place called… well, never mind what it’s called… it’s your typical suburb: bedroom community, family orientated, no culture, nothing exciting to do and everything closes at 9pm. The good thing about it is there’s always plenty of parking and you can run red lights with impunity. We’re a small town that used to be much smaller before all these idiots from other places discovered it, so now we’re a small town crammed with people who have small minds, so it’s boring.

It’s so boring, when something new happens, the whole town buzzes with excitement. I’ll give you an example: The guys and gals from the Recs and Parks built a new park down the street from me. It has a skate park, so it’s a park within a park, if you will. People like moms, dads and the little bastards they gave birth to, have been flocking there ever since it opened, because… what the fuck else is there to do in the suburbs except grab a friggin’ Starbucks latte and take your kid to the new park? Preceding the actual park is a parking lot where everybody parks their cars instead of getting out and walking, which is silly because the whole idea of a neighborhood park is to get people outside.

I used the word park so many times in that paragraph, it probably defies proper grammar, and if people in this town knew about it, it’d probably make their panties wet… that’s how desperate they are for some excitement!

Now this park sits directly across the street from a middle school, and to me, nothing says “Bring on the pedophiles!” more than a park with a parking lot sitting across the street from a middle school, am I right?

We also have our own local rag which covers all the goings on around town, too. What the heck do you write about in a town where the biggest news of the week is a park opening and everyone’s asleep by ten? Well for instance, they have a weekly crime blotter that informs the community of all the horrible crimes that took place for the week, which reads something like: 6pm Wednesday, a car was broken into on First Ave. Sunday, 12 noon, a man was arrested for disorderly conduct, etc., etc. 

One edition had an article on how to bake banana bread, that was exciting. The tagline read: “This one will be sure to turn around banana haters” which was such a coincidence because I had been thinking about all those banana haters and how to turn them around too! Why would you want to try to turn a banana hater around anyway, and why would you try to do it with something as benign as banana bread, and not something like, say, a banana daiquiri? Does it really bother you that much that there are people out there who hate bananas? I mean, have you seen the internet? People are hating a lot worse things than bananas.

I happen to love bananas. Think about it: The banana is one of those few foods you can take anywhere because it’s encased in its own packaging. Plus it’s packed with vitamins, doesn’t have a lot of calories, and it’s one of those fruits that when you watch someone eating one, it makes you think sexy thoughts.

BANANA HATERS: DO NOT EMAIL ME

Listen, if you want excitement, don’t move here. Every day I have to go out of my way to do something thrilling to get my heart racing, just so I know I’m still alive and have a pulse… usually involving bananas.

 

 

Hard (where) To Match

You know that saying “The definition of madness is continually going to the hardware store to buy bread and expecting different results each time.”? Well, that’s a pretty good analogy for my online dating experience, but try this one on for size:

“The definition of madness is continually going to an online dating site looking for a hammer amongst the many loaves of bread, and getting disappointed because I expected different results.”

Okay, maybe it needs a little tweaking.

I know, I know… I said I wouldn’t participate in online dating anymore, but… oops, I did it again. What can I say? I lost all sensibility, which is what happens when my squish-mitten does the talking and not my hard hat. It’s not just men who lose their brains to their genitals, apparently.

I’ve only done this inane activity a handful of times since, well, since the inception of the online dating nonsense, and those were only during short spurts of single-hood. I could only tolerate it for a few weeks, then I would give up and just try to catch a man the usual way: with promises of wild nights in bed and some really great dinners, the whole time really only intending on keeping one of those promises (I’ll let you guess which one).

Now, the bread has gone stale.

I’ve never had a problem getting guys in my entire life (easy to believe with my sparkling personality, I know) but now, I’m in the Sahara desert of the dating world, and I can only attribute it to my age, because everything else about me is totally bitchen. Well okay, there is that one section in the middle… but everything else rocks! Once I entered my fifties, that’s it I guess, I’m no longer desirable. Put me out to pasture, I’m a fucking old cow.

Hang on, I need to sneeze… ah moo!

Excuse me. Okay, where was I? Oh yes, ageism; men want younger women, even those old fuckers who are like, 80! Those are the ones who want me, by the way. To them, I’m a spring chicken.

Wait, gotta sneeze again… buk buk buk buk, bukaw!

Excuse me, wow… I must have allergies.

There’s something to be said about the old fashioned way of match-making, where the gentleman was introduced to the lady by relatives or friends. It made sense because these people knew each of the potential love birds, and there was good, solid structure and social expectations, so men behaved themselves. They had to have a certain reputation, good manners and a stable position in society. They would visit with the lady, chaperoned, of course, and during courtship, the two would take the time to get to know one another. They didn’t take too long though, people couldn’t mess around back then because life expectancy was much shorter, so you had to strike while the mitten was hot, so to speak.

*whispering* Just between you ‘n me… my mitten’s pretty hot.

I have lots of things going for me. I haven’t had any kids, so everything’s all tucked up inside nice and tight still. Maybe gravity has had a few visits elsewhere, but I’m no grandma. Plus, I know how to cook up a good, steamy loaf, if you know what I mean! 

Hmm, does that sound right? 

What I’m trying to say is, if the guy doesn’t have high expectations, he could have a pretty good time. You know what? This would be perfect information to put on my profile. I mean, if I’m gonna do this, I gotta go big or go home… up the ante… compete like a winner, am I right?!

*singing* “Old MacDonald Had a Farm, E-I-E-I-O, and on this farm he had a…. a… a…   cow… E-I-E-I-O”

Maybe A Cold Shower Would Help

I was on Twitter this morning when I noticed someone’s tweet about manners. This person said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “People should hold themselves to a certain standard, courtesy boils down to having good manners, and just because someone else is acting like a douche, it’s no reason for you to do the same.”

I’d like to address this, and I would venture to say you’re not surprised in least.

Firstly, I’d like to address this guy’s use of the word “douche”, because it means “shower” in French, and I’ve never understood why people think it’s a good word to call someone they’re aggravated with. It’s like screaming “You’re a shower!” at them.

It’s a derivative of the term “douche bag”, which loosely refers to a particular feminine product; one that essentially showers the inside of your banana basket in order to clean it, which is ludicrous it’s even considered something that should be cleaned to begin with when men are constantly trying to get inside of it. And just because there’s an opening down there, doesn’t mean all sorts of things are supposed to go up it. Anyway, the word is now a widely accepted form of insult.

As a young girl, I remember wandering down the feminine products aisle at the supermarket and seeing douches on the shelves, wondering why the hell women needed to do that to themselves (*spoiler alert: they don’t). These were just thoroughly misguided products marketed to women to make them feel badly about their pink panthers, like they’re dirty things that must be constantly “clean”. I’m pretty certain that word was never intended to be culturally hijacked by the lesser gender to be used as a slur towards others, but here we are.

It quickly turned into mockery and used to shame or insult, but why did some dude decide that the word douche (or douche bag, for that matter) would be the best way to cut another dude down? Bitch is another word that comes to mind, but that’s for another day. Right now, I’m focused on the goddamn shower. 

When you use that word to insult another guy, it is essentially insulting women, so you’re affecting both genders. Oh, by the way, last time I checked, there were still only two genders, everything else is just stuff confused people made up. Listen, I get it if you’re a woman and you want to become a man, because let’s face it, it’s still a man’s world (just ask those two shower bags Brett Kavanaugh and Donald Trump), but if you’re a man, why on earth you would want to make your life more difficult by becoming a woman?

Secondly, this guy is preaching about having manners and holding oneself to a higher standard, but negates that very proclamation by name calling… with a misnomer on top of it. That shows a lack of manners, amongst other things, like proper education and hypocrisy, am I right? Wait, the doorbell is ringing. In other words, don’t answer that because I don’t give a ding dong whether you agree or not.

*snicker… Get it? Doorbell… don’t answer… ding dong? *snicker *snort

ahem

It’s been a while, but the way I remember it, people showing manners meant doing such things as holding the door open for someone, introducing yourself and shaking hands with the person you’re meeting, or using formal language as a sign of respect. Now having manners means you name call in a tweet rather than to someone’s face… or maybe you refrain from running some jerk off the road because he cut you off, like that guy in the Camry this morning…

Asshole!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have a shower.

Don’t Speak

I took a free yoga class this morning. Boy was that stupid.

I know yoga is supposed to be good for you, but honestly, that’s based on a lot of variables. For example, if you have a really good instructor and you’re practicing your yoga in a beautiful, peaceful location, then yeah, it’s good for you. However, if you have a crappy, annoying instructor, and you’re… let’s say, outdoors, at a fucking kid’s park, with no shade and it’s too hot, then no, it’s not good for you.

Case in point: my yoga class this morning.

Okay first of all, the instructor was from Minnesota and if you’re from Minnesota, you should never teach yoga because your accent sounds awful teaching yoga (amongst other things, like having sex and ordering food), it’s not meant to utter sentences such as “Now gently lower your body onto the mat.” It’s more suited to saying short, clipped phrases like “cheddar cheese” and “Boy, that was a lot of snow.” It’s like having the Swedish Chef from the Muppets teach the class, and frankly, I’d rather hear tires screeching. This instructor also ended her sentences on an up note, so it sounded like she was asking a question rather than making a statement, and her voice was annoyingly high and sing-songy. I kept waiting for pink heart emojis to come flying out of her mouth.

You really should prepare ahead of time how you’re gonna phrase things when you’re instructing a class also. During one particular pose, our hands reaching towards the sky, she asked us to pay attention to where our middle fingers were (is it inappropriate to burst out into laughter during yoga?) and it took all my will to keep my mouth shut, as you can imagine. You might also want to check in with your students before you begin the class to see what level they are and not expect them to turn themselves into a pretzel while you show off your chaturangas, or whatever the hell they’re called.

It’s September here in Southern California (it’s September worldwide, but never mind that) and although it’s a beautiful time of year, it can still get hot, so doing something outdoors is hit or miss. Well, it was hot today! (please imagine me saying that in an annoying, sing-songy Minnesotan accent). The sun was trying to burn a hole into my yoga pants while I was attempting a downward dog and that was the end of it for me. I added up all the reasons why I would want to stay to finish the class, which took all of a split second, and all the reasons I should leave and go have breakfast (no-brainer), so I rolled up my mat and left, with absolutely zero guilt whatsoever.

On the way out, I noticed the kid’s playground. Not in a creepy, pedophile sort of way, I mean the actual playground area, where the swings are and stuff. I noticed that most of the… the… whaddya call ‘em, the things they play on? The playground things. Have you ever noticed the playground things they design for kids always spin? Why? That got me thinking about amusement parks, because all amusement parks have rides that sp… wait, that’s it, that’s the word I was looking for… RIDES! Look, I get stumped from time to time, shoot me. Anyway, I noticed the rides they have at all these places always spin the fuck out of little kids, and personally, I don’t think that’s a good combination: kids and spinning. 

Kinda like accents and yoga.

The Joke’s On You

I work at a soul-sucking dead-end job solely for the purpose of making money to pay my bills and support the three most important things in my life: my two cats and my stand up comedy career. Two of those things are absolutely thriving, can guess which two? Here, I’ll give you a hint: they have sharp teeth.

Actually, stand up comedy has sharp teeth, so that’s not a very good hint.

By the way, it costs a lot of money to feed two fat fur balls. Make that three (I’m on the chubby side… and I may or may not be a little furry). Okay, I’m not furry everywhere, only in specific places. 

ahem

I’m not really fat either, only very slightly chubby, so let’s get that straight. I like to eat, so what? It’s one of the few pleasures in life. Well, that, and watching people trip or fall. I don’t know why, but that just always makes me bust out laughing. Not if they’re old people and fall though, that’s not funny. Welll… yeah it is. I mean, as long as they don’t hurt themselves.

Otherwise, it’s friggin’ hilarious.

When we trip and fall, we’re in our most human moment and there’s no redemption from it. No amount of money or fame can ease the embarrassment of tripping or falling down, we look stupid doing it, and there’s no getting around it. Have you ever watched someone go down, arms flailing? Not the most graceful thing, is it? It’s slapstick comedy in its purest form. That’s how a comedic mind works anyway. You’d probably understand if you were a comedian.

Don’t tell me you’ve already thought of doing stand up comedy? You mean you’ve pictured yourself as a famous comic on the lighted stage, thrilled at your ability to make people laugh, making tons of money? Ha! My suggestion: dump an ice cold bucket of water over your head, take a good look in the mirror and call yourself a fool, then move on with your life.

In other words, don’t bother.

It’s insanity; a wacky endeavor that should be reserved only for the very special ones; ones who possess questionable mental issues, and who harbor excessive amounts of anger and frustration, which renders them the ability to take the extraordinarily shitty in life, find the humor, and make jokes out of them. We turn life’s lemons into sugarless lemonade and make you believe it tastes good. That’s our job. We have a love/hate relationship with the mundane; we yearn for a life so simple, but we make fun of it instead because we’re not destined for that kind of life.

You don’t want this life, trust me. You’ll be forced to go to open mics in the dumpiest and filthiest of bars and clubs every single night of the week to practice your routine in front of the most jaded people on the planet: other comics. They won’t laugh. The apathy will be so palpable, you’ll wonder if you’re back at your dead-end job with your co-workers instead of on stage performing. If you do get a laugh, it’ll be because you fucked up, not because you said something funny. It’ll be like tripping and falling every single day of your life. You’ll be wracked with self-loathing and self-doubt and you’ll be broke, exhausted, and undateable, because who the hell wants to date a broke, exhausted comic? You’ll have nights (many) where you question whether you should be doing it at all and you’ll…

…on second thought, go ahead.

Grin And Wear It

Women generally have three sets of clothing.

We have our nice set of clothes that we wear for work or going out, we have our weekend clothes, the semi casual stuff for running errands or lazing around the house, and then, we have our secret set of clothes. These are the clothes we hide in the closet next to the tennis rackets, the free weights, and the cowboy boots we only wore one time when we went two-stepping back in the early 2000s. They’re thrown in a pile in the darkest recesses of the closet because we don’t want anybody knowing we dress like that.

They’re stained, they have holes, and they’re two sizes too big from being stretched out. They’re butt ugly, but we don’t get rid of them because we need a set of old clothes to put on when we feel like crap or have given up. You know what I’m talking about ladies… these are your “shame clothes”, the ones you don’t wanna get caught wearing in public, the ones you wear when you know you’ll be totally isolated from society, the ones you’ll put on when you’ve decided that the only redemption you’ll have is to shove your face into a pint of frozen yogurt or a bag of those disgusting Oreo’s (frankly, my refined tastes prefer something imported).

You wear these clothes when you’re fed up and don’t care. They make a statement and that statement says “I don’t give a shit about myself or the world anymore today.”

I know when I’m in that kinda mood, I make the worst fashion choices ever. I’m amazed at how horrible my perception is when in that state of mind. I’ve matched a maroon t-shirt with bright red sweatpants before… maroon and red? That’s a horrible color combination! I wouldn’t even wanna be buried in that color combination, that’s how horrible it is. Okay, I know most of you men are color blind and are having a hard time visualizing those two colors, so let me put it to you this way: wearing those two colors together, is like watching porn at your grandmother’s house.

We have secret underwear to match our secret clothes too; underwear that should’ve been thrown out months ago… no, years ago… but have not because the elastic has been nicely stretched out and no longer digs into our groins, and comfort supersedes sexy any goddamn day of the week! Every girl needs six or seven pairs of these gigantic swaths of  punani fabric.

Listen, I have the sexy, lacy kind of underwear too, I’m not a librarian… I mean, barbarian! I keep those up in the attic, preserved under glass, and I go up there from time to time, wipe away the cobwebs and gaze upon them longingly.

What about the guys? Let me tell you single ladies out there: the clothes the guy is wearing will tell you exactly what they’re maturity level is. If they’re wearing clothes that look like something a tenth grader could also wear, that’s the maturity level you can expect from that guy. If he’s wearing his favorite basketball player’s shirt with baggy shorts that come down to below his knees with a pair of dirty tennis shoes, the only thing this guy will ever do on Sundays is watch sports and eat shitty food that’ll give him the bed farts. He’ll never go to the mall with you, he’ll never take you to brunch by the lake… it’s only sports and shitty fried food all day long, and the only conversation you’ll be able to have with this guy, will be in monosyllabic sentences.

You ever look at a guys shoes? Well you should, because whatever kind of shoes a guy is wearing says everything about what he stands for (no pun intended).

Some guys will wear shoes until they’re so old, they’re no longer flexible, they’ve hardened. Those guys are cheap and will never buy you anything. I used to date a guy who had a pair of Sperry Topsiders, you remember those hideous shoes from the early 90s? His were so old and worn, they just sort of hardened into a mid-stride shape, so when he took them off, they remained slightly bent. They were fossilized. When the guy dies, a thousand years from now, anthropologists are going to dig him up and display his shoes in a museum. These were his only pair of shoes by the way. Ladies, pay attention, learn from my mistake: do not ever date a guy who only has one pair of shoes…

…because he’s an asshole.

 

Herstory Lesson

School is back in session and I couldn’t be happier or more annoyed at the same time. Talk about a dichotomy… bipolar, if you will.

Hang on a sec’… all you crazies settle down okay? Don’t get mad because I used your mental illness in that phrase, I’m not using it in a derogatory manner. As it happens, some of the most interesting people are bipolar and are considered borderline genius.

(Actually, that’s not true at all. It’s the other type of crazy that borders on genius. Bipolar is just your ordinary crazy, but don’t tell them that.)

ahem

Anyway, I don’t have kids (which will become apparent momentarily), so how do I know school started? Well, for two reasons: One is that all the shops, parks and frozen yogurt places are nice and quiet again, and two, my route to and from work is now packed with the idiots who insist on driving their self-entitled nose pickers to and from school instead of making them take the bus or, *gasp* walk. So now they’re cramming the roads with their Audi crossovers, making the time it takes for me to drive to work, twice as long. I barely have time to finish picking blueberries out of my teeth before I have to rush out the door so I can navigate the extra traffic.

That’s how I know.

I won’t regale you with stories of how I got to school (I either walked or rode the bus for your information because I’m fucking normal) because that would make me boring. I’ll just say that it’s not good to take your kid to and from school because they’ll miss out on a fun learning experience. I used to have the best time taking the bus to school. It was the better part of the entire school experience, frankly.

The bus stop was right down the street from my house and my friends and I would meet there and socialize before the bus came. After we boarded, we’d make our way all the way to the back because that’s where the long bench seat was located… you know the one I’m talking about, right? No? Well you would if you weren’t being chartered to school like a fucking wizard… 

Harry Potter!

Anyway, there’s a long bench seat at the very back of the bus, and we liked to sit there because along the route to school there was this big dip in the road, and as the back end of the bus was coming out of the dip, it would bounce really high, so we’d push ourselves off the seat simultaneously with the bus on the upswing, which would propel us really high into the air, and we’d have a contest to see who could get propelled the highest. Everyone on the bus would watch in awe because, well it was pretty awe-inspiring. If there was social networking back then, it would’ve totally gone viral.

You can’t do stuff like that in your mommy’s car. How the hell are you supposed to learn shit about physics if you’re strapped into an Audi looking cross-eyed at the screen of your iPhone?

Kids need to learn to toughen up a little so stop being so protective. Let ‘em get beat up, spit on or tripped on the bus. It’s a wonderful introduction to how life’s gonna be once they have a job or get married, for example.

Look, I don’t hate kids, I think they’re wonderful. Every time I come into contact with one, they leave the encounter knowing something they didn’t before. For instance, I was in the CVS the other day buying stuff I didn’t need so I could get one of their receipts to use as toilet paper for the week, and I saw this adorable little six year old girl running down the aisle with a Barbie Doll clutched tightly in her hands. Clearly, she was looking for her mom, who’d left her in the toy aisle so she could continue shopping undisturbed, and the little girl was going to find her and beg for the doll. Anyway, I approached her and said “Listen, I know you’re infatuated with Barbie, what little girl isn’t at your age? Anyway, I know you desperately want the Barbie doll right now, but think about it, in five years’ time, you’re gonna hate the bitch because she’s skinnier than you and has bigger tits.”

I walked away giving her some real food for thought, know what I mean?

 

Freeze Frame

I went to my Botox appointment yesterday during my menial lunch hour, and of course the Botox lady was running late so I knew I’d be getting back to work late, further irritating my already irritable boss. It also meant she didn’t have enough time to numb my face properly, so when she came at me with the syringe, it felt like bees were stinging my face. I wanted to slap her but it was all for a good cause, so I really couldn’t. 

Yes, yes, yes… I get Botox and I’m not afraid to admit it. I don’t want that frown line that was developing between my eyes to deepen, which, by the way, was brought on by people… and their… habits. It’s an expensive process wiping away all emotion from one’s face using Botox, but there’s no better alternative; I’ve tried apathy, disdain and cynicism but none of those work as well.

You don’t get charged per visit for this treatment either, the way they charge you is per “unit”. A unit is basically a measurement the developers of Botox came up with of how much they should inject into your face. A unit sounds so reasonable, until you get the bill and see you needed a lot of fucking units.

There’s gotta be varying levels of freshness of this product too. This is only the second time I’ve had it administered, and the first time it took about three days to fully freeze my face, but this time, it only took a day and feels much stronger. I noticed my Botox lady opened up a brand new package of the stuff this time, so maybe they kind of ease you into it your first time and that way, you don’t get scared off because your face no longer moves the way it normally does. Anyway, no one even noticed I had anything done or that the upper portion of my face was no longer moving, which tells me that cynicism has been my go-to expression for longer than I thought.

It’s slightly ironic that I spent so much money getting this procedure done and I’m not even getting any action or have any prospects… but maybe that’s the whole idea; have your face frozen, get a guy! I’m not entirely convinced men would be as concerned about a woman’s facial features as they are about her other features though… like, for instance, her tits. Have you ever timed how long it took for a man you just met to move his eyes from looking directly into yours, downwards to your tits?

I have.

Morons.

No, I won’t be doing any procedures to my tits. The thought of an icy steel blade cutting into that delicate flesh, severing nerves, and being adjusted into an unnatural position, just so I can live up to someone else’s idea of what they should look like… is not gonna happen. Not that I resemble a grandma or anything, sheesh! It’s just that they’re not as… well, let’s just say I’m not twenty anymore.

Why am I even justifying myself?

Jesus, when I think about this shit, I just get irritated and wonder why I want a man anyway if they’re so friggin’ shallow and rude. Then something happens, like the plumbing gets backed up, or no one’s around to take the trash out, or I need air in my tires… all things I am perfectly capable of doing on my own, but is so much better to have a man around to do them, and I go back to wanting one again. I guess men are good for some things. Plus, you know, the sex!

I wonder if the guy would even know I’m having a good time though, since my face always just reads “Cynic”?

What’s In A Name?

Idiot.

That word is so meaningful and profound. I love how it feels as it forms in my mouth. It’s like having an icy piece of peppermint candy dancing on my tongue, with all the sweetness of a love affair, but none of the bitterness. That’s because once you utter the word, any bitterness is immediately ejected out of you and onto the person with whom you’ve placed judgement.

I don’t know if there’s an idiot scale measuring how much of an idiot someone can be, but if there is, it’s irrelevant; just the word alone denotes how much of an idiot an idiot is, that’s the beauty of it! Sure, you could say “What a fucking idiot!” or “What a stupid idiot!” and it may feel good adding in those adjectives, but it’s not necessary. Idiot can stand alone and be completely effective.

Idiot.

I like to use it as much as possible, especially when I’m driving. But I’m not sure I want to hear someone else using it. I don’t know… I think it’s because calling someone an idiot should be a private exchange between you and the person you’ve deemed as such, like for instance, while driving. So when I hear someone else using it to describe someone, it almost feels like I caught them doing something dirty or illegal.

Like the other day: My landlady was telling me how much her electric bill was, in what I can only describe as complaining and hinting, and she went on to say one of her tenants (clearly not me), who has been away on vacation (clearly not me), had inadvertently left their freezer door ajar, so the constant running jacked up her bill. She said “I just happened to go into her unit and noticed she didn’t close the freezer door all the way, so it was running for over a week… the idiot!” (again, clearly not me) and I felt sort of, um… yucky, after she said it. 

I happen to like my landlady and we get along really well, so after hearing that, all I could think was “Wow, I wonder what she says about me?” and immediately after that “Wow, I wonder how many times she’s let herself into my place when I wasn’t there?” Then I started to think about whether this person deserved to be called an idiot. It wasn’t like they’d left the freezer door open on purpose, it was an accident anyone could make. I’ve done it a couple times myself. How many people do you know slowly close the refrigerator door and make sure it’s closed all the way every single time they use it… I mean, besides those weirdos with OCD?

People with OCD: DO NOT EMAIL ME

That is a rhetorical question by the way. I’m sure you’re not sitting there trying to think of someone you know who’d do that, right? ‘Cause that would make you an idiot. No one would. You’d open the fridge or freezer, grab what you needed and slam the door shut behind you with your foot or elbow like a normal person. You wouldn’t turn back to make sure it closed all the way, you’d be too busy with food on your mind!

I’m getting hungry just thinking about this whole fridge thing.

Now, would I be irritated as a landlady if this happened to me? Yeah, but I’d think of a more constructive way to deal with my frustration, like unplug their air conditioner during a heat wave and say it’s broken and going to take a couple days to fix… or something like that. I wouldn’t name-call if it wasn’t necessary.

I don’t know if people have referred to me as an idiot or not (probably) but I don’t wanna know. The only thing I want to concern myself with is: When I use that term to describe someone, and how much they deserved it. Everything else is just… idiotic.

 

 

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