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”
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
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…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have a shower.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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…
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?
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?
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”?
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.
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.
Well I woke up with a friggin’ cold sore on the cupid’s bow of my upper lip this morning. I hate these things; they’re painful, they’re ugly, and they go through a terrible metamorphosis over a period of ten days or so: First, it starts out as a red bump, then it doubles in diameter and gets a head on it, then it pops, leaving a raw, open wound that scabs over, sheds, and scabs over again, two or three… or four times. Plus they’re itchy. I can already tell… this one’s gonna get so big, it’ll have its own heartbeat.
Wanna kiss me?
Jesus Christ, I already feel undesirable as it is… now this. I was planning on calling a male prostitute for a date tonight too, now that’s out the window. No, no, no… not to have sex or anything… I just want the companionship. Really, I swear. I know it sounds hard to believe… listen, I know my male readers will totally get it; they’d understand because they’d say the exact same thing… if they got caught doing it. At least I’m being honest from the get-go.
It doesn’t really matter that I look like I’ve been punched in the mouth, I don’t have the money to hire a male prostitute anyway. I’ve been spending it on a totally different kind of therapy; the kind where you pay someone to listen to you talk about your problems. Doesn’t seem like such a great deal now that I’m comparing it with hiring a hot male prostitute to essentially do the same thing. Maybe I need to rethink my priorities.
I haven’t had a date in Idunnoknowhowlong (I do, but I’m not telling), and I haven’t been able to subject myself again to the humiliating online dating experience because I’m not a sucker for punishment.
“Hey there, you don’t know me, but since you’re shopping for a partner, here’s my picture for your consideration. It’s not an accurate representation of me in everyday life, that would be too fucking unacceptable because I wouldn’t be able to use filters or the right lighting or the best angle to try to disguise my true age every single fucking moment of the rest of our lives together. By the way, how old did you lie about on your profile?”
No thanks cowboy. I’d rather have spurs stuck in my eyeballs.
So my dating life this past week consisted of me going to the movies with a good guy friend of mine, and we ended up talking about aging and everything that’s going wrong with our slowly failing bodies. This is the topic du jour for the 50+ set, for those of you who are still wasting your youth.
Anyway, I’m not much of a moviegoer. I think I go maybe three or four times a year, mostly because it’s completely overpriced for what you get. Hollywood just re-hashes and repackages the same old scripts and story lines and most of it is done poorly and not something I’d wanna spend almost twenty bucks doing. Hmm, I wonder how much time I could get with that male prostitute for twenty bucks?
We went to see Mission Impossible (sounds like my love life), and I’m really glad I went because I got to drool over Tom Cruise. I don’t care what kind of twisted life he leads over at the Church of Scientology with all those other wack jobs, he’s still hot at fifty-something and does his own stunts! When we sat in our seats I made sure to put my arm on the armrest of the empty seat next to me to establish my dominance in case someone came and sat down. The seats in the theater were the best part though; they reclined and the footrest came up. I was praying I wouldn’t inadvertently take a nap as I sat/lay in my chair. I didn’t have to worry, the movie was pure action-packed from the moment it started.
When I realized I had to go pee halfway through, I was fraught with the decision to either hold it, or miss a few minutes of the movie. I decided not to take any chances, made a run for the bathroom and gave myself 90 seconds to get back to my seat before I would self-destruct. That’s a Mission Impossible reference for those of you who’ve never seen the movie franchise or television series, which would be ludicrous.
Hmm, I wonder how much Tom Cruise charges per hour?
I don’t like the fact that people tend to associate you with something they remember you doing once before. It’s like you do one little thing and that’s it, that’s all they remember you by, and it’s associated with you for the rest of your life. Like my neighbor always referring to me as the crazy naked woman he found in his pool that one night. It was hot, I thought he was out of town… I mean, Jeez, let it go already! There’s so much more to me than that anyway, like I know how to pick fruit from other neighbors’ trees without getting caught, for instance.
Listen, I used to wait tables a long time ago but does that still make me a server? No. I accidentally spilled a shit load of beers on a group of off-duty cops during happy hour one night but does that make me a klutz? No, it makes me a friggin’ genius… I can’t stand cops.
The other day, I got an unsolicited email offering me a job as a dishwasher. A dishwasher?! Are you serious? Like I don’t do enough dishes as it is, being a woman with no automatic dishwasher. Please. What’s really ironic is it came from a company called Compass Group Talent Acquisition (apparently it takes talent to do the dishes now). I nearly spit out my coffee when I read it! That’s just an expression by the way, I don’t drink coffee, it doesn’t agree with me. Neither does chocolate, which is truly, truly awful. I’ve had to eliminate two of the best tasting things on this planet out of my diet. I can still eat dick though. Actually, I wouldn’t characterize dick as best tasting… or even good tasting, for that matter. I’d rather have a chocolate bar, put it that way.
When I realized I could no longer eat chocolate, I contemplated my existence on this earth; what’s the point of living if you can’t eat chocolate?! Well, I can eat chocolate, but I’ll pay for it later with the Hershey squirts. Sorry, I didn’t mean to gross you out, but that’s what happens. I must have the weakest digestive system in the world: I can’t eat dairy or chocolate, I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol, and I don’t eat meat, it’s pathetic. Being vegetarian’s by choice though because one, I live near Los Angeles, and two, I truly believe it elevates me as a human being. You know, there are a lot of guys out there who think their beards and hair buns elevate them as more evolved, but that’s just appearance; I truly am more evolved.
A man bun is slightly repulsive.
Anyway, how do I survive this meager existence? I live my life vicariously through watching other people eat. No, I don’t peek through my neighbor’s kitchen window during dinner, I watch videos on YouTube of people eating copious amounts of food, like any other normal human being. It’s a thing. People film themselves porking out on large amounts of food for their online audience; they call it Mukbang. That’s Korean for “I don’t, know what the fuck?” I’m kidding. This phenomenon did start in Korea though. Look it up online, there’s a great definition on Wikipedia.
I can only dream of being half as piggish as these people are! It’s incredible the variety and amount of food they put away and I watch in fascination as they slurp, chomp and devour some delicious, and not so delicious looking food. Some of them are understandably chubby, but others are really petite, slender even, which tells me they’re barfing up their food afterwards… duh, no-brainer! It doesn’t matter to me though, it seriously gets me through the tough times, which is like, every single fucking day.
I may not watch Mukbang every day, but I know it’s always there for me, like a chocolate bar would be there for me when I was younger and could eat it with impunity.