My stomach has been gurgling out of control all day. I’m at the point where you’d be yelling “What do you WAAAANT?!” at it if it was a small child screaming its head off. I really wouldn’t mind my stomach screaming its head off, but the thing is: it sounds deep and heavy, like a wet fart pressed against a leather jacket under a pile of blankets. And it seems to be activated by my surroundings, i.e., people. So everybody I’ve talked to today thinks I’ve been trying to control wet farts, and failing.
We’re friends, in that way that we’re not, at all.
I found this girl on Facebook I used to be friends with in real life, or “face-to-face book.” I said hi to her (on Facebook), told her how good it was to see her, and asked her how she’s doing. That was like 2 months ago and I still haven’t gotten a reply. Either:
1. I am way too invested in Facebook, and so fail to realize that other people are not, and so fail to realize that other people do not consider the total ignorance of a wall post equal to ignoring someone who’s just said hi to you in front of a room full of people,
0r
2. She has reasons not to talk to me that I don’t know about.
The last time I talked to this girl was like 6 years ago. She called me and asked me if I wanted to go out that night. I was 600 miles away, something she would have known if we had talked recently. So I said I couldn’t that night, we’d have to schedule for another night when I got back into town. I told her I was happy to hear from her and that I really couldn’t wait to see her. I left her a message when I got back to town, but she never called back–and it was one of those things where you kind of knew that the person wouldn’t.
Imagine my surprise when I’m getting my hair cut and the guy doing the cutting is like, “Oh yeah, we had to reschedule your other appointment because I was at a baby shower.” Turns out it was for my friend/notfriend.
Five years into the future and we’re officially both on the opposite side of a fast-moving river. She’s over there with those mystifying girls from high school who are already grandmothers, people I worked with in fast food joints who lost their minds and stole cars and disappeared during the Juggalo weekend, people I worked with in retail joints who lost their minds in a more regular sort of way, and family members who are certain you killed your grandma by thinking gay is A-OK. I just hate it when there’s people I LIKE over there.
Actually, one thing I hate more than that is when uninvited creeps come dragging back across to my side, sliming over in their little turd boats, powered by their disappointment in their lives, failed relationships, and fast-sprouting gray hairs they’re sure weren’t there a minute ago. Maybe I’m the uninvited creep for this girl. If so, she should have followed my usual tack and not accepted my offer of friendship.
Countdown to Pitiful
I could set my watch by ex-boyfriends, I swear.
First they run right out and date someone else because they couldn’t give a shit about you, then they do their best to make you notice that they’re dating someone else and they couldn’t give a shit about you, then they want to know what you think about the fact that they couldn’t give a shit about you. Then their girlfriend tries to get a bunch of her friends to let you know that her boyfriend doesn’t give a shit about you. Then, god dammit, you bitch, why won’t you REACT to how HARD we’re not giving a shit about you while we’re busy being in LOVE OVER HERE?
Then they break up because maybe he not only gives a shit about you, he might have sent you a couple of text messages suggesting otherwise, to which you did not respond, but still, you’re a BITCH for getting them! You homewrecker!
Then they get back together because really, when you think about it, stunted emotional growth and complete denial are things that most men in their 30’s struggle with, so what can you do?! Hahaha! That’s life! LOLOLOLOLOL
Then they break up again, and what the fuck do you know?
Hi Ex Girlfriend,
It’s time for me to suggest in a chirpy, upbeat way that you and I work on our friendship because I’m lonely, gray-haired, I hate my job, I just got dumped because I never appreciate what I have when I have it, and I’m basically a big old goopy emotional wreck of a person right now and I think it would be helpful to me, I mean you, haha! if we start to be friends again four years later, and you listen carefully to my complaints and distract me from all of my woes. Other than that, EVERYTHING IS COOL AND I’M REALLY HAPPY HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA YAY
No? You refuse to do this for me?!
Well then FUCK YOU, bitch! I couldn’t give a shit about you!
I mean, I’ve always said no to this same request. It’s one thing to be friends with an ex, it’s quite another to be friends with an ex who can only seem to put aside his vitriol when he’s not sure he’s going to get his cock sucked sometime soon. But this time around, last weekend, when the most recent request came in at 3:54am on a Saturday morning…I said no in such a way that suggested that a certain person’s testicles might be removed from his groin, baked in a tart, then ridiculed for their post-roasting size if I’m ever approached again.
Why do my ex boyfriends have such awful track records? What does that say about me? I think it means I’m a total idiot. The evidence:
One of them is bankrupt and living with his parents.
One is building up a lovely collection of sobriety tokens. 196 days and counting!
One was nearly bankrupt and should totally be in rehab.
One of them clearly invested in Ed Hardy hats.
One of them buys electronics at Target, or did at least once 2 years ago when I saw him there with his girlfriend, the kind of girl who does her hair and makeup before she goes to Target, which made her match him really well. Which is absolutely 100% right with the world, in my opinion.
One went off the map doing the fucking gaywad young Che Guevara motorcycle tour of the safest places in the world for white men that still kind of look dangerous in pictures. There is very little that is more horrifying than having to read about how spiritual and amazing and life-affirming it is to touch a goddamn near dead elephant they’ve dragged out for the whitey tourists to prod, when that person has touched your vagina and never said a fucking WORD about how great THAT was. Shit.
(And one kind of went off the map when his dad got caught getting blown by an 84-year-old woman in a local nursing home last year, which was first an alleged rape, until they came out to everyone as having been a secret couple for the last 30 years. Which I think is amazing, but the guy’s wife and his son didn’t find it as interesting as they did devastating. So it goes.)
Typographical Errrrs
I mean, I know that there are people who probably think I just did this to be an asshole:
To Whom it May Concern,
I’m writing to let you know that the cover of one of your films includes a serious typographical error. The film is “Chocolate Sundaes presents Live on Sunset Strip” (featuring Katt Williams, Kevin Hart, and Aries Spears). The banner across the bottom of the cover reads “Comedy At It’s Best.” Unfortunately, “it’s” represents the contraction of “it” and “is,” so technically the cover of the film reads “Comedy At It Is Best.”
I noticed this DVD on the shelf at my local Blockbuster, and I thought it wise to point this out since this film could possibly still be in reproduction, and this error could be corrected in the future. If that isn’t possible, at the very least this is notice to the graphic design or copy editing department at Cinevision International: using this word incorrectly appears careless, unintelligent, and uneducated.
Thanks for your time.
COMEDY AT IT IS BEST
I didn’t do it to be a jerk! I just don’t think it’s healthy for anyone to be misusing contractions, especially on the cover of a DVD that people already expect to be stupid. Then they see that and they’re just like, “Oh, yeah, of course they fucked that up. Just check out the look on that guy’s face. It’s saying ‘I ain’t be lissnin in school when we be talkin bout contranizzactions. Bitches! Weed! Gun jokes! HAHAHA!'” And that’s racist.
But don’t worry…John Krashna at Cinevision International has assured me that it’s going to be taken care of:
Thank you for your comment we will forward to the appropriate people.
Best
John Krashna
I mean, pay no attention to the fact that John missed a comma in the above sentence. I’m sure that’s why he’s forwarding a typo notice to another party. He knows he’s not the best to handle these matters.
cancer pants
Let me see if I can get out of the valley and up on the hill again.
What’s new with you? Nothing? Well that’s stupid! I’ve been busy doing some baking:
Rainbow Cupcakes
Steel Magnolias Cupcakes
I made the rainbow cupcake by being awesome and also by mixing food coloring into the batter and pouring it in bit by bit. But mostly by being awesome. It was like biting into a unicorn’s butt meat. Then, a work friend requested what he thought was the impossible in asking for a movie-themed cupcake. He got pumpkin cake with pink icing and Steel Magnolias references on top.
So I baked. And I knitted. And I started writing down every food that I ate. I also started making these really crazy lists with arrows going in every which direction, branching out into sub lists and sub sub lists. And I’m not talking about lists of sandwiches! Hur hur hur!!! I started reading a free subscription of Self Magazine and based on Self’s advice I even whipped up Heidi Klum’s signature salad: which consisted of a whole head of fennel (or ass of fennel, as it’s kind of a root) which has been chopped up “into little choppies” (according to Heidi Klum’s directions). That’s mixed with olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper, and it’s FUCKING GROSS.
The article was about how much Seal loves it when Heidi’s up in the kitchen chopping choppies of fennel, and I thought, I really need to make that salad.
Me: I need to go to the grocery store for some fennel.
My sister: Why?
Me: I want to make Heidi Klum’s Fennel Salad from Self Magazine.
My sister: Shut up
**my sister has gone offline**
At the end of the day, you can’t rely on Seal’s taste in salad. The man is married to a supermodel and has a jacked up face. Something about that says, “Oh well of COURSE he loves hard crunchy roots that taste like puked-up licorice.”
I read in a book once that there are two types of depression: depression caused by inflation, and depression caused by deflation. Well, that makes sense to me. Sometimes you get too high and then everything seems shitty in comparison. And sometimes you just feel like your insides were scraped out and you can barely move. Of course, this book was read over the shoulder of a person on the bus (which I try to NEVER DO and also try to give the shit-eye to other people if I see them doing it to someone). But that’s why it took me a while to realize that this book wasn’t about emotions at all, it was about finance. It still applies though, so yeah.
At the end of July, I went to the doctor for routine checkup stuff. She left me a voicemail three days later about “abnormalities” and diagnostic procedures, and the whole thing was said in that “Gosh darn it, you hurt your little finger, didn’t youuuu!?” way that your grandma says things. (Unless your grandma is my grandma, who yelled SON OF A BITCH when you got stung by a wasp and broke open one of her cigarettes and licked up the tobacco and stuck the tobacco spit wad to your sting because that’s what they did in 1944.) At any rate, I showed signs of stuff that COULD BE other stuff that HAS BEEN KNOWN TO develop into CANCERRRRRRRR AAAAAGGHHH OH MY GOD but don’t panic, stupid. So I had to freak out for a month and a half, waiting, then I had to go in and basically do backflips for some nurses in Baby Phat scrubs and they had to cut out parts of me and put them in jars and mail them and test them and then tell me
“Meh. Not as bad as we thought. But…IT COULD GET WORSE. Come back in six months and we’ll see if it’s grown its own teeth and hair. That’s pretty fucked up, huh!”
Yeah. Huh.
So a smudged bill of health later and you’d think I’d be having fewer panic attacks. Instead I started baking and knitting and writing down every food I ate.
Anyway, it’s a shit excuse, but when you’re pretty sure you’re going to die every single day (and you have a tendency to be a bit dramatic about these things anyway), it’s REALLY hard to imagine that a blog has any point. Special thank-yous to the kind souls who think that it does, and told me as much.
Cupcake Heartbreak 