Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Piss Happens

Beer, it's over. Yes, I'm breaking up with you. (I thought of building up the suspense to the whole "breaking up" thing, but then decided to get straight to the point.) Beer? Goodbye. It was good while it lasted, but---wait...was it good while it lasted?

Was it good when I slapped a friend across the face? And then started crying?

Was it good when I touched a friend's leg, got accused of publicly groping them, and then started crying?

Was it good when I tried my best to make a dramatic exit, stormed off only to run into a fence, and then started crying?

Was it good when I read a text message, and then started crying?

Was it good when a friend was telling me a story, and I started crying?

Was it good when I dropped my cell phone? And then started crying?

Was it good when a friend played me a song, which made me start crying?

Was it good when I was sitting in a chair, and started crying?

Was it good when I pissed my pants?

NO, BEER, IT WAS NOT GOOD. They say (who is "they" I don't really know, but they sure do say it.) that once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern. So what about eight times? Eight times is an embarrassment, that's what it is. Eight times is when someone should tell you to get your shit together. (I did not include the last one, because it has nothing to do with crying. You'd think, of all the events mentioned above, peeing on myself would be the most worthy of tears, but since it only happened once; I am going to repeat that: ONCE; it is an accident. Did you get that? Accident. Not a coincidence, not a pattern, an embarrassment, yes, but an accident. AccidentaccidenthumiliatingACCIDENT.

Damn you. Listen up, I never wet my pants when I was kid; I never even wet the bed, so I think that peeing myself ONE TIME when I'm...nineteenyearsoldwhichreallydoesn'tmatter...equals the countless number of times YOU wet your bed throughout your elementary school years and had to have Mommy change your sheets, while Little Natasha was warm, dry, and bladder-controlled. I'm extremely thankful for my bladder, and so really, I had just decided to do it a favor, and let it relieve itself when it felt like it. Bladder-freedom. Freedom to blad. Babies have it, why can't I? I'm reliving my adolescence, that's really all it is. Maybe I missed out on the Mother-Daughter bondage by never getting to work up the courage to tell her my white sheets somehow changed colors in the middle of the night. Why am I even defending myself? Shit happens. And so does piss.

The point is the crying thing. What is with that? I mean, really? I'm baffled. Bewildered. Bumbuzzled. See? I'm so flabbergasted I had to make up a word for my feeling toward it. Watch out, Dr. Suess, Dr. Natasha is in the house and her bumbuzzlement beats your pathetic star-bellied sneeches! Sneech this, asshole: I'm never drinking beer AGAIN. I mean, what's the point? Do you think I enjoy crying while everyone else is laughing and touching each other and dropping the L-word to people they just met? Scenario time.

"Hey I'm Juju!"
(I'm running out of fake names.)

"Juju AHHHHH you are soooo COOOLLLSIESS!"
(I'm also running out adjectives.)

"So are YOU, Marva!"

"It's George..."


"I love YOU, Juice!"

"Not JUICE, we love BEER!"

"YEAH, BEER! YAYYY! Woah, what's up with the girl over there?"

"Is she CRYING?"

"And SLAPPING people?"

"She needs some beer!"

"She HAS a beer!"





"It's still George..."


"No one has ever said that to me before! I LOVE YOU, TOO!"

"You guys are so sweet..."
This is me.

"It makes me want to cry..."
Still me.

This is Killroy. Or whatever the hell that guy's name is.

That's me, now leaving. And yes, crying.

The worst part is that I don't even realize how ridiculous I'm being at the time. Beer just makes me sad, and not like, "I'm sad because I'm drinking beer," just sad like, "Hey. I'm sad." hence the crying. Then the next day, I wake up, only to think, "FUCK BEER." swearing it off for all eternity. But I'm serious this time. No. More. It doesn't need me, so I don't need it. I can be jolly and gregarious and I can stumble into things and touch people inappropriately without one drop of alcohol in me. I'd rather have piss-free pants than a beer-filled stomach.

Beer, it's over. I'm sorry. It just wasn't working out. I'll see you from time to time, I know; we do have the same group of friends, since all of my friends just love you, but this relationship just wasn't meant to last. You could never make me happy. Or laugh like you made other people laugh. I just never felt included. And honestly, you're kind of an asshole. All you brought was pain, to myself as well as to other people's cheeks. And tears. And not to mention, piss. Goodbye, Beer. Call me in two years.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

P.S. I Hate You

Dear Jack Frost,

You think you're the shit, don't you? You think you can go around blowing everything you feel like blowing and making white stuff come out of nowhere and land it on an innocent girl such as myself? Well STOP IT. Because of you, I'm confined to the indoors; I hate the indoors. My only source of entertainment is a hula hoop. Don't get me wrong, it's that hula hoop that is reassuring me of my sanity, but despite the joyous wonders of swiveling your hips to keep a giant circle balanced around them, it gets old when you've been doing it for hours. And hours. And HOURS. I'm serious, J.F., no one wants you here anymore. My nose is cold, my cheeks are red, and my hips are sore.

Seriously, Mr. Frost, you've had your fun, and games, and shits, and giggles. I'm just sorry to say that your shits affect the entire city in which I live in. No one wants your shits. It's your fault that my nose has stuff coming out of it, stuff that should be kept inside my nose, stuff that no one else needs to see when they stop me on the street to talk to me, because I'm very conscious of this dilemma you have bestowed upon me, and therefore I blame you for my antisocial behavior as of recent. That's right, Jack (may I call you Jack?), it is entirely your fault that I don't talk to humans. Fuck you.

Aside from a runny nose, I always have frostbite. I'm onto you, Jack. I know why you never show your face, why you're not at the mall during winter time with all the other elves and Santa and random winter folk. Because you know. You know. No one wants to see the piece-of-shit-wannabe-elf who gives everyone hard fingers and numb toes. You know what we would do if you had the balls to show your face? We'd make sure you never had those balls again. Cause we'd TAKE them. And we'd SHOVE them. Up your ASS.

Speaking of colds...this climate, J-Man. I'm not digging this climate. Sure, there are some days you decide not to blow snow, but it is these days you also decide that instead, you should make it very, very windy. And freezing. Cause you're a little pervert. You got a thing for hard nipples, don't ya, Jack? Well listen up, you twisted perv. I'm sick of setting aside twenty minutes to get dressed because that's how long it takes me to put on one shirt, one sweater, one coat, one giant coat, two gloves, one hat, one pair of leggings, one pair of pants, and four pairs of socks. I'm pale, Jack. I look like I haven't seen the sun in three months, Oh wait...that's because I HAVEN'T seen the sun in three months. You sneaky little fucker. You're working for the lotion companies, aren't you? How much do they pay you, Jack? Really. How much? You greedy asshole. You make me sick. You're undercover and I know it and I'm suing your icy ass, as well as Lubriderm's.

I just have one question for you, J.F. - Why can't you be more like Santa? That's right, I went there. It's a sore spot, isn't it? Poor little Jackie, he'll never, EVER be like Santa one will ever, EVER love little Jackie, or sit on Jackie's lap, or make Jackie cookies, or give Jackie a glass of milk. Does anyone ever jump up and down when it snows saying, "Thank you, Jack Frost! THANK YOU!" Oh...they don't, do they? Why can't Jackie be more like Santa? Because Santa knows when to dipset, man. He does his business, and when his business is done, he moves on to the hanky panky with the Mrs. Oh don't have someone to hanky panky with, do you, ol' Jack? No. You don't. So why don't you stop LINGERING like an insecure FOOL and face REALITY. No one. Wants. Your SNOW, you Jack FUCK.

I hope you take this letter into serious consideration. Perhaps you will read it and decide not to make it snow so much. Perhaps you will read it and decide to pass the torch to the Easter Bunny. Perhaps you will read it and put a bullet in your head. Any of these choices are quite acceptable, and will be truly appreciated. Thank you for your time, but no, I am not thankful for your snow. It was fun at first, but now it's getting out of hand. Know when to stop, Mr. Frost. Know when to admit. Know when to accept. If the North has a pole, I'm sure it has a rehab, as well. I'm just trying to help you. Really.


P.S. Frosty the Snowman sends his regards, you murderer.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Drugs Not Hugs

Touchy-feely. Lovey-dovey. Smoochie-woochie. Pumpkin-poopie. It's sad to say I'm not really one of these people. You know who I mean. The ones who see you and automatically think, "I know the name by which that human is summoned by, and therefore I must reach out both of my upper limbs and trap thou acquaintance within them!" (A.k.a. The Huggers. Those Who Hug. Those Who Embrace. Those Who Embosom. Those Who Will Die A Slow and Painful Death If They Ever Try That Shit Out On Me.)

How I do wish sometimes that I was in fact one of these friendly folks. My catchphrase would be, "Nobody is a stranger!" or "Hugs not drugs!" or "It's okay to force people towards your body, as long as you do it with a SMILE!" However, I can never be one of these people, all based on the sole fact that I tend to over analyze that four-letter word we are all so familiar with: "HUGS."

Let's break down this itsy-bitsy word, shall we? I'm talkin' letter. By. LETTER. I hope you're okay with your mind being in pieces because I'm about to blow it.

H is for Hair.
I see that stare!
And I really do not care!
Come near me if you dare!
But first...please use some Nair.

Often times, whether you are the hugger or the huggee, you will find that once your embrace has reached its full potential, the opposite person's hair will be in your face, which means it is near your nose and eyes. This is a problem because this person could easily have lice, and then you will get lice in your eyes, and if you are desperate enough to get the lice out of your eyes, you will squirt Head and Shoulders into your pupils, and then you will get pink eye, because shampoo is not meant to be drizzled onto your lenses, and if you have pink eye, everyone will assume you farted into your pillow and rubbed your face in that same pillow, and no one will talk to you because they will think you are a pink-eyed spleen-machine. On the other hand, the hair could be near your nose, and you would smell it, and some people's hair does not smell so nice. Not everyone uses Herbal Essences. Or washes their hair at all. Or even wipes. So there you are, caught in the midst of a bad-smelling fellow or gal and you cannot do anything about it but grin and bear it. If someone is going to force you to smell their nasty ass locks then they are not really your friend. They might as well grab your head and shove it into their armpit, and if they're considerate enough they might move their arm up and down so the smell wafts, just like you did with the test tubes in Chemistry class. But I do hope you never find yourself in a situation such as this one.

U if for Under.
My invisible bubble you plunder.
Which is really quite your blunder.
Now all I can wonder...
Is when the hell will we sunder?

Going in for the hug is the most awkward phase of all "The Phases of a Hug." Pulling away from the hug after the hug has been fully initiated can be very awkward, as well, depending on who it is you are hugging, but I am still going to have to give the gold medal to the going in part, and all because of one simple question: WHERE THE HELL DO I PUT MY ARMS. Over...or under? Such a plain question, yet so many complex answers. (Hey! THAT applies to a lot!) It's really no use to ask a question I'll never know the answer to, so instead, I'm just going to ask a bunch more questions. If I put my hands over, is that too manly? Is the space around the neck reserved for males only? Do I prefer putting my hands around the neck? Yes I do? But if I put my hands under, doesn't that make me look like a child? Feel like a child? Since that is how I hug my parents? If I put my hands under, does that make it seem like I'm trying to slyly make a move toward their ass? Do I secretly want to touch their ass if their ass looks like it would be a very nice ass to touch? Maybe? If I put my hands over, does that make it seem like I'm hinting to them to make a move for my ass? What happens if we both go for the same direction? And then we both try to switch to the other direction? And we do a little arm-air dance? Would we look weird to people passing by? Would we look weird to each other? Would we wish we never tried to hug in the first place because obviously it wasn't meant to happen? Absolutely? If I create my own little personal combo of one hand over and one hand under, is that awkward as fuck? Does that make it obvious that I don't know what the hell to do with my arms? And that I've over analyzed this positioning of my biceps and forearms completely? Would I feel like a total idiot? YES.

G is for mammary Glands.
Here I am worrying about my hands,
With no ifs, buts, or ands,
When what really matters is where it lands,
"It" being my bags of sands.

If you don't know what mammary glands are, then I'm sorry. Your mother should have breast-fed you. Breasts, people. I am talking about breasts. (This is the only term I can use. The word "boobs" makes me very uncomfortable for some unknown reason, and "tits" are for cows, not people. whereas "titties" are for little cows, not little people.) This can apply to guys, too. You go in for a hug in the winter time. Hugging Partner is wearing a thin t-shirt. You can feel his nipples mid-hug. That's second base right there. Funny how things work out. You go in for an innocent greeting, and BAM! Second base. Right there. Right then. No turning back. Just turning you ON. But enough about man nips. Since I was not born with a penis, I do not know if guys can feel a female's bosom when they hug, but I assume it's a yes, but what is worse than this is when two girls hug. It's like mashed potatoes, but not potatoes. Mashed boobies is not a comfortable feeling, which is a fact of life that I felt the need to share. It not only feels weird, but imagine what that really looks like. And by "really" looks like, I mean what it looks like if everyone had x-ray vision. I mean, come on. How awkward is that image? It'd look like a figure 8 turned horizontally, or like a really fat butterfly. I guess some people may enjoy this image, since men tend to get turned on when a girl would rather be with a girl than with him, a concept I will never be able to comprehend. And what if the girl is much taller than you? Does your face get mashed into her bosom? Good god. I am never hugging tall people. I've just decided this. Please don't take it personally, you Tallies out there. You should be flattered that I am polite enough to not dive head-first into your cleavage.

S if for sweat.
You're very very wet!
And that makes me upset!
If you don't leave soon, you'll have much regret!
Yes. That WAS a threat.

Exercise gives you three things: endorphins and energy. What do people filled with happiness and a sudden burst of energy do? They hug people, THAT'S what they do. And yes, I do realize that I said exercise gives you three things and I only named two. That is because I am saving the third! SWEAT. The joggers, the weight-lifters, the ellipticallers...these are the people you gotta keep an eye out for, cause they'll hug you. They'll hug you no matter how drenched they are in giant doblets of perspiration and body odor. ("Doblets"...I might or might not have just made that word up.) You'll be strolling. You'll be strolling and smiling and strolling some more. You'll be doing a lot of strolling at this time, in fact. And then, out of nowhere, Big Hank jogs up. You've met him once. You know how friendly Big Hank is. So you say hi. Big. Mistake.


Big Hank hugs you, without realizing that he just unintentionally changed his name from Big Hank to Stinky Hank. And you hate Hank. And his sweat. And the fact that Hank's sweat is not on one body, but now two bodies, and one of those bodies is your body, and Hank's sweat will remain on your body, seeping into your own pores with your own sweat that you are courteous enough to keep inside your own damn body, until you take a shower. You just took a shower. But now, thank to Big Stinky Hank, you have to take two, and waste some more time in your life that you'll never get back ever again. Fuck you Hank. Fuck you and your beads of sweat.

Look how helpful I just was! I enlightened you on the disadvantages of being hugged, and I did it in a friendly, cheery manner! And did I have to hug you to show you I am friendly and cheery? Did I have to invade your personal space? Put my hairs in your nose? Reach for your ass? Press my bosom upon your bosom? Force my sweat into your pores? NO, I did NOT. If you need to hug someone, I suggest you go hug your mee-ma. Or a tree. Or your invisible friend. Or go introduce yourself to a stranger so when you see them a second time you'll feel comfortable wrapping your arms around their body; just stay the hell away from mine.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Back to the Present

Well, it's official. My teenage years were spent in "the millennium." What this means exactly still means nothing to me, since I'm having trouble grasping what exactly defined this decade. What the fuck am I going to tell my grandkids?

"When I was your age, we put poodles on our clothing! And we didn't rub back and forth on people's groins like you kids, we could dance just by jiving our hands! Our bras were made of cones! There was always a woman in the kitchen, so no one ever went hungry! You could have an orgasm just by watching a man move his hips back and forth! Ya dig, Daddy-O?"

"Grandmaaaaa, that wasn't YOUR time! That was the fifties!"

"Oh, that's right...well, when I was your age, our air wasn't contaminated; the air we breathed was happy air! And it made us giggle all the time at everything we saw! And we ate magic paper that made all the unicorns come out of their hiding places! And we were productive, always making things! Especially love! Lots and lots of love! We made love whenever we could make it! With whoever could make it with us! It was a gas, baby!"

"Grandmaaaa, you weren't alive then! That was the sixties!"

"Oh, kids, I'm in such a forgetful mood today! But when I was your age, I would have already known that! Because I would have been wearing a ring that would be able to tell me my mood! Oh, how I miss those days...we had lamps made out of lava! And we had monkeys for pets! The kind of monkeys that lived in the sea! And we had rocks as pets, too! They never even pissed in the house like those dogs and cats you have today! We had giant balls of glitter that hung from ceilings and made everyone want to point to their hips, and then point up to the sky, and then repeat that motion all night! And our hair grew outwards! Around our heads! You could even stick things in there and they wouldn't move! Can you dig it, foxy momma?!"

"Grandmaaaaa, NO! Those were the seventies!"

"Oh darn. Wait...wait it's all coming back to me now...yes! When I was YOUR age, our shoes were made of jelly! And we wore our bras on the OUTSIDE of our clothes! And our ponytails were able to hang from the sides of our heads, and we had these magic sleeves of yarn that warmed your calves and shins! Ooh! And we played this game where you moved a cube around! And we could play for hours and HOURS because we could never move it to how it was supposed to look! And men AND women wore make-up! It was like totally bitchin', dude!"



"That was the eighties..."



"I'm sorry, sweetie cakes, but it's okay, because I've finally remembered what it was like back in my day."

"Tell us! Tell us!"

"WELL, we had bracelets that you didn't have to clip on! All you had to do was SLAP them onto your body! And we carried things in packs that were on our fannies! And our favorite cartoon had a dinosaur named BJ! And you never had to wash your hair because it was cool to be greasy! And we didn't have that ePodie thingy you little ones have, our music BOOMED! Out of BOXES! And we had plastic on string that we liked to move up and down ON that string! And we had fruit that rolled up! And fruit that was a foot long! And our babies were made of BEANS! So BOO YA, YOU FART-KNOCKER!"

"Grandmaaaaa...that was the NINETIES!"


"Grandma! You just said a cuss word!"


"Grandma, we know what it was like when you were a teenager."

"Well then dammit PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME."

"When you were our age, you watched tons and TONS of videos on the internet, because everyone had so much time on their hands! Like that one with two girls who did ALL that stuff...and with only one cup! And you had that movie with the homosexual cowboys! And pop stars shaved their heads! And the most beautiful man in the whole world DIED right after making that movie with the man who thinks he's a bat! And you listened to music about licking people's pussies! And people were so healthy! They were so healthy that they took medicine even when they WEREN'T sick, that way they would never GET sick! People took tons and tons of pills to make sure they wouldn't spread any germs to anyone, right? And everyone dressed like they were from some OTHER decade, because you guys couldn't think of your own style! And little kids watched shows with men and their wiggles!"

"Oh...I'm starting to remember now..."


"Yeah. Yeah my decade SUCKS."

"No! It's great!"

"Only because you didn't live in it! Trust me kids, that decade SUCKED. ASS."







"We think it's cool!"

"I have nothing to do with any of that. There is no way I was a part of that ridiculous culture."

"It's okay that you were!"

"Wtf mayne. Idk ab dat. Fuck u, assmunch. I'm going to the BK Lounge. I have the munchies. Ttyl."

All I want to know is if history repeats itself, then when the hell is it going to because I've been waiting for that to happen for the past 10 years. Ya feel me, breh?

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Operation Stranger Spiel

I'll admit that I expected college to go a little something like this:

"Hey you group of 12 people I've never met, I'm Natasha!"

"Hey Natasha! Wanna be best friends with the 12 of us?"

"Hell yeah I do!"

And then the 13 of us would start skipping along together under a beaming ray of sunshine singing "We Are Going To Be Friends" and referring to ourselves as The Baker's Dozen. The problem with this assumption of mine is that 1) I have yet to see a group of 12 people; 2) not everyone enjoys publicly skipping as thoroughly as I do (and I'd be perfectly fine with the 12 of us privately skipping, but where would 12 people go to privately skip? The only private places I can think of are bathroom stalls, and that is just not nearly enough room to complete even ONE full-fledged skip. It would be more of a hop...which would just look like I have to go to the bathroom quite badly, which would look bizarre to the people watching my feet underneath the stall because what kind of moron holds it when they are right by a toilet? The proper thing to do in this situation would be to just SIT. And PISS. And I really don't know why I am going on about this since I've already made it clear that you cannot skip in a bathroom stall, and whether I've tested that theory out or not is completely my business.), and 3) I'm not one to go around randomly introducing myself to people.

WELL...there have been some cases where someone has ravishingly intrigued me and I've gone up and randomly struck up a conversation, but that is EXACTLY why I do not feel the need to go around chatting up anonymous people. Because if I am meant to meet someone, then I will KNOW. However, it's been quite some time now and I have not been captivated by anything on two legs, and this is why I recently decided that maybe I should start talking to strangers, no matter what my parents taught me when I was a child. That's right, Mom and Pops! I'm 19 now and I can do whatever the hell I want, and what I want to do is talk to STRANGERS! And then accept their CANDY! And then get in the back of their windowless VAN! And then randomly talk to all the other teenage girls in the BACK of that VAN! Cause I'm a responsible ADULT!

Seriously, though. Operation Stranger Spiel? It's not really working out. Unless YOU think these conversations are going to lead to skipping in the sunshine...

Stranger #1 sits next to me at the round table. Okay, this is my chance. Say something, Natasha, just say something. Anything. Comment on the round table, perhaps? "Hey, we're like the knights at the round table, but more like WHITES at the round table! Cause we're both white! Ha!" No no no that's lame as shit and you might come across as racist. Stranger #1 then pulls out his cell phone. Bingo.

I'll admit that my initial intention was not to shout at the boy one foot away from me, but that is how it came out. Just gotta go with the flow, go with the flow...okay, so I shouted. Recover, Natasha, redeem yourself. Time is running out.

NO NO NO, Natasha! "Redeem" yourself does NOT mean repeat the exact same thing you just said but louder! Come ON, you can DO this!

"I have a go phone."
Much better, much better. Just keep your composure...

"Oh yeah?"

"YEAH! Let's COMPARE them!"
God dammit, Natasha! Quit getting so excited when people respond to you! That is a NORMAL part of conversation, whereas comparing cell phones is just fucking WEIRD.

"Yeah, this is my 8th one."

I've given up on you.

Stranger #2 was not really meant to be a part of Operation Stranger Spiel.


"Hello? Do I know you?"

"Ah! Sorry. I thought you were someone else..."
Okay, Natasha, it's time to stop judging people by the backs of their heads. If you really want to make friends, you need to stop assuming that just because someone has hair on their head like many of your friends do, it means that they must be who you think they are. Get with the program. Lots of people have hair.

Stranger #3 somehow already knew my name, a perfect sign that we are supposed to be friends!

"Hey Natasha!"


Is there an echo in here?

"Oh, sorry, I was talking to THAT Natasha."

" bad..."
Okay Natasha, this one was not your fault. I mean how many "Natasha's" are there, really? Well, NatAHsha's, you are the only one so far, but it's not your fault you have the habit of responding to NatAWWsha, since no one has the courtesy to call you by your own fucking name.

Stranger #4 was driving in his car as I decided to cross the street. He honked at me.

Good good, Natasha. He may have rudely honked at you, but you waved like a good friend would do, and he will see the potential in the friendship that could be made! And just look! He's rolling down his window to say something to you! Maybe he'll ask you to go get some coffee!


NO NO NO, Natasha! That is NOT what you say to potential best friends! You do NOT tell them to fuck off! That is NOT a friendly thing to do! No WONDER you haven't made any new friends this semester, you dumb shit.

Strangers #5 through 12 I introduced myself to at a party. This is a complete waste of time since none of them probably even remember me, and I doubt they were that cool, anyway...

Okay, so really I've only struck up a random chit-chat with one person. I'll admit this. But that didn't go so well, DID IT. No. It did not. Look, I tried. I'm sorry, but sometimes you try, and then sometimes you try to try, and this time I actually tried. And then I FAILED. So fuck having new friends, man. All I need is me, my go phone, and a bathroom stall to hop around in.